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. 

One of my students with her Art Project.

Musings and meanderings inside the Sangbul Temple

     I heed you this one piece of advice: in contradiction to the old saying  "let no deed go unpunished" visit a Buddhist temple and you will find at the end of an impossible climb are great splendors which defy this sentiment. I have struggled with documenting this experience most of all because I feel that words only mere in comparison to seeing such an organization of architecture, art, intellect, and emotion in one place. I felt guilty with my cell phone and my digi camera slowly editing this experience in a few moments which had taken centuries to build, fall, and recreate in the effort of meditative peace. "Elaborate care" were the words that kept passing through my mind. The silence in these places is haunting, but haunting in a sort of way that beckons quietly "if you were more like this you would be more like everything . . ." 

     We were in an active temple and the evidence was in the tiny pairs of shoes at every closed door on the grounds. I felt people praying for me even in my complete invasion of their solitude. I could go into great detail here: about the tile roofs covered in wishes which were donations paid to the temple, the giant drum which hung in such stillness that I could feel the force of its percussion with out it being touched. . . . intrinsic murals richly painted of dragons and heroes: an abstract vocabulary that in its profoundness, I could only absorb it as a pedestrian. 

    I was an accidental tourist in the presence of trancendence. This encounter created in me a sense of clarity that I can best summarize as absolute. I realized (standing atop of this lush green mountain with the stone dust of this holy place settling on my toes in Gwanyong, South Korea) that in this brief and wonderful moment "Everything is perfect and I love you".

Just another average Sunday . . .

We were heading out to Gyanyong. A little drive out of town, up the mountains to go swimming in the river which flows down to the valley below offering fresh cool pools of refreshment amongst the green my companions described to be just like Ireland "if they had ever been there". So there we were: Myself, the driver, her Korean boyfriend in front, myself and her daughter and the two dogs in the back. We finally had piled all in and were just on the outskirts of town where the inevitable happened: a car accident. It happened as all car accidents do: in slow motion. Being a passenger in Korea is like being a pin ball in a pinball machine: you must relinquish your fate to the person operating the buttons and hope fate falls in your favor between the many blinking lights and bumpers. So, outta nowhere the car in front of us was in a full and complete stop. Even with the emergency brake pulled, we abruptly bucked into his shiny black bumper. 

     Without hazard lights or even pulling over out of lane of traffic, we sat and waited for further instruction. Trucks were whizzing by us with such speed that our little four door rocked and the dogs whimpered with each pass. We waited there for the insurance man to arrive on a Sunday afternoon. Thankfully, we were with the driver's Korean boyfriend who could communicate with the disgruntled "used car salesman" we bumped into. The damage to his car was one tiny little scratch to his bumper but as any good used car salesman would do, he was insisting on a brand new bumper. An hour, adequate information exchange, and the begrudgingly loss of some significant income later, we were back on our way to a relaxing day in the sparkling clean moutain waters of Gyanyong.  We were, however. almost out of gas. 

    Half way up the mountain and a Murphy's law realization, we turned back down to revisit the fuel station we streaked by in hopes for another. We got gas and soon enough we were unloading dogs, people and flip flops out of the vehicle at the top of a steep hill which was also the entrance to a very inviting Buddhist temple. 

   Our destination surrounded us with cool clear, white water cascading down black and earthy rocks sheathed under layers of tropical green. Between sprouting bamboo shoots we lumbered, carefully passing over unturned rock after unturned rock to stick our toes in the frigidly refreshing bubbling water between baby falls. 

     I found a boulder to sit upon. I crossed my legs and closed my eyes. I inhaled deeply smelling the pure green-ness around me. I listened only to the falling water, perpetual and endless. It was not a sound to me, it was a feeling.  It was the feeling someone feels knowing  they are in the presence of something that is greater than themselves while simultaneously feeling great within themselves. It was at that moment I was reminded of why I have traveled so far, so far on an outward and inward journey: to know that that greatness is not with in me, it is what passes through me. It was time for a swim. 

This is a "rock wish". Korean's stack stones as high as they can and make a wish.

Gorgeous Asian plums

Typical Korean dining experience.

Amy as a crazy sore thumb . . .

    Um .... ok, so as I have mentioned before, anywhere you go in South Korea as a "waygook" (foreigner) you are, well, extremely noticed. In my experience, Korean people are very peaceful, friendly, and insatiably curious  Some days I find I just don't want to deal with the ritualistic peering eyes and barrage of questions in confusing English I endure at the bus stop everyday. I have found the best way to avoid such encounters when unwanted is to disengage by means of sunglasses and ipod. Today was one of those days. 

   I was walking down the alley to my bus stop when a Korean man in his mid forties stops me in his extended bright yellow van. He makes a movement which implies take out your earphones. (Apparently even my best efforts can be foiled by eager spectators.) and I oblige. He asks me with a giant smile where I am from. He says, "I want speak English with you. We go now, I take you . . . We have tea, eat, drink . . . I want be your friend. . . .  Get in . . .  Where are you going? . . . .I take you." I told him I had to go to work and he insisted as he patted his passenger sear "Come, come, I take you." 

    This whole spontaneous conversation has my red flags standing at attention. In the states, we don't speak to strangers in vehicles whom demand you get in there car. In the states, smart girls definitely don't get in the vehicle of the aforementioned stranger. In fact, a girl that does that kinda stuff is never seen again. But I am not in the states and this endearing man with gentle eyes and a giant smile that beems with ecstatic joy in the thought that I might just sit down and talk with him . . . and, well, abandoning better judgement . . .  I got in the van. 

    He took out a piece of paper and wrote down his name "Kim Chun Ock" underneath it he wrote his phone number and under that he wrote 'Good Friends'. He kept emphasizing that we would be good friends. He went on musing about our life long acquaintance: exchanging emails and phone calls long after I went back to the states. My heart started to pound as I considered the possibly tragic mistake I had made in getting into this Korean's van, but I tried to tell myself that, no no... he was not a phycho killer, he was just really excited at the thought of a friendship with a "waygook". Grinning ear to ear the whole time, he rambled on in barely English and I understood most of it, I think. He wanted to make plans. He wanted to talk. He went so far as to say that if I called him he would pick me up and take me to and from work everyday where we could talk 'englishee' together. 

    We picked up his sister who was waiting on a corner up the road. He said "I must stop. I made promise to give ride to my sister." A middle aged Korean woman lumbered into the back of the van with three bags plastic grocery bags: one full of corn in husk, one full of colorful towels, and the third full of whole fish. (My confidence in the fact I was going to get to work was fleeting.) "She works at Soju Bar. I take her to work then I take you Hagwon." The newspaper headlines were passing through my head "Stupid American girl disappears in Suncheon .  . . " But he did as he said. He took her to work and then he took me to Hagwon. 

    As we pulled in to the parking lot I can't say I wasn't relieved. He reminded me to call him when I got off work and he would take me home. He said, "Have good day." I smiled I got out of the van, very much alive and replied  "It was strange but nice."  As he drove away he waved and exclaimed "Very happy to meet you!!" I slowly walked in to the Hagwon a little jaunted by the whole experience. Did that actually just happen to me? Was I just a victim of a hit and ride?

     Later I asked a few Korean teachers about this surreal experience. They insisted that my new good friend was guilty of nothing more than a little (or maybe a lot) of eccentric courage. They encouraged me to meet with him, to be his 'native speaking' friend. "Not to be worried", they consoled me. After all, Koreans love speaking English with English people. They did however have one suggestion:" Until you know Mr.Kim better, maybe it best you ride with bus." 

Finally Ribs that are served with gloves!

Badminton with Jesus?

 My first Typhoon. The best I can sum up it up is that it is a whole lot of rain. A LOT of rain, Like the kinda rain you wear shoes knowing they will get soaked, pants rolled up to your knees and still they are wet to your thighs . . . the kinda rain that even with your umbrella, it was like you were outside in pouring rain with out one. . . . there is no staying dry in a typhoon. 

  It is the beginning of my understanding of what a "monsoon season" is, and from what I have been told, a month long of it to look forward to. "Understand, you will be wet, and you will be wet all of the time." So after the long day of down pour I looked longingly out the window of my Hagwon to realize I had no umbrella and in the aftermath of my journey home I would have been dryer if I had taken a dip Yellow Sea. In procrastination, I tinked around on the computer at school and in happenstance a Korean teacher walked into the office. She said, like an angel, "I have car. You need ride home?" 

  I most whole heartedly (thinking in my head: soaking rainy walk to bus, smelly wet bus, soaking rainy walk to apartment home) said an enthusiastic yes. This Korean teacher was always very smiley and welcoming and spoke, at best, broken english.  As we pulled out of the parking lot in her glorified box on wheels she turned to me and said "You have dinner?"  I looked out the window at the daunting rain, taking into consideration the possible uncomfortable nature of an enduring conversation between two people that cannot understand each other and said "of course."

   She took me to an end of town that I have never been. (Suncheon actually translates into "very very country" but there is really nothing rural about this place.) We parked and meandered down a street that looked lit up like vegas between the neon lights on the signs and the reflecting puddles rippling in the street. She lead me up a stone staircase to a cozy Korean restaurant. 

   Let me note here that there are two seating areas in a Korean restaurant: take off your shoes and sit on the floor (Korean Style) or keep shoes on and sit at a table. (Western style) So, I have learned that you wait in shoe limbo to find out your next move. I know this of because of a few awkward instances off taking shoes off only to put them sillily back on again. We were sat at a table, or should I say two couches with a table between them. It was possibly the most comfortably I have ever sat down for dinner. 

    So we talked, kinda. .  . I learned that she was from Jae Jeu Island, "the Hawaii" of South Korea. Hearing this I said, " I would love to go there someday" and with out hesitation she replied "Tell me when you go and I will prepare a room for you at my parents home." This is an unaccustomed response I have encountered in Korea. Hospitality is NOT an illusion but an authentic gesture of respect. The communication between us a liken to a ride in a bumpercar.  She asked me in broken English if I believed in Jesus. (a question I avoid answering at all costs) She then said she had not been a real Christian her entire life but as of, and she was very specific about this, January 2, 2008. That was the day, she said she had heard the Voice of God. She said she had been praying as she had many times before and out of no where she heard a voice that said "Do you love me?" She said she heard it and replied "Yes, do you love me?" and to which, in her interpretation, God responded "Yes, now move to China and spread my word." This came to her not in verbal means but in visual terms: she said she felt love and saw pictures of Asia in her mind. Since then, she tells me, she is able to pray in 3 different languages: Chinese, Arabic, and Japanese with out actually ever learning these foreign dialects. She calls it "speaking in there tongue." She insists that this multilingual occurrence only happens while she is alone and in prayer, but that her sisters: one in Sacramento, one in Austria also have the same ability. It is now her goal to travel to China and do missionary work because God on January 2, 2008 told her so. Then she asks me if I would like to play badminton with her at her church on Sunday. Images of birdies sailing over a taut net between Koreans and a white robed Jesus suddenly rush into my mind. I smile out of the corner of my mouth and reply in true California style."Sunday? Would love to but unfortunately I already have plans." 

"Where's the beef . . . . from?'

     My walk home from work takes me right passed the train station. I discovered that it is also the location political protests are held in Suncheon. On my walk home this night,  I encountered another candlelight vigil in progress. (There have been three since I moved here three weeks ago.) The protest usually entails a peaceful crowd holding candles and quietly nodding as tag-teaming speakers spit angrily into megaphones. Between speakers, a small group of people in white robes pound on traditional Korean drums with such fervor it feels like a second heart beat in my chest. I cross the street and avoid getting involved even periphally with the anxious crowd. 

   I have inquired with the other foriegners about what all the protesting is about with out much of an answer. One teacher told me that other protests must of have been about the Iraq war because her boyfriend, who was Iraqi, was called by his consulate and instructed not to attend any protests over the weekend. When I returned to my apartment, another teacher who lives in my building called me to say it was NOT dangerous, but probably best if I stayed in tonight considering there were protests going on this day nationwide (remember, the state of Michigan is Larger than entire country of South Korea) and there was one happening right on my perverbial front lawn. She told me that I should be fine because I am female "and they usually leave the women alone." She also told me that the most the protesters have ever done to any foriegner is throw rotton vegetables at them as they passed by. This is enough information to keep me avoiding any other "peaceful protest" for my entire stay in South Korea. 

    I turned on my TV in an attempt to solve the civil dissodant mystery to find broadcasts of enormous vigils going on in Seoul and Busan. It all seemed very important but the language barrier again . . . so it was eventually through the internet surf of the information super highway that I finally discovered the purpose for all of the mayhem: American beef. Yes, yes, beef. The South Koreans were very upset with their president for making, what was considered by most be, a snakey and secretive deal with President Bush exporting American beef that the citizen's of Korea deemed unsuitable. Now almost the entire country is convinced they all will get mad cow disease and die. The protests, apparently, had an effect because a cabinet member resigned that very day in response to the uproar. After talking with some of my students later they explained the issue further: The citizens of S. Korea were outraged at their president for doing something for money that threatened the health of his country, which they take very, very seriously. In their minds, the wrong person was removed from office and this is one of many instances that this president (4 months into his 8 year term) had made desicions which benefit him financially at the expense and safety of his people. (perhaps this sounds familar?) I am reminded once again that although democracy boasts rule by the people, capitalism always discriminates.

Fear and Loathing in South Korea . . .

I Like the way your sparkling earring lay. . . .

    Sucheon Bay was a beautiful place with boardwalks extending out into grassy marshes that further extended out into the sea. I wandered aimlessly through meandering families holding hands. I was wearing a summer dress but felt under-shoed around the high heels my Korean counterparts were wearing.  Armed with only blades of grass, many people were bent over the boardwalk catching crabs that were scurrying in the sand below. Crabbing with blades of grass you ask? This is a simple process: 1. Pluck long blade of grass from marsh. 2. Lay, belly side down, on boardwalk. 3. Spot biggest crab. 4. Reach blade of grass below and taunt large crab until he angrily latches on to the grass with pinchers. 5. Retrieve crab with other hand. One man confirmed this cycle when he ran excitedly with up to me with a bowing blade of grass, fearfully dangling and the end of it was a twirling crustacean.  He shouted something at me laughed, abruptly handed it to me and ran away. How odd. 

    I walked through some of the small stony gardens that surrounded the marsh and happened upon a yellow tented booth where an Asian man and woman were offering tea. They called me over enthusiastically and insisted that I have some. I picked a small ceramic cup from the orange linen clothed table and held it out with both hands in front of me ( this is what I now have learned is the traditional way to accept drink in Korea) and she poured some steamy tea to the brim of my cup. It was the best tea I have ever tasted, nutty and green, refreshing and soothing. I finished the tiny cup quickly and before I could say a word she was refilling it.  They were inquisitive and kept asking me questions even after I indicated that I did not speak Korean. The man knew a few words in English and asked me where I was from  . . .  I think. I said California. (Sometimes I say CA, sometimes OH, Sometimes New York, the fact is I'm from a lot of places.) "Oh!" The man said or should I say sung (and I am so serious about this) "Wel-ome to row-tel Ca- wi-for-na . . . "  "Yes, Eagles!" I exclaimed. I giggled thanked them for tea and headed back to the bus to get back to town. Guess it is true what they say, for every moment in life their is an Eagles song playing somewhere softly in the background.  

The brand of Japanese condoms in Korea.

 

Finding new faith in the kindness of strange strangers.

   So decided that today was the day I was gonna figure out how to go somewhere- anywhere sans brevity and ease of taxi cabs (expense as well) and go see something besides the minor urban route to my school and back (which after some trial and failure can do without worry).  So with the little Korean I had my fellow teacher jot down on a yellow post-it note (which translated only into "suncheon bay" which if pronounced says Suncheon Man- which was also funny to me because I was approaching friendly-appearing Koreans saying "Odis mika Suncheon Man" - which to me meant "where can I find a Suncheon Man" ).... I arrived at the bus station and stared bewilderingly at the giant bus schedule in front of me.  After good while of studying,  began to laugh a full belly laugh at how impossible the bazillion characters in front of me were supposed to guide me to where I was supposed to go. Thankfully my phone rang. It was another teacher from my school with impeccable timing. She has been described to me as the person who knows how to get around Korea in English. She is Korean-American or should I say American-Korean for when I inquired about her it was mentioned to me that I was more Korean than she was. (reminder I am from Ohio and very NOT Korean.) You know, some people have the impression that when in a foreign country that if people do not understand you just speak louder and suddenly the language barrier will disipate? She has been quoted several times yelling "I don't speak KOREAN!" to innocent bystanders.  Anyhow, I'm digressing . . . She called and when I explained to her my predicament she informed me that I was standing right in front of the tourism booth in Suncheon. "Just walk in and ask them" and by ask them it means do a great deal of charades, mumble some things in broken Korean and hope for the best. So I did.

  "Hello! Very happy to meet you!" said the smiley ole man from behind the counter.  I mustered my best greeting in Korean and asked "where is the bus for the Suncheon Man?"

He told me in what I am most sure was very helpful Korean and I shrugged my shoulders in a way that said "I have no idea what you just said." He pulled out another yellow post-it note (post-it's, very big in Korea) and wrote the number 67 down and pointed in a general direction across the street. He said "seventy-six, you go." and then gently pushed me out the door. 

   So that's the direction I headed, armed with my little post-it note, my little yellow badge of courage, to a strange street on a strange corner in the world  . . . .  to prove to myself that I, this girl from suburban Ohio, could get somewhere else from work to shoebox in Korea by herself.

    I stood on one corner for a bit, looked puzzlingly at the signs surrounding me and waited . . . . . . .  for the bus? Finally, a nice Korean gentleman approached me and said what I could only assume was something like " Can I help you figure out where you are trying to go?" I showed him my slip of paper and said again "Odis mika?" He pointed down the street and I had to hope that was the right direction. 

    I walked down another street and contemplated giving up. . . but no, no as to those that no me enough, I always follow through, and found yet another bus stop. I stood again in front of another coded bus schedule and again hoping for the best. To here I will note that one of the best and worse qualities of the Korean culture is that they, are for lack of better word,  curious.

Before I could think the words 'frustration' an older woman tapped me the shoulder and said "sixty seven Sucheon Bay, this your stop!" She even went so far as to shove the other ladies in waiting for bus down the small bench to make room for me at which I could do nothing else but oblige. I suddenly was in the company of five older Korean grandmothers who wanted nothing else but to make sure I got on my bus. We waited. We waited a good long while. We waited so long that I would of left a called it a day, but  I was assured with the occasional "you bus coming!" from one of the ladies next to me that I was not defeated. Finally, bus 67 arrived. "Here your bus. Come come!" The women said in unison. They even insisted I get on the bus first. Let us not begrudge the will of our elders!

    So there we went slowly:  ole ladies, bus, and I winding through parked cars and pedestrians til the urban glowing signs and geometrical architecture transitioned into pointed- earthy tiled roofs and then into the space of Korean country side: rice field after rice field. The sky became wider and the road windier. I saw small workers in straw hats with bent knees deep in mud between rice rows slowly working away at their crops. Bus stops let out at dirt paths to tiny islands of houses separated by shallow ponds of agriculture. I was slowly getting lost into the fresh air and skyline of nothing but mountains and green when I heard a pitching "Hey, Hey! " I turned my head behind me and it was my Korean grandmothers. "You stop next!" "Oh, kamapsamnida" I responded. (thank you.) I got off the bus sure enough there I was at the foot of the remote and beautiful Suncheon Bay.