This Furnace Is Coooool…

Since spring, the school has promised they would install air conditioning in our apartments. By the end of May. By the first week of June. By the middle of June. By the end of this week. As hot as it’s been lately, the teachers were ready to stage a coup. I think the administration finally realized they needed to take action immediately or they wouldn’t have any teachers.

Four large men arrived at my apartment right as I settled down for lunch. I let them in; they began inspecting my tiny studio. After much discussion, they pulled out the power tools. This should be interesting, I thought to myself. My walls are concrete. Solid ce-ment. That did not dissuade them. As pieces of my wall flew through the air, they continued the drilling, the hammering, the finagling. An hour later, a small unit was installed over my sliding doors. Then there was the dilemma of where to plug it in. The cord didn’t even come close to reaching any of my outlets. A few minutes later one of the men returned with an extension cord. He wanted to move my wardrobe to plug it into the outlet behind that. I tried to convince him to run the cord a bit further to the outlet that was easily accessible. I don’t know what he said, but the end result was that two men moved my wardrobe a few inches and plugged the air conditioner into that outlet.

A separate fan unit was placed on my porch area. As they began connecting hoses, I noticed my closet doors would be permanently blocked once they finished (where my water heater and suitcases are stored). In pidgin Korean I asked them to wait a minute while I quickly removed everything from the closet. They resumed the assembly work. Everything in the closet now lined my walls. As they connected hoses and nailed nails, I noticed I wouldn’t be able to close my sliding doors all the way (because of the hoses running out to the porch). I pointed this out to them and they just shrugged their shoulders. I could hear my mother’s voice echoing through my head, scolding me when I forgot to close the door and the air conditioning was running, “What are you trying to do? Cool the neighborhood?”

They finished, I offered them juice, they drank and we smiled at each other, then they left. I began the process of putting my studio back in order. Okay, first, sweep the pieces of wall up off the floor. Check. Straighten suitcases. Can they be arranged in an artistic, deliberate fashion? Check. Clean the floor (with Pine Sol, no less). Check. Change clothes. I opened the doors to my wardrobe. I was met by an avalanche of clothes, knocking me down in the process. What the…..

It took me a moment to realize what had happened. When the men had not so gently moved my wardrobe, they broke the pieces that held the clothes rod in place. The rod had fallen, all the hangers (and clothes) had fallen, and when I opened the doors, they were freeeeeeeeeeeeee. I inspected the damage. Okay. Decision time. Do I call the school, and try to explain what happened, and ask someone to fix it? Or do I set out on my own, comb the neighborhood, and try to find this tiny rod holder thing on my own? Then I recalled how long I waited to have air conditioning installed. Okay, another adventure…

First was the problem of unscrewing the broken rod holder so I could take it with me (I wasn’t even going to attempt to look up the Korean word). No screwdriver. What else will work? Knife. Hmm. I only have sharp knives. I tried one, unsuccessfully. Bottle opener. Again, unsuccessful. Nail file. Hair clip. Random metal objects. Finally, I was able to pry the piece loose. Note to self: buy screwdriver. I set out, walking through the neighborhood, not sure where to go. I entered a dingy store that seemed to sell nothing but spare parts. Miraculously enough, they had a piece, while not exactly the same, appeared to be close enough. I bought that, a screwdriver, and a few screws. With a thank you, I exited triumphantly. A mere hours later, I once again had a working wardrobe, with clothes in order. And a cool apartment. Small victories are good. Very good.

A Walk In The Clouds

Today was a holiday here, to celebrate the Korean soccer team’s success. I awoke to a grey, dismal sky. It was hot, though. Very, very hot. Should I still go hiking, as I had planned? After much waffling, I set out. There is a mountain, Young-gi, within walking distance of my house. I’ve hiked to the top once before, in January, in a snowstorm. Today, as I started up the narrow path, the terrain looked so different from only a few months ago. Where then there had been hard sheets of ice and a dusting of snow, today there was a narrow dirt path, made slightly muddy by the oppressive humidity, bordered by thick green foliage. I climbed higher and higher, increasingly aware of the high humidity. What should have been an easy hike was requiring exertion. I finished the supply in my water bottle almost immediately. My hair, pulled back in a ponytail, began to resemble the curlicues of pigs’ tails. A moustache of beads of sweat formed over my upper lip.

When I finally reached the top, I sat on a rock and looked out. The scene was exactly as in January. I couldn’t see farther than a few feet in front of me. Then, snow clouds surrounded me. Today, rain clouds enveloped me. I knew that at the bottom of the mountain lay Daegu, but none of the buildings were visible. I knew to the north was Palgongsan, but couldn’t see even the most prominent peaks. I rested, feeling as though I was in lukewarm steam room. The air I breathed in was so moist, I could feel the dampness in my lungs as I inhaled. If I sat here much longer, I would melt into the mountain. I began my descent down.

As I came to the bottom of the first peak, I noticed I was literally in the clouds. Walking through ghostly formations of white wisps. As I walked, I felt rain. Not drops, per se. It was as if I was creating the rain by my motion. The rain wasn’t falling on me, I was walking into it. The effect was barely cooling. I began descending once again. I exited the clouds, but entered the shade of pine trees. I continued down the path, passing ajumaa with towels pinned on their heads to protect them from the sun, even though the sun had not made an appearance today. At one clearing an elderly couple was playing badminton. The heat seemed to slow the motion of the shuttle as it seemed to float back and forth, back and forth… As I entered my home a few hours later, the rain began. Steady, slow, fat drops, pitter pattering on the uneven walk outside my home. I left my sliding doors open, falling asleep to the steady, soothing rhythm…

World Cup – Korea vs. Turkey

Months ago I ordered tickets for the 3rd/4th place match of the World Cup, being played here in Daegu. I had no idea when I ordered the tickets I’d be watching Korea play.

The mood all week was one of controlled excitement. One of controlled disappointment. Kind of like being awarded Rice-A-Roni as a consolation prize on a game show. Thanks, but…

Nonetheless, when Saturday rolled around, the streets were filled with red t-shirts. I taught in the afternoon, then hurried home to get ready for the game. I donned a bright red Hiddink “Fighting!” t-shirt, tied a “Corea” bandana in my hair, applied Korean tattoos to my cheeks, and painted my toe nails like the Korean flag. We caught a cab to the stadium; I was overwhelmed by the sea of red that greeted us. We started towards the stadium. I snapped pictures of other people, other people snapped pictures of me. We went in and found our seats. We were in the top tier, but the seats really weren’t bad. We stood and cheered as the players practiced before the game. Shortly after they left, a military band and a traditional Korean band entered the field. The announcer asked everyone to stand for the Turkish national anthem. As people stood, a huge Turkish flag was rolled out in one of the sections underneath us. It covered an entire section. I turned to Sang Jae. That’s really cool. He replied, “Koreans have good manners. We welcome other team.” The Turkish anthem finished, the Korean traditional band began. The largest Korean flag I have ever seen was rolled out over the sections below us. It made the Turkish flag look like a small piece of confetti. It literally covered the entire north side of the stadium. I tried to take a picture and could only get a corner of the flag from where I was seated. Suddenly the gesture of rolling out the Turkish flag didn’t seem so grand.

After the anthems were over, a moment of silence was requested. Earlier in the day, North Korean and South Korean battleships fought in the West Sea. Already 4 South Korean soldiers had been killed. I asked Sang Jae if fighting between the two countries was the norm, or something unusual. He replied that they usually fought once a year, but this was the most serious attack in quite awhile. I felt familiar pangs of sorrow. Even though the countries are different, the empathy for the families of victims is just as strong.

The game began with an entire stadium bedecked in red screaming. Within seconds, Turkey scored a goal. No one could believe it. People turned to one another asking what happened. Sure enough, the Turkish player just zipped down the field and booted a goal before the Korean goalie even knew what was happening. I would venture to say it was the quickest goal ever scored in a World Cup match.

The play continued. Korea scored. It wasn’t counted. Turkey scored. Korea scored. Turkey scored again. I don’t think I sat the entire time. We were right above the cheerleading section. Constant cries of “Dae – Han – Min – Guk!” and “O! Pil-sung Korea!” as well as various other fight and folk songs, all to a funky double time beat, were played. We screamed, we sang, we shouted. We waved flags and twirled Korean scarves. But in the end, even the fanatical support of 64,000 Korean fans wasn’t enough. Korea lost 3-2.

After the game, the Turkish and Korean players interlocked arms and bowed to the crowd. A couple of Turkish players took laps around the stadium, carrying Korean flags. Turkish flags were thrown to them as they ran. It was quite a sight to see them running with the Korean and Turkish flags streaming behind them. I have to admit, I’ve never seen such sportsmanship at a major event. The two teams swapped jerseys, and seemed to pal around on the field while awaiting the awards ceremony. The official for the game was a very happy Kuwaiti chap, with each yellow card he pulled crisply from his breast pocket, he grinned widely. After the game he joked with the coaches. It seemed like everyone was one big happy soccer family.

There’s no more World Cup for Korea. It’s kind of sad. It’s been a fun distraction for the past month. It’s been great to see everyone so excited about a common goal. I’ll miss that.

Bloggers, Beware

Bryan recently posted about an unusual number of bloggers being summoned for jury duty in San Francisco. They got me, too. A summons notice sent from San Francisco Superior Court, to my old address in San Francisco, forwarded to North Carolina, then the message relayed to me by my dad. Don’t think I’ll be able to make the commute this time. I’m sad. I’ve never been a juror and I really want to be.

The Dream Is Over

Korea lost to Germany, 0:1. Which means they’ll play in Saturday’s 3/4 match. Which isn’t really a bad finish for a country that was at 150:1 odds to finish in the top four. After the game, the fans, completely bedecked in red (yes, even I donned a “Be The Reds!” t-shirt, though it makes little grammatical sense), still shouted “Dae – Han – Min – Guk!” though with less vigor, less enthusiasm, a veil of sadness over their faces. I was watching the game in a public place (outside, on a big screen tv), as usual, the only foreigner. The lady beside me turned to me as the referee blew the final whistle and said, “I think our country will be depressed tonight. Or longer. I don’t know.”

Holy Crap

They did it again. Korea defeated Spain. Okay, I’ll admit. There were some questionable calls. Such as disallowing *two* of Spain’s goals. But, my god. What action. What hunger. What suspense. I have no nails left. On my fingers or toes.

I was watching the game from school (yes, we still had classes scheduled, though no students showed up, doh!). As soon as it was over, I ran down the four flights of stairs out into the street. Red shirts raced from every direction. All going towards DongA. Yes, the department store. Even in victory, it is the pillar of the community. Fireworks were set off. Boys with drums beat the rhythm, “DAE – HA – MIN – GUK!” Cars with people hanging out the windows crept by. Bodies piled onto flatbed trucks stopped at intersections. Flags waved. People cheered.

It was awesome. For almost an hour I stood and watched. I climbed onto a wall so I could get a better view. Drunk old men and impressionable children walked by shouting, “Korea FI-teeng! High five!” and would slap my outstretched hands.

The high schoolers actually showed up for class after the game. While the rest of the country was in the streets, whooping loudly. My first question of class was, “Why are you here?”

After classes ended, I headed downtown. A sea of red greeted me. I wore a red shirt and a Korean flag was draped around my waist as if a skirt. Pictures were snapped. I think I was on the evening news. “Wel-come to Korea!” “Korea fighting!” “Pil-sung Korea!” were shouted as I walked by. Everyone was happy. Impromptu dances were held in the street. Cars slowly inched their way through the crowd, stopping to honk their horn in the rhythm of “DAE – HA – MIN – GUK!”

In the US, there are so many factions, so many teams, so many “rights.” I’ve never seen such unity. Deserved or not, it’s something I will never forget.

Unbelievable

Korea just defeated Italy to advance to the quarter finals of the World Cup. I watched from the comfort of my apartment (I’m not really into mobs). As Ahn scored the winning goal, waves and waves of cheers could be heard coming through my balcony windows.Followed by the loud popping of fireworks. And the news stories on every channel (really – I had a choice of ten channels from which to watch the game). It appears there was not a single person in the entire country that was *not* watching the game. Hiddink, the coach, was just interviewed. His comment, “I think this is unique what happened tonight.” Yeah.

The Return To So-Yae

This morning as I ascended the stairs to the calligraphy studio, I could hear voices, quite loud, mingling. I peeked my head into the door. All the grandfathers shouted, “Annyong Ha-say-yo!” I came in, took my shoes off and was met by a pungent, yet familiar, odor. I walked over to the couches. There were a couple of shot glasses on the table. I recognized the odor of pure alcohol. Mr. Lee turned to me. “Ginger whiskey. Very good. You like?” I glanced at the clock. Yes, it really was 10 o’clock in the morning. Ummm, no, that’s okay. Thank you, though. “One shot!” “Yes, one shot!” the grandfathers chorused. I couldn’t fathom doing shots of whiskey, ginger or not, at 10 am on an empty stomach. I also never thought I’d have 6 men, all at least twice my age, encouraging me to do shots. Life is strange sometimes…

Back From Vacation…

Ida and I were traveling the past 10 days – the stories will resume tomorrow!

Our Trip to Seoul

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Suwon Folk Village

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

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

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

Korea vs. Portugal

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Palace

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Love The Nightlife…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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