I've had countless summers, but this summer feels different.
It's so hot.
Perhaps working outdoors makes me feel even more heat-stricken.
I tried to recall the summers of the past in my mind.
Memories of valleys and the sea came flooding back without me even trying.
Perhaps that's because most of the impressions I've made of summers in my youth are of mountains and the sea.
I delved a little deeper.
The slate house in the mountain village, where the rain poured down and the drops of water fell into the room,
the rocky path where I used to draw water with a bucket from the well next to the cemetery,
the mouth-watering ice cream riddle at the corner store on the way home after school
up the long mountain path...
Only such brief scenes, like trivial photographs, popped up here and there, interrupted by abrupt pauses.
The narrative doesn't connect the dots, making it a memorable story.
Anyway, I don't recall a heat as irritating as this summer.
The sunlight and temperature back then were somehow different from this year's.
This summer's sunlight is featureless, just a blanket of heat and humidity.
It's a hazy, smoky color.
Our janitors' break room is about 10.5 square meters.
We have air conditioning installed.
The restroom is next to the break room, so whenever I stop by to urinate,
it's so cool I want to stay longer.
However, using the break room outside of lunchtime is difficult.
It's possible, but no one uses it because they're so conscious of it.
In the beginning, I brought my own lunch and ate it in the break room.
But a 10 square meter space is too small for five people to eat lunch and rest.
Even his wife finds it a struggle to prepare her husband's lunchbox, who leaves for work at the crack of dawn.
She can't pack the same side dishes every day, and she needs to change things up occasionally, like bread, steamed potatoes, or corn, for peace of mind. As the days go by, preparing his lunchbox must have become an unwelcome burden.
At some point, the frequency of lunchboxes decreased.
Then, this spring came and the lunchboxes stopped.
I felt at ease, too.
It wasn't just my mind that felt at ease, but my body as well.
When the five of us open our lunchboxes in the small break room, there's no space left.
With no tables, the four of us, except the foreman, each scavenge for usable food from the recycling bin and open our lunchboxes.
It feels more like another task, a way to recharge our energy for cleaning than lunch itself.
Initially, the breakroom was a place we eagerly awaited, a place where we could chat and share cleaning tips.
But as summer arrived, it became a place where I quickly finished my meals and laid down my tired body.
The heat isn't just about the heat.
It also brings irritation and fatigue.
The cramped break space, where conversation is silenced, is sensitive.
You can't lie down with your legs stretched out.
We have to be considerate of each other and crouch down a little.
That's one reason my lunchbox was empty.
If I avoid it, each person has more space.
I switched from the home-style meal restaurant I occasionally visited to a kimbap restaurant.
I liked the quick service and the single-person tables.
Home-style meal restaurants only serve four, so I felt like a nuisance, eating alone, and it was uncomfortable.
The kimbap restaurant's customers were diverse.
Group workers in yellow vests, elderly couples, young women and young workers, and the surrounding ajusshi and ajusshi,
and especially, many solo customers like me were there, which made me feel at ease.
Because the customer base is so diverse, the menu is also diverse.
I was amazed at how they whip up so many different dishes so quickly.
Two people, who looked about my age, prepared the food in the kitchen, two younger people served the food, and one person at the counter, specializing in kimbap, took orders and wrapped them.
I became a regular customer before I knew it.
They seemed to know what I was going to order.
You can't get the regular kimbap that costs 3,000 won there.
Only the special kimbap, which costs 4,500 won or more, is available.
The side dishes are just soybean paste soup and six pieces of pickled radish.
I alternate between beef kimbap and cheese kimbap.
Today, beef, tomorrow, cheese.
So, the lady at the counter, the kimbap specialist, seems to remember that.
There's another, even bigger secret.
She seems to put a little more beef and cheese in my kimbap than others do.
One day,
there were so many customers that she didn't even notice me and just heard me ordering,
^Give me one beef kimbap^
and I'm like, "I'll have one beef kimbap!"
and I stood there to pay, and she said, "^You didn't know I was an old man and just wrapped up the kimbap for me!"
and took my card.
At first, I didn't understand what she meant, but I soon figured it out.
She must have put a little extra thought into giving it to me, a cleaner wearing red gloves, a mask, and a sweaty vest, who always alternated between beef and cheese at the exact same time.
I debated whether or not to share this, but what can I do?
My blog doesn't have many readers...
I guess they added two or three more pieces of beef and cheese than others.
Those three or four grams of beef and cheese feel like jewels that create a world where people can live with dignity.
Since then, I've also occasionally ordered the 8,000 won kongguksu (soybean noodle soup).
The waitress comes by every now and then,
"I see you really like kongguksu,"
and sets the table.
Where else can you get such attention and care?
Regulars are truly amazing.
Regulars become part of the family.
The owner and employees who take such good care of their regulars are angels.
My lunch is prepared by angels every day.
I'll retire this hot and annoying summer to the angels' table!
This place, so refreshing and soothing in this sweltering heat,
is heaven.
It's heaven on earth.
That's probably why the kimbap restaurant is called Kimbap Heaven.
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