Korea is very beautiful, indeed. 

All those web searches and language study had paid off. The car ride is certainly more fun when you can read the sign of a building outside and know what purpose the building serves. 

"Lukas…You are 17 years old, right?"

I snapped off from my enjoyment of the scenery from the car window. 

"Yes." I answered short, clear.

"Well, there is a matter of age difference in Korea, but I doubt it changes much. I think you will be placed in the second year."

I immediately assumed Mr. Park was talking about the school year I will be in for my ‘one semester exchange program’. Even though I couldn't understand each word he uttered, I managed to catch keywords like 'age' and 'second year'. It is enough for me to form a conclusion of the topic said and the response needed. 

"Is Korean school…hard?"

"Um? Hard?" Mr. Park tried to reaffirm the meaning behind my vague question.

"I mean—The school is…May I speak in English?" My brain couldn’t find the right vocabulary in Korean so I chose the safe option.

Mr. Park tittered and prompted me to go on.

"I heard that the education system is tough, and that it stresses students."

"Ah…That is the most popular look to our schools, isn't it? Hm.."

Mr. Park had a long pause —a worrisome, awkward pause. 

Did I ask an offensive question? I suddenly felt wary. 

"It is hard, I can say. If you slack off, you will be left behind." The serious tone struck me. Perhaps it is a sensitive subject to be asked.

"But, Lukas, you just need to learn about our culture and try to fit in. You are not pressured to do well at school, okay?"

"Okay."

"Learn a lot, make new friends, and just enjoy your time at school. If you have any trouble, call me. I'm your 'dad' here, understood?"

"Yes.." I answered beneath a giggle. Mr. Park smiled through the back mirror.

Our little conversation went through the difference in culture down to the more personal route. I found out that Mr. Park is a widower. His wife passed away 5 years ago due to brain cancer. I'm surprised at how calm Mr. Park was in telling me —a boy he met an hour ago—about his life. I take him as someone who is very good with talking to others, especially youngsters.

After around 15 minutes passed, the car finally entered through a gate to a modern apartment complex with two-toned bright colours.

###

The place really felt different. Mr. Park’s apartment feels relatively.. tiny? My family’s house in Germany is two-storey and moderately big, but seeing Mr. Park’s place changed my opinion. Perhaps my house is too big, instead.

My room that Mr. Park assigned to me has a white single bed and a study table. He said it used to be his son’s room, but now he is in Canada to learn and be on his own. 

After a shower and change of clothing, I laid my back onto the soft, comfy bed. Ah..this is nice. Very nice. I stared at the ceiling for a while before realising something— the place is quiet. 

It is unlike anything I have lived in before. With three sisters, the house was a literal battle zone. Someone was always tugging someone’s hair, screeching or throwing things. The worst of it all, I always get caught up in the mess even when I tried my best to hide. This kind of silence is the best— this is me. I can finish many books on a calm night like this.

“I hope heaven is like this..”

I turned on my stomach and reached for my phone on the corner of the table. With both thumbs, I typed out words on the search bar. 

‘How to introduce yourself at school in Korean’

Self-introduction is always worrisome. Even more so when it is in the language that I just learned a month back. I know that I can just say ‘hello, my name is Lukas’ with a bow, but I want to practice saying more Korean confidently. I can try and say a few more sentences. It’s not hard, isn’t it?

###

Mr. Park insisted on driving me to school even after I said I can walk and take the bus.

“It’s your first day. It’s the least I can do.”

It was flattering. He’s like a real father. It brings back an old memory of my own–contrasting – father. On my first day of elementary school, my father shoved me out of the house and closed the door. Harte Liebe — as my mother usually says.

As Mr. Park dropped me off the school entrance, the students were turning their heads towards me. I know it would stand out. Most of them walk to school after all. I thanked Mr. Park and climb my way to the main building.

My first stop is the teachers' office. I met Mrs. Ji — my homeroom teacher and the person associated with the exchange program committee. She took me to my class, 2-C and entered with me. 

"The foreign student!"

"He's really tall."

I heard the students murmur. "Everyone, we have a new student here." Mrs. Ji announced. The class got silent. "This is Lukas, he is a student on an international exchange program with our school." 

All eyes are on me. I cleared my throat.

"Hello…"