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.
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