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69 ‘When I was in Jeonju, all I wanted was to go to Seoul,’ he says. ‘But after coming back from Estonia, I couldn’t live in Seoul anymore.’ He felt ‘dap-dap,’ or suffocated. And it wasn’t just the crowdedness; it was also the social pressures young people face, particularly after graduation, to get a life Korean-style — ‘a prestigious job, a respectable marriage, conventional success, blah blah blah.’ dap,” or suffocated. It wasn’t just the crowdedness; it was also the social pressures young people face, particularly after graduation, to get a life Korean-style — “a prestigious job, a respectable marriage, conventional success, blah blah blah.” So he left, and after less than a year of preparation he formally reg- istered Gotsu as an Estonian business. The restaurant opened on the outskirts of Tallinn on April 19, 2010, which also happened to be the 50th anniversary of South Korea’s popular uprising against its dictatorship. It was an auspicious date to choose, and one that somehow brought him good luck: A year after opening, Gotsu moved to a bigger location on 62 Pärnu Street, a busy street in the city center. “I don’t intend on going back to Korea,” Gyuho says confidently. Be- tween his business’ reasonable success and the breathing space Estonia offers — both physically and psychologically — Gyuho now feels at home in Tallinn. His cynicism about Korean society also stops him from return- ing: “When (former president) Roh Moo- hyun committed suicide in 2009, I lost hope. I’m not particularly pro-Roh, but how can things change for the better in a country like this? I didn’t see a future. I also didn’t want to raise my kids in (the) educational environment that Korea of- fers.” But don’t dismiss Lee as simply a cynical escapist. His ability to leave ev- erything familiar and make a home in a new place lies in how freely he looks at his own nationality. To Lee, “being Korean” is about neither patriotism nor being physically tied to the country. “I’m not particularly passionate about nation- ality and motherland; these concepts change,” he explains. “South Korea wasn’t always South Korea, so I don’t think it’s really important to talk about what nationality everyone is and divide sides. This doesn’t mean I forget where I come from. Where I come from is part of my body, but I don’t feel obligated to promote Korean cul- ture just because that’s what Koreans should do.” Rather ironically, however, that’s exactly what Gyuho ended up doing with Gotsu. As one of the two Korean restaurants in Tallinn, Gotsu has more than 3,000 likes on Facebook. It has been featured on a cooking show on Estonian television and recently appeared in cooking magazine Toit & Trend, which also introduced some simple kimchi recipes. The inte- rior of the restaurant has bits of Korean culture showcased on its walls too: Korean calligraphy, miniature models of hanok (traditional Korean homes) and pictures of Gyuho’s parents on their chili (gotsu) farm in Jeonju. He may try to distance himself from the idea, but that’s how he’s making his living — by promoting his nationality. Whether or not we can distance ourselves from our own nationality is a question that resonates with cit- izens all over the world today, whether they come from a herd of 1.3 million or 50.2 million. Being the owner of a Korean restaurant in Tallinn represents a modern contradiction: He is a global citizen, someone who has left the boundaries of the motherland, but he’s only free to live in this world as long as he plays the right national cards. Maybe this contradiction represents the problem of nationalism today, its dilemmas and its limits.