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.

World-A Cup!

I ordered World Cup tickets almost a month ago. I received an email, in Korean, that I assumed told me to go to a local bank to pick them up. I showed the address to the taxi driver, a half hour later I was at the bank. I walked in, asked the guard where to pick up tickets and he pointed me to the right side of the bank. As I was waiting, I glanced at the sign overhead: Loans, Deposits, New Accounts, Lottery Tickets. Lottery tickets? At a bank??? Sure enough, there on the counter were stacks of scratch and win lottery tickets. I was tempted to buy one. Even though I couldn’t read the instructions. Even though I didn’t know the prize. But somehow wasn’t feeling the luck. Maybe next time…

They Really Do Love Hair Dye…

As I was walking to and fro today, I witnessed three, yes, three, poodles with their ears dyed. One, a cool mint green. The second, a lovely shade of purple. And the third, variating shades of pale yellow to flaming orange. What will they think of next….

Meet and Greet

Hey, what is this sticker I see everywhere? I asked one of my students as I met him on the street, walking to school. I pointed to the sticker on the back windshield of the car, a black oval, with two white cartoon-ish children’s faces, a boy and a girl, smiling, and lots of Korean writing. “Say hello,” he answered. What do you mean, say hello? “Well, Koreans don’t really speak each other. You know, on the street. Maybe Westerners say hi to stranger. Or smile. Koreans, no. So, this sticker, it means, be first say hello.” I nodded. I don’t know how long this campaign has been around, but it doesn’t seem to have made an impact.

On television, I saw an interesting commercial. A man, maybe from France, maybe from Italy, was in Seoul, lost, searching on his map for the World Cup Stadium (the games begin this week). He tried to stop many people to ask for directions, but everyone confronted him with an angry scowl and walked away. Finally, he stopped a little boy on a bike. The boy looked scared of this big, tall stranger. The man pointed on the map; the boy gave him a big smile and a ride on his bike. The slogan was something to the effect of “Help a stranger, make a friend. World Cup, Korea Team Fighting!”

I’ve got tickets to a couple of games – it’s going to be interesting to see if the advertising has worked…

The Trip to Hahoe Maeul – Take 2

Hay Jin and Sang Min wanted to spend Sunday with me and Chanta. We asked, “Where should we go?” They said it was our choice. I suggested Hahoe Maeul, the Korean folk village from the 16th century. Even though I had been there on my solo road trip, I had been on a weekday. On Saturdays and Sundays, the mask dance, which I had before only read about, is performed. The other gals were excited about the destination suggestion, so we agreed to meet downtown (though not in front of DongA, but in front of Debec, the *other* Daegu department store) Sunday morning.

We drove there, enjoying the more and more progressively rural landscape. Once to the village we inquired about the dance. We had close to 2 hours before the performance began. We began wandering through the village, looking here, peeking there, enjoying the hotness of the sun. We were walking along the riverbank when Hay Jin and Sang Min began chattering animatedly. They ran up to an unusually muscular Korean man in a sleeveless t-shirt. Chanta and I exchanged curious glances. What was going on? The two girls ran back to us, grabbed our hands and pulled us under a “do not cross” plastic tape strung across the road leading up the hill. Where are we going? What’s going on? “Movie. Here. YMCA. Filming, now. Big stars, we’ll see.” We followed them up the hill. Sure enough, there was a movie being filmed there in the folk village. We later learned the name was indeed YMCA, about the first baseball team in Korea. We came to a point where there was another muscled man in our path. He motioned we couldn’t go any farther. At that point Sang Min began talking in the sweetest voice I’ve ever heard, staring up from her 4 1/2 foot figure with the largest, most appealing eyes I’ve ever seen. Who was this? She lowered her voice to a whisper so that the large man had to bend down, obviously enjoying the attention he was getting. I heard her saying “miguk” and motioning to us. We were her excuse to meet the stars! The man agreed and Sang Min and Hay Jin squealed and jumped up and down.Chanta and I, the miguk who supposedly wanted to meet stars, innocently stood there, still not sure what we were in for. According to Sang Min, there were two major stars, one handsome one and one not handsome one, but the latter was a really good actor. As it turned out, the handsome one was on his break and the gals weren’t that excited about meeting the more talented one. So we thanked the muscled men and continued on our way.

We wandered some more through the village until it was time to see the dance. We entered an outdoor amphitheater, already filling up. The host escorted us to a shaded spot and we sat, front row, on the hard, stone benches. The musicians entered, beating drums, playing horns. Everyone sat, entranced, wondering what would come next. Even though it was all in Korean, we understood the majority of it, due not only to my previous research about the play but the exaggerated movements of the dancers. The costumes were beautifully simple, the masks intricately carved. With only a couple of exceptions, the play followed the following format (my previous summary – accuracy not guaranteed):

I – the Bride (seen as a local goddess) enters. Everyone prays for peace and an abundant harvest.

II – A male and female lion fight. The female wins. This is good. The village will have a good harvest.

III – The butcher kills a bull, slicing out its heart and testicles and offering them for sale with these words, “Fancy not knowing the value of a fresh bull heart. How about testicles, then? Surely you must know what they are good for?”

IV – The old widow weaves and dances, asking the audience for donations.

V – The flirtatious young women dances, then relieves herself. The monk walks by. “You have aroused me by showing me your private parts and letting me smell your urine.” They escape to the bushes together. Scandal! The village fool sees them escape.

VI – The aristocrat and scholar argue, trying to outsmart each other. The butcher offers them the testicles. When they learn it will increase their sexual energy, they argue over who will have the honor of purchasing them. The widow mediates. Everyone dances.

Exception number one: during Act III, as the bull entered the amphitheater, it “peed” on various audience members in the front rows, Chanta and I included. The pee was actually water, and felt good, but something about having a large animal lift its leg in front of you….

Exception number two: during Act V, after the village fool sees the monk and flirtatious young woman escape, he dances a drunken dance, then pulls audience members onto the stage to dance as well. Chanta and I resisted as he tugged on our arms, but he was having none of it. He pulled us into the center of the stage; I felt like the lions would be released at any moment. Instead of lions, he pushed two elderly Korean men in front of us, decked out in their fishing hats and photographer vests. We danced for what seemed an eternity, but was probably only a couple of minutes.

After the performance, we walked through the village for a bit longer, enjoying the last few rays of sun. As we walked along the narrow paths, people would smile, point and Chanta and I and giggle. Hay Jin explained they recognized us from the dance. Not that we needed another reason to attract attention….

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things…

I love getting packages (brown paper or not). Even in the States I loved getting things in the mail. In addition to entering every sweepstakes invented, I also would write away for every sample offered. “But two, get one free!” “Special offer – limited time – try these new, blah, blah, blah!” “All you have to do is complete this form in which we need all your personal information in a 2 cm space, provide the original cash register receipt with purchase price, store name, address, phone number, and method of payment circled, enclose a self-addressed, stamped envelope, write an essay about why we should send you our product and know you’ll be on our direct mail list for the next 15 years…”

But even better than the jumping through hoops for a supposedly free product is getting an unexpected, *real* package. From someone you know. I got two this week. My endorphins are still raging.

In the first package, compliments of Ida, were summer clothes. No, not just summer clothes. Summer clothes that *fit*! And that were stylish. Sandals, sundress, shorts, tank top. Bring on the hot weather. A nice fat book, in English. I need to take a train ride. And within that package, a package from Stas. Everything that glitters. Mood changing nail polish. Glitter powder. Glitter lipstick. Glitter body balm. And a purple, fur trimmed purse to hold them all. My friends know me too well.

Package number two – a culinary compilation from Rob. The largest package of instant macaroni and cheese powder I’ve ever seen. A bag of Starbuck’s coffee – just the smell makes me smile. And Peeps – beautiful, sugary, marshmallow peeps. Bright yellow. Staring at me, unknowing, from their cellophane packaging. You are mine. It has been so long since I’ve had pure sugar creations. Oh, baby.

Preparing for Life as a Mole

Maybe that’s why I’m here in Korea. I’m now cooking in the dark. The gas flame provides some light, but it’s still pretty dark. It’s a different bulb than in the bathroom, so I’ve got to go on another shopping expedition. Or make a phone call. Oh, Sang Jae….

Eggs and …

My friend Sang Jae and I will often cook for each other. He makes me traditional Korean delicacies; I introduce him to American classics. For the most part, I think I get the better end of the deal. Except today.

Recently I made him an egg sandwich. Kind of like an omelet on toasted bread. When he stopped by tonight, he said he wanted the egg sandwich – he had been thinking about it – sooo goooooood. I was working on lesson plans, but told him I’d fix it in as soon as I finished. He then said *he* would cook it, for me not to worry, keep working. Okay – how hard can that be?

A half hour later he presented me with, well, a sandwich. As I bit into it, I thought, this is so not good. And the texture was not right. Besides the fact that he had tried to toast the bread using soybean oil, there was a somewhat slimy feel to what I held in my hands. I opened my sandwich. Without thinking, I exclaimed, “Did you put *jam* on this sandwich?” He smiled, “Yes. Good?” ugghhhhhhhh.

Staring At Me Once Again…

Tonight Chanta and I visited our favorite sushi restaurant on the corner. The owner’s wife speaks a little English, she always welcomes us with a big smile. We order the usual, a platter of sushi which is accompanied by many, many side dishes – miso soup, grilled tuna, egg and corn, soybeans, etc. Tonight, as we sat there talking away and picking at this and that, the sushi chef approached us. We smiled, he handed us two fish, tails encased in aluminum foil. I reluctantly accepted. It was staring at me. I smiled at the sushi chef. He motioned for us to bite the head. oh. I looked at Chanta. She looked at me. “what do we do?” she whispered. Well, I guess we eat it. Then take a shot of bek sae ju. She bit into hers first. I closed my eyes and said a small apology. I’m really, sorry, fish. I wish you didn’t have to see me do this. Then I bit the head off. Just as I was chewing, Chanta said, “We’re eating pregnant sardines. Look. Look. It’s full of fish eggs.” It was more than I could take. Chanta, please. Stop. I know you’re telling the truth, but as Jack Nicholson said, “You can’t handle the truth.”

Matchmaker, Matchmaker…

After so-yae I was invited to join the grandfathers for lunch at our favorite Korean restaurant. It’s always amusing to see us walking together, 6 75-year old men and me, a tall, white woman. I see people pointing, staring, and whispering. I wish I understood more Korean, it would be very amusing to know what they are saying.

In the restaurant the multitudes of side dishes arrived. I began picking at this one and that one, the Korean version of scrambled eggs, spinach, kim chi, yummmmmm… The men were talking animatedly among themselves. I was concentrating on not dropping anything with my chopsticks.

Mr. Lee got my attention from across the table. “Miss Lori, Miss Lori…” Yes? “Teacher Song just asked you question.” Oh, I’m sorry, what? “Would you consider marry Korean?” Well…. If I met someone I loved, who loved me, yes, I would consider marrying a Korean…. Mr. Lee then excitedly spoke to the other men. Some clapped, some oohed and aahed. Mr. Lee turned to me. “When birthday?” June. June 12. “How old?” 33. I’ll be 34. “Best-a marriage, man 3, maybe 4 years older than woman. Okay if same age. Younger man, older woman, not so good.” He spoke to the others. I continued to listen, wide eyed. “Okay, we all find you Korean man. You will marry. You be happy. You stay Korea.” Okay, with this many people trying to find my soul mate….