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!
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