I was revisiting Seoul, where I let myself wander into parts of "old town" so close to the main road that layers of pavement forever cemented a history to the tiny pubs and shops that dot the wayside. The street was quiet, but inside a club of travelers and tradesmen, I found a quaint spot to soak in the night.

On a raised wooden stage was a heavily bearded Korean man with a guitar and a black bandana covering the top of his white woolly hair. In broken English, he sang in a gruff voice that occasionally hinted at Eric Clapton.  This was the Asian version of an American establishment.

As I sat down, he finished a song and nodded to me with a drink in his hand raised in my direction. "It's long time," he laughed kindly, "two years since a beautiful woman sat in my audience."

I returned his nod and toasting gesture with a smile that, as I conceived, was the only appropriate response.

His next song was 'No Woman No Cry'. I took note, but I smirked when the song after that was 'Cecelia'. Perhaps something happened the last time a "beautiful woman" was in his audience, two years ago. We may never know. He took a break, and after finishing my order of Chamisul soju, I left.