Our Trip to Seoul

After sleeping in, we packed our bags. We had tickets for the 6:00 pm train (assigned seats) to Seoul. We arrived to the station early. We wandered in and out of the meager selection of shops, passing time until we could board our train. We bought postcards at the “Welcome To Daegu” Information booth – writing postcards is always a good activity for a train trip.

We found our seats and settled in for the 3 1/2 hour journey. Behind us sat 2 girls, probably 5, maybe 6 years old. We noticed they were curious about us, but didn’t really think anything of it. We chatted, still catching up on news in San Francisco. Who was doing what. Who was seeing whom. Who was going where. I clung to every word Ida said; this was something real to me. Something I could relate to. We eventually turned to the task at hand – postcards. Quietly we wrote, occasionally commenting on someone or something. Something caught the corner of my eye. The previously shy girls were becoming more brazen, peeking over our seats to see what we were doing. One of them saw me looking at them and took that as her cue to initiate conversation. Pigtails bopped over our seats, singing, “Yob-a-say-yo!” We smiled, I replied, Yob-a-say-yo… Hello… They asked what I took to be simple questions in Korean. I understood a few of them. I told them I lived in Daegu. That I was an English teacher. That we were going to Seoul. That we were American. That my name was Lori. Oooo. That last one was a mistake. For almost an hour we heard constant giggles and “Herr-rooo, Loooo-lllllleeeeee….” Ida looked at me, “Did you have to tell them your name?” I didn’t think….

Fortunately, Ida had some Pez dispensers with her. Thank god for Pez. We gave them to the girls, showed them how to use them, and that kept them quiet for almost 7 minutes. However, the gift seemed to signal to them a closer relationship. They felt quite at ease popping over our seats and touching us. Stroking our hair, touching our skin, pulling our ears. And ignoring any pleas in English to stop. Somehow the task at hand turned to “Rock, Paper, Scissors.” The game where you wave your fist three times, then offer a hand signal of, quite appropriately, a rock, paper, or scissors. That consumed another 45 minutes. They were determined to teach us the Korean version, we were determined to teach them the English version. Truthfully, the only difference was the words used for the hand signals.

At one point, the train ticket taker came by. He saw the girls bouncing over the seats and told them to sit down. Thanks, mister, but where have you been for the past 2 hours? The girls obediently obeyed, but as soon as he exited the car, they were bouncing over our seats again. We think they were travelling with their mothers, who happened to be in the dining car the entire trip.

Later, rather than sooner, we arrived at Seoul Station. We hauled our luggage through the station. Up stairs. Down stairs. Through hallways. We came to the conclusion that Korea would not be an easy place to live if you were physically challenged. We found a hotel. Not the one we were looking for, but one that had an open room. We checked in, freshened up, and headed out to Namdaemun market, touted in the Lonely Planet as being open 24 hours, the place to buy anything. There were a few booths open, but definitely not all of them. We wandered here and there. Decided to come back during the day, when more shops might be open. We really wanted to grab a drink and relax, but seemed to be in the midst of the “business clubs.” By chance, we stumbled into Mulligan’s, an Irish bar only steps away from our hotel. As we walked in, large groups of English were singing footy/drinking songs. We stood like deer in the headlights, the only females in the bar. A friendly chap approached Ida and encircled his arm around her waist, serenading her the whole while. We basically made a lap then exited, choosing to have a bottle of soju and a platter of kimbop at a street stall instead.

We stumbled into bed around 3 – promising to wake up early in the morning to head to the Folk Village at Suwon. Early is such a relative term.

The Suwon Folk Village

We headed to Suwon on the subway line. It seemed a simple enough journey. Just take the blue line to the last stop. We were lucky enough to get seats. Ida sat reading her novel, I sat reading and silently repeating phrases in Korean. I felt someone staring at me. I noticed an older man, standing in front of me, thrusting his pelvis at me with the start and stop of the train. I chose to ignore said behavior. At one particularly violent stop, he bumped into me, and said, “Oh, you are studying Korean.” I looked up. Yes. And returned to my book. “Where are you going?” I looked up again. Suwon. And returned to my book. I’ve had enough not so pleasant experiences with random middle aged Korean men to prevent me from being an enthusiastic conversationalist. “That’s so good. You are so smart to study Korean.” To this I didn’t reply. A few stops later, the seat to my right opened up. He promptly filled it. He sat closer than necessary. “You are English teacher?” Yes. Still staring at my book. “Are you married?” Good god. Okay – I’ve tried the direct approach. It didn’t work. Let me try another method. I’m widowed. I heard Ida stifle a snort. “You are so pretty. Why you not married?” I was married. My husband died. Okay – I can’t get much more direct than that. Surely now he will leave me alone. “Oh. Oh. Oh. You must be so lonely.” No. “You must be crying inside.” Another snort from Ida. Yes. I am crying on the inside. I want to be alone in my sorrow. “Oh, no. You need someone to comfort you. Someone to be your friend. Do you have children?” No. Do you? “Yes, two grown sons. Very handsome. I think you are, you are, oh, maybe 29.” I’m 25. At this point Ida all out choked. “Oh, you are a lonely woman. I can help you. Why don’t you give me your phone number. We can be friends. Very good friends.” I just looked at him in disbelief. At this point, Ida saw it her duty to intervene. She leaned over, whispered to me, girl, follow me. don’t ask questions. At the next stop, she grabbed my hand and pulled me away. My suitor yelled after me, “No, not here. This not Suwon. Come back.” We were long gone. We ran out of the car, down the platform, then back onto the train just as the doors were shutting. Ida turned to me. “LoriLoo. From now on, you are married. Your husband is big and strong. In the military. And you have 2 children. Got it?” Got it. At this point, I’ll say anything.

We finally arrived to Suwon. Then caught the bus (yes, one more) to the Folk Village. We entered, walked through the quaint houses of yesteryear. Saw the blacksmith at work, the mask maker, the weavers. Arrived just as the traditional wedding was ending. Passed multitudes of elementary school students. After a couple of hours, we decided to head back to Seoul. Back on the bus. On the subway. As we returned to the above ground world from the subway tunnels, we were met by mobs. And mobs. And mobs. We were jostled around by red shirts. We narrowly avoided being hit by free sodas being thrown from passing trucks. We wove in and out of vendors selling Korean flags, fans, noise makers. We looked at each other with instant recognition. The Korea v. Portugal game – of course! Even though it was over three hours before the game, the streets were packed with Red Devil supporters. We had not realized it, but our hotel was in the vicinity of City Hall, where the big screen tvs were erected and hundreds of thousands of Korean soccer fans assembled to cheer their team on to victory.

We fought our way back to our hotel and dropped off our packages. Dare we venture out again? We decided we wanted to get some shopping in, so we did indeed head out. Back to the market. Downtown. In and out of stores. We wanted to get something to eat before heading to a bar to watch a game; we still had hopes that somewhere would be playing the USA v. Poland game. We really wanted Japanese food for dinner. We had passed Japanese restaurants during our wanderings, but couldn’t remember exactly where we had seen them. Out of nowhere, a young woman approached us. “May I help you?” Ida and I exchanged glances. Ida looked her up and down and said, “You’re not about Jesus, are you?” The woman looked at her quizzically. I don’t think so, Ida. I turned to the woman. Do you know where there is a Japanese restaurant near here? She didn’t. It turned out she was a university nursing student, a volunteer to help with English translation during the World Cup. I guess we had appeared lost, so she had approached us. We never found a Japanese restaurant, but settled for a Korean establishment that became increasingly deserted as 8:30, kickoff, drew nigh. We left the restaurant right as the game started. The streets were empty of traffic. It was eery. We eventually saw people – everyone was glued to a tv screen. In the restaurants, in the bars, in the streets. Tvs were temporarily set up in the streets where dozens of people gathered round. The US v. Poland game was also being played at this exact moment. Was there any chance at all we would find somewhere to watch it?

Korea vs. Portugal

We made our way back to the section of the city where our hotel was. There was no way to get to our hotel. The streets were packed with screaming fans, watching on a big screen tv. We decided to go to Mulligan’s, the Irish bar we had briefly visited the night before. Mulligan’s is in the bottom of an office building. After regular business hours patrons enter by descending stairs in a plaza in front of the building. The stairway was completely blocked. We couldn’t get within 20 feet of it. We could see it, but couldn’t break through the wall of red in front of us. Ida, we’re stuck. I don’t see how we can get in. “There’s got to be a way. C’mon. This way.”

We edged our way along the perimeter of the building, eventually coming to the parking garage ramp. We stealthily snuck down the ramp, passing several gentlemen relieving themselves, past the 2 security guards who didn’t take any notice of us, they too were glued to a tv screen. Ida turned to me, “This would be the perfect time to commit a crime, if we were that type.” You said it sister. No one is cognizant of anything but soccer right now.

We continued down the ramp, under a half opened gate, into the garage. We tried a couple of doors. We found one that was open. It led to a dark stairway. Ida guarded the door as I ran up the stairs, trying doors along the way. I found another that was open. Ida! This way! I heard her steps bound up the stairs. I felt an incredible urge to hum the Mission Impossible theme song. We crept through the door, which led to a long hallway. We began walking down it, acting as if we belonged there. We were met by several Korean men approaching us. We realized we were in the hallway leading to the men’s restroom. We went out another door and were in the middle of a restaurant. The owner gave us a puzzled look; the restaurant appeared to be closed for a private party. We smiled, and exited through the front door. A few moments later, we entered Mulligan’s. Success.

The place was packed. Tables and tables of people in red t-shirts. Half Korean, half foreigners, a good mix of American, English, Irish. The walls lined with people standing watching the game. All tvs were tuned to the Korea v. Portugal game. We approached the English bartender. Ida inquired if there was any chance we might turn just one of the dozen or so tvs to the American game. He looked at us as if we were crazy and asked if we intended to start a riot. Hmm. Guess that was more or less “no.”

We miraculously found two seats at the bar. We perched so that we had a decent view of a nearby tv. We joined in the cheers of “Dae – Han – Min – Guk!” We cheered. We whistled. At one point, the tv showed an inset shot of the USA v. Poland game. We strained to see the score. Poland was leading. All the Koreans jumped up and cheered, dancing at their tables, screaming, “Po-land! Po-land! Po-land!” Ida and I looked at each other. We didn’t have to say anything; we both felt it. The overwhelming anti-American presence. It didn’t feel like it was just about soccer. It felt like resentment that couldn’t be expressed any other way.

We continued to watch the game. When the final whistle was blown and Korea had won, the place went crazy. Patrons were now *on* the tables dancing. Scarves were being waved. Flags flown. People hugging. Screaming. Korea was in the Round of 16.

The Palace

Saturday morning we awoke. I was moving somewhat slower than usual. I popped a couple of Advil. Ida stared at me. “Girl, tell me you don’t have a hangover. You only had a couple of drinks last night.” Well, I don’t really drink that much anymore. It’s been months since I’ve had vodka. “Mmm. That’s a shame.” I smiled and continued getting ready.

As we left our hotel we were greeted by grey, dismal skies. We walked several blocks to Gyeongbokgung Palace, which was the royal residence of Korea for almost 200 years. Once a magnificent palace, almost all of the buildings were destroyed by one Japanese invasion or another. Currently, about 10 or 15 buildings are standing, with reconstruction underway on many others. We entered via the main gates, and found ourselves smack dab in the middle of an official ceremony. We didn’t see any graceful way to excuse ourselves, so we walked around the guards in traditional dress, under the rope that cordoned off said area. We watched the changing of the guard, then entered the palace complex. We read the placards about the previous royal families, the destruction and rebuilding of the buildings, the customs of the royal family. We were disappointed that all but a very few of the doors were locked; we wanted to see inside of the sprawling buildings. We walked around buildings, in and out of gardens, around lakes. We eventually left through the back gate, headed towards a pagoda – The National Folk Museum.

As we approached, we noticed signs for a “Kim Chi Festival.” I was ecstatic. I love kim chi and am always excited to try new versions of the Korean national dish. Sure enough, there were samples of the many varieties, as well as new takes on the traditional dish. Kim chi pancakes. Kim chi pizza. Kim chi burgers. Kim chi dumplings. Yummmmm….. We continued through the plaza in front of The Folk Museum. There was a table where an eager volunteer would apply face paint. Ida and I decided to don arm “tattoos” of the Korean flag. Afterwards, we were led to another area, where we were encouraged to try on the traditional dress of the bride and groom. Ida selected the groom’s costume, much to the bewilderment of our hosts. “For man…” they continued to say. I replied, Okay-barri. (the Konglish term for Okay.) Wanhamnida. (we want). They laughed then took a Polaroid snapshot of Ida and I on our imagined wedding day. Several other Koreans took our picture, too.

After disrobing from our traditional costumes, we wandered around the plaza, looking at various displays of traditional Korean life. Women toting baskets in white knee socks, denim shorts, and blue cowboy hats approached us. “May we give you a gift?” Ida and I exchanged glances. Sure. They pinned a button on us that said, “Smile! Korea!” “We want Koreans to be friendly to foreigners.” We thanked them and continued walking.

We headed back to Namdaemum Market, allowing Ida to pick up last minute souvenirs before returning to the US. I walked into a store I had been in a few days before. The only looked me up and down. “You come back. You like me. Can I have your phone number? We be friends…” I laughed, paid for my purchases, and left.

We decided to go to Seoul Tower to watch the sunset. I think every major city has a tall tower. Canberra. Sydney. San Francisco. Seattle. New York. Pusan. Seoul. You go up, see the surrounding area. Come down. They always have placards telling you how far it is to other major destinations. Coin operated binoculars to see what is in the distance. And souvenir shops with the most unlikely souvenirs.

I Love The Nightlife…

After Seoul Tower we headed back to the hotel. After a brief break watching the England v. Denmark soccer game, we decided to venture out again. We asked the desk clerk where a good place to go for a drink was. He suggested the Hard Rock Cafe in Apujung. I wrinkled my nose. That’s so far away. Isn’t there anything closer? He shook his head. “Everything here. Closed.” Okay. We caught a cab. Apujung kajusayo. Hard-a Rock-a Ca-fay. The driver thought for a moment. He didn’t know where the Hard Rock Cafe was. Okay-barri. Apujung kajushipshee-yo. I figured once we got to the neighborhood of Apujung we could figure out where the Hard Rock Cafe was. It was bound to be a large place, right?

The driver dropped us off in front of the subway station. We began walking. We stopped at a convenience store. We asked the way. They pointed in a general direction, but said it was far. We began walking. We didn’t see anything that resembled the Hard Rock Cafe. We stopped at a Starbuck’s. Even though I was speaking Korean (limited as it is) the clerk didn’t understand. We left, defeated. As we exited, two young men said Hello. We turned around. Hi. Do you know this area well? It turned out they were two young US Army enlistees. One was celebrating his two month anniversary in Korea. We chatted for a while, then the one who seemed to be quite fluent in Korean went back inside. He came out a few minutes later. “Walk down this road, until you get to a main road. Cross it and keep walking. You’ll see the Hard Rock Cafe. I think.” We thanked them and continued.

We walked along the road. We came to the major intersection. We looked across the road. We looked to the right. We looked to the left. Ida turned to me. “I don’t think anything’s there.” Maybe? Maybe if we go just a little further? “I don’t know, Lori. This seems like another Wood Shop. Do you really think it’s there?” Okay, you’re right, let’s head back. We arrived back to our area of town, and decided to go to the bar at the Koreana, a major hotel across the street. As we walked in, we were greeted by a barful of Englishmen, singing boisterous footy songs. We endured through many come ons, then decided to try our luck elsewhere. We headed to Mulligan’s, which was closed for a private party. We walked in anyway, completely unnoticed. After a lap of the bar, we decided to leave. We went to a temporary food stand, sat down, and ordered kimbop. There was a table to the right of us, several Irish lads and their Korean female companions. They were singing Irish drinking songs, quite loudly. Ida and I mused, “We need good American drinking songs. We really don’t have any.” We thought and thought and could only come up with “99 Bottles of Beer On The Wall.”

One of the older fellows came over to talk to us. He asked us where we were from. We told him, the United States. He wanted to know where we were *from*, where our ancestors hailed from. Ida explained she was Chinese/Filipino. I told him I was Irish/Scottish. He latched onto that. “No. You are not Irish American. Never say you are Irish American. You are Irish. Promise me, that when you return to America, you will trace your family roots. I bet that we are related.” I tried to explain to him that my family had been in the United States for 10 or more generations, but that didn’t seem to matter. “You are Irish. Never deny that.” I assured him that I would indeed trace my family tree when I returned to the States. He then called his son over.

His son regaled us with World Cup stories. He had been in Japan, watching the Irish play, for two weeks. He had come to Korea and was having the time of his life. He was there with four of his buddies, his father, and numerous newly met friends. He explained he was one of the “leprechauns” so often seen in photographs from World Cup games. We talked for a while, then he rejoined his group of new acquaintances.

We laughed as we were photographed with our new friends. We headed home, exhausted from another full day.

The next morning, we woke up and treated ourselves to a full scale American breakfast in one of the hotel’s restaurants. Pancakes, bacon, toast, fruit, coffee, a spread unlike any I’ve seen for 6 months.

We got Ida’s luggage and hailed a taxi to take us to the airport shuttle stop (as the crow flies, very close, but as the tourist walks, so far). When the shuttle arrived, I held back the tears. Ida was leaving. The past two weeks had been a bastion of normalcy, a respite from the loneliness of life in Korea. She boarded the bus, I watched as she settled into her seat, waving as the bus pulled away into the busy Seoul traffic.