The Trip to Pohang

When I told my students where I was going for the Lunar New Year, I was met by blank stares, then the question, “Why? Do you know someone there?” Well, no, but I saw it on the map, and it looks like a nice beach community, and I miss the water . . .

Chanta and I were scheduled to take the 10:50 am train to Pohang on Monday morning. We figured we should leave our apartment about 9:30 am to allow for traffic to get to the train station. And, we weren’t sure if the train was like the airline, where you have to check in early (it isn’t). I called Chanta at 8:00 to make sure she was up. She mumbled something into the phone about getting up right away. When I knocked on her door at 9:30, she answered by saying, “I just need to put pants on and I’ll be ready to go, really.” The wake up call obviously didn’t work. We caught a cab with no problem and made it to the train station in half an hour. Which was a good thing. Because then we had time to eat before getting on the train. Hmmmm. . . . The Lotteria (which for the longest time we thought was a place to buy lotterty tickets but is actually a Korean fast food restaurant) or the no name, lots of Koreans eating there, looks like no one speaks English establishment. No question. We both head towards the latter.

I love a place that only offers 2 choices. Specialization is good. They can’t mess it up. Pre-packaged kimbop or udong. Choice 1: the Korean version of sushi rolls. Seaweed and rice rolled around a long piece of scrambled egg, spam (they love the stuff here), pickled vegetables, carrots. Choice 2: a piping hot bowl of broth with fat noodles, a raw egg, seaweed, tofu, bean sprouts. No question. Choice 2 it is. For both of us. We get our metal chopsticks and spoons and go to two empty seats. I’m getting better with the chopsticks and noodles. Even Chanta notices. Still haven’t mastered how not to splatter myself or the area around me, but haven’t slapped myself in the face with a wet noodle in quite awhile. Success comes in small steps.

We watch the person beside us as he finishes. Where does he take his tray? Does he separate the bowl and the utensils? These are things you think you know intuitively — until you move to a country where you don’t speak the language. We follow behind him. And do exactly as he does.

We enter the train station. It defines the word “bustling.” There were people everywhere. Sitting, standing, scurrying to catch their train. We walk around. We still have about 20 minutes before our train is scheduled to depart. We look at the bookstand. The books are all in Korean. We peruse the snack shop. The food is all labeled in Korean. We watch the tv. The shows are all in Korean. Basically, we can’t understand anything. I look up and notice the sign is flashing indicating our train is boarding. How did time pass that quickly? Chanta, come on! We give our tickets to the ticket taker, he points us to track number 2. We run down the steps and look for our car. We are in between two train tracks. There is a train on only one of them. We assume it must be ours. The conductor looks at our tickets. Shakes his head. “You, way out!” and points. Are we on the wrong track? I could have sworn he pointed this way. Chanta, hurry! It’s already 10:46! We run back up the stairs. The ticket taker stops us and asks for our tickets. We show him. He points back down the stairs from which we just came. What’s going on here? We run back down the stairs. The conductor walks over to us. Points to the other track (where there is no train) and says, “Excuse me.” We figure out that he had pointed us to the wrong track unknowingly. And was apologizing. Our train had not yet arrived. So we were in the right place. Although the phrase, “You, way out!” became one of our favorites for the holiday.

In Pohang

We exited the train. Mmmmmmmmm – smell the salt air. I love the beach. Even if it is freezing outside. We found a taxi driver. Or rather, he found us. An older man, who spoke English fairly well. In the cab, he asked us where we were from. San Francisco and Chicago, but we live in Daegu. “Oh, Daegu? English teacher?” Yes. “Married?” No. Are you? “Of course. But want to get married again. To foreign woman. That is my final dream.” hahahahahahaha. “That is a joke.” Oh, I seeee. . . .

We had asked him to take us to Bukbu Beach. And he did. Literally. Stopped on the side of the road, pointed, and said, “Beach.” Okay. We got out, amazed at how our spirits had lifted. There’s something about standing next to the ocean. Hearing the crash of the waves. Watching the horizon stretch on forever. We immediately set out to find a yogwan. Korean hotel. Aka Love Motel. To be rented by the hour, or by the night. We were opting for choice 2. We saw a sign for a yogwan on the outside of a building. We went in and went to the elevator. Where did it go? We looked at all the signs for businesses, and didn’t see “yogwan” anywhere. Okay, next building. We saw another sign for a yogwan. Okay, let’s check this one out. We walk into the lobby and it’s still under construction. Wires hanging everywhere. Dust an inch thick on the floor. Maybe not. We go another block. Look. It’s the MiSeaGull hotel. Okay – a hotel will be more expensive than a yogwan, but whatever. Let’s try that. “Yes, we have rooms. Please register.” Chanta fills out the paperwork then we head up to the 6th floor to our room. It’s decent. Your basic motel room. But it has wall to wall carpeting. Yuk. No heated floor. Oh well. Chanta is exhausted and wants to take a nap. I want to dig my feet in the sand. So I leave her napping in the room as I venture to explore.

The Beach at Bukbu

I walk along the beach. The longest beach on the eastern shore of Korea. 1.7 kilometers. Less than a mile. Beautiful nonetheless. A few fathers are out with their small children, flying kites along the beach. It’s amazing how entertaining kites can be. It’s really nothing more than a piece of plastic, or paper, on a long string. That the wind may lift, or plummet, to the ground. But children and adults alike are fascinated by them. I watch the happy people running, laughing, trying to keep their kites airborne.

A little farther down the beach a couple of dozen go-cart/dune buggy type vehicles are racing around. Spinning in the sand. Teenagers screaming, holding onto each other tightly. Down the beach, spin around, back. Around and around. I continue walking, off the official “beach” area to where the fisherman dock their boats. No one is at sea today. All the boats are ashore. I read the boats’ names in Korean, wondering who they are named after – a mother, a girlfriend, a mentor? Are there plays on words just like in English? That I’m not able to comprehend yet? I step over an endless web of fishing nets, spread over the sand to dry. I reach the point and turn around. But I’m not ready to return to the hotel room. I walk back along the beach, then turn inwards. I think I remember the way back towards town.

I walk and walk and walk. Meandering up and down streets and alleys. Almost everything is closed. New Year’s Day in Korea is a time to spend with family. A time to visit the eldest male and bow in respect to your ancestors. Even though the streets are deserted, there is a calm in the air. I happen upon a coffee house that is open. I stumble inside to warm myself before trying to find my hotel. I’ve walked for a couple of hours now. I order coffee with milk (my latest Korean phrase) and start writing in my journal. The coffee arrives. It’s the closest thing to a cafe au lait I’ve had in months. The coffee is perfect. And infused with steamed milk. It’s so good I order another.

I return to the hotel; Chanta is just awaking. We decide to venture downtown to seek out some dinner. We tell the taxi driver to take us to “Ogeori” – 5 Road Junction. And sure enough, there are people walking around, street vendors peddling their wares, shop signs lighting the night. We wander, wander, wander, in and out of alleys, looking for something to eat that is not fast food, Korean or otherwise. I giggle and point – “Look, it’s the Louis Vuitton restaurant.” They knock off everything here.

New Year’s Eve Dinner – A Second Time

We decide to try it. The menu is in Korean. Of course. But we don’t recognize any of the dishes. Or ingredients. So I try my new phrase of the day, “What do you recommend today?” The waitress points to the drink menu (headed by the title “Live Bear” – I’m assuming it was a misprint, but even so, what is live beer?). No, no, no, we want entrees. Yes, she explains, but her recommendation will be based upon what we are drinking. Okay. Soju. Lemon soju. She points to a dish. Sure. Then motions that it’s very spicy. Chanta is the queen of spice. She loves anything hot. So we order that. I ask what she recommends for me. Oh, no. It’s enough for two. Oh. I’m not a huge fan of the spicy, spicy, spciy; my nose runs enough on its own. But okay. She disappears and soon reappears with a tray laden with small dishes. She places the soju and shot glasses in front of us. The begins to arrange the appetizers. Kimchi (of course), a bowl of corn, a bowl of steamed mussels, something that looks like egg and spam?, a bowl of puffy styrofoam circle things, and a bowl of bugs. Yes, bugs. Grilled. Okay, not bugs exactly. Grubs. Beetle larvae. Chanta and I look at each other. “Are we supposed to eat these?” Chanta mentions something about it being a delicacy. Or something. Okay. I’ll try anything once. Chanta eats one. Comments that she doesn’t like the smell and pushes them closer to me. I pick one up with my chopsticks, turn it over, observe it, then pop it into my mouth. Chew it. Not too keen on the texture. Somewhat mealy. But crunchy on the outside. I swallow it. I don’t like it. I tell Chanta. I try to explain why I don’t like it and all that will come out of my mouth is, “I just don’t like it.” After saying that about 4 times, Chanta says, “Let me guess, you’re not too fond of it, are you?” We both start giggling.

Our main course arrives. A big pot of something boiling. We uncover the pot. It’s a soup. With lots of chicken on the bone. And vegetables. I ladle out bowls for both of us. I take one bite and realize it’s the spiciest food I’ve had since I’ve been here. Chanta is in heaven. I’m already reaching for my Kleenex. We finish the dinner and decide to walk around downtown for a while. All throughout dinner we had studied our waitress’ hairstyle. It’s quite common here. I’ve dubbed it the Korean Princess hairstyle. It involves either long bangs at the front, slicked to the side or pinned back with a sparkly barrette (of course), a teased poof on top of your head (sort of beehive-ish), then then rest of your hair swept up into a poof on the crown of your head, secured with a big ribbon or sparkly hair piece. I want my hair to do that. Chanta assures me we will make it work.

All That Sparkles . . .

We wander into a store called “The Fancy Store.” It is a girl’s dream. The front section is all hair accessories. And most of them with sparkles. Or Hello Kitty. I love living in Asia. Then a wall of jewelry. Equally sparkly. A corner of makeup. A wall of stationery. A wall of cell phone accessories. Aisles and aisles of candies (it is almost Valentine’s Day). We spend at least an hour mesmorized by stuff. Pure stuff. Nothing you need, but so much you want. We tried on purple glittery eye shadow. We bought face masks to do in our hotel room later that night. We were seized by fits of laughter over bad English translations on stationery (“I love you more than a mammy’s worm bosom . . .”). I purchased a notebook with my new signature phrase on it “Butterfly, Flowers, Clouds . . . . . And Me. What a Wonderful World . . . .” We only left because they were closing the store.

Back At MiSeaGull . . .

We entered the lobby and the desk clerk stopped us. “Excuse me, excuse me. I, English student. One question?” Of course. He pulled out a serious, heavy duty English grammar study book. There was a passage about television and the decline of standardized test scores. Then there were several multiple choice questions. He didn’t understand the difference between the phrases “affected” and “responsible for.” We explained the best we could, then went to our room. As soon as we entered, Chanta said, “I don’t want to stay here after tomorrow. Let’s find a yogwan to stay in.” Now? Yes. But it’s almost midnight. And it’s cold outside. Oh, okay.

We trekked outside. We saw a sign for a yogwan. We entered the building and went down one, two floors of stairs. The hallway got narrower and narrower. I turned to Chanta and said, “Do you feel like we’re in a horror movie?” Her comment, “I don’t like this, let’s get out of here.” Okay, but here’s a sign, wait. I sound out the sign in Korean (but don’t know what it means), then we turn and sprint up the stairs. As we’re sprinting, she turns to me and said, “I’m really glad you took the time to read that sign.” Smartass.

We tried another yogwan. But the desk clerk was asleep and we didn’t want to wake her.

We saw a sign for another yogwan. We sounded out the name – wha ka keeeee. Oh, the Waikaiki yogwan. Let’s check that out. We go to the 7th floor and ask how much the rooms are. Half the price of what we’re paying at MiSeaGull. The owner speaks English very well. He lives half the year in Vancouver, half the year in Pohang. He told us he had a special room, just for us. He took us up to it. A beautiful room overlooking the beach. One whole wall is rounded, and is all windows. He explains Koreans don’t like this room, because they think they will fall out. But Americans love it. And it had heated floors. We tell him we’ll be back in the morning to check in. He introduces us to his sister, who runs the yogwan when he’s not there.

As we’re leaving the building, a young Korean man says hello to us in English. We smile and say hello back. He mumbles something, we think in English, we think he’s drunk, and it includes the words “may I introduce you . . . slur, slur, slur” We laugh and say “sure” and keep walking. You would have thought he won the lottery. He screamed at the top of his lungs, “Oh, my god!” and then a bunch of Korean phrases. We’re not sure what we just agreed to, so we took off running.

Back at our hotel Chanta is transforming me into a Korean Princess. She’s slicked my hair back, teased the top, and is twisting and pulling like there’s no tomorrow. The phone rings. We look at each other in surprise. No one knows we’re here. She answers it cautiously. It’s the desk clerk. He wants to know if he can come up to our room to ask us another question about his English studies. Sure, come on up.

He arrives with a gift of a tangerine. From Jejudo island. Famous for their tangerines. He’s still confused about “affected” versus “is responsible for.” Chanta and I try to explain again. Because of the grammar of the question, the answer (fill in the blank) had to be “is responsible for.” Chanta argued that the meaning was the same otherwise. But I said, no, there was a slight difference. The desk clerk smiled and thanked us then left. Chanta and I got ready for bed, continuing to discuss the meaning of the two words. For an hour we bantered back and forth about the meaning, finally coming to the conclusion that variable a can only “affect” variable b if variable b is already in existence, whereas if variable a “is responsible for” variable b, it can cause it to exist. Oh, the folly of English teachers. . . .