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…

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!