Autumn has finally arrived in Suncheon!

I am still not sure if I'm 32 or 33 . . .?

  It all started around midnight- the beginning of my most important day. I was preparing to cozy up with my book, in my jammies, and be such a good girl (with a good night sleep so I would be busy-tailed for the next day) when there was a surprising knock at my door. (I have lived here for four months and my door has only been knocked on once, so this was quite startling.) I opened it to discover a couple of my near and dear friends equipped with flaming birthday cake and a backpack full of libations and about 9lbs of cheese. A few soju cocktails later and midnight soon turned into the wee hours of the morning, time seems to pass so effortlessly amongst the perfect balance of many hearty, fulfilling laughs and introspection. A rather unexpected trip to a undisclosed location which will only be described as  . . . . .  . 

  Well needless to say, the next morning came rather abruptly and I, having the unusual duty of teaching Kindergarten which meant I, still groggy from the unexpected excitement from the night before, found myself staring into the eyes of a dozen four year old Korean children. Class consisting of me saying things like "Color the Cat's belly yellow" and "Color the monkey's tail purple . . . "

      The day progressed into an endless promenade of birthday serenades from my grade school students (which always ended with a chorus of 'we love you' with arms above their heads in the shape of a heart) and various and random gifts from an orange to a hot pink colored pencil. Then there was the stack of cards - the cards!  All hand made on colorful paper and folded meticulously with tidings of health and happiness in broken konglish: "Teacher, you are butt-iful" and  "Happy Birthday Teacher. Sorry, I don't do presents."  

   With the finish of my last class, I strapped on my blue flame helmet and hopped on my scooter for a cool ride home. As I passed under the neon Hangul street signs, I took a deep breath with of the sensation of being officially one year older. It was by far one of the most surreal and meaningful moments this humble girl from Ohio has ever experienced. 

Jinju Lantern Festival- cont'd

Jinju Lantern festival : Formal, floating, and handmade wishes.

I'm so blogging this . .

Not sure if anyone is reading this anymore, but I will keep rambling all the same. So spontaneous trip to Gwangju, one of the larger cities in Korea. A couple expats and myself trying to find only the foreigner shop where they sell the prized possession of SOUR CREAM and perhaps a block of large and imported yellow cheese. All the meanwhile keeping are eye out for the secretive and infamous TATTOO shop. As we were doing our rounds, I saw it from across the street- the scrolling letters in neon red - T - A- T - T- O- O. Before I could blink we were climbing the three flights to a tiny studio that indeed was perhaps strange but true to its sign. My companion had been searching for such a shop for awhile for for those of you who do not know, tattoos are quite taboo in Korea. They are to such an extent unaccepted that you will see a plethora of television actors with strange bandages applied to their arms and legs in order to cover their "atrocities". No matter, she wanted a tattoo. So we climbed the ambiguous staircase passed the "twice fried" chicken house up the stairs to a small studio that promised tattoo service. The entrance was enshrouded in bamboo and  it was clear to us that we should remove our shoes before entering. (Yes. You must remove your shoes before entering a tattoo shop in Korea.)

     The walls were accessorized with various amazing and exquisite tattoo artistry. These images were so much more that tattoos, they were Art. The assistant made a call to the 'on call'tattoo artist, meanwhile helping us with the technical aspects of the tattoo: how big, what color; we used the Internet to complete the task. With out us realizing much time had passed a young Korean women appeared in the door way "I'm sorry I'm late" she said in perfect English. 

   This girl, hardly nineteen was going to imprint my companion forever and with out too much time passing she inquired " Do you know Amercian Idol?" "Why of course," we replied. "I was on it- season seven Chicago." she said as a matter of factly. "What? you were?" I surprisingly asked. " Yes " she said, " I made it through second audition." "What did you perform?" I inquired. She responded "Maria Carey and Alicia Keys." She lit a cigarette and held it so that the filter bent over in a way I had never seen a cigarette go flacid before. She flicked her ashes carelessly into a paper dixie cup.  Post cigarette, my companion reclined over a modest table and was being inked away. 

    Mariah Carey was playing in the background. Mid tattoo the girl who told us her name was 'So Young' (so serious) paused to answer her cellphone only to keep tattooing mid conversation! My friend pleaded causally "uhh maybe, no cellphone?" So Young seemed to not hear her words. Within less than an hour it was finished, done flawlessly with the skill of a veteran. Her tattoo: the Chinese character "Energy". The symbolism in this was almost overwhelming.

If I am wearing all black my students ask me, "Teacher do you have black passion?" 

My answer an emphatic "Yes."

Ohh . . . Konglish.

Photo by Carlye Vroom: mmm campfire.

Amy's first camping trip to Jeri-san (Big Korea Mountain)

    It was my first camping trip in Korea. I was curious to how this experience was going to pan out. It took us 2 taxis, one train and a very precarious bus ride up a mountain to get there. We were dropped off on the side of the road in a virtually abandoned village. It was Chusok weekend which means the Thanksgiving of Korean holidays. It was great for an empty campsite but not so much for camping provisions, and as the bus sped away I wondered if we had not just made a very bad decision. But, thankfully and almost immediately, we were picked up by some of the other foreigners who had the resources to rent a car for the weekend. The campsite was basic in a small valley surrounded by dark green lush mountains and only a minute walk to arguably the most perfect river I have ever frolicked in. We BBQ'ed over Korean grills, ate Ramen for breakfast and spent most of the day between a dead man's float and amazing rock formation discovery. The campsite was neightbor to the largest honey farm I had ever seen, yet extrordinarily, the bees left us quite alone. I met a wonderful group of Native teachers. At the campfire that night, I looked around: the New Zealander was playing guitar, the Canadians were singing, the South African was tapping her toes, the Australian was drinking (well, we all were), the Englishman was smiling, and I was feeling right at home. 

It was a typical get to know you kind of conversation between student and native speaker . . .  "So what does your dad do for work?" I inquired quite normally. "I'm not sure . . . He builds bridges," the young second language speaker replied. "My mom says he's important because he changes maps."

It was a dark parking lot betwixt vertical apartment lines

    She called us all. As she should of: a normal evening for a young woman one on her normal routine gone horribly wrong with her much loved little dog. A little black hot dog, which revered by most Koreans for years before, had darted into the elevator too anxious for the usual walk seconds before the doors closed and then was separated from her guardian and mother never to be seen since. Even after an understated panicked effort on her part, the dog was gone. So in came the foreigners, all five of us, slowly combing the parking lot and surrounding areas around the elevator which Manya was seen last. We were all meandering slowly with flashlights and motorbikes calling out in the darkness "Manya?  . . . . Come here, Manya . . ." I had learned on this night that Manya translates into Korean as 'Witch' and it did not take too long before the inquisitive police arrived on the scene, "Uhh . . . were having some disturbance calls about  . . . a bunch of white people walking around the parking lot crying 'WITCH . . .WITCH!' " the Korean speaker translated for us. She said some words to them which I can only assume explained the situation and I then saw them frustratingly shake their heads and speed away. This is something that Koreans would just definitely not understand. 

September 11, 2008 South Korea: A conversation with an Iraqi.

It was an American conversation to one Iraqi: "Explain yourself for this!" the figs shouted. "How can you be so yellow, so round . .  . don't you know, if you are not figgish you are not good!" " I am who I am," the pear said with confidence. "You may be two but I am one of many pears and will always be." "But don' t you know you have always been wrong?" the figs inquired. "If you were more purple,  and had more seeds you would be better! Why do you not try to be more like the fig?" The pear thought for a couple of minutes, standing very still and said, "I am just waiting for the wind to shift, then we will fight to be more like pears and less like being figs." The figs stood silent in thought.

Contrary to popular belief, nipple tweaking is very zen.

Some places are perfection, just the way they are.

Seoul continued: photo by Carlye Vroom

After dinner, we walked sleepily. I felt peaceful. This is really real. That calm and easy feeling came to to an immediate an abrupt halt as we found ourselves walking, without warning,  into the middle of a candlelight vigil turned riot.          There were thousands, and I mean thousands, of soldiers marching around us in unison. It was a sea of synchronized authority; swarms of young Korean men in black uniforms armed with shields and batons (no guns). This is how Korea keeps the peace amongst millions: they send in many more soldiers. 

    It is hard for me to articulate the sensation one feels when you are participating in situation but yet have no real part in it. (The this was a protest of the import of American beef.) Well anyway, I was worried. For the first time in Korea, I was worried.  This could go horribly wrong even though I was only a spectator . . .  but I wasn't. It was my country's beef and I was there. Like it or not I was involved. 

   I'm sure I was standing on the corner with my hand over my mouth and furrowed brow as soldiers amassed all around me. It was then an older Korean man in the crowd reached out to me and emphatically said " Don't worry American, We are Korea. We are with you  and we love you." Amongst the endless procession of troops that kept passing, this seemed to give me little comfort, but the man continued: "Don't worry, we are all together and  we love you  . . . ."  I didn't know how to feel. I felt like a foreigner. . 

    Soon an enormous fire truck surged its way through the crowd. It began shooting enormous amounts of high pressure blue water into the riled crowd. This technique is used to break up unruly gatherings of people. The blue color is so that the police can mark who was involved in the trouble and confiscate them. This was a very intense situation. My Korean company assured me with smiling faces that I was safe, I just couldn't really believe them. They repetitiously reminded me not bother myself with thinking too much of the Korean problems and as quickly as we had stumbled in to the riot, we stumbled out. They shuffled me into a cab and soon we off like the whole thing never happened. We were going where everyone goes post-riot- shopping. 

An interlude . . .

   Before reading, I assign you a task of taking stock of what is in your fridge. I find the contents of one's fridge is always in direct relation to one is doing in her/his life. (please note this mostly applies to singletons) Mine contains: an old to-go container of honey mustard, corn tea I made and poured into an old Coke Zero 1 liter bottle (no Emily, I aint off the juice yet), and dreams- make your own assumptions.

     I have found my first restless sensations here in Korea. They told me it was coming  (they being the foreigners which have been here awhile). I just thought I was impervious to these demons. Not so much the case, but to that effect, I should note that they have been peripheral at best but for the first time today I thought: damn what would I do for deli? I mean 'where do I turn left and get outta Chinatown?' ( I say this in humor with the ignorance I might have thrown around not 5 months ago. ) And with the realization that there is no escape from my Asian-ness of being, I felt claustrophobic yet simultaneously felt alone- alone not like my dog  just died alone, but alone like a square peg amongst a bunch of round holes. It was like the sensation I had realizing that I am crowded amongst molecules but spacious amongst universes. (Yup, had to think a few times before composing that thought. )

  Perhaps, in a way, I have lived my life thus far according to everything I ever learned on 'Sesame Street'. Not a bad place to grow up- I might add. Those of us in this generation of television education are very familiar with the "One thing is not like the other" Well I can say, in all honesty and with out regard for consequence, is me. 

   That being said: I know that I am not anywhere with out someone wanting to be apart of my experience. Lending a helping hand for the brief moment of speaking English or I donno be closer to what- I just know that if I am standing in the rain umbrella-less at a stop light waiting to cross- I am always offered shelter from a nearby person even when everyone else is not- and in that way its not so bad . . . really. 

Part II: And the Seoul Adventure continues . . .

 So I must apologize for my camera did run out of juice midway through this spectacular journey, so you will have to rely on my words to describe what I experienced .  .  .  

    After the Palace, we headed to the Seodaemeon Prison. A dark place that what used to initially house Korean prisoners of war by the Japanese. Now it is a museum, or more appropriately a monument to the bloody and torturous history of Korea. As we left the grounds of the prison we heard distant and libatious music from the park below. As it was Liberation Day in Korea we stumbled very appropriately into a liberation ceremony. Koreans in traditional dress beat on drums, whistled into wooden flutes and danced in celebration of their freedom. It was infectious and for lack of a better term, magical. Elders from the crowd were raising from concrete stairs, dropping their canes, and joining in on the square.  Not a hand was not clapping along nor face not smiling with the expression that can only come from the purest sense of appreciation of what it is to be free. They were all saying  . . . . "Thank you".

      We moved on.  It was incredibly humid in Seoul that Friday afternoon and soon the moisture hung in the air heavy enough that it broke into a light drizzle. We huddled under umbrellas and sneaked are way between a crowd as light as the rain through the quaint and enchanting area known as Insadong. Shop after shop of authentic and not so authentically made Asian crafts and gifts. Every inch of Insadog teems with articulated delicacies, whether it be for the eyes, touch, smell or taste.  If I could, I would wrap the whole place up and drop it a block away from wherever I ever lived.  We sneaked down a cozy alley lit by red paper lanterns to a wooden restaurant that served a special rice wine I had never heard of outside of Korea. 

     We barely had sat in our chairs when the sweet, cool, silky drink magically appeared at our table in a voluptuous vessel. We poured drink for each other in Korean tradition: the oldest first and into earthenware bowls held with both hands. As we rested our soggy, weary bodies from the day, we slowly sipped, and poured, and sipped some more. Our conversation meandered as effortless as our bodies had all afternoon. We talked about what it was to be Korean and be American, to be women, to be standing between many worlds in many ways simultaneously. We sat there as long as it took for the tables to fill and empty again. And just as the rain slowed to a still so did our conversation. I thought it again, it reverberated in my chest like lyrics of my favorite song on a slow Sunday afternoon  . . . "Thank you."   and it wasn't even the end of day one. 

Part I: So that's why they call it Seoul . . . .

     Amy's first BIG adventure. I overstate this the way one should on their first trip to Seoul,  soul, seoul. I had all these preconceived notions of the impossibility of navigating this world of a city. I knew at least it would be the largest metropolis these little small town Ohio feet had ever trespassed, but all the same I knew . . . I had to go.  And go I went. Spontaneously with a cohort, my new travel companion who, thankfully had been to Seoul just enough times to barely know her way around, reserve us a humble room in a cheap hostile, and (our saving grace) a few Koreans who had lived their all our lives. My point of this trip was strictly pedestrian- and as a pedestrian I went. We must of have walked miles upon delicious miles on this trip and although my dogs barked for rest almost the whole way, my eyes were wide open and my mind a cup which was never more than half full. 

   I imagined Seoul an overcrowded dirty city full of rude people doing too many things. This was not the case. I guess in a way I was romanced with the helpful nature of the Korean people: it took no more than a minute of looking quizzically at any subway map for a gentle voice of concern saying always "excuse me, but may I help you?" There were not crowded subways nor dirty streets, in fact I must say in my brief experience, Seoul flows much more gracefully then any mega city I have encountered.  

   With in an hour of our arrival we had found our hostel nestled quietly between the subway stop and the largest palace in all of Seoul. Shortly after we were met Mi- Hee, my companion's acquaintance who led us through one of the most welcoming streets I have encountered since moving to Korea. Cobble stoned roads with leafy green trees gently blowing in the wind, couples and families slowly meandering between artisan galleries, coffee houses, and gourmet food restaurants. Am I in Korea? I realized there is a universal quality to every large city: the meeting of many worlds converging in one point to create the same conglomerate experience. It is why when standing on a particular street whether you are in Paris, New York, or Seoul one can feel at home implicitly. 

     She asked us what we were hungry for and as if reading our minds she said "How about a burger?" Now for those of you in the states, this seems like a rather mediocre suggestion but to those of us in Korea, a good burger is as good as a shiny golden nugget. So without a pause we emphatically agreed. 

    She lead us up a stair case which in every case would be deemed illegal in the states, to a little gallery which served gourmet burgers or was it a burger joint that served art- anyway we dined. We dined with fork and knife. They served me diet coke and a burger titled "formaggio" on the menu that was sky high (please see picture for reference). Let me say that I have fully enjoyed my months of Korean-ness dining experiences of trial and error- but this one moment was like an oasis in my cultural abyss in this side of the world. 

   My giant smile of a belly was then led back down the cobblestone way to one of the most miraculous palaces I have seen the Changdeokgung Palace . Now to be humbly honest, People had told me that visiting the palaces of Seoul is a MUST and in my mind I envisioned  the gilded, overly ornate and disgustingly lavish kings and queens quarters of my western distant relatives . .  . I am beginning to understand that even in the broadest terms the way things are done her in the East are almost universes apart. The simplicity of the Eastern aesthetic is something I have always admired. Myself coming from the land of more is always not enough, have found it rather cleansing the concept that beauty is found in the spaces between the objects instead of the objects themselves. We walked the spacious grounds passed the royal library which set high on a hill, at the foot was a large square pond, in the center a round island symbolizing the symbiotic relationship between world and universe. On the same note our barely intelligible but well-informed tour guide shared with us that the pond was strategically placed at the foot of the library to remind all the noblemen who passed by it that with out water there can be no fish (a direct metaphor for the kings symbiotic relationship to his people.) 

   I was reminded how and why the lotus flower is the symbol of Buddhism: pure, simple, and at one with its surroundings. 'Maybe I could be a lotus flower someday,'  I thought. We meandered past a giant housing area that the tour guide identified as the concubines living quarters. I remarked to my traveling companions how I couldn't believe I was walking on ground where "concubine" was a legitimate term. 

    The end of the tour took us through a sacred doorway. This passageway, the tour guide told us, was to be passed through while making a wish. It was a simple doorway leading from graveled way to another lotus pond and grassy path. Me, being a person who never misses an opportunity to make wishes, quickly racked my brain for something good my life was a missin- and much to my surprise: I had nothin'. Perhaps, for the first time in my life, there was nothing I longed for that didn't have- and the things I didn't have I knew I didn't need and didn't need for a reason. So as I passed under the gate: this sacred gate of wishes, where millions had passed through for over a century making there own little prayers of hope, I said two simple and perfect words . . . .  "Thank You"

This image speaks for itself.

Gangin Celedon Cultural Festival

It really is easy than it appears: the whole getting places and doing things in a country where you have no idea what is said to you or any of the writing on any walls. One just marches right up to the marked ticket window at the bus station and announces your destination. The teller hands you a ticket and points to a bus and you just wait for them to wave you aboard. I am finding there are some perks to standing out in the crowd ALWAYS. And after a not too confusing journey we arrived at the Gangin Celedon (blue clay) cultural festival which we discovered was "Foreigner Day" which seemed to mean nothing more than free admission but that was enough for us. We each participatied in throwing a pot with the assistance of a few very eager Koreans, traditional wood printmaking on rice paper, and the essential chicken on a stick. I helped my friend pick out the perfect phallus shot glass which in itself made the journey well worth while. The trip was long but as my companion reminded me, commuting is only hours between you and an incredible experience. For those that know me well would not be surprised to know that I actually and accidentally left my camera upon the bus on our way back to Suncheon. Not realizing this until I got home, I had a Korean co-teacher call the bus station in the feeble attempt to see if it had somehow been turned in to the lost and found. Would you believe it? It was. The bus driver even called to make sure I got my camera back! I think Amy and Korea are going to get along just fine.

And it was an average Sunday to the Gangin Celadon Cultural Festival

 

Oh, just another day of normalcy in Korea-land- also know as let me apologize in advance for this one . . ..

   On foot I was making my way for some Hwe Da Bob Dinner (raw fish, rice and greens with chirashi) this evening.  Along the way I navigated through the usual street market vendors selling their colorful assortment of farm fresh produce, kimchi's, grains, and well, slightly smelly fresh fish. Yes, here you can buy various sea creatures right off the street, so fresh they are still alive- very alive- very moving alive (and very on the street). 

   So I rounded my last corner before the restaurant when suddenly out of seemingly nowhere an octopus, in a last courageous and desperate attempt of escape, lept from his shallow plastic vendor bin and kami- kazi-ed inches away from my much surprised bosom to the unforgiving sidewalk below. (All I can say is that it was a very unsettling and cartoon-like splat noise. ) Startled and perhaps slightly flatter than moments before, this tentacled beast made not a few seconds of headway toward freedom when the even quicker Ajumma (older Korean woman) scooped him up and plopped him right back into the crowded salty shallow water from which he came. "Poor guy" I thought as I walked on. 

   I tried to make light of the situation: "Well, Amy, you are one of the few people in the world who can say they were almost groped by an octopus!  Ha- heh- eh . . no . . ."  I resistantly began launching myself  into my own inner existential conflict about this experience, but eventually took comfort in the realization that all creatures- big and small inevitably find themselves doomed to some(thing)one's dinner table someday

-  that and that an octopus just tried real hard to grab my tits! But what can you say, the octopus's has got good taste- eh? [ba- bum-tiss]

[and the world rolls it eyes at me in unison]

A strange and surreal day at the swimming pool . . .

No joke. This is seriously the emergency exit method of escape from my studio.

Sunny Afternoon outside of Suncheon

How much is that doggy in the window . . . the one sizzling in the pot

    OK, well in my personal motto of "I will try anything once." I could not say 

"no" to the unusual invitation of dog for lunch. We ordered an expensive plate off the menu hand printed in large Korean character taped above our heads.  The ajumma (ma'am) brought to our table a single propane range and pot filled with a variety of greens which was harmless enough, but quickly after she returned with the tray o' dog. She swiftly tonged the pieces of canine meat piece by piece until a small pile mounted in front of us. Soon it began to sizzle. I was with another American teacher. He was finishing his contract in Korea this week and on a plane the next. On his list of "things I must do in Korea" was the eating of dog. We both were reluctant but felt it was an important part of the authentic 'being in Korea' experience. 

    The meal was bubbling with fervor and with chopsticks poised for action, we stared at the pot for so long that the ajumma called out to us from across the room something in Korean that must have equated to "Its ready already, EAT!" The meat in front of us looked much like pot roast and I tried to convince my self that is was as such. 

    I, usually not a timid eater, was finding it hard to separate my connotations to the carefully prepared meal in front of me. I chose an indiscriminate piece of meat, placed it carefully in a piece of lettuce, wrapped it tightly, and put it in my mouth. I must say, it wasn't bad, it just wasn't 'worth it' good. What I mean is that it didn't taste good enough that I could relinquish the fact I was eating fido. For the sake of politeness to the ajumma, I mustered through five more bites saturating each generously in sauce and herb powder, none of which made the deed inconsequential. 

    My companion was equally disturbed and with almost two thirds left of the pile of dog meat in front of us we left the table. We paid the expensive bill and sauntered from the restaurant feeling a little nauseous and regretfully a regretful. We joked about going out for pizza, but I walked on to the bus stop instead. Perhaps this was one of those rare moments when imagining I had done one of those 'crazy things' would have been more much better than actually doing it.

My first Painting in Korea

Apartment Highrise 

My friends, this is Korea.

            It was my first big girl trip outta town. I have been here over a month now- I have to say honestly (and almost embarrassingly) I have unusually dragged my feet to adventure much further than to work and back from the American oasis that exists inside my apartment. 

This sort of hermitting is not my style, but somewhere between my foreigner celebrity (that every foreigner has here), my incapability to communicate with anyone, and realization that I'm in no hurry to see a place I won't be leaving for a very long time; it has made me slow going to, well, go anywhere. I mean really, what's the rush? But alas, the sixth week came and with it an invitation that even the most timid of travelers could not pass up: The Boryeong Mud Festival. 

    Boryeong (which is known for its therapeutic and precious supply of coastal mud) is a usually sleepy town on the west coast of South Korea. Once a year it erupts into a week long mud extravaganza where foreigners and Koreans alike congregate to its little seashore to bask in the sun, swim in the waves, and (of course) roll in the mud. I decided with out much debate that this event was worthy of an inauguration. 

    My trip would entail my first Korean rail ride to Deajeon, one of the larger cities in South Korea. There I would meet up with a few friends of friends who were driving by car to the coast.

The train ride was almost poetic: an accelerated silent glide at dusk through rice pattys and reflective riversides. I was seated next to a young boy who was yet another enthusiastic beginner English student. He kept taking my picture on his camera phone and passing me handfuls of fruit. He reiterated the usual "Konglish" (the term for the Korean/English blend coined by English teachers country-wide.) repertoire of "Hi how are you. . .  so nice to meet you, what is your name ....etc" again and again.  I kept fumbling for my ticket and re-checking the printed arrival time as if it was going to magically change mid-commute. Korea time, for most things, is in the 24hour clock which is (for those of you who know me, know how I am with numbers so you can imagine how) confusing, but I arrived safely and punctually. Shortly after a cab ride to a well lit high rise large apartment complex, I was being buzzed into my weekend hosts' home. 

    My hosts were two Canadian English teachers, a married couple of nine years. They had just returned from an epic trip six month trip through South East Asia with their three year old daughter. She was an amazing creature who had seen more of the world at age three than most of us see our entire lives. She is also becoming bilingual at a pace her mom is struggling to keep up with. First thing the next morning and peering barely out of one eye, I encountered her hovering over me with wide and curious crystal blue eyes. She asked quite frankly and in close proximity, "What's your name?"

    My hosts made an amazing breakfast of omelet, bacon, and toast. Koreans don't have breakfast, well not eggs and bacon breakfast, they have rice and kimchi -fermented cabbage. (Truth be told, Koreans have rice and kimchi with everything all the time) so even in only a little more than a month, a Western style breakfast is a savory treat and perfect beginning to a strange phenomenon known as "The Mud Festival. 

   We dropped the little bilingual monster off at close family member's house for an overnight stay. She kept asking where we were going to which her parents would only reply " A place that is NOOOOO fun." Soon after we were off down the windy country road that led to the beach. 

    It was a carpool/caravan of motorbikes and car with myself, my host, and her friend inside. Her friend, who was Aboriginal Canadian, was also a ESL teacher and was refreshingly crazy, the good crazy, the crazy 'my life is so much more charismatic when you're around kinda crazy'. On our way out the door, I asked her if she had everything and she emphatically grabbed her crotched and exclaimed "Well, I got my puss!" In the twenty four hours I spent with this girl,  I witnessed her, amongst other things, chase strangers down the board walk wielding an empty 40oz plastic beer bottle threatening to spank them and meander through the community hotel room full of strangers, freshly showered and buck naked casually searching for her towel. 

    The car ride was filled with friendly questions posed by individuals who barely knew each other but were spending the weekend together like a distant family reunion. We wound are way through unmarked bends in the road and lane endings and after the last sharp turn at large water park we were at the beach! 

    We parked and unanimously decided is was beer -thirty. We stopped by the nearest mart for a cold one for all. It was one of the best tasting beer I had had in awhile. We walked and drank. The beach was hot, and air was sticky and sun was out, so we quickly emptied our beers and slid down the beach into the cool salty water. 

    For the first time since I had been to Korea I saw white people, a lot of white people. Well they were white people- covered in mud. Everyone was covered in mud! It was out some strange Julie Taymour film. The mud covered people's skin in thick layers, making it appear as if I was surrounded by moving statues. There was a huge stage with live music, umbrella-ed tables with bowls of green-grey mud and brushes, mud kiddie pools and inflatable slides, colored mud, and mud prison. There were thousands of people there getting muddy. Getting muddy, jumping in the ocean, getting clean and getting muddy again. 

    We were at the colored mud tent slowly covering ourselves in patterns and pictures in red, blue, orange, and green mud when a boisterous parade passed by us in ceremonial percussions. Koreans in traditional creature masks and white costumes marched and danced in synchronicity slowly twirling by. I was experiencing a sensory overload: the soft brushes painting my body, the cool mud on my face, the rich colors and sounds of the parade in front of me, the warm beer in my belly, the hot salty ocean air. My friends, this is Korea. 

     Later that evening I sat oceanside drinking libations amongst other expats exchanging stories of who we were and how we got here. Spontaneously, a spectacular fireworks display began over the water. Into the wee hours of the morning we sat in the sand listening to the surf and taking in the still, surreal perfection of the day. Suddenly and with out warning, the sky opened up down poured on our small camp. We scattered into the night realizing there was no where to go for shelter from the dumping rain. I learned one of many valuable lessons on this trip: tread easy and lightly in South Asia, you never know what kind of weather you will encounter. 

      A few stragglers and myself huddled sloppily under an umbrella we discovered outside of a mini-stop hoping the rain would pass which didn't. I was possibly more soaked thru than I had ever been before and I sat wringing my skirt uselessly from the tropical rain. We waited for the slightest break and made a run for it. I lept over and charged thru giant puddles impeding my path all the way back to the room. I arduously but barely dried out and lumbered to my designated blanket and pillow. (Usually, there are not beds in hotels in Korea, you sleep on the floor) It was 4 am and I believe I was snoring before my head hit the pillow. Thank you mud. Thank you rain. Thank you Korea.