Lina lived on a street called Munsan, a long line of wooden houses with many children in front of them, and a few scraggly trees. Merely driving down it, looking for a parking space, I felt like in another country. To begin with, there were so many people. Besides the children playing, there were entire families sitting on their porches with apparently nothing better to do this Sunday afternoon than to watch me park my MG.

Lina leaped out first. She had incredible reflexes in Paju, like some quick little grasshopper. There was all but an organized cheer when the porch watchers saw who my passenger was. No less than the great Park! When I heard all the greetings for her, I was almost ashamed to get out.

'ahnyeong, Lina!' I heard one matronly type shout with great gusto.

'Ahnyeong ajumunni,' I heard Lina bellow back. I climbed out of the car. I could feel the eyes on me.

'who's the namja?' shouted Mrs. Kang. Not too subtle around here, are they?

'He's nothing!' Lina called back. Which did wonders for my confidence.

'Maybe,' shouted Mrs. Kang in my direction, 'but the girl he's with is really something!'

'He knows,' Lina replied.

She then turned to satisfy neighbors on the other side.

'He knows,' she told a whole new group of her fans. She took my hand (I was a stranger in paradise), and led me to her house.

******

It was an awkward moment. I just stood there as Lina said,

'This is my appa.' And Park Kuen, a roughhewn (say 5'9", 165-pound) in his late forties, held out his hand. We shook and he had a strong grip.

'How do you do, sir?'

'Abonim,' he corrected me.

'Abonim, sir' I replied, continuing to shake his hand. It was also a scary moment. Because then, just as he let go of my hand, Mr. Park turned to his daughter and gave this incredible shout:

'Lina!'

For a split second nothing happened. And then they were hugging. Tight. Very tight. Rocking to and fro. All Mr. Park could offer by way of further comment was the (now very soft) repetition of his daughter's name: 'Lina.' And all his graduating-Kyungsung-with-honors daughter could offer by way of reply was: 'appa.'

I was definitely the odd man out. One thing about my couth upbringing helped me out that afternoon. I had always been lectured about not talking with my mouth full. Since Park and his daughter kept conspiring to fill that orifice, I didn't have to speak. I must have eaten a record quantity of pastries. Afterward I discoursed at some length on which ones I had liked best (I ate no less than two of each kind, for fear of giving offense), to the delight of the two Parks.

'He's okay,' said Park Kuen to his daughter. 

What did that mean? I didn't need to have 'okay' defined; I merely wished to know what of my few and circumspect actions had earned for me that cherished epithet. Did I like the right cookies? Was my handshake strong enough? What?

'I told you he was okay,appa ,' said Mr. Kuen's daughter.

'Well, okay,' said her father, 'I still had to see for myself. Now I saw. Jaejoong?' He was now addressing me.

'Ye, sir?'

'abonim.'

'Ye, abonim, sir?'

'You're okay.'

'Thank you, sir. I appreciate it. Really I do. And you know how I feel about your daughter, sir. And you, sir.'

'Jaejoong,' Lina interrupted, 'will you stop babbling like a stupid goddamn preppie, and - '

'Lina,' Mr. Park interrupted, 'can you avoid the profanity? The sonova is a guest!'