Could that young lady have been a fox lady?

In the summer of 1974, when I was 25 years old, I started working with Gold Star Electronics and began commuting to work using the company's shuttle bus. Living in a suburban neighborhood of Seoul called Dapsimni at the time, I would board the bus there, where there were usually plenty of seats available. I always sat in a window seat in the third or fourth row behind the driver's seat, and a female employee who boarded at the next stop, Sindang-dong, would always sit next to me. On the first day she sat next to me, she initiated the conversation.

 

"Do you like Schubert?" she asked.

Or was it Chopin? I don't recall, but the important thing is that she spoke to me first, an unusual occurrence for a shy man like me.

 

My knowledge of music was as limited then as it is now. Before starting work, I had picked up a few pop songs and traditional Korean songs from radio shows like "Three O'Clock's Dial" or "To Those Who Forgot the Night," but I had little to no knowledge of classical music. I did enjoy Korean songs, and I knew quite a few, but I didn't have a particular favorite composer. Nevertheless, I told her I liked songs in general. Despite my answer, she continued talking only about classical music, seemingly ignoring my response.

 

"Why is she talking so much to a stranger?" I wondered, observing her profile. Her fair skin suggested she might be a bit younger than me, and she looked reasonably attractive. She had been working for several years, as she spoke confidently without any sign of shyness.

 

For several months, my morning commute was both enjoyable and tiresome. I appreciated sitting next to the pleasant-looking young lady, but her endless discussions about classical music, which I couldn't understand, gave me a headache. It would have been nice if she had talked a bit more about Korean songs. One day, she asked me another perplexing question.

 

"Do you like Anna Moffo?" Anna Moffo? It seemed to be related to classical music, but I had never heard of her before. So, I told her honestly that I was unfamiliar with her. I wasn't sure if she was a singer or a composer, so I just assumed she was a musician. Despite my ignorant response, she didn't seem too disappointed and continued as usual.

"I have two tickets to an Anna Moffo performance," she mentioned.

She had secured the tickets, but I wasn't sure why she was telling me about them. For several more months, she continued to sit next to me each morning and talk endlessly about classical music during our commute, but none of it stuck in my head. It was like reading to a cow, a fruitless endeavor.

 

Then one day, she said something surprisingly easy to understand.

"I'm moving. I'll be taking a different bus from tomorrow."

Her words affected me more than I expected. After sitting next to each other for over half a year, we parted ways without knowing each other's names. Strangely, despite working in the same building, I had never once run into her. That's the entire story. Looking back, it seems like a trivial tale. But what was her name? I wasn't curious 50 years ago, but suddenly, I'm curious today.

Could that young lady have been a fox lady?

 

Note : According to Korean legends, an old fox can transform into a beautiful woman. "The term "fox lady" can have various meanings in Korean culture. Generally, "fox" can be used to describe a person with cunning, clever, and attractive qualities. Thus, "fox lady" is an expression that refers to a woman who is feminine, attractive, and sometimes slightly sly or crafty.

However, this expression can carry negative connotations depending on the context, so caution is necessary. In other situations, it can be positively interpreted as simply referring to an attractive and intelligent woman."