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.

On Vacation…

…till Wednesday, August 7. See you then!

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.

“We’ve been waiting for you.”

These were the words I heard as I walked through the doors of so-yae this morning. I was greeted by the grandfathers wearing plaid shirts and baseball hats. Oh uh. We’re going on a trip.

They handed me a cup of coffee and watched as I drank. I smiled. They handed me an 8 page document, all in Korean. “Today. Trip.” I smiled. Then they ushered me out the door.

We took two cars, 4 and 4. In the car, Mr. Lee, no, Mr. Ju, handed me a sheet of paper with all the grandfathers’ names and addresses, in English and in Korean. It turns out that I’ve been calling half of them by the wrong names. Amazingly, there is no Mr. Lee. My translator is Mr. Ju. There are two Mr. Kims, Teacher Song, Mr. Na (not Lau, funny man), Mr. Noh, and Mr. Nam.

We began driving south. Mr. Ju explained we would first visit Dodong Seowan, the Confucian school founded by one of the Mr. Kim’s ancestors. Mr. Kim was in the front seat of my car. As we passed by fields he excitedly pointed out where he used to play. Where he wrestled with his brother. Where his uncle’s rice field was. Where his relatives live now. The mountains he used to climb.

We arrived to the seowan about 2 hours later amid a grey drizzle. A group of children ran around one of the largest, most sprawling trees I’ve ever seen. One of them saw me. The game stopped, there were whispers, then pointing. I smiled. A girl of maybe 10, maybe 11, ran up to me. She stared at me for a long time. I smiled. She said, “Hello.” Hi. How are you? “I’m fine. Where are you from?” San Francisco. She smiled and ran away. The other children ran towards me. They whispered, “San Francisco, San Francisco,” and pointed. They ran to their mothers and tugged on their arms. A lot of Korean, back and forth. One of the mothers organized a group photo, me, with several small Korean children surrounding me. Then they were gone. Mr. Na, funny man, had also taken a picture. After he snapped the shot, he gave me the thumbs up and said, “Ve-lly good!” I laughed and we walked up the hill towards the seowan.

A seowan is a traditional Confucian school, focusing on the study of Chinese. Hundreds of years ago, it was the school of choice for young men. It usually consisted of a large, open area lecture hall, one or two buildings for students who travelled long distances to sleep in, and a “resting hall.” First, they showed me the lecture hall. The grandfathers walked up the 7 stone stairs, I followed them. Mr. Ju turned to me. “Only men here. No woman. But for you, okay. You American woman.” Even today? Even today women aren’t allowed in the lecture hall? “Yes. Even today. Korean woman, no. Not here. Sacred place. But you, you American woman. You special. Okay.” Silently I wondered how many places I had visited that it wasn’t culturally acceptable for me to be. There weren’t any signs that said no women. Mr. Ju explained that everyone just knows. It’s part of Confucianism.

Mr. Kim talked to the groundskeeper. He motioned for Teacher Song to follow him. He gave Teacher Song a gray robe and a tall black hat. Everyone walked to the back of the lecture hall. The groundskeeper unlocked another building, then rolled a bamboo mat out in front of it. The grandfathers slipped out of their shoes and stood on the mat, facing the building. Mr. Ju motioned for me to step to the side. Teacher Song walked up the steps, said what sounded like prayers, bowed, then returned to the mat. In unison, all the men bowed, touching their foreheads to the ground. They stood and in a line walked up the steps. Upon entering the building Mr. Kim lit some incense, maybe some candles, and began talking. He pointed at pictures on the walls. I tried to get closer. I understood I couldn’t go in the building, but I wanted to get a better view. The groundskeeper kept a close eye on me. Mr. Ju motioned for me to come closer. I started closer, the groundskeeper stopped me. Mr. Kim said something to him and he turned his back. I was allowed to go up the stairs. Later Mr. Ju explained they were performing a ceremony to honor Mr. Kim’s ancestors.

We walked back to the main lecture hall, then to the resting area. From there, Mr. Ju pointed out the sprawling tree I had noticed earlier. It was a 400 year old gingko tree, supported by cement pillars. We got in the cars, on to the next destination.

After winding over a few kilometers of roads, we stopped at the grave of Gwak, Chae U and his descendents. He was a famous Korean general who led attacks against the Japanese during one of their invasions. I commented to Mr. Ju that the Japanese were always invading Korea. He nodded. “Yes, very, very bad. They try to destroy us many times. But we always send them back.”

We got back in the cars, on to the next stop. We had not gone very far when the car in front of us pulled over at a local mart, a convenience store of sorts. Mr. Ju turned to me, “Time for something to drink.” We all hurried into the small store. The grandfathers pulled up all available folding chairs around the sole table. I was confused. I thought we were going to get a soda, a coffee, and continue on our way. No, we were having a drink. Teacher Song bought 3 large bottles of mack-uh-lee, the traditional rice wine. He poured us each a dixie cup, we toasted, and drank. I sipped, unaccustomed to the strong liquid. The other men effectively did shots. They opened a package of spicy squid jerky and offered me some. As I chewed, I mentally took note. This has to rank as one of the top 5 things I don’t ever want to put in my mouth again. Even another cup of the rice wine didn’t alleviate the seafood-y, bitter taste.

After our quick snack, we got back in the cars, travelled a bit farther, and stopped by the side of the road. We were in front of a long building, with several red gates. The men excitedly hurried over to see. I stopped to read the sign.

“Daegu Cultural Property Material 29. During the Chosun dynasty (1392-1910), Confucianism was the fundamental code of conduct for the people from all walks of life, and particularly the families of the Yangban class was (sic) rewarded for their conformity to the Confucian manners and customs, specified in the book Samgang Oryun (Three Fundamental Principles and Five Relationships). …in order to promote Confucianism and encourage good deeds, the government rewarded the people who behaved in accordance with the Samgang Oryun by putting up a red gate, called Jeong-mun, or a monument called Jeong-nyeo, in front of their house or at the entrance to their village.”

We were at the monument for General Gwak’s family. They had received 12 red gates for good behavior.

We got back in the cars and continued into the mountains, going higher and higher. We finally stopped at a very small restaurant. Mr. Ju explained we would eat barbecue. We all filed into the restaurant, then quickly exited. They wouldn’t serve us because we had not made reservations. I looked around. The restaurant was not full. It didn’t seem like the type of place you had to have reservations. People sitting on the floor, picking with chopsticks at barbecue frying on the tables. Pretty much like all other restaurants in Korea. The owner, smiling, was adamant. We didn’t have reservations. We got back in the cars and left.

At the bottom of the mountain we stopped at another restaurant. We were led to a small room upstairs. The men talked among themselves then called for the ajumaa. An order was taken and shortly thereafter the dishes began arriving. Salads. Kim chi. Cucumber slices. Chile peppers. Bottles of soju. Then, two covered plates. The ajumaa removed the covers. I looked. Hmmmmm. It obviously was meat. But unlike any meat I had seen before. Maybe 5 different parts of an animal. Perfectly round circles. Fuzzy rectangles. Jellied hoof like pieces. Slivers. I turned to Mr. Ju. What is it? I asked, smiling. “Very special meat. Very, very high for health.” I smiled. I started to take a piece. “Very, very good. You eat. Cow. Yes. Cow, I think.” I tasted it, but it wasn’t particularly good. I ate a few pieces, then set my chopsticks down. That’s the beauty of common dishes. You don’t have to eat much. Someone else will.

Next, small bowls of noodles arrived. And steaming bowls of soup. As the soup was placed in front of me, I groaned to myself. A bowlful of the mystery meat made into soup. The grandfathers instructed me to dump the noodles into the soup. I did, then stirred. I began eating. The soup itself wasn’t bad, but the meat was not tasty. Even though I ate several pieces, there was still so much left at the bottom of the bowl. Mr. Ju turned to me and frowned. “You do not like? Oh. It’s very, very good for health. Eat. Eat.” The men drank their shot glasses of soju in one gulp, then passed their empty glass to a friend. The friend held out the glass, someone else filled it. Mr. Ju turned to me. “Korean custom. Give glass to friend.” I watched for a while. Empty glasses would be passed to friends, filled, drunk, then passed to another.

Throughout lunch, the grandfathers all, in various degrees of English, expressed how much they will miss me, their American flower. Oh, I will miss you, too. You all have been so kind to me. Thank you. “We really, really want you to marry Korean man. We want you to stay Korea forever.” I laughed. “Okay, no Korean man. American man. Marry. Have babies. Be happy.” Again, I laughed. “We all come San Francisco, visit you and babies.” I laughed again. “You come Korea. One time a year to visit. Okay?” At this point tears were streaming from my eyes I was laughing so hard. Okay, okay, okay. Thank you.

After lunch we drove for a while through rice fields, through the rain, still sprinkling from time to time. We started up another mountain. Mr. Ju told me it was Biesalsan, Biesal mountain. The one with all the azaleas? “Yes, yes.” I had climbed the mountain before, back in April, when the azaleas had just bloomed, but had never approached it from this angle. We stopped at a roadside cafe. We ordered coffees and root drinks. We sipped from our paper dixie cups, looking at the mountains. Teacher Song pointed to one range and said, in English, “Double mountain,” and began laughing. This was evidently the funniest thing the other men had ever heard. They all pointed, exclaiming, “Double mountain! Double mountain!” I looked around. I saw the mountain ranges, but didn’t understand what was so funny. I smiled and looked at where they were pointing.

Teacher Song turned to me and shouted something I couldn’t understand. What? He repeated it. I still didn’t understand. He began singing. In the most soothing, calming voice, he serenaded me with a perfect rendition of “Dannyboy.” I sat amazed. A man who speaks no English, yet can sing Irish folk songs and Lionel Ritchie like there’s no tomorrow. After his performance ended, we all applauded, met by his wide grin.

We got back in the cars. Just minutes later we pulled to the side of the road. We drove down a dirt road barely large enough for a car. I turned to Mr. Ju. Where are we going now? He didn’t answer me. We finally came to a stop. At what appeared to be a shack. “We will have snack.” Food? Again? We just ate lunch. “Only a snack. Very good.” Koreans must have the highest metabolism in the world. They eat constantly yet are amazingly thin.

We sat down outside, under a tarp. We were brought a plate of pa-jeon, the delicious pancake-y creation I love. A platter of tofu and greens was set in front of us, as well as a platter of mountain greens, mi-na-ri. Teacher Song showed me how to twist the greens then dip them in a soy paste. A bowl of mack-uh-lee arrived. Cups were poured. Toasts were made. I couldn’t believe I was eating again. I was sandwiched in between Mr. Ju and Mr. Na. Mr. Na ate a lot of the pajeon. Every last morsel. The other men laughed and laughed. Mr. Ju leaned over. “Korean custom. Never eat all food. Leave a little on plate. If eat all, hostess think she bad hostess. Not give enough food. But Mr. Na, he eat all. He says delicious and eat all. Very funny.” The men continued laughing and drinking. I laughed, too. Not at the words they were saying that I couldn’t understand, but at their laughter. All day long, peals of laughter. At the slightest thing.

After an hour or so we piled back into the cars. We actually headed to Daegu. All of the sudden, the car in front of us halted. Mr. Kim got out and ran into a store on the side of the road. The men in my car looked perplexed, then began laughing. “Hahahahahahaha. Wife say he have buy rice. Hahahahahahaha.” Sure enough, he came out of the store, carrying a 50 kg bag of rice with the help of another. They tossed it into the trunk then we were on our way again, amid waves of laughter.

I was amazed when we returned to the so-yae hall. It was almost 7 pm. We had spent the whole day together, mostly eating. I smiled as I walked home in the rain, knowing I will truly, truly miss the grandfathers.

Jung

This has been a difficult week.

I spent an entire day dealing with my computer. My synopsis. When I bought my computer (in Korea) I paid a good deal of money to have an English operating system installed. With a Korean option. That is, I could switch back and forth between Korean and English characters. Except, that never happened. Well, seeing that I’m leaving soon, I figured I might as well fix it. I might want to type an email in Korean. I might want to use these characters that stare from me every time I boot up my computer.

Sang Jae agreed to help me. We arrived at the computer store at noon. They gave me the run around. Even though I had a receipt, even though it was obviously a computer from their store, they said it wasn’t their business. I should have checked before I left the store. And besides, the owner’s wife was sick. I turned to Sang Jae. Will you please say something to them? I paid for a product – this is ridiculous. “I can’t. The owner’s wife is sick.”

At 6:30 pm I was still dealing with the computer issue. This time I was at a computer store halfway across town, near the army base. The computer store I had bought the computer from had outsourced the installation of the English operating system, etc., etc. They were charging me again to re-install “hangul”, or Korean capability. And they wouldn’t give me a copy of the English Windows XP they had installed. Even though I didn’t agree in principle, I agreed to pay what they were asking. I just wanted my computer back. We left. I was frustrated. Sang Jae was frustrated. We didn’t speak on the way home.

I still don’t have tickets to China. I spent 2 hours last weekend talking to the travel agent. Giving her the airport codes. The times. The flight numbers. Checking availability. The problem is, I can’t purchase the tickets until the Chinese airline confirms the tickets. And from what she told me, China doesn’t like Korea, so they will wait until the last minute to confirm the tickets, and even then, the tickets may not be valid. To me, this sounds like a bunch of bullshit. Sang Jae tried to explain it to me. The smaller travel agency that we went to can’t confirm tickets – they have to contact the larger travel agency. The larger travel agency calls China. They wait. And wait. No one will take my money until the tickets are confirmed and even then I’m told that China may decide not to honor the tickets.

I’m beside myself. I don’t understand why the tickets aren’t confirmed. I don’t understand why we’ve spent two days in her office and I have nothing to show for it.

Sang Jae says to me, “Let’s take a walk. Let’s hike. For a change.” Okay. It’s 100 degrees outside, but I don’t care. Maybe I can sweat all of the uncertainty and ill will out of my pores. We begin hiking. We climb up. I stop to stretch my legs. Sang Jae watches me.

“Lori. Lori. Do you remember jung?” I thought for a moment. I knew it was a Chinese word. A Chinese character I had learned in so-yae. I think so. Why? “What do you remember?” Let’s see. It’s how you relate to someone else. It’s how you treat them. Why? “Lori. You have to have jung. I think the English word – compassionate. Compassionate for someone. Be within the heart of them. In America. Egoist. Individualism.” Yes, Sang Jae. Individualism is very important in America. That’s the basis of our government. An individual’s rights. The right to worship as he or she pleases. The right to express him or herself how he or she wants. The right, the right, the right, to be. “In Korea. Small country. Many, many times invaded by others. Many people in small area. We help each other. We feel for each other. Jung. In another’s heart.” But only for other Koreans, right? I was playing the devil’s advocate and I knew it. “Yes,” he responded, as if there were no other answer. “Koreans have to help each other. Foreigners are bad. We always think of the other. We always in their heart. Jung. In America – jung?”

It’s different, Sang Jae. In America, there are many, many groups. Each group maybe is from a different country. Or has different beliefs. And I may not believe the way they believe, but my government protects them. My government says they can believe what they want to believe. I may not agree with them, but I respect them. Because that is our strength. The freedom of choice. When you would not speak to the computer store owner today, I could not understand that. You said his wife was sick. In America, that would not matter. I would not even know that. Maybe that’s a bad thing. Maybe it’s better that you think of the owner and his personal circumstances. But for me, that’s very difficult to understand.

“So in America, no jung.”

No, Sang Jae. It’s just a different jung. We have jung group to group, not individual to individual. I volunteer with a group. We help women whose husbands have beat them. We help prepare meals for people who have AIDS. When I was working in the US, I gave a percentage of my salary to help people who were homeless. Who had bad times because of a hurricane. An earthquake. A flood. But it is group to group. Not so much individual to individual.

We continued hiking. We reached the top of the mountain at dusk. We saw the lights of Daegu begin to flicker on.

“Lori.” I turned to face him. “Lori. I want you have the good memories Korea in your heart. Not the bad like today.” I know, Sang Jae. And I will. The bad memories, they will fade. I won’t remember them after I’ve left. I’ll remember the good. I promise. “Lori. Please. Please take the jung with you. You need the jung.”

I stared at the tiny pinpricks of lights in the distance. I thought. Yes. Yes, you’re right, Sang Jae. We do need the jung.

Tasty

I met Sang Jae downtown for lunch. “Let’s get sam-gae-tang,” he said. Sure, I replied, not knowing what sam-gae-tang was.

It turns out sam-gae-tang is a whole chicken (albeit tiny) stuffed with rice and ginseng then boiled in a broth and served in individual bowls. Chicken and rice soup, Korean style. But only eaten in the summer time.

We ordered. The drinks came. Soda for him. Barley tea for me. The side dishes arrived. Spinach. Kim chi. Pickled radish. And a dish I wasn’t quite sure of. I picked up my chopsticks, ready to delve into the new dish. Sang Jae asked me if I knew what it was. No, but it looks good. “Chicken ass.” Excuse me? “Chicken ass. Very, very good.” And with that, he picked up his chopsticks and began to eat said dish.

I was torn. It did look good. But, somehow, it didn’t seem as appealing after he gave it an identity. As daring as I am, I couldn’t bring myself to eat the chicken’s ass. Don’t know what that says about me. But I just couldn’t.