I will meet my parents in Seoul today. We will travel together for 2 weeks, first through Korea, then through China. I’m excited. To be with people you trust, you feel comfortable with, is a wonderful thing. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that.
“Let’s Go Downtown…”
Were the words I heard. Sang Jae was so excited, unusually energetic, that I agreed, even though I would have preferred to stay inside on this cold, rainy evening. “Your last weekend Daegu! Let’s go downtown!” I donned my pink raincoat and we headed to the door.
We stood in the cold drizzle, unsuccessfully trying to hail a taxi. Surprisingly, there weren’t many on the road, and the ones that were out were occupied. To add insult to injury, as we were about to get into the one taxi that did stop, four ajumma elbowed us out of the way and took our cab. I sighed. I hoped this wasn’t a harbinger of the impending evening.
The 407 bus approached. Run! I shouted, grabbing Sang Jae’s arm. We arrived just as the bus slowed to a stop. On the ride downtown I stared out the window, as if seeing everything on this route I had taken dozens of times for the first time. The abundance of wedding halls. The signs. Everywhere there are signs. The entire front of a building covered by long, rectangular signs. The never in my life have I seen such wide road intersections. The maniac drivers, weaving in and out of traffic.
Sang Jae sniffed. In my peripheral vision I could see a tear slowly rolling down his cheek. I dug through my purse till I found a tissue, then handed it to him as I continued to stare out the window. A couple of minutes later he handed a wet tissue back to me. “Thanks.”
We got off downtown and followed the underground maze of tunnels to the XN Milano movie theaters. We stood in line, watching the brightly lit marquis above us flashing the movie name, time and status of tickets (available, almost sold out, sold out). We had already seen Minority Report. How about Men In Black II? We moved a couple of spaces in line. We glanced up. Men In Black II – sold out. Oh. Okay then, how about The Sum of All Fears? We moved another couple of people closer. Just as we got to the window, The Sum of All Fears – sold out. I shrugged my shoulders. It’s no big deal. We’ll do something else.
“Let’s go Gypsy Rock!” I was surprised. I had only been there once, during the World Cup. To enter, you have to descend 22 stairs, the loudness and smoke becoming more dense with each step. The crowd there tends to be mostly foreigners, not really Sang Jae’s scene. Reluctantly, I agreed and we began to weave our way through the small alleys until we reached Gypsy Rock. We went down the stairs and sat down in the dark, smokey room. As our beers arrived, I saw Sang Jae scanning the room. What are you looking for? I yelled across the graffitied wooden table. “The dancing. Where the dancing?” Sang Jae, there’s not dancing here. It’s a bar. “Last time, dancing.” I remembered back to the last time we were here. Right after Korea defeated Spain in the World Cup. We had stayed only 5 minutes due to the wall to wall people, many dancing on the bar and tables, celebrating Korea’s victory. Oh, Sang Jae, there was dancing then because of the World Cup, but not normally. He looked around. “I don’t like. Let’s leave.” We finished our beers and went back into the rain.
“Let’s go nightclub. I want to dance.” Okay, but where? He smiled. “My favorite, Athens.” We hailed a taxi and made the trip back across town. To enter Athens, you descend a huge marble Southern plantation-esque staircase, then enter a huge cavernous room, the entire interior filled with sofas and coffee tables, a large stage at the front. A lone, lonely dj was spinning loud tunes up on the stage. Lonely because, except for the impeccably tuxedoed waiters, he was the only person in the vacuous establishment. We looked around. We actually sat down. We exchanged knowing glances. “Let’s go.” Okay. And we were gone.
As we waited for a taxi once again, Sang Jae complained, “Why it so hard?” I looked at him in amazement. Yes, it was hard. This is how I’ve felt my entire time in Korea. Obstacles greeting me at every turn. I had attributed most of my frustration to language barriers. I wasn’t competent because I couldn’t communicate my needs. But here was a native speaker, frustrated as well.
As defeated as I felt, as disappointed as I was that the night had not gone as planned, I felt just the slightest bit victorious. A bond, a solace, it wasn’t just me.
Korean Blond
That’s what I am now. Not intentionally, mind you, but I am. I had “prit-tee” strands of blond put in my hair several months ago. My roots from that experiment are quite evident now. I complained about this to Sang Jae, who replied, “Lori. No. Very, very good. Hair grows fast, means you thinking eros thoughts.” I rolled my eyes.
Seeing that Korean hair salons are quite the bargain, I decided to return to my natural chestnut brown before returning to the US. I asked Sang Jae to accompany me, at least initially, to the beauty salon to insure there were no misunderstandings due to language. He and the stylist talked, “Yay, yay, yay” back and forth, back and forth. I was presented with a board of hair samples ranging from platinum blond to jet black. I chose my original chestnut, compared it to my non-dyed hair, and nodded. Yes, this one. More Korean transpired. I turned to Sang Jae. Before I could even ask, he smiled and said, “Not a problem.”
I was led to a chair, seated, and watched as two women attacked my hair. Mixing noxious potions, strong enough to make my eyes tear. Inspecting my hair, strand by strand. Clucking their tongues and shaking their heads. Combing the foamy pinkish mixture onto my locks. Repeating the process. Forty-five minutes later, the assistant said, “This way” and led me to the basin for a shampoo.
My favorite part. Feeling her fingers massage my scalp, generating lather, rinsing warm, then cool. She wrapped a pink towel round my head and ushered me back to the chair. As she removed the towel, I was immediately suspicious. Instead of the dark brown I was expecting I was met by more of a golden tone. As the blow dryer heated strand by strand, I realized this was not even close to the shade I had pointed out. I smiled feebly as she, very proud of her work, said, “You like?”
I stared in the wall length mirror in front of me. I really don’t have the coloring to sport blond hair. But, I also fear what will happen if I try to chemically process my hair yet another time. As I was staring blankly in the mirror, I slowly, very slowly, became aware of something very curious. I looked right, then slowly focused my gaze left. My hair was the exact same shade as all of the stylists. The light, brassy, orange-y color that occurs when dark hair tries to be light. I sighed. Yet another souvenir by which to remember Korea…
I Go, You Go, We All Go to Jeju-Do!
Getting There
Daegu Train Station.
Divide and conquer. Sang Jae was in charge of snacks, I was in charge of tickets. Trains leave DongDaegu Station approximately every 15 minutes bound for Pusan. Yet, on Saturday, every single seat was taken. For the entire day. Good news, ticket price was cheeee-eap! Bad news, we had to stand the hour and a half ride to Pusan. As we entered the car, looking for a nice, roomy spot to stand in the 24 inch wide aisle, 3 little boys, maybe 8 or 9 years old, stared, wide eyed, at me. They poked each other in the ribs, then whispered to each other, “Mi-guk! Mi-guk!” You would think that after 8 months of this, I would be used to it. I’m not. It still makes me incredibly self-conscious. After the initial “Annyong ha-sayo” I do everything I can to avoid eye contact. I make sure I’m not slouching. I really, really, try not to let the stares and snickers get to me. They do.
Pusan Ferry Terminal.
Sang Jae, tell me again, what exactly does a 3rd class ticket entitle us to on this ferry? He laughed. I’m serious. Let me know what to expect. “Not a problem.” That’s his favorite phrase. I sighed. That’s all the information I was getting.
Cozy Island Ferry.
We walked into our assigned section. It appeared to be a big rec room, the floor covered with no nonsense, red, indoor-outdoor nubby carpet. Okay, this isn’t so bad, I thought. We found a space against the wall and sat down on the floor; he pulled out his language tapes, I pulled out my crossword puzzle. People kept coming. And coming. And coming. Hmm. After we departed, we decided to nap. I carefully stretched out, very aware of the many bodies near me. The group of college students, all with backpacks. The family, playing cards, rather animatedly, to our left. The honeymooning couple to our right. I pride myself on my ability to sleep. Anywhere. Anytime. I didn’t get a wink that night. The noise level was magnified ridiculously. The bright, industrial fluorescent lights shone until 1 am. The various groups of people chattered, sang, and argued in an incomprehensible garble. And as the night wore on, more and more bodies stretched out. Less and less floor space was visible. Forget about personal space. Arms touching legs. Feet rubbing heads. Legs against backs. And virtually all strangers. About 4 am, I decided it was pointless to continue lying on a hard surface. I got up, put my windbreaker on, and headed out to the deck.
Cozy Island Ferry Deck.
This is the part I love the most about boat rides. The wind. The chilly, at times freezing, wind, blowing ferociously against my being. My hair whipping away from my face, then slapping my checks as I turn. Squinting my eyes to contain the tears that form from the icy force. In the far distance I saw lights. Dozens and dozens of intensely bright lights. I looked at my watch. 4:30 am. We were still another 2 hours from shore. What could the lights be? At this point Sang Jae joined me. What are those? “The animal.” What animal? “You know. The one you said.” I thought back to all of our recent conversations. Then began the process of disregarding any that did not revolve around sea creatures. I wish my memory had a “find” feature. Octopus? “No. But like.” Squid? “Yes. The squid. Boats to catch the squid.” We came closer. It was unbearable to look at the ships, the lights were intense as those at ball parks. The kind of bright that leaves you temporarily unable to see anything but whiteness after glancing at them. We sat on deck for a bit longer, then noticed it was getting lighter. The sun was rising behind us.
We walked to the other end of the deck. The sun was barely peeping up over the horizon. We saw people on the deck above us. I want to go there. We found the stairs, blocked by a rope and a sign that I imagined said, “Keep Out!” I pulled Sang Jae’s arm. We can’t go there. “Not a problem,” as he climbed over the rope. I sighed, looked around, then followed. The view was magnificent. The sun, bright red at first, then orange, then a true golden as it gradually rose over the horizon. I snapped picture after picture. This is the only sunrise I’ve experienced in Korea. I was relishing the beauty of the scene when I heard someone yelling harshly at me. I spun around. There, in his droll blue uniform was a crew member, who obviously thought it *was* a problem that we were on his deck. He continued coming closer to me (the only non-Korean in sight), yelling the entire time. I finally turned to Sang Jae. What is he saying? He laughed, said, “Not a problem,” and gently led me away. The crew member continued walking behind us, rounding up all the people who were on his deck illegally, herding us to the lower deck.
The Island. Day 1.
Jeju City.
I had made a car reservation with Hertz. We stopped at the Information booth at the Ferry Terminal, I showed the man my Hertz #1 Gold card, and asked where it was located. He picked up the card, turned it over, then shook his head, telling me they didn’t have that bank here on Jejudo, but would I like some oranges? I looked at Sang Jae. He pulled me away, muttering something about the people they hire to work in Information Booths. We hailed a taxi. The taxi driver had never heard of Hertz. We called 114 (the Korean version of 411). “Op-sayo.” Not here. Sang Jae looked at me. No! Really. There is a Hertz office here in Jeju City. I swear. Take me to a PC room and I’ll get the address from the web site. Really. We stopped at a PC room, and sure enough, there was a Hertz office in the city. A very small, shack-like structure, but an office nonetheless. I gave the Hertz clerk my #1 Gold card and reservation number. He too, thought it was a bank card and tried to run it through the credit card machine. As we got into the car, Sang Jae said, “Automatic. Ooooo. You can drive?” I found this question slightly confounding, as I’ve often driven his manual transmission car. Yeah. No problem. And we were off.
The Road.
Bright sunshine, beautiful fields surrounded by walls of porous rocks. Lava rock. Almost black, somewhat hole-y, irregularly shaped, yet perfectly placed, rocks. The dirt. Deep brown cocoa powder as far as the eye could see. I wanted to taste the dirt. It looked so rich. The sea. The beautiful, transparent, incredibly blue, teeming with bodies, water. The flowers. Bright, red, row upon row of upward turned flowers.
Breakfast.
We stopped at a restaurant on the side of the road. The door was wide open, but no one was in sight. We called out, in unison, “Annyong ha-sayo!” An elderly, stooped lady with jet black hair and a silver tooth appeared. She smiled and ushered us to sit down, bringing us cold towels to wash our hands. Sang Jae ordered. Rice and seafood soup. Mmmmm. We ate, not speaking. We were both numb from lack of sleep. The spicy, steaming soup gradually brought energy, bit by bit, back to my body.
Hamdeok Beach.
Only a couple of blocks away was the beach. We changed into our suits in the car, then wandered onto the blinding white sand. Warmth. Everywhere. The sand. The air. The water. The rocks. I wandered through the seaweed into the water, dodging the bodies and stares of children on blow up rafts, men playing a version of volleyball called “kill ball,” women splashing their babies. I let my body float effortlessly in the salty water, turning and twisting, flipping and floating. I returned to the shore. I slept.
A couple of hours later we returned to the car, ready to continue our adventure. Sang Jae decided to drive. After one block, he pulled over, angrily got out, and said, “You drive.” I couldn’t figure out what the problem was. Turns out he was using his right foot for the accelerator, his left for the brake. I showed him how to use his right foot for both the accelerator and brake. After that, he smiled, “So easy! What’s the problem?”
Manjanggul Cave.
The tourist literature describes this as “the longest known lava tube in the world.” We paid our 2,200 won admission and started down the rough steps. With each step the air temperature became cooler, and cooler, and cooler. By the time we reached the floor of the cave we were shivering. “Natural a/c,” said Sang Jae, laughing. I laughed, too, and we began our walk, along with hundreds of other Korean tourists. We carefully avoided the puddles that littered the uneven floor of the cave. Almost the entire way the cave was, well, cavernous. I asked Sang Jae if this was the original formation, or had the tourism authorities blasted part of it to make it more easily accessible. He pondered, looked around, then said, “Yes. They changed it. Made it better. This original structure.” I thought for a moment. His statement was the epitome of my experience here in Korea. Not only words and actions incongruent with each other, but words and words, in the same sentence, expressing opposing truths. I smiled and we continued. After about a kilometer, we reached a formation – the farthest we could go. There a professional photographer sat, ready to take pictures of tourists in front of the unidentifiable formation. Koreans love to pose for pictures. If there is a tourist attraction, there is a photographer. In the most unlikely spots (the depths of a cave, for instance). We passed on the photo opportunity and retreated back through the cave, up the dozens of slick steps, back into the heat and humidity of the island.
Black Pig.
Sang Jae wanted kalbi for lunch. We searched for the usually prevalent kalbi restaurant, but could not find one. At a convenience store we asked the boy sweeping the sidewalk where we could find kalbi. He pointed and motioned for us to go around the corner. Sure enough, there was a green sign with a huge black pig on it. We walked into an empty restaurant. “Annyong ha-sayo…” we both called out. No one appeared. We looked around. The door was open, the lights were on, but no one was home. A woman entered carrying a heavy bag of groceries, nudged us out of the way and shuffled by. Sang Jae called to her, telling her we’d like to eat at her restaurant. She called back, told us to go away, that it was too hot to work today. I looked at Sang Jae in amazement. Why was the door open, then? Why are the lights on if the restaurant is closed? “Restaurant is open. She not want to work.” We hopped back in the car and drove down the street, looking for yet another restaurant. Minutes later we found one, enjoying our fill of pig.
Bijarim.
We continued our trek around the island, detouring whenever we saw a brown sign, indicator of a tourist attraction. I must admit, the Jejudo officials are quite liberal in the assignment of brown signs. Sang Jae vetoed me when I pointed at the sign that said “Bijarim” and attempted to steer the car in that direction. Why not? I asked. “Lori. Bijarim is Nutmeg forest. It’s hot. No more outside. It only trees.” When he told me the English translation, it intensified my desire to see the Nutmeg Forest. Hot or not, it sounded like the setting of a fairy tale. I’ve never seen nutmeg trees. It could be interesting. In the end, he won. We continued on the coastal road.
Sunrise Peak.
Another brown sign greeted us. “Soengsan Ilchulbong.” Sunrise Peak. We turned down the road and I saw our destination, a beautiful, craggy rock arising from the edge of the sea. In front of the restrooms in the parking area sat gnarled old ladies, towels thrown over their heads, squatting and hawking the famous Jejudo oranges, more aptly described as tangerines. We continued past them, carrying our frozen bottles of water, quickly melting in the intense heat. We gave the elderly man sitting outside the information booth our tickets. He looked at me, said, “Hello!” then motioned for me to wait. He disappeared into his booth, reappearing only seconds later. He handed me a meticulously written, in spiraling cursive, information sheet about the mountain. I smiled, thanked him, and we continued. The path was paved unevenly, soon turning into steep stairs. We stepped until our muscles burned, stopped, rested, then continued our upward climb. After about 30 minutes of constant climbing, and some sprinting, we reached the top. We stepped off the path and sat in the shadow of a jagged boulder overlooking the now inactive, full of greenery, volcano crater that sloped sharply to the bright blue waters of the ocean. We rested, watching the honeymooning couples in their matching outfits pose for the perfect photo. We rested, cherishing the light breeze that offered a bit of respite from our strenuous climb. We rested, watching the boats in the distance slice the beautiful blue waters below. We rested, just to rest. After lingering about a half an hour, we began our descent back to the base. Once there, we were greeted by my English speaking friend. “Did you like?” Oh, yes, very much. Thank you. “Have a nice day. Come back and visit again.” Sang Jae turned to me. “You are magnet for people. Everyone always talk to you.”
Folk Village.
We arrived to the Jeju Folk Village 45 minutes before closing. Sang Jae turned to me. “Not enough time. I recommend you see, but not today.” But I really have to use the bathroom. “What?” I really, really have to use the bathroom. Do you think they would let me? “Ask the guard. In Korean.” I approached the guard, smiling, and uttered, Shill-ye hamnidda. Hwa-jong-shil-li odi-imnikka? Excuse me. Where is the bathroom? He ushered me through the gates and pointed to the left. I scurried to the modern building, made to look old, amazed that he just let me in. Even more amazing is that in every single restroom I visited on Jejudo, there was toilet paper. That doesn’t sound like an incredulous thing, but it is. Here in Korea, you’ll find plenty of toilet paper on the restaurant tables (in lieu of napkins) but none in the restrooms.
Seogwipo.
Another of the World Cup cities. We found a reasonably priced yeo-gwan (we forget the tent) and settled in for the night. We were exhausted from the day’s activities, coupled with the lack of sleep the previous night.
The Island. Day 2
Hallasan.
It didn’t take us that long to get there, maybe 45 minutes over narrow, winding roads, steadily climbing to 1100 meters. As we parked the car in the makeshift parking lot, the rain began. A few scattered drops at first, then a downpour. But one that only lasted a few minutes. We began the trail. Hallasan is an inactive volcano in the center of the island of Jeju. The path begins very mildly, a flat traverse through thickets of knee high mountain bamboo. After crossing over enormous boulders in a dry riverbed, the ascent begins. Railroad ties have been lain as steps, about 2 km worth through a thick forest. Occasionally we felt drops of rain, but were basically sheltered because of the thick overhead growth. For as far as I could see, there was nothing but varying shades of greens and browns. Just as suddenly as the forest started, it ceased. We were in a wide open field, though at a considerably higher altitude than when we began. Just as we stepped into the field, the storm began. We were in the midst of clouds, rolling quickly by us. The winds whipped my (non-raincoat) windbreaker, as well as tugged my hair from my ponytail, causing random wet strands to stick to my cheeks. After 1.5 km of unrelenting rain, I turned to Sang Jae. How much farther to the top? I’m cold…. “Me, too. We can go if you want. You decide.” I looked at the strained look on his face. This entire endeavor had been my idea. Sang Jae’s idea of entertainment is playing video games; he’s not much for physical activities. I knew he was saying that for my benefit; it was quite obvious he didn’t want to be there. I looked upward. All I could see was fog and clouds. I looked downward. I hate the feeling of not finishing what I’ve started. I also hate being wet and cold. I looked at Sang Jae. Okay, let’s go back down. As we stood there, debating, a group of 5 older men passed us, coming down the mountain, heartily singing Korean folk songs. How he knew what we were discussing, I don’t know. But one of the men stopped, told us we *must* go to the top, then gave me his plastic raincoat. No, no, no, I started. “My gift. Ka-yo. Go.” I looked at Sang Jae. He nodded towards the summit. “Let’s go!”
We continued over rocks, through growth, in the rain, for another kilometer. When we reached the top, there was a log cabin there. A tiny log cabin, selling ramyen, soju, and crackers. It just seemed so wrong for it to be there. We were on a volcano. We were in nature. There shouldn’t be a ramyen shack there. But there was. We entered, waited in line for a ridiculous amount of time, then enjoyed our hot noodles.
By the time we had finished, the rain had stopped. We began down the same path we had just ascended. I began humming a tune I’ve heard everywhere lately, though I don’t know the words. Sang Jae laughed. “Korean folk song. I learn you.” Line by line, he taught me the words to the folk song about going to the beach where the shooting stars are seen. “Hae-byun urol ka-yo…” As we finished, he said, “Your turn.” What? “Now you teach me song. National anthem.” You want to learn our National Anthem? Oh, Sang Jae, it’s hard. He gave me a look as to say, So? so I began. After two lines, he interrupted me. “No. Not that. Something else. Something easy.” Easy. Easy. Hmmmm. Okay. Repeat after me. Oh, when the saints… Go marching in… And that’s how we continued down the mountain, trading folk songs for 2 hours, laughing the whole time.
Cheonjujeon Falls.
We followed the brown signs to the water falls known as Cheonjujeon. Once again, I expected a natural experience, but was met by souvenir shops, bricked paths, and photographers at every turn. At the end of the carefully planned walk was a small waterfall, with dozens of Koreans in line, waiting to have their picture snapped in front of the flowing water. I looked around. Can we at least swim here? Sang Jae burst out laughing. “No way.” We can only look? That’s it? “Of course. Is there a problem?” No. No. Just… We walked back along the bricked sidewalk. We paused on the small bridge, staring at the dozens of fish swimming below. There were pure white fish, gold fish, black fish, and a combination of all the above. Maybe carp. They were big. We pondered about how the fish got the different mottled patterns. I speculated it was pure genetics. A orange fish gets frisky with a white fish, you get a mottled orange and white baby. Sang Jae insisted it was artificial manipulation. That scientists take baby fish and inject dye into them to create the random patterns. Neither was willing to concede to the other’s theory, so we agreed to disagree and headed to the ice cream stand.
Jungmun.
Since we arrived to Jejudo, Sang Jae had been extolling the virtues of Jungmun – “so much to do, so good, so good!” We arrived there. It was a tourist trap. Resorts. Souvenir shops. Golf course. Botanical Gardens. Teddy Bear Museum. Oh. We tried to go to the overdeveloped beach, but it was closed because of the impending storm. The Botanical Gardens had just closed for the day. I could tell Sang Jae was upset because I wasn’t more excited about Jungmun. I tried to wipe the disappointment from my face. I tried to imagine how I’d feel if I had just shown him Muir Woods and the Redwoods and he said, “That’s it?” I mustered a smile and said, What’s next? What should we do? The damage was done. He gave me the silent treatment.
Daepo Haesan Jusangjeollidae.
I was on my own as far as the next destination. I took out the map and studied it. Hmmm. What could we do in the hour or so left of daylight? Not very far away was the Jusanjeolli coast, littered with hexagonal-shaped rock formations, formed when lava met the sea eons ago. I started there. And got ridiculously lost. I could ask for directions, but wouldn’t understand what I was told. I thought I could “find my way back” to a recognizable point, but ended up driving through streets which twisted and became more and more narrow the further I drove. Finally, Sang Jae looked over at me and said, “Stop the car.” We were at the coast, he got out, walked over to a fisherman in rubber galoshes, and asked directions. Back in the car he gave me curt directions.
We arrived to the dirt parking lot and walked along the path to the overlook. A deck, perched precariously on a cliff, overlooked a spectacular sight. The waves, stronger and more forceful because of the impending storm, crashed mercilessly against the tall, black, hexagonal-shaped formations. The tension between us dissolved as we oohed and aahed as the ocean spray exploded. The sun sank lower and lower over the horizon, casting a blue, then gray, then indigo cast over the scene. Finally, the area around us was pitch black. We carefully made our way back up the path, back to the lone car in the dirt parking lot.
The Island. Day 3.
Typhoon.
This is what prevented us from executing our original plans of visiting the Jeju Folk Village (an outdoor museum) and the even smaller island of Udo (Cattle of Peace Unity Island). Instead, we continued eastward around the island, windshield wipers at full speed as we carefully navigated the flooded roads.
Songaksan.
The first brown sign we came to was Songaksan, another formation of sheer cliffs arising from the edge of the sea. To the left of the parking lot was a path that led down to the ocean. To the right was a beautiful temple. Sang Jae, I know you don’t like the temples, but I’d really like to visit. Do you mind if I go by myself? I won’t be long… “No problem. Over here,” and he pointed to where he would wait for me. I purchased my admission ticket then began to climb the many stairs to the temple, nestled in the side of the cliff. I was greeted by two statues. One, short and squat, of an obese laughing Buddha, four baby Buddhas clinging happily to him. The other statue, tall and elegant, a woman draped in layers of flowing fabric, dragons at her feet, serenely gazing at the sea. I walked around the temple grounds, still amazed at the intricate detail of the craftsmanship. I’ve seen dozens of temples since arriving here, and each time I visit, I still gasp at the incredible beauty of the smallest details. The vibrant colors – gold, red, green, blue. The ornate lettering. The precision with which each piece of wood notches together without the slightest evidence of looseness. The mysticism in the pictures. Snarling dragons. Women floating on clouds. I sighed, already missing the beauty of the temples. I carefully manipulated the wet steps, meeting Sang Jae at the bottom. We walked down to the beach in the rain, marvelling at the rugged coastline.
Gwakji Beach.
We drove, occasionally stopping at scenic points, listening to Korean dance re-mixes on the radio. When I knew the words, I sang along, otherwise, I just bopped to the rhythm. Sang Jae pulled into a local supermarket. “Stay here.” I always think it’s funny when people say that. I mean, where am I going to go? I’m in a land where I virtually don’t speak the language, we’re in the middle of nowhere, why would I want to go anywhere? A few minute later he arrived with a bag. What ‘cha got? “Our lunch. Meat.” That’s exactly what it was. A big bag of raw meat. I started to ask him where the rest of our lunch was, but decided against it. We drove a bit further. By this time the rain had subsided. It was sunny, warm, but incredibly windy. We pulled into the parking lot at Gwakji Beach. “Stay here.” I watched as Sang Jae searched the parking lot. He eventually came back to the car, grabbed a couple of bags, and motioned for me to follow him across the parking lot. I followed and watched as he arranged some rocks in an unusual formation, placed a disposable grill over them, and proceeded to light a couple of charcoal “tires” before throwing the meat on the grill. Sure enough, that was our lunch. Meat. I laughed inwardly at the scene. An incredibly hot and muggy day, us starting a campfire in a parking lot, and grilling meat, nothing else, picking at the roasted pieces with our wooden chopsticks as we sweated profusely from the heat of the flames.
After we doused the charcoal tires with water and sand, we changed into our swimsuits and made our way to the ocean. First we passed over tidal pools in the uneven lava rock formations. We examined the small fish, the colorful shells, and tiny crabs trapped in the shallow pools. Then we waded through a wide, lukewarm “pool” before reaching a wide sandbar and finally entering the ocean. The current was especially strong, the waves unusually high. We swam out past where the waves broke. We jumped the waves rolling to the shore. We bodysurfed. We splashed each other. We watched black clouds come closer to our location. We felt the air temperature get cooler. We laid on the sand bar and let the remnants of waves gently wash over us. We poured wet sand on each other. We laughed at the children who stopped right in front of me and stared. When our fingers and toes wrinkled like prunes, we made our way to the bathhouses. I showered as quickly as possible, to escape both the icy stream of water and the fixed stares of the other bathers. Just as we settled into the car, the storm broke. Slowly at first, then more rapidly, the fat drops punctured the sand, leaving craters from the impact.
The Island. Day 4.
Going Home. *sigh*
Returning the rental car. Checking in at the airport. Waiting for our flight to board. A turbulent 45 minute ride back to the mainland. Vacation’s over.
Don’t Use Dish Detergent In Your Washing Machine
This is very good advice. Heed it.
I’m not an idiot. Not usually. Normally, I can negotiate simple everyday tasks with relative ease. Until living here. Korea: 437 Lori: 0
My friend at the corner store, Mr. Wa-tah Pa-teee, meant well. I’m sure he did. He always does. And if I ever need water, or juice, or liquids, he’s such the man. Always there for me.
But today, I needed laundry detergent. “Ball-lay pee-nu jushipshee-yo?” Do you have laundry soap? He nodded, yes, yes, yes, and shuffled to the “housewares” section of the tiny 10 by 10 store. He pointed to bar soap. “Ani-o, ani-o. Pee-nu…” and I pointed to my clothes, pretending to wash them. Ah, yes, yes, yes, he searched the shelves. He picked up a bottle of Drain-o. He read the label. I laughed and shook my head. He laughed and said, “Bathroom!”
Okay. Maybe this was a little bit user error. I mean, after he tried to give me Drain-O to wash my clothes, I probably should have smiled and gone elsewhere. But I didn’t.
He finally exclaimed, “Ah-ha!” and gave me a bag of liquid soap. I tried to read the Korean, but didn’t know any of the words. It smelled good. It looked like laundry detergent. I thanked him, paid him and left.
I came home, ready to do some serious laundry. I started the machine. I poured in a liberal amount of the soap. I added my clothes, then shut the door to my little sunporch where my washer sits. 45 minutes later, I heard the distinctive, “Beep…. Beep…. Beep…” that lets me know the laundry cycle is finished.
I opened the door and screamed. There, covering a good portion of my sunporch tile, was a foot or so of bubbles. You see, my washer empties directly onto the floor. There’s a drain there, which works quite well for the disposal of water, but I guess the abundance of soap was overwhelming. I stared at the floor. I stared at the bubbles. I stared at the bag of detergent. Only then did I realize it was the same picture that was on my dish detergent. Korea, you win.
Today was my final day at soyae, Chinese calligraphy lessons. I truly will miss the grandfathers, my 5 classmates, all over 70, who have been my source of social interaction. Since learning that I was leaving Korea, they have made me promise, daily, to write to them (by postal mail, none of them use email), get married, have babies, continue my calligraphy lessons in San Francisco, visit Korea at least once a year, and be their tour guide when they take a group trip to San Francisco. Everyday, I smile and tell them I’ll do what I can.
Mr. Na, funny man, presented me with a beautiful scroll. At the top were several lines in hangul, Korean script. Covering the bottom were bamboo leaves blowing in the wind. Mr. Ju translated the Korean for me:
“You came to us in March, a peony with a smile.
We made friends. We shared good times.
We ate pig meat together and visited old schools.
Now, you leave for the United States.
Our hearts hurt; our minds are sad.”
Why do they call them good-byes? It doesn’t feel very good….
The Envelope Please….
Today, as I was practicing my Chinese calligraphy, I noticed I was the only one writing. All the other students had disappeared. I heard whispers, but as usual, couldn’t understand what was being said, as it was all in Korean.
A few minutes later, Mr. Ju appeared at the door. “Miss Lori, Miss Lori, come this way…” I followed him to the main room, the room where we sit on couches each morning and share coffee and tea. Yes? I asked, somewhat hesitantly. “Teacher Song surprise for you.” I literally had no idea….
Teacher Song produced a piece of paper. On it were several Chinese characters, then, in Korean, the address of the soyae academy. Teacher Song spoke for a long time in Korean, then motioned for Mr. Ju to translate. Mr. Ju began. “Your writing, finally good enough. You get pen name. Teacher Song chose name for you. We all agree. Here it is.” He pointed to the first Chinese characters. “This means pen name.” He pointed to the next. “Mi. Like Mi-guk. Means beautiful. Or a little like American.” I nodded and smiled. “This character. Cho. Like Cho-sun dynasty. The dynasty that ruled before Korea today. Also means morning. Or hope. So your name, many meanings. Beautiful morning. Beautiful hope. American Korean. Beautiful Korean. American morning. Mi-Cho. Mi-Cho.” All the men smiled and nodded in approval, low “Yays” echoing in agreement.
I smiled. “You understand?” Yes. Yes, I understand. Thank you. I’m quite honored. Thank you. and I bowed to each of the men in turn. Mr. Ju folded the paper with my pen name on it and put it in a long, narrow envelope. “This. This very important. This envelope.” Yes, I understand this is a very important document. Thank you. “No. This envelope. Old fashioned Korean envelope. Very, very important.” I looked at the envelope. It looked like a normal envelope. I took it. Mr. Ju continued. “Envelope. You know?” Yes. I understand. It’s an envelope. I know. “You understand the envelope?” Yes. Thank you. and I smiled again.
We all dispersed to continue our writing. I thought for a moment. Was he really trying to tell me that it was an envelope, or was there something more? The all too familiar nagging that has haunted me since my arrival, that of never quite knowing if I fully comprehend, crept over me. Do I really understand the envelope?
You would have thought I had learned my lesson, after yesterday, that is. But no, when Hye Jin, a former high school student of mine, invited me to have lunch with her family, I once again though, oh, I’ll be gone for 2 hours, then can return home to pack. She and her father picked me up in front of the school at noon. She looked very comfortable in shorts and a casual top, not the rigid school uniform I was accustomed to seeing her in. She saw me walking up the sidewalk, waved, and smiled a shy smile.
Truthfully, when she emailed me and invited me to have lunch at her house, I was very surprised. She’s an excellent student, but painfully shy. Not much of a talker. When I had her in class, I was her “homeroom” teacher, responsible for checking her daily “journal” once a week, where students were instructed to write in English about what was happening to them in their daily life. This was her first year of high school and the adjustment was not easy. Longer hours at school, tougher classes, and from what she wrote, some not so pleasant teachers. One teacher in particular, a man, whom she described as “greasy.” Upon reading some of her entries, I started writing notes back to her, words of encouragement, not just the expected grammar correction. I guess you could say we developed an unexpected rapport. When she found out I had resigned, she stopped coming to English lessons. Another reason I was very surprised to get her email.
Once in the car, she was unusually talkative. What had I been doing since I resigned? Would I travel? When would my parents arrive? She introduced me to her father, whose manner was as kind and compassionate as hers. We arrived to their apartment, about 15 minutes away. She told me they lived on the 18th floor, which was scary at times. “I don’t know why,” she said and giggled. We entered the apartment. Her mother, a stunningly beautiful petite woman who looked no older than 25 (but who was actually 41) greeted me. I was introduced to her younger sister, 7, and brother, 5. Again, Hye Jin looked at me and said, “They are so much younger.” She shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “I don’t know why.”
The two younger children ate in the other room at the “kid’s table”, playing and horsing around more than eating. The four of us sat at the “adult table.” Her mother brought out an incredible variety of foods. King prawns, fruit salad, bulgogi, rice, chop chay (a noodle and vegetable dish), mandu, pajeon; I couldn’t believe how many dishes there were. As Hye Jin’s mother got up many times, preparing food, clearing dishes, bringing us drinks, her father commented, “My wife is very busy. That is good.”
As dessert was brought to the table, Hye Jin turned to me. “We will take a trip after lunch. Is it okay?” I smiled. Of course, it’s fine. Thank you. Where will we go? “Maybe Palgongsan? To ride the cable car.” Hye Jin then presented me with a box. I was very surprised. Hye Jin, what is this for? “For you. For your kindness. We want you to remember Korea.” There is absolutely no way I will forget this experience, this 7 months in a foreign land. I opened the box. There were beautiful Korean fans, the unreal vibrant blue, yellow and red swirling together. A replica of the wooden masks used at the dance at Hahoe. And a delicate painted silk fan, portraits of Koreans of old enjoying the river. I was speechless. Thank you. Thank you so much. This is, well, this is too much. Thank you. They beamed, delighted that I liked their choices so much. Hye Jin spoke. “Okay, let’s go to Palgongsan now.”
We all piled in the car, but not before stopping at Baskin Robbins. Hye Jin bought ice cream for her younger siblings. As we got back in the car, she explained, “If they have food in their mouth, they won’t talk as much.” It was true. The entire time they were enjoying the sticky sweetness of the ice cream, they were silent. As soon as their cups were empty, they began bantering back and forth. Chanting, in Korean, the equivalent of “Go faster than the next car,” over and over and over.
We arrived to Palgongsan and got tickets for the cable car to the top of the mountain. It was the first time I had been to Palgongsan and not hiked. We arrived to the top, greeted by low clouds obscuring the peaks. We walked around the observation deck for a while, then sat at an outdoor table. Her father brought drinks and bapinsu to the table, a shaved ice, ice cream, 7-up, fruit, candy, red beans and whipped cream concoction. It was the Rolls Royce of sno cones.
We finished and returned to the cable car. The younger siblings oohed and aahed every time we hit a bump and tried to make the passengers in the cable cars ascending the mountain wave to us. If someone returned their greeting, they would yell, “Friend! Friend!” and laugh hysterically.
We drove through Daegu, the father pointing out various sites. They offered to guide my parents while they are here. Hye Jin lamented the fact that even though she is officially on summer vacation, classes start again this week (from what I gather, a reduced load).
Once again, I returned to my apartment a good seven hours since leaving. Tired, but satisfied, with a whole new appreciation of the phrase, “Let’s do lunch.”
Let’s Do Lunch
Generally, when someone says this to me, I allot one, maybe two, in special circumstances three, hours in my schedule.
Mr. Ju called this morning at 10. He wanted to meet for lunch. Seeing I was looking forward to a day of cleaning my apartment and packing, it would be a nice change of pace. We met at 1 in front of the so-yae lecture hall. It is now 9 pm.
When we met at 1, he greeted me with these words, “Let’s eat at the East Sea.” The East Sea? Well, um, okay. “Do you mind my friend come too?” No, not at all. Sounds good. We got in the car and began our journey to the East Sea, approximately 100 km east (d’oh) of Daegu. We picked up his friend along the way. I was never told his name, only what he does – a commercial English teacher at the Business and Intelligence High School.
Mr. Ju’s friend was master of the obvious. As we entered the highway, he announced, “North Daegu Interchange,” just as it was written, in English, on the highway sign. As we came to a rest area, he announced, “Slow,” also written in English on a road sign. When we got out of the car, he pointed to the women’s rest room and said, “Women. Bathroom.” As I always do, I smiled and thanked him.
Mr. Ju said the trip would take about 2 hours. Three hours later, we were still winding through the narrow mountain roads, bordered by lush greenness. “Almost there. Almost there,” he kept saying. Suddenly, we began our descent over a hill, and sure enough, the East Sea greeted us. We rolled down the windows. “Fressshhhhhhh. The air is so good. Mmmmmm.” I breathed in the air, at once feeling the salt collect upon the hairs on my arm.
We parked the car. I got out. I squealed. There is something about the ocean that excites me. I clapped my hands in joy. My two companions laughed and laughed.
We walked to a makeshift shelter by the ocean. A platform, covered with linoleum, small tables scattered here and there. A group of old men slapping down cards, collecting money. A couple, enjoying a romantic dinner by the sea. And us. Two Korean grandfathers and a tall American woman. As usual, activity stopped, eyes stared when I walked in. I smiled and bowed, then continued to our tiny table.
We sat down. Laughing, Mr. Ju introduced me as his daughter to the proprietor, an old friend of his. Soon the platters arrived. First, the snails. With eggs. And a squirmish red thing.
Then the small side dishes for soy sauce and the red vinegar-y, pepper-y sauce.
Then, the soju and beck sae ju. Beck sae ju. The alcohol that allows you to live for 100 years if you drink it regularly. Amen.
The platter of sliced raw fish big enough to feed a small nation. The bowls of chopped cabbage salad, swimming in ginger-y, tart sauce. The small plates of garlic. The platters of fresh leaves.
We began eating. We toasted each other. We ate raw fish. We watched children play in the ocean.
Mr. Ju spoke. “We thought you stay here one, maybe two, maybe three years. We so sad you leaving. Promise you will visit Korea once a year.” Welllll, I will try to visit again. I will miss you. I really will. You have been so kind to me. “We hope you marry Korean man and stay Korea forever. We have 2 weeks to find you husband. We want you marry.” Maybe one day I will marry. But for now, no. He smiled, shook his head, looked down and said, “I miss you already.”
We continued to eat. The owner brought us bowls of rice (it’s not a meal if you don’t eat rice) and a soup that was delightfully salty and fishy. Afterwards, we drank hot instant coffee.
We walked on the beach, the sun now setting. We watched a group set up camp on the beach. They had brought coolers filled with watermelons, and beer, and soju. Grills (yes, plural), meat, bags of vegetables, boxes of the unknown. We took pictures. Then got back in the car.
As we drove, I marvelled at the scenery. Silvery lakes, lavender mountains in the background, slivers of pink clouds, against a faint baby blue sky. What a beautiful world.
I was lost in my praise of creation when I heard a voice from the back seat. “Miss Lori? Miss Lori?” Yes? “What do you think of the love affair?” Excuse me? “What do you think of the love affair?” I have a bad habit of picking, no tearing, at my fingernails when I’m nervous. Or bored. “The love affair? What you think?” Well. Hmm. I looked up. The road sign said Daegu – 82 km. I looked down. Blood was just barely trickling from two of my fingers. Well. I think. I think that if two people share the same interests and values, and share passion, then maybe they will share love. That they often go on to get married and have a love affair. When they are married. To each other. “But you, what about YOU?” I turned around. I knew what he was getting at. I also knew that I had to ride in the car with him for at least another 80 km. In bumper to bumper traffic that could translate to 2 hours. I was married. At this point, Mr. Ju interjected. “I have not told him about you.I have not told him you married.” Well, tell him now. Tell him I was married. I was loving someone. But I’m not now. A lot of Korean transpired. A voice from the back seat. “But what about the love affair? You – having the love affair?” and he smiled a lecherous smile as he nodded to himself. Are you married? “Of course!” Do you have children? “Of course! A son.” Oh. That’s very good. I think, hmmm, I think, if you are married, you don’t be loving any other woman other than your wife. That’s what I think about the love affair.
I couldn’t believe I was using such atrocious English. But sometimes, I have to weigh the advantages of proper English usage vs. communication. In this case, communication was more important. He understood.
We rode in silence for a long time. “Miss Lori? Miss Lori?” I turned around. Yes? “Miss Lori, what you think of the Korean man?” Without realizing it, I began picking at my nails again. This was very uncomfortable. Mr. Ju has been nothing but kind to me over the past 6 months. This was a friend of his. I didn’t want to offend him, yet I wanted in no uncertain terms to let him know I was not going to be loving him. Well. Some Korean men have been very kind to me. Mr. Ju has been very nice to me. “Would you be loving a Korean man?” I turned around. I looked him straight in the eye. I might be loving a Korean man. If he were not married. And I turned back around, staring at the endless line of red lights as traffic stretched in front of us for miles and miles.
Mr. Ju put on a tape. A beautiful, sultry Korean voice singing love songs. Mr. Backseat translated. “Love me. Love you. Love each other. Love, love, love.”
I glanced up. Daegu – 12 km.
LoriLoo 