Pusan

We arrived into Pusan at approximately 2 am. We were sleeping peacefully on the bus. Suddenly, I was shaken. “Get off.” We blinked hard, trying to wake up. We got off the bus. Yogi-ga odi-imnikka? Where are we? “Pusan.” I thought we were being dropped off at the Pusan bus station. I thought wrong. We were on the side of a 8 lane road. About 7 men huddled around us, demanding to know where we wanted to go. Pusan, I sleepily replied. Over and over they told us we were in Pusan. They wanted to know where we wanted to go. I finally told them, Yeo-gwan. Ho-tell. Fortunately, the first taxi in the queue had a kind driver. He led us to his cab. Once in, he started speaking, mostly Korean, but some English. I explained we would be in Pusan tomorrow and told him where we wanted to go – Hay-Un-Dae Beach, the fish market, Tae-Jong-Dae park. He said no problem. We drove for almost 45 minutes. Were we still in Pusan? Red neon crosses shown from the hills of Pusan. The Korean symbol for a Christian church. Somehow, it just doesn’t seem right. Seeing red neon crosses for a church. It seems almost satirical.

The driver took us to “The Phoenix” hotel, right across from the fish market. We thanked him. We checked in. We entered the room. We stepped back into the 1950s. We were in Ozzie and Harriet’s bedroom, twin beds with gold damask bedspreads. We didn’t care. We fell back into our interrupted slumber.

We had planned to get up early. Explore the city. Somehow “early” became 11. From her twin bed, Ida groaned, “What day is today?” I thought for a minute. Umm. Wednesday. Suddenly a bag was thrown across the room and landed squarely on my chest as I laid in bed. “Happy Birthday, girl!” I giggled and opened the bag. New lingerie! In my size! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

We showered, the humidity in the room almost unbearable. Of course, there were no fans. Not in the bathroom, not in the bedroom. There is a widely held belief here that if you fall asleep with a fan on you will suffocate. That the blades of the fan cut, or suck, all the oxygen out of the air. And you die. Really.

We left the hotel and sure enough, there was the fish market, right across the street. The taxi driver did us right. We began wandering. Staring at the various animals, in various stages of life (or death). Fish. Shark. Whale. Tuna. Squid. Octopi. Abalone. Ohhhh, abalone. Have you ever tried it? Ida said she had not. Well, I’ve only had it once. When I went with a group of people abalone diving last fall. Up near Mendocino. It was so delicious. We cooked it fresh, right there over the campfire. Sauteed, breaded, and in burritos. I highly recommend it. Just then Ida gasped. What? “Did you see that?” No, what? “Over there. A rat just ran past.” Really? That’s the first rat I’ve known (of) since arriving here. Surprisingly, I haven’t seen many, despite all the trash on the streets. Hmm. Interesting. We continued to look at the cases of animals. The ajumaa came and took out the various sizes of lobsters, explaining the price. Too expensive. We inquired about the price of the abalone. It was reasonable. Ida, want to try it? “I don’t know girl, that was a huge rat that just ran past.” Yeah, but it was outside. We’ll be eating inside. “Okay.”

The ajumaa led us inside and we sat down on the floor. A dish arrived. On it were snails. What looked like baby dinosaur eggs. A couple of vegetables. And chile peppers. We looked at each other. Then began picking at the plate. Shortly thereafter, another plate arrived. On beautifully polished stones were slices of abalone. We both wondered if they had been cooked. They arrived very quickly. I picked up a slice, dipped it in a sauce, and popped it in my mouth. Chewed. And chewed. And chewed some more. Finally, I grabbed some toilet paper that was on the table and surreptitiously spit out the hard gristle like substance. This isn’t what I remember abalone tasting like. At all. This is rather, rubbery. Ida agreed. We ate as much as we could, chalking it up to a learning experience and agreeing to get something else to eat later.

We continued through the market. We saw endless containers of fish squirming about, platters of fish not squirming, and booths of random necessary items – visors, bamboo mats, bedspreads, just about anything you wouldn’t expect to find in a fish market. We walked closer to the water to look at the ships. As we stood there, two young men in military uniforms stopped. One offered to take our picture. We smiled and gave him our cameras. He fussed with the cameras, while his friend looked on, rolling his eyes. Evidently he’d done this before. As he snapped the last shot, he thought for a minuted, then stammered, “Have nice day!” We smiled, said thanks, and said good-bye. We walked along the dock, staring in amazement as tents full of older people knotted hooks onto lines, one at a time. Thousands and thousands of hooks and lines were carefully placed along ridges in tubs, the tubs stacked ten or twelve high.

We decided to head to Hay-Un-Dae beach. Except, in my hurry, I read “Hyundai” beach in the guide book. In the cab, I asked the driver to take us to Hyundai beach. He tilted his head to one side, repeating, “Hyundai, Hyundai, Hyundai” over and over again. This wasn’t a good sign. I wrote it out for him. “Ahhhh. Hay-Un-Dae!” and he drove us there. The beach was just that. A beach, full of young people, some lounging on the sand, some swimming, fully clothed, in the ocean, some playing soccer on the beach. Ida and I sat down. We watched the people on the beach, and generally just soaked up the sun for a good half hour. We turned to each other. “Want to see the aquarium? It’s right there…” “I don’t know. The one at Monterey is so good. And I’ve seen the one at New Orleans.” “Yeah, me too.” “Hmmm.” I turned my head. There, arising from the beach, was a casino! Ida! Look! There’s a casino! Wanna gamble? With that, we both sprang to our feet. We walked to the casino, only stopping to wonder as we entered if we were dressed appropriately. As we walked in, the lady at the desk asked for our passports. I guess only foreigners are allowed to enter the casinos here. We handed them over, then continued upstairs.

It was the afternoon, and there was hardly anyone in the casino. A few Japanese ladies at the slot machines. A few Japanese men at the tables. No one else. Our first stop was the bathroom. We entered into separate stalls, but almost at the same time said, “Check this out!” There, right in front of us, were two state of the art Japanese toilets. They had buttons for everything. Spray this. Dry that. We played around and giggled before eventually heading back to the floor.

We decided on the roulette table. We really didn’t have a choice. There was one blackjack table open and all the spots were taken. Roulette was the only other thing open. We played for about half an hour, then decided to leave. It’s not fun to gamble when you can’t talk to the dealer and there aren’t fun people at your table. We weren’t even served complimentary cocktails.

We left the casino and shopped a bit. Then grabbed something to eat. Over slices of pizza, we discussed what we should do next. Aquarium? For some reason, it wasn’t appealing to us. We checked out the floor map. We decided to forego the aquarium.

Ida came up with an idea. “In all the tourist literature I saw advertisements for foot massages. Let’s do that!” Okay! Sounds great! We went to the tourist information center, looking for information about Pusan. As we entered, a young man approached us. “Annyong ha-say-yo.” Annyong ha-say-yo I replied. Pal massag-gee odi-immnikka? He looked slightly confused. I would venture to guess he doesn’t get many requests for foot massage parlors. He looked at us, ushered us to a seat and said, “Wait a minute.” He conferred with the female employees. Lots of talking, back and forth. Finally, he came over with a tourist book written in Japanese. “Do you read Japanese?” Uh, no. I can read some Korean, though. “Oh. Well, here is the foot massage place. It’s near the Lotte department store. Take bus 941 there.” Okay, great. Ida started to interject. I knew she didn’t want to get on another bus. I gave her a look assuring her everything would be alright. Our helpful friend said he would walk us to the bus stop. I told him that was very kind, but we would probably take a taxi. “But, it might be 5,000 won.” It’s okay. Thank you for your help.

As we waited to cross the street, a woman also waiting said Hello. I guess she’d seen the “Smile, Korea!” commercials. She asked where we were going. I showed her the picture in the Japanese guidebook. “Oh, here, I’ll walk you to the bus stop. It’s only a couple of blocks.” We smiled and said we were planning to catch a taxi. For some reason, it seemed comical that people wanted to take us to the bus station.

We found the place with no problem. A small nail salon on the second floor of a nondescript building. We told them what we wanted. Ida was led to one corner of the room to have her fingernails done first. I was ushered to another corner and laid on what appeared to be a gurney. A woman beside me was having done what I assumed I would be getting soon. A serious foot and leg massage, conducted with what appeared to be a wooden torture instrument. It felt so good to be getting a pedicure. Having my feet massaged, soaking in the hot, bubbly water, everything. Pure luxury. I pointed to the woman, still reclining, having her feet massaged. Cho-got juship-shee-yo. I want that, please. The woman attending my feet laughed and put me back on the gurney. She flipped me over and began the treatment.

I wasn’t expecting the piercing pain of the sharp wooden needlelike dagger she held in her hands. I stifled a scream. Okay, I asked for this. This will feel good. This will feel good. Don’t be a wimp. I continued to talk to myself over and over as the pain would start in my foot, then continue up my leg, to my back. Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow. Soon my mutterings changed to Why did I ask for this? Why did I want this? When will this be over? The treatment continued for almost 45 minutes. Surprisingly, it did begin to feel good. My muscles relaxed. There was no tension in my body. I was moved to another station to have pink polish applied to my toe nails. Ida was put on the gurney. Her treatment began. She didn’t stifle her screams. She turned to me, “How did you stand this without saying anything?”

3 hours after we arrived at the salon, we departed. Relaxed and with pretty toes. We arrived to the train station to discover there were only “standing” tickets available for the 1 1/2 hour train journey back to Daegu. We could stand wherever we wanted on the 10 car train. As I bought the tickets, I turned to Ida and said, Well, at least it’s not a bus….

Congratulations!

pop, pop, pop, pop… is what I heard as we walked through the door. Huh? What is this?

Sang Jae had picked Ida and me up from the train station, taken us out to dinner for kalbi (listed at one of the 10 best Korean foods in the brochure we got at the Tourist Information booth), then dropped us off at the C-Space convenience store on the corner with instructions to “get ice cream and walk for digestion.” It seemed a strange request, but it was a nice night, so…

Ida and I walked from the convenience store on beautiful toes, carrying a plastic bag full of ice cream treats. We talked about the day, recounting the funny events, unusual happenings. As we began to open the door, we heard, “Wait a minute!” So we did. A minute later Sang Jae opened the door. The lights were off. I reached to press the switch and poppers and streamers exploded. “Congratulations! Congratulations!” he sang. Huh? Congratulations? For what? I walked around the corner into my studio. There, on the floor, was a smashed cake, with tall, skinny candles burning quickly. Sang Jae began singing a Korean version of Happy Birthday. At the end, he quickly said, “I’m sol-ly, I’m sol-ly…” As he had tried to take the cake out of the box, it stuck. He had pulled harder and harder, finally tugging it with one final effort, smashing half of it in the process. Even so, with its smushed glazed tomatoes (yes, really) and kiwi on top, it was delicious. Not a bad way to end the long day…

Tuesday – Let The Travels Begin

When Ida emailed me and told me she was coming to visit, I furiously began researching. I wanted to make the most of this. A week together of girl time, to travel, see the country, go off the beaten path, bond. I re-read my Lonely Planet. I googled Korea. I read web sites. And made a draft itinerary. I emailed it to her, she said it sounded great, so we decided to go with it.

Cha Bat – The Tea Plantation

First stop. Boseong. The tea plantations. It didn’t look that far on the map. I mean, Korea is only the size of Indiana. Indiana isn’t *that* big of a state. It’s manageable. Three buses, 2 taxis, and 5 hours later, we arrived at the tea plantation entrance. The bus dropped us off on the road and the driver pointed. We started walking down a road. “Girl, I don’t see any tea plants. This better not be another Wood Artifacts Complex.” Ida, trust me. This was featured in the Daegu City foreigner information ‘Between Friends’ pamphlet travels of the month section. Even as I said the words, I wished I could pull them back into my mouth. Please let there be a tea plantation. Please. Please. The article said it was over a million square meters of tea plants. It would be hard for that to disappear over night. But then again, an entire Wood Artifacts Complex seemed to….

We walked down the road, passed a souvenir shop (all tea – good sign), and kept walking. Then, out of nowhere, there were the hills. Covered with millions and millions of tea leaves. Which look remarkably like hedge. We walked among the hedges. That’s really all you could do. We climbed a hill. Took a picture from the top. From the middle. From in between the rows. Then walked down. After 45 minutes of walking, we pretty much had covered the whole public area. Hmmm. Well, shall we grab a cuppa tea? I smiled. We headed to the tea shop. We were both hungry. But the tea shop was just that. A tea shop. One thing. Tea. One price. Specialization at its best.

The ajumaa came to the table. I asked her for two cups of tea please. She turned to Ida and started rapidly speaking Korean. This had been happening to us since Ida’s arrival. Even though I initiate the conversation, the shopkeeper or waitress replies to Ida, who is Filipino/Chinese, and begins rattling off Korean. Ida would usually just stare, then I would say, Miguk imnidda. The first time I said it, Ida turned to me and said, “What did you just call me?” Calm down, sister, I only said you were American so they would stop speaking Korean to you.

The ajumaa returned with our two cups of tea. She explained we could refill our pot three times with water and get three pots of tea from the tea leaves currently there. We drank our first cup. Not bad, but not great. We poured the second tiny cup. Better. A bit more flavorful. Then the third cup. Ugh! So bitter. I guess that couple of extra seconds steeping does make a difference. Bleh!

We paid and left. There was a restaurant on the way back to the road. We decided to try it. We sat down and I read the menu. Let’s see. This section is bottles of whiskey. This section is coffee. This section is entrees. I don’t know what any of them mean. We looked around. There were only two other tables with people at them. The women behind us were eating ice cream. The people at the table by the window were eating food. Ida got up and walked past them. She came back. “It looks decent. A stew. A cutlet.” Okay. I called the waiter over. We’ll have what they’re having. He took our order and left. A while later the food arrived. Not bad. But not great. Sort of neutral. Like cardboard. We were both so hungry we ate without complaint. Upon paying our bill, he gave us 6 complimentary boxes of tea bags. Score!

We walked back to the bus shelter at the road. I read the signs. According to the signs, there were two buses that stopped here. We wanted to go back to the Boseong terminal, to catch a bus to Yeosu. I didn’t know where one of the buses was headed. The other would take us back to Boseong. The bus that we didn’t want to take was scheduled to arrive first. It came, it stopped. I got on, just to see if maybe there was a shortcut. That maybe it went directly to Yeosu. I asked the driver and he literally pushed me off backwards off his bus. Okay. Guess that bus isn’t going the way we want to.

Across the road a car stopped. A young man/boy got out. He spray painted something on the ground. I yelled to him. Shillye hamniddaaaaaa! Excuse me! He turned, surprised by my appearance. Yeosu odi-imnikka? Which way to Yeosu? He ran across the road and in broken English and Korean explained we needed to take the bus to Boseong, then change there. Just what we thought. But confirmation is good. I smiled and thanked him and sat down on the curb to wait for the bus. He ran back across the road, got into the car with his partner, and drove off. Less than 10 minutes later, he pulled up beside us, rolling down the window. “Get in. We take, bus station. No bus.” I looked at Ida and shrugged. He seemed harmless enough. She shrugged. We got in the back seat. We tried to make conversation, but it pretty much stopped after my information – English teacher, Daegu, 6 months, and his – student, just out of military, Gwangju. Wait, we did learn they were either marking for a new highway to be built, or marking the new highway that was just built. We couldn’t quite tell either way.

We went back to town, his friend the driver stopping every so often to ask where the bus terminal was. Turns out they weren’t from these here parts. After a few circles, a few detours, we arrived back at the bus terminal. Our friend went inside with us. He ordered the tickets for us, then walked us to where we would catch the bus. He wanted to wait the 5 minutes with us. Again, I tried conversation. After a couple of sentences, I was stumped. Ida offered him a bag of beef jerky. It was all we had left. After much insistence on our part, he accepted. Five minutes never passed so slowly. I would think I had thought of something to say, start to utter something, then realize I didn’t know all the words. So I would smile broadly. He would return the smile. We would look at our feet, the walls, the sky, then he would start something, utter a word, then stop. The nervous smiles would continue. Our bus finally arrived. We boarded, and he stood at the station, waving until the bus pulled away.

On the bus (completely bedecked with lime green and pale lavender ruffles) Ida commented to me, “Girl, you really need to work on your conversational Korean. You know, those few lines that could help pass the time. Cocktail party Korean.” Riiiiiiight…..

The Black Sand Beach Resort

The reason we wanted to get to Yeosu is that in The Lonely Planet and in other tourist literature we randomly picked up, “a black sand beach resort, Korea’s only one!” was touted. A must see. Beautiful. Relaxing. The thought of relaxing by the sea, getting a massage, sunning on warm black sand, well, it was very appealing to both of us. So we rode the bus 2 more hours to Yeosu. Then flagged a taxi, “Manseong-ri kajushipshee-yo.” The taxi driver took us there. Pointed. “Beach-chee.” We got out and looked around. Calling what we were standing on a “beach” was, well, a stretch. Okay, technically, it was a beach. It was the bit of land that could be considered a shore next to a body of water. Calling it a “beach resort” – I’m calling foul. There were no hotels. At all. I don’t remember seeing restaurants. The bit of sand stretched for maybe 200 meters. The sand was not black. It was dirty. A little bit grey. There were numerous oil tankers anchored offshore, very close. We both speculated how the sand became the color it was. There were many dead things along the water line. Dead fish. Dead crabs. Dead seaweed. Crushed shells.

I looked at Ida. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Let’s just go now. Cut our losses. We’ll go to Pusan tonight. I’ve been there. It’s really there. We’ll get there late tonight and have a great day tomorrow.

Ida was surprisingly not upset. “Well, the sun is setting, let’s take a couple of pictures, then figure out what to do.” We walked closer to the water, snapped a couple of pictures of the sun going down, documented the not-black sand, then walked the 10 steps back to the road. To the beach’s credit, there was a huge “tourist map” posted beside the one lane road. We looked at things to see in the area. Pretty much nothing. As we were standing there, the only two people there, two old women were approaching. Carrying bags of groceries, maybe? Rags? I noticed them out of the corner of my eye, they were on the opposite side of the road. A minute later both Ida and I were knocked in the backs. The two, 4 foot tall, 90 year-old, toothless women had run into us. Smack dab checked us into the boards. Ida and I looked at each other in disbelief. Her only comment, “It’s not as if they didn’t have the whole road to walk in.”

The bus came. I flagged it. We returned to the bus station. I bought 2 tickets to Pusan. I looked at them. Oh, geez. We have 2 1/2 hours to kill. Ida, I am so sorry. This is turning into the vacation from hell. I’m really sorry. We wandered onto the street. We spied a big “E-Mart,” the Korean version of Wal-Mart. A good as place as any to kill 2 hours. Things we discovered while shopping:

1. I have no fashion sense anymore. Ida has already planned a bonfire upon my return to the States.

2.They don’t sell anything even close to resembling an Asian Barbie. Rows and rows of blond hair and blue eyes.

3. Don’t eat chicken wings at McDonald’s.

We headed back to the bus station, boarded, and settled into our seats. Ida jokingly wondered how much time we spent on some form of transportation today. As I began calculating, she asked for The Lonely Planet.

Here is what I came up with:

11 hours on some type of transportation (4 taxis, 6 buses, one private car).

5 hours not on transportation (2 of those spent in E-Mart)

Here is what she came up with (from an analysis of pictures in The Lonely Planet):

There’s not much to see in Korea. Unless you really, really enjoy temples and mountains. Roughly half of the pictures were “natural” – farmland, rivers, mountains. Beautiful for pictures, but not so exciting to travel hours and hours to see. About 30 per cent of the pictures were of people (serving food, carving a mask, fishing). 10 percent were “city shots” – mostly of Seoul, and the remaining 10 per cent were of temples.

So, we decided for the rest of her time here, we would do things we enjoy, whether those were a “Korean” experience or not. I had given up hopes of us experiencing an “off the beaten path” adventure. And I promised her no more buses.

World Cup #3 – USA v. Korea

We knew this would be a big game. This, too, was being held in Daegu, where I live, but tickets were impossible to come by. I had tried for weeks to pick up extra tickets, but the availabilty was null. Truthfully, by the time the day arrived, I was glad I didn’t have tickets. I’m sure Ida and I could have trekked over the the stadium and scalped some, but we both decided we would rather be in the comfort of The Pink Palace, and not surrounded by 67,000 screaming Red Devils (the nickname for the Korean fans). The reigning atmosphere was hostility in a friendly way. Sort of. A couple of times walking down the street, school girls or boys would say, “fucking mi-guk” as we walked by. But other than that, and the seemingly friendly taunts of “Who will win? Korea team fighting!” it was life as normal in Daegu.

We had been downtown all morning. Trying to buy silk. We were virtually the only ones not in red t-shirts proclaiming, “Be the Reds!” The schools were closed for the day, so schoolchildren were running through the streets, proudly waving Korean flags, shouting, “Dae – Han – Min – Guk!” We wanted to be in my apartment, with plenty of food and water, by 4, as the game started at 4:30. We left the markets at 2:30. Already the streets were deserted. People were already stationed in front of tvs. Ready for anything. It was the quickest cab ride home since my arrival in Korea. We stopped by DongA, got plenty of food, and hunkered down for the game. Every channel was showing it, we flipped back and forth to see which channel got the best reception, since we understood the commentary on none of them.

Before the game, all channels showed pictures of the stadium, of how many people were there. People had been lined up for two days, waiting to get in (I don’t understand this, as all seats were reserved). They interviewed people who had been camping out. They interviewed the foreigners. They followed a man selling “Be the Reds!” t-shirts, his inventory delpleted almost immediately.

The teams came out. We cheered. Ida whistled. (she whistles really well. really loud.) Sang Jae cheered for the Korean team. The atmosphere was tense. Who would win? How would the game be played? The US team scored first. Ida and I whooped and high fived. She whistled some more. The whole game we added our own commentary, “C’mon, boys, you can do it!” “Run!” “Shoot!” “Watch out!” Sang Jae repeatedly adding, “Dae – Han – Min – Guk!” Then Korea scored. Out of nowhere. One to one.

The game ended in a tie. A tie. No winner. No loser. I had mixed feelings. I was disappointed. But happy, too. I wanted to see the US win. But I didn’t want to see Korea lose. I have to live here and frankly, was concerned about my welfare over the next month. The cameras panned all the crowds – at the stadium, downtown, in the streets – everyone seemed to be happy. As Martha would say, “That’s a good thing.”

Sunday – No Wood, No Cry…

One of the things Ida wanted to do in Korea was look for a nice piece of carved wood furniture to take/ship home. When she sent me this request, I pondered for a moment. Hmmmmm. I don’t remember seeing lots of wood items, but let me do some research. And there, on the Daegu web site, under the “shopping” tab, was a whole page devoted to Korean woodcrafts. The pictures were beautiful. Wooden screens. Small tables. Large tables. Intricately carved chests. Boxes. And these words:

“The market share of wood artifacts produced in Daegu is about 70-80% of the nations, and their quality is guaranteed. The artifacts are made by hand from Chinese juniper wood. Wood blocks, beads and other Buddhist items, tea tables, telephone tables, vessels and other daily commodities, and various traditional service utensils are the main woodcrafts produced in Daegu Wood Artifacts Complex. About 70 woodcraft shops form a complex in the area of Bullo-dong and Bongmu-dong. Wood artifacts are sold here at an inexpensive price.”

Score! I sent Ida the link in an email, saying I had no idea Daegu produced so many of Korea’s wood artifacts (that should have been my first clue).

So on the Sunday after her arrival, we set out. I had my trusty map of Daegu city. There, near Palgong mountain, was the Wood Artifacts Complex. I knew exactly where it was! I was driving, with Sang Jae in the front and Ida in the back. We drove through town, farther and farther towards the outskirts, past the airport. I began driving more slowly. I knew we were approaching the area where the complex was supposed to be located, and I assumed there would be a brown sign, pointing the way. Or at least a sign. We drove, none of us saw anything. I think we’ve gone too far. We’re getting near the mountain. I pulled a u-turn (legally, of course). Sang Jae excitedly said, “Pull over! Turn! There!” I did my best Starsky and Hutch impression and pulled over on the shoulder. “Get out! Come on!” Ida and I looked at each other – neither of us had seen a wood complex. We followed him around the corner and back to the main road. He was walking towards a store. At the same time we saw what he was heading towards. A shop by the side of the road that sold pressed wood bookshelves. We both called for him to stop. “Furniture. You said you wanted furniture, right?” We tried to explain we wanted hand carved furniture, not furniture shipped in from China. He listened, then nodded. “Okay, I will ask.” He came back a few moments later. He knew the way.

We drove down a dirt road (I’m using the term liberally) for about a mile, scraping the bottom of the car every time we hit a bump. Or pothole. Or irrigation ditch. We finally turned to the right. Into what I guess could be called a parking lot. Maybe. A big dirt area where cars could park if they so chose. There was a man there, puffing on a pipe. As Sang Jae got out to ask if this was the wood complex, Ida turned to me. “You know he hasn’t left that porch in a hundred years.” We saw the critical look he gave Sang “City Slicker” Jae as he walked up. Then the quizzical look after Sang Jae asked about the wood complex. He scratched his chin, then looked to the hills. He shuffled his feet, then looked up and began to speak. We saw Sang Jae thank him and come back to the car. “Over there. In the hills. But not Sunday. Just wood boxes.” No! I saw the web page. It’s a whole complex. And they make tables. And screens. Okay, maybe they are closed on Sunday, but it’s a big deal. I know it. The web page said.

We returned to the main road, determined to give it another try. We ended up doing a few more u-turns, to no avail. We did discover the shooting range in Daegu (good to know where it is), a park where you can camp overnight, and various other rather useless shops. We finally gave up and decided to salvage the day and go to Palgongsan.

The mood in the car was a bit damp. We all felt defeated. Where was that wood market? It was on the web page. It was on the map. How could it just disappear?

We arrived to Palgongsan, parked the car, and started towards the gates. We arrived at the four creatures protecting the temple and I kept walking. Sang Jae yelled at me to stop. I turned around. The guard was coming after us. Surprised, I asked what was the matter. It turns out there is an admission to enter the temple. I didn’t realize this, because all of the previous times I visited had been with Mr. Nam where we had started hiking over on the other side of the mountain then worked our way down to the temple, bypassing the gates. Oops. We paid our admission fees, then walked along the peaceful road leading up to the temple complex.

There was a large tourist information table set out. When they saw me, they stopped me and started handing me pamphlet upon pamphlet, book upon book. Information about road signs, restaurants, where I could use my Visa card. Sang Jae asked about the Wood Artifacts Complex. We would not be defeated. “Oh, yes, I know exactly where that is.” You do? we all exclaimed. “Yes, very famous. It might be closed today, however.” From the map he drew, it appears we had just barely missed the turn. With a renewed sense of energy, we walked to the temple compound.

We peered into the halls, looking at this at that. We walked through the peaceful grounds, venturing over a quiet bridge to view the biggest Buddha in Korea, devoted to the reunification of the two Koreas. We snapped photos, then headed back to the car. We were very excited about stopping at the Wood Artifacts Complex. Even if it was closed, we would know the exact directions so Ida and I could return if it looked worthwhile.

We drove back down the mountain, holding the hand-drawn map as if it were gold. We passed the landmarks. The bridge. The median. Okay, do a u-turn there. Yes, that road. Okay, let’s stop and make sure we’re going the right way. We stopped at an ice cream stand. Yes, that way, they pointed. The excitement grew and grew. We kept going. The road got smaller, then smaller. Are you sure we’re still going the right way? I don’t see anything but houses back here. We were in the country. Coun-try.

Sang Jae stopped the car. A porchful of ancient men was across from us. He ran across the road, asked the question, got many nods, some pointing, some scratching of heads. Ida commented, “And you know they haven’t been off that porch for *two* hundred years.”

Sang Jae got back in the car. We drove some more, then turned down what appeared to be a dirt alley. Then through what seemed to be an irrigation ditch. And under a tunnel. The whole time I was thinking to myself, We should have left a trail. Breadcrumbs. Kim chi. Something. Then, lo and behold, out of nowhere, appeared the Wood Artifacts Complex. Except the person who so designated it as such must have been on some serious hallucinogenic drugs. It was a series of shacks. Yes, shacks. And I’m using that word with great generosity. Closed. Not for the day. Forever. All but boarded up and left for gone. We peeked in the dusty windows. The wood “artifacts” that had been being made upon the closure could hardly be described as anything more than tacky tourist knick knacks. Boxes. Coat pegs. No furniture. Nothing even remotely Oriental looking. No one said anything. We walked around for a bit, then got back in the car silently.

Finally, Sang Jae spoke. “Let’s call it a day.” Truer words never spoken.

Saturday – Let’s Go Downtown….

I had to teach Saturday afternoon, so Ida and I decided to stick relatively close to home Saturday morning. Hey, I read about a Ginseng festival downtown on the Daegu web page, want to check it out? Ida was up for it, so we caught a taxi to the medicine market street, where the supposed festival was taking place. We walked in and out of medicine shops, eyeing shelves upon shelves of dried bits and pieces, ready to be mixed and ground to cure whatever ails you. But no festival. Lots of ginseng, the smell permeated the air. I love it. I breathed deeper and deeper as we wound our way through the alleys of shops, almost getting drunk on the pungent smell. I bought ginseng candy. My one comment to Ida, Once you get over the initial dry bark taste, it’s quite delicious. She declined my offers. We walked through the entire medicine market, and couldn’t find anything resembling a festival. Oh, well, maybe it’s at night. Or something. Want to go shopping downtown instead? It’s pretty close.

We crossed the tracks and made our way into the crowded streets of downtown. There, to our surprise, was a street festival. Not the ginseng festival, but a run-of-the-mill street festival. Lots of booths, selling more items that you couldn’t possibly need, scantily clad women dancing to bad techno music promoting this service or that product, face painting, and of course, World Cup souvenirs. We walked for a while, stopping to browse at a couple of booths, then continuing on our way. We received fans (much needed in the rising heat) with “Pil-Sung Korea!” (victory always!) on them. We stopped at a soju sampling booth. We each drank a dixie cup of soju, then were handed a card. The man motioned for us to scratch the silvery layer off. A contest! Woo hoo! Ida scratched hers first. I looked at it and sounded out the word. “Kw-kwang!” You won kwang! I excitedly showed the card to the man at the booth and he handed her a package of kleenex. I scratched my card. Look! I won kwang also! I handed my card to the man, saying, kwang, jushipshee-yo. He smiled and handed me a packet of tissues also.

I had to return home to prepare to teach. Ida stayed downtown, shopping some more. Later that night, she, Sang Jae and I met for dinner. We were telling him all about the day’s events. When we told him about the soju contest scratch and win cards, he busted out laughing. What? What’s so funny? “Kwang.” Yes, that’s what we won. Although, I’ve never heard that word before. I thought kleenex was ‘hu-gee.’ He laughed again. “Pabo girl. Kwang means nothing. You won nothing.”

I thought for a moment. Well, maybe so. But I bet I was the most excited about winning nothing.

Going Out – Korean Style

On Friday night I had to teach. Bleh. I left Ida at 4:00, told her I’d be home by 9:30, and to be ready to go out. At 9:30, she, Chanta, and I went to our favorite sushi restaurant. The husband and wife who own the establishment greeted us warmly; Chanta and I eat there almost once a week, if not more. We sat down and watched the World Cup game that was on tv. We had a normal dinner. I felt like myself again. Having dinner with two girlfriends, talking about what’s going on with my friends in San Francisco, who’s doing what, who’s gone where. I could have been anywhere. I talked, and was understood. I listened, and could understand. It felt good.

Towards the end of dinner, my phone rang. It was Sang Jae and his friends. They were downtown. They wanted us to come out and meet them. Are you up for going out? I asked across the table. Ida gave me a look to say, “Please. When am I *not* up for going out?” Chanta politely declined. Ida and I caught a taxi downtown. We met Sang Jae and Young Kwon and decided to go dancing. We went first to Elvis, the local dance club where mostly foreigners frequent. As we walked in, we all looked at each other. The music was bad. And not in a good way. The dj just wasn’t spinnin’. We all shook our heads and walked out.

Sang Jae suggested a Korean nightclub, Basque. We walked back to the center of town, then headed up the stairs. We walked into a dark, swanky nightclub. There were sofas and tables positioned just so, ensuring the most privacy for the patrons. We selected our sofas near the dance floor. Ida and I settled in, then checked out the action on the dance floor. And both turned to each other at the same time with quizzical looks. There were two Soul Train-esque lines on the dance floor, but no Soul Train moves. The lines were segregated, males on one side, females on the other. About 5 feet apart. Each person barely shuffling in their spot. We turned to the boys. What’s going on? we asked. They responded, “A fad. Of the younger generation.” We looked at each other again and giggled. Those words, coming from someone 27 years old, just sounded funny. I think we both assumed that the lines would last for that particular song, then everyone would bust out with some serious DDR moves. But no, the next song, and the next, and the next, people just stood in their spots, shuffling a little to the front, a little to the back.

Ida, my partner in crime since I turned single in San Francisco, turned to me. “Girl, we have got to do something about this. Follow me.” In our 3 inch heels, we easily towered over everyone on the dance floor. Our v-necked dresses contrasted to the buttoned up button-downs so popular with young Korean women these days. We sashayed through the opening in the line, found our own bit of space on the dance floor, and started dancing. Down and dirty, hoochie-coochie mamma dancing. We laughed and giggled the whole time. Very shortly thereafter the boys joined us. We spun and swung, twisted and turned. Then the melody slowed, the lights dimmed even more, and the floor cleared quicker than a junior high post-football game dance. It stunned us. We literally were the only two who had not bolted off the floor. Our partners were already on the sofas. We considered dancing with each other, but decided we had created enough of a stir already.

We sauntered back to the sofas. Waiting for us were our cocktails and a what appeared to be a huge punch bowl filled with milk. What is this? we both wondered. “So good. Try.” But what is it? A Korean word was said, I couldn’t discern the syllables. The thought of drinking milk with a spoon with my gin and tonic just didn’t seem appealing. But I tried it. To their credit, it wasn’t straight milk. It was a milk and 7-Up mixture, with what appeared to be canned fruit cocktail mixed in. And surprisingly, it wasn’t bad. Not the typical bar food, but not bad.

I never was a “double dipper” in the States. Even with friends. I wasn’t obsessive about it, but generally didn’t make it a practice. Here, I’ve gotten over that. When you order soup, one bowl comes to the table. With enough spoons for everyone. At the food stalls on the street everyone dips their fish on a stick into the same sauce. Takes a bite, dips again. Okay, to their credit, the sauce is hot, maybe even sort of close to boiling, so maybe all the random germs are dead. Anyway, same with this concoction. One big bowl, four spoons. When in Rome….

We danced for a couple of hours then Sang Jae announced he wanted to meet one of his other friends, a university colleague. We met him at his friend’s newly opened restaurant. It had to have been at least 3 in the morning, maybe 4, but there were several other patrons in the restaurant. That’s one of the things I do like about living here – Koreans seem to be night people. There is always something open. We sat down on the floor and Sang Jae ordered. The endless supply of small dishes began arriving. Then a big cauldron was placed on the burner in the center of the table. Sang Jae and his friend chatted, Ida and I eyed the contents of the pot. We poked with our chopsticks. What is this? Sang Jae thought for a minute, searching for just the right word. “Pig neck soup.” Ohhhhhh. Not exactly Pizza Orgasmica, but it will do. It really wasn’t bad. After eating our fill, and chatting to his friend, we wearily said “annyong hee gay say-yo” and headed home.

World Cup #2 – Senegal v. Denmark

Five of us had crashed at my apartment (yes, a studio) the previous night. Ida had just arrived from the States and friends from Seoul were in town. Suitcases, bags, and bodies covered almost all floor space. I was the first up; I began making breakfast – scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit for everyone. I figured if I was making breakfast for five, I might as well make breakfast for six; I called Chanta and invited her up. She commented on the temperature as she entered. I guess the hot weather, combined with so many bodies in a small space, made my studio a virtual sauna (we still don’t have the air conditioning which we were promised would be installed by the end of May). We ate breakfast, chatted, took turns with my virtual shower. About 1 we were ready to head to the stadium. Sang Jae, Daniel, Ida and I started out for the main street. I had a list of at least a dozen bus routes that would take us there. The streets were already packed. We decided to hail a taxi instead.

Daniel, Ida and I squeezed into the back seat; Sang Jae sat up front. As we approached the intersection to turn to go to the World Cup Stadium, the driver turned the opposite direction. I commented to Sang Jae, He should have turned right. The stadium is to the right. There was an exchange in Korean, the Sang Jae said to us, “Traffic jam. This way is better.” We basically made a huge circle then arrived at the stadium. As we exited the cab, Sang Jae said, “Lost. He didn’t know way.” How can you be a taxi driver and not know the way to a major landmark?

We followed the lines and lines of people towards the stadium. We had two pairs of tickets. We found Ida and Daniel’s entrance and bid them adieu. Only later I realized we had not made plans of where or when to meet up. Sang Jae and I kept walking. The sun was blazing down. Even in shorts and a tank top, I was miserably hot. We found our gate and entered. The normal security checks, then we were in! We wandered around, then made our way to our seats. Up, up, up stairs and ramps. These weren’t nearly the seats Daniel had obtained for the USA game. We found our section number, then began walking down the rows. We were seated in the first row of the upper section, probably the only section in the entire stadium without even a sliver of shade to be had. We were there an hour before the game, just as we sat down the pre-game show ended. After about 10 minutes in the sun, we looked at each other. Let’s go downstairs until the game starts.

We headed back down the ramps, down the stairs. We walked along the concourse, hoping to visit Ida and Daniel in their seats. I assume for security purposes, the stadium was divided into sections, with each section gated and locked. With that effort thwarted, we resigned ourselves to walking in section C to see what we could see. There was a surprising lack of marketing propaganda. No t-shirt stands, no souvenir tables. There were a couple of drink stations; we quickly downed icy water. We heard a commotion; the players were on the field, warming up. We stood behind the last row of seats, watching the players stretch and kick.

Soon we heard the beating of drums. It wasn’t the usual “Dae-Han-Min-Guk” beat, however. This was rhythm. Pure rhythm. Very shortly afterwards a royal procession entered. It was the Senegalese fans. They snaked their way through the concourse, their vibrant yellow, green, and red robes flowing. I was delighted when they started down the stairs only a few feet away from us. It was a party. There were many Senegal flags waving, many of the people in this particular section, mostly Koreans, were wearing Senegal hats, or carrying signs that on one side said, “Go Senegal!” and on the other, “Jesus loves you!” I was mesmerized by the sights and sounds. I turned to Sang Jae. Look at those flags. They’re so beautiful. I then focused my attention on the women dancing and clapping about 10 rows in front of us. A minute later I glanced to my side. Sang Jae was no longer there. At first panic set in. I felt like the child, suddenly lost in the department store. I looked in all directions, but didn’t see him. I figured if he wasn’t back by the time the game started, then I would get worried.

A few minutes later he returned, bearing a Senegal flag. Where did you get that? He just smiled. I waved it proudly, keeping rhythm with the still beating drums. I saw the man selling the Senegal hats. I’ll be right back… I first stopped and got more water, then got a couple of the bright green, yellow, and red hats with SENEGAL printed across the front. We looked like we belonged in the section.

The game started and we decided we would rather stand in the shade than sit in the blaring sun. Security, however, encouraged us to take our seats. We moved to the next section, not realizing security was right behind us, ushering all the standing fans back to their seats. After three attempts, we decided to return to our seats. Maybe I’m biased, but the game just didn’t seem as exciting as the previous night’s game (US v. Portugal). There were quite a few scuffles early on in the game. The camera (for the big screen) would zoom in on the players and the referees, then go to a blase neutral message (FIFA World Cup 2002!) as soon as the action heated up. Sang Jae turned to me. “What is that? When the players behave?” Sportsmanship? “Yes. Very bad sportsmanship when they fight.” I agree.

At halftime we ventured back down to the shady concourse. We didn’t see our friendly security man, so we positioned ourselves behind the last row of seats, just over from the still dancing, still drumming Senegalese fans. It was fun to be at the game. People cheered. There seemed to be an equal number of Denmark and Senegal fans, all Korean. With a few minutes left on the clock, the score tied at 1:1, waves and waves of people began exiting. Hey, the game’s not over. Why are they leaving? Sang Jae turned to me, “I think, bad audienceship.” I laughed and nodded.

The game did indeed end in a tie, 1:1. We headed back to the main road, specks in the river of people exiting. Miraculously, we found Daniel and Ida and even more miraculously, hailed a cab. Back home, all exhausted from the excitement of the game and the heat of the day, we laid down for a nap, intending to sleep just a little, then rally for a night out on the town. Hours later, we rallied enough only to make it to a local restaurant for dinner.

World Cup #1: USA vs. Portugal

When I think back on this, here is what comes to mind:

Screaming, “Oh, my God!” at the top of my lungs about 1,000 times during the course of the 90 minute game. Really.

Getting so excited I jumped out of my seat and almost knocked Daniel (twice my size) over at least three times during the game. (okay, he did just break his foot, so I probably should have been more careful…)

Shivering as the national anthem was played before the game.

Being absolutely incredulous that I could read the players’ jerseys, see their expressions, from our seats center field, 3rd row. Yes, third row. Daniel did us good.

I boarded the 1:00 pm train bound for Suwon on Wednesday. There’s something comforting about a train ride. The smooth, continuous motion? The lack of stops? The countryside it travels through? Or the novelty of it? The first time I rode a train I was 16 years old. In Europe. Maybe it’s the association with faraway places. Of places yet unknown, yet explored. Or the quietness and silence that usually accompanies the trip. People dozing here and there. The game of walking in between the cars, toppling to the right, to the left, as the car jerks unexpectedly to and fro. Or maybe it’s knowing I’m going *somewhere.* The anticipation of arriving somewhere new. Somewhere to marvel at, somewhere to wander unknown streets, somewhere to begin yet another adventure. Maybe it’s the calm before the storm. As I stare out the window now, and for the previous three hours, I’ve seen only the green buds of rice paddies, standing erect in the pool of muddy water, an occasional dot of white appearing, a crane standing guard over the beautiful sea of green. I literally cannot imagine what I’ll meet as I step off the train in a mere 5 minutes. Oh, I know, the hustle and bustle of people deboarding the train, scurrying to find the nearest exit. But then, the path to the stadium. Is it near? Is it far? I expect the hordes of people, making their way to the stadium. Seeing other Americans again. It’s been 6 months since I’ve seen my fellow countrymen, in any considerable numbers.

I exited the train, along with many other people obviously bound for the game. I followed the throng of people. Up the stairs, over the tracks, down the stairs, into the bright light. Daniel and I had not made a plan of where to meet. We just said, “The train station.” And sure enough, as I descended the last flight of stairs, there he was. I smiled and waved, we greeted each other warmly, then discussed our plan of action. Bus, I think that’s the way to go. Look, there’s a bus. And it says World Cup. Let’s get on.

We boarded the bus, squished among many others. We held on tightly as the bus lurched forward, bound for the stadium. We weren’t sure what we were looking for, but figured we would know it when we saw it. About 15 minutes later, Daniel pointed out the window and said, “I think we’re here.” I followed his gaze. What I saw I wasn’t expecting. Rows and rows and rows of police, in what appeared to be riot gear. Daniel, what’s going on here? “They’re running along side the cars and buses to prevent car bombs. The USA teams and fans are the potential targets of terrorists.” And sure enough, as the bus pulled in, about 50 policemen, 3 rows deep, ran along side the bus. I felt a pang of bittersweetness. I realize the people of many countries have lived for years with the daily threat of terrorism and hatred towards their people, but this is a new feeling for me. Knowing that because of where I was born, I am the potential target of another’s hatred.

We exited the bus and followed the many people walking towards the stadium. As we got closer, I literally started jumping up and down. I couldn’t contain my excitement. Daniel, we’re at a World Cup game. Can you believe it? Look at all the people. Look at all the Americans. Look at all the flags! This, too, surprised me. I didn’t travel to Korea to meet other Americans. But after being virtually isolated from other Americans for almost 6 months, I was excited. I pulled Daniel by the hand, running this way and that. Look at this! Look at that! What’s that over there? We saw some mediocre performance art. We saw pro-American demonstrations, led by a bleach blonde Korean girl in a red, white and blue bikini with an American flag draped around her hips. We received many pamphlets telling us Jesus loves us in all languages.

We entered the stadium. At this point we both were almost hyperventilating. Oh, my God! We’re here! Can you believe it? I bounced towards our entrance. We took pictures here and there. Of everything. The stadium. Him in front of the stadium. Me in front of the stadium. The stadium again. When we entered our “block” we checked our tickets again. Block E4, Row 3, Seat 28. I turned to Daniel. Is this like, row 3, row 3? Like, on the field row 3? “I’m not sure, but maybe. I think these are good seats.” As we walked down the stairs, I felt myself getting more and more excited. It was indeed, row 3. Center field. As we sat down, the pre-game show was ending. A huge soccer ball float like thing had been unveiled in the middle of the field amid fanfare and dancing. The dancers, drummers, and swordsmen formed lines and patterns to escort the ball out of the stadium. Except it wouldn’t fit through the “tunnel” where the players normally enter the field. It truly was like a scene out of Animal House where the oversized soccer ball blocked the exit for the performers, who continued to march, scrunching closer and closer to each other until they were on top of each other. I turned to Daniel, This is already great!

Then the players came out to warm up. I could see them. Really see them. People in the stands yelled names and players turned and waved. Oh, my God! They can hear us! Daniel just laughed and started pointing out players. Then, the players exited. A few minutes later, the pomp and circumstance began. This official was led onto the field. That official. The introductions of the players. The playing of the national anthems. Then, let the game begin!

It was amazing to watch the game from so close. To see all the action. To see them sweat. To see them frantically call to teammates, sending secret signals. It was definitely a pro-Portugal crowd. As in, the whole stadium except maybe two sections. Neither of which we were in. So, as the USA would run by we would scream, “GO USA! C’MON BOYS! YOU CAN DO IT! LET’S GO USA!” And when the first goal was scored, we both stared in amazement, then burst forth from our seats, jumping up and down, screaming, shouting, high-fiving. It was fun.

Then the second goal was scored. Then the third. We were in disbelief. We were reduced to simple, monosyllabic sentences. Oh, my God! This is huge! Did you see that? Oh, my God!

By the end of the first half, Portugal had scored one. Then they ran off the field. During half time we didn’t dare move. We thought we must be dreaming. We didn’t want to wake up. We didn’t want to jinx anything.

The teams came out for the second half. Oh, they were fighting. Hard. You could tell both teams were hungry. They wanted this win. When the US scored their “own goal” it was disappointing. But, a fine piece of sportsmanship. A really beautiful goal, perfectly executed. Just in the wrong goal. *sigh*

The remaining minutes couldn’t pass quickly enough. I was out of my seat, jumping up and down, praying the clock would run out. 3-2. 3-2. 3-2. Don’t let Portugal score again. Don’t let them. When the clock hit the 90 mark I was ecstatic. But they kept playing. I turned to Daniel. What the hell are they doing? The game’s over. He explained the “extra 2 minutes” rule. (This was the first soccer game I’ve ever seen.) Nooooooooooooooooo. Not another 120 seconds.

But those seconds did, indeed, pass, with no additional goals. The small contingent of Americans and American supporters cheered loudly. I took more pictures. Of the scoreboard. Of the team exiting the field. Of the American flags flying. Of the empty field. We didn’t want to leave. But, we knew we had to.

As we were exiting the stadium, two Korean young men stopped me. “May I please take my picture with you?” I looked around. I didn’t see anyone else behind me. Me? You want a picture with me? “Yes, please.” I didn’t understand it, but I agreed. And the grin on my face was sincere. I had just spent a good 3 hours feeling comfortable, like I belonged. Not feeling like an outsider, not being pointed at (or at least not noticing). It was a great feeling.