Then there's the Korean flute player. He's somewhere behind our house, I think (and I imagine it's an old man), tucked somewhere between the forest and the cluster of old, plaster and brick buildings, playing these ancient-sounding melodies that wander through our windows every morning like a breeze. I've always wanted to seek him out and meet him, but never have.
Then there are the rhythmic broom strokes of the retirees who come through to sweep up the neighborhood. The endless chatter of schoolchildren in the schoolyard, and the now familiar electronic melody that signals the beginning of every period. There is the junk collector who drives through and blasts the same message on his megaphone every day, imploring people to offer up their used air conditioners, refrigerators, and TV's for him to resell. The sound of utensils clattering in a house nearby.
And in the distance, no matter what time, you can hear the hum of Seoul's roads, which never sleep.