The last week in Cherkasy wasn't real. It was like living in the credits of a movie. My bags were packed and zipped, standing by the front door like a silent threat. I was a ghost in my own apartment.
I ate my mom's syrnyky like a condemned man having his last meal. I did a final set of pull-ups on the rusty bar, the metal biting into my calluses one last time. I hung out with Dany, but we'd run out of things to say. We'd already had the "goodbye," so we just sat on a bench, listened to music, and argued about whether Naruto could beat Dragon Ball Z's Goku. (He can't. Obviously. But I'll never admit that to Dany.)
Every conversation ended with, "Well... call when you land." Every hug was a little too long. I was already gone. I was just waiting for my body to catch up.
________________________________________
The drive to Boryspil was a three-hour lesson in silence.
My dad drove, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the highway. My mom sat in the passenger seat, turned around, staring at me like she was trying to memorize my face.
"You have your passport?"
"Yes, Mom."
"And your wallet? In your front pocket?"
"Yes, Mom."
"And the wool socks? You'll wear them if it gets cold?"
"I promise."
My dad grunted:
"Did you remember the... gift... for the host father?"
I patted my carry-on. The bottle of horilka clinked softly.
"Yes, Dad."
"Good," he said, satisfied. "That's respect."
Boryspil International Airport was bright, loud, and smelled like coffee and floor wax. It felt like the first level of a video game.
"Check-in. Aisle 14."
My guitar case was the problem.
"Oversized baggage," the check-in lady said, not looking up.
"It's my baby," I pleaded.
"It's oversized baggage, sir. Go to counter 42."
My mom was already crying. Not loud, just silent, steady tears that she kept wiping away with the back of her hand.
"Ma, come on, I'll be fine. It's just a year. I'll be back before you know it."
"My boy, my sonechko (my little sun)," she whispered, pulling me into a hug that threatened to crack my ribs. She smelled like vanilla and home.
My dad was next. He was not a hugger. He grabbed my shoulders, hard, and looked me square in the eye.
"Listen to me, Oleksandr," he said, using my full name. It meant business. "You're a man now. Be smart. Work hard. Don't be an idiot."
"I won't."
"And call your mother." He pulled me into a quick, bone-crushing hug.
"We are proud," he mumbled into my shoulder, so quietly I almost didn't hear it.
And then, that was it. I grabbed my backpack. I walked toward passport control. I turned back, one last time, and waved. They looked small and lost on the other side of the high-sheen floor. I turned around, walked under the "DEPARTURES" sign, and didn't look back.
________________________________________
The flight was sixteen hours, including a layover in Dubai that felt like walking onto the surface of the sun. The second leg, the long one to Seoul, was my real transition.
My pink glasses were glued on.
The flight attendants on Korean Air? They were unreal. They glided, they didn't walk. Their smiles were perfect. When one of them came by, I took a deep breath. This was it. My first real test.
"Mul... mul juseyo," I managed, my voice cracking. (Water, please.)
She smiled, a brilliant, toothpaste-commercial smile.
"Of course. Water," she replied in perfect English.
My face burned.
Then came the food.
"Bibimbap or chicken?" This was not a choice. I'd watched a hundred "mukbang" videos for this.
"Bibimbap, please!" It came on a neat little tray: a bowl of rice and vegetables, a packet of sesame oil, and a tiny, menacingly red tube of gochujang (hot sauce). I mixed it all together, just like I'd seen. I took a huge, confident bite.
Fire. Immediate, five-alarm, volcanic fire. My eyes watered. My nose started running. This was not the mild, friendly spice of my mom's cooking. This was a culinary assault. I chugged the water I had just so proudly ordered. The flight attendant glided by and, without a word, placed a second cup on my tray. Her smile was still perfect, but I saw it—a tiny twinkle of amusement in her eyes. I was being hazed by a condiment.
I spent the next ten hours in a daze, mainlining K-dramas on the seat-back screen, my headphones blasting K-indie music. I was practicing my greeting. Annyeong haseyo, jeoneun San-ibnida. Mannaseo bangabseubnida. (Hello, I'm San. It's nice to meet you.) It sounded heroic in my head.
The plane landed at Incheon International Airport. The moment I stepped into the terminal, I knew I wasn't in Ukraine.
It was massive. It was silent, futuristic, and impossibly clean. Everything was glass and steel, and the air smelled different—like expensive coffee, faint kimchi, and something sterile, like a hospital.
I got my bags. I pulled my guitar case off the belt, my heart thumping a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
I followed the green signs for "ARRIVALS." My hands were sweating. I wiped them on my jeans. I tried to smooth my untidy hair, which had been flattened by 16 hours of headphone use. Look cool, Motuzenko. Look like the K-drama lead. The automatic glass doors slid open.
I was met by a wall of sound and faces. Dozens of people, all waiting, holding signs. My eyes scanned the crowd, my pre-rehearsed greeting frozen on my lips.
I was looking for my name.
And then I saw it. A neat, hand-drawn sign, written in both English and Korean.
[ 환영합니다! WELCOME! OLEKSANDR MOTUZENKO ]
It was held by a woman with a kind, permed-hair smile, who was bouncing slightly on her toes. Next to her, a man with glasses was beaming, looking exactly like the "kind host father" from a brochure. And next to him... was a girl.
She was my age. She was wearing the school uniform I'd only seen online, and she was, quite possibly, the most perfect-looking human I had ever seen. Perfect skin, perfect straight blonde hair, perfect, bored expression. She wasn't looking at me. She was looking at her phone, typing furiously.
I pushed my cart forward, my guitar case wobbling. "Uh... Annyeong haseyo?" The woman's head snapped up. Her smile was blinding. "Aigoo! You are here! Oleksandr!" She grabbed my arm, her warmth immediate. "Welcome! Welcome to Korea! I am Lee Eun-sook, your host mother!" The man bowed, a full, formal bow that I clumsily tried to return. "Lee Min-hyuk," he said. "Welcome to our home."
They talked so fast that I barely kept up. Even though I was confident in my Korean, I needed some time to get used to it.
"Nice to meet you," I nodded my head, "You can call me 'San', as in 'mountain'."
The girl finally looked up from her phone. Her eyes—dark and intelligent—swept over me. From my messy hair to my guitar case to my wrinkled casual shirt. I saw a flicker of... something. Resignation? Annoyance? "This is our daughter, Ha-neul," Mrs. Lee said, nudging her. "Lee Ha-neul! She goes to your school. She will take good care of you!"
Ha-neul gave me a small, flawless, 1-millisecond nod. "Hi," she said. Her English was perfect, with no accent at all. "I thought you would be more handsome..."
Mr.Lee poked her at the back.
"Meh, Your flight was okay?"
I knew that i wasn't the most handsome man in the world, but my beauty was quite decent(at least that's what my mom always said, she wouldn't lie, would she?)
"Uh. Yeah. It was... long," I said, feeling like the least cool person on Earth. My heroic greeting was gone, replaced by dumb-guy-speak.
"It's always long," she said. She turned to her mother and spoke in Korean. "Omma, can we go? I have to study."
Mrs. Lee just laughed and grabbed the handle of my cart. "Aigoo, this girl! Always studying! Let's go, San-gun! You must be starving!"
I followed them, pushing my life's belongings, my guitar case bumping against my leg.
I was finally in Seoul.