We took our suitcases up in the elevator to our new 4th floor (yay!) apartment and surveyed the scene. We were a little bummed to discover we had no loft, meaning our new living area (only slightly bigger than our last one) would now have to also fit our two beds as well as the suitcases, Christmas tree, etc. that we used to store in the loft. Also, no separate sleeping area anymore which was really helpful with our highly different sleeping schedules. Ohhhh well, we can "take a few smooths with a rough." We sat and waited for the mover to bring up the rest of our stuff...
We waited for quite some time. After a bit, a man in uniform (an apartment security guard, I think) rang the bell and attempted to question us using a piece of paper with room numbers written on it. We gathered he was trying to confirm that we were moving from 853 City of Angel 1 (our old place) to 428 City of Angel 3. He seemed a little confused about the whole thing and I began to wonder if there was some problem. Were we in the wrong apartment, perhaps? He left without seeming to have resolved anything in his mind.
A few minutes later, someone keyed in the lock combination on our door and came barging into our apartment. He seemed rather taken aback by our presence. Needless to say, we were also a bit taken aback by his. He went outside and began to commune with our mover, who had also just arrived with a load of our stuff. Meanwhile, we sat inside for perhaps ten minutes listening to them shout at one another in a fashion not uncommon among older Korean men, and wondering what on earth was going on. The altercation grew more and more heated, and eventually we poked our heads outside to investigate, to discover that two Korean policemen were now on the scene. It appeared that the man who had barged in (we figured he must be the owner) was determined to prevent us from moving in, and our mover was determined that we SHOULD move in, at all costs. A conscientious mover, apparently, and one who could not allow himself to fail in carrying out his commission.
As we appeared on the scene, the homeowner guy appeared to be in the process of presenting his case to the police. Upon our arrival, he indicated us with an agitated wave of his arm and angrily shouted something about waegugin (foreigners.) We began to feel a little uncomfortable. I was glad the two policemen were there; they, on the other hand, did not seem glad. They appeared to be quite bored and unimpressed with the whole situation. The man who had barged in was also unimpressed, but far from bored. Our mover, also, seemed to be grappling with some very strong emotions. To "cigarettes" and "packing tape" had evidently been added "slugging this agressive homeowner" on the list of things required to make him a happy man. And for the first time I found myself rooting for him. True, he might have a packing tape obsession and have left cigarette butts in our toilet, but there was something one couldn't help liking about him.
From this point on it's all a bit of a blur. All our posessions were in the hall outside the apartment by this time, and I recall Rozzer #2 taking a seat in one of our chairs, where he remained throughout the rest of the proceedings. Nothing seemed to arouse any feeling in Rozzer #2, not even the high point of the action, which occurred when our mover (all the while engaged in heated debate with the other guy) defiantly packing-taped our apartment door open, hoisted a crate of our stuff into his arms, and attempted to enter. The homeowner guy immediately lunged at him and they started scrapping violently over the crate. Rozzer #1 strolled over and managed to dissuade them using words rather than force, but Rozzer #2 remained blankly staring into space.
I suppose it's worth mentioning that at one point, the aggressive homeowner said "sorry" to us. He appeared to view us with pity rather than censure, and it seemed that whoever he thought should be blamed for the situation, it wasn't us. To be honest, we felt that no amount of apologizing could really make up for our lack of a place to live, but at least it was some comfort to know that if the police decided to leave and he managed to overpower the small but servicable mover, we wouldn't be next on his hit list.
Eventually, the angry homeowner guy locked himself into our apartment, and we sank dejectedly onto our couch. Katelyn made a breakfast run while Azumi (her poor visiting friend) and I stayed behind to witness any further developments. We had of course tried to communicate with the police early on in the proceedings, but they didn't really speak English so Katelyn had called her school and put her coworker on the phone with Rozzer #2 (he being clearly the less useful of the two for other, more official purposes.) It appeared that the angry man required money before we could move in. Katelyn tried to find out who he was and her coworker said he wasn't the owner, but we figured he must be or else what possible claim could he have??? And how would he know the combination to get into the apartment? (It occurred to us later that because of the huge "key money" deposits renters have to put on apartments here, he could have been the former tenant and have not yet gotten his key money back.) Anyway, Katelyn's coworker wasn't really able to shed a whole lot of light on the situation for us (her English isn't very good), but she said head office or human resources or someone would deal with the situation, so we just kept waiting.
All told, I'd say we hung out in that hallway for a good hour or two. We began to feel quite hopeless and to think sad, wistful thoughts of the days when we'd had a place to call home. The policemen continued to bum around, and our committed mover (who, unlike us, seemed quite certain that eventually this thing was going to go through) began to reassemble Katelyn's bed in the hallway. And suddenly, there arrived on the scene a realtor. And such a realtor as I have never before met with. From his neatly combed middle-aged haircut through his bubblegum-pink polo shirt and down to the hem of his khaki pants, he exuded both peacefulness and an air of quiet control. After conferring briefly with the policemen, his first move was to bow to us and apologize very politely in Korean. Then he walked resolutely up to our apartment door and summoned forth its crazed occupant. When he emerged, the realtor handed him a cheque. The angry man once more raised his voice in protest, but there was already a hint of feebleness creeping into it. A few more quiet words from the realtor in the pink shirt and he acquiesced mildly and withdrew from our lives forever. Our pink-shirted hero apologized to us once more and then helped us and the mover carry our things inside. Our admiration, respect and affection for this credit to the real estate profession were by this time practically limitless. And then before we knew it, all was over and the apathetic constabulary, the boorish but loyal mover and the strong-and-silent realtor had alike disappeared from our lives, leaving us tired but triumphant tenants of 428 City of Angel 3.
