Black Barbie Chronicles: Black Barbie Is A Person You Approach For Directions


I’m the type of person who can get lost in paper bag. How I managed to navigate in a country where I don’t speak the language amazes me.  Check out this little diddy about some poor Korean who mistook me for a local.

Next week, check out a lovely tale where I discuss the boldness of Korean men! Enjoy.

F. M. Laster

“The best revenge is massive success.” – Frank Sinatra

Black Barbie Is A Person You Approach For Directions

You know when you’re lost in a crowd, and you’re looking for that one particular person, who seems least likely to bite so that you can ask for directions? Somebody who looks like they’re probably a local, probably not packing heat, and can probably point you in the right direction without asking for your left kidney in return? Look no further. I am that person! Even the occasional Korean thinks that I’m that person.

It was a Tuesday. It was raining. I adore the rain, so I was quite chipper. I secretly can’t wait until the typhoon season. And by secretly, I mean that I regularly scream this at the top of my lungs so that everybody knows it. I. Love. Rain. Nothing in this world gives me the joy that listening to a rainstorm does. I figure that a typhoon will have the same effect, tenfold. Instead of cute little raindrops falling, the entire cloud will drop. Boom! Fantastic. My pants are totally off! Sign me up. Insert other random displays of enthusiasm here.

I was probably returning home from the kimbap restaurant near my home. This little incident happened in January, so the memory on this part is a bit foggy. Yes, it was raining in mid-January. I am yet to spot a snowflake in Busan Land. I once thought that I saw some hail; this matter is still being debated.

As I was making my way home, some random on a scooter whirled towards me. They tend to do this a lot, and it never ceases to irritate me. Something about speeding objects, which weighs infinitely more than I do, accelerating towards me makes me extremely uncomfortable. The Scooter Man slowed down just beside me. This is the part of the scene where he should have flipped up his helmet to speak to me. Of course, this is Korea Land, where helmets are for the old and stupid. Naturally, The Scooter Man was not wearing his helmet. Scooter Man, with his gloriously air blown locks, started rambling at me in Korean. It dawned on me that he was probably asking for directions, as I can surmise no other reason why he would have been waving his hands as he was. Like all things in my life, it finally clicked. When I had my hood over my head, combined with lousy lighting, there was a slim chance I passed as Korean. I was not the “dirty foreign whore.” As much as I wanted to, I to let the dude know. I turned, removed my hood, and smiled at him. The combined look of horror, shock, and shame was all over his face. He took off so fast; I thought he was going to crash.

I am sad to say that I have never been confused for a local again.

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