Shop 'Til You Drop

Today, we are on a mission. We must find a new, reasonably priced, easy to use, camera and some loose fitting, conservative T-shirts. While the latter is rather foreign to me, we must take immediate steps to mitigate the scandal factor caused whenever I go out of doors. It's not that I'm particularly saucy in my dress, rather, the Koreans are somewhat prudish - at least when it comes to the upper half of the body.

In North America, it's common to see women with their busts on full display, on a platter, as it were. In South Korea, this just isn't done. However, the women compensate by wearing skirts and shorts that skim their nether regions while tottering around on six inch spike heels. As a result, my shirts, which I selected for their North American business acceptable necklines are, in this neck of the woods, borderline.

Rob concocts a masterful breakfast of fruit salad and rice frittata, I slap on some makeup in the bathroom, with its Helen Keller lighting, hoping that I don't resemble a Picasso, and we depart. It's mercifully cooler today, but that's likely because the jangma (literally heavy summer rains), or, monsoons are about to begin. Mudeung-san (Peerless Mountain, the equivalent of Japan's Fuji-san) looms large in the distance, shrouded by fog. The driving range down the street, wedged between large buildings and covered with miles of netting, is no doubt doing a brisk business on this beautiful day.

We get set to hail a cab using the Korean yo-yo technique, wherein you gesture hand down, but there's already a lineup, so, following protocol, we take the first one. We manage our first cab ride alone successfully, and head into Geumho (Kumho) World for a camera. I'm partial to the tried and true Canon line, as it has served me well for some thirty years, but we don't find the right one until we check out EMart, the department store next door. We also find a couple of short sleeved dress shirts for Rob. While "short-sleeved dress shirt" may sound oxymoronic, they're hard to beat at 11,500 won, or about 10 bucks a piece, and they'll do him just fine.

The search for my T-shirts proves more daunting. One after another, diminuitive clerks shake their heads in disbelief as I ask if they have "big" versions of the samples I see. Also, it's really hard to find clothes that aren't all googawed up with bling. Koreans love their bling as much as they love designer labels. For example, our welcome pack from Chonnam University contains two umbrellas labelled "bourgeous" and "love you," and two very high end Omar Sharif of Paris towels. (We've already agreed they're too beautiful to use.) In any event, my quest for the elusive T-shirt ends when I find a couple of sufficient mens undershirts, and hope against hope that no one will recognize them as such.

From there, we head to old downtown Gwangju and its massive underground shopping area. Rob has spotted an "extra large" sign in a shop window, so we head into the information centre to find out more. Unfortunately for us, the information is imparted entirely in Korean. I do seize the opportunity to avail myself of the computer on-site, and I check my email. To my extreme surprise, I find that my official orientation meeting may be moved from Monday to - today! This last minute changing of schedules is apparently very Korean. I later learn that the original date will stand. I also read an email from my sister Faith, in Winnipeg, who provides me with some great news, but also tells me that a long-time family friend has passed away. We used to make hay at Mr. Adamson's farm near Kenora, Ontario when I was young. He was a lovely man, a real class act. So here, in the heart of old Gwangju, I am transported to a hot hayfield, lo those many years ago, and I shed a tear for both a man, and a time long past.

Rob and I exit the information centre and end up back underground. I end up finding a crazy animal print dress (for me, a shirt) for 5,000 won, and a pair of the iconic flashing red devil horns, the symbol of Korea's football team, on a headband for Rob. He elicits a tremendous response from the locals: nods of appreciation from the men, giggles from the young women, wide-eyed stares from wee children and attempts at conversations with laughing elderly women.

The whole notion of how we as humans communicate comes under the magnifying glass when one is placed in a situation where verbal communication is all but impossible. The non-verbal conversations are fascinating, for we must call upon myriad sources for inspiration and resort to techniques such as pointing and miming. And it's amazing how far one gets by simply attempting to understand the "other." An offer of something so basic as "kajuseyo," or, "please" is very well received.

After frog-marching Rob through the shopping district, we plop down at a sushi bar for dinner. The meals are clearly spelled out in Korean and English and pictures are also provided so there won't be any surprises. In a land where some meals are served while still alive, Rob is pretty easy to please; his only request is that he not see some deep sea equivalent of Godzilla reaching from the bowl. Our server is ever so helpful, and when I express relief that she understands English, she rather adamantly offers, "I'm from the Philippines!" We don't have the usual battle with the metal Korean chopsticks, off which food tends to slip, because these ones have finger grooves in them. (Interesting point: Apparently Koreans have metal chopsticks because the country ran out of wood after World War Two.) We tuck into our delicious meal with gusto and, once again, are astonished at the pricing. A dozen pieces of sushi, each, results in a bill of 10,500 won, or, about one-third of what it would cost at home.

We head back into the streets to continue our walkabout and marvel at the blind trust of the Korean citizens. No one locks their bikes and vendors leave their outdoor displays unattended. One elderly woman actually abandons her fruit stand for several minutes while she ventures into the underground shops. When she returns, not a single item has been touched. One would be sorely vexed if they were to attempt that in any major downtown centre in North America.

Fully eight hours later, we pull up to Chonnam's main gate and see the now familiar water tower near our kyuso's, or professor's, apartment block. As we stroll through the grounds we see a couple of groups of South Asians gathered, and sure enough, whenever Indians gather, a cricket match breaks out. Nearing the apartment, we pass a couple of 7 or 8 year old Korean lads playing catch with their baseball mitts.

In our own fashion, we've all been getting some good exercise today.