A True American Thanksgiving

Living abroad during the holiday season is a time when most foreigners get together to commiserate the distance separating them from their families and the giant, home-cooked goodness that generally accompanies all the festivities. Thanksgiving has always been my personal favorite; there’s no need to worry about presents or church or sitting on a fat man’s lap, we get to do the one things Americans do best – eat. All day. The only problem is that since I left home for college in France, I’ve spent more Thanksgivings away from my mother’s kitchen than in it. Just ask her; she’ll tell you all about it.

As I’ve had my fair share of impromptu turkey dinners cobbled together at the last minute, I figured this year would be no different, and fully expected to sit down to a Thanksgiving meal that had side dishes of kimchi and a fish head or two thrown in for good measure. So when I received an email from a more veteran teacher at one of my school’s other branches in Busan asking if anyone wanted to get together at her place to expand our waistlines in honor of our forefathers, I accepted. A day later, she emailed everyone back, letting us know that of the sixty or so teachers that my company employs in the city, forty were planning on attending. In her apartment. Forty people. Plus turkeys. Now, my place is one of the bigger apartments that I’ve seen in Korea, but you would have to crowd surf your way to the bathroom if I tried to stuff forty people in it.

Seemingly undaunted by the imminent stampede on her apartment, subsequent emails went out regarding the plan: for ten dollars a head, we would be supplied with a turkey dinner catered by a restaurant that used to feed the large contingent of American soldiers who were based in Busan until just over a year ago, when the U.S. base closed. Along with beer and wine, we were encouraged to bring any side dishes that we wanted to cook – but were admonished not to worry too much about food, they were certain there was going to be plenty. For forty people. In one apartment.

What sounded like a good idea at first was now starting to make me think maybe I should just skip the holiday altogether; I couldn’t see how there would possibly be enough food for the small army of hungry foreigners it was promised to, and if I couldn’t eat myself into a turkey coma, three bites of stuffing would only make me more homesick. Prodded along by the Texans, we decided that if we couldn’t fit in the door or there wasn’t enough food, we would politely excuse ourselves and relocate to the closest bar. Sounded like a plan to me.

Following the detailed directions that were emailed around, we rode the subway for an hour to Haeundae Beach – Busan’s flagship shoreline that’s depicted on most postcards of the city – and then took a five minute cab ride which deposited us at the base of a gigantic apartment complex. As most of the country is covered in mountains and so space is limited, following their economic boom in the 1970s Koreans developed an affinity for monolithic apartment high-rises; self-sufficient entities that house thousands and are equipped with amenities ranging from grocery stores to gas stations and rows of restaurants. While they could not be prouder of these, all I see is a giant firetrap. But that’s just me.  

Hunting around the complex’s multi-level garage, we spent just under a half-hour walking in circles and trying to find the building number I had scrawled on a piece of paper: building 112, apartment 5105.

After locating the building, we were greeted by a video intercom, which we struggled with unsuccessfully for five minutes until we were able to squeeze through the automatic sliding door after a departing tenant. This is about the time we started to notice the lobby seemed very upscale. Marble hallways, plants, a bubbling fountain. Perhaps this was going to work out after all.

Taking one of the biggest elevators I’ve been in since arriving in Korea, we got off on the fifth floor and were met with apartments 501-510. Puzzled, we called the elevator back, climbed in and realized that the building had fifty-one floors. Apartment 5105 was on the top floor. My ears popped twice on the way up, and when the elevator doors opened, I could feel any sense of thanks that I had been slowly tapping on the way over (list three things you’re thankful for…) immediately overpowered by intense jealousy.

One of two apartments on the penthouse floor, their door was open and we walked into one of the nicest places I’ve ever been in – Korea or not. Their foyer was the size of my apartment, with giant, wood cabinets on either side that could have easily fit my dinky twin bed and all my belongings with room to spare. Placing our shoes alongside the thirty or so other pairs that were neatly arranged along the wall, we walked down a gaping hallway that opened up into the kitchen and a living room with floor to ceiling windows showcasing views of the entire city. Making a concerted effort to close my mouth, I was introduced to the host and a handful of my fellow teachers and then quickly excused myself to explore the rest of the palace. Three bedrooms. Two bathrooms. Two living rooms. One jacuzzi bathtub that required all my self-control not to lock the door behind me and jump in. The place just kept going – and I had to remind myself multiple times that I wasn’t in the ambassador’s apartment, these people were teachers, paying less for the entire place than I paid for my share of a small, Spanish Harlem apartment in New York. This is why people move over here for a summer and end up staying for twelve. After getting over my surroundings and asking if they needed any roommates, house sitters or squatters, I finally settled in and was able to appreciate what was going on around me.

Comfortably spread out among the five rooms that were open to us, over forty foreigners from across the world sat down to inhale six turkeys, at least twenty pounds of mashed potatoes, corn, stuffing, salad, rolls, pasta, green beans, pierogi (I have no idea, either), squash – the table went on and on. You could tell this restaurant used to feed the army; like I had wished for, the food just kept coming and at one point I looked up to find half of us sprawled out, lying prostrate on the floor and rubbing our stomachs.

Like this. But in Korea.

Australians, Canadians, Brits, Kiwis, Irish, and even a couple of Koreans – while one would struggle to find anyone in the crowd who could locate Plymouth on a map, this was, in a way, what the whole holiday was about. The natives – the more senior teachers among us who were able to locate these amazing apartment deals and arrange the unbelievable catering – helping the newly arrived make it through our first winter in a strange and faraway land.

While I still would have given my left arm to be surrounded by my family, if I had to be away during the holidays, I couldn’t have asked for nicer surroundings and more accommodating hosts. Hours later, waddling out to find a cab for the journey back to our neighborhood, the Texans and I were amazed at our luck in being placed among such great people – and then began plotting how we could steal their apartment. You know, just like the pilgrims did three centuries ago.