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.