I grew up between Korean and English and spent a long time assuming that was only ever a convenience — useful at airports, useful with relatives. It became work by accident. A friend of a friend was flying into Seoul for a procedure, spoke no Korean, and asked whether I would come along and sit in. I did, and I spent the whole consultation realising how much was going missing. Not the words; the clinic had those. What was going missing was everything underneath them — what the doctor was quietly cautious about, and what the patient was too polite to ask a second time.
That was several years and a great many consultation rooms ago. I work across Seoul, mostly in dermatology and plastic surgery, some general medicine. A good deal of the job is not linguistic at all: it is the ordinary administrative friction of being treated in a country you do not live in, and knowing which parts of that friction are normal.
My work is deliberately narrow. I am not a coordinator and I do not run anyone’s itinerary. I interpret. In practice that means I am in the room for the consultation, I make sure the aftercare instructions are actually understood before you leave the building, and I am reachable afterwards — including when something does not look the way you expected and it is three in the morning where you are from.
Most of the people I work with are in Korea for a week or less and have read a great deal before arriving. What they tend to need is not more information. It is someone who can tell them which of the things they have read applies to them, and who will say so plainly, in a room where the incentive is usually to keep everything pleasant.
I am building this slowly into something more formal than a favour I do for friends: written terms before we begin, and proper records of what was said. It is a work in progress, and I would rather tell you that than pretend otherwise.