Beijing Opera

The sign in our hotel lobby touted the glories of the Beijing Opera. Not to be missed! A spectacle beyond belief! Now playing, right here!

I looked up the Beijing Opera in Dad’s Lonely Planet. Sure enough, it was a highly recommended attraction. There were three places to see the Opera in Beijing, two locales were traditional Opera houses, the theatre at our hotel was listed as a “sterile option.” I tried to find the other opera houses on the map. They weren’t there. I checked another map. Still couldn’t find them. I reported my research to my parents; we decided to take the “sterile” option, since we most definitely could find our way there and back.

It was indeed sterile. A theater that lacked charm, lacked any sense of design that was so evident everywhere else in China. Three platforms of “tea service” seating, tables with hard back chairs and a pot of tea in the center of the table. Behind the “tea service” section were rows upon rows of theater seating, reminiscent of a high school auditorium. We settled into our hard back chairs as comfortably as possible and the house lights dimmed. From a parting in the heavier than life blood red velvet curtains came a tall Chinese gentleman, as stiff as the chairs we were sitting in. In the most unusually accented English, he welcomed us to the Beijing Opera. He explained how in this form of opera movements were minimized, simplicity ruled. Therefore, an actor holding a horse whip was riding a horse, even though the horse wasn’t there. This seemed fairly obvious, but an explanation is always appreciated. If an actor walked around the stage, this symbolized traveling a great distance, across town, across a country, across the world. The erect Chinese gentleman bid us a good time, and with that, the first story began.

The first actor came out, garbed in the most fantastic, most elaborate costume. Yards and yards of silk surrounded him of the richest, deepest black. Swaths of white belted him, cradled his sword. Embroidery, mostly in gold, mostly of unreal animals, covered his tunic. We watched him dance, twirl, flip, retreat, and sing a little. By the end of the performance, two other actors had joined him, faces covered in white powder, eyes rimmed in black kohl, then surrounded by a deep red which seemed to personify evil. As far as I could tell, this was the story:

A general in the Chinese army was exiled (don’t know why). One of his subordinates wanted to take the rap for him. His subordinate dresses up as the general, then sets out to find the general. He stops at an inn, where the real general is staying, but dressed as someone else. The Innkeeper is really the real general’s bodyguard. During the night, the Innkeeper/bodyguard sneaks into the general/subordinate’s room, to execute him (because he’s obviously an imposter). They fight in the darkness for a very long time. The real general enters with a candle, recognizes both men, conducts introductions, and everyone laughs. Hahahahahahaha.

The second story was even more confusing. A nymph meets a scholar. She is smitten. She sends a message to him, via one of her nymphs in waiting, that they are congenial and will be married. With this message she sends a pearl as a symbol of her everlasting love. All the people in heaven got angry, because evidently a union between a nymph and a mortal is against the rules. Someone from heaven sent an army to stop this union, and possibly kill the nymph. Or at least teach her a lesson. Little did they know. This nymph kicked ass. She single handedly defended herself from a huge army of spear holding, flag waving heavenly soldiers. She gracefully deflected spears aimed at her, kicking some with her dainty, bound toes, twirling, deflecting others with her own spear, knock, knock, pirouetting, laughing the entire time. Bottom line – she defeated heaven’s army, she married the scholar, she got what she wanted.

And that was the end. I was sad. I wanted to see more of the out of this world color combinations. I wanted to see more of the jumping over each other, acrobating over tables, leaping over flying flags. I wanted to be scared by the intricate, overly done make up, reminding me of spirits only present before in my nightmares. Alas, the house lights shone, the people exited. The night was done.

The Summer Palace

After our trip to the Great Wall, Mr. Li escorted us to The Summer Palace, a “must see” for anyone visiting Beijing, according to him. It was beautiful. And expansive. Building upon building upon building, all built around a marvelous lake. We began walking around the lake, but quickly realized we wouldn’t be able to circumvent the entire body of water in the four hours we had allotted for the palace. We crossed the 17 Arch Bridge, so named because of the 17 arches that gracefully led us from the mainland to a small island in the center of the lake.

The Summer Palace was ordered built by Empress Dowager Cixi, who, from all descriptions, seemed like a woman who did whatever the hell she wanted. The funds for the Summer Palace were originally earmarked for the Chinese navy. She felt a palace for herself was more important. As a concession, however, she did build a stone boat, never navigable, and placed it as a monument to the navy at her grand palace. Also at the palace was a residence built especially for the Emperor, a nice gesture, I suppose, except that she banished him there under house arrest for long periods at a time. When Mom and I visited the Forbidden City/Imperial Palace, we learned that our gal Cixi also drowned the concubine of the Emperor who preceded her. To look at her photos, she didn’t seem evil, but I sure wouldn’t want to cross her.

As we walked through the grounds of The Summer Palace, beauty surrounded us. The majestic lake, the weeping willows lining the shore, boughs gracefully swaying in the light breeze; the buildings themselves, the faded blues, greens, and deep reds of the structures; the granite dragons, perched on larger than life pearls, ready to defend their territory from any of the evil spirits lurking. Even though it was incredibly crowded on this Sunday afternoon, there wasn’t the animosity that often permeates large crowds trying to see the same thing at the same time. Families strolled through the complex, stooped grandmothers, ambling slowly along, young mothers holding babies with bottomless pants, couples, posing for self timed photos along the lakeside. Everyone smiling, enjoying the cool breezes the lake provided on this sweltering day.

The Great Wall

Mr. Li, our driver for the day, picked us up at the hotel. We were scheduled to visit The Great Wall at Badaling. The mother of all tourist attractions. The reconstructed fortress that had kept enemies at bay for hundreds of years. The one man made structure visible from outer space. We were all very excited. We expected this excursion to be the highlight of our time in Beijing.

As we crept through the clogged Beijing streets, Mr. Li predicted Badaling would be very crowded today, as it was Sunday. “How about visiting another part of the wall? Maybe Mutianyu?” Dad, riding shotgun, discussed this possibility with Mr. Li. As soon as Mr. Li mentioned crowds and cable cars, Dad expressed his displeasure. “We really were looking to visit somewhere with less tourists. More off the beaten track.” Mr. Li nodded. “Hmmm. I see.” Personally, I wondered if Mr. Li understood these expressions, but I continued to let Dad do the talking.

Mr. Li cleared his throat. “How about the Yellow Flower section of The Great Wall?” Mom and I flipped through the Lonely Planet resting between us. We found no Yellow Flower. Dad encouraged him to tell us more. “Well, not developed. Just like hundreds of years ago.” Dad turned to face Mom and me, eyebrows raised. We stared back at him, maddeningly indecisive. None of us wanted to take responsibility for choosing a potentially bad spot for the highlight of our trip. “It’s up to you,” we finally said, “you choose.” “Okay, Mr. Li, let’s try that Yellow Flower section.”

We continued through Beijing until we came upon a huge traffic circle. As we approached our venue, we were met by a large sign blocking the way. Mr. Li stopped the car, got out, yelled to someone on the side of the road, then returned. We looped around the traffic circle once again, avoided the large sign, and continued down the blocked road. Dad asked Mr. Li what the sign said. He replied, “Road closed.” The three of us gave each other glances then shrugged. We drove a couple of kilometers down a chestnut tree lined dirt road before encountering another road block. This time a big rig was trying to turn and had jack knifed, blocking the road. This did not deter Mr. Li in the least. He simply beeped, drove off the side of the road, around the cab of the truck, and back onto the road. Shortly thereafter, we arrived at a bridge that was blocked. Bulldozers were in the road, as well as construction trucks. We would not be driving across the bridge. This obstacle caused Mr. Li to actually stop the car. “Oh. Hmmm….” we heard. Then, “Ahhh….” He slowly drove to one side of the bridge, down into the dry riverbed, then back up the opposite bank. Bridge? Who needs a stinkin’ bridge? At this point I felt like I was auditioning for the Chinese version of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. We could go anywhere in this car, this little red Volkswagen sedan.

After almost 2 hours of driving, Mr. Li pulled off the road, stopping in front of a souvenir booth and a large blue road sign, on it in white block letters in both Chinese and English, “THIS SEKTION OF GREAT WALL NOT DEVELOPD. CLIMBING FOBIDEN.” Mr. Li motioned for us to follow him, right past the warning. We passed vendors hawking their wares, then we were on a thin dam, crossing a lake. He pointed. There, snaking over the mountain, was the Great Wall. Not the Great Wall of postcard fame. The Wall, in its original form, dating back from thousands of years. We started along a dirt path surrounding the lake, then followed a switchback trail up the mountain until there we were. At the base of The Wall.

We started up it, using both hands and feet to ascend. We stopped every few feet – to rest, to wipe the sweat from our foreheads, and to gaze at the ever expanding view. Mountains, in every direction we looked. We continued up among the partial rubble, former fortress. At the first battlement, a toothless old man sitting perfectly erect, cross legged, bamboo hat askew, greeted us. As we climbed over the huge last step, he led us toward his mat of wares – “jade” bracelets, postcards, knick knacks. We smiled, shook our heads, and enjoyed the cool breezes. He followed us around a bit, a few paces behind us, his hands firmly clasped behind his back, against his navy blue tunic. Our utterances probably sounded as foreign to him as his did to us.

We continued up to the next battlement, avoiding the tall weeds growing along the path. We were behind a group of about 20 older Chinese tourists, the women in practical slacks and colorful polyester blouses, the men in baggy bermuda shorts and undershirts. All were chattering loudly, yelling to one another, snapping every combination of photos possible. One man sang loudly. He belted out the words to what seemed to be a Chinese folk song. Every so often, one of his female counterparts would join him, trilling notes shrill enough to shatter glass. At the second battlement there were more souvenir salesmen, who we again avoided with smiles and shakes of our hands. I could tell my mom was tired but I wanted to climb higher – just one more battlement. She reluctantly agreed.

We continued. Small rocks slid down the mountain as we climbed higher. At the third battlement there was a make shift ladder, sticks connected by twisted wire, to the top. Dad and I climbed up. The view was spectacular, even though limited by haze. The Wall continued a bit higher, then snaked around the mountain, down, then back up. An amazing feat simply because of its length. Dad and I pondered the actual effectiveness of this wall. It wasn’t that high. Did it really prevent enemies from entering China?

Dad posed for a picture, then I did. A group of Chinese tourists ascended the ladder. One volunteered to take our picture together. He then asked to take a picture, of us, with his camera. I shrugged. Didn’t really understand his request, but agreed.

We met Mom in the battlement below where she, too, had been approached by many Chinese tourists to be in pictures. We started down the mountain, back to the car. In my tennis shoes, I could move much quicker than Mom in her sandals. “I’ll meet you at the car,” I hollered, and sprinted off.

At the second battlement I passed a group of French tourists. They saw my “Be The Reds!” t-shirt and began whispering, in English. “Zhee looks American.” “What eees it?” “I dun’t know. Maybe a new shlogan.” “Theeer flag is red, white, and buh-looo.” “Maybe it meeenz beee the red, white, and buh-loo…” I laughed to myself. Silly French. Don’t you watch soccer? I would have told them if they had only asked….

As I continued down the path, I passed a young Chinese man. “Nice to meet you,” he began. I smiled. “American?” he pondered. Yes. “From where?” he continued. San Francisco. “Ohhhh… Picture? With you?” Well. Um. Okay. His friend appeared. He snapped a shot of the two of us. The the friend wanted a picture of him and me together. The another friend appeared and he wanted a picture taken with me as well. As I was posing, thinking how ridiculous this was, we don’t even know each others’ names, my parents caught up to me on the path. At the end of the photo shoot, smiles and “Good-byes” were exchanged between all. My father teased me, “I don’t know if that small car is big enough for your expanded ego.” I grinned and continued down the path.

We stopped only to get a picture in front of the “CLIMBING FOBIDEN” sign before venturing off to our next destination – The Summer Palace.

Baby In The Forbidden City

We bought our tickets and entered through Zhongshan Park. We wandered through the shade of bamboo and passed by perfectly manicured flower beds. We entered the massive gates of the Forbidden City and noticed most people were walking towards us, not in the same direction we were. I checked my watch. 4:45 pm. The museums closed at 5:00 pm. Why don’t we just walk around, even if we can’t enter the museums? The worst they can do is kick us out, I suggested. We began walking across the enormous bricked plaza, flanked by monstrous gates. I heard a very confident, slightly British lilting voice by my side. “Hello, there.” I looked down. There, at my side, barely reaching my waist, was an adorable ragamuffin. She wasn’t striking in a traditional sense, but in her simplicity. Her baby fine black hair was twisted into a bun, several wisps framing her face.

“How are you?” she began. I’m fine, thank you, and you? I replied. “Oh, very well, thank you. Would you like to look at a postcard?” and she displayed a variety of cheap, faded postcards. I smiled. No, thanks. She looked at me with serious eyes. “The Forbidden City is closed, you know.” She stretched out her spindly arm. On it was an oversized, cheap, purple plastic watch, moving daisies indicating the time. “See, now, it is almost 5:00. The ticket office, just there, closes at 4:00. Come tomorrow, between 8:00 and 4:00 to buy your tickets.” I stared at her. Her English was perfect. Oh. Thank you. “So, now, since you can’t visit the Forbidden City today, would you like to buy a postcard?” I parted my lips to utter a “No, thanks,” but before a sound escaped she continued. “Just take a look. Just one look. Right here, ma’am.”

As a seasoned traveller, I like to think I’ve perfected my “no, thank you” response accompanied by a smile. But she was so persistent. The words wouldn’t come. Oh, okay. Just one look. Even as the words left my mouth, I couldn’t believe it.

She held out the first package, views of The Imperial Palace, the official name of The Forbidden City. What are these? I asked, expecting to get a little more history about the city which was forbidden to us at that point. She eyed me quizzically. Okay, the question was vague. I knew the said objects were postcards. I wanted more information about the pictures *on* the postcards – she had been such a font of information thus far. With somewhat of a sarcastic tone, she responded, “Don’t you know how to speak English?” This time I was puzzled. Um. Yes. With a quick flip of her wrist she opened the envelope which housed the ancient postcards. She pointed. “Then read.” I saw a poor translation of information about the Palace. Before I could even begin reading, she continued at a rapid pace. “Forbidden City. You must see. Also Great Wall. And, here, the Summer Palace.” With each place she named, another pack of postcards magically appeared. “Good price. For you, lady, good price. You must see. Here.”

I had been looking down at her for the past several minutes while this transpired. I noticed many shoes surrounding us. Oh, god, I thought, Now I’m done for. All the other vendors are waiting to pounce. I looked up. The other shoes belonged not to vendors, but to Chinese tourists. At least twenty-five people encircled us. They were staring, some smiling, as this little girl worked me. I *did* need postcards. Might as well buy them here. Okay. 1 pack. How much? She grinned. “Good deal for you. Two packs, 30 yuan. Plus one pack free.” She spoke directly to me, ignoring the group around us. I scoffed. That’s too much. She looked me up and down. “Okay, okay. 25 yuan, very good price for you.” I knew it was still too high a price, but I was uncomfortable attracting so much attention from the crowd. I sighed. Okay. I started to reach into my bag. At that point, she grabbed my arm, gave me a very serious look, and said, “Not here.” She ushered me a few feet away.

The crowd ignored her yearning for privacy and followed us, matching each of our small steps with theirs. I pulled out three ten notes. The little ragamuffin handed them to an older woman on a bicycle, who rifled through her bag until a five note was found. Meanwhile, my small friend did not stop talking. “Maybe 1 more pack of postcards?” No! I replied, This really is plenty… “Would you like me to take a picture of you? All three of you?” She motioned to my parents, standing agape, innocent bystanders to this spectacle. I don’t believe in my entire life they have ever seen someone render me speechless, unsettled. They were enjoying the performance.

Simply by raising her arm, not a word spoken, my little friend parted the crowd and positioned me in between my mother and father with the skill of a wedding photographer. She stepped back, counting. She mouthed: one, two, three, four. She peered through the camera lens and took another step back. She clicked the shutter, then quickly handed the camera back to us. She stretched her tiny arm out, showing us the cheap watch. “Don’t forget. Tomorrow, tickets are on sale between 8 and 4. You really must see.” At this point my mother leaned over her. “What is your name?” she asked the small salesgirl. The little girl faced the three of us confidently, blinked as if *everyone* knew her name, and said, “Why, Baby.” The three of us stared at each other with bemused smiles on our faces, then looked down to continue our inquisition. Alas, Baby was gone.

Who Knew???

That there could be so many 6’1″, middle aged, balding, silver haired men in the Beijing airport? My Air China flight arrived about 45 minutes before my parents’ Korean Air flight. After claiming my bag, I settled in the coffee shop, ordered a Sprite, and read a few pages in my book. Or tried to. I was distracted watching the scene at the international arrivals gate. Every so often a red light would flash on the information board, announcing the arrival of another flight. The number of people crowded around the arrivals gate was amazing. Men carrying bouquets, armfuls, of flowers – mostly roses and lilies – to greet their travelling friends. A tour guide, dressed in a traditional costume, fidgeting, looking very uncomfortable. Drivers, lackadaisically leaning against the wall, holding up white rectangles with black block letter, some neatly printed, others scribbled quickly, naming their passengers. Chinese, English, Korean. Friends, standing on luggage carts, peering through the plate glass windows, trying to find their friends. But a frenetic energy about it all. No one standing still. I allowed enough time, so I thought, for my parents to clear customs and gather their bags. I finished my Sprite and headed into the din. I could easily see over most the heads in front of me. Occasionally someone thrust a sing in front of me, blocking my view. I would shift a little to the right, or to the left, and continue looking for my parents. One of the signs thrust in front of me had my father’s name on it. I smiled, introduced myself as Jerry’s daughter, and explained my parents should be arriving at any moment. Every so often, I thought I saw my father, I’d turn to Mr. Li (holding the sign) and say, Here they come. Then a minute later, Oh, it’s not them. After half an hour, Mr. Li said, “Why don’t you go closer to look for your friends.” My parents, I said. He gave me a look. Okay. Yes, I had misidentified my parents at least a dozen times in the past half hour. I moved closer. I was in the midst of the greeters. I watched as a group of students from BYU arrived. A group of middle aged backpackers from Denmark. A Beijing Middle School orchestra, wheeling their huge cellos past. And so many men who I thought were my father. But weren’t.

I glanced at the arrivals board. Korean Air 851 was no longer posted. I glanced at my watch. 1:10 pm. Their flight had landed at 11:20 am. I walked over to Mr. Li. I don’t know where they are. We were in Seoul together this morning. I took China Air. They were on Korean Air. I don’t know. He nodded his head. Maybe I will go to the Korean Air counter and see if they actually boarded. “Good idea,” he countered. “I will stay here with sign.”

I found the tiny Korean Air office on the third floor, down a long, windowless corridor. I explained the situation to the man working there. He listened patiently, then said, ” I’m sorry. Private information. I can’t tell you.” I thought for a moment. Yes, it’s true. It is private information. They are also my parents. I would like to know if I should start their abduction search in Seoul, or in Beijing. Softly, ever so quietly, I said, Please. They are my mother and father. Please just tell me if they boarded the plane. He looked at the other worker in the tiny office. The other worker shrugged his shoulders, met my pleading gaze, then nodded. The first worker asked for my passport, my parents’ first names, and their flight information. He typed in a few items and pulled up a screen. “We have no reservation for them.” I stammered, Th- That’s not possible. I saw their tickets. I showed him a copy of their itinerary, with their reservation number. I suddenly realized the front page of my passport still shows my married name. Their last name is McLeese. M-C-L-E-E-S-E. Click, click, click. Yes, yes, two people. They boarded? They were actually on the flight? I smiled. Thank you so much for your help. Thank you.

As I left the tiny office, I thought to myself, Great. They may *be* in Beijing, but now I just have to *find* them. I took the escalator back down to International arrivals, again, scanning for a tall, silver haired, balding man. I spotted one in line at the currency exchange. I slowly walked closer, then double checked. Yes, it really was my father. Dude, what happened? It turned out they were last in line at Immigration. Their bags were last off the conveyer belt. The two add up to one late arrival. Mom was waiting with Mr. Li. I smiled as I approached with my father. I found them… We both laughed and headed outside, into the hot, hazy, noisy city of Beijing.

In China until August 27…. postings will resume shortly thereafter….

Goodbye Korea

The last 5 days have been a blur. I have escorted my parents around Korea, introduced them to soju, explored ancient temples, and endured transportation nightmares. And now, it is over.

I leave Korea in just a couple of hours. I didn’t think it would happen, but tears are rolling down my cheeks as I type this (in the pc room, because they disconnected my internet service a day early, fitting).

I will miss the shuffle of slippered feet. I will miss the school children accosting me with “Hellos!” as I walk down the street. I will miss the food, ah, the food.

And all the bad, the negative, I will not miss. But it will soon enough be forgotten. Goodbye, Korea.

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…