A time ago, or at least what feels like a while ago, I studied abroad in Seoul, South Korea.
And among the many vivid memories and insightful moments there’s a place that stays warm in my heart. In Mapo-gu there’s this cafe called Love is Art. I would sometimes go at random times of the week or really whenever I was feeling like I wanted a moment of peace. Something of comfort or the recharging escape so that’s necessary for an introvert.
I can’t tell if it was the calming atmosphere that stands apart in my peaceful memories or if it was the alluring smell of freshly baked goods, or even the uniquely curated furniture pieces that made the cafe feel like I was walking into a room where the air felt warmer.
But among these many feelings that glaze over my memories, I can remember sitting in the cushion that faced the large window during a coloring september. The sun to my surprise offered no warmth but managed to provide a gleam into the cafe that felt like a caress. The warm air provided by what I assumed to be a heater was engulfed by the smell of fresh vanilla, cream, and strawberries.
I had been troubled by the woes of a student and had found myself walking to a place of solace. I ordered myself a strawberry cream cake and cherry juice. Not a combination you would have together but the strawberry cake looked so delicious and the cherry juice was what had hooked me to the cafe.
Now, the cherry juice was a vibrant lip-staining reddish violet hue. It had the most refreshingly tart flavor that I would sometimes add cider to if I wanted an extra lip smacking effect. And it would be a drink that I found to be the perfect addition to a mind clearing walk.
On this particular day, I had managed to come at a time where there was a single slice of a strawberry cream cake. It was a layered vanilla sponge cake that was stacked with strawberries and cream. The slightly tart crunchy sweetness of the strawberries paired with the light sweet fluffiness of the whipped cream and vanilla cake.
A perfect combination and I’ve had strawberry shortcakes from the Strawberry Festival. A single slice packed to go so when I opened it back at my apartment I would taste the freshness of strawberries (which in itself was a feat considering my difficulty of finding fresh fruit during my stay).
On this day, I walk up to the ordering desk as I eye the single strawberry cake that’s calling my name and the owner of the cafe, a youthful woman who I would only assume was in her 30s because I’m pretty sure her husband worked in the cafe with her but don’t quote me on it because I only vaguely remember him in passing in relation to her. I’ve never remembered people’s faces. Never have, never will and I only recognized people based on the memories and feelings they’ve placed in my mind. So that’s why I remember this woman as a very young, beautiful, bright person. She was always friendly and I always remembered her smiling as I walked in.
I walk up to the counter and the cafe owner smiles at me and says “Cherry juice?” I respond with a bit of laughter and a yes. I then point to the single slice of cake and ask for that too. This time there’s a little bit of extra time in between my to-go order and she starts up a conversation. We had a simple conversation filled with
"Ahh you're an exchange student"
"You must not live too far from here"
"Your Korean's very good"
Just the right amount of conversation to fill up the time until my cherry juice and strawberry cake were ready to go. She handed me my items, I thanked her, and I was on my way to write a fat essay.
And now 2 years later I realize that she was the only person who didn’t speak English, who wasn’t a youth, who wanted to speak to me and ask me questions about myself, someone who remembered me. I almost always went alone. It had constantly reminded me of my own home kitchen that I was missing and persistently reminded me of the garden I was going to start when I got back. It was a place of comfort. A place of solace. It wasn’t just the decor or even the way the sun perfectly hit the green chair in the window (the green chair that might not even be green because I honestly don’t even categorize colors in my memories either). Maybe it was the simple smile of the cafe owner who knew this foreign girl liked cherry juice.
