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?

Yet Another Trip

I try, I really try, to stay at home and do “practical” things on my days off. Pay bills (at the post office), clean the house (sans Pine Sol or any other recognizable cleaners), return emails (sorry if I owe you one). But I wake up on my days off, and I’m literally itching to go somewhere. Anywhere.

Today was no exception. Waterfalls. I want to see waterfalls. While reading through the Lonely Planet, I had seen a blurb about Juwangsan. A national park about 2 to 3 hours north of Daegu. It sounded easy enough to get there. Take the bus from Dong Daegu, ride for 2 1/2 hours, get off and hike. Look at the waterfalls. Have a picnic. Come home.

I told the taxi driver to take me to Dong Daegu, the street where all the express bus terminals are. He did, I entered the terminal. In my best Korean, I asked for one ticket to Juwangsan. “Op-say-yo.” Not here. Don’t have it. I took out my Lonely Planet. Yes, I was at the bus station it mentioned. I went to the window again. Odi-ay-yo? Where do I get such ticket then? She told me, then wrote down the instructions, in Korean, on a sheet of scrap paper for me to give the taxi driver, just in case I mixed up a suffix here or there. I thanked her profusely, then hailed a taxi.

I arrived to Dongbu station only minutes later. I went in, asked for a ticket to Juwangsan. “Oh, Korean, Korean, Korean” and a worried look. *That* didn’t sound good. An elderly man sauntered up. “Where?” he demanded. Juwangsan, jushipshee-yo. “Ohhh. Bus, 15 minutes ago. Next bus, 2 hours.” Oh. That is bad. I thought for a moment. Did I really want to see waterfalls that badly? Would I even get to see any? It was approaching noon. Defeated, I left the bus station. As I crossed the parking lot, I thought to myself, No, I will go somewhere. I remembered someone emailing me about being able to see the sea from a hike at Bulkuksa. I’ll go there.

I crossed the radiating asphalt parking lot once again. I entered the station and the old man eyed me surprisingly. He once again sauntered over. “Where?” Kyeong-gu jushipshee-yo. I gave him my 3,000 won, he gave it to the lady at the ticket counter, she gave him a ticket, he gave it to me. Nothing like full employment.

I boarded the bus, found my assigned seat, and began reading my Korean lessons. I’m currently learning how to ask “Who’s at the door?” Not that that question does me much good, because if anyone answers in Korean, I’m going to have to open the door to see who it is anyway. I won’t understand what they’re saying. Every time I speak Korean, I envision myself sounding like a patronizing Korean version of Mr. Rogers. The people on these tapes are just too *nice* sounding.

An hour later I was at the Kyeong-gu bus terminal. I went inside, went up to the ticket window, and in my best Korean, said, Good afternoon. One ticket to Bulkuksa, please. The disinterested man behind the glass plate suddenly jerked his head up, saw me, and shouted “No English!” before slamming his window shut. I stood there dumbfounded. I thought about what I said. I didn’t speak English. I was speaking Korean. I went over in my head the sounds I had uttered. An-yong ha-say-yo. Bulkuksa, hanna, jushipshee-yo. Yes, that was Korean. I turned around. There was one other ticket window. Okay, if this person slams his window, I’m out of luck. I practiced what to say, considered writing it in Korean and just sliding him a note, but decided to try the vocal route once again. It turns out I didn’t need a ticket, I just needed to go out to the street and catch bus number 10 or 11 and it would take me there. I thanked him and headed out into the heat.

I boarded the bus and we were off. I watched as we passed fields and fields of just planted rice paddies, the sleek surface a perfect mirror for the mountains and clouds surrounding the fields. 45 minutes later, I was at the parking lot at Bulkuksa temple. I hiked up the brick path, past the old women selling refried corn dogs, grilled beetle bugs, and Buddha souvenirs. They yelled to me in Korean, enticing me to buy their wares, but I only smiled and nodded “anyong” as I passed by them.

I entered the temple grounds. So different from when I was here over Lunar New Year. Then, bitterly cold, though bright. Void of people. Blue and red lanterns strung everywhere. Today, so many people. Groups of senior citizens. Tour buses carrying Koreans from near and far. Couples, walking hand in hand, gazing lovingly into one another’s eyes. And it was hot. I pulled my increasingly damp hair off my neck and twisted it into a ponytail. I continued walking. The pond, before, was a hazy chunk of almost frozen ice, no greenery or life forms to be seen. Today, gold fish as big as my forearm swam here and there, chasing each other, pursing their lips to break the calm surface of the pond. Baby turtles swam with ease through the pond, crawling up onto a rock, joining dozens others already there, basking in the warm sun. Green surrounded and enveloped the pond. Bamboo, weeds, leaves, algae.

I reached the main halls of the temples. A children’s art exhibit adorned the walls. Chalk impressions of their interpretations of Bulkuksa. These were as beautiful as the buildings themselves. Violent greens, pinks, blues, not a white speck to be seen anywhere on the paper. Buddhas, not sitting serenely, but smiling huge grins, their eyes upside down u’s. I examined them all, laughing out loud at some of the renditions. I walked up the steep stairs to the various halls, content to observe Buddha from afar due to the hordes of people inside.

I found the path to Sokkoram Grotto and began walking up it. Lonely Planet had said there was a shuttle bus to take you to the Grotto, and if you had time, it recommended walking down the 3.5 km wooded path back to the temple. Well, if it recommended walking down it, surely I could walk up it as well, right? I soon found out why it didn’t recommend walking up it. Up is the operative word in that sentence. It wasn’t the most difficult, or the steepest, trail I’ve ever climbed. But it was steady. Steadily up. Some stairs, some steep inclines. It felt good, though, to be outside, breathing in the fresh air, and breathing it in solo. I was alone on the path. I listened to the birds, watched the sun flicker through the heavy canopy of leaves. An hour later, I reached the top.

I paid another admission fee, then continued down a well-traveled path to Sokkoram. I followed the tour bus passengers into the small shelter perched in the side of the mountain. There, a large, smooth, sandy colored Buddha sat watching those who passed by. A monk was saying prayers, beating a drum rhythmically, chanting, up, down, up, down. There were many signs, in all languages, asking visitors not to take pictures. I watched the monk, listened for several moments, then exited. I stood on the edge of the mountain, gazing out. The day was too hazy to see the sea, but I could see nearby mountains, trees, farms. A beautiful countryside. I carefully avoided being in the background of other’s pictures, then returned to the path I had just ascended, looking forward to a carefree descent.

As I walked down, a movement to the right of me caught my eye. I stood perfectly still and shifted my eyes. A tiny chipmunk sat, eating. I watched it for several moments, then it scampered off. I turned my gaze straight ahead to begin walking again. There, only inches in front of my eyes, dangled a spider. I slowly took a step back to avoid its sticky web. I watched it spin, dangle, spin some more, then stepped to the right and continued walking. I noticed a fork in the path. Hmmmm. I had not seen that earlier. I read the sign post. Straight ahead would take me back to Bulkuksa. To the left would take me to yyaaak- sooooo- do? toe? da? Hm. I know yak means medicine. The signpost indicated it was only .1 km away, so I decided to check it out.

As I wound my way along the narrow path, I heard water. Then, it appeared. Granite dragons, spitting water from their mouths. Several plastic ladles hung beside the dragons, aqua, navy, red. It looked so refreshing. And sounded so peaceful. I made my way to the water, selected an aqua ladle, and filled it at the dragon’s gushing mouth. I poured it into my mouth, creating my own waterfall, dribbling down my chin, my chest, onto my tummy. The mineral water tasted tinny, yet refreshing, on my dry tongue. After several scoops, I sat and rested. Just listened to the sounds. Looked at… nothing. Just looked.

Back down at the temple I made my way to the bus stop. I sat and waited. The bus came, I boarded. I noticed we passed the Folk Arts Village Chanta and I had visited over Lunar New Year. The day we visited, many of the artist’s workshops were closed. I rang the bell on the bus and hopped off. Maybe more would be open today. I started walking up the cobblestone path, rounded a corner, and oh, my god. Literally 800 middle school students, grouped in classes of 50, were coming towards me. They spotted me right away. “Hello! American! Miguk! How are youuuuu? Hel-loooo!” echoed all at once. I tried to smile, I tried to answer each greeting. I then tried to escape. They were everywhere. This must have been the official field trip day for all of the schools in the area. They were in the restrooms. In the workshops. On the paths. I made my way back to the bus stop quickly. I don’t do well in crowds. Especially when I’m the odd man out, so to speak.

The trip home was uneventful. Bus to bus terminal. Bus terminal to bus terminal. Bus terminal to taxi stand. Taxi to home. The bills are still there. The floor still needs to be cleaned. The emails still need to be written. But my itching has abated, at least for today.