The Public Flogging at Incheon Lounge
A Korean Air travelogue
“This is my last pair of clean socks.” I’m not sure why I shared that particular piece of trivia with an American couple in line at Changi Terminal 4 bag drop, but it was true. After correcting them on the pronunciation of Toronto — most of the letters are silent — and clearing security, I perched myself in the business class lounge overlooking a row of fake houses inexplicably placed in the middle of the terminal.
“At least my trip will be comfortable,” I thought. In about 30 hours, I’d be home. And until then, I intended to avoid every screaming baby, confused tourist, and hedge fund manager I possibly could. I sipped my orange juice and picked at the gigantic pile of olives I had scooped from the buffet as I dreamed of my cat and my bed. My cat in my bed.
There was an arcade at the gate. Yes, an arcade. I gave Tetris a whirl — the last person had abandoned their game, so I picked up where they left off. After an embarrassingly short time, I too abandoned it. But not before putting an L-shaped piece in a place from which it would be difficult to recover.
Retreating to one of the abundant seats, I opened Polytopia on my phone and continued growing my xenophobic empire.
The gate was quiet. Very quiet. No announcements. Barely anyone talking. Eerily silent. And just as I had settled into that silence, a throng of teenagers (let’s call them teenagers, they might’ve been 25) spawned yapping loudly about god knows what. And of the approximately 150 seats available, they chose the ones directly opposite me. I ran the math on the probability and contemplated whether the constants of the universe are fine-tuned for life.
I took my Polytopia empire and my bags and huffed off to the opposite end of the gate. The teenagers didn’t seem to notice. Moments later, they ran away from the gate at full speed one by one, yelling the entire time, of course. Maybe someone forgot a passport at security? I found myself hoping one of them lost their passport entirely. And then they’d have to discuss whether they’d leave that person behind to fend for themselves, survivor-style.
A short six hour flight later and I found myself connecting in Korea. My plan was to shower in the lounge and change into some fresh clothes. The single pair of socks would be an ongoing problem.
The lounge was brand new. A sign for the bathrooms pointed right. After walking in a circle and finding no bathrooms, I repeated the same circuit again. After several repetitions, I found another man doing the same loop as me. “Bathroom?” I said. “Yes, where is it?” “We shall find it together!” I said in a declarative voice with way more energy than the situation called for. We found it. And then we awkwardly avoided any further conversation.
The shower room had a self-service kiosk that wasn’t working. I summoned a Korean woman (this was the Korean Airlines lounge, after all) in a blazer and heels to help. She examined the kiosk, realized the problem, called the shower attendant out of hiding, and scolded her briefly in Korean. “Please wait,” she said to me in English.
Moments later, another woman — taller, with higher heels and a fancier blazer — arrived. She was clearly in charge. She scolded the attendant in Korean a second time. I seemed to have instigated a public flogging.
The Woman in Charge started using the kiosk with the attendant watching. An administrator password was typed. More Korean was uttered. Alt-tabbing, debugging. At one point there was a prompt to log into what looked like someone’s personal Google account. Finally, I was allowed to use a shower room.
The toilet seat opened all on its own as I approached. While I was doing my business, it made satisfying aperiodic beeping noises, as if it were assessing, analyzing, and indeed approving of what it was receiving. The unpredictability of the beeps gave it a game-like quality. When will it beep next?
The second — and much longer — flight back to Toronto was a struggle. Nausea, a migraine, and insomnia set in early. As one of the flight attendants walked by my seat, I swear I heard her say “stinks!” Or maybe “steak,” since it was dinner time. But I was self-conscious about my socks, and I had my shoes off.
I asked a pair of FAs if they had Gravol. Giggling ensued. Was this a funny word in Korean? Claude helped me translate: 보나링. “Ohhhh,” the response came back. They pulled out a Michelin Star menu of drugs and identified several candidate options. And soon, I was chewing on two pink pills. Relief came quickly. They took me on as their personal project for the rest of the flight. The healthcare on Korean Airlines is notably better than at most hospitals in Canada.
After we landed, I picked up my cat from his caretakers. He hates travel and gets nauseous in the car. Me too, buddy, me too. I comforted him as best I could, but I had no pink Korean pills available, much less ones safe for cats.
Home at last, I took off my socks and climbed into bed. But my cat was not the least bit interested in joining me. Perhaps it was the socks. I slept for 12 hours.