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solemnly. “Well then, it will be good for you to take a break for this holiday.”
    Cars clog the highway, reminding me of L.A. at rush hour. Dad maneuvers through the traffic, hands gripping the steering wheel. Even when he drives he’s got that intensity and determination. People used to say I looked just like Mom, but I have got my dad’s personality. Maybe that’s why we don’t sit down and just chat. Sitting and introspection aren’t exactly our strengths.
    Soon we ease out of the city, and rolling hills and greenhouses replace skyscrapers and concrete. The hills, packed with evergreens, feel alive compared to the desert-like landscape ofCalifornia. We pass a dormant rice field, brown stalks chopped off like a bad haircut. An airplane soars above us—we’re quite close now to Incheon Airport—and a pang runs through my chest. I wish I was on one of those planes, whisking over the Pacific to L.A. If only I could convince Dad to move back home.
    I’m in the middle of a daydream in which I’ve secretly stowed myself on a plane when I realize we’re already driving off the ferry onto a tiny, two-lane road on Muui Island, where Grandfather lives. Metal-framed shacks line the curb with vendors selling crab and tangerines, an odd combination. We curve inland and climb a hill, passing an old man spreading his peppers out on blankets to redden them in the sun.
    It turns out that Grandfather’s house isn’t on the beach but above the coast, built on the edge of a cliff. It’s a traditional Korean home, with the fluted roof line and cross-beamed walls. I wonder how old this place is. It’s absolutely stunning. As I scoot out of the car, the scent of pine and that icy smell of winter wash over me.
    A servant answers the door with a bow and whisks away our bags. I slip off my boots, as is customary in all Korean homes, and follow Dad through the entryway into the main room. The house has an airy feel even in its old age due to its sparseness and the geometric screened windows overlooking the ocean. A near life-size stone statue of a winged horse rests on a wooden platform by the far wall. A gold plaque labels it Chollima. On the other side of the room is a uniform fitted on a manikin. I move closer to study it.
    “Do you know anything about this?” I ask Dad, but he’s busy studying the mural of a tiger on the far wall. It’s painted intraditional Asian style, with the tiger stretched out as if running. Its jaws gape wide, revealing sharp, jagged teeth.
    “Annyeong hashimnikka,”
Grandfather greets us as he enters the room. He’s wearing loose black pants and a silken gray tunic that buttons down the center. We bow as is expected.
    “That is a reproduction of General Yu-Shin Kim’s uniform,” Grandfather says, nodding toward the manikin.
    I don’t know what to say and apparently neither does Dad. The silence that follows is painfully awkward. I find myself thinking of my friends back in L.A. who would rush into their grandparent’s arms with hugs, and my chest aches for that kind of openness. But they didn’t have thousands of years of tradition and ancestors hanging over them.
    I tap my fingers against the sides of my thighs, waiting for his eyes to turn to mine and frown. When his attention does slide to me, his eyelashes squeeze tight and he nods once. I squirm and lower my eyes, not expecting that response.
    “So she stays,” Grandfather says.
    “Abeoji,” Dad says, “We’ve just arrived. Please try to keep the peace.”
    “Peace?” Grandfather scoffs, settling onto a pillow at the traditional square table in the room’s center. “Peace is what I live for. What our ancestors lived for.”
    “Good,” Dad says, now smiling. His shoulders relax and he, too, sits.
    “Sit, sit.” Grandfather waves to me, his gold ring flashing as he does so.
    We sit cross-legged on silk cushions on the oak floor as a servant sets out tea and
tteok
for us. I choose a pink-colored oneand pop it into my mouth.