Seoul teenage dating
(Recent competitors include Couple, which offers a “thumbkiss” feature, and an app called Avocado, because “Avocado trees don’t self-pollinate—they need another tree nearby to bear fruit.”) Between has attracted modest followings in countries like Japan and the United States, but in South Korea more than half of twentysomethings have used it.Each month, Between users send one another a collective eight hundred million messages and spend an average of four hundred and fifty minutes using the app.Still, there are places that seem closer to its center, places where the pull of the network is particularly strong. C.), a startup based in Seoul, has created an app for couples like Jimin and Yundi.Ninety-eight per cent of households in South Korea have access to broadband (versus sixty-eight per cent in America), and seventy-three per cent of the population uses a smartphone (versus fifty-six per cent of Americans). It’s called Between, “a beautiful space where you can share all your moments only with the one that matters.” It provides a private system by which couples exchange voice and text messages, share photo albums, and post notes on a memo board.The technologies seemed to trigger urges in addition to transmitting them, as though the city’s inhabitants and its machines had merged into a single nervous system, dendrites intermingling with optical fibres.A stranger once thrust his smartphone into a pretty woman’s hand and ran off, hoping that she would feel obliged to track him down in order to return it.If Facebook is a high-school reunion and Twitter is a cocktail party, Between is staying home with a boxed set and ordering pizza.Since Between launched, in November of 2011, the app has been downloaded 4.5 million times.
Jimin and Yundi remembered having exchanged a high five.
He had been a detection analyst, interpreting intelligence signals.
Jiyeon (Yundi), a sophomore, had a heart-shaped face and a chic, whimsical way of dressing: that night, she was wearing a floral do-rag in her long black hair. The boys’ room had called the girls’ room on the hotel phone—since they were strangers, this was the only way to communicate; the boys had got a list of girls’-room numbers from the trip’s chaperones—and asked if they wanted to do a (“room-meeting”), a type of group blind date.
He tied them to the back of his motorbike, thinking it would look like a newlyweds’ car, and picked Yundi up after her classes.
From campus, they headed north, passing rail yards and fish markets; apartment buildings filled with housewives snapping up the online-auction bargains of the day (bags of oranges, puffy jackets, belly-button-lint removers); clothing stores packed with customers pouting in front of mirrors, as they posed for , the smoke-filled, twenty-four-hour gaming centers that were quickly becoming futuristic anachronisms, populated by dwindling numbers of adolescent boys slurping instant noodles in front of humming terminals.