At Era’s End
In a few days, a big group of foreign friends I am truly close to will leave Korea. Goodbyes always sting, but this time it feels different. It feels like an era is ending. Not because people are leaving, but because a whole part of my daily life is about to close. When I look back, the centre of that life was almost always a pub.
I’ve always been an introvert. However, since I started working as a translator, I began to feel a large empty space in my life. Korean friends in my age slowly settled down, got married, and my weekends started to feel strangely empty. I also did not want to lose my English. So I decided to make foreign friends. It did not begin with anything grand. It began with one simple thing I heard, that people are gathering near my place every Thursday.
The first time I met them was at a pub. Before I opened the door, I was not even sure why I was there. I was not sure what I was looking for, or if I belonged in that room at all. But once the drinks were poured and the talk began to flow, I understood quickly. This was what I needed.
For some reason, it was easier to talk there. In Korean, before you get close to someone, you often censor your sentence one extra time in your head. You know how easily tone can touch a relationship. But in English, everyone could hear that English was not my first language, so mistakes were expected. People often caught my meaning before they judged my wording. That breathing space mattered more than I expected. When I could finally breathe, I could step into relationships more naturally.
As I got closer to them, I also became a useful friend, and I became one fast. The problems foreigners face in Korea are rarely dramatic, but they are the kind that trip you up again and again. Language and culture barriers can fragment everyday life. I could help stitch those pieces together more easily than most. That helped to become close. Over time, though, I learned something else. My help did not always make relationships warmer. Sometimes it changed the balance.
So I began to set boundaries around how I helped. I learned to distinguish simple kindness from what would become a burden. For example, I stopped getting involved in police or legal matters. That boundary was never meant to push people away. It was necessary to prevent burnout and to keep my relationships sustainable. Once I accepted that, things eased and the friendships lasted longer.
Then Covid arrived. Even when everything stopped, we still went to the pub. We did not gather in big groups anymore. We met in smaller numbers, had a few drinks, and split up before curfew. We were not doing it for fun. We were doing it so our connections would not snap. In those days, the pub was not a place to enjoy. It was a place to endure. I learned firsthand that relationships are often kept alive not by big events, but by small proof that says it is not over yet.
When Covid faded and life started moving again, we met even more. The last year, especially, felt unusually full. I met friends who felt strangely in sync with me. We liked similar things. We laughed at the same kind of jokes. The shape of our conversations fit. So we met almost every weekend. We drank, watched movies, went to the beach, and hiked. We checked on each other, again and again, in ordinary ways.
That closeness did not stay inside the weekend. When someone’s birthday came near, we made a group chat without the person and spent days planning a gift. Who will order it, how we will give it, what we will say. My phone filled up with rooms that looked almost the same. Still, I liked it. I have lived abroad before, and I know how lonely a birthday can feel when you are far from home. So on that day, I wanted our message to be clear. “You have people here.” After living that way, the goodbye feels heavier.
One of the friends leaving this time is going back to the United Kingdom. I’ve known him for 6 years. 3 years during Covid, and 3 years after. When he leaves, it will feel like that whole period of time will leave with him. Maybe that is why it feels like a chapter closing. A witness is leaving. And I am in my early forties now. These days, I feel less eager to add new people to my life. I find myself wanting to keep the relationships I already have, and keep them well.
There is another change I have been noticing too. Many newly arrived English teachers do not drink the way the older crowd did. A lot of young Koreans are similar too. They drink less. They go home earlier. They care more about their energy the next day and their private time. The pubs still exist, but the way a pub holds people has changed. The ending I feel is not only about friends leaving. It is also about the air changing.
Nevertheless, I do not regret the last 10 years. I've made so many friends from many countries. I've learned that I truly enjoy helping people out. At the same time, I've learned that if I want that feeling to last, I need boundaries. That boundary taught me how to like people without losing myself. Slowly, I began to understand how to stay kind and still stay whole.
This Saturday, we will gather at the pub that helped us survive Covid for a farewell party. Just like the beginning, the goodbye will happen in a pub. People leave, and some pubs eventually close. But memories do not vanish. They remain, and they quietly turn into promises. Someday, somehow, we will meet again.