"Chunhyang put her hair up." Every Korean instantly grasps the hidden nuance behind this phrase. When I asked an AI about it, the response lacked the "soul" that every Korean knows. It’s fascinating how the Korean language holds such depth. Perhaps it’s this mental grit—this unique intellectual resource—that allows a nation with zero natural resources to live so boldly and prosperously.

If I were the AI, knowing what I know now, I might have interpreted it quite bluntly: "Chunhyang had sex for the first time." Of course, since this is for a public audience, one wouldn't usually be so graphic. But for a foreigner to truly learn Korean, they must first digest the historical sentiment. It is by no means an easy task.

When I first moved to Laos, I thought mastering the language was the key to a good life. So, one day, I sat down and started practicing the Lao script. Mid-way through, a thought hit me: "This isn't writing; it's drawing!" Learning a new tongue in your fifties is a Herculean task. I told myself, "Hey, I already speak English!" and gave up on Lao after just two hours.

Even after living here for ten years, I’m still a novice. Once at a golf course, a caddie shouted, "Antalany!" I had no clue what it meant and had to ask a friend. They looked at me as if I were an alien—a ten-year resident asking a visitor for a translation? (For the record, Antalany means "Danger!").

In my home, we have two wonderful Lao women who have worked with us for eight years. They are family now. My vocabulary with them is limited to one word: "Sabaidee" (Hello and Goodbye).

Watching my wife communicate with them is a spectacle. She speaks a "fusion" language—a chaotic mix of Korean, English, and Lao. Yet, through years of familiarity, they understand each other perfectly. I, on the other hand, ask about a word, say "Aha!", and forget it the moment I turn around.

In this new era, I feel somewhat vindicated. After all, don’t we have translators in the palm of our hands now? Time eventually unties all knots. Time is the ultimate medicine.

In the end, all you need to navigate the world are two things: your tongue and a smile. The tongue only needs one word. In Laos, "Sabaidee." In English, "Hello." In Korean, "Annyeong."

But the smile? That is the universal language. No one—except perhaps a gangster—starts a fight with a smiling face. A smile makes even the most ordinary face look beautiful. No one can truly be malicious toward a smiling person... right?

Of course, every smile is different. A person’s character is etched into their grin, and it’s impossible to hide. As we age, life doesn't always give us reasons to laugh, and our faces can grow stiff. For those who have weathered many storms, a full, radiant laugh might feel out of reach, replaced by a subtle, obligatory half-smile. That, too, is a form of "language deficiency."

I briefly thought about using an AI image generatorSabaidee to depict the "erotic yet subtle" nuance of Chunhyang putting her hair up. But there are too many variables. My brain isn't quite ready to tackle that project yet. Someone else will do it eventually. If I don't, someone else will!