A funny thing happened on the road to Heyuan. In order to keep passengers entertained, the bus company had installed a television screen and DVD system. At first, I entertained myself by composing an essay about the obvious irony of watching a Korean drama how a young girl marries up and going to visit poor people. But 15 minutes into the trip, I stopped thinking about social ironies and found myself following the intricacies of romance in an arranged marriage between an 18 year old high school student and a 28 year old district attorney.

I can’t say “The Bride is 18 ((新娘１８岁)” was either intellectually compelling or even socially redeeming. The plot hinged on the question, could two radically different people get married and become a loving couple? The answer was yes. Yes because the groom understood compassion and how to teach a recent high school graduate how to be a human being. Yes also because the bride didn’t want to go to college but wanted to be a housewife.

These past few years, I have been vaguely aware of the popularity of Korean pop in China, especially music and drams. Indeed, I have listened to friends talk about their favorite dramas and even watched part of “Wish Upon a Star”, staring An Jae Wook (安在旭), who was a breakout Korean star in China. My students listen to K-pop stars Rain, se7en, and BoA. However, I never considered buying into the Korean Wave (韩流 hallyu in Korean). I classed them with Brittney Spears, Justin Timberlake and other young American popstars—cute, manufactured, well-dressed, cute, photogenic, and did I say cute?—but not really for me.

And yet.

After a four hour trip to Heyuan and then a four hour return to Shenzhen, I was still six episodes from our heroine’s happily ever after. I got off the bus, said goodbye to my students, and then felt compelled to do something I never thought I would: I bought the complete Bride just to watch those last six episodes. I was caught in the undertow.

I confessed to a good friend, who told me that Korean dramas are formidable (厉害). A business associate’s wife, she continued, is totally addicted. After breakfast, the wife is said to make herself a pot of tea, turn on the television, and cry along with her favorite stars.

So to understand how I and other 40-somethings might get hooked on k-dramas, I took an unscientific survey of my friends. One said that k-dramas are good to watch. The sets are fashionable, the costumes are beautiful, and the actors are really attractive. Another added that the shows are really relaxing because you don’t have to think when you watch them. Yet another added that she liked to follow k-dramas because they’re realistic. At this, I raised a disbelieving eyebrow, “Realistic?”

“They talk about urban life. And young people’s hopes and dreams. Not like Chinese dramas.”

My husband watched an episode with me. He thought that the attraction lay in the main characters’ rebellion against social norms, without actually breaking human ties. “Asian people,” he said, “live in relationships. But sometimes we just want to do what we want.”

“Yes,” another friend mused, “it’s that the shows always end with reunion (团聚). Real life isn’t like that. It’s comforting to see everybody come together, no matter what their differences were. And the actors really are attractive.”

Perhaps that’s all it is. Pretty people living beautiful lives. An easy distraction. A coffee break conversation. But then, again, I wonder. How could a contrived melodrama about a girl who gives up college to be a housewife hook me? It wasn’t the story. Not the pretty faces. Not even coffee break conversation. But I’m also sure that simply turning off the TV won’t make me immune. I want. Want powerfully. And in those shows wanting brings about its own reward. Forever.