Michael and I were walking back to the subway from the cable lift station at the base of Mt. Namsan, when I managed to rip the entire crotch off of my shorts. Maybe I was still reeling from the fantastic views from atop Seoul Tower followed by some Cold Stone. That's probably it. Anyway, I wasn't looking where I was going for a split second, and some little pipe thing grew out of the ground in front of me. I somehow kept from physically hurting myself, but the pain from hearing that RRRIIIIP was sharp and deep. My shorts were ripped in half from the top of the inseam to the top of the zipper. Drawers were exposed. We were about 1/3 of the way back to the station, which meant about 10 more minutes of walking with my hands in my pockets pinching the front of my shorts together like a paper cut, not to mention the subway ride, transfer, and walk to the hotel. After only a few yards I decided I needed to find a safety pin. In that part of town it's totally reasonable to scan the street as you go, expecting to see a safety pin. I didn't find one though. My last ditch effort was to stop in front of one of the many nondescript shop doors and see if I could bum one.
Here's the door I picked. It was open.
The wi-fi gods were smiling, and I was able to leech a signal long enough to use my phone to translate "safety pin". The lady in the door was understandably confused, so I motioned to my fly, and she ushered us inside like we were being chased. Inside were spindles of thread of every color covering every wall, and a workbench with three or four lever contraptions. She was a button maker. She pulled out a chair and gestured at me to sit, which I did. Then she set about searching for a beige thread to match my shorts. Why not, when you can? She cut a good foot of it and handed it to me with a large needle.
Driving a needle through that multi-layered part of pants hurts like hell, but by God I got those shorts streetworthy again, fully intending to trash them when we got back. Meanwhile, she gave Michael a few drinks of water and gave him a few buttons to remember her by. Oh, I'll remember you, button maker. Gamsahapnida.
The wi-fi gods were smiling, and I was able to leech a signal long enough to use my phone to translate "safety pin". The lady in the door was understandably confused, so I motioned to my fly, and she ushered us inside like we were being chased. Inside were spindles of thread of every color covering every wall, and a workbench with three or four lever contraptions. She was a button maker. She pulled out a chair and gestured at me to sit, which I did. Then she set about searching for a beige thread to match my shorts. Why not, when you can? She cut a good foot of it and handed it to me with a large needle.
Driving a needle through that multi-layered part of pants hurts like hell, but by God I got those shorts streetworthy again, fully intending to trash them when we got back. Meanwhile, she gave Michael a few drinks of water and gave him a few buttons to remember her by. Oh, I'll remember you, button maker. Gamsahapnida.
Ok, that said, here's the trip to Seoul Tower.
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