On The Street

It's about 8 p.m. and I've just thrown in another load of laundry. That meant making room on the drying rack on the balcony, not that it really matters much. The clothes never seem to be completely dry to me, and I don't think I'm alone. For the first time in my life, I actually saw those little chemical packets that you get in packing boxes and new purses and shoes for sale by the bagful in the corner store. People here throw them in dresser drawers, presumably to keep everything inside fresh. Clever.

Just now, I hear the familiar gush of water flowing out of the washer, down through a pipe that ends a couple of inches above the floor, through the hole in the floor, and out onto the sidewalk where it will stream into holes in the stone blocks covering the drain. These drainage systems, through which surplus house water (but not sewage) course runs throughout the city. Sometimes they produce a brackish scent, prompting shopowners to cover them with big plastic mats. When these mats get dirty, they rush out to sweep them with archaic looking low tech brooms make of tied together tree branches or grasses. They look inefficient, but they do the job.

Only a short while ago I returned from an evening bumming around HuMoon, the university crowd's hot spot just down the street. I've been here just over a week, and I still marvel at the sights and sounds. Something about twenty year old girls in dominatrix books, Daisy Duke shorts, and shimmery blouses with tassels across the bosom just throws me. If not for their guileless expressions, I would think them streetwalkers. But everyone dresses this way. An American chap put it to me this way: "In North America women flaunt their boobs. Here, they flaunt their legs, because that's what they've got." Whatever the m.o., as a mother, I still feel the urge to tell them to go home and cover up. Of course, this is wildly hypocritical, because I did the same in my salad days. (Long before my pasta days. And my Tim Horton's coffee with triple cream days.)

There are temptations at every turn. Tiny waffles smothered with fresh berries, chocolate, butterscotch and other sauces. Alligator pie - a thin buttery wafer topped with pecans and walnuts - claiming to only be 120 calories. Am I in some alternate universe where everything I crave is inexpensive, readily available, and Weight Watchers compliant? If the devil comes in a pleasing form, these shopowners have surely made a dark pact.

I love wandering in and out of shops, listening to conversations that I can't understand, insinuating myself into the scene. I'm thrilled that the elderly women handing out flyers who steered clear of me when I arrived now are on me like white on rice. (Side note: In this country this isn't an entirely accurate term because there are hundred of kinds of rice lining store shelves, and they all taste different from one another.) I love the 7 dollar one cup sized jars of peanut butter and thimble sized containers of yogurt. No Costco sized vats of condiments here.

I'm mystified by all the young people wearing glasses, most of them in the Hirohito style, thick black and round. (Are that many Koreans visually challenged, or is this a mass fashion statement?) I'm amused by the Innerwear Store that sells underwear. I'm wowed by the wrapping paper - thick, handcrafted, frameworthy works of art hanging in individual sheets on racks. I delight in finding neat little treats to bring home. And I get a real hoot out of the packaging. Examples include a notebook with Tweety Bird saying, "I twat I saw a puddy tat!" and a travel book advising that there's so much pleasure within, one is in danger of being "overstimulated." Everything purchased is carefully wrapped and bagged. The attention to detail is quite something. For example, earlier today Rob had already paid for fruit, which he learned at the till had been reduced in price. After payment, the clerk made a point of taking out his sticker gun, turning the dial, and re-pricing the fruit. Tonight, I buy earrings that are laying open on a table. Sure enough, the clerk places them in their own cellophane wrapper before bagging them.

Walking down the sidewalk is done at one's own peril. A man on a bike whizzes by, honking his horn as if he were Wynton Marsalis. He's drowned out by a passing vegetable truck with advertisements blaring from a loudspeaker. These vehicles are everywhere, and they sound very much like the propaganda machines we see in documentaries about World War Two. No one blinks. Earlier in the day, I witnessed two men in the middle of the street in nearby Sang Dae programming the high tech LCD sign atop their humble store. Taxis skirted around them, but those two held their ground.

Tonight, I bump into students absolutely everywhere. I'll be seeing 7 groups of 25, but I'm still taken aback at bumping into them, considering that there are 37,000 students on campus, and we're outside campus gates. Young men walk down the streets, arms linked or around each other's shoulders. I'm not sure if they're "of two spirits," as some Aboriginals would say, but no one seems to care. It's common for young girls to be affectionate, but I assumed that, like in North America, the consensus is lesbianism is hot, but men with men is not. It gives me such hope to see acceptance of something as beautiful as people showing one another affection.

As I've been blogging, Husband has come home from a dinner with The Philosopher Kings. His Religions of India course is being offered through the Philosophy Department, and his colleagues graciously treated him to a buffet, or the Koreans like to call it, a "poopay." He's stuffed to the gills with pizza, pasta, sushimi, and bulgogi, to name but a few of the dishes. He is not, however, drunk. Koreans says theirs is a drinking culture. Well, the philosophers seem to lay that contention to waste. When they order two jugs of beer, Rob braces himself. When two twelve ounce mugs arrive, to be split four ways, he relaxes.

Now, lying in bed reading, he wonders when I'm planning to grace him with my presence so we can do our ritualistic debrief before slumber. This poor man is always waiting on me and for me. To wit, this morning Rob commented on knowing how I was going to react to something saying, "I've been married to you for ten years." Then he repeated the statement. Slowly, I began to sense this was a hint. Fearing that I was going to forget our anniversary, yet again, (I've remembered it only once) I blurted out, "Is that today?!" In fact, it was exactly one week ago today, on June 17th. Bad wifey. Actually, the truth of the matter is that it feels as if we've always been together, and this is a very happy thought to end the day.

Footnote: When I finally do make it to bed, I end up accidentally waking Rob, who has already fallen asleep. Then, when he's in the bathroom, I hit him in the head when I swing open the door. Instead of being annoyed, he jokes, "There's a town called Keystone, and it has a police force!" What's not to love?