Flying thirteen hours straight is taxing at best, but even more so when surrounded by the infirm. The man in front of me sneezes non-stop. The young woman beside Rob coughs and curls up into a miserable little ball of infection, as she tries to beat back a virus. The guy behind me can't quite get comfortable, so every now and then, he boots the back of my seat like a bronco. Still, the trip goes rather well.
Sure, Rob sleeps just half-an-hour, while I get but two hours. And yes, there's a bit of turbulence, but all in all, the time flies by. Rob has some delicious vegetarian curry dishes. I get beef stew and then an omelette for breakfast. And they have a really nice Chilean red - Santa Alvara.
I read Christopher Hitchens until my eyes can't stand it anymore, and then I try to fall asleep through four movies. Unfortunately, I keep choosing well, and they keep me awake. Date Night, a formulaic Hollywood comedy, is the weakest of the bunch, but Clash of the Titans is great, if a tad hysterical at times in the direction department. Two British movies are surprises. Wild Target is a dark farce that, while flawed, will no doubt be ripped off and repackaged in North America. And Nowhere Boy is gripping. It's about John Lennon as a boy, and while I thought the adult insufferable, the movie did provide some insight into how the "intellectual" Beatle became the man he did.
Since our flight leaves Seoul half an hour earlier than expected, we can, conceivably, avoid a nine hour layover in Toronto and jet off to Winnipeg at 11 to arrive home just after midnight. But alas, we are not at Seoul International.
Toronto International has not been named the top airport in the world for five years running, it's plain to see. We clear customs, and run to grab our bags. No need to have rushed for they're the last ones off the plane. I grab a cart and someone yells that I can't take "that" cart. An airport guide tells us we need to grab a shuttle bus to get from Terminal 3 to Terminal 1. There's no one at the buses. We get in line at an information booth. The surly attendant tells those in line to use the help phone. The phone isn't helpful for any of us. Finally, Rob flags down an elderly Sikh gentleman who gives us the information we need, in Hindi. We must run down the hallway, take the elevator to the third floor, and take the train which will get us to Terminal 1 in two minutes. Pulling two enormous, two large, two medium, and three smaller bags, by some miracle, we make it to the Air Canada ticket counter by 10:25 p.m. We've arrived in the nick of time. Or not.
The woman at the desk informs us they've shut the doors and it's impossible for us to make the flight. Even she seems a bit surprised that they've already packed up. She directs us to an area where we can stretch out and nap: the nearby Starbucks. We spec it out and find two mini groups of chairs about six feet long. The chair seats are so narrow, I'd be lucky to fit on them sideways. But no worries. They're all taken. It's off to the hard uprights with bars in between to prevent napping. In defiance I try to curve myself around the metal in the fetal position, but decide that might not be conducive to maintaining a healthy spine.
Five hours have passed since we last ate, so we trundle down two flights to grab some good old Tim Hortons coffee and a bagel. We show up just on time to watch the server lock the doors. Then we get to witness the horror of trays of leftover bagels, cookies, buns and muffins being dumped into the garbage. But wait, this is an international airport. Surely to God there are other options! Nope. Everything is locked up tighter than a drum at 11pm. I pick up two mini Hallowe'en treat sized bags of chips for $1.50 each and a 450 millilitre bottle of juice for 3 dollars. Thank heavens I had the foresight to buy several protein bars in Seoul for 45 cents each, otherwise we'd starve.
It's 2:30 a.m. and Rob and I are sitting and chatting. We have been trying to sleep, but to no avail. Rob's bed was two chairs, while I sat upright, doing the head bob. Rob was actually having some success when an exceptionally loud gal burst onto the scene, her gravelly smoker's voice crudely cutting a swath through the still air. Her poor, oppressed husband, and quivering twelve year old son tried to quell her, but she'd have none of it.
We've just learned that Tim Hortons on the other side of security is open 24-7. Except we can't check in until 4:30 a.m. We couldn't go through last night either because bags cannot be checked in more than four hours before the owners. We could have stored our luggage, but decided the royal sum of 50 dollars could be better spent elsewhere. To add insult to injury, the air conditioning is cranked to maximum, and our teeth are chattering.
A burly construction worker with a thick British Midlands accent just dozes off when, suddenly, some system wide high pitched signal sounds, then drones on for a couple of minutes. The poor fellow jolted awake laughs and says, "That's an alarm clock I could have done without." I understand the need to test the system, and at night when there are fewer people around, but, we're up all-night and our nerves are already frayed, so this seems almost cruel.
3:05 a.m. - Our eyes are stinging from fatigue. I ask Rob if he wants to play a game. He responds, "Oh, you mean like the game of let's be alone with our thoughts so we don't piss the other person off?" We laugh until tears run down my face.
3:40 a.m. - I go to the washroom to freshen up. The luxe, department store facilities of the 1960s and of the current Gwangju bus depot, they are not. There are no makeup mirrors, because when travelling in Canada, women apparently couldn't care less how they look. The utilitarian mirror at the sink is six feet from the customer. I applaud the woman who can apply cosmetics from that distance.
When we finally get to check in, we learn our one bag is thirteen pounds overweight, which is news to us because Korean air let it through. Had the bags gone directly to Winnipeg, there wouldn't have been a problem. As is, we have to open all our bags and start moving around our unmentionables right there at the counter. Luckily, the check-in clerk is so busy ripping off a coworker's face that she's too distracted to light into us.
At 4:45, for the first time in seven weeks, we have a good long slurp of Tim Horton's coffee. Aah. We're off down the long, dreary, dingy, poorly lit hallway to Gate 128 to await our flight. I try to deke into the bathroom, but of course, it's closed off for cleaning.
By the time we're on board for the 6:40 a.m. flight, we're ready to nap. Unfortunately, the yappy bleached blond pushy broad behind us has other ideas. She, and her six year old, narrate the movie Shrek for much of the flight. And, though one wonders where she gets the energy at this hour, the kid kicks my seat non-stop for the entire three hour flight. Thankfully, the thirty or so kids from a Toronto university basketball team and the members of 80's rock band Glass Tiger sleep for much of the journey.
To our surprise, my sister Faith, elegant as ever, and cool as a cucumber in shades of turquoise, greets us at the airport, and delivers us to our home. The boys, Kael, and our canine children, Bear, Odin, and Gabriel, greet us enthusiastically. Odin even takes a celebratory sprint through my opened gift suitcase, which had been carefully packed so as to avoid damage to the contents. Bear is shy, and Gabriel is much bulkier. Kael is even trimmer than usual, and looks every inch the fine young gentleman he has become.
I glance at the bills and other mail stacked up on the dining room table. I contemplate the fact that in one month I will begin a new job. I consider the hedge outside that needs trimming. And then I stop myself. I think back to tea with the monk the day we climbed Mudeung-san. I remember the birds singing and the chimes ringing. I remember the monk speaking of his challenge in trying to clear away the mental clutter of a million little things that just don't matter. I remember thinking about the Buddhist philosophy of balance. It's within our grasp. It's about making choices. Clearing away the clutter. So I do.
Kael, Rob, and I grab our umbrellas, and we take ourselves out for breakfast. There's a new world order, and it feels glorious!
Monday, August 2, 2010
Goodbye Korea
Rob has a serious hankering for sundubujigae, that soybean paste tofu stew he loves so much. Like a good wife, I subjugate my desire for Korean pizza, the authentic, thin pancake variety, and we go next door to Myungin Mandoo. I have a noodle dumpling soup, and it hits the spot.
The motel owners kindly store our luggage for us after we check out. We take a last walk around our neighbourhood, this time looking in at the giant Lotte Duty Free store downtown. It's packed with toney, pricey designer shops, the types where the servers look down their snouts at average folk doing a little window shopping. I've been thinking of getting Kael a little gold pig for his 21st birthday, coming up in a couple of weeks; pigs are his favourite animals. I actually have the temerity to ask a man how much one the size of a chickpea costs. 475 dollars, he sniffs. I walk on, smiling inside for having forced him to do something so distasteful as serve a customer from the wrong end of the social spectrum.
It's back to our motel area to await a call from Diane and Sen who are in town for a concert. We slip into the motel to check email, and we come face to face with the next occupant of room 401. Woojung Rusthoven is a handsome young Dutch fellow of Korean descent who is majoring in communications in Amsterdam. He has stylish boy band hair and a wardrobe to match. He's wearing faded black designer jeans, an elegant black fitted dress shirt, and biker books. He would receive excellent service at the Lotte Duty Free store.
Woojung is in Seoul for a gathering of fellow Korean adoptees who met in Amsterdam last year, and this year are visiting the land of their ancestors. We provide some handy hints regarding how to get around and where to eat, and then we exchange email addresses. I'll be interested to hear how a hometown boy, with a thick Dutch accent and no knowledge of Korean culture, experiences the country.
When Diane and Sen arrive, they treat us to coffee and cake at Bonespe, a popular chain owned by the Lotte Corporation which has a lock on the sales of everything from chewing gum to designer clothes to appliances. They walk us to our bus shuttle stop, and Diane gifts me with a CD of the boy band known as 2PM, which she's seeing tonight. While we're at the stop, Woojung walks by and says hello. It's outrageous to consider how often we've bumped into the same people in different locations on this trip. In a few hours we'll meet up at the airport with some Americans we saw this morning far from our motel. Remember, Seoul has more than six million people.
As we bus to Seoul International Airport, we pass by thousands of people enjoying a day in the sun. In Seoul, this means sitting on rocks under bridge, or setting up red and blue umbrellas, row on row, on wooden peers that jut into the Han River. There's no beach to speak of. God help anyone who loses their group, for everything looks exactly the same. It's just like the millions of skinny highrises everywhere we've been. They are absolutely identical, and when grouped, present a scene like that in a science fiction movie.
We check in at 6pm for a 9pm flight, but are unable to get the bulkhead row to stretch out our legs because the flight is full. We do get a window seat, but at a spot where there is no window. Meals at the airport are fairly reasonably priced, especially considering the high standards and upscale nature of the place. We end up grabbing a shrimp burger and a bulgogi burger at the Lotteria, owned by, you guessed it, the Lotte Corporation. Again, science fiction is ahead of the curve having predicted decades ago a world run by mega corporations.
We arrive at our departure gate and doublecheck to make sure all items we may require on board are within reach. I walk by a beautiful young Sikh fellow in a black turban, dark brown dress shirt, and dark jeans. He smiles and says, "Hello." His ink black eyes and princely features are capped off with a flashy smile featuring a perfect set of the purest white teeth. I notice a sign that promotes Seoul Airport as being Number One in the world for five years in a row, including last year. Yes, I can certainly see why!
The motel owners kindly store our luggage for us after we check out. We take a last walk around our neighbourhood, this time looking in at the giant Lotte Duty Free store downtown. It's packed with toney, pricey designer shops, the types where the servers look down their snouts at average folk doing a little window shopping. I've been thinking of getting Kael a little gold pig for his 21st birthday, coming up in a couple of weeks; pigs are his favourite animals. I actually have the temerity to ask a man how much one the size of a chickpea costs. 475 dollars, he sniffs. I walk on, smiling inside for having forced him to do something so distasteful as serve a customer from the wrong end of the social spectrum.
It's back to our motel area to await a call from Diane and Sen who are in town for a concert. We slip into the motel to check email, and we come face to face with the next occupant of room 401. Woojung Rusthoven is a handsome young Dutch fellow of Korean descent who is majoring in communications in Amsterdam. He has stylish boy band hair and a wardrobe to match. He's wearing faded black designer jeans, an elegant black fitted dress shirt, and biker books. He would receive excellent service at the Lotte Duty Free store.
Woojung is in Seoul for a gathering of fellow Korean adoptees who met in Amsterdam last year, and this year are visiting the land of their ancestors. We provide some handy hints regarding how to get around and where to eat, and then we exchange email addresses. I'll be interested to hear how a hometown boy, with a thick Dutch accent and no knowledge of Korean culture, experiences the country.
When Diane and Sen arrive, they treat us to coffee and cake at Bonespe, a popular chain owned by the Lotte Corporation which has a lock on the sales of everything from chewing gum to designer clothes to appliances. They walk us to our bus shuttle stop, and Diane gifts me with a CD of the boy band known as 2PM, which she's seeing tonight. While we're at the stop, Woojung walks by and says hello. It's outrageous to consider how often we've bumped into the same people in different locations on this trip. In a few hours we'll meet up at the airport with some Americans we saw this morning far from our motel. Remember, Seoul has more than six million people.
As we bus to Seoul International Airport, we pass by thousands of people enjoying a day in the sun. In Seoul, this means sitting on rocks under bridge, or setting up red and blue umbrellas, row on row, on wooden peers that jut into the Han River. There's no beach to speak of. God help anyone who loses their group, for everything looks exactly the same. It's just like the millions of skinny highrises everywhere we've been. They are absolutely identical, and when grouped, present a scene like that in a science fiction movie.
We check in at 6pm for a 9pm flight, but are unable to get the bulkhead row to stretch out our legs because the flight is full. We do get a window seat, but at a spot where there is no window. Meals at the airport are fairly reasonably priced, especially considering the high standards and upscale nature of the place. We end up grabbing a shrimp burger and a bulgogi burger at the Lotteria, owned by, you guessed it, the Lotte Corporation. Again, science fiction is ahead of the curve having predicted decades ago a world run by mega corporations.
We arrive at our departure gate and doublecheck to make sure all items we may require on board are within reach. I walk by a beautiful young Sikh fellow in a black turban, dark brown dress shirt, and dark jeans. He smiles and says, "Hello." His ink black eyes and princely features are capped off with a flashy smile featuring a perfect set of the purest white teeth. I notice a sign that promotes Seoul Airport as being Number One in the world for five years in a row, including last year. Yes, I can certainly see why!
Friday, July 30, 2010
Our Last Full Day in South Korea
A visit to the Yammy Toast Stand this morning proves that yesterday's fallout was not random. I once again suffer a protracted and violent allergic reaction that yesterday I was willing to put off to Seoul's air quality. The breathing difficulty is accompanied by dizziness, stomach cramps and a general malaise. Perhaps the sauce contains that naturopathic miracle drug Korean ginseng, to which I am highly allergic. In any event, I power through, not willing to give up one more day of touring.
I look ahead to see another fearless soul. This middle aged man is moving against the traffic on the far right side of the road. He steers with one hand and uses the other to work his cell phone. In very short order, he manages to dart through several lanes of fast moving vehicles, and then we see him turn off in another direction and fade into the distance.
We descend into the underground shopping area to visit Bandi and Luni's book store to pick up some reading material for the journey back to Canada. On my recommendation, Rob decides to read The White Tiger, and I pick up God is Not Great, by Christopher Hitchens. He's a brilliant wordsmith, and I've been looking forward to reading his dissection of organized religions and his analysis of how they've been manipulated to most unspiritual ends. I don't know if I'll agree with Hitchens' contention that religion "poisons everything," but his argument is sure to be cogent, illuminating, and well-stated.
In the afternoon, we trundle on over to The World Jewellry Museum in the art district, where we see exceptional specimens from around the world. There's a huge collection of bracelets, anklets, and necklaces. Historically, the differences in styles from one part of the world to another have been striking. For example, jewellry on display from the Congo tends to be large and clunky with smooth lines. Judging from what we see here, artisans in India and Turkey, favour extremely detailed, elaborate designs. It's also interesting to see how styles are co-opted by other cultures. Case in point: Some British designers of the early 1900s owe a great deal of their success to the Rajastanis.
There's also a terrific collection of purses. Standouts include some offbeat American lucite bags from the 1950s. They remind me of those hard Christmas candies we used to get when we were kids. They're the handbag equivalent to Jolly Ranchers. There's also a purse made from an armadillo, and another from a real leopard. Its hollowed out eyes are sewn shut, but the eyebrow hairs stick out, as if the animal is trying to defy the bag maker.
When we quit the museum, we walk through the art gallery district for a bit, and then catch the Number 11 home. Though we're on a bus in downtown Seoul, if I shut my eyes, I'm in the back of a hay truck thumping across a field in Laclu, Ontario. The bus trip costs only 50 cents each, Canadian, but one must pay twenty times this amount to get such a thrill ride at a theme park.
We pass roofers at the Gyeonbok-gun palace. One rolls clay into balls the size of those used for five pin bowling. He hands them, one-by-one, to another worker, who tosses them to a third man. The third worker uses these clay balls to cap the ends of the ceramic tiles which have been laid out, like shingles, row on row.
Our night time travels take us to a Australian based kebab restaurant where we sit, eat, and people-watch for a while. Then we amble through the bar district, Seoul's answer to Gwanju's HuMoon. This, of course, is bigger, faster, and pricier. At Olive Young Pharmacy, we gather some supplies for our journey, including soy protein bars, chocolate chip cookies, and gum. We can't stand the thought of having no options, miles above the ground, for a 14 hour stretch. Perhaps, tomorrow, we'll try to add something a little more sensible to our travel kit.
It's back home to the Chung Jin motel, which has been a great home base for us. It's so quiet that it's hard to believe it's so centrally located. It's obviously a go-to-place for tourists, especially large groups with children, and people looking for a discreet room to rent for special occasions, like that 40 something chap I saw with the leggy, attractive 30 year old renting by the hour. Just tonight, a man in his 60s, sans luggage, is openly considering his options whilst I stand typing less than a foot away. And the lady at the desk doesn't blink an eye.
The staff here have been wonderful, including the elderly women who clean. They live in rooms at the top of the stairs on each floor. Their doors are always open, revealing their spartan, undecorated, living quarters, including "beds" which are blankets spread on the floor. One little lady attending to her chores as we climb the stairs to our room tonight giggles with glee when I thank her and give her a Winnipeg pin. She thanks me repeatedly, her hoarse voice struggling to convey her gratitude. Again, coming from a society where so many people have so much, and they take it all for granted, I'm speechless.
We spend some time organizing luggage and going through receipts, and have a larf over the fact that we're left with just 3400 won, or about three dollars! Thank goodness we won't be needing any more cash. Hard as this is to believe, it's well nigh impossible to get money with a foreign credit card, even at the Korean Exchange Bank. Oh "thank heaven for 7-11" in Gwangju where we did our last withdrawl.
Now it's time to bank up some zees. It's our last final sleep in Seoul, and we have a big day ahead tomorrow.
I look ahead to see another fearless soul. This middle aged man is moving against the traffic on the far right side of the road. He steers with one hand and uses the other to work his cell phone. In very short order, he manages to dart through several lanes of fast moving vehicles, and then we see him turn off in another direction and fade into the distance.
We descend into the underground shopping area to visit Bandi and Luni's book store to pick up some reading material for the journey back to Canada. On my recommendation, Rob decides to read The White Tiger, and I pick up God is Not Great, by Christopher Hitchens. He's a brilliant wordsmith, and I've been looking forward to reading his dissection of organized religions and his analysis of how they've been manipulated to most unspiritual ends. I don't know if I'll agree with Hitchens' contention that religion "poisons everything," but his argument is sure to be cogent, illuminating, and well-stated.
In the afternoon, we trundle on over to The World Jewellry Museum in the art district, where we see exceptional specimens from around the world. There's a huge collection of bracelets, anklets, and necklaces. Historically, the differences in styles from one part of the world to another have been striking. For example, jewellry on display from the Congo tends to be large and clunky with smooth lines. Judging from what we see here, artisans in India and Turkey, favour extremely detailed, elaborate designs. It's also interesting to see how styles are co-opted by other cultures. Case in point: Some British designers of the early 1900s owe a great deal of their success to the Rajastanis.
There's also a terrific collection of purses. Standouts include some offbeat American lucite bags from the 1950s. They remind me of those hard Christmas candies we used to get when we were kids. They're the handbag equivalent to Jolly Ranchers. There's also a purse made from an armadillo, and another from a real leopard. Its hollowed out eyes are sewn shut, but the eyebrow hairs stick out, as if the animal is trying to defy the bag maker.
When we quit the museum, we walk through the art gallery district for a bit, and then catch the Number 11 home. Though we're on a bus in downtown Seoul, if I shut my eyes, I'm in the back of a hay truck thumping across a field in Laclu, Ontario. The bus trip costs only 50 cents each, Canadian, but one must pay twenty times this amount to get such a thrill ride at a theme park.
We pass roofers at the Gyeonbok-gun palace. One rolls clay into balls the size of those used for five pin bowling. He hands them, one-by-one, to another worker, who tosses them to a third man. The third worker uses these clay balls to cap the ends of the ceramic tiles which have been laid out, like shingles, row on row.
Our night time travels take us to a Australian based kebab restaurant where we sit, eat, and people-watch for a while. Then we amble through the bar district, Seoul's answer to Gwanju's HuMoon. This, of course, is bigger, faster, and pricier. At Olive Young Pharmacy, we gather some supplies for our journey, including soy protein bars, chocolate chip cookies, and gum. We can't stand the thought of having no options, miles above the ground, for a 14 hour stretch. Perhaps, tomorrow, we'll try to add something a little more sensible to our travel kit.
It's back home to the Chung Jin motel, which has been a great home base for us. It's so quiet that it's hard to believe it's so centrally located. It's obviously a go-to-place for tourists, especially large groups with children, and people looking for a discreet room to rent for special occasions, like that 40 something chap I saw with the leggy, attractive 30 year old renting by the hour. Just tonight, a man in his 60s, sans luggage, is openly considering his options whilst I stand typing less than a foot away. And the lady at the desk doesn't blink an eye.
The staff here have been wonderful, including the elderly women who clean. They live in rooms at the top of the stairs on each floor. Their doors are always open, revealing their spartan, undecorated, living quarters, including "beds" which are blankets spread on the floor. One little lady attending to her chores as we climb the stairs to our room tonight giggles with glee when I thank her and give her a Winnipeg pin. She thanks me repeatedly, her hoarse voice struggling to convey her gratitude. Again, coming from a society where so many people have so much, and they take it all for granted, I'm speechless.
We spend some time organizing luggage and going through receipts, and have a larf over the fact that we're left with just 3400 won, or about three dollars! Thank goodness we won't be needing any more cash. Hard as this is to believe, it's well nigh impossible to get money with a foreign credit card, even at the Korean Exchange Bank. Oh "thank heaven for 7-11" in Gwangju where we did our last withdrawl.
Now it's time to bank up some zees. It's our last final sleep in Seoul, and we have a big day ahead tomorrow.
The New South Korea
We're flying out in two days and I'm torn. Part of me wants to see as many sights as possible, but the other part of me just wants to wind things down. We're facing a 24 hour trip home; the flight is 14 hours, and there's a nine hour layover in Toronto that we're hoping to rearrange. But it isn't the strain of the upcoming journey, nor is it the marathon walks of late that have put me off a bit. No, it's just that Seoul has no soul.
While Gwangju was captivating, charming, and comfortable, Seoul is just another city. It has many of the top tourist attractions in the country, from palaces to temples, and there's much to support non-Korean speakers, but while I felt at home in Gwangju, which is far less westernized, I feel completely out of step here.
And just now it hits me. It's the westernization of Seoul, the fact that it's so easy to fit in here, that is such a turnoff. In Gwangju, westerners are still a rather rare sight, but Seoul is much more cosmopolitan. Progress isn't the problem. It's the genericization of a culture that saddens me.
At the toast stand this morning, smack dab in the middle of Seoul's financial district, I see the new South Korea in sharp relief. I'm sitting across from the stand and Rob and I are eating our ham and cheese favourites. To my right, I see a corner parking lot at the edge of which is a wooden shack, with an old man sitting on a plastic lawn chair in front of it. Next to him are dozens of tomato plants in big black pots. Walking past the plants, on the left side, is a man in his sixties, and he's carrying a package the size of a lounge chair on his back. He nods to a man heading to his right pulling a big wooden cart filled with vegetables. Old and new worlds converging in the heart of Seoul. An elderly monk in a straw hat taps his cane as he debates whether or not to test his fate by walking across several lanes of traffic. This little mise en scene is South Korea in a nutshell.
South Korea's sharp ascent into modernity didn't happen all that long ago; the country's ports were only opened in 1876. Hundreds of years ago King Sejong democratized the education system by creating the Hanguel script, allowing all citizens the opportunity to communicate through the written word. It was a bold concept that sparked major societal changes. One might argue that the opening of the ports had a similarly dramatic impact on the culture.
A tour of the Korean National Folk Museum clearly points out the trials, tribulations and tumult this nation has endured. Korea was once known as Chosun, "Land of the Morning Calm," however, its citizens have known anything but. Only sixty years have passed since North Korea surprised the South by starting a devastating war, and in walking through this exhibit, it's sobering to see photogrpahic evidence of the devastion wrought just ten years before my birth, and in the lifetime of my siblings.
It's also fascinating to see the propaganda used at the time to both promote and try to end the war. There's even a special "removal box for disquieting leaflets." The more things change, the more they stay the same. As the exhibit shows, while North American kids in the 60s were groovin' to anti-war songs, South Korean kids were rocking out to anti-communist music. And then, as now, it was the kids shipped off to die in wars waged by old men. As we leave the war exhibit, there are post cards provided so visitors can send messages to members of the army, navy, and air force. We think of our Chonnam students now serving in the army, and we write them an encouraging note.
Lunch happens just down the street in the basement of a small building right next to a futuristic, all glass, highrise. I have the cold buckwheat noodle moolnyeom, and Rob, the sandubujigae, or hot soybean paste tofu stew. While we're eating, a group of about eight construction workers come in for their coffee break, except coffee isn't on their agenda. Sure, the workers pop some meerch with kimchi, but what they're really here for is something cool to drink. By the time we leave, they've already downed a dozen beers, several bottles of soju, and soup bowls of macgulli. They share the good time, pouring their server a glass of beer.
We're tired, and it's hot, so we return to our motel for a late day siesta. We flip on the TV to see yet another disaster movie festival, with all sorts of end of the world themes. This country is still, technically, at war. There was no peace treaty, just an armistice. The South is under constant threat from the North. Thus, the fascination with doomsday movies mystifies me.
For dinner, we look in on a few places. At one stop we hear Canadian Terry Jacks plaintively wailing through his 1970s megahit "Seasons in the Sun." For a change of pace, we end up settling on Mr. Pizza. There are endless items to choose from: "Sweety," for the kids, has fruit and almonds. "Shrimp Gold" has sweet potato mousse, and "Gesal Montand," crab, paprika, and blue cheese. Oh, and there's one more curiosity: The Grand Prix has pumpkin seeds and raisins, and it's made with a cookie crust. The kicker? It also has shrimp and potatoes. It's served with blueberry sauce in which to dip the leftover crust. And of course, in a country where the entrees are sweet and the desserts are not, we finish everything off with plain yogurt, topped with peanuts, raisins, and crunchy cereal.
We walk off some of the meal along the Cheonggye-cheon stream. The city lights and flashy 24-7, several story high, TV screens compete with the show at street level. Buskers entertain lovers, families, and tourists strolling the banks. Horses trot along pulling carts decorated with bright coloured lights. A man slows his brand new, luxury sedan, and lowers his window. His wife and two small children peer through the back seat window. He calls out, "Where are you from?" When we say Canada, he tells us that he's spent time in Edmonton, Alberta, and absolutely loved it there. South Koreans who leave the country to study English are very proud to say so. It's a marker of status in a place where the acquisition of the English language is a top priority. It's the key to a successful future. The traffic starts to move again, and he pulls away.
I snap a picture of the Western Bar and Grill, which no longer seem incongruous. We're surrounded by signs of the west, from 7-11 to the very pizza place at which we just dined. It's an all-out invasion, except the people being invaded are welcoming it with open arms.
Yes, this Seoul evening is beautiful, like a scene from a movie. But it just doesn't seem real.
While Gwangju was captivating, charming, and comfortable, Seoul is just another city. It has many of the top tourist attractions in the country, from palaces to temples, and there's much to support non-Korean speakers, but while I felt at home in Gwangju, which is far less westernized, I feel completely out of step here.
And just now it hits me. It's the westernization of Seoul, the fact that it's so easy to fit in here, that is such a turnoff. In Gwangju, westerners are still a rather rare sight, but Seoul is much more cosmopolitan. Progress isn't the problem. It's the genericization of a culture that saddens me.
At the toast stand this morning, smack dab in the middle of Seoul's financial district, I see the new South Korea in sharp relief. I'm sitting across from the stand and Rob and I are eating our ham and cheese favourites. To my right, I see a corner parking lot at the edge of which is a wooden shack, with an old man sitting on a plastic lawn chair in front of it. Next to him are dozens of tomato plants in big black pots. Walking past the plants, on the left side, is a man in his sixties, and he's carrying a package the size of a lounge chair on his back. He nods to a man heading to his right pulling a big wooden cart filled with vegetables. Old and new worlds converging in the heart of Seoul. An elderly monk in a straw hat taps his cane as he debates whether or not to test his fate by walking across several lanes of traffic. This little mise en scene is South Korea in a nutshell.
South Korea's sharp ascent into modernity didn't happen all that long ago; the country's ports were only opened in 1876. Hundreds of years ago King Sejong democratized the education system by creating the Hanguel script, allowing all citizens the opportunity to communicate through the written word. It was a bold concept that sparked major societal changes. One might argue that the opening of the ports had a similarly dramatic impact on the culture.
A tour of the Korean National Folk Museum clearly points out the trials, tribulations and tumult this nation has endured. Korea was once known as Chosun, "Land of the Morning Calm," however, its citizens have known anything but. Only sixty years have passed since North Korea surprised the South by starting a devastating war, and in walking through this exhibit, it's sobering to see photogrpahic evidence of the devastion wrought just ten years before my birth, and in the lifetime of my siblings.
It's also fascinating to see the propaganda used at the time to both promote and try to end the war. There's even a special "removal box for disquieting leaflets." The more things change, the more they stay the same. As the exhibit shows, while North American kids in the 60s were groovin' to anti-war songs, South Korean kids were rocking out to anti-communist music. And then, as now, it was the kids shipped off to die in wars waged by old men. As we leave the war exhibit, there are post cards provided so visitors can send messages to members of the army, navy, and air force. We think of our Chonnam students now serving in the army, and we write them an encouraging note.
Lunch happens just down the street in the basement of a small building right next to a futuristic, all glass, highrise. I have the cold buckwheat noodle moolnyeom, and Rob, the sandubujigae, or hot soybean paste tofu stew. While we're eating, a group of about eight construction workers come in for their coffee break, except coffee isn't on their agenda. Sure, the workers pop some meerch with kimchi, but what they're really here for is something cool to drink. By the time we leave, they've already downed a dozen beers, several bottles of soju, and soup bowls of macgulli. They share the good time, pouring their server a glass of beer.
We're tired, and it's hot, so we return to our motel for a late day siesta. We flip on the TV to see yet another disaster movie festival, with all sorts of end of the world themes. This country is still, technically, at war. There was no peace treaty, just an armistice. The South is under constant threat from the North. Thus, the fascination with doomsday movies mystifies me.
For dinner, we look in on a few places. At one stop we hear Canadian Terry Jacks plaintively wailing through his 1970s megahit "Seasons in the Sun." For a change of pace, we end up settling on Mr. Pizza. There are endless items to choose from: "Sweety," for the kids, has fruit and almonds. "Shrimp Gold" has sweet potato mousse, and "Gesal Montand," crab, paprika, and blue cheese. Oh, and there's one more curiosity: The Grand Prix has pumpkin seeds and raisins, and it's made with a cookie crust. The kicker? It also has shrimp and potatoes. It's served with blueberry sauce in which to dip the leftover crust. And of course, in a country where the entrees are sweet and the desserts are not, we finish everything off with plain yogurt, topped with peanuts, raisins, and crunchy cereal.
We walk off some of the meal along the Cheonggye-cheon stream. The city lights and flashy 24-7, several story high, TV screens compete with the show at street level. Buskers entertain lovers, families, and tourists strolling the banks. Horses trot along pulling carts decorated with bright coloured lights. A man slows his brand new, luxury sedan, and lowers his window. His wife and two small children peer through the back seat window. He calls out, "Where are you from?" When we say Canada, he tells us that he's spent time in Edmonton, Alberta, and absolutely loved it there. South Koreans who leave the country to study English are very proud to say so. It's a marker of status in a place where the acquisition of the English language is a top priority. It's the key to a successful future. The traffic starts to move again, and he pulls away.
I snap a picture of the Western Bar and Grill, which no longer seem incongruous. We're surrounded by signs of the west, from 7-11 to the very pizza place at which we just dined. It's an all-out invasion, except the people being invaded are welcoming it with open arms.
Yes, this Seoul evening is beautiful, like a scene from a movie. But it just doesn't seem real.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
A Walk through Wednesday
Rob and I make a point of visiting a McDonalds restaurant at least once each time we're in a new country. It's not because we're craving a Big Mac, it's more of a socio-cultural study. What do Koreans eat when they go to the Golden Arches?
Well, it turns out they eat many of the same things North Americans eat, but we do find a couple of items we haven't seen on the menu at home: a bulgogi burger and a Shanghai Spice chicken burger. Rob's burger is a bit of a bust; it's just a hamburger with sauce. My chicken burger is zippy by McDonalds standards, but rather moderate for Koreans. The dine in glasses are not disposable. The garbage disposal is like that in many Korean cafeterias; dishes and garbage are categorized for disposal and clean up. In short, it's efficient, and there's little waste.
By noon, we're walking through the Jogye Temple courtyard, a hop skip and jump from our motel. People are walking up to statues, kneeling before the indoor buddhas, and walking through a blue swastika circuit on the ground outside, meditating and praying. Across the way, a monk and a nun lead a family through a service. They pray, chant, and perform repeated prostrations before the altar. When they finish, the family goes into the temple and the monk walks our way. As he passes, he smiles and bows.
We wander on, finding our way to the scenic main boulevard with the imposing statues, the palace, and the mountains. It's crazy hot, and kids are splashing about in the water that's pumped into the area for both esthetic and practical reasons. There are lawns and flower gardens on this concrete patch in the middle of this big city.
Suddenly the water jets take off and there's a ten foot forest of fountains. Children are racing around squealing and jumping. I snap many shots getting a beauty of a three or four year old boy who can barely contain himself. He's the very picture of exuberance as he tries to cover his tooth grin with his hand. It may be the best picture I've ever taken. Or maybe it's just that it makes me outrageously happy. We also get some cool pictures of the grand statues of Admiral Yi Sunshin and King Sejeong. Then we visit the expansive underground display dedicated to these two Korean heros.
It's easy to see why King Sejeong was such a beloved monarch. He believed in equality, instituted maternity benefits, and supported the arts. His most important contribution to Korea was the invention of the Hangeul script, giving Koreans their own language. This exhibition gives us a great deal of information we failed to learn during our myopic western based education.
For example, we learn that Koreans had moveable type 150 years before Gutenberg invented the printing press.
Admiral Yi was another powerhouse. He was the war hero who managed to defeat the Japanese navy in the 1500s, despite the fact Korea was severely outnumbered. The key to his success was his invention of the so-called "turtle ships." These mighty beasts had spiked tops that prevented attackers from gaining entry. It's interesting to note that the Korean ships were built to be strong, safe, and defensive. The Chinese and Japanese ships of the period were light, fast, and built to attack.
The original badass, Admiral Yi rose up from rank and file soldier to commanding the entire Korean navy. He did so through never succumbing to despair and disappointment. When he failed his military exam by falling off his horse, he trained ever harder, and returned four years later to ace it. He believed in strengthening the coastline, and being prepared, even in times of peace. His philosophy on wars can easily be transferred to everyday life.
Admiral Yi earned many honours, including the title Chungmu, meaning, "unshakeable, loyal, and chivalrous." Four hundred and fifty years later, his resume still looks pretty impressive. He didn't just win, he battled through adversity to win. He provides the ultimate lesson in "getting back up on the horse." To paraphrase a popular self-help book for people who lose their jobs, he knew the colour of his parachute.
In the afternoon, we tour Gyeongbok-gun Palace. The name means "Palace of Shining Happiness," but it in this case, the name has proven somewhat ironic. This sprawling estate covers a couple of city blocks at the end of the huge boulevard with the statues. The founder of the Joseon Dynasty (King Taejo) had it built in 1394. It is said to have originally had 500 buildings. The palace has had a complicated history with wars, fires, and a queen murdered within its walls. Though much of the site has been reconstructed, and the buildings rebuilt, it's fascinating to think of the hundreds of years of history on this very ground.
For dinner we stop at a little shop near Auguk Station, not far from the palace. The eclectic menu includes "hangover beef soup," but I opt for bibimbap, and Rob goes for the curried rice. While Rob eat his Indian dish, he watches a story about India on television.
There's a lull in the action at the restaurant, so the three ladies on staff sit down to enjoy a soap opera. It's the typical melodramatic hamfisted fare, instantly recognizable in soaps around the world, but the ladies are riveted. They share a bag of sugary dried french fried crisps as they dish about the show.
We're back at the motel by 5:30, and not a moment too soon. Another six hours of walking has both of us feeling a tad exhausted. Spiderman 3 seems just the mindless pap to zone out to. And we're down for the count.
Well, it turns out they eat many of the same things North Americans eat, but we do find a couple of items we haven't seen on the menu at home: a bulgogi burger and a Shanghai Spice chicken burger. Rob's burger is a bit of a bust; it's just a hamburger with sauce. My chicken burger is zippy by McDonalds standards, but rather moderate for Koreans. The dine in glasses are not disposable. The garbage disposal is like that in many Korean cafeterias; dishes and garbage are categorized for disposal and clean up. In short, it's efficient, and there's little waste.
By noon, we're walking through the Jogye Temple courtyard, a hop skip and jump from our motel. People are walking up to statues, kneeling before the indoor buddhas, and walking through a blue swastika circuit on the ground outside, meditating and praying. Across the way, a monk and a nun lead a family through a service. They pray, chant, and perform repeated prostrations before the altar. When they finish, the family goes into the temple and the monk walks our way. As he passes, he smiles and bows.
We wander on, finding our way to the scenic main boulevard with the imposing statues, the palace, and the mountains. It's crazy hot, and kids are splashing about in the water that's pumped into the area for both esthetic and practical reasons. There are lawns and flower gardens on this concrete patch in the middle of this big city.
Suddenly the water jets take off and there's a ten foot forest of fountains. Children are racing around squealing and jumping. I snap many shots getting a beauty of a three or four year old boy who can barely contain himself. He's the very picture of exuberance as he tries to cover his tooth grin with his hand. It may be the best picture I've ever taken. Or maybe it's just that it makes me outrageously happy. We also get some cool pictures of the grand statues of Admiral Yi Sunshin and King Sejeong. Then we visit the expansive underground display dedicated to these two Korean heros.
It's easy to see why King Sejeong was such a beloved monarch. He believed in equality, instituted maternity benefits, and supported the arts. His most important contribution to Korea was the invention of the Hangeul script, giving Koreans their own language. This exhibition gives us a great deal of information we failed to learn during our myopic western based education.
For example, we learn that Koreans had moveable type 150 years before Gutenberg invented the printing press.
Admiral Yi was another powerhouse. He was the war hero who managed to defeat the Japanese navy in the 1500s, despite the fact Korea was severely outnumbered. The key to his success was his invention of the so-called "turtle ships." These mighty beasts had spiked tops that prevented attackers from gaining entry. It's interesting to note that the Korean ships were built to be strong, safe, and defensive. The Chinese and Japanese ships of the period were light, fast, and built to attack.
The original badass, Admiral Yi rose up from rank and file soldier to commanding the entire Korean navy. He did so through never succumbing to despair and disappointment. When he failed his military exam by falling off his horse, he trained ever harder, and returned four years later to ace it. He believed in strengthening the coastline, and being prepared, even in times of peace. His philosophy on wars can easily be transferred to everyday life.
Admiral Yi earned many honours, including the title Chungmu, meaning, "unshakeable, loyal, and chivalrous." Four hundred and fifty years later, his resume still looks pretty impressive. He didn't just win, he battled through adversity to win. He provides the ultimate lesson in "getting back up on the horse." To paraphrase a popular self-help book for people who lose their jobs, he knew the colour of his parachute.
In the afternoon, we tour Gyeongbok-gun Palace. The name means "Palace of Shining Happiness," but it in this case, the name has proven somewhat ironic. This sprawling estate covers a couple of city blocks at the end of the huge boulevard with the statues. The founder of the Joseon Dynasty (King Taejo) had it built in 1394. It is said to have originally had 500 buildings. The palace has had a complicated history with wars, fires, and a queen murdered within its walls. Though much of the site has been reconstructed, and the buildings rebuilt, it's fascinating to think of the hundreds of years of history on this very ground.
For dinner we stop at a little shop near Auguk Station, not far from the palace. The eclectic menu includes "hangover beef soup," but I opt for bibimbap, and Rob goes for the curried rice. While Rob eat his Indian dish, he watches a story about India on television.
There's a lull in the action at the restaurant, so the three ladies on staff sit down to enjoy a soap opera. It's the typical melodramatic hamfisted fare, instantly recognizable in soaps around the world, but the ladies are riveted. They share a bag of sugary dried french fried crisps as they dish about the show.
We're back at the motel by 5:30, and not a moment too soon. Another six hours of walking has both of us feeling a tad exhausted. Spiderman 3 seems just the mindless pap to zone out to. And we're down for the count.
On the March
It's 9:30 a.m. and we're about to meet up with the son of a cousin I last saw when we were both in our teens. Chuck is a trained economist who has spent the last six or seven years teaching English in Korea. Currently, he's based in Incheon City, about half an hour outside Seoul.
Our first stop is at Dunkin' Donuts where Rob and I split a bagel and a breakfast sandwich. Then we're off to the Rodin exhibition at the National Art Gallery. Prior to this visit, all I knew of this artist was the sculpture of The Thinker, but his body of work is vast and varied. My favourites include two marbles pieces: Le Main De Dieu, a beautiful piece with God's hands creating life, and a nude, prone model of Andromeda. Another standout is two embracing nudes in a sort of dance called L'Eternel Printemps.
School is out, so the place is filled with kids of all ages. Little tykes of about three or four thoughtfully assess the displays. A group of eight to ten year old boys titter at the sight of a full nude male, until a serious minded security guard asks them to move along. As I analyze one sculpture, moving my arms to try to recreate the figure, I notice a press photographer snapping my picture. He follows me throughout the extensive exhibit and takes my photo many times before I'm through. Rob says it's because I have such animated expressions. I think it's because my tangerine tank top shows up well against the muted gray, green and lavender tones of the museum walls.
Around noon, we start the hike to Dongdae Moon, or East Gate, five kilometres away down the picturesque banks of the Cheonggye-cheon stream. It's a paved walkway with lots of lovely sitting areas. People lounge around under the overpasses, sitting on the steps, feeding pigeons and ducks, and watching the carp dart around. A little boy takes a swim. A grand-dad pushes his grandson in a stroller. This is a popular site, which must please South Korea's current leader. The former construction company boss spearheaded the initiative to clean up and beautify this walkway while he was still a minister. The walkway even features informative plaques about the history of the area.
We pass a group of people in wheelchairs, and a man in his 30s wearing a Tigger shirt calls out to me. I stop to visit, and he holds my hand as we try to chat. His friends are beside themselves, so happy to see him get this special attention. I feel humbled that such a small gesture has such an impact. I wish I knew more Korean so we could really converse. Our trio continues along the walk listening to the strains of that 1970s hit by Chuck Mangione, Feels So Good, which is playing on a sound system somewhere.
At Dongdae Moon we have a pork stirfry in a teensy tiny shop. The owner himself barbeques the meat outside the front door. Chuck tries to "do the Korean thing" and pick up the tab, but we up the Korean quotient by telling him he would "insult us" by even thinking of not letting us cover all expenses today. Afterward, we stop for a cool drink at a convenience shop and sit on plastic stools out front where we take in the show.
Women cook fish, people walk by with baskets on their heads, and motorcycles navigate the narrow laneways with impossibly tall and wide loads. They carry propane tanks, rolls of carpet, and boxes stacked several tiers high. The spirit of John Strecker runs through these bold delivery men who manage to tie down their loads with the same precision and skill my father used in tying down a load of hay.
From here, we walk to Kwang Jang Market, an extensive network of stalls under one giant roof. At the centre, women cook mung bean and vegetable pancakes, as oil splatters on hungry customers who salivate and wait their turns. We walk on to Tapgol, Seoul's first western style park, in every sense of the word. Entrepreneurial sex vendors patrol the area selling the latest toys and gadgets. Women wander through selling yogurt, which is code for yogurt and a sexual favour. For weeks we've seen products, like yogurt, sold in packs of four to six, but always with an extra container taped outside. It's called a "plus one" deal, and this Tapgol special certainly does ensure customers are getting bang for their buck.
Tapgol Park also features an important nod to the old world. It houses a massive glass case which protects the ten tier Wongyak-sa marble pagoda. This elaborate, detailed, masterpiece was built in 1466, so it's from the Joseon Dynasty, which existed from 1392 - 1910. Though Seoul was flattened by bombs during the Korean War, this marvel somehow survived, though no one is quite sure how. What is known is that many Koreans risked life and limb to ferry relics into the mountains for safe-keeping. While it's unfortunate so much of ancient Korea was lost to war, it's inspiring that this simple, brilliant plan is the reason some artifacts have been preserved.
The next stop is Insadong, the big touristy shops area not too far from our motel. It's expensive, clean, organized, and utterly lacking in old world charm. I'm sure tourists who like their travel neat, safe, and familiar, love it here.
On the main drag, Chuck directs us to an old friend's shop, and this warm and charming fellow offers us coffee, which in Korea means two sips of a sweet, creamy concoction. This guy clearly adores Chuck, and they chat at length about his daughter in America, and the high price of education. Before we leave, the man presents Chuck with gifts to give to his Canadian family, two spiritual passports. These gold, laminated, drawings are of the Bodhi Dharma, the starting point for all Zen (or, Seon, in Korea) traditions. If we carry these, we're ensured of a safe trip to nirvana.
This passport, in a sense symbolizes the day which has been filled with deep thoughts and discussions. Rarely do people, whether having just met, or having spent a great deal of time together, delve into those really big issues that define who we are as human beings. There must be a conjunction of the spheres, for we three naturally fall into these talks.
We take dinner at a shop kitty corner to our motel. We enjoy several thick, grainy, pork and vegetable pancakes, and since location is everything, they cost 7,000 won per plate as opposed to 4,000 at the less central Kwang Jang Market, just a couple of neighbourhoods over. We also pound back a 750 mililitre bottle of macgulli, which with a 7% alcohol content is comparable to, or lower, than most wines. Still, the effect is without compare. With two sips of this rocket fuel, I reach my limit.
We say our goodbyes around 8. It is now that we realize we've been walking for the better part of ten-a-half hours covering almost 15 kilometres! With temperatures upwards of 30 degrees, that's quite a feat. And speaking of feet, it's time to put these dawgs up and start planning for tomorrow's explorations!
Our first stop is at Dunkin' Donuts where Rob and I split a bagel and a breakfast sandwich. Then we're off to the Rodin exhibition at the National Art Gallery. Prior to this visit, all I knew of this artist was the sculpture of The Thinker, but his body of work is vast and varied. My favourites include two marbles pieces: Le Main De Dieu, a beautiful piece with God's hands creating life, and a nude, prone model of Andromeda. Another standout is two embracing nudes in a sort of dance called L'Eternel Printemps.
School is out, so the place is filled with kids of all ages. Little tykes of about three or four thoughtfully assess the displays. A group of eight to ten year old boys titter at the sight of a full nude male, until a serious minded security guard asks them to move along. As I analyze one sculpture, moving my arms to try to recreate the figure, I notice a press photographer snapping my picture. He follows me throughout the extensive exhibit and takes my photo many times before I'm through. Rob says it's because I have such animated expressions. I think it's because my tangerine tank top shows up well against the muted gray, green and lavender tones of the museum walls.
Around noon, we start the hike to Dongdae Moon, or East Gate, five kilometres away down the picturesque banks of the Cheonggye-cheon stream. It's a paved walkway with lots of lovely sitting areas. People lounge around under the overpasses, sitting on the steps, feeding pigeons and ducks, and watching the carp dart around. A little boy takes a swim. A grand-dad pushes his grandson in a stroller. This is a popular site, which must please South Korea's current leader. The former construction company boss spearheaded the initiative to clean up and beautify this walkway while he was still a minister. The walkway even features informative plaques about the history of the area.
We pass a group of people in wheelchairs, and a man in his 30s wearing a Tigger shirt calls out to me. I stop to visit, and he holds my hand as we try to chat. His friends are beside themselves, so happy to see him get this special attention. I feel humbled that such a small gesture has such an impact. I wish I knew more Korean so we could really converse. Our trio continues along the walk listening to the strains of that 1970s hit by Chuck Mangione, Feels So Good, which is playing on a sound system somewhere.
At Dongdae Moon we have a pork stirfry in a teensy tiny shop. The owner himself barbeques the meat outside the front door. Chuck tries to "do the Korean thing" and pick up the tab, but we up the Korean quotient by telling him he would "insult us" by even thinking of not letting us cover all expenses today. Afterward, we stop for a cool drink at a convenience shop and sit on plastic stools out front where we take in the show.
Women cook fish, people walk by with baskets on their heads, and motorcycles navigate the narrow laneways with impossibly tall and wide loads. They carry propane tanks, rolls of carpet, and boxes stacked several tiers high. The spirit of John Strecker runs through these bold delivery men who manage to tie down their loads with the same precision and skill my father used in tying down a load of hay.
From here, we walk to Kwang Jang Market, an extensive network of stalls under one giant roof. At the centre, women cook mung bean and vegetable pancakes, as oil splatters on hungry customers who salivate and wait their turns. We walk on to Tapgol, Seoul's first western style park, in every sense of the word. Entrepreneurial sex vendors patrol the area selling the latest toys and gadgets. Women wander through selling yogurt, which is code for yogurt and a sexual favour. For weeks we've seen products, like yogurt, sold in packs of four to six, but always with an extra container taped outside. It's called a "plus one" deal, and this Tapgol special certainly does ensure customers are getting bang for their buck.
Tapgol Park also features an important nod to the old world. It houses a massive glass case which protects the ten tier Wongyak-sa marble pagoda. This elaborate, detailed, masterpiece was built in 1466, so it's from the Joseon Dynasty, which existed from 1392 - 1910. Though Seoul was flattened by bombs during the Korean War, this marvel somehow survived, though no one is quite sure how. What is known is that many Koreans risked life and limb to ferry relics into the mountains for safe-keeping. While it's unfortunate so much of ancient Korea was lost to war, it's inspiring that this simple, brilliant plan is the reason some artifacts have been preserved.
The next stop is Insadong, the big touristy shops area not too far from our motel. It's expensive, clean, organized, and utterly lacking in old world charm. I'm sure tourists who like their travel neat, safe, and familiar, love it here.
On the main drag, Chuck directs us to an old friend's shop, and this warm and charming fellow offers us coffee, which in Korea means two sips of a sweet, creamy concoction. This guy clearly adores Chuck, and they chat at length about his daughter in America, and the high price of education. Before we leave, the man presents Chuck with gifts to give to his Canadian family, two spiritual passports. These gold, laminated, drawings are of the Bodhi Dharma, the starting point for all Zen (or, Seon, in Korea) traditions. If we carry these, we're ensured of a safe trip to nirvana.
This passport, in a sense symbolizes the day which has been filled with deep thoughts and discussions. Rarely do people, whether having just met, or having spent a great deal of time together, delve into those really big issues that define who we are as human beings. There must be a conjunction of the spheres, for we three naturally fall into these talks.
We take dinner at a shop kitty corner to our motel. We enjoy several thick, grainy, pork and vegetable pancakes, and since location is everything, they cost 7,000 won per plate as opposed to 4,000 at the less central Kwang Jang Market, just a couple of neighbourhoods over. We also pound back a 750 mililitre bottle of macgulli, which with a 7% alcohol content is comparable to, or lower, than most wines. Still, the effect is without compare. With two sips of this rocket fuel, I reach my limit.
We say our goodbyes around 8. It is now that we realize we've been walking for the better part of ten-a-half hours covering almost 15 kilometres! With temperatures upwards of 30 degrees, that's quite a feat. And speaking of feet, it's time to put these dawgs up and start planning for tomorrow's explorations!
Monday, July 26, 2010
Hello Seoul!
It's 8:30 and I'm standing next to the front desk at the Chung Jin Motel in Seoul typing furiously. There's free Internet service at this computer, and since we just arrived here a few hours ago, I've yet to track down the local PC lounge. I must give thanks to my Grade 9 typing teacher who insisted on all those drills; I've been a fast and accurate typist ever since!
Our motel is but a few short steps from the American embassy, outside which dozens of police patrols are stationed, backed by armoured personnel carriers. Just this weekend, the U.S. and South Korea began joint military exercises off the coast in an effort to stand up to North Korea's Kim Jong Il. This motel is either the safest or the most dangerous place to be right now, but given the police presence, I think the former.
This morning we were back in our Gwangju apartment packing up. Last year, I won a beautiful set of Swiss Air suitcases at the wedding social for our dear friends, Kimmie and Kurtis. Little did I think that I'd put this luggage to such good use, and so soon! Who knows? Maybe that win was what got the ball rolling!
Diane, Ryan and Karl give us a rousing sendoff at the train station. We are treated to New York hotdogs, mine with cheese, and Rob's with a sweet, crunchy, garlic sauce. Of course, thanks to a golf ball sized bladder, I have to check out the bathroom before departing, and it's a revelation. Being used to the dingy facilities in most North American bus and train stations, I'm pleasantly surprised to find a well-lit, elegant, facility, much like those found in The Bay and Eaton's department stores in Canada in the 1960s.
As we pull out of the station at 10:20 a.m., we look out to see our trio of hosts waving enthusiastically. Rob takes a picture of me, eyes brimming, but I suspect it's to both deflect and reflect his own feelings. The strains of "Let it Be," as interpreted by traditional Korean instrumentalists, waft through the train. It's a fitting message. I've always had trouble with goodbyes, but this is more of a "So long." Life is good, so roll with it. Funny enough, today Kyle is wearing his "Let it Rot" shirt, an image made famous in Eric Idle's satire of The Beatles, called The Rugles.
Though this bullet train clips along at 300 kilometres per hour, we are treated to a colourful show. Elderly women pick their way through railside rice patties. Every square inch of space is packed with vegetabe and fruit gardens. We also see a cement factory and mines. As mentioned previously, this still shocks. In North America, we don't like to see where the sausage is made. At every stop, the conductor bows as he enters and exits our car.
Again, like a three year old, I have to visit the washroom. This time, I bump into twenty year old Esther in the walkway between the cars. Her Korean name is Dasom, which means "love." Esther and her little brother moved to Pensacola, Florida seven years ago. She attends university in Gainesville, where she's studying to be a pharmacist. This is her second time back to Korea. She says things have changed immeasurably, and she feels like part of her childhood is now gone forever. Things just don't feel the same.
Esther is on her way to Seoul where she had eye surgery only five days ago. In fact, the first thing she does is apologize for her eyes. She hastens to say that she needed to fix her crossed eyes for health, and not beauty, reasons. Ah... I well remember the pre-emptive apologies I used to make, fearing someone would notice something amiss. I assumed others saw the same flaws that were all too noticeable when I looked in the mirror each day.
I explain to Esther that I've had four such surgeries, one for health, and the other three to correct the damage done by the first. I assure her that much has changed in the 42 years since my first surgery, so she'll be fine. What fascinates me in this exchange is how very much my attitude toward this matter has changed.
I used to feel like a freak for seeing double, and having eyes that don't work in concert with one another, but now, I think it's pretty special. It sets me apart. It's almost magical. Sometimes I feel like Mad Eye Moody in the Harry Potter stories. Am I looking at you, or aren't I? Oddly enough, little Harry Potter himself is chasing the quidditch snitch when we click on the TV in the hotel room.
The cab ride to get to this place was not especially noteworthy, that is, until we got our first view of the spectacular main street out our door and down the lane. There's a big boulevard in the middle, on which is set two enormous statues. At the end of the street is a stunning, massive, building with the traditional pagoda style roof. And in the background, the piece de resistance, the ultimate mural: a row of stunning, rugged mountains.
We cross the back lane for a late lunch of mandoo (dumplings) and rice. In Gwangju, the dumplings are six for 1000 won. Here, they're eight for 3000 won. As Rob would say, "We not in Kansas anymore." A 30 year old gent at the next table assures us this place is famous for having the best mandoo in Seoul. Hyun Bae, who goes by the English name David, lived in Los Angeles for a year where he attended the University of Southern California and majored in English Literature. He's now teaching middle school students across town.
Hyun Bae walks us to a number of key tourist spots in the area, and it's now that we fully appreciate our good fortune. For 40,000 won per night (or, about 32 dollars) Diane has found us a clean, safe, centrally located motel. This is the same place one of the Ugly Americans found to be "beneath" her "comfort level." I don't know what she expected for this price, but it's pretty hard to complain.
A late day walk brings a bit of a surprise as we cross paths on the street with the California couple and the mother-in-law we had met on our climb up Mudeong-san in Gwangju. What are the chances? A little farther on, we stop at another Beautiful second hand store, that happens to look like a chic Japanese chalet. For 3500 won I find a fun little gauzy greyish pink shirt dress with black little stars. We also stop in at Hank's book store, where we get to witness an Ugly American beat-down of a shy little lady clerk. He wants another copy of a poster. He wants a cardboard container for it. He wants a better price. And so on. Minimum wage here is a bit more than 3000 won. That bully makes that much money in a couple of minutes. He really ought to be ashamed of himself for making that woman work so hard for her pay. I wonder if people who behave like this are aware, or care, what others think of their antics. (That, of course, is a rhetorical question.)
It's been a very full day, so we retreat to our room by 6:30 for chips, beer, and R and R. We can't wait to start exploring this beautiful city tomorrow. As I stand by the front desk computer, a gaggle of ten year olds very loudly enters the building. Their "guide" can barely keep them in check. I can only hope they're not on the fourth floor! As I wrap up an hour and a half of typing, the twenty-something clerk takes pity, and surprises me with a cup of iced coffee. Yes, it's pretty hard to complain!
Our motel is but a few short steps from the American embassy, outside which dozens of police patrols are stationed, backed by armoured personnel carriers. Just this weekend, the U.S. and South Korea began joint military exercises off the coast in an effort to stand up to North Korea's Kim Jong Il. This motel is either the safest or the most dangerous place to be right now, but given the police presence, I think the former.
This morning we were back in our Gwangju apartment packing up. Last year, I won a beautiful set of Swiss Air suitcases at the wedding social for our dear friends, Kimmie and Kurtis. Little did I think that I'd put this luggage to such good use, and so soon! Who knows? Maybe that win was what got the ball rolling!
Diane, Ryan and Karl give us a rousing sendoff at the train station. We are treated to New York hotdogs, mine with cheese, and Rob's with a sweet, crunchy, garlic sauce. Of course, thanks to a golf ball sized bladder, I have to check out the bathroom before departing, and it's a revelation. Being used to the dingy facilities in most North American bus and train stations, I'm pleasantly surprised to find a well-lit, elegant, facility, much like those found in The Bay and Eaton's department stores in Canada in the 1960s.
As we pull out of the station at 10:20 a.m., we look out to see our trio of hosts waving enthusiastically. Rob takes a picture of me, eyes brimming, but I suspect it's to both deflect and reflect his own feelings. The strains of "Let it Be," as interpreted by traditional Korean instrumentalists, waft through the train. It's a fitting message. I've always had trouble with goodbyes, but this is more of a "So long." Life is good, so roll with it. Funny enough, today Kyle is wearing his "Let it Rot" shirt, an image made famous in Eric Idle's satire of The Beatles, called The Rugles.
Though this bullet train clips along at 300 kilometres per hour, we are treated to a colourful show. Elderly women pick their way through railside rice patties. Every square inch of space is packed with vegetabe and fruit gardens. We also see a cement factory and mines. As mentioned previously, this still shocks. In North America, we don't like to see where the sausage is made. At every stop, the conductor bows as he enters and exits our car.
Again, like a three year old, I have to visit the washroom. This time, I bump into twenty year old Esther in the walkway between the cars. Her Korean name is Dasom, which means "love." Esther and her little brother moved to Pensacola, Florida seven years ago. She attends university in Gainesville, where she's studying to be a pharmacist. This is her second time back to Korea. She says things have changed immeasurably, and she feels like part of her childhood is now gone forever. Things just don't feel the same.
Esther is on her way to Seoul where she had eye surgery only five days ago. In fact, the first thing she does is apologize for her eyes. She hastens to say that she needed to fix her crossed eyes for health, and not beauty, reasons. Ah... I well remember the pre-emptive apologies I used to make, fearing someone would notice something amiss. I assumed others saw the same flaws that were all too noticeable when I looked in the mirror each day.
I explain to Esther that I've had four such surgeries, one for health, and the other three to correct the damage done by the first. I assure her that much has changed in the 42 years since my first surgery, so she'll be fine. What fascinates me in this exchange is how very much my attitude toward this matter has changed.
I used to feel like a freak for seeing double, and having eyes that don't work in concert with one another, but now, I think it's pretty special. It sets me apart. It's almost magical. Sometimes I feel like Mad Eye Moody in the Harry Potter stories. Am I looking at you, or aren't I? Oddly enough, little Harry Potter himself is chasing the quidditch snitch when we click on the TV in the hotel room.
The cab ride to get to this place was not especially noteworthy, that is, until we got our first view of the spectacular main street out our door and down the lane. There's a big boulevard in the middle, on which is set two enormous statues. At the end of the street is a stunning, massive, building with the traditional pagoda style roof. And in the background, the piece de resistance, the ultimate mural: a row of stunning, rugged mountains.
We cross the back lane for a late lunch of mandoo (dumplings) and rice. In Gwangju, the dumplings are six for 1000 won. Here, they're eight for 3000 won. As Rob would say, "We not in Kansas anymore." A 30 year old gent at the next table assures us this place is famous for having the best mandoo in Seoul. Hyun Bae, who goes by the English name David, lived in Los Angeles for a year where he attended the University of Southern California and majored in English Literature. He's now teaching middle school students across town.
Hyun Bae walks us to a number of key tourist spots in the area, and it's now that we fully appreciate our good fortune. For 40,000 won per night (or, about 32 dollars) Diane has found us a clean, safe, centrally located motel. This is the same place one of the Ugly Americans found to be "beneath" her "comfort level." I don't know what she expected for this price, but it's pretty hard to complain.
A late day walk brings a bit of a surprise as we cross paths on the street with the California couple and the mother-in-law we had met on our climb up Mudeong-san in Gwangju. What are the chances? A little farther on, we stop at another Beautiful second hand store, that happens to look like a chic Japanese chalet. For 3500 won I find a fun little gauzy greyish pink shirt dress with black little stars. We also stop in at Hank's book store, where we get to witness an Ugly American beat-down of a shy little lady clerk. He wants another copy of a poster. He wants a cardboard container for it. He wants a better price. And so on. Minimum wage here is a bit more than 3000 won. That bully makes that much money in a couple of minutes. He really ought to be ashamed of himself for making that woman work so hard for her pay. I wonder if people who behave like this are aware, or care, what others think of their antics. (That, of course, is a rhetorical question.)
It's been a very full day, so we retreat to our room by 6:30 for chips, beer, and R and R. We can't wait to start exploring this beautiful city tomorrow. As I stand by the front desk computer, a gaggle of ten year olds very loudly enters the building. Their "guide" can barely keep them in check. I can only hope they're not on the fourth floor! As I wrap up an hour and a half of typing, the twenty-something clerk takes pity, and surprises me with a cup of iced coffee. Yes, it's pretty hard to complain!
Our Last Day in Gwangju
It's a miracle of God, but somehow, Rob and I continue to slowly, but surely, lose weight, despite gorging on an incredible variety and quantity of good. In fact, Rob weighs less than he has in 13 years, and I'm down to where I was three years ago.
Not all the excess is of our own doing. We've had a number of official meals, and many others in the company of friends excited to show us why Gwangju is famous for both it's eating establishments and its southern hospitality. We've also hosted several meals to give thanks to those who have been so very kind to us. We love to eat, but normally, our diets are much more pared down, low fat, and high fibre.
Since it's our last full day in Gwangju, we pay a final visit to the Sang Dae dumpling stand. En route, we bump into Jeremy. This is fitting, because it's this fair-haired lad who greeted us in the Mini Mart in Hu Moon on our first day here. We will bump into him again before the day is out. Over the last five weeks, we've tried to get together, but he's busy preparing for a new job in Naju, about half an hour south of here. (It's the place where Rob and the temple crew visited the famed soup restaurant.)
For 4000 won, we munch on tender kimchi dumplings, pork dumpings, and pork buns. It pours rain while we sit on high-backed retro green and gold chesterfields, eyeing the bookshelves. Good thing that although we walked by, we went back for the 2000 won umbrella at a nearby store. Sensing the sky was about to burst, we chose a white one with pink polka dots, which naturally, will be the one Rob will carry.
This is the first time we've sat inside the restaurant as we favour the plastic stools at the outdoor shelf. Today, the young server seems insistent that we seek the comfort of the air-conditioned library, so we do. After lunch we peruse the extensive book shelves. They're filled, primarily, with manga, the very popular, highly stylized Japanese cartoons. Series titles include, "Happy Makeup," which seems to be about young women who like cosmetics, and "High Tension Basketball Game." There are many shelves of "Open Sesame," which centres on the adventures of tarty young women who strike provocative poses in school girl uniforms and are very hygenic. They bathe frequently, always under the watchful eyes of male suitors. Sometimes, they even assist one another, since bathing is such an arduous task.
Walking home, we pass an arcade. A teenaged boy, overcome by excitement, has passed out on the front step. He's sprawled out, limbs akimbo, his head in the pathway of patrons entering and exiting the facility. Glasses are askew, his mouth is hanging open, and he's absolutely oblivious to the fact that people are gingerly sidestepping his head. Ah, callow youth!
Dinner finds us at a new restaurant just down the street from our apartment. Our group of five includes International Centre Coordinator, Organizer, Fixer, and Chief Babysitter of Needy Foreign Professors, Diane, her husband Jon, and her sister Serin, who goes by the nickname "Sen." A kindergarten English teacher, Sen is a livewire. Like her charges, she's high energy and inquisitive. Her blinged out bright green Snoopy shirt and gold and white rhinestone studded enormous Guess watch say it all. Diane remarks, "She's a girlie-girl," with all the admiration of a sister who is not, and is quite okay with that fact.
Jon tells us his Korean name is Yumok, meaning, "driftwood." He chose this name for himself, saying it suits. He does, indeed, have the vibe of one who can weather storms, and float along comfortably, no matter what life brings. He and Diane are the perfect yin/yang couple.
Jon and Rob engage in lively discussion about motorcycles. Jon has even brought along an item that is to motorcyclists as crack is to methadone addicts: a second hand motorcycle catalogue! The two spin off into their own little world, planning for a motorcycle tour of Korea next summer. Jon has even, generously, volunteered to let Rob use one of his bikes.
Dinner is at a new beef place that makes Japanese style "shabu shabu." Boiling pots of soup are placed on grills in the centre of the tables. Thinly shaved beef is added, and then cooked and eaten with vegetables. When the course is finished, noodles are added to the soup, and when that is done, spiced rice is stirred into the leftover liquid to create a final course.
Though we are stuffed, Diane suggests dessert at the Natuur ice cream shop. We split a "pick five" tub of flavours. I choose green tea, and it's simply the best I've ever had. The entire evening costs us about 85 dollars Canadian, and it's well worth it. Diane has gone out of her way to be all things to all people, and it's important that someone show some appreciation.
We're home by nine and about to get ready for bed when the phone rings. It's Sue, returning our call to go out for coffee. We explain that we're leaving first thing tomorrow. As much as we'd love to get together, we reason that we have many chores to attend to, and decide to stay in. It's a tough decision, as we'd love to see her one last time.
I remember someone once telling me that when you forget something somewhere, or have unfinished business, it's a sign that you want to return. I tell Sue we'll be in touch via email, and will be sure to hook up when we return to Gwangju, hopefully, next year!
Not all the excess is of our own doing. We've had a number of official meals, and many others in the company of friends excited to show us why Gwangju is famous for both it's eating establishments and its southern hospitality. We've also hosted several meals to give thanks to those who have been so very kind to us. We love to eat, but normally, our diets are much more pared down, low fat, and high fibre.
Since it's our last full day in Gwangju, we pay a final visit to the Sang Dae dumpling stand. En route, we bump into Jeremy. This is fitting, because it's this fair-haired lad who greeted us in the Mini Mart in Hu Moon on our first day here. We will bump into him again before the day is out. Over the last five weeks, we've tried to get together, but he's busy preparing for a new job in Naju, about half an hour south of here. (It's the place where Rob and the temple crew visited the famed soup restaurant.)
For 4000 won, we munch on tender kimchi dumplings, pork dumpings, and pork buns. It pours rain while we sit on high-backed retro green and gold chesterfields, eyeing the bookshelves. Good thing that although we walked by, we went back for the 2000 won umbrella at a nearby store. Sensing the sky was about to burst, we chose a white one with pink polka dots, which naturally, will be the one Rob will carry.
This is the first time we've sat inside the restaurant as we favour the plastic stools at the outdoor shelf. Today, the young server seems insistent that we seek the comfort of the air-conditioned library, so we do. After lunch we peruse the extensive book shelves. They're filled, primarily, with manga, the very popular, highly stylized Japanese cartoons. Series titles include, "Happy Makeup," which seems to be about young women who like cosmetics, and "High Tension Basketball Game." There are many shelves of "Open Sesame," which centres on the adventures of tarty young women who strike provocative poses in school girl uniforms and are very hygenic. They bathe frequently, always under the watchful eyes of male suitors. Sometimes, they even assist one another, since bathing is such an arduous task.
Walking home, we pass an arcade. A teenaged boy, overcome by excitement, has passed out on the front step. He's sprawled out, limbs akimbo, his head in the pathway of patrons entering and exiting the facility. Glasses are askew, his mouth is hanging open, and he's absolutely oblivious to the fact that people are gingerly sidestepping his head. Ah, callow youth!
Dinner finds us at a new restaurant just down the street from our apartment. Our group of five includes International Centre Coordinator, Organizer, Fixer, and Chief Babysitter of Needy Foreign Professors, Diane, her husband Jon, and her sister Serin, who goes by the nickname "Sen." A kindergarten English teacher, Sen is a livewire. Like her charges, she's high energy and inquisitive. Her blinged out bright green Snoopy shirt and gold and white rhinestone studded enormous Guess watch say it all. Diane remarks, "She's a girlie-girl," with all the admiration of a sister who is not, and is quite okay with that fact.
Jon tells us his Korean name is Yumok, meaning, "driftwood." He chose this name for himself, saying it suits. He does, indeed, have the vibe of one who can weather storms, and float along comfortably, no matter what life brings. He and Diane are the perfect yin/yang couple.
Jon and Rob engage in lively discussion about motorcycles. Jon has even brought along an item that is to motorcyclists as crack is to methadone addicts: a second hand motorcycle catalogue! The two spin off into their own little world, planning for a motorcycle tour of Korea next summer. Jon has even, generously, volunteered to let Rob use one of his bikes.
Dinner is at a new beef place that makes Japanese style "shabu shabu." Boiling pots of soup are placed on grills in the centre of the tables. Thinly shaved beef is added, and then cooked and eaten with vegetables. When the course is finished, noodles are added to the soup, and when that is done, spiced rice is stirred into the leftover liquid to create a final course.
Though we are stuffed, Diane suggests dessert at the Natuur ice cream shop. We split a "pick five" tub of flavours. I choose green tea, and it's simply the best I've ever had. The entire evening costs us about 85 dollars Canadian, and it's well worth it. Diane has gone out of her way to be all things to all people, and it's important that someone show some appreciation.
We're home by nine and about to get ready for bed when the phone rings. It's Sue, returning our call to go out for coffee. We explain that we're leaving first thing tomorrow. As much as we'd love to get together, we reason that we have many chores to attend to, and decide to stay in. It's a tough decision, as we'd love to see her one last time.
I remember someone once telling me that when you forget something somewhere, or have unfinished business, it's a sign that you want to return. I tell Sue we'll be in touch via email, and will be sure to hook up when we return to Gwangju, hopefully, next year!
Saturday, July 24, 2010
How to Fritter Away a Day
It's noon hour, and we're on a bus to the Gwangju train station. That's not our ultimate destination; we're actually looking for a nearby second hand charity shop we've heard is pretty cool.
The sound system is blasting out some weird version of the omnipresent Village People hit, YMCA. This incarnation is a combination of techno and some strange klezmer, or traditional Jewish folk music. It's actually pretty catchy.
Our sources have been accurate. The second hand Beautiful store is very easy to find, and does, indeed, have some neat stuff. It's not the mega-mart style place common in Canada; it's the size of an average North American living room. For someone who is colour-blind, and fashion challenged, husband does his usual amazing job of finding a very expensive and classy tie, this time made by Guess, for 1,000 won. I pick up a nifty taupe shell, and a funky, cap-sleeved, beige and taupe A line shirt-dress. We also find a Gwangju Foreign Soccer School T-shirt and a CD of Queen's Night at the Opera. Total bill: 10,000 won, or about eight bucks.
We decide to pop into the train station for a look, because it's from here that we'll probably be leaving for Seoul on Monday. The place, like the bus depot, is spotless, spacious, and upscale with nice shops and eating establishments. Koreans must be absolutely horrified when they use public transportation facilities in North America, because they look nothing like these places.
Lunch happens in a shop across the street, where we feast on noodle soup and fried dumplings. While it's being prepared, I glance over to the kitchen to see the cook crouching down, draining the noodles through a colander that's sitting on the floor. If this happened in Canada, I'd be tempted to walk out, but oddly enough, this doesn't even phase me. It's about time and place. Things are done a little differently throughout the world, and if one gets picky, or takes an ingrained sense of superiority along for the journey, one might as well just stay at home and lock the doors.
We catch a number 7 bus to Geumnamro station, not far from the GIC. We look in some shops, and escape the heat by visiting the subway below. Others seem to have had this same idea, because the place is packed. Groups include several dozen elderly men who have gathered to play board games and stretch out in the open spaces on the cool, concrete floor.
It strikes me that this heat must be unbearable for the elderly, especially given their aversion to air-conditioning. We're back on the bus now, where I see an older lady sitting before me, trying desperately to ignore the fact that she's melting into the plastic seat. She calmly closes her eyes, and enters a Zen-like state, while the sun pummels her through the window. I want to take her home to the apartment and offer her a cool drink. I want to suggest she remove her thick socks, blouse, shirt, and heavy skirt, and walk around in something lighter. But I look around and realize that she's dressed like every grandmother on the bus.
We disembark near our apartment, and I pass the four foot by eight foot shoe repair shack on the sidewalk outside our Quickie Mart. Sure enough, the old shoe repairman is curled up inside, fully dressed in a T-shirt and pants. Two other seniors have just emerged from this same shack. The man's friend has grabbed a seat outside. He tries to fan himself a bit, but realizes it's in vain, and gives up in exasperation. The shoe repairman's wife, in her socks and slippers, is walking past us on the sidewalk, and despite the growing distance, they're all continuing their conversation, just increasing the volume.
The late afternoon brings a crashing thunderstorm, complete with torrential rains. Rob and I sleep through much of it. It's still raining at 8 PM when we head out for dinner. As we walk to Sang Dae, three young women emerge from the District 9 apartments, and one skips in the rain as the other two merrily giggle.
We stop at a couple of different restaurants, but have difficulty discerning the items on the menus. It's been seven hours since our last meal, and we're so hungry we settle on our nearby favourite pork place. This time, we somehow end up with a different type of pork, the super thick cut bacon with bone style the Koreans prize for its thick fat. We wash our meal down with soju and beer, and practically float out of the place.
Feeling a bit buzzed, we stop at a convenience store and pick up some munchies: sweet crunchy twists and strawberry cream filled cookies. These treats are washed down with decaffeinated instant coffee as we enjoy our night time reading. Rob's asleep by 10. Although I've already torn through The White Tiger, which now is now on my list of all time favourites, I pick up an anthology of travel stories and manage to fritter away a couple of hours before turning in at midnight.
The sound system is blasting out some weird version of the omnipresent Village People hit, YMCA. This incarnation is a combination of techno and some strange klezmer, or traditional Jewish folk music. It's actually pretty catchy.
Our sources have been accurate. The second hand Beautiful store is very easy to find, and does, indeed, have some neat stuff. It's not the mega-mart style place common in Canada; it's the size of an average North American living room. For someone who is colour-blind, and fashion challenged, husband does his usual amazing job of finding a very expensive and classy tie, this time made by Guess, for 1,000 won. I pick up a nifty taupe shell, and a funky, cap-sleeved, beige and taupe A line shirt-dress. We also find a Gwangju Foreign Soccer School T-shirt and a CD of Queen's Night at the Opera. Total bill: 10,000 won, or about eight bucks.
We decide to pop into the train station for a look, because it's from here that we'll probably be leaving for Seoul on Monday. The place, like the bus depot, is spotless, spacious, and upscale with nice shops and eating establishments. Koreans must be absolutely horrified when they use public transportation facilities in North America, because they look nothing like these places.
Lunch happens in a shop across the street, where we feast on noodle soup and fried dumplings. While it's being prepared, I glance over to the kitchen to see the cook crouching down, draining the noodles through a colander that's sitting on the floor. If this happened in Canada, I'd be tempted to walk out, but oddly enough, this doesn't even phase me. It's about time and place. Things are done a little differently throughout the world, and if one gets picky, or takes an ingrained sense of superiority along for the journey, one might as well just stay at home and lock the doors.
We catch a number 7 bus to Geumnamro station, not far from the GIC. We look in some shops, and escape the heat by visiting the subway below. Others seem to have had this same idea, because the place is packed. Groups include several dozen elderly men who have gathered to play board games and stretch out in the open spaces on the cool, concrete floor.
It strikes me that this heat must be unbearable for the elderly, especially given their aversion to air-conditioning. We're back on the bus now, where I see an older lady sitting before me, trying desperately to ignore the fact that she's melting into the plastic seat. She calmly closes her eyes, and enters a Zen-like state, while the sun pummels her through the window. I want to take her home to the apartment and offer her a cool drink. I want to suggest she remove her thick socks, blouse, shirt, and heavy skirt, and walk around in something lighter. But I look around and realize that she's dressed like every grandmother on the bus.
We disembark near our apartment, and I pass the four foot by eight foot shoe repair shack on the sidewalk outside our Quickie Mart. Sure enough, the old shoe repairman is curled up inside, fully dressed in a T-shirt and pants. Two other seniors have just emerged from this same shack. The man's friend has grabbed a seat outside. He tries to fan himself a bit, but realizes it's in vain, and gives up in exasperation. The shoe repairman's wife, in her socks and slippers, is walking past us on the sidewalk, and despite the growing distance, they're all continuing their conversation, just increasing the volume.
The late afternoon brings a crashing thunderstorm, complete with torrential rains. Rob and I sleep through much of it. It's still raining at 8 PM when we head out for dinner. As we walk to Sang Dae, three young women emerge from the District 9 apartments, and one skips in the rain as the other two merrily giggle.
We stop at a couple of different restaurants, but have difficulty discerning the items on the menus. It's been seven hours since our last meal, and we're so hungry we settle on our nearby favourite pork place. This time, we somehow end up with a different type of pork, the super thick cut bacon with bone style the Koreans prize for its thick fat. We wash our meal down with soju and beer, and practically float out of the place.
Feeling a bit buzzed, we stop at a convenience store and pick up some munchies: sweet crunchy twists and strawberry cream filled cookies. These treats are washed down with decaffeinated instant coffee as we enjoy our night time reading. Rob's asleep by 10. Although I've already torn through The White Tiger, which now is now on my list of all time favourites, I pick up an anthology of travel stories and manage to fritter away a couple of hours before turning in at midnight.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Good Vibrations
As much as I love visiting temples, I simply don't think I can take another day of mountain climbing, so Husband and I decide to enjoy a little private time this afternoon. I will visit with friends, and he will trek the north side of Mudeung-san, straight through the mountain from where we were the day before yesterday.
Wonhyo-sa is a temple, one of several, founded by Wonhyo, the fellow who left such an impression on me at Songwangg-sa last week. He's the horrified guy in the painting who has discovered the delicious water he drank from a golden vessel is actually dirty water from a skull. Wonhyo is considered the fountainhead of Korean Buddhism.
Before he heads off, Rob joins me in a cup of coffee shared with Head Teacher Scott at Angel In Us coffee shop near the LEC. We have a good laugh as we tell Scott that we have fallen victim to the same affliction he mentioned having at the start of our visit. In working with L2 learners, or, in the common vernacular, English language learners, he has lost some facility with his mother tongue. In four short weeks, Rob and I are developing the same condition. We speak more slowly, drop articles, such as "a" and "the," and break words down, syllable by syllable, in ordinary conversation.
We tell Scott that his gig at Chonnam University is a teacher's paradise. Students are respectful and hard-working. The pay is good, the climate terrific, and the general atmosphere conducive to a healthy and happy lifestyle. He agrees wholeheartedly, and wonders whether he'll ever be able to transition to the North American classroom. Rob and I are beginning to wonder the same of ourselves!
While we chat, I'm gobsmacked to turn around and see our American friend, Andrea, walk through the door! I had thought her long gone. It turns out she's still in Gwangju with her daughter. We had earlier met one of her girls, but this lass is here to stay. She's an English teacher, and, just like her mother, she's filled with joie du vivre. We chat for a time while Rob and Scott go off to take care of some business, and the daughter has her interview.
Andrea shares an article her daughter has written about teaching, and the "voice" is so familiar to me, it's as if I'd written myself. This young woman, like her mother, is a natural teacher. She loves the work and the students. I'd hire her in a heartbeat. As Rob would say, I'd even let her babysit my dogs. But it's no wonder this kid is so together - her mother, Andrea, is an inspiration. I very much would like to keep in touch.
When Scott leaves to teach, and Rob heads off to Wonhyo-sa, I meet with dear little Geumran/Natalie and her TA/Assistant Sueyun. Geumran, you may recall, took English language classes in Winnipeg last winter. Why they recruit these kids to come when it's 50 below is beyond me! It's a huge shock to the system, and combined with a heavy workload, strange food, a tight time frame of just a few months, and being far from home, only the very committed can survive. Geumran is a bright and determined gal, so she rose quickly to the top. She tells me this has something to do with the Korean student's ingrained capacity for dealing with intense competition. Sueyun agrees.
Sueyun is a crackerjack, sharp as a tack, slip of a thing who schools in Seoul for much of the year. She's home visiting family, and of course, working. She says all work and no play may make Jack a dull boy, but it's status quo for Korean youth. We talk about the propensity for this kind of thinking in nations that rebuild from war. And when you think about, in just sixty years, Korea has come pretty far. They didn't do it by sipping juleps and lazing around in the summer heat.
Geumran gives me the best news possible on this working vacation: She tells me that the Summer Exploration students rated me their Number One Teacher! This makes me unspeakably happy, not because it's some sort of popularity contest, but because I work very hard to make learning interesting, fun, and by extension, easy for students. I truly believe this is the best way in which to encourage the development of life-long learning habits. I credit my life-long learner parents, my Grade 10 History teacher Joe Cymbalisty, Grade 11 English teacher Cal Sommerville, and most of all, my Grade 8 English teacher Dorothy Beach, for showing me the path to good teaching through excellent role modeling.
I walk my friends back to their office next door, and on the way out of the building I bump into TAs Sang Seop and Gun. We hug and laugh, and promise to stay in touch. You know, a friend once told me that the key to emotional health is to recognize those who give you energy, and those who take it away, and to avoid the latter. Today, every person with whom I've had contact has been an energizer. It's a bountiful, and fulfilling Friday!
By 2:30, I'm famished as I haven't eaten since 9, and then I only had a little fruit and yogurt. I stop by Iris toast to take out a bite. The owner now recognizes our predilections and asks, "Hem and chiss?" I tell her I'd love a ham and cheese omelette. She points to another spot on the menu and nods. Thinking it must be a version of the same, I nod back. I plan to stand and wait, but she ushers me to a table and, like yesterday, brings the fan near and switches it to max. These poor Koreans worry so when they see big, sweaty, North Americans. No matter how scorching the day, they just don't break a sweat.
Imagine my surprise when my bulgogi burger reaches the table, and it's eat-in. It turns out this little lady is taking time to sit with me and chat. She points to the empty chair next to me and says something in Korean. Taking an educated guess, I explain that nampyeon is visiting a temple at Mudeong-san. She is shocked, and indicates, like yesterday, that she hopes he's wearing a hat. I tell her lunch is "mushiseumnida" (delicious), we bow to each other, and I head out the door to seek the haven of our air-conditioned apartment.
Wonhyo-sa is a temple, one of several, founded by Wonhyo, the fellow who left such an impression on me at Songwangg-sa last week. He's the horrified guy in the painting who has discovered the delicious water he drank from a golden vessel is actually dirty water from a skull. Wonhyo is considered the fountainhead of Korean Buddhism.
Before he heads off, Rob joins me in a cup of coffee shared with Head Teacher Scott at Angel In Us coffee shop near the LEC. We have a good laugh as we tell Scott that we have fallen victim to the same affliction he mentioned having at the start of our visit. In working with L2 learners, or, in the common vernacular, English language learners, he has lost some facility with his mother tongue. In four short weeks, Rob and I are developing the same condition. We speak more slowly, drop articles, such as "a" and "the," and break words down, syllable by syllable, in ordinary conversation.
We tell Scott that his gig at Chonnam University is a teacher's paradise. Students are respectful and hard-working. The pay is good, the climate terrific, and the general atmosphere conducive to a healthy and happy lifestyle. He agrees wholeheartedly, and wonders whether he'll ever be able to transition to the North American classroom. Rob and I are beginning to wonder the same of ourselves!
While we chat, I'm gobsmacked to turn around and see our American friend, Andrea, walk through the door! I had thought her long gone. It turns out she's still in Gwangju with her daughter. We had earlier met one of her girls, but this lass is here to stay. She's an English teacher, and, just like her mother, she's filled with joie du vivre. We chat for a time while Rob and Scott go off to take care of some business, and the daughter has her interview.
Andrea shares an article her daughter has written about teaching, and the "voice" is so familiar to me, it's as if I'd written myself. This young woman, like her mother, is a natural teacher. She loves the work and the students. I'd hire her in a heartbeat. As Rob would say, I'd even let her babysit my dogs. But it's no wonder this kid is so together - her mother, Andrea, is an inspiration. I very much would like to keep in touch.
When Scott leaves to teach, and Rob heads off to Wonhyo-sa, I meet with dear little Geumran/Natalie and her TA/Assistant Sueyun. Geumran, you may recall, took English language classes in Winnipeg last winter. Why they recruit these kids to come when it's 50 below is beyond me! It's a huge shock to the system, and combined with a heavy workload, strange food, a tight time frame of just a few months, and being far from home, only the very committed can survive. Geumran is a bright and determined gal, so she rose quickly to the top. She tells me this has something to do with the Korean student's ingrained capacity for dealing with intense competition. Sueyun agrees.
Sueyun is a crackerjack, sharp as a tack, slip of a thing who schools in Seoul for much of the year. She's home visiting family, and of course, working. She says all work and no play may make Jack a dull boy, but it's status quo for Korean youth. We talk about the propensity for this kind of thinking in nations that rebuild from war. And when you think about, in just sixty years, Korea has come pretty far. They didn't do it by sipping juleps and lazing around in the summer heat.
Geumran gives me the best news possible on this working vacation: She tells me that the Summer Exploration students rated me their Number One Teacher! This makes me unspeakably happy, not because it's some sort of popularity contest, but because I work very hard to make learning interesting, fun, and by extension, easy for students. I truly believe this is the best way in which to encourage the development of life-long learning habits. I credit my life-long learner parents, my Grade 10 History teacher Joe Cymbalisty, Grade 11 English teacher Cal Sommerville, and most of all, my Grade 8 English teacher Dorothy Beach, for showing me the path to good teaching through excellent role modeling.
I walk my friends back to their office next door, and on the way out of the building I bump into TAs Sang Seop and Gun. We hug and laugh, and promise to stay in touch. You know, a friend once told me that the key to emotional health is to recognize those who give you energy, and those who take it away, and to avoid the latter. Today, every person with whom I've had contact has been an energizer. It's a bountiful, and fulfilling Friday!
By 2:30, I'm famished as I haven't eaten since 9, and then I only had a little fruit and yogurt. I stop by Iris toast to take out a bite. The owner now recognizes our predilections and asks, "Hem and chiss?" I tell her I'd love a ham and cheese omelette. She points to another spot on the menu and nods. Thinking it must be a version of the same, I nod back. I plan to stand and wait, but she ushers me to a table and, like yesterday, brings the fan near and switches it to max. These poor Koreans worry so when they see big, sweaty, North Americans. No matter how scorching the day, they just don't break a sweat.
Imagine my surprise when my bulgogi burger reaches the table, and it's eat-in. It turns out this little lady is taking time to sit with me and chat. She points to the empty chair next to me and says something in Korean. Taking an educated guess, I explain that nampyeon is visiting a temple at Mudeong-san. She is shocked, and indicates, like yesterday, that she hopes he's wearing a hat. I tell her lunch is "mushiseumnida" (delicious), we bow to each other, and I head out the door to seek the haven of our air-conditioned apartment.
Husband stumbles in the door around 8. He's spent much of the day attempting to walk eight kilometres straight up a mountain, because walking gains more merit. Eventually, better judgment took over, and he bussed the remaining TWO kilometres, a fifteen minute bus ride. On the ride home he's a minor celebrity, apparently due to his ability to grow an incredible quantity of facial hair! One middle-aged fellow, fully decked in long sleeved, long legged hiking gear, proclaims, "I love you!" It's his version of, "Hello." The only thing more impressive than Husband's beard, or ability to walk six kilometres up a mountain in 30 plus heat, is that he even managed to get a perfect picture of the black butterfly I was unable to capture on film the other day. Well, maybe not that exact butterfly, but one just like it!
We have a late dinner in Hu Moon at a funky Japanese restaurant, one of those with the food that rolls by on a belt on an oval shaped track. That method of presentation always seems so Blade Runnerish to me. We each have a "set," or, combo. Rob has a roll, and I have the real deal sushi/sashimi. We both are served delicate miso soup, and a wondrous noodle, seaweed soup.
The Japanese owner is most pleased with our obvious rapturous response to the meal. When we pay our bill, I notice he hasn't charged for the dessert, a cheery strawberry ice cream with sprinkles and toasted rice flakes, served with two dime sized spoons. He says it's his pleasure to give us this gift. I tell him the pleasure was all ours; it's the best sushi I've had since eating in seventeen years, comparable only to that found right in Japan.
A perfect evening ends curled up with Husband and Aravind.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Concepts of Time and Distance
Yesterday we explored spirituality and the essence of Buddhism which includes taking the middle path, meaning, finding balance in all things, including the pursuit of enlightenment. Therefore, it's fitting that today we balance our studies of all things Korean with a journey to the other end of the spectrum: We are going shopping.
Well, actually, the aim is not necessarily to buy, rather, to take a look around a traditional Korean market. Program Assistant Ryan says there are several, but the best old school place is a ten minute walk down the street from our apartment. We decide to look up Malbau Market on a map before heading out, and we realize Ryan's guesstimate was based on Korean time and fitness. In other words, he could make it there in ten minutes, but Rob and I would take all day.
Before grabbing a bus, we visit our lady friend at Iris Toast. This time, instead of ham and cheese with egg, I have a chili burger and Rob has a bulgogi burger. Both are very sweet, and Rob's has a thin slice of spicy meat that is somewhat reminiscent of bulgogi. They're very good, and we thank our friend with a Winnipeg pin. She excitedly tells us, "bedgy, bedgy," and indicates that badge is going right on her shirt. These tiny gifts have a big impact on people who are extremely interested in Canadian culture, and in learning English. In Korean culture, where designer names are much sought after, these pins are mini markers of status because they say, "I have a friend from North America."
Malbau Market is what one would see if one were to open up the brain of someone with a severe case of ADHD. The sights, sounds, smells, and tastes, swirl about producing an intoxicating blend that is LIFE writ large. Through miles of cramped city blocks, vendors display their wares on tables, racks, trucks, and on the ground. Dior knockoffs hang next to smoked pork hocks and caged chickens and ducks.
As unsettling as it may be to see animals lined up to meet their maker, I reflect on a tour I had of a chicken and egg factory in Canada. It was sterile, alright; the birds were kept in metal cages so small, they couldn't turn around. They ate food peppered with artificial filler to plump their breasts up to Dolly Parton standards. And they never spent one second running around outside, pecking gravel and scratching through grain. It might not be pretty, but at least these birds have a leg up on their spotless, sequested counterparts back home.
Rob needs sandals, and I spot of pair of men's Hang Tens, stacked amidst little girls sandals, womens runners, and mens loafers. Surprisingly, they're a perfect fit, and they cost just 15,000 won or about 12 bucks. The owner comes over to join his wife who is explaining to us that their children are studying English in high school. It's really remarkable how much one can convey with just a couple of base words. In any event, the man feels compelled to cut the price of the sandals by one-third. Try as we may, we cannot convince him otherwise. We give them both pins, and they think this a superior exchange.
We walk through miles of unrefrigerated fresh fish and chicken, and there's not a fly in sight. We just can't understand any of it. We're fanatical about the handling of food in North America. Is the difference that this is so fresh and the turnover so high? Further, there's no smell of insecticide, and all the food is laying out in the open, in the heat. How can this be? We stop at a bake stand and pick up a small loaf of some sort. The vendor throws in a, fresh from the pot, Korean version of a jambuster doughnut filled with bean paste. It's to die for! The loaf is light, not especially sweet, and topped with fresh walnuts and some kind of crumble. Unreal! We continue to marvel at how meat and potato chips are sweet, but baking is not.
We exit the market through a very narrow lane lined with elderly women on either side. There's just enough room to walk through, single file. Low hanging tarps cover some areas, and we must duck to get by. The women are peeling, dicing, slicing, and organizing vegetables and fruit. Everyone is fully dressed, and many sit in the direct sunlight on this 30 degree, very humid day.
The market is a community within a community. People call out to one another, hang off truck boxes to chat with neighbours sitting on wooden packing crates, and visit while pushing broken-down old carts from one area to the next. The mobile vendors call out to potential customers. One old chap has decided to use technology to make his job just a bit easier; he has hooked up a mini-speaker from which his distorted message blares, non-stop.
As we step out of the market and onto the sidewalk, where the de facto market continues for miles, a man approaches. He tells us he's a pharmacist, and he has visited Vancouver. When he stumbles over his broken English, he giggles and covers his mouth in that shy, very Korean, way. We do the Korean thing, and ask if we can take his picture. He's happy to oblige, and we agree to email him a copy.
When we quit Malbau, we deke over to see the Gwangju National Museum. A little boy and his mom approach us in the parking lot, and the mom prompts him to speak with us. This smaller version of the pharmacist from Malbau giggles his way through an introduction. We reward him with a Winnipeg pin. Ten minutes later we look back to see them sitting on a bench, where mom is clipping the pin to the boy's shirt. Little Dong Ah flashes a toothy grin and gives us a big wave.
The museum is very impressive. While artifacts in our museums are often just a couple of hundred years old, here we see remains from thousands of years ago that have been unearthed in this very area. We even see a sarira reliquary and the remains of a monk. "Sarira" means body, and when a monk is cremated, what is left is put into a reliquary and then placed inside a stupa, or, big rock monument. The remains on display here include a couple of small bits of bone and a shiny green crystal.
The volunteer who has very kindly given us a personal tour, complete with detailed information about each exhibit is Mr. Kim, a former Education Department Supervisor. When he learns that we're leaving here to visit the Folk Museum, he gives us instructions. "It's across that highway. A fifteen minute walk." Once again, Korean perception in regards to physical capability and time does not exactly fit our North American reality.
Rob and I cross the highway, alright, but then we end up wandering around Ounam Reservoir for a while. It's a lovely mistake as the area is quite beautiful. It's astonishing how Koreans can take the slightest bit of land, even that at the edge of an expressway, and maximize its potential. Every square inch is terraced, cultivated, and productive. We see produce such as corn, watermelons, and peppers dotting the landscape. For all we know, there may be vandalism and theft, but there's sure no sign of it. This makeshift farmland appears to be very well tended.
We eventually end up near the Folk Museum, but decide instead to look through the Gwangju National Art Museum. Out front, there is a massive statue of a famous Korean poet who lived in the 1500s. It strikes me that I, like most people, have very limited knowledge of great talents outside my own culture.
The museum is beautifully designed and stocked with a wide variety of works. There's even an extensive children's section. Rob and I marvel over the contemporary pieces which include one with several computers showing time lapse film of a lake. The computers spin around while ethereal music plays. I'm sure it all symbolizes something very deep and important, but to the artistically deficient it looks like what happens when one has too much soju to drink.
In the end, we skip the Folk Museum; we have seen several examples of folk culture, and can always visit again at another time. For now, we need to eat and drink. We have been walking for six hours! We do stop to take photos at the koi pond on the Folk Museum grounds. Like the koi at the Golden Temple in southern Honshu, in Japan, these speckled, bright beings swim toward us en masse. It's a spectacular sight as they weave back and forth and the sunlight shimmers through the rippling water.
Our diner of choice is a small shop with extensive vegetarian and meat menus. Rob has yoochobap, vinegar rice stuffed in fried bean curd, and I devour mandookuk, or dumpling soup. The restaurant staff are watching a positively dreadful North American science fiction movie. We can't figure the thing out, and we speak the language. All we can discern is that it's something to do with humans being forced to serve a machine, ala The Matrix, people fly about in plastic pink car sized flamingos, and celebrated thespain Colm Meany has made one helluva career choice!
We debate whether to cab or bus it home, and then Rob looks down the street and thinks he spots Sang Dae, the neighbourhood next to Hu Moon. We hoof it another mile, or so, and sure enough, there we are, a stones through from our apartment! By the time we get home, we're so fagged out that we spend the evening reading, writing, and regenerating. But once again, that bloody Aravinda Adiga keeps me up until all hours fretting about his anti-hero Balram Halwai.
Well, actually, the aim is not necessarily to buy, rather, to take a look around a traditional Korean market. Program Assistant Ryan says there are several, but the best old school place is a ten minute walk down the street from our apartment. We decide to look up Malbau Market on a map before heading out, and we realize Ryan's guesstimate was based on Korean time and fitness. In other words, he could make it there in ten minutes, but Rob and I would take all day.
Before grabbing a bus, we visit our lady friend at Iris Toast. This time, instead of ham and cheese with egg, I have a chili burger and Rob has a bulgogi burger. Both are very sweet, and Rob's has a thin slice of spicy meat that is somewhat reminiscent of bulgogi. They're very good, and we thank our friend with a Winnipeg pin. She excitedly tells us, "bedgy, bedgy," and indicates that badge is going right on her shirt. These tiny gifts have a big impact on people who are extremely interested in Canadian culture, and in learning English. In Korean culture, where designer names are much sought after, these pins are mini markers of status because they say, "I have a friend from North America."
Malbau Market is what one would see if one were to open up the brain of someone with a severe case of ADHD. The sights, sounds, smells, and tastes, swirl about producing an intoxicating blend that is LIFE writ large. Through miles of cramped city blocks, vendors display their wares on tables, racks, trucks, and on the ground. Dior knockoffs hang next to smoked pork hocks and caged chickens and ducks.
As unsettling as it may be to see animals lined up to meet their maker, I reflect on a tour I had of a chicken and egg factory in Canada. It was sterile, alright; the birds were kept in metal cages so small, they couldn't turn around. They ate food peppered with artificial filler to plump their breasts up to Dolly Parton standards. And they never spent one second running around outside, pecking gravel and scratching through grain. It might not be pretty, but at least these birds have a leg up on their spotless, sequested counterparts back home.
Rob needs sandals, and I spot of pair of men's Hang Tens, stacked amidst little girls sandals, womens runners, and mens loafers. Surprisingly, they're a perfect fit, and they cost just 15,000 won or about 12 bucks. The owner comes over to join his wife who is explaining to us that their children are studying English in high school. It's really remarkable how much one can convey with just a couple of base words. In any event, the man feels compelled to cut the price of the sandals by one-third. Try as we may, we cannot convince him otherwise. We give them both pins, and they think this a superior exchange.
We walk through miles of unrefrigerated fresh fish and chicken, and there's not a fly in sight. We just can't understand any of it. We're fanatical about the handling of food in North America. Is the difference that this is so fresh and the turnover so high? Further, there's no smell of insecticide, and all the food is laying out in the open, in the heat. How can this be? We stop at a bake stand and pick up a small loaf of some sort. The vendor throws in a, fresh from the pot, Korean version of a jambuster doughnut filled with bean paste. It's to die for! The loaf is light, not especially sweet, and topped with fresh walnuts and some kind of crumble. Unreal! We continue to marvel at how meat and potato chips are sweet, but baking is not.
We exit the market through a very narrow lane lined with elderly women on either side. There's just enough room to walk through, single file. Low hanging tarps cover some areas, and we must duck to get by. The women are peeling, dicing, slicing, and organizing vegetables and fruit. Everyone is fully dressed, and many sit in the direct sunlight on this 30 degree, very humid day.
The market is a community within a community. People call out to one another, hang off truck boxes to chat with neighbours sitting on wooden packing crates, and visit while pushing broken-down old carts from one area to the next. The mobile vendors call out to potential customers. One old chap has decided to use technology to make his job just a bit easier; he has hooked up a mini-speaker from which his distorted message blares, non-stop.
As we step out of the market and onto the sidewalk, where the de facto market continues for miles, a man approaches. He tells us he's a pharmacist, and he has visited Vancouver. When he stumbles over his broken English, he giggles and covers his mouth in that shy, very Korean, way. We do the Korean thing, and ask if we can take his picture. He's happy to oblige, and we agree to email him a copy.
When we quit Malbau, we deke over to see the Gwangju National Museum. A little boy and his mom approach us in the parking lot, and the mom prompts him to speak with us. This smaller version of the pharmacist from Malbau giggles his way through an introduction. We reward him with a Winnipeg pin. Ten minutes later we look back to see them sitting on a bench, where mom is clipping the pin to the boy's shirt. Little Dong Ah flashes a toothy grin and gives us a big wave.
The museum is very impressive. While artifacts in our museums are often just a couple of hundred years old, here we see remains from thousands of years ago that have been unearthed in this very area. We even see a sarira reliquary and the remains of a monk. "Sarira" means body, and when a monk is cremated, what is left is put into a reliquary and then placed inside a stupa, or, big rock monument. The remains on display here include a couple of small bits of bone and a shiny green crystal.
The volunteer who has very kindly given us a personal tour, complete with detailed information about each exhibit is Mr. Kim, a former Education Department Supervisor. When he learns that we're leaving here to visit the Folk Museum, he gives us instructions. "It's across that highway. A fifteen minute walk." Once again, Korean perception in regards to physical capability and time does not exactly fit our North American reality.
Rob and I cross the highway, alright, but then we end up wandering around Ounam Reservoir for a while. It's a lovely mistake as the area is quite beautiful. It's astonishing how Koreans can take the slightest bit of land, even that at the edge of an expressway, and maximize its potential. Every square inch is terraced, cultivated, and productive. We see produce such as corn, watermelons, and peppers dotting the landscape. For all we know, there may be vandalism and theft, but there's sure no sign of it. This makeshift farmland appears to be very well tended.
We eventually end up near the Folk Museum, but decide instead to look through the Gwangju National Art Museum. Out front, there is a massive statue of a famous Korean poet who lived in the 1500s. It strikes me that I, like most people, have very limited knowledge of great talents outside my own culture.
The museum is beautifully designed and stocked with a wide variety of works. There's even an extensive children's section. Rob and I marvel over the contemporary pieces which include one with several computers showing time lapse film of a lake. The computers spin around while ethereal music plays. I'm sure it all symbolizes something very deep and important, but to the artistically deficient it looks like what happens when one has too much soju to drink.
In the end, we skip the Folk Museum; we have seen several examples of folk culture, and can always visit again at another time. For now, we need to eat and drink. We have been walking for six hours! We do stop to take photos at the koi pond on the Folk Museum grounds. Like the koi at the Golden Temple in southern Honshu, in Japan, these speckled, bright beings swim toward us en masse. It's a spectacular sight as they weave back and forth and the sunlight shimmers through the rippling water.
Our diner of choice is a small shop with extensive vegetarian and meat menus. Rob has yoochobap, vinegar rice stuffed in fried bean curd, and I devour mandookuk, or dumpling soup. The restaurant staff are watching a positively dreadful North American science fiction movie. We can't figure the thing out, and we speak the language. All we can discern is that it's something to do with humans being forced to serve a machine, ala The Matrix, people fly about in plastic pink car sized flamingos, and celebrated thespain Colm Meany has made one helluva career choice!
We debate whether to cab or bus it home, and then Rob looks down the street and thinks he spots Sang Dae, the neighbourhood next to Hu Moon. We hoof it another mile, or so, and sure enough, there we are, a stones through from our apartment! By the time we get home, we're so fagged out that we spend the evening reading, writing, and regenerating. But once again, that bloody Aravinda Adiga keeps me up until all hours fretting about his anti-hero Balram Halwai.
The Spirit of the Mountain
It's just 10 a.m., but it's already smokin' hot, the kind of day when you actually hope for cloud cover, and maybe even rain. The heat is of no concern to the 30-something woman in a hat with a full mask and running gear working hard on the stairmaster in the park we pass on the way to Mudeung-san. She's still running up her artificial hill long after we've turned the corner and left Hanbit Dental Centre and the Western Macaroni Theme Park in the dust.
Our first stop once we reach the foot of the mighty mountain is a climbing gear shop. We're only looking for a place to lay out our map, but we end up picking up a few headscarves with maps of the area on them. I pick up an auspicious flaming orange one for Rob, and he immediately puts it on, to the delight of the ladies in the store. (Like he didn't stick out enough already!) While in this giant, German owned store, I'm appalled to see the legendary American Aboriginal leader Crazy Horse shilling neckscarves. To use the only known image of this incredible man, one of the world's most important human rights activists and environmentalists to sell merchandise is beyond the pale.
I will say this: Though Mudeong-san is a major attraction for tourists and locals alike, the prices in the shops are on par with those anywhere else in the city. Even the aluminum hiking canes are a bargain at 5,000 won. Thankfully, this year, I won't be needing one. We stop for kimbap and Americano before beginning our ascent.
We're heading for Jeongsim-sa, but part-way there, we happen upon the smaller Munbinjung-sa. This temple was founded in the 1960s by Madame Jang mun-bin, whose Buddhist name was Borism, meaning, "enlightened mind." We see a chindokae dog and a big old chow, who fluffs himself up as big as can be.
A monk comes along and invites us in for a truly heavenly nutty green tea. I must confess that I could never find words appropriate to fully define the magnificence of this drink. The young man tell us that when it is hot outside, we must drink hot liquids, for to do otherwise is unhealthy. Oddly enough, I was just explaining this theory to Rob earlier in today. (Once again, mom was right.)
The monk, who never offers his name, makes tea with the same calm and precision employed by the monk at Songwangg-sa. I finally get an inkling as to the meaning of the Buddhist monk's advice regarding what to do when the going gets tough. We must simply, "Cook rice, and drink tea." Seeing the contemplative way in which these monks go about their business, the message becomes much clearer.
This monk has been studying for ten years and he says he's very tired. The aim in life is to find the Dharma body, to become enlightened, and to know the truth. He says the goal is quite similar for Hindus, Christians, and Muslims. In his mind, we're all the same. He tells us that one can study religion for years, but one cannot gain enlightenment through concept; one must practice.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but salvation or redemption don't come easily. We must work. And this man, who has spent the last decade focused solely on this task, says his energy is low because his "mind is too busy with things that don't matter." This statement knocks me flat! This holy man is admitting that he's in the same boat as the rest of us, and he devotes his life to this work, presumably without distraction. What does this mean for the rest of us?
Oddly enough, I take tremendous comfort in his statement. In Buddhism, no one is more equal than another. We all have to think, and work, to be all that we can be. But in a way, that's the most liberating thought of all. There's no magic bullet. A certain number of prayers, donations to the church, or a last minute apology for all our wrongdoings in life won't cut it for a Buddhist. It's about being a good person day after day after day. There's no deus ex machina to pull us out of the fire. We all have to work, just like this monk has to work. We have to make a conscious effort to do no harm as we walk the middle path, trying to achieve balance in all aspects of our lives.
As he stares at me through his rimless glasses, I feel as if this monk is peering directly into my soul. He sees the ghosts within. He knows that I understand emotional clutter and preoccupation with "things that don't matter." The fan beside me on the floor whirs, the wind chimes sway and ring, and the birds and cicadas chirp. This moment has more meaning and truth than thousands before it spent kneeling and bowing in ornate gilt and marble filled buildings.
After tea, we walk around the grounds and stop off at the lotus pond. The flowers are the size of my head, and the leaves so large, I can't put my arms around them. We walk on and I notice a gigantic rock from which a giant face appears about to come to life. Rob tells me that mountains are venerated in places like Korea because they're a place where dead ancestors, those who provided life for their families, go to spend eternity. Also, the mountain provides water that spills down to nourish crops, providing food for all. Thus, the mountain spirits are seen as benevolent protectors. That is why so many make the trek up the mountain to pray in her temples.
As we continue to climb, we pass little girls with rolled up pants, splashing about in the stream catching minnows in cups. We see fully dressed senior citizens power-walking past us in their hiking gear, stopping only to scrub their shoes in the stream. An old gent stops us to ask where we're from and to give us a bit of information about the place. He says "Mu" means nothing and "deong" means great, so together "Mudeong" means nothing greater. He tells us this is the only 1000 metre high mountain in the world right next to a city of a million-and-a-half people.
By the time we reach Jeongsim-sa, I feel we can touch the sun. The last stretch, in particular, has been at a good 45 degree angle. Two years ago, I couldn't walk to the coffee shop 500 yards from our house. Today, I'm climbing a mountain! We find a man doing tai chi outside the temple; we later see him saying prayers before leaving in his SUV.
The squirrels, birds, and dragonflies seem to pose for photos. Perhaps they are rewarding my patience in trying to capture their beauty. I take many temple pictures for Rob to use in his studies, but take care not to include any other visitors or monks. As we're leaving the temple, we spot one black butterfly and one white one playing together. Rob says this is only fitting, because together they are gray, and that is the "the middle way." I err on the side of caution and choose to head back down the mountain, while Rob continues onward and upward to Yaksa-sa. The funny thing is, he doesn't get to record the visit for the camera card is full! He sees this as a sign that he must return one day.
As I walk down the mountain, an older man and his wife come up behind me. He's beautifully singing a folk song at the top of his lungs, and his wife tries to make small talk. We mime our way through a little conversation, conversing just long enough for me to miss the building where I am to meet up with Rob when he leaves Yaksa-sa. I don't realize this until I reach the bottom of the mountain.
While I'm descending, I'm delighted to be provided with a little cloud cover and a gentle breeze. I thank God for my good fortune. Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot something black and about the size of a tea cup saucer floating through the air. Over at a nearby fountain, I see the most delicate, velvety creature. It's a butterfly like none I've ever seen. It has a very wide wing span that narrows dramatically toward the bottom. It looks like an elegant, paper thin, angel. The top half of the wings have narrow black and ivory stripes, and the tips on the bottom are dotted red and yellow.
The butterfly soars, and then circles the rocks at the base of the fountain, before dipping down again for a drink. Ever so softly, she floats around in the breeze, stopping long enough for me to take a good long look. To drink up the scene. To really let the image soak into my mind. To take root. I have no camera, but even if I did, it could never do this creature justice.
A little girl in a yellow sundress runs up. The butterfly doesn't fear. She knows the little girl is a gentle soul. Little Miss Sunshine calls out, "nabi, nabi!" Her mother tells me that "nah-pee" is, simply, Korean for butterfly. A rose by any other name, as Shakespeare would say. This makes me think of my old radio friend, Mr. Paul Palace. He was blind, and had some major health issues, but he had all the optimism one could hope for, pun intended. Paul was the King of Puns. He called butterflies, flutterbies, because he thought it more fitting. I give thanks before continuing my journey down the mountain.
At the base of Mudeong-san, I buy some fragrant acacia gum to make change, and then call Rob from a pay phone. We hook up at a coffee shop, and make plans for the evening. I order a green tea latte, and for some reason, I'm really surprised when it's loaded with liquid sugar. We check our email on the cafe's computer to make sure that we don't have to meet anyone, and then head for the shopping area and artist's street downtown.
When we step off the bus, someone calls out to us. It's eagle-eyed Dr. Shin! Rob tells him that he must have clones because we see him all over the city! We also bump into two young lads who are GIC volunteers. Rob's temple driver, Kim, immediately volunteers to burn our photos to disk, while the other, Scott, acts as our tour guide. This is just another example of how our Koreans friends have gone far and beyond the call of duty to make our stay pleasant!
We eat a spicy hotdog from a vendor, and then drop into a nearby shop for ddeukboki (big fat rice noodles) and tempura. Again, helpful Korean youngsters jump in to offer their assistance in translating for us. We are grateful because the server certainly doesn't need any more stress. This poor little Korean woman, who is about a day-and-a-half from giving birth, has been racing around on heels in this scorching heat, serving a packed restaurant.
We walk around the neighbourhood for a while, stumbling upon some very traditional Korean women's clothing stores, and picking up a couple of treats for home. We turn in by 10, but that damned Aravind Adiga keeps me up past midnight with his White Tiger. Ah, the curse of a good book!
Our first stop once we reach the foot of the mighty mountain is a climbing gear shop. We're only looking for a place to lay out our map, but we end up picking up a few headscarves with maps of the area on them. I pick up an auspicious flaming orange one for Rob, and he immediately puts it on, to the delight of the ladies in the store. (Like he didn't stick out enough already!) While in this giant, German owned store, I'm appalled to see the legendary American Aboriginal leader Crazy Horse shilling neckscarves. To use the only known image of this incredible man, one of the world's most important human rights activists and environmentalists to sell merchandise is beyond the pale.
I will say this: Though Mudeong-san is a major attraction for tourists and locals alike, the prices in the shops are on par with those anywhere else in the city. Even the aluminum hiking canes are a bargain at 5,000 won. Thankfully, this year, I won't be needing one. We stop for kimbap and Americano before beginning our ascent.
We're heading for Jeongsim-sa, but part-way there, we happen upon the smaller Munbinjung-sa. This temple was founded in the 1960s by Madame Jang mun-bin, whose Buddhist name was Borism, meaning, "enlightened mind." We see a chindokae dog and a big old chow, who fluffs himself up as big as can be.
A monk comes along and invites us in for a truly heavenly nutty green tea. I must confess that I could never find words appropriate to fully define the magnificence of this drink. The young man tell us that when it is hot outside, we must drink hot liquids, for to do otherwise is unhealthy. Oddly enough, I was just explaining this theory to Rob earlier in today. (Once again, mom was right.)
The monk, who never offers his name, makes tea with the same calm and precision employed by the monk at Songwangg-sa. I finally get an inkling as to the meaning of the Buddhist monk's advice regarding what to do when the going gets tough. We must simply, "Cook rice, and drink tea." Seeing the contemplative way in which these monks go about their business, the message becomes much clearer.
This monk has been studying for ten years and he says he's very tired. The aim in life is to find the Dharma body, to become enlightened, and to know the truth. He says the goal is quite similar for Hindus, Christians, and Muslims. In his mind, we're all the same. He tells us that one can study religion for years, but one cannot gain enlightenment through concept; one must practice.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but salvation or redemption don't come easily. We must work. And this man, who has spent the last decade focused solely on this task, says his energy is low because his "mind is too busy with things that don't matter." This statement knocks me flat! This holy man is admitting that he's in the same boat as the rest of us, and he devotes his life to this work, presumably without distraction. What does this mean for the rest of us?
Oddly enough, I take tremendous comfort in his statement. In Buddhism, no one is more equal than another. We all have to think, and work, to be all that we can be. But in a way, that's the most liberating thought of all. There's no magic bullet. A certain number of prayers, donations to the church, or a last minute apology for all our wrongdoings in life won't cut it for a Buddhist. It's about being a good person day after day after day. There's no deus ex machina to pull us out of the fire. We all have to work, just like this monk has to work. We have to make a conscious effort to do no harm as we walk the middle path, trying to achieve balance in all aspects of our lives.
As he stares at me through his rimless glasses, I feel as if this monk is peering directly into my soul. He sees the ghosts within. He knows that I understand emotional clutter and preoccupation with "things that don't matter." The fan beside me on the floor whirs, the wind chimes sway and ring, and the birds and cicadas chirp. This moment has more meaning and truth than thousands before it spent kneeling and bowing in ornate gilt and marble filled buildings.
After tea, we walk around the grounds and stop off at the lotus pond. The flowers are the size of my head, and the leaves so large, I can't put my arms around them. We walk on and I notice a gigantic rock from which a giant face appears about to come to life. Rob tells me that mountains are venerated in places like Korea because they're a place where dead ancestors, those who provided life for their families, go to spend eternity. Also, the mountain provides water that spills down to nourish crops, providing food for all. Thus, the mountain spirits are seen as benevolent protectors. That is why so many make the trek up the mountain to pray in her temples.
As we continue to climb, we pass little girls with rolled up pants, splashing about in the stream catching minnows in cups. We see fully dressed senior citizens power-walking past us in their hiking gear, stopping only to scrub their shoes in the stream. An old gent stops us to ask where we're from and to give us a bit of information about the place. He says "Mu" means nothing and "deong" means great, so together "Mudeong" means nothing greater. He tells us this is the only 1000 metre high mountain in the world right next to a city of a million-and-a-half people.
By the time we reach Jeongsim-sa, I feel we can touch the sun. The last stretch, in particular, has been at a good 45 degree angle. Two years ago, I couldn't walk to the coffee shop 500 yards from our house. Today, I'm climbing a mountain! We find a man doing tai chi outside the temple; we later see him saying prayers before leaving in his SUV.
The squirrels, birds, and dragonflies seem to pose for photos. Perhaps they are rewarding my patience in trying to capture their beauty. I take many temple pictures for Rob to use in his studies, but take care not to include any other visitors or monks. As we're leaving the temple, we spot one black butterfly and one white one playing together. Rob says this is only fitting, because together they are gray, and that is the "the middle way." I err on the side of caution and choose to head back down the mountain, while Rob continues onward and upward to Yaksa-sa. The funny thing is, he doesn't get to record the visit for the camera card is full! He sees this as a sign that he must return one day.
As I walk down the mountain, an older man and his wife come up behind me. He's beautifully singing a folk song at the top of his lungs, and his wife tries to make small talk. We mime our way through a little conversation, conversing just long enough for me to miss the building where I am to meet up with Rob when he leaves Yaksa-sa. I don't realize this until I reach the bottom of the mountain.
While I'm descending, I'm delighted to be provided with a little cloud cover and a gentle breeze. I thank God for my good fortune. Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot something black and about the size of a tea cup saucer floating through the air. Over at a nearby fountain, I see the most delicate, velvety creature. It's a butterfly like none I've ever seen. It has a very wide wing span that narrows dramatically toward the bottom. It looks like an elegant, paper thin, angel. The top half of the wings have narrow black and ivory stripes, and the tips on the bottom are dotted red and yellow.
The butterfly soars, and then circles the rocks at the base of the fountain, before dipping down again for a drink. Ever so softly, she floats around in the breeze, stopping long enough for me to take a good long look. To drink up the scene. To really let the image soak into my mind. To take root. I have no camera, but even if I did, it could never do this creature justice.
A little girl in a yellow sundress runs up. The butterfly doesn't fear. She knows the little girl is a gentle soul. Little Miss Sunshine calls out, "nabi, nabi!" Her mother tells me that "nah-pee" is, simply, Korean for butterfly. A rose by any other name, as Shakespeare would say. This makes me think of my old radio friend, Mr. Paul Palace. He was blind, and had some major health issues, but he had all the optimism one could hope for, pun intended. Paul was the King of Puns. He called butterflies, flutterbies, because he thought it more fitting. I give thanks before continuing my journey down the mountain.
At the base of Mudeong-san, I buy some fragrant acacia gum to make change, and then call Rob from a pay phone. We hook up at a coffee shop, and make plans for the evening. I order a green tea latte, and for some reason, I'm really surprised when it's loaded with liquid sugar. We check our email on the cafe's computer to make sure that we don't have to meet anyone, and then head for the shopping area and artist's street downtown.
When we step off the bus, someone calls out to us. It's eagle-eyed Dr. Shin! Rob tells him that he must have clones because we see him all over the city! We also bump into two young lads who are GIC volunteers. Rob's temple driver, Kim, immediately volunteers to burn our photos to disk, while the other, Scott, acts as our tour guide. This is just another example of how our Koreans friends have gone far and beyond the call of duty to make our stay pleasant!
We eat a spicy hotdog from a vendor, and then drop into a nearby shop for ddeukboki (big fat rice noodles) and tempura. Again, helpful Korean youngsters jump in to offer their assistance in translating for us. We are grateful because the server certainly doesn't need any more stress. This poor little Korean woman, who is about a day-and-a-half from giving birth, has been racing around on heels in this scorching heat, serving a packed restaurant.
We walk around the neighbourhood for a while, stumbling upon some very traditional Korean women's clothing stores, and picking up a couple of treats for home. We turn in by 10, but that damned Aravind Adiga keeps me up past midnight with his White Tiger. Ah, the curse of a good book!
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Nourishment for the Body and Mind
We're standing in the drizzle waiting for a bus downtown when three young lads call out to us. They ask us where we're from, and when we say, "Canada," one boy, in particular, is thrilled. His uncle lives in Canada. Of course each boy must take a picture of us with his cell phone before we go our separate ways.
The purpose for our outing is to go the the Gwangju main bus terminal's XP Books store. This place, with a reasonably sized English book section, is very stylish and upscale, not at all your typical downtown bus depot. Rob picks up an extremely dense, difficult to decipher, academic text called The New Horizon to Ancient Korean History. As we say, reading it will be, "heavy sledding." I choose the 2008 Man Booker Prize winner, The White Tiger, by Aravind Adiga. It's about social and economic injustice and globalization as depicted through one man's story.
I've been wanting to read this book ever since the author received his controversial award. The literati, though admitting Adiga is a huge talent, thought it unseemly that a first time novelist should win such a prestigeous award. This literary prize for fiction is given each year for the best original full-length novel written in the English language by a citizen of The Commonwealth of Nations, Ireland, or Zimbabwe. Past winners have included Michael Ondaatje, Arundhati Roy, and Margaret Atwood. As promised, The White Tiger is a page turner; I have to force myself to put it down.
At noon, Diane hosts a goodbye lunch for SharaLee and we're invited along with Ryan, Karl, and Krishad, a young exchange student from the Bahamas, via Delaware State University. The pork rib barbeque includes toasted corn, and a couple of dozen other dishes. It's the ultimate Korean send-off, and SharaLee is touched.
Once again, it's interesting to me how very little Koreans drink with their meals. Often, it's no more than a quick glass of water at the end. Today, we splurge and the table of seven shares three small bottles of pop. In North America, each person has a 20 - 32 ounce glass of their own, and often has refills! After we eat, Rob and I give SharaLee a little travel pack of provisions for the journey. It's filled with Korean goodies, like shortbread mushroom shaped cookies with chocolate, veggie chips, and fragrant gum.
This lunchtime get-together is the first time I've had much of a chance to talk with Krishad, and I feel for the kid. He's finding being black to be a bit of a challenge here. People stare at him, and sometimes act strange, and understandly, this hurts his feelings. I explain that people do the same to us, because we look different than them, but that's cold comfort to a young man who is alone, and far, far from home. I think of how I might feel at that age, and on my own. I feel very lucky to be travelling with my sensible old shoe, my lovable old black lab, my pati-dev, Rob. Every day someone comments on how well-suited we are to one another, and I must agree. When I say to Diane, yes, we're both slightly off, so we fit, she replies, "Even a straw shoe has a mate!"
We get some very good news in the afternoon. We learn that we can stay in our apartment for another week, and at no charge! This saves us seven nights of hotel bills, which allows us to comfortably cover the thank you dinners we've been hosting. Once again, the Lord provides! It's an embarassment of riches.
In the evening, Sue invites us to dinner with SharaLee. We have an outrageouly delicious and nutritious cold soup. Rob's "mae mil meung myeon" has buckwheat noodles and my "chik neung myeon" has arrowroot noodles. These soups are sweet and vinegary, and they contain slices of pear. Our table gets a free mountain of grilled pork for ordering the soups.
Slim, gorgeous Sue receives her soup and uses scissors to slice the noodles and mix the ingredients at warp speed. She inhales everything, and then orders more noodles! We are incredulous as she downs those at the same speed. Let's get this straight: Sue is young, beautiful, smart, speaks a couple of languages fluently, has a rich, rolling, laugh that erupts through her body, can sing like a bird, eat like a horse, and stay slender. She's nice too. It just isn't fair.
In the evening, Rob and I walk to a neighbourhood outside our gate, and in the opposite direction of Hu Moon. We find an entirely different crowd of young, less hip, Koreans, and average families. We pick up a couple of bags of fruit, and when Rob hands his soju to the middle-aged cashier, she laughs aloud. This must be quite the scene for this traditional Korean shopkeeper, because most Westerners hate soju. Rob has grown rather fond of it, and this is a guy who has a drink, maybe, twice a year.
We read ourselves to sleep, to dream of tomorrow's trek up Mudeung-san.
The purpose for our outing is to go the the Gwangju main bus terminal's XP Books store. This place, with a reasonably sized English book section, is very stylish and upscale, not at all your typical downtown bus depot. Rob picks up an extremely dense, difficult to decipher, academic text called The New Horizon to Ancient Korean History. As we say, reading it will be, "heavy sledding." I choose the 2008 Man Booker Prize winner, The White Tiger, by Aravind Adiga. It's about social and economic injustice and globalization as depicted through one man's story.
I've been wanting to read this book ever since the author received his controversial award. The literati, though admitting Adiga is a huge talent, thought it unseemly that a first time novelist should win such a prestigeous award. This literary prize for fiction is given each year for the best original full-length novel written in the English language by a citizen of The Commonwealth of Nations, Ireland, or Zimbabwe. Past winners have included Michael Ondaatje, Arundhati Roy, and Margaret Atwood. As promised, The White Tiger is a page turner; I have to force myself to put it down.
At noon, Diane hosts a goodbye lunch for SharaLee and we're invited along with Ryan, Karl, and Krishad, a young exchange student from the Bahamas, via Delaware State University. The pork rib barbeque includes toasted corn, and a couple of dozen other dishes. It's the ultimate Korean send-off, and SharaLee is touched.
Once again, it's interesting to me how very little Koreans drink with their meals. Often, it's no more than a quick glass of water at the end. Today, we splurge and the table of seven shares three small bottles of pop. In North America, each person has a 20 - 32 ounce glass of their own, and often has refills! After we eat, Rob and I give SharaLee a little travel pack of provisions for the journey. It's filled with Korean goodies, like shortbread mushroom shaped cookies with chocolate, veggie chips, and fragrant gum.
This lunchtime get-together is the first time I've had much of a chance to talk with Krishad, and I feel for the kid. He's finding being black to be a bit of a challenge here. People stare at him, and sometimes act strange, and understandly, this hurts his feelings. I explain that people do the same to us, because we look different than them, but that's cold comfort to a young man who is alone, and far, far from home. I think of how I might feel at that age, and on my own. I feel very lucky to be travelling with my sensible old shoe, my lovable old black lab, my pati-dev, Rob. Every day someone comments on how well-suited we are to one another, and I must agree. When I say to Diane, yes, we're both slightly off, so we fit, she replies, "Even a straw shoe has a mate!"
We get some very good news in the afternoon. We learn that we can stay in our apartment for another week, and at no charge! This saves us seven nights of hotel bills, which allows us to comfortably cover the thank you dinners we've been hosting. Once again, the Lord provides! It's an embarassment of riches.
In the evening, Sue invites us to dinner with SharaLee. We have an outrageouly delicious and nutritious cold soup. Rob's "mae mil meung myeon" has buckwheat noodles and my "chik neung myeon" has arrowroot noodles. These soups are sweet and vinegary, and they contain slices of pear. Our table gets a free mountain of grilled pork for ordering the soups.
Slim, gorgeous Sue receives her soup and uses scissors to slice the noodles and mix the ingredients at warp speed. She inhales everything, and then orders more noodles! We are incredulous as she downs those at the same speed. Let's get this straight: Sue is young, beautiful, smart, speaks a couple of languages fluently, has a rich, rolling, laugh that erupts through her body, can sing like a bird, eat like a horse, and stay slender. She's nice too. It just isn't fair.
In the evening, Rob and I walk to a neighbourhood outside our gate, and in the opposite direction of Hu Moon. We find an entirely different crowd of young, less hip, Koreans, and average families. We pick up a couple of bags of fruit, and when Rob hands his soju to the middle-aged cashier, she laughs aloud. This must be quite the scene for this traditional Korean shopkeeper, because most Westerners hate soju. Rob has grown rather fond of it, and this is a guy who has a drink, maybe, twice a year.
We read ourselves to sleep, to dream of tomorrow's trek up Mudeung-san.
Monday, July 19, 2010
So much to eat, so little time!
Intense sunlight and high humidity make simply walking from A to B an effort today.
We meet Varahanambi, to be known henceforth as Dr. S., for the sake of brevity, at 1 PM. Though it's just a ten minute walk, by the time we reach him, we are both hot messes.
He leads us to a fusion restaurant in Hu Moon that, thankfully, is nicely air-conditioned. The moment we enter, we are approached by Yeong Ju Ahn, the young man who introduced Rob at the GIC on Saturday. He's dining with two female family members, and when Rob stops by their table with a couple of Winnipeg pins, they're tickled pink.
Dr. S. is his usual thoroughly entertaining self. I order the bacon carbonnara, while Dr. S. and Rob get barbequed chicken and fries. But when the food arrives, it turns out they're getting chicken breast in a mushroom sauce with rice. Dr. S. cheerily says, "Well, we missed it," and then he tucks in with gusto. The food is all top-notch. The bacon in my carbonnara is smoky and sweet, and there's a thick blanket of several types of cheese. These meals would easily cost $20 a plate at home, but here, it's less than $5 Canadian, and remember, tipping is not allowed.
Dr. S. holds forth on a range of subjects. On marriage: "My father wants me to marry," but apparently he is no longer a worthy candidate. "I'm 33. Over the hill. If you're under 30, you're on the way up the hill. 31, 32, you're on top of the hill. By the time you hit 33, you're down the other side!" He's already built a home in India, but he's quick to correct himself and say that it's not really a home, but a house.
He tells us his father is a physically fit man who does yoga every day. Dr. S. is in pretty fine shape himself, yet his father chides him for his slight tummy, to which Dr. S. responds, "Thank you, Korea!" He questions, "Don't you like your food?" When we say, "Yes, very much," he says he's been worried because we're not eating fast enough.
Dr. S. is overjoyed to hear Rob speak of India, and to tell stories using a thick Indian accent complete with the requisite head bobbing. They talk of motorcycles; Dr. S. has an Enfield, a bike often owned by police and army officers, who are kind of considered the rogue bikers of India. Dr. S. says he just loves the sound his bike makes, "tick tick tick tick." He says it's such an imposing sound that when people hear it, they think, "Who's that coming?" When Rob jokes about his 750 Honda Shadow struggling to haul around our fat bottoms, Dr. S. exclaims, "Are you kidding me, Sir?" He says back in India a 125cc bike is, "king of the road!" Rob kids that with a 250, an Indian could "be a maharajah!"
All of Dr. S.'s commentary is delivered with descriptive hand gestures, dancing eyes, and a ready smile. I could listen to him talk for hours, but he has to get back to work. Rob reaches for the bill. His hand is right overtop of it, when suddenly, Dr. S., as Rob says, moves "like a cobra" to grab it. This sleight of hand happens so fast, I doubt my own eyes. But there's no way around it. Now, the idea was that we were going to treat Dr. S. since he was so kind as to buy me lunch the other day when Rob and I failed to connect. Buying a meal seems such a natural, and mutually agreeable method of showing someone thanks, but on the walk home we try to think of another way to go about it. Dr. S. shares his gifts of humour, intellect and wealth quite freely. Regarding the latter, he lives on just half his salary, as he dutifully sends the other half home to India.
At 5:30 we meet with Sue for our Korean class, but we're the only ones there. The other students have either left town, or are preparing to. While walking to class, Sue and Rob are talking about the ridiculous lengths people go to in the name of beauty. Just then, Sue looks down and sees a big fat two inch lime green caterpillar with a giant red horn. He's wedging himself between two pieces of hot concrete. I take a paper from my notebook, carefully scoop him up, and take him to the cool shade of a nearby tree. In class, Rob impresses Sue with his superlative language acquisition skills. He's managed, in a couple of weeks, to sound out and construct Korean words. While I'm far behind in my learning, I do manage to figure out how to spell his name using the Hanguel script.
In the evening, we take Ryan and Karl for their thank you dinner. They choose a chicken place where we have ultra tender chicken fingers, home-made potato chips and salad. The salad, of course, comes drenched in syrup! So much for trying to be health conscious. What makes this all the more amusing is that today is the first of three days, each three weeks apart, set aside each summer on which Koreans celebrate good health by eating chicken. That it is breaded and deep-fried is of no-nevermind.
Ryan shows us pictures of his beautiful dogs, and we finally find out about this popular breed we've been seeing in Korea. This type of dog is called a chindokae, and it looks like a white German Shepard, but a few pounds lighter. Ryan's dog's English names are Solidarity and Love. His family will care for them when he leaves next month for an academic year of study in Missouri. He's hoping to come up to Canada to visit us for Christmas, and we're hoping to take him ice skating and tobogganing. Shy, quiet Karl opens up as the meal progresses, telling us that he studied in Sydney, Australia for a year. He fondly recalls Bondi Beach, and most especially seeing a surfing Santa Claus at Christmas.
We're home by 9:30 to do some laundry, read, and plan for the week ahead.
We meet Varahanambi, to be known henceforth as Dr. S., for the sake of brevity, at 1 PM. Though it's just a ten minute walk, by the time we reach him, we are both hot messes.
He leads us to a fusion restaurant in Hu Moon that, thankfully, is nicely air-conditioned. The moment we enter, we are approached by Yeong Ju Ahn, the young man who introduced Rob at the GIC on Saturday. He's dining with two female family members, and when Rob stops by their table with a couple of Winnipeg pins, they're tickled pink.
Dr. S. is his usual thoroughly entertaining self. I order the bacon carbonnara, while Dr. S. and Rob get barbequed chicken and fries. But when the food arrives, it turns out they're getting chicken breast in a mushroom sauce with rice. Dr. S. cheerily says, "Well, we missed it," and then he tucks in with gusto. The food is all top-notch. The bacon in my carbonnara is smoky and sweet, and there's a thick blanket of several types of cheese. These meals would easily cost $20 a plate at home, but here, it's less than $5 Canadian, and remember, tipping is not allowed.
Dr. S. holds forth on a range of subjects. On marriage: "My father wants me to marry," but apparently he is no longer a worthy candidate. "I'm 33. Over the hill. If you're under 30, you're on the way up the hill. 31, 32, you're on top of the hill. By the time you hit 33, you're down the other side!" He's already built a home in India, but he's quick to correct himself and say that it's not really a home, but a house.
He tells us his father is a physically fit man who does yoga every day. Dr. S. is in pretty fine shape himself, yet his father chides him for his slight tummy, to which Dr. S. responds, "Thank you, Korea!" He questions, "Don't you like your food?" When we say, "Yes, very much," he says he's been worried because we're not eating fast enough.
Dr. S. is overjoyed to hear Rob speak of India, and to tell stories using a thick Indian accent complete with the requisite head bobbing. They talk of motorcycles; Dr. S. has an Enfield, a bike often owned by police and army officers, who are kind of considered the rogue bikers of India. Dr. S. says he just loves the sound his bike makes, "tick tick tick tick." He says it's such an imposing sound that when people hear it, they think, "Who's that coming?" When Rob jokes about his 750 Honda Shadow struggling to haul around our fat bottoms, Dr. S. exclaims, "Are you kidding me, Sir?" He says back in India a 125cc bike is, "king of the road!" Rob kids that with a 250, an Indian could "be a maharajah!"
All of Dr. S.'s commentary is delivered with descriptive hand gestures, dancing eyes, and a ready smile. I could listen to him talk for hours, but he has to get back to work. Rob reaches for the bill. His hand is right overtop of it, when suddenly, Dr. S., as Rob says, moves "like a cobra" to grab it. This sleight of hand happens so fast, I doubt my own eyes. But there's no way around it. Now, the idea was that we were going to treat Dr. S. since he was so kind as to buy me lunch the other day when Rob and I failed to connect. Buying a meal seems such a natural, and mutually agreeable method of showing someone thanks, but on the walk home we try to think of another way to go about it. Dr. S. shares his gifts of humour, intellect and wealth quite freely. Regarding the latter, he lives on just half his salary, as he dutifully sends the other half home to India.
At 5:30 we meet with Sue for our Korean class, but we're the only ones there. The other students have either left town, or are preparing to. While walking to class, Sue and Rob are talking about the ridiculous lengths people go to in the name of beauty. Just then, Sue looks down and sees a big fat two inch lime green caterpillar with a giant red horn. He's wedging himself between two pieces of hot concrete. I take a paper from my notebook, carefully scoop him up, and take him to the cool shade of a nearby tree. In class, Rob impresses Sue with his superlative language acquisition skills. He's managed, in a couple of weeks, to sound out and construct Korean words. While I'm far behind in my learning, I do manage to figure out how to spell his name using the Hanguel script.
In the evening, we take Ryan and Karl for their thank you dinner. They choose a chicken place where we have ultra tender chicken fingers, home-made potato chips and salad. The salad, of course, comes drenched in syrup! So much for trying to be health conscious. What makes this all the more amusing is that today is the first of three days, each three weeks apart, set aside each summer on which Koreans celebrate good health by eating chicken. That it is breaded and deep-fried is of no-nevermind.
Ryan shows us pictures of his beautiful dogs, and we finally find out about this popular breed we've been seeing in Korea. This type of dog is called a chindokae, and it looks like a white German Shepard, but a few pounds lighter. Ryan's dog's English names are Solidarity and Love. His family will care for them when he leaves next month for an academic year of study in Missouri. He's hoping to come up to Canada to visit us for Christmas, and we're hoping to take him ice skating and tobogganing. Shy, quiet Karl opens up as the meal progresses, telling us that he studied in Sydney, Australia for a year. He fondly recalls Bondi Beach, and most especially seeing a surfing Santa Claus at Christmas.
We're home by 9:30 to do some laundry, read, and plan for the week ahead.
Solving the World's Problems
Sundays have somehow become catch-up days, when we do housework, read, and blog. It's funny how this pattern has continued, even here in Korea. The only outing happens when Rob pops over to Iris Toast to pick us up some lunch. He serves our ham, egg, and cheese with watermelon and coffee.
Much hilarity ensues when Rob accidentally sets off our alarm, and has to re-enter the apartment. He does so without warning, and some poor, defenseless, caucasian fellow is visually assaulted as he gets a flash of me, sans makeup, walking around in nothing but a long, lime green, tank-top. Yes, I'm sure it was a grim as it sounds!
My neck and back irritation is approaching Barton Fink proportions. This condition is named after an incident in which we were watching the Coen Brothers movie of the same name, and my migraine became so severe that it impaired my vision and I couldn't turn my head. I had to just lie still for hours. Though I love the Coen Brothers, I can barely remember the storyline, however, the movie is forever emblazoned in my mind's eye. In response to today's situation, I lie still for a couple of hours, take some muscle relaxants, and do my level best to just "be."
At 6, we meet up with Santiago and Maria, whom we first met on the trip to the 5-18 Memorial Cemetary. They lean toward vegetarian, so we settle on the Korean Traditional Porridge Restaurant. Good old sensible Rob chooses his favourite, the red bean soup, Santiago and Maria take my go-to, the vegetable cheese, and I try the pumpkin. I'm pleased with my choice as it's rich and satisfying. It includes rice balls, and little black bits, which I fear may be pupae. Upon closer examination, I recognize them as some kind of nut or bean. I hope.
We have a lively discussion about politics, social concerns, and ethics. The stunningly beautiful , and remarkably well-informed Maria tells us that her country, Bangladesh, is gradually pulling itself out of poverty, but it's a slow climb. Santiago says it's a shame that East Timor is a developing nation facing huge hurdles, especially since it has valuable natural resources such as oil and marble. He says Australia is keen to establish an oil industry there, but reluctant to hire local workers. It's the age old dilemma of superpowers trying to help poor countries by swooping in, raping the countryside, putting little into the local economy, and then acting like they're doing the host nation a favour by even being there.
Both Maria and Santiago are in Korea working for The May 18 Memorial Foundation Culture and Solidarity Team. They are politically and culturally aware, and very determined to, not just help at home, but work to make the world at large a better place. They are passionate about their efforts and are as sincere as the day is long. Santiago, in particular, seems to have lived through more than he'd care to remember, having been in an out of jail for his involvement in protests since he was just nine years old.
We move on to a nearby coffee shop and over a banana shake, cappuccino, and an Americano we we hash over pressing global issues, and smaller local ones, such as the dearth of true vegetarian restaurants in town. We try to come up with workable solutions to poverty in East Timor. We discuss the possibility of establishing an eco-tourism industry. I can't help but reflect on an article I read this very day about fifteen environmentally sensitive sites around the world that are now in peril due to eco-tourism.
We settle on the importance of education in instigating any real change. Staring through his plaintive eyes that seem to see forever, Santiago tell us that East Timor has recently established ties with Cuba to learn how to emulate that country's very successful education system. Whatever opinions one might have about the communist system, Cuba is one of the few places in the world where even hookers have university degrees.
After we go our separate ways, Rob and I walk for an hour to try to shake off some of the calories we've taken in this evening. Then we head home for "Diget" digestive cookies and watermelon, as we lay on the floor and watch old Get Smart episodes on youtube. One episode centres on bombs being planted by espionage agents during the construction of a high rise. A commenter on the webpage points out that the World Trade Centre was under construction at the time this episode was being made and the commenter questions whether this is synchronicity.
One this is for certain: Trying to solve all the world's problems is exhausting business!
Much hilarity ensues when Rob accidentally sets off our alarm, and has to re-enter the apartment. He does so without warning, and some poor, defenseless, caucasian fellow is visually assaulted as he gets a flash of me, sans makeup, walking around in nothing but a long, lime green, tank-top. Yes, I'm sure it was a grim as it sounds!
My neck and back irritation is approaching Barton Fink proportions. This condition is named after an incident in which we were watching the Coen Brothers movie of the same name, and my migraine became so severe that it impaired my vision and I couldn't turn my head. I had to just lie still for hours. Though I love the Coen Brothers, I can barely remember the storyline, however, the movie is forever emblazoned in my mind's eye. In response to today's situation, I lie still for a couple of hours, take some muscle relaxants, and do my level best to just "be."
At 6, we meet up with Santiago and Maria, whom we first met on the trip to the 5-18 Memorial Cemetary. They lean toward vegetarian, so we settle on the Korean Traditional Porridge Restaurant. Good old sensible Rob chooses his favourite, the red bean soup, Santiago and Maria take my go-to, the vegetable cheese, and I try the pumpkin. I'm pleased with my choice as it's rich and satisfying. It includes rice balls, and little black bits, which I fear may be pupae. Upon closer examination, I recognize them as some kind of nut or bean. I hope.
We have a lively discussion about politics, social concerns, and ethics. The stunningly beautiful , and remarkably well-informed Maria tells us that her country, Bangladesh, is gradually pulling itself out of poverty, but it's a slow climb. Santiago says it's a shame that East Timor is a developing nation facing huge hurdles, especially since it has valuable natural resources such as oil and marble. He says Australia is keen to establish an oil industry there, but reluctant to hire local workers. It's the age old dilemma of superpowers trying to help poor countries by swooping in, raping the countryside, putting little into the local economy, and then acting like they're doing the host nation a favour by even being there.
Both Maria and Santiago are in Korea working for The May 18 Memorial Foundation Culture and Solidarity Team. They are politically and culturally aware, and very determined to, not just help at home, but work to make the world at large a better place. They are passionate about their efforts and are as sincere as the day is long. Santiago, in particular, seems to have lived through more than he'd care to remember, having been in an out of jail for his involvement in protests since he was just nine years old.
We move on to a nearby coffee shop and over a banana shake, cappuccino, and an Americano we we hash over pressing global issues, and smaller local ones, such as the dearth of true vegetarian restaurants in town. We try to come up with workable solutions to poverty in East Timor. We discuss the possibility of establishing an eco-tourism industry. I can't help but reflect on an article I read this very day about fifteen environmentally sensitive sites around the world that are now in peril due to eco-tourism.
We settle on the importance of education in instigating any real change. Staring through his plaintive eyes that seem to see forever, Santiago tell us that East Timor has recently established ties with Cuba to learn how to emulate that country's very successful education system. Whatever opinions one might have about the communist system, Cuba is one of the few places in the world where even hookers have university degrees.
After we go our separate ways, Rob and I walk for an hour to try to shake off some of the calories we've taken in this evening. Then we head home for "Diget" digestive cookies and watermelon, as we lay on the floor and watch old Get Smart episodes on youtube. One episode centres on bombs being planted by espionage agents during the construction of a high rise. A commenter on the webpage points out that the World Trade Centre was under construction at the time this episode was being made and the commenter questions whether this is synchronicity.
One this is for certain: Trying to solve all the world's problems is exhausting business!
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Gora Guru
This is Rob's big day. He's presenting at the Gwangju International Centre. The GIC is yet another initiative of that little man with very grand ideas, Dr. Shin. The centre was established several years ago as a place where interested citizens and foreign nationals can gather to discuss a range of issues. Today, Rob's topic is Buddhism: A Westerner's Perspective.
When we arrive at the GIC building, we're greeted by roaring engines and burning tires out front. The streets have been blocked off and there's a drag racing demonstration going on. Acrid smoke fills the air, and we give up on trying to talk because we can't hear one another. We laugh at the timing of this event. It will take a Buddhist's calm to outperform this competition.
We're treated to a lunch that is delivered in a tri-layered metal box. Like clowns packed into mini cars at the circus, a dozen metal and plastic serving dishes and a few boxes are pulled out and set on the table. There are two varieties of soup, two types of sushi, noodles, and ddeukbokki, my favourite big fat rice noodles. Diane is the hostest with the mostest, and this is just one more example of how she pays careful attention to her guests.
Quiet little TA Hye Seon is here today. The most retiring of the TAs is turning out to be one of the most likely to branch out, explore, and take social chances. TA Hao has shown up for the address, even though he's leaving tomorrow for Disney World, and won't be back home until the new year. He wants to hear Rob, and he wants to have a chance to say goodbye to both of us. A student from our shared class, Ju Jyun, has shown up for the same reason, but also to say goodbye to Hao. We've formed some strong ties over a three week program, and this does Dr. Shin proud, for it is exactly what he had in mind when Summer Exploration was but a gleam in his eye.
After lunch Diane and I run down the street to pick up coffee. We have a nice chat about the program and Rob's and my experience in Korea. I'm very honest with her, telling her that we've had a remarkable time, with the only downside being the Ugly Americans. Of course I'm considerably more diplomatic in my explanation, while staying true to myself in answering her questions. Diane is a very astute observer, and she hits the nail on the head when she says it's about maturity, and having a strong enough sense of self to be able to immerse oneself in another culture without feeling threatened.
Just before he speaks, Rob is greeted by an older gent who just happens to be studying International Law at Chonnam. No retirement for this razor sharp fellow. In fact, he recently took a tour of Western Canada, including Vancouver, Banff, and Calgary, and he loved it so much, he wants to return. This man is representative of his generation's attitude toward education; for them, life-long learner is more than just a catchphrase.
At 3 PM, Yeong Ju introduces Rob, and he, like his competition, is off to the races. (Thankfully, on the fourth floor, the cars simply create a distant din.) Rob's provides an overview of the history of Buddhism, and his message comes down to this: Buddhism is many things in many places, but he personally sees the underlying theme as "ahimsa," or, non-violence. He says two facets of the faith are driving forces in his life: upaya and the idea of personal responsiblity. Upaya simply means modifying the message to suit the audience, so, having good communication. Personal responsiblity means that one must work for salvation; it isn't just handed over.
The audience is fully engaged, and the forty minute presentation is followed by 50 minutes of discussion. Afterwards, many people come up for a private audience, and want to have their photo taken with the silver-haired, silver-tongued gora guru. (Note: Gora is the Hindi word for "white.") In his talk, and the subsequent question period, Rob has been able to draw parallels between disparate religions, and validate all interrogators. He has somehow managed to talk religion to a group of very well informed, highly opinionated, people from different cultures, with different faith systems, and everyone feels enriched for the experience. He is walking the Buddhist walk, and this crowd gets it, and appreciates it. Above all, Dr. Shin is very pleased, telling Rob it was the most informative and comprehensive dissertation he's ever heard on the subject.
For dinner, we repair to The First Alleyway, the Canadian restaurant a stones throw from the GIC. Rob and I share a brain, so we both end up ordering the falafel on pita, and we're ever so happy for our choice. It's amazing, on par, and in some cases better, than that I've had at Middle Eastern establishments. It's served with a strong garlic-lemon aeoli, that I would dearly love to duplicate at home. The side dish onion rings are succulent and sweet, and the batter is light and airy. In the Korean way, we share dishes around the table, and others agree with our assessment.
Though we are stuffed, Diane and her husband, Jon, treat us to dessert at a cafe down the street. We share a giant waffle with ice cream and chocolate sauce, and a green tea ice cream, flake dessert which smothers a red bean, rice crisp interior. The curious blend of salty bean and sweet ice cream in the second dish reminds me of the Filipino treat, halo halo. (Note: Halo halo is pronounced hal-o, hal-o.)
We're home before 10, but it feels as if we've lived two or three days in one. Perhaps you recall the 1980s pop song, "I think I'm turning Japanese (I really think so!)" Well, given our schedules these days, I think we could simply insert "Korean" into the title, and we'd be on the mark. I really think so!
When we arrive at the GIC building, we're greeted by roaring engines and burning tires out front. The streets have been blocked off and there's a drag racing demonstration going on. Acrid smoke fills the air, and we give up on trying to talk because we can't hear one another. We laugh at the timing of this event. It will take a Buddhist's calm to outperform this competition.
We're treated to a lunch that is delivered in a tri-layered metal box. Like clowns packed into mini cars at the circus, a dozen metal and plastic serving dishes and a few boxes are pulled out and set on the table. There are two varieties of soup, two types of sushi, noodles, and ddeukbokki, my favourite big fat rice noodles. Diane is the hostest with the mostest, and this is just one more example of how she pays careful attention to her guests.
Quiet little TA Hye Seon is here today. The most retiring of the TAs is turning out to be one of the most likely to branch out, explore, and take social chances. TA Hao has shown up for the address, even though he's leaving tomorrow for Disney World, and won't be back home until the new year. He wants to hear Rob, and he wants to have a chance to say goodbye to both of us. A student from our shared class, Ju Jyun, has shown up for the same reason, but also to say goodbye to Hao. We've formed some strong ties over a three week program, and this does Dr. Shin proud, for it is exactly what he had in mind when Summer Exploration was but a gleam in his eye.
After lunch Diane and I run down the street to pick up coffee. We have a nice chat about the program and Rob's and my experience in Korea. I'm very honest with her, telling her that we've had a remarkable time, with the only downside being the Ugly Americans. Of course I'm considerably more diplomatic in my explanation, while staying true to myself in answering her questions. Diane is a very astute observer, and she hits the nail on the head when she says it's about maturity, and having a strong enough sense of self to be able to immerse oneself in another culture without feeling threatened.
Just before he speaks, Rob is greeted by an older gent who just happens to be studying International Law at Chonnam. No retirement for this razor sharp fellow. In fact, he recently took a tour of Western Canada, including Vancouver, Banff, and Calgary, and he loved it so much, he wants to return. This man is representative of his generation's attitude toward education; for them, life-long learner is more than just a catchphrase.
At 3 PM, Yeong Ju introduces Rob, and he, like his competition, is off to the races. (Thankfully, on the fourth floor, the cars simply create a distant din.) Rob's provides an overview of the history of Buddhism, and his message comes down to this: Buddhism is many things in many places, but he personally sees the underlying theme as "ahimsa," or, non-violence. He says two facets of the faith are driving forces in his life: upaya and the idea of personal responsiblity. Upaya simply means modifying the message to suit the audience, so, having good communication. Personal responsiblity means that one must work for salvation; it isn't just handed over.
The audience is fully engaged, and the forty minute presentation is followed by 50 minutes of discussion. Afterwards, many people come up for a private audience, and want to have their photo taken with the silver-haired, silver-tongued gora guru. (Note: Gora is the Hindi word for "white.") In his talk, and the subsequent question period, Rob has been able to draw parallels between disparate religions, and validate all interrogators. He has somehow managed to talk religion to a group of very well informed, highly opinionated, people from different cultures, with different faith systems, and everyone feels enriched for the experience. He is walking the Buddhist walk, and this crowd gets it, and appreciates it. Above all, Dr. Shin is very pleased, telling Rob it was the most informative and comprehensive dissertation he's ever heard on the subject.
For dinner, we repair to The First Alleyway, the Canadian restaurant a stones throw from the GIC. Rob and I share a brain, so we both end up ordering the falafel on pita, and we're ever so happy for our choice. It's amazing, on par, and in some cases better, than that I've had at Middle Eastern establishments. It's served with a strong garlic-lemon aeoli, that I would dearly love to duplicate at home. The side dish onion rings are succulent and sweet, and the batter is light and airy. In the Korean way, we share dishes around the table, and others agree with our assessment.
Though we are stuffed, Diane and her husband, Jon, treat us to dessert at a cafe down the street. We share a giant waffle with ice cream and chocolate sauce, and a green tea ice cream, flake dessert which smothers a red bean, rice crisp interior. The curious blend of salty bean and sweet ice cream in the second dish reminds me of the Filipino treat, halo halo. (Note: Halo halo is pronounced hal-o, hal-o.)
We're home before 10, but it feels as if we've lived two or three days in one. Perhaps you recall the 1980s pop song, "I think I'm turning Japanese (I really think so!)" Well, given our schedules these days, I think we could simply insert "Korean" into the title, and we'd be on the mark. I really think so!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
