As level 2.5 of Korea's social distancing scheme approaches its one month anniversary the sense of anxiety and depression permeating across the country is impossible to ignore. From close personal friends and the part-time workers at the neighborhood convenience stores to small business owners and educators, no matter who it is I've spoken to over the past couple of weeks, the topic inevitably nearly always turns to the 'lock-down'. Of course the prevalence of Covid in conversation is nothing new as far as the last year is concerned, but what's different this time around is the lack hope within these conversations.
Perhaps it's the fatigue of the now nearly one-year-old pandemic, or maybe it's the seasonal mood swings brought on by Seoul's unruly winter. Add in the fact that the combination of freezing temperatures and gym closures have made it extremely difficult for people to get adequate amounts of exercise and it shouldn't be surprising that morale is less than stellar in the capital region. With Korea's daily new patient count continuing to hover around 1,000 the prospects of the government loosening regulations aren't exactly promising either.
To say then that Wednesday night's heavy snow, the first of this winter, was a desperately needed reprieve from the sense of dread that has been brought on by the Covid-induced lock-downs would be no exaggeration. As I pulled on my second layer of socks and slipped into my black Adidas running shoes in preparation to brave the elements and get some of that much needed exercise I mentioned earlier, I didn't expect much other than a more difficult than average run thanks to the fresh powder that was pouring down. Considering that during my previous few runs I would have been lucky to see one or two other joggers or maybe a dog-walker, I certainly didn't expect the sight I was to behold. If that last line sounds like a Christmas song lyric from 1950 it's probably my nostalgia talking.
As I waited for the little man on the crosswalk sign to turn green so I could jog across the street and onto the campus of Korea University the first thing I noticed was how striking the university's administration building appeared in contrast with its newly acquired white surroundings. However, it was what I saw as I made my way up the small hill through the campus's main gate that immediately transported me to grade school playground days of winters gone by.
It was a soccer game. Now while this might not sound like anything spectacular, keep in mind this type of activity has been explicitly banned by the government. What a bunch of rebels. Although the game was a bit ragtag and solid footing was an a minimum, the joy in the movement and mask-muffled exclamations of the participants was infectious. Watching the goalie dive and slide through the snow to stop the ball from going through the make-shift goalposts (also conceived of snow) it was hard to discern whether he was a 20-something student at one of Korea's most prestigious universities or if he was youngster experiencing his first snow.
The soccer rebels weren't the only ones who had decided to take advantage of the conditions. Far from it. On one end of the courtyard near a gleaming winter light display a younger man toting his newly formed snowball rushed after his screaming friend as she hollered like a school child and attempted to avoid his aim. Fail. He landed his throw right in the middle of her back. This however only brought more laughter from both.
Not to be outdone there was another group competing for the spotlight. Dotting the landscape every which way I turned were little white men donning sticks for arms and eyes made of rocks, and one of the fellas even made sure to comply with government standards by sporting a mask. In my over four years living in Korea this was definitely the largest snowman to human ration that I had come across. Friends and couples lined up (quite literally) to have their photos snapped with the various renditions, but the tall one wearing his bright red gloves seemed to be the favorite.
That scene overflowing with innocence and happiness did more for my spirts than any Netflix quarantine gem or late night Yogiyo food delivery ever could, and it injected me with something that I, and I guess countless others, have been severely lacking. Escape. With borders closed being stuck in a country roughly the size of Indiana can quickly become claustrophobic, and although the snow didn't magically teleport any restless souls abroad, it did turn Seoul, if only for a night, into a destination worthy of envy. It only took a quick glance through my Instagram feed to determine that it wasn't only people living around my university that were indulging in the bliss of the transformed landscape. The most exemplary Instagram post I came across was a video of one of my friends sliding then tumbling down a snowy hill accompanied with the caption 'Yes I'm 30'.
Although by the time I hit publish on this story the picturesque white landscape will have turned into a muddy mess on the roads and sidewalks, I hope the relief and happiness that was plentiful on Wednesday night won't soon fade away and that it can be the push that this country needs to make its way through what may be the final stretch, although a long final stretch, of the pandemic. Tough times still lie ahead and the depression, anxiety and despair induced by Covid and often arbitrary government regulations are certainly unfortunate, but very real issues. This snow won't solve that. But it should remind us that bad times don't last forever, and at times its life's often overlooked simplicities that have the power to inspire us the most.
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