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.

I’m So Excited!

As one of my friends said in an email, “… just call me a Pointer Sister.” Tomorrow I head to Suwon, to see the USA play Portugal in the World Cup. Then after the game, one of my dear friends from San Francisco arrives for 10 days. My first visitor in Korea. I’m taking a week of vacation, which I’m ecstatic about. To have someone to talk to, at normal speed, ah, the simple pleasures…

Dae-Han-Min-Guk!

This is the cheer for Korea’s soccer team. I think it means “Korea!” or “Go Korea!” or something like that. My students taught it to me. On each syllable, you wave your hands forward then backward, then clap 4 times. At so-yae this morning, the grandfathers were talking about the upcoming Korea v. Poland match. Without thinking, I did the cheer. It’s all I’ve read about in the diaries, all I’ve heard in between classes for the last week. They were silent. Then begged me to teach them. As I was showing them what to do, I thought to myself, something’s wrong with this picture…. The miguk is teaching the Koreans the Korean national soccer cheer. I hope I’ve got it right….

In The News…

World Cup highlights are on every station. This game. That stadium. The festivities. The events. And the teams.

Tonight the camera spanned from team to team, focusing on the intense last minute training that is occuring at various fields throughout the country. Then, it focused on Team USA. Sightseeing. Not training. I was so proud of our team. The Koreans I was with laughed. “Only USA, no train! Ha ha ha!”

I think it’s wonderful, that our boys are taking advantage of the opportunity to see more than just the stadiums while here. Go USA!

As I Was Writing…

I had to stop and think of just the perfect word. I glanced up, I glanced sideways, I chewed on my pen. I took the pen out of my mouth. I stared at its blueness. I read the words imprinted on the pen. Then I really read them. “Live Color (brand name of pen) – for better personality and sensibility.” That’s all it takes? I want a case!

Joke’s On Ju(ice)

I love juice. Give me any type of fruit juice and I’m happy. I’ve tried some interesting versions since I’ve been here. Green plum juice is my new favorite. But the crushed pear isn’t bad. Nor the red berry that looks like cranberry on the package, but isn’t, juice.

On my way home from teaching, I usually stop at my local corner store and grab a bottle (or two) of water, and a bottle of juice. The proprietor, easily 70 years old, always laughs at me and says, “Wa-ta party!” as I pay him. It’s our little joke. Except I don’t understand it.

The other night, I grabbed the familiar large green bottle of plum juice, a couple of waters, laughed, paid, and headed home. As I sat down to my computer I poured a glass of juice. Wait a minute, this smells funny. I looked at the bottle more closely. This isn’t plum juice, it’s, it’s, it’s, *aloe* juice. I was hesitant to taste it. I was raised to smear aloe on burns, not drink it. Well, I’ve got a full bottle of this, I might as well try it. It wasn’t bad. Sweet. And, pulpy. Little aloe leaves suspended throughout the glass. But not bad. By the end of the bottle I was quite fond of my mistake.

Today, on the way to school, I stopped at C-Space to grab a small bottle of aloe juice to take to class with me. I saw the familiar green bottle, paid the clerk, and continued to school. Once there, I settled down to grade papers, opened my bottle, and took a sip. I almost spit it out. What was this? I looked at the label more closely. No, it wasn’t aloe juice. It wasn’t plum juice. It was pine bud drink. If it had not had the word drink printed clearly on it in both English and Korean I would have questioned whether it was fit for consumption or not. It tastes what I would expect Pine Sol to taste like, had I ever tried it. Wait a minute…. I wonder if I could clean my floors with this….

I guess the moral of this story is that not all that is green is plum. Or, I need to read the (warning) label more carefully. Or something like that.

Go Senegal!

I’m getting excited. Really excited. I’m not a big soccer fan, but I love a party. And the World Cup seems like it will be just that.

I watched Senegal defeat France tonight. What caught me by surprise was my excitement, not at the sport, but at the fans. Beautiful, beautiful fans. From all over the world. The French, the Irish, the Saudis, the Indonesians, the Senegalese, the Americans, the Chinese… I came from San Francisco. Where I would venture to guess the majority of the world’s countries have representatives. Korea is homogeneous. I miss the variety.

I have tickets to see the USA play Portugal on Wednesday. Then to see Senegal take on Denmark on Thursday. I want Senegal to score a goal on Thursday. At least one. Because I want to see, in person, that dance they did. Throw the shirt on the ground, form a circle, shuffle, shuffle, back, forward, all with grins from ear to ear. I can’t wait.

Terrible. Terrible.

One of the students’ recent assignments was to write a classic 5 paragraph essay. We created the outline in class; the students were to develop it into an essay for homework. The topic was Korea – Introduction, Geography, History, Culture, Conclusion. Most of the essays were pretty similar. Korea is a peninsula. It is surrounded by an east sea, a south sea, and a west sea. There are many beautiful mountains in Korea. Korea has fought in many wars. Korean traditional dress is the hanbok. Koreans love to eat kimchi.

But today, I read an essay that was not only well written, but more interesting than usual. This student had highlighted many historical facts that others had not. He not only listed the wars Korea had fought, but gave an anecdote to accompany each. This was my favorite:

“MyongNaRa was a war with China. They attacked Korea and a lot of people died. They stole pigs and beautiful girls. Korea’s king had to bow 20 times. It was terrible, terrible.”

It made me wonder, why did the Chinese decide only to steal pigs and beautiful girls?