DMZ!

The DMZ is one of the major must-sees in Korea. The 2km wide strip of no-man's-land has been the buffer between North and South Korea since the war (sort of) ended in 1953. It's become something of a nature preserve, since nobody's been allowed in there for 50 years, and apparently, conservationist groups are poised to make it a protected area (in a different sense) the minute hostilities cease. Now, though, it's heavily guarded, heavily mined, and off-limits unless you're with a guided tour. My friend, Molly, and I went with the USO--pricey, but reputed to be the best by far.

I had to get up at 6, and roll into clothes, past the kitchen, and out the door in one fluid motion to get to Camp Kim, the US Army base on the other side of downtown Seoul in time for 7am check-in. Not good news, exactly, but acceptable. The real bad news came once we were on the bus and underway. Our tour guide, a middle-aged Korean lady with excellent, but heavily accented English, informed us that the slide show, supposedly superb, had been suspended due to swine flu paranoia. Then she told us about the "temporary" buildings, erected along the border so the two sides could enter from their own territory and talk. Normally, tours are allowed to go inside and step into North Korea, but we wouldn't be doing that because of swine flu. Next was Checkpoint 3, site of the axe murders in 1976, and vantage point into the DMZ and North Korea. But that's under construction, so we're not allowed to go there. So I've spent $70 (and I really mean dollars), and we're just going for a bus ride? Seems like the USO might have mentioned this when I signed up, but if my mantra for the year is "whatever", I guess I have to apply it to Americans as well (though with a little more bile).

We were greeted at Panmunjom Joint Security Area by South Korean soldiers in camo surgical masks. They let us through the gate, where the bus then had to zigzag, Nintendo style, through a gauntlet of concrete barriers, then let us all off by the gift shop to board another bus, which would take us and our American soldier to where the action is (or isn't, hopefully). The DMZ looked very pastoral, under brilliant sunshine and a gentle dusting of snow. Ringed by wire fences and punctuated by concrete barriers, designed to fall into the road if "the signal" is given. The chain link fences were full of rocks, painted red and white like Polish half-moon cookies. Soldiers check the rocks every day, and if they're out of place, they know someone's been rattling the fence. Photography is forbidden.

We started with the Freedom House, built for family reunions between North and South, but never used. Behind that was what everyone thinks of as the DMZ: blue buildings lined up along the boundary line, soldiers posturing and staring blankly from either side. Being too contaminated to go inside, we were allowed to take pictures, ask questions, and nose around, as long as we didn't a) go off the steps of Freedom House, or b) gesture/point/make faces at the North Korean soldier studying us through binoculars. Our American, Specialist Strickland, explained what we saw...that the South Koreans, in their taekwondo stance, were nose-to-corrugated steel with the buildings so as to present less of a target; that any movements we made directed at the North Korean soldier would be interpreted as mocking and grounds for an international incident; that the blue building belonging to the North is known colloquially as the monkey house because the DPRK soldiers make gestures and faces at the UN guys through the windows; and that the noise you hear when a South Korean soldier goes by is from the ballbearings in his boots, a holdover from a long-ago fight where the South Korean army was badly outnumbered and trying to make themselves seem more formidable.

We climbed a little pagoda next to Freedom House, our consolation prize for skipping Checkpoint 3, to look at Freedom Village. Each side has a small, carefully controlled, settlement inside the DMZ. North Korea's is reputedly empty, save for the blaring propaganda and the flag that makes Perkins' look like a postage stamp. South Korea's is inhabited by 219 people, all of whom have ancestors that farmed the area before the war, and all of whom agree to strict curfews and heavy surveillance in exchange for government subsidies.

After a visit to the Duty-Free gift shop, they put us back on our original bus and shuttled us to the observation deck. We sat in an unheated auditorium with a wall of windows facing North Korea and listened to the guide from the other bus unintelligibly narrate the panorama (photography forbidden). I did glean that the towers all along were for jamming broadcast signals that may wander over from the modern world, and that North Korea is completely defoliated due to heating with wood and the government eliminating places to hide. Methinks it may be more the latter than the former. The border is starkly visible, with the South as forested as a New England hillside, and the North more comparable to New Mexico. Outside on the actual deck, you can look through binoculars at the railing, or stay 15 feet back and hold your camera in the air to take photos from behind the yellow line. I did both...I got a couple good shots, and saw a person walking in one of the villages.

We went back to the rest stop for lunch and more souvenirs (and I learned from a Scotsman that I can legitimately claim to have visited 12 countries), then back again through winding mountain roads interspersed with fields of tall, elegant birds, to the Third Tunnel. Between 1974 and 1990, four tunnels were discovered under the DMZ, all pointing toward Seoul. The 3rd Tunnel, found in 1978, is about a mile long and 500 feet below ground. North Koreans claimed that the South actually dug it, but when drill marks and other details proved this impossible, they spread coal on the walls and insisted they were mining. Since hordes of tourists pay money to creep through it, our guide says it IS a mine--a gold mine for the South. Photography is forbidden. There's not a lot to see, anyway...it's a damp cave full of tourists bent over and wearing hard hats to protect from the low ceiling (mine did scrape a couple times)...more of a "guess where I am" experience than anything. They have highlighted all of the scores of drill marks with yellow paint, in case you have any doubts about the direction they point.

It was a good trip, though I'm still a bit frosted about missing the slide show and the chance to go to North Korea. Like everything here, I feel like I saw it in a bit of a daze. I may compromise my principles and do it again next summer, by which point one can only hope the flu frenzy will have faded.

The Road to Hell

Two weeks later, and still trying to blog myself home from Daegu. Part 2 was getting way too long, so here's Part 3.

And so I came "home", by myself because after I bought my bus ticket, Sarah stepped up to get 2 for her & Obi and there was only one seat left. If we'd been in the US, I probably would have tried to change my ticket, but I was too exhausted to play charades. My ticket was for 6:25 (even though there was no 6:25 bus to Seoul on the board), and theirs was for 6:40, so no big deal. I had seat 25, which I really, really hoped was a window. Obi'd had seat 28 on the way down, and it was the window in the back row, so it looked promising that 25 would be the window on the other side. Not so fast. The back row numbers go, from left to right, 26, 25, 27, 28. Whatever. I got settled in the middle. But nobody sat next to me. As we pulled away from the station, I moved to the window and got my phone out to indignantly text Sarah that there were plenty of seats on the bus. And then remembered that we had to stop at the North Daegu station. Where someone did, in fact, get on and claim my coveted seat. I was consoling myself with the thought that the elevated back row gave a nice view out the front window, when someone else came along and claimed seat 25. She was miming to me that I should get up, and I thought she wanted to switch seats, which was ok with me. This didn't seem to be the case though. I got out my ticket to prove my right to the spot, when she suddenly switched to perfect English and explained that my ticket said 6:25 and this was the 6:20 bus, "so I'm sorry, but you are wrong." I got up and the driver came back to see what was going on. He looked at my ticket and sent a torrent of Korean at me, or maybe just by me. And suddenly, I was That Immigrant. The one that just stands there dumbly when being questioned and ordered about. For a minute or two, he talked in a steady stream while I stood doe-eyed and expresionless, and then I caught the word "computer", and then a couple more times, and he seemed calmer and gestured to an empty seat by a window. I felt very fortunate. But not for long. Soon the windows fogged up, so it was like riding in a cardboard box. I traveled with Least Heat Moon for a bit, figured out the order in which I'd drive to all 48 contiguous capitals if I were doing it in 48 days, then dully wondered which layer of hell I'd achieved. The bus was stuck in mile after mile of Sunday-night traffic, the side windows were completely opaque, and every time I looked through the windshield, my eyes were drawn to the 25-minute-long segment on pig hunting & slaughtering playing on the bus' tv. It was a long ride. Kinda like this post. But it's over now.

Thanksgiving Art

What could be more American than drawing hand turkeys? These are capping off my Thanksgiving lesson this week. Here are a few of my faves from Monday (a couple are sideways because they're easier to read that way).

The Rest of the Story

I'm going to finish this thread if it kills me. And it might.

I need to make sure I properly rave about the town by Haeinsa, though. I'm not even sure what it's called...Haein, or something that starts with a "c"...I don't know; my map's not that detailed. Maybe it should just be called Eden. It was small and sleepy and ran down the side of a mountain...not sure if that's enough to make it wonderful, but something was right. I felt like I was in Pennsylvania, a good feeling indeed.

Luckily, we found an open restaurant. It was only 8:30 on Saturday night, but despite the bars and noraebang up and down the street, the place seemed to have pulled in the sidewalks and gone into hibernation. As will happen here, though, a guy outside his restaurant beckoned us in (and then sat and watched tv while his wife, who looked less happy to see us, cooked and served). Korean restaurants always give you side dishes, but it's usually kimchi, Grandmas-kitchen-yellow radishes, and maybe something palatable. At this place, the lady brought out a tray probably double the circumference of her arms, with a dozen or so little dishes on it. All were vegetables, and, other than the kimchi, there was maybe one that was awful! The worst looking option turned out to be the most addictive--I thought it was some kind of seafood, but it was tempura'd sweet potato skins. Mmm! We were seated under a painting of black pigs on a traditional Korean farm, the sort of thing grocery stores sold in the '70s; and a tiger in a black velvet sort of palette. Stuff I could decorate my stairwell with!

We walked around town after dinner, up into the residential section and through the dark streets. It felt like home, where people go to bed at night, and the gentle smell of fallen leaves hangs in the air. Wispy clouds dashed across the sky, leaving room for a kaleidoscopic view of vivid stars. The air had a late-autumn sharpness to it, and the rush of the stream by the main road was louder than any human-generated noise. Hugging the little town's boundaries, with fingers reaching in in spots, was thick, sloping forest. It was oxygen for my soul. I couldn't get enough. Literally. After Sarah & Obi headed in, I did another winding lap, pausing regularly to be still and drink it all in. I found the school (how would it be to be the native teacher there?), and followed the road that rose along its fenceline. It led past a humbler cluster of houses, and over a cement bridge, where I stood for a long time watching a trickle of water juke around flat rocks. Going home to Rochester seemed agreeable, but not imperative. Where else would I rather be than right here, right now? All the way back to the hotel, I kept tilting my head back, trying to stop time with those starts all above me.

Haeinsa itself was quite nice, if not as inspiring. All summer, I was perpetually on the verge of being jaded by rocks; now it's temples. Difference was, the rocks all had distinct identities. The temples are like Wegmans--not entirely interchangeable, but made up of all the same parts, and always packed to the gills. At this one, you could even get Dippin' Dots. Still, we appreciated the architecture and the statues and the stunningly sunny day. Haeinsa is famous for the Tripitaka Koreana, which is more impressive to hear about than to see. It's (they're?) housed in a building with slatted walls, and all you can do is look in through the slats and say, "Hmm. How 'bout that?" I'm glad I saw it. I'm glad it wasn't all Haeinsa had going for it.

All during our temple visit, and the previous evening, there were particles in the air that none of us could identify. Pollen? From where? Snow? It was cold enough, but again, from where? The sky was virtually cloudless. Yellow dust? It's known for blowing in from the Gobi Desert, but that didn't seem right either. We never did figure it out.

Eventually, it was time to bus back to Daegu (and the beginning of a stultifying 8-hour journey). In both Haeinsa and Daegu, we were hardly off the beaten tourist track, but were cognizant of a lot more staring than we get in Seoul. I think my favorite bit was on Daegu's subway, where late-middle aged Korean couple had a REALLY extended conversation about my convertible glove/mittens. One half-covered hand was clinging to the handle above them and they traversed the city puzzling out how it works. Of course, I couldn't understand anything they said, but their gestures were most informative. When, after several stops, they'd exhausted the subject, they noticed Lumphy peeking from my pocket. Wonder what's the Korean equivalent of "Hey, Marge!"

Speaking of which, we came up with a brilliant marketing idea for anyone looking to make a quick killing in Asian business. Snuggies!! I haven't seen one anywhere here, and they seem like the perfect fit. The kids already walk around school with fleece blankets draped over them. Snuggies would be the perfect marriage of gimmick & practicality. Marketing them here would be like selling fish to polar bears. And, according to their website, if you order one today, they'll send you a second absolutely free (except for another $8 shipping & handling...yeah, check the definition of "absolutely"). Who's in?

Ok, the Walnut Cake Bag

I've spent the week on the phone, primarily, so have not had the time to chronicle last weekend's adventures. Now, a trip to the DMZ has joined the queue as well, so in the interest of catching up, and being on time for my walk in Olympic Park this afternoon, I am eschewing paragraphs.

The background: Last weekend, I went to Haeinsa with my orientation roommate, Sarah, and her boyfriend, Obi. Haeinsa is one of Korea's 3 major temples (according to my TempleStay guidebook), and home of the Tripitaka Koreana, a huge set of woodblocks with scriptures in Chinese characters carved into them, from the 1300s. "One of the world's most significant complete Buddhist texts," says Lonely Planet. They have miraculously escaped destruction from fires and bombing 3 times over the centuries, and are stored in a 600-year-old building that has preserved them perfectly, more than can be said for the replacement that was built in the 1970s and abandoned when the test blocks quickly grew mold. Haeinsa is said to be one of the big must-see sights in Korea, and it will be closed for a recess year in 2010, so getting there was imperative. It's a 1 1/2-hour bus ride into the mountains from the city of Daegu, in the southern part of the country. So...

We saw a bunch of tombs by the highway on the bus ride down. I suppose Koreans must have cemeteries somewhere, but what I've seen in abundance is family plots, usually on the side of a mountain. The tombs are grassy hillocks, sometimes with a carved stone pillar next to them.

Korean drivers are insane! Whether in car, bus, or sometimes even subway, you get used to lurching, swerving, and horns. When driving in Korea, if you want to make a turn, you do. Even if you're not in an outside lane. Even if there are cars between you and your destination. It' s ok. This can be mildly alarming under normal circumstances, but I start to feel like I'm in a movie when the bus is passing cars on mountain roads, and it's even more remarkable to be looking over the edge of a short concrete retainer to an armrest-clenching drop and then feel the bus swerve and sway.

Daegu is utterly unremarkable. It pretty much felt like Seoul, but with more sky. I think the traffic is worse, though, and that's saying something. Being a Rochestarian, I can allow for charms that aren't immediately evident, but all the same, the place did nothing for me.

Koreans have a penchant for clustering like businesses. I first noticed this last week, when walking down a Seoul street that apparently specializes in prosthetics. Window after window displayed hands, feet, and other braces, most somewhere along the decay spectrum. There were a couple of shoe stores, which I speculated must offer deals on singles. Daegu is particularly prone to this...an entire block of auto mechanics, a mile of hardware, and so on, all through the town. I was pondering this with my friend, Diana, last night as we walked past 20 hole-in-the-wall restaurants in a row, all specializing in the same dish. Wouldn't it cut into profits? Or is it useful in a place where most people are on foot? I don't know.

The only time I've left town without a place to stay prior to this was when going to Sokcho with Ramsey, who had been there before and knew of a decent motel. In Daegu, we were all on our own. A Korean saw me looking at my guidebook in the bus station and asked if I needed help; when I told him I wanted a motel, he swept his arm in a circle and told me they're all around. That did seem to be the case, but we were baffled that every one we tried said they had no rooms. A street full of high-rises, all full at 4 in the afternoon? Maybe because there were 3 of us? We tried going in in various pairs--same result. Finally, one proprietor attempted to explain. All in Korean, so it did little good, until a man walked in who knew a smidgen of English. Fifteen minutes, 5 people, one phrasebook, and a lot of failed gestures later, it was established that to get the nightly rate at a love motel, you have to check in after 10pm. Until then, rooms are rented in 3-hour blocks. So checking in at 4 would mean paying for 2 blocks, plus the nightly rate. Aha.

About love motels: while undoubtedly handy for affairs, they're primarily for young Korean couples who live with their parents. They are also, however, frequently used by travelers (and frequently recommended by Lonely Planet and others). They're pretty much like a normal motel, except that they have indoor parking lots with fringe over the entry, are likely to be decorated in black and red, and sometimes have interesting vending machines or decorations. I haven't stayed in one yet, but probably will at some point.

We finally gave up on the Daegu scene and took the bus to Haeinsa. We were due to arrive at 8:30, and a tad fretful about finding accommodation. Sarah called one hotel from the subway station in Daegu and was quoted a price of $87--a lot for Korea, but doable split 3 ways. She gave them her name, but didn't want to make a reservation without discussing it with Obi & me. Once we'd purchased our bus tickets, she called again to make a reservation and was told the only room available was $150. She declined, and we were all a bit pensive about what would happen to us. Upon arrival in Haeinsa's little town, we followed the sign for the tourist hotel, hiking up and up through and out of town, getting turned away from a couple of little places until we arrived at the giant chalet on the hill. Inside, they asked if we had a reservation, and Sarah, in a moment of divine intervention, said yes. She gave them her name--no one was fussed that it didn't match anything they had--and they gave us a sumptuous room for $87. Which, split 3 ways, isn't bad.

We were beside ourselves over the room. 2 double beds, with MATTRESSES, carpet, a shower, sheets, closets. We scuttled about the room like cockroaches, taking in and exclaiming over every detail. After a flurry of photography, we collapsed on the beds. Further scrutiny revealed the room to be little more than a glorified Super 8, but it was super and glorious to us.

The room required putting the key in a slot to make the lights come on. Which the overhead one did as soon as the key was inserted. The table lamps could be turned on with switches, but went off when the key was removed. Come bedtime, we puzzled over this for a bit, before Obi discovered a button on the nightstand (along with the radio console) that controlled the overhead lights. Brilliant! I wish American hotels had that.

To be continued...

Notes from a Walnut Cake bag

The actual notes on the walnut cake bag are from my trip to Daegu and Haeinsa this weekend, but before I get to those, a few tidbits from the Monday that, at the time of writing, has not happened yet for you, Dear Reader.

--My co-teacher, Terrie, is reading a Bill Bryson book. It's translated, which makes me curious how much of the original flavor is retained, but it cheers me nonetheless. The bit she related to me today was about the French, and how they queue to get on a bus, but when it arrives, they mob the door, pushing and elbowing. Terrie was musing over how Koreans do this also, and wondering why they bother standing in line in the first place. This is why I like Terrie.

--I'm now a Costco Korea member. Stocked up on bagels and cheese, got some "marine crackers" to snack on at school, and snagged myself an industrial-sized pumpkin pie (and even managed to carry it home without incident). Also violated the "you don't get more dessert than you had dinner" rule I usually impose on kids, chasing a single slice of pizza with a huge cup of soft serve. Holly, my mentor, came with me, reminding me that, as the Holly Hobbie pencil case I had in 1st grade observed, "two is much more fun than one".

--I've been looking for a thin jacket to wear at school, since the distinction between inside and outside is really too fine a point to quibble over. I like my winter jacket, and I want it to last for many years, which it won't if I'm wearing it constantly for 4 months. I decided I wanted to pay about $30 for the new jacket, realizing that for that price, I may as well just ask Santa to bring me one. On the way to Costco, though, I passed a store called Crocodile (although I am SURE they're not trying to make you think it's Izod), with a rack on the sidewalk of fleecy, inside-out-Muppet style jackets. And, in a layer of miracles too thick to comprehend, the jackets were all of the following:
-colors I like
-warm, but compact
-sturdy and well-made
-NOT size 6X
-NOT covered in patterns reminiscent of 1970s upholstery
-$29
So I bought one. And have been wearing it around the house all evening. In fact, I like it so much, I think I want it to last for many years, which it won't if I'm wearing it constantly for 4 months. So maybe this will be my new spring/fall jacket, and I can wear my current, cheap, ill-fitting fleece jacket at school until it falls apart. Or I freeze to death anyway.

--I got a completely unexpected package today. One is never too old to be excited about receiving mail, especially when it is full of good things to eat and a really cool crepe turkey.

--Also got a formerly-expected-but-now-given-up-on postcard. It was mailed with a twin, which arrived last Monday, and after a week of ransacking the mailboxes, I'd decided it had been eaten by one postal service or another. These are the mysteries of the universe which we are not meant to understand.

--Taught a class today, for the first time in ages. Actually, "taught" is overstating it significantly. The 3rd graders had finals last week and have abandoned any lingering vestiges of diligence. Anticipating this, I planned to do a game with them this week. My one success with this was in annoying the co-teachers, who hate games; the kids were even less attentive than in the past, a feat which deserves recognition for pushing the boundaries of imagined possibility. For the 1st & 2nd graders who did speaking tests last week, I'm planning to teach them some animal-related idioms...ants in your pants, raining cats & dogs, horseplay, chicken, etc. This lesson does NOT want to come together, and I head into Tuesday with the PowerPoint only half finished. I think it'll be ok, though, and I have Terrie's support with this one.

--I have at long last begun reading "Blue Highways", which I bought at the Cortez library in June and have toted with me everywhere since. I love it. William Least Heat Moon is a gifted writer, expressing things so effectively, succinctly, originally, and delightfully, I feel like rolling on the floor speaking in tongues. I'd like to think I could learn to write like that, but if you have to work at it, you ain't got it. This is a book that demands to be read with pencil in hand, but is none the less enjoyable for that. As suspected, it's got me dreaming of the open road again. I'm once more plotting my madcapitals, 48-states-in-48-days journey of insanity, and, having left my travel notes & notebook at home, I'm creating the itinerary for at least the dozenth time. I've really got a winner, though, worked out on the interminable bus ride from Daegu last night.

Speaking of Daegu, at some point this blog was supposed to segue into weekend chronicles, but I've once again managed to clog up cyberspace with digital diarrhea...tune in next time to find out what was REALLY written on that walnut cake bag!

Time to crawl into bed with my road atlas and succomb to the bliss.

"Do You Carry Umbrellas?"

I'm giving speaking tests this week. I like it for two reasons...1)no lesson plans to write or classes to worry about; and 2)I sit down with every student in the school, one-on-one, even if it's only for a minute or two. The test itself is more like a memory test--the students have a few dialogues from the textbook to memorize, and I feed them the first line and wait for the proper response. Last week, the 3rd grade teachers had me sitting out in the hall, sending the kids out one by one. This week, the 1st/2nd grade teachers are inclined to have me sit at a desk in the front of the class--much warmer, but torment for the students. If it's quiet (which rarely happens), the students feel very on the spot. If it's noisy (usually), the student and I have a hard time hearing each other, compounding the difficulty for them. Think of trying to converse with your friends in a crowded bar. Now think of trying to do it in a foreign language. I wonder if the kids' scores would be better if conditions were different.

The dialogues themselves are not without difficulty, either. One for the 1st graders is "What does that mean?" "It means 'I love you'". What 12-year-old boy wants to say that to a teacher? (of course, they say it in the hall, so maybe I'm worried about nothing) Then there's "Can you return at 5:00?" "Pardon me?" Even after a couple hundred repetitions, I'm fighting the urge to repeat the question. And I've got the phrases running through my head like a bad song. Tell me you're tired and I'll reply robotically, "I think you should take a rest."

In typically Korean fashion, the test rewards rote memorization over practical skills. (though Terrie did say they tried to address that; they just couldn't come up with a workable alternative) I'm supposed to give a point if the student gives me an answer that's for another question, hence "You broke my new watch" "Never mind" is ok. So is "You lost my book" "Sorry to hear that". It may get you punched in America, but it gets you a good score here. My favorite mix 'n' match was "I'm from Busan, Korea" "I don't think so." (I don't think so, either, kid!) That question also elicited the best free form response I've gotten (which, fortunately, I can also give a point for), from a kid who otherwise was clueless: "I'm from Busan, Korea" "You Korean? Me too!"

Hopefully, I can make it through all these tests without coming down with The Pig. While I enjoy the chance to personally communicate (even if scripted) with each student, that's face-to-face time with a LOT of people, many of whom don't bother covering their coughs. The classrooms were ghost towns last week--the "short vacation" that was rumored to happen if too many kids got sick was abandoned when practicality interfered; shutting down schools would basically mean all of them, for a long time, and it just wasn't doable. I'm going to have to get vaccinated, or else face a week's quarantine every time I leave the country (4x, if all goes as planned, aka a month in my apartment), but apparently, I have to wait until after the vaccination of every elementary, middle, and high school student in the country, as well as all "weak" Koreans, before I'm eligible. I'll probably end up getting the needle at home, except it'll be all gone by then.

In the meantime, I'm making myself sick with Pepero sticks. 11/11 is Pepero Day, a Hallmark holiday where you give candy sticks to people you like. (One teacher told me it's people you love, but the class adamantly corrected her, and the sticks have been piling up around the office at such a pace that I think the kids may have even overstated it) Most of the sticks are somewhat smaller than a pencil; crispy cookie-ish substance dipped in chocolate...and sometimes rolled in nuts. They're awfully good--I've eaten several already and it's only 11:00. There are other varieties as well, everything from fat chocolate-covered wafers to massive gift packs involving stuffed animals, overflowing from every convenience store. Last night, a student gave me one in an "I heart New York" wrapper. (something else I've been meaning to blog about...that phrase is huge here. The first time I saw it, I thought the kid had actually been to America, but I quickly learned it's on bags, pajama pants, pencil cases, folders, shoes...Pepero wrappers. Maybe I'll get everyone I heart New York t-shirts for Christmas) One wrapper says "I'll be loving you forever, deep inside my heart." Kinda restrained for Koreans, actually.

Variations on a Theme

It's been a solitary weekend. I went Out last night (first time in Seoul!) to celebrate a friend's birthday, and had a good, long phone conversation with my uncle this morning, but otherwise have been completely by myself. Not for lack of trying either. The novelty and desperation have worn off, and people no longer jump at invitations regardless of who with or where to. So I adventured on alone, and it was a weekend well spent.

Wicked weather reports for Sunday moved my nature encounter to Saturday. I trucked off to Namhan Sansung Provincial Park, reachable by Seoul Metro (passing "where da green loyn intersects wit da pank", as it will forever be known in memory of my single phone conversation with Nick). And being on the subway means an opportunity to buy a bag of little cakes, shaped like an ear of corn and filled with yummy custard, and filling the tunnels with a smell WAAAY better than stewed silkworm larvae. Then to walk down a suburban street, which has much better connotations here than in the US (where, according to Wait Wait, New Jersey is changing its nickname to The Olive Garden State). Quieter, friendlier, full of yellow trees, it was a pleasant, if uphill walk from the subway to the park, where it was a tolerable and very uphill walk to the ACTUAL park, where it was a pretty and uphill walk along the old fortress walls, which I eventually abandoned because I couldn't find a map and didn't know where to get back down and was fast losing the use of my legs. In usual yin/yang fashion, the absence of both a companion and any useful navigation aids, the relentless incline of the cement trail, and the penchant of the Koreans for bringing things like radios to the woods and walking in what I'll charitably call a less than straight line were all trying my patience. On the other hand, the day was warm and rainless, the scenery was compelling, fall was in its full glory, and my new Korean hiking socks and boots were comfy and sturdy. I sat on a rock to write a letter and was, unusually, surrounded by birds of all descriptions twittering and being charmingly birdlike. It might be the most wildlife I've seen since the Lincoln Park Zoo.

I generally do quite well with solo time, often preferring to travel that way, but it seems that my tolerance for it is substantially reduced here. Or maybe it's that I'm fully stocked on it and don't need any more. As someone who has been known to ignore a ringing phone, I'm surprised by how bereft I feel without one. That oft-malfunctioning and intrusive instrument, with the power to restore promise to any day, is sorely missed in my little apartment. Instead, I leave the computer on for hours and hours, one ear perpetually cocked for the pop that means someone wants to chat with me on Facebook...inadequate substitute for a real conversation, but much anticipated all the same. Pricey cell minutes mean that phone is just for arranging meeting details, so even fellow expats use Facebook to just shoot shit for a while. Whatever the cause--no calls, no close connections, no cats--I find myself getting ratty and depressed when I've gone too long without hearing anyone's voice. I think, as I've said before, that that will be the nature of my year. High points, low points, fun times, moments of staring into the face of insanity, and all the while dragging a weight behind me that I may feel but won't fully appreciate until I'm cut free. I discovered a new Alan Doyle song on YouTube, about the Newfoundland diaspora, and while most of it is very Newfoundland-specific, the "punch line" (as it were) is "I don't know where I'm going, but I know where I belong." So poignant, it literally hurts.

At any rate, I was substantially cheered today by talking with my uncle for the first time since I passed through Springfield in May. He doesn't read this blog, so in giving a synopsis of the first 11 weeks, I was treated to fresh interest and insight, and the chance to distill my experiences into something easier to examine and understand. There was also another element I hadn't noticed missing before--immediacy. Blogging allows me to stay connected to far more people far more efficiently than I could do if I were trying to maintain regular correspondence with each & every one of you, but it also robs me of the give-and-take of normal conversation. By the time I talk with anyone, they already know what's going on here and it's old news. So I don't tell the story again, and the debriefing and manipulating of experiences into productive action is lost. But this post is deteriorating into a stream of consciousness more suited to my journal.

So it was with lighter heart that I set out for today's explorations--the Seoul Museum of Art (and Kyobo bookstore, but I never made it there). The art museum is right behind one of the city's palaces, and my timing was good...as I stepped from the subway stairs into open air, I heard the distinctive clang of a Korean band--time for the changing of the guard at Deoksugung. I watched the festivities and followed the procession down the alley next to the palace. I absolutely love downtown, and this was one more incredible spot--brick-paved, lined with a white, tile-topped stone wall, overarched with trees whose yellow leaves popped against the leaden sky. The drizzle made the colors stand out, and it was strikingly beautiful and soul-satisfying.

After blogging recently about how Koreans would rather eat mustardless pizza than speak English aloud, on the way back through this spectacular alley (having quite enjoyed the art museum--and the fact that admission was a remarkable 70 cents!), I was accosted for the SECOND time this weekend by a starstruck Korean wanting to talk. Yesterday, I got on the subway after my hike and a teenager bounded over with a carrying "HI!" worthy of a Texan. She then just stood there and beamed at me until I had the presence of mind to say, "How are you?" I ran through my admittedly short repertoire of pleasantries, then tried to understand what she was telling me--her enthusiasm outstripped her English ability. I'm pretty sure "you are beautiful" was in there--the complete lack of Korean self-esteem weirds me out a bit. I'm beautiful just because I have Western features? I don't get it. (incidentally, ALL the dolls at HomePlus are Western-looking) Another uni student standing nearby felt compelled to help when my fan was struggling to ask where I'm from, so then she got sucked into the conversation too. Finally, the girl went and sat down, but when I got off the train, she yelled "BYE!!!" and turned around to wave through the window as I walked down the platform. I've heard of Koreans getting rude and violent when people speak English in public, and I know they're not fond of making a scene...wonder how they felt about one of their own doing it.

Today's stalker was more subtle (and more fluent), although it started like a scene from a Cary Grant movie. Walking through the alley, she was keeping pace with me, neither passing nor falling back, until it got annoying. I stopped and turned around under pretense of admiring the foliage...and she stopped 20 yards ahead to do the same. I waited...waited...so did she. I started walking, she started walking. The thought that she was "following" me crossed my mind, but only in a comical, Scooby Doo, sort of way. Finally, as I caught up with her, I turned on the jets, intending to speed walk to a comfortable distance in front. At which point, she abandoned the coy routine and whacked me on the arm. She has a friend coming from Ireland and wanted to know what I think of Seoul and the food and what I'd suggest she take the friend to see. She was pleasant and fluent, and I can sympathize with her hesitancy to approach me. I know talking with a foreigner has a rite-of-passage aspect to it, and I don't mind doing it at all. Just getting a taste of how Bono feels.

One more thing; a confession to make. I ate at McDonald's. Just fries. But, the aggravating circumstance: I did it because of an ad. I was painfully hungry (the reason I skipped the bookstore. That, and I don't need/have money for any books. Just shows how addled my thinking was). A bus went by with a McDonald's poster on it. And it succombed. I did my penance, though, carrying that bag through the subway station like a walking stereotype. But, mmmm, they were good!

A Taste of RV Life

I have a Korean-style shower, or, in American terms, Winnebago-style. Shower, and the bathroom showers with me. The door has a large lip on it, and the floor slants toward a drain under the sink. All the fixtures are waterproof, and there's no point keeping anything on the counter. It's a bit of a nuisance, requiring significantly more choreography than the mindless showering I do at home. The routine:

--put toothbrush/cup in the cabinet, along with anything else that's migrated to the counter

--pull plastic bag out from between counter & toilet tank and cover tp (dispensers in Korea have a flap that goes over the paper for just that reason, but it's not sufficient)

--stuff hand towel into space just vacated by plastic bag

--move bath towel and hair towel from towel rack to outer door handle

--move washcloth from its place on the faucet to the towel rack

--array clothes and hairbrush within reach of door

This setup makes it impossible to adjust the water temperature before getting in. Fortunately, the nozzle detaches from the wall, so I can run the water on just a foot until it warms up.

--Shower. I initially thought maybe the water would stay isolated in one area, but I was very wrong. It goes everywhere.

--Try to dry off & do everything else I have to do without going in & out of the bathroom, because drying my feet every time is a pain. After the first time I showered here, I realized I needed a little mat outside the bathroom. The way the towel rack is positioned, I can't dry my feet and then hang the towel up without stepping back into the bathroom.

--Before leaving the bathroom, remember to reverse as many of the above processes as possible. Some, like getting the hand towel out, have to wait for surfaces to dry.

--Lifting the toilet lid means the seat will probably be dry by the time I get home from school. Likewise, squeegeeing the floor with my foot also seems to hasten the drying process, although I usually still have to dance around puddles in the evening. On weekends, I just have to take my socks off if I have to go later.

One might think this would mean I don't have to clean the bathroom. One would be wrong. It just means the whole place is covered in film.

Climate Control

November's come in like a lion (or saja, as the case may be), and it's been a somewhat unsettling preview of what the winter's going to be like. I thought traveling to New York in February was unusual, but doing it to keep warm might actually be a first. The last two days have seen temps in the 30s--my apartment dropped 3 whole degrees, to 68. I imagine I will eventually have to turn the heat on. But school? I'm going to need a wardrobe of hats.

I thought I was a fresh air fiend, keeping windows open until much too late in the season, then still having them cracked til I'm paying for heat and my Scottish blood won't allow it. For Koreans, however, there's no such thing as too cold for fresh air. I'd wondered in previous posts about the practicalities of an outdoor floor plan in a deciduous climate. Wondered about how walking outside to get to the cafeteria and most of my classes was going to be. Now I know--COLD. But, really, the trip to lunch is pretty irrelevant because the windows and doors in the school are all as wide open as they were in early September. Like a stubborn foreigner, I kept taking off my jacket, and worse, leaving it in the office when I went to class. Mr. Kwon asked me at lunch why I didn't dress more warmly ('cause I'm just a goofy American who thinks that a turtleneck and sweater is sufficient?). He also took me to task yesterday for closing a window in the hallway. I assumed it was open because students had been clowning around, but I guess it's just standard operating procedure. (The same thing happened in my apartment building, where I thought I was being conscientious by closing the stairway windows in the morning, but found them all open again when I came home) The classrooms, heated via refrigerator-like units in the corner, are tropical cocoons, while the hallways provide the counterpoint (and the bathroom might as well be an outhouse). Everyone just wears their jacket all the time. Our office tries to straddle both worlds, cranking the heat until oranges are growing, then opening the windows wide for a brutal blast. My llama gloves, though very cute, are a bitch to type in.