I am old.  Some of my co-workers don’t get that I’m not fresh out of college.  My party spirit has long since passed.  Don’t get me wrong, I like to have fun, but not the kind that yields my vomit in the street or a two day hangover.  I have simple needs for fun: a M.A.S.H. marathon and a six pack.

My co-workers with a few exceptions like to have the youthful fun that is associated with alcohol.  They drink a lot.  That’s fine.  Its fun to watch their weekly progression.  On Mondays they are zombies, still recovering from the weekend.  By Wednesday you see them step out of their melancholy daze.  The weekend is nigh and they can smell it.  Their dispositions change, they become happier, more excited.  All of a sudden work doesn’t suck so much.  I feel it too.  And by Friday, we are all filled with jubilation and set our work mode on cruise control.

Like I said, I don’t have that party instinct anymore, but I do go out.  There’s one person at my work who I particularly like to hang out with.  He is closer to my age.  We share some of the same  interests:  smoking and drinking.  Plus he’s British.  I’ve never had a British friend before, so it has been somewhat exciting.  I like his accent.  Even he is saying something boring, I am somehow always happy about it.  Who knows?

He has been here for quite some time.  A veteran of the teaching world in Korea.  He even knows a little Korean to boot.  Some weekdays we grab a beer after work and shoot the shit.  We bitch about work, about this, about that.  We pound the cold Korean beer and have some cigarettes, it’s nice.  He convinced me to go out with him this weekend. I obliged.

I know my age.  Some people my age are still out there living it up like they are in their early twenty’s.  Their corner needs to throw in the towel.  I don’t let it get me down, It’s just a value judgment.  They dress like they are in the mid twenties with torn designer jeans and product in their hair.  But their old faces tell the truth. I keep it simple.  Jeans, some comfortable loafers or sneakers and the appropriate attire for the weather.  Its probably pretty boring, but at least I don’t look like a jackass.  So what?

We went to a Foreign bar.  I am OK with that.  I can comfortably generalize the majority of English teachers here into one of three categories:  those who only want to hang out with foreigners, those who only want to hang out with Koreans, and those who could do either.  Again, a generalization, I am aware.

The place is pretty nice.  Its hard to find a good bar here, one that has bar stools and is not one of those lounge places with the dim mood-lighting.  The place was pretty well packed with all types: the big time party-ers, the sharks, people who were laidback, some dart players, overall a good mix. I was having a very good time.

Robert, my co-worker, and I talked about a whole spectrum of things.  Mostly old people stuff: politics, economics, sports, whatever.  As the night went on and the beer continued to be sipped, our conversation lacked anything of serious value.  We talked about the best cigarettes, how nice it was that cigarettes are cheap here,  why Max was better than Cass(or maybe it was the other way around: who knows?), and Robert tried to explain to me why Benny Hill is one of the funniest people ever.

After we left the bar, I was hungry.  We were both drunk, if not on our way there.  I do drunk well, I like it.  It’s a calm place for me.  I walk slowly and comfortably to where I want to go and enjoy it.  Robert gets a little more talkative and adventurous.   We were sitting at some kimbab place chowing down on some Tuna Kimbab.  Delicious.  He told me he wanted to show me underbelly of Seoul, the places I wouldn’t know about without him.  He had a certain air about him, a glow of something seedy and possibly interesting.  Hook, line and sinker.

I was comfortable, as I said.  I went along for the ride.  Mistake.  I am old.  Anyway, the first place Robert showed me was a bar that had a sign on the door listing the price of women.  It wasn’t my type of hangout scene, but made for an interesting view for the one beer we had there.  Booths with men of all ages and ethnicities surrounded by women of all ages and ethnicities.  But that didn’t get my attention, nor did any women in the bar.  It was a dancer.  I know you are thinking, “like a stripper”.  No.  It was a very drunk man.  He was Korean and he was young.  Donning a suit he let his feet fly on the dance floor.  A real Kevin Bacon.  What I found particularly funny about this young man, was that he was the only one dancing and he was awful at it.  His body gyrated in all types of awkward and uncomfortable ways.  Nothing was in rhythm.  It was like Elaine’s dance from Seinfeld is combined with someone who has CP.  It wasnt pretty.

I found, though, that he was immensely enjoying himself and it made me happy in my semi-glazed, drunk state.  Robert didn’t notice nor did he notice I wasn’t really paying attention.  Rude of me, but what can you do.  He was talking to me about Prince Harry and the army, I think.  But this was only the beginning.  It was nearing midnight and I did not know I would have another six hours exploration:  I am old.