"When Are You Going To America?"

I was accosted at 7:40am this very day, downstairs in our local basement supermarket. The 50ish year old man serving me was leaning over the counter, he had hold of my right arm, just yesterday released from it’s sling, tugging on my elbow, and for some obscure reason asking “When? When?”
“when?when?” He is getting more anxious by the moment. I can see his level of excitement rise as his face becomes more and more red. I feel that I should respond before his head explodes or even worse he starts drooling and spitting, as old men can do when they are talking to a captive audience on a subject about which they feel passionate. “when, what?” I ask him politely, sensing I don’t want to be part of this conversation already. “When are you going to America?”
I always get nervous when Coreans start a conversation obviously believing that because I am not Corean, I must be American. It tells you a lot about both them and where the conversation is heading. It tells you that they are not particularly bright for a start. It tells you that even though they may be aware of the existence of other countries they haven’t got around to exploring the possibility that people might live in them. It tells you that regardless of what you say they are going to continue believing that you are American for the duration of the conversation anyway, and that the conversation is going to be long, dull and mono-directional.
“Excuse me?” I respond, immediately regretting that I had said anything at all. This conversation is happening in Corean and my experience tells me that the only way out of this jam is to pretend you don’t understand. Sometimes it doesn’t work. Sometimes the accoster starts up in English. That can be worse, but it’s usually worth a try. You may think that the accostee pretending to be German or French or Moroccan might be a devious tactic to employ at this juncture, but that means you have forgotten that this man has already convinced himself you are American and nothing you can do will change his mind. But I had slipped and the cat was out of the bag. You could try howling at the moon at this stage and the accoster would still think you were trying to communicate with him.
“When are you going to America?” “I’m Australian” “But when are you going to America?” “But I come from Australia” I insisted underneath the dull repetition of his question. I realised I had to employ another tactic otherwise this man was going to pull my arm out of it’s socket. “aahhh, I don’t know when I will go to America”. It worked. He let go of my arm, laughed a little and exclaimed “Ah, you’re Australian!” I used this opportunity to pick up my groceries and attempt to exit the store but quick as a flash he has hold of my arm again and announces “My younger brother lives in America!”
I was, I think quite understandably, lost for a response to this. But I think he mistook my look of bewilderment for one of awe, for he kept on becoming more and more excited by the second “Yes, he’s a TALENT you know?” employing the English word ‘talent’. (note he doesn’t necessarily have talent, apparently he is one.) I left him thinking that I was also in awe of this with my best ‘I wish I knew how to stop you from talking at me’ look. He’s on a roll now, he’s really excited and I just know any second now he’s going to start spitting “Yes, he’s a talent. And he lives in America, you know?” he let go of my arm to do an imaginary drum roll with his index fingers, building up to the grand finale “Hamburgers, you know? Yes, Hamburgers! He’s a talent”.
By the size of the drum roll, I thought he was going to be a drumming talent, but without bothering to ponder this any longer I seized the moment and picked up my bags and left the store. As I am walking up the stairs I can hear him calling to me, in these exact words, “He moved to America to become a talent”.
That left me thinking, that must be what Corean parents say to their children when their pets die. Maybe there aren’t enough farms here for our old lie to work on the kiddies, or maybe going to a farm to live out your remaining years isn’t exciting enough for the new generation. Or, I’m only guessing but I think I might be close here, that that level of logic just isn’t required in a country where you are trained from day dot to accept everything you are told by old people at face value.
“I know Fido was old dear, but he moved to America to become a talent. That’s what’s best for old dogs”. Anyone who has lived here will know what I mean.