So much to eat, so little time!

Intense sunlight and high humidity make simply walking from A to B an effort today.

We meet Varahanambi, to be known henceforth as Dr. S., for the sake of brevity, at 1 PM. Though it's just a ten minute walk, by the time we reach him, we are both hot messes.

He leads us to a fusion restaurant in Hu Moon that, thankfully, is nicely air-conditioned. The moment we enter, we are approached by Yeong Ju Ahn, the young man who introduced Rob at the GIC on Saturday. He's dining with two female family members, and when Rob stops by their table with a couple of Winnipeg pins, they're tickled pink.

Dr. S. is his usual thoroughly entertaining self. I order the bacon carbonnara, while Dr. S. and Rob get barbequed chicken and fries. But when the food arrives, it turns out they're getting chicken breast in a mushroom sauce with rice. Dr. S. cheerily says, "Well, we missed it," and then he tucks in with gusto. The food is all top-notch. The bacon in my carbonnara is smoky and sweet, and there's a thick blanket of several types of cheese. These meals would easily cost $20 a plate at home, but here, it's less than $5 Canadian, and remember, tipping is not allowed.

Dr. S. holds forth on a range of subjects. On marriage: "My father wants me to marry," but apparently he is no longer a worthy candidate. "I'm 33. Over the hill. If you're under 30, you're on the way up the hill. 31, 32, you're on top of the hill. By the time you hit 33, you're down the other side!" He's already built a home in India, but he's quick to correct himself and say that it's not really a home, but a house.

He tells us his father is a physically fit man who does yoga every day. Dr. S. is in pretty fine shape himself, yet his father chides him for his slight tummy, to which Dr. S. responds, "Thank you, Korea!" He questions, "Don't you like your food?" When we say, "Yes, very much," he says he's been worried because we're not eating fast enough.

Dr. S. is overjoyed to hear Rob speak of India, and to tell stories using a thick Indian accent complete with the requisite head bobbing. They talk of motorcycles; Dr. S. has an Enfield, a bike often owned by police and army officers, who are kind of considered the rogue bikers of India. Dr. S. says he just loves the sound his bike makes, "tick tick tick tick." He says it's such an imposing sound that when people hear it, they think, "Who's that coming?" When Rob jokes about his 750 Honda Shadow struggling to haul around our fat bottoms, Dr. S. exclaims, "Are you kidding me, Sir?" He says back in India a 125cc bike is, "king of the road!" Rob kids that with a 250, an Indian could "be a maharajah!"

All of Dr. S.'s commentary is delivered with descriptive hand gestures, dancing eyes, and a ready smile. I could listen to him talk for hours, but he has to get back to work. Rob reaches for the bill. His hand is right overtop of it, when suddenly, Dr. S., as Rob says, moves "like a cobra" to grab it. This sleight of hand happens so fast, I doubt my own eyes. But there's no way around it. Now, the idea was that we were going to treat Dr. S. since he was so kind as to buy me lunch the other day when Rob and I failed to connect. Buying a meal seems such a natural, and mutually agreeable method of showing someone thanks, but on the walk home we try to think of another way to go about it. Dr. S. shares his gifts of humour, intellect and wealth quite freely. Regarding the latter, he lives on just half his salary, as he dutifully sends the other half home to India.

At 5:30 we meet with Sue for our Korean class, but we're the only ones there. The other students have either left town, or are preparing to. While walking to class, Sue and Rob are talking about the ridiculous lengths people go to in the name of beauty. Just then, Sue looks down and sees a big fat two inch lime green caterpillar with a giant red horn. He's wedging himself between two pieces of hot concrete. I take a paper from my notebook, carefully scoop him up, and take him to the cool shade of a nearby tree. In class, Rob impresses Sue with his superlative language acquisition skills. He's managed, in a couple of weeks, to sound out and construct Korean words. While I'm far behind in my learning, I do manage to figure out how to spell his name using the Hanguel script.

In the evening, we take Ryan and Karl for their thank you dinner. They choose a chicken place where we have ultra tender chicken fingers, home-made potato chips and salad. The salad, of course, comes drenched in syrup! So much for trying to be health conscious. What makes this all the more amusing is that today is the first of three days, each three weeks apart, set aside each summer on which Koreans celebrate good health by eating chicken. That it is breaded and deep-fried is of no-nevermind.

Ryan shows us pictures of his beautiful dogs, and we finally find out about this popular breed we've been seeing in Korea. This type of dog is called a chindokae, and it looks like a white German Shepard, but a few pounds lighter. Ryan's dog's English names are Solidarity and Love. His family will care for them when he leaves next month for an academic year of study in Missouri. He's hoping to come up to Canada to visit us for Christmas, and we're hoping to take him ice skating and tobogganing. Shy, quiet Karl opens up as the meal progresses, telling us that he studied in Sydney, Australia for a year. He fondly recalls Bondi Beach, and most especially seeing a surfing Santa Claus at Christmas.

We're home by 9:30 to do some laundry, read, and plan for the week ahead.