It was 33°C outside, the late afternoon sun beginning to wane as I stepped into the cool, 24°C air-conditioned third floor of the 이수보드게임카페, Isu Board Game Café, nestled south of the Han River. I had just dragged my luggage all the way from Yongsan Station to Isu, then up the narrow stairs of an unremarkable building. The journey had been long, but this—this was the beginning of something new.
Today would be my first time playing Mahjong with strangers in real life. For years, I’d played Japanese Riichi Mahjong online—two, maybe three years on and off—against strangers on various websites, in virtual reality, and in person at my local group’s weekly meetups. I knew the Yakus well enough, though scoring had always eluded me. Online play rarely demands that you know how to calculate points, and in-person games always had someone else to handle the scoring.
At the counter, I spoke in Korean that felt like a newborn foal taking its first shaky steps. “I want to play Mahjong,” I stammered. The woman behind the counter, patient and warm, replied that they played Japanese Mahjong here. I nodded, trying to steady myself. “네,” I said again when she asked if I knew the rules. My heart fluttered slightly—nerves, or perhaps excitement? A friend of mine had told me about this place, and although I’d hoped to see her, she wasn’t here. It was my first time in Korea, and my command of the language was shaky at best. Yet, the staff spoke English far better than I expected—a pleasant surprise. They offered to store my luggage and asked me to set down my backpack.
I had heard stories about Mahjong parlors in Asia, rumors of smoke-filled dens populated by grumpy old men, gamblers who played with a speed and skill beyond reach, who wouldn’t bother with foreigners or those who couldn’t speak the language. But when I finally approached the table, all those apprehensions faded. One of the players, perhaps a staff member, invited me to join. They asked if I wanted to register for their ranking system through KakaoTalk, but as a foreigner, the app's features didn’t work for me. No matter. We drew wind tiles to determine seats, and I sat down at the AMOS JP-EX COLOR automatic Mahjong table, a marvel of technology worth about 1,500 euros in Japan. The café had five or six such tables, all occupied—except one that was hosting a game of Sanma. It was my first time seeing an automatic table in person. The sheer efficiency of it amazed me: a button for rolling dice, magnetic score trackers, a tile shuffler, an automatic wall setup. It was as close to optimizing Mahjong as one could get without removing the heart of the game.
Around us, the sounds of laughter, chatter, and clattering tiles filled the café—except at our table. We played in near silence, and I was focused, intensely so. My pulse quickened. 120 beats per minute, at least. I wanted to play well, to have fun, and most importantly, not to mess up. My partners, on the other hand, were playing casually, at ease.
I made a few mistakes—nothing major, but enough to notice. A few toppled tiles here, an ill-timed draw there. But they let it slide. It felt like a relief. I kept pace, though conversation was sparse. The language barrier, yes, but also my own determination to focus. I’ve learned that casual conversation during a game often leads to missed calls, wrong discards.
The first game ended, and I came in last.
1: 44,500 2: 28,300 3: 18,800 4: 8,400
The second game came and went, and I felt more relaxed, more confident. I let go of any notion of impressing anyone. I played simply to play, to enjoy the moment. As the tension eased, we began to talk. Their names were 원진, 성은, and 지현. We exchanged stories about how long we had been playing, asked questions of each other. I didn’t come in last this time.
1: 44,400 2: 27,100 3: 23,900 4: 4,600
I was happy—happy with how I played, happy with the experience. The Koreans' characteristic politeness and friendliness had left a lasting impression on me. I managed a few Mangans, along with several smaller hands. Most of the first game had felt like I was playing mind games against myself, but by the second, I found my rhythm. There were even moments of comfortable silence, where we all focused on the game, tile after tile, in quiet concentration.
When the day came to a close, they asked me to pay 6,000₩—about 4 euros. I hadn’t been told about this fee beforehand, but I chalked it up to the language barrier. Even so, the staff had been accommodating, and I was able to communicate far better than I had expected.
The day had passed in a haze of new experiences, but it felt right, as if I had found my place among the quiet murmurs and clacking tiles of this little café in Korea.