Cathy said she would buy the bread herself. Leaving the children with Rosa she escaped into the corridor, which felt cold, dark, and sterile after the noise, heat, and familiar banana-and-soap smell of her apartment. Her feet padding on the carpet as she walked towards the elevator, pulling her coat around her, she thought again that stepping out was like the prequel to swimming: standing alone and without the protection of clothes, shivering, willing oneself to jump in, knowing that the pleasurable feeling of lightness and movement would come after the shock of that first difficult lap. Shedding the tangle of four kids’ arms and legs and demands left her at once relieved and disoriented, questioning herself. Am I wrong to use a nanny? I have four kids, for goodness sake! I need help! I can’t do this on my own. And if it wasn’t for me Rosa’s life would be much harder.

She forced herself to turn away from those thoughts and focus on the night ahead. She had invited twelve other ex-pat friends over for a night of bunco, but had mixed feelings about the game, associating it with desperate and ignorant housewives. Perhaps she should have done a book club instead. Books are tangible, books are intellectual. Maybe all these people would think she was only good for wiping bottoms and washing dishes, maybe they would think she was superficial. But book clubs present the opposite problem; she pictured herself staying up late to complete the book, taking diligent notes, feeling the need to prepare the right kinds of comments: not too pretentious or highbrow, yet not too inane. She pictured them all sitting in a circle eyeing each other like freshmen in their first seminar, wanting to be cool and smart at the same time. No, a book club would be too stressful. Bunco was a means to an end. It was too late to change anyhow. The guests would be arriving within the hour. She would have to remind the security guard.

The elevator chime signaled her descent to the ground floor. She took a deep breath, preparing herself. When the kids are around this is much easier, she thought. They provide a kind of protective barrier for these interactions. The kids’ noise and attractiveness distracted people and made them friendlier, more forgiving. Cathy knew she had to hide her anxiety from the children, to appear calm and comfortable, to hide her shame that she still couldn’t speak Korean. She approached the guard at the desk, who stood up and smiled at her. Her husband had already talked to them, need she do it again? Yes, she had better. She shouldn’t avoid things because of fear, she scolded herself. This guard is a young woman, what has she done? Cathy had been around the world and raised four kids! What should she be afraid of?

Cathy took another breath as the guard bowed and greeted her. For a moment they smiled at each other, as Cathy considered calling her husband and having him do the talking, as she did sometimes in these situations. Her cellphone was her lifeline. No, she would do this herself. “I’m having a party tonight, at 7? Some women will come? Foreigners? You understand?” The guard said something she couldn’t make out, then wrote Cathy’s room number on a piece of paper, pointed to it, said “party, 7 o’clock, I help guests, yes?” Relieved, Cathy said “thank you, thank you!” smiled, bowed, and left. As she strode through the cool air out to the street her feet picked up a rhythm, warming up, enjoying the flow of wind past her. She was fortified by this small moment of understanding. She was not an average mom, she was living here, across the world, she was doing it. She could do it. She was excited now for the party, and the thought came back to her: a book club could be three or four people. After three years in Seoul I finally know twelve people to invite to a bunco party. I have arrived, I have made myself a place here. She easily dodged the scooter barreling down the sidewalk, strode in her flats past the women walking delicately in heels, and admired the way she could move through the schools of people like a native. The buildings around her were covered with signs she couldn’t read, signs in different fonts and colors, each representing the mysterious interior space of some building. It used to overwhelm her, this overdose of words and images, mocking her with the incomprehensibility of the landscape, marking each surface with the taunt “You are foreign! You don’t belong here!” But today she knew how to navigate the small shortcuts through alleys and the backs of building. No longer shivering, she glided through the crowd, up the stairs of the right building, knowing exactly where to go and what she wanted. She fingered the phone again. In the early days, when everything looked alike, she had used her phone’s camera to take pictures of buildings, of particular products, of whatever she might need to ask for or locate. It allowed her to hold on to, to own parts of her life here which always seemed to be slipping away. As she entered the bakery and couldn’t find the kind of bread she had wanted, she started flipping through her albums of pictures, looking for the picture of the sweet potato loaf she wanted, but one of the workers recognized her and pointed her to the correct product before she could even ask. Sometimes it is good to stand out, she thought, taking the bread gratefully and heading to the counter, passing the rows of flaky pastry, the glass-encased cakes, and the baskets of baguettes. The smell of warm bread reminded her of her childhood home, so she lingered for a moment before heading towards the cash register. But wait, could that be Jane standing in line? Cathy couldn’t tell from where she was standing; Jane blended in with all the others from the back, with her dark hair and long coat. Her posture was different, though, and the way she held her bag. It could be Jane. Cathy moved closer to look.

Jane was indeed standing in the bakery, focused on her silent battle with a pretentious fur-clad 50-something woman who had cut in front of her in line, something that happened to her all too often. Jane didn’t like confrontation; she wasn’t good at making a scene, so she didn’t say anything; she chose to glare at the woman’s back and think angrily of all the things she could say if she’d had the courage. Did this woman (she was going to use a stronger word but, used to being in front of small children, edited even her own thoughts automatically) unknowingly cut in front of me? Or did she do it because Jane was younger, because she was foreigner, or because she was underdressed? She shifted uneasily in the heels she had taken out from storage. Jane wasn’t sure, but she didn’t believe any of these were good reasons anyway. The woman turned slowly, in some parody of regal demeanor, surveying the store and demanding admiration. As the woman turned her commanding gaze towards Jane, Jane looked her in the eye and glared, but the woman stared through her, sniffed, then turned slowly back towards the counter. The cashier had finished with the previous customer and was waiting patiently for the fur-clad woman to approach, which she did deliberately as she carefully unloaded her bag, seeming to imply, with her dramatic sigh, that this act was beneath her. The woman did not acknowledge or even look at the cashier, except to stroke the fur on her chest and complain, “Why is it so cold in here?”

Jane, sweating in her winter coat (both from the temperature in the store as well as her internal feud with the woman in front of her) was so distracted that she belatedly noticed that the other cash register had opened and had to quickly push aside yet another would-be-cutter. Jane had decided days ago to bring a green tea chiffon cake to Cathy’s bunco party. It seemed to send the right kind of message: fancy enough, with a touch of the unusual (green tea rather than chocolate), but not pretentiously so. She had also thought carefully about what to wear: the heels, uncomfortable but a nice touch, dark lined slacks, a button-down shirt. Nice, but not too nice. Perfume, make-up, earrings, a contemporary ring with no big jewels, clean lines. In her haste to leave the house she had forgotten to tell the babysitter where to find the special blanket. Should she call? No, let the sitter figure it out. This was her night off. She felt a twinge of guilt at that, and thought of those bunco moms she had scorned once when she lived in the suburbs: calorie-counting, minivan-wielding moms who talked with ease about the last episode of Oprah while surreptitiously checking out each other’s appliances (dishwashers and boob jobs).

Trying to offset and oppose the pretentiousness of the fur-clad woman, at the counter Jane made a show of her friendliness towards the cashier, greeting her with a smile and making casual conversation about the weather. Jane was a regular customer at this bakery, living less than a block away, though on the other side of a large street which divided the luxury high-rises from the squat, older and more modest apartments. (Jane lived on the modest side). This interaction, this balancing of different types of privilege interested Jane: the moneyed privilege of the fur clad woman next to Jane’s own advantage as an educated foreigner here of her own free will, free to dress casually and sneer at age and fur. She tried not to get caught up in these little battles over the crumbs of status but she was too thin-skinned, reading too easily what the other woman meant by her fur and her gaze, and Jane felt both wounded by that careless disregard and angered by the flouting of Jane’s sense of social equality and common politeness. She would not fight nor argue, but she would show off her sense of good manners. And so she reassured herself that she had some role here, that she was putting to some use her difference. And yet occasionally a silly non-confrontational moment like this one would undo her, and she would return home to her apartment to fall apart. She was not the type that could dismiss the little pricks and jabs of daily city life that accumulated in a vessel of sadness inside her. Every once in a while a casual comment or careless gesture would cause that cup to overflow.

Jane was careful to look the cashier in the eye as she smiled, bowed, and took her leave, letting the juggling of several almost automatic actions reassure her and prepare her to move on and away. Her phone buzzed with a message that a charge had been made to her card and her fingers worked automatically to acknowledge and delete it. As she had finished her transaction several women had pushed forward to win the cashier’s attention; used to this, Jane had ducked and twisted her body, evading the onslaught of designer purses, shopping bags, and stiletto heels. She caught sight of the color of a foreigner’s hair somewhere in the crowd in front of her — was it Cathy? They had only met a few times, and Jane was not good with faces. But Cathy was already upon her, smiling, reaching out for the hug. Why hadn’t she recognized Cathy right away? Had she changed the color of her hair? Jane asked; Cathy acknowledged that indeed, she had, and the moment of hesitation was accounted for. Noises of excited and grateful reunion emerged — hisses and puffs of air — they complimented each other’s outfits, the hair cuts, the excitement of being out past dark. They lived only a block apart but, other than that first meeting along the riverbank, this was the first time they had run into each other without premeditation. They hadn’t actually met very many times, Jane realized — one coffee, one dinner with spouses, a few e-mails and phone calls described the extent of their interaction together. And yet Jane thought of Cathy in such a fond, protective way. It is the fact that Cathy exists, Jane thought, that is important. She’s from some religious family of eleven kids from the countryside of Idaho or Utah or something — Jane had forgotten the details — but Cathy understood something about Jane’s life without being instructed. Perhaps they shared the same vulnerabilities, the same longing for a life that was far away. Others may scoff at bunco but, as a countermeasure to isolation, it expressed their need to reach out, to connect with each other, to reclaim some part of an identity from the past.

They walked towards Cathy’s apartment together, chatting about this and that and nothing at all, but feeling happy, allied and fortified by each other. Jane thought that the tall buildings had never looked so beautiful; she was not accustomed to seeing them illuminated and impressive against the dark sky. The small battles of the street were suddenly amusing to Jane: a taxi driver focused on his efficiency honked at a rich kid in a Maybach, still wearing sunglasses at 7 p.m., window down and cruising. New couples sweetly held hands while elderly couples glared at them for their romantic displays. Ringing and buzzing from phones punctuated the cool night air like the calls of crickets in the summer.

As they arrived back at Cathy’s tower she started to get last minute calls and messages asking for directions and panicked confessions of forgetting to bring X and Y. Jane helped with the translations as Cathy’s security card beeped against the panel and the door to the building slid open. Quickly now through the cool hallway and into Cathy’s apartment, now cleaned and empty of children; the security guard’s line tolling to inform her that her guests had begun to arrive. Jane had never seen Cathy’s apartment and was in the process of reshaping her knowledge of Cathy through observation of the abode’s modern lighting, artwork, and the glimpse of clutter in the bedroom before Cathy closed the door.

The partygoers were surprisingly punctual, the counter filled with baked offerings which each woman eyed nervously but no one yet had the courage to touch. A few women knew each other from their children’s school and were chatting about some PTA event. Jane knew no one except Cathy and disguised her awkwardness by helping to wash and cut the strawberries. She studied the others, putting them into categories: the newcomers to Korea who could still excuse a certain kind of unease by virtue of being new, the authoritative old-timers who had lived her for a few years and were giving advice about English-speaking pediatricians, the serene and hippyish Buddhist, the competitive bunco player, a few who looked as nervous and edgy as Jane felt (but, Jane thought, she was better at concealing it).

Jane thought that these parties were not so different from ones she attended in grad school, everyone coming armed with a set of attributes and alliances, holding onto a project or ability or a piece of work like a security blanket, ready to bring it forth for recognition or connection. After hours alone in an archive, clinging to a train of thought without knowing whether it would bear fruit, getting contradictory advice from advisors and mentors who, she had thought jadedly, were only thinking of their own tenure, Jane had looked gratefully to her fellow grad students for beer, conversation, and sympathy. But grad student parties, like mom parties, could ease one’s anxieties or amplify them, turning to cattiness, idle mockery, and comparison. So Jane continued to cut the strawberries and observe. She put her energy into looking calm. It would go on and on, she thought wearily; this struggle to be something would only get worse as she got older and could not undo her past choices. On and on, like dishes to be done and clothes to be washed, done everyday and redone again the next.

Names had been mentioned a few times but Jane hadn’t made much effort to remember. She was not good at names. But hearing the name Leslie jarred her, made her look more closely — could this be one of Seoul’s few fellow mommy bloggers? How many people could have that name? Jane had often fantasized about meeting a fellow blogger, however unlikely to occur. Just knowing that they were somewhere, invisible, hidden among the population, reassured and excited her. The knowledge that Others Were Out There gave Jane an imaginary sympathetic audience for her daily struggles and an uncritical sense of community. Roused from her strawberries she turned and approached Leslie with her heart pounding in her chest: Did she write a blog called H----?

Leslie had already suspected who Jane was, as Jane looked like the picture posted on her blog. Leslie had decided to hang back and study Jane. Leslie was feeling defensive about being at this party, about resorting to this form of socializing. Blondie over there works with her husband. Cathy has her religion. Jane spoke the language. What did she have? Her husband loved his work; she felt trapped at the prospect of being in this country for many more years. Leslie’s daughter didn’t need her much anymore, beyond chauffeuring and signing permission slips. Leslie thought back to the days when her daughter was a baby, to how lost she felt with that helpless being, alone at home for day after day of feeding, burping, diaper changing, and a few hours of restless sleep. In those days she had looked forward to those healthy child visits to the pediatrician, a young man who would compliment the way she had all her questions written on her palm pilot. He would tell her: your baby has grown taller, has gained weight, is rolling well; I can tell she gets a lot of attention. Armed with this sense of progress, of tangible measurement, with percentages and authoritative judgement she would return home feeling capable and powerful and certain of her duty. She could last six more months that way; she could hold back the uncertainty that came from playgroup debates about the right time to wean, the right time to start piano lessons, the importance of organic food. She learned to trust her own judgment and instincts as her daughter began to show signs of attachment and trust; but now her daughter listened to her friends, thought her mother irrelevant and a nuisance.

No, Leslie was not ready to confront this fellow blogger. For what face would she show? Jane knows the way Leslie thought, was familiar with the nagging doubts expressed in her writing. Jane would not know how to read Leslie’s public face, and Leslie couldn’t slide easily to the kind of casual laughter and anecdotal charm that these women have clearly mastered. We reach out in different ways, Leslie thought, and this was not her way. She preferred the comfort of her apartment and her laptop warm on her thighs; she preferred socializing on her own terms. If she had met Jane without having read Jane’s blog Leslie would have dismissed Jane as Not Leslie’s Kind; but knowing of Jane’s own anxieties, the baby she lost, her mistakes and regrets made it impossible for Leslie to judge or discard Jane so easily. Leslie decided to write about this feeling of defensiveness when she got home, to think it through it and not bury it beneath mindless activity and ambitious hopes for her own kids. In the back of her mind she knew that writing about this feeling would also elicit confessions of similar feelings from other bloggers and that this commonality would absolve her of some of her guilt.

But Jane was upon her now, asking her about her blog, exclaiming to the group, we read each other’s blogs! Jane also didn’t know what to say to Leslie; Jane felt at once delighted to discover this connection but unsure what it meant. Jane could not read Leslie’s reaction, but bunco stepped in for the rescue. The women had been standing, hesitantly, holding their plastic cups and plates close to their bodies. As they settled in their seats and began to play the room filled with the noise of dice clattering on the table, punctuated by laughter and shouts of “bunco!” Fists pumped in the air, proclaiming victory; arms reached forward to roll again and again. They had moved across the world; given the tools and opportunity they would take a turn or a take a risk.

Bunco, Jane thought, was mindless enough that you could chat and drink, but busy enough, and requiring enough rotation of seats, that no one need feel burdened by awkward silence or the urge to say something witty and smart. She rolled the dice time and time again, smiling, and thought about the conditions of her life that led her to this moment of bunco and bloggers: loneliness, uncertainty about past choices, and the desire for measurement.

Jane lost, Leslie won; Jane went down to a lower table and Leslie joined Cathy at the head table. Jane checked her phone; she would have to leave soon to relieve the babysitter. They rolled the dice, Jane went up a table and met Cathy who had lost and moved down. Leslie won again and stayed at the head table. They rolled the dice again and again, keeping score, moving up and down, meeting and parting and reaching out.