It’s Been Awhile….

It seems like the more I have to post about, the less time I have to post. Trying to get back on a regular schedule… Thanks for the messages…

Happy Birthday, Buddha!

It was a simple enough question. So, what will you do on Sunday? How will you celebrate Buddha’s birthday? I was asking this to all of my students. From what I gathered, this was going to be a huge holiday. For weeks, people have been hanging lanterns along the road, I had heard that every temple would have special ceremonies and performances.

George answered that his family would visit his uncle, the monk. He then, as polite as always, asked me what I planned to do. Well, I’m not sure. I’d like to go to a temple, but I’m not sure which one. “Come with us, Lori.” I’d like to, but why don’t you ask your parents if it’s okay first.

One of my teacher duties is to call my “homeroom” students each week to give them practice talking on the telephone in English. Friday night I called George. He asked if I would still like to join his family on Sunday. Are you sure it’s okay? “Oh, yes, of course. We will go to my father’s university for a special ceremony, then to the temples. It will be a long day. Is it okay?” Of course. What time should I meet you and where? “I’m not sure. I will call you tomorrow.”

Saturday night he called after I finished classes. “7:40? Is it too early?” No, of course not. I’ll meet you in front of the school. “And you will not have plans tomorrow night?” No, I’m free all day. “Okay, good. See you then!”

Sunday morning I dressed in pants (I remembered from our last trip we sat a lot) and shoes that were easy to slip in and out of. I’m becoming such the practical person, who would have thunk? I arrived in front of the school – no one was in sight. None of the stores were open, no one was on the sidewalks. I enjoyed the peacefulness of the morning sun, then saw George’s father’s car approaching. “Sorry we are late, teacher!” No, no problem. I squeezed into the back seat with George and his brother Pil Sang. How are you? I smiled. Pil Sang gave me a cheeky grin. George answered for him, “He is still shy.” I remembered from last time it only took a little while for him to warm up; he is quite the mischievous little one.

We drove across town and to the highway entrance. George’s mom had brought a variety of breads from the bakery and soy milk for us for breakfast. We carefully drank the milk from the foil packages and sampled rice cakes, bread, and bean paste concoctions.

George’s father explained we would go to the temple at the university where he teaches for a special ceremony, then have a lot of time, then go to the university again for the evening version of the ceremony then go to Girimsa, a temple nearby. “I think maybe you – bored.” Oh, no, it sounds like a wonderful day! Thank you so much for inviting me. “No, our pleasure.”

We arrived to the university and George’s father gave a quick tour – the monks’ dormitory, the art building, the music building, religion building, girls’ dormitory, etc. We parked the car and began walking up a sandy path. Wow. The temple, as all I’ve seen here, was beautiful. The intense greens, bright reds, deep yellows, complimented by the festive strings of lanterns with pictures of the baby Buddha imprinted upon them.

We entered the temple. It was a modern building, but still retained much of the traditional symbolism and beauty of the ancient temples I have visited. We slipped our shoes off, placed them on shelves, then entered the main hall. So breathtaking, but in a different manner than the other temples I’ve been to. This was a perfectly square room, not a separate building as on most temple complexes. It obviously was new. The ceiling consisted of hundreds and hundreds of square tiles, each intricately painted with cranes, or swirly patterns, or flowers. And from so many of the square tiles hung beautiful shocking pink lotus lanterns. From each a memorial paper fluttered, indicating the donor’s name and address. At the front of the room was the altar. A peaceful gilded Buddha sat, eyes closed, hands carefully resting on crossed knees. Exquisite flower arrangements decorated the altar. Daisies, roses, birds of paradise, lilies, and many others I couldn’t name. The candles burned brightly. I knew I was gaping in awe, but unable to do anything about it. My senses were overwhelmed – the colors, the smells, the sights. I felt a hand on the small of my back. Someone was pushing me forward. I turned to look. George’s father had selected cushions near the back of the room, but the usher (? – for lack of a better term) was propelling us forward. George’s father sat a few rows from the front, with George and Pil Sang beside him. I sat on a cushion behind them and George’s mother sat behind me. After everyone was seated, George switched spots so he was beside me.

Someone started playing the piano. It reminded me of typical “church” music. After a few songs, the monks entered. A drum was beat, people chanted. We stood, we sat, we bowed, we prayed. I tried to follow the movements of those around me. A few songs were sung, then several speeches were given. I was trying to concentrate, though my attention wandered. Mostly I stared at the beauty of the room, while trying to conceal that I wasn’t paying attention to the speaker. At one point George whispered to me, “Lori…” I turned to him and raised my eyebrows, in a “what” gesture. “Boring, huh?” I smiled and shook my head. He rolled his eyes. “It’s boring to me.”

About an hour or so later the ceremony was over. Many people came up to George’s father and spoke. He turned to me, “Do you have camera?” Yes, I do. “Get line. I take picture – you – washing Buddha.” I must have looked surprised. George explained that the line of people forming around the perimeter of the room was waiting to pour a ladle of water over the statue of the baby Buddha. Ahhhhhh. Okay. We waited in line, George and Pil Sang horsing around, their mother gently reprimanding them. When we got closer to the altar, I began watching what people did when it was their turn. Lori the lemming. Watching and copying. Face Buddha. Bow. Walk forward. With your right hand get a ladle of water. Slowly, let it trickle over the baby Buddha. Place the ladle down, take several steps backwards. Bow, then walk to the side. Place a donation in the box, then walk to the main altar. Select a stick of incense, light it, place it in the large bowl of sand. Bow. Walk backwards. All this was done with George’s guidance.

We retrieved our shoes and went downstairs. George’s father explained there was a reception taking place. We entered a spartan room which had four long tables covered with paper tablecloths. On each table were plates of kim bop, fruit, sweet dok, and cherry tomatoes. There were no individual plates. People stood at the tables with toothpicks, poking this treat, then that. Not much speaking going on. Just pairs of eyes intently studying what was to be had, then stabbing this, jabbing that. So, we poked. After a few minutes, George offered me and his mother a cup of juice, then we left. His mother led me out of the room, her arm intertwined in mine. She pointed at a sign that was in Chinese. I recognized some of the characters, but couldn’t remember their meaning. She pulled out her pocket translator and keyed in several characters. Then she showed me what appeared on the screen “enlightenment.” Ahhh. I see. The place of enlightenment. The temple. Yes, I understand.

Outside we faced gray skies.We walked over the grounds, studying trees, talking to people. We started down the path to the car. On a field, next to the parking lot, the university team was practicing. Oohhhhh, I love baseball! George, do you play? “Sometimes. Do you?” Yes. In San Francisco I was on a team. It was so fun, George! I miss my teammates. In the car, George pointed to the baseball players and spoke quickly to his father. His father stared at me with surprise in the rearview mirror. “You baseball player?” Yes. In San Francisco. Not here. “What position?” Catcher. “Ooooo. So good. I cannot believe it. I am amazed. Really? I do not believe you.” Somehow I sensed there was a misunderstanding. I looked at George, then it hit me. George, did you tell your father I played for the San Francisco Giants? “Yes, teacher, that’s what you said.” No. I didn’t play for the Giants. I played on a team in San Francisco, not *the* San Francisco team. He laughed, then quickly spoke to his father again. His father laughed and nodded.

“Miss Lori, we have much time. Go to temple? Or to folk village?” Either sounds great – which do you suggest? “Let’s go to folk village.” Great. We travelled about half an hour, maybe more, through the countryside. Soon we saw brown signs. Whoever is in charge of the Department of Tourism did a great job. See a brown sign, follow it, and behold a national treasure.

We arrived at Yangdong, a village of over 150 traditional houses that are for the most part still occupied. We parked the car, studied the map, and began walking. The larger mansions are virtually empty; only the care houses are occupied. We wandered through these mansions, George’s father explaining various bits of trivia. The village was home to the yangban class, a class based upon learning and position, not necessarily wealth. Several famous scholars were born and lived here. The mansions had black tile roofs, whereas the lower class residents’ houses sported thatched grass roofs which needed changing every couple of years. The black tile could be made into blue tile by coating the tile with sifted ash water then fired. The large vessels that I assumed were for kim chi were actually storage bins for seeds for the fields. He pointed out the various rooms in the mansions – the servant’s sleeping quarters, the napping room for hot weather, the storage room for linens. As we were walking down the path, it began to rain. Not a downpour, but large, fat, heavy drops of rain. He suggested we stop for lunch.

We piled into the car. He announced we would go to Kyeong-ju for lunch. As we were leaving the folk village, he stopped at an intersection. He wasn’t sure which way to go, so he asked the taxi driver waiting next to us at the intersection. The taxi driver spoke and pointed and spoke some more. Then, as our light turned red, George’s father drove across a good eight lane intersection, crossing from the far right hand turning lane to make a left hand, kitty cornered turn. I stared wide eyed. I heard George’s mother gasp and exclaim what I thought to be the Korean version of “dear sweet Jesus.” Good. I’m not the only one who thought that move was a little crazy. I’m amazed I haven’t seen more accidents here. Because this type of driving seems to be the norm. But it’s working.

About thirty minutes into our drive, George’s father pulled over to the side of the road. A farmer was walking along, pulling his cart. As they exchanged information about directions, I rolled down the window and began snapping pictures of the rain falling on the flooded rice fields. Maybe it’s because they’re foreign to me, but I’m intrigued by rice fields. The precise sections, the plants barely peeking through the puddles, the rows meeting one another at unusual angles.

We arrived to the restaurant, a Korean restaurant in which we had our own room facing a gardened courtyard. As we sat down, George’s mother took some medicine. She apologized and said her head hurt. George’s father ordered and the dishes began arriving. Fish, scrambled egg, kim chi, spinach, animals in seashells, cabbage, leaves, 25 small dishes in all, plus two bowls of soup to be shared commonly. The smell was too much for George’s mother. She laid down on the floor, covering her head with a handkerchief. Is she okay? George’s father answered, “Oh yes. Rest.” So we ate. George’s father complained about this method of serving, saying it was so wasteful. That they bring dishes and dishes of food, everyone eats from the same dishes, then whatever is not eaten is thrown away. He prefers the western method of serving your individual plate, eating what you want, then saving whatever is leftover. I, on the other hand, have become quite fond of the little dishes that arrive, with only a spoonful of food in each, allowing the diner to sample a variety of dishes, never eating too much.

After lunch George’s mother still wasn’t feeling well. We drove from here to there. I asked George where we were going. He said, “Take nap. Father will do duty.” We stopped at another temple and his father took something out of the trunk, maybe rice, maybe food? and took it to the temple. Then the search began. His mother was feeling worse and worse, so his father was trying to find a hospital that was open. We stopped at several, but they were closed – I’m not sure whether because it was Sunday or it was a holiday. When we finally found one, George’s mother could barely walk. George’s father escorted her into the building, leaving the three of us in the back seat. He came back out a few minutes later, cracked the windows, and told us to sleep.

It was as if we were in the poppy field in The Wizard of Oz. Sleep descended upon each of us. I leaned up against the door, Pil Sang leaned on my shoulder, George laid in Pil Sang’s lap. And we all fell asleep. We would have slept indefinitely, but were woken by a sudden slamming of the car door. A strange woman was in the driver’s seat. She faced the three startled, sleepy faces in the back seat and rapidly fired off Korean. She addressed me, as the adult, but once she realized I didn’t understand her, addressed George. When none of us answered her, she turned the key in the ignition and moved the car. I guess we were blocking her in, so she just moved us. After she left, I drug myself to the front seat and moved the car into her parking space. I then returned to my position in the back seat and we continued to doze.

A couple of hours later George’s father and mother emerged. She didn’t look any better, but George’s father assured me she was okay, no problem, not serious. He then turned to us and said, “Today’s journey – finished.” Yes. He started the car, then turned around again. “I sorry, Miss Lori. We don’t go Girimsa.” No, no, no. It’s okay. Really. I’m very worried about your wife. Are you sure she’s okay? I felt horrible. It’s bad enough to be sick, but to be sick in front of someone you don’t know is just, well, an added indignity. I wanted George’s mother to feel better. I wanted the trip home to happen instantaneously so that she could rest in the comfort of her home without a stranger present.

We arrived in Daegu an hour later. As we were nearing our neighborhood, George’s father stated he would drop off his wife and the rest of us would attend the evening ceremony at a temple in Daegu. I was dumbfounded. No, really, it’s okay. You have been so generous to me today. Please, stay with your wife. They would have nothing of that. So, we dropped her off and the four of us continued to a temple.

The temple was very close to where I take my so-yae lessons. The courtyard was adorned with strings and strings of lanterns. George’s father explained that at nightfall there would be a special ceremony to light the lanterns. We walked through the courtyard to a reception area. George’s father knew the monk there. He motioned us to join the people who were seated on cushions on the floor. We were offered tea, dried mangoes and cake. Conversation flowed easily back and forth, back and forth. The monk was obviously talking about me, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. George’s father turned to me – where are you from? San Francisco. “No – your ancestors.” Oh. Well, Scotland and Ireland for the most part. But very, very long ago. “The monk thinks you are Arabic. You have dark features.” Yes. I’ve been told that before.

The monk then addressed a question to me. Oh, I know that one. Processing, processing. George’s father turned to me. “From now, only speak Korean. He asked about your family.” I turned to the monk. In Korean, I explained I have a mother and father who live in North Carolina and two siblings. Except I used the marker for two “things” (doo-gay) not two “people.” Pil Sang, sitting beside me and gnawing contentedly on dried mango, looked up at me, smirked, and snorted, “Doo-gay” then laughed. Okay, it took longer this time, but there went the shyness. The mischievous imp is back. Several times throughout the evening he would sneak up beside me, whisper “doo-gay” and laugh.

After we finished our cake and tea we sat in the courtyard, watching the lanterns sway in the breeze. George and Pil Sang ran off to play. George’s father told me about the ways of the monks. How they have the first service at dawn, sometimes 3 or 4 am. Then another at noon, and a final one in the evening. About how the monks study the canons. And live simply. Then he turned to me. “Miss Lori, you have a boyfriend?” No. “Why? You been here 5 months. Long enough to find boyfriend.” Just no. “What’s the problem?” How could I explain that part of the problem was that I still confuse my Korean verbs and tell people they taste delicious instead of they are crazy. Or that I like to eat their eyes. And part of the problem is that I don’t meet that many people here. This isn’t the most friendly nation I’ve ever lived in. So I just smiled.

We were called into the dining hall for dinner. Several small common dishes placed in front of us, with an individual bowl of rice. We ate the delicious food, Pil Sang turning his nose when I ate the pickled turnip, moo. “That’s gross.” No, soooo goood. Here, you try. And I waved a piece in front of him. He was disgusted and wrinkled his nose, making a gagging sound. “Yuk.” George and his brother finished their meal, said thanks, then left to play again. I finished my meal and sat, looking around the room. George’s father asked if I was done. I said yes. He told me I needed to finish everything in my bowl. I looked at my bowl. There were maybe 5 grains of rice still there. I looked at him quizzically. He explained that it’s good etiquette to finish everything you are offered in the temple, not to waste anything. So I ate the 5 grains of rice. He then poured a little water into my rice bowl and placed a small square of cabbage in the water. He showed me how to remove the sticky rice residue with the cabbage. He then told me to drink the water. I did. He continued to explain that the monks practice this as well, not wasting even a grain of rice. We were offered pears and strawberries, then returned outside to the courtyard.

The monk started the evening service. We arose, I assumed to go to the main hall where the monk was. But George’s father called the boys and we left. Oh. We’re not staying for the lantern ceremony? “Another temple.” So we walked around the corner and there was another temple. In the courtyard, again, were strings of lanterns. We read a posting on the door to the main hall. The lighting ceremony will begin at 8 pm. It was only 7. We walked into the main hall. So beautiful. Three golden Buddhas, looking over plates of offerings of fruit, rice, and candles. I stared around the room. George nudged me. “Take picture.” Oooo. I would, but people are praying. I don’t want the flash to interrupt their prayers. He nodded and smiled.

We walked back to the courtyard. After looking at a few of the lanterns, George’s father announced we would go to another temple, but by car. So we returned to the car and started on the next leg of our journey. On the way across town, he explained that the larger temples had a festival all day long with traditional Korean cultural activities – plays, dances, readings, singing. That we would have seen that at Girimsa, but his wife ruined our plans and got sick. Really, it’s okay. I’m very worried about her. I hope she feels better. It’s no problem.

By the time we reached the other temple, it was dark. The temple, sitting upon a hill, was aglow in the light of the lanterns. We parked the car and walked up the steep hill. As we entered the courtyard, there was a monk singing a traditional song upon the steps of the main hall. So many people sat upon the grass, on the steps to other buildings, staring down from rooftops. We found a perch and settled. After the monk, another man sang. People gave speeches, read poetry. The moon, a perfect semi-circle, shone brightly overhead. Here the lanterns were not strung from the trees, but dangled from stakes, stuck in the grass. There appeared to be a sea of knee-high lanterns, each brightly lit by a single candle.

I spotted a group of women on the grass, all wearing identical baby pink and white han-bouk, the traditional Korean dress. I whispered to George’s father, asking why they were dressed the same. He explained they were part of a women’s chorus.

After the performances we were each given a candle. Someone came around, lighting candle, after candle, after candle. As he was doing so, the fireworks began. Ooos and Ahhhhs could be heard as the rockets exploded into bright flowers of light. After a few minutes of fireworks, everyone began to form a line. I turned to George’s father. What are we doing now? “Now, we circle the pagoda.” So with our candles in hand, the procession started. As we rounded a corner, I saw the monk leading the procession, beating a drum as people chanted. Behind him was the women’s chorus, appearing to be Korean angels floating above the ground in their shimmery pink and white han-bouk. I turned to George. How many times will we circle the pagoda? “Normally, 108.” What? Really? “Normally. Tonight, maybe not.” We, maybe 300 of us, circled the pagoda, still chanting, up the steps to the temple, around the main hall, around the buildings on the perimeter. Maybe a half hour later we all formed a circle, facing the pagoda. The monk called out. We bowed. He called out again. We bowed. He called out two more times, followed by our bows. Then our candles were extinguished and people began filing out.

The monks approached George’s father and asked him to join them for tea. George’s father turned to me and asked me what I wanted to do. Truthfully, I wanted to go home. I was tired. It was almost 10:00 pm. But, I smiled and said it was his decision, that if he wanted to join the monks, I would be happy to do that. He laughed. “We have drunk much tea today. We are not fish. We will go home.” I laughed. We all returned to the car. There wasn’t much conversation as we drove back across town. I think we were all tired. As we got closer to my house, I gave George’s father directions, but in Korean. He laughed and said, “You can take taxi now. You know directions.” I laughed, too. When we arrived at my house there were several good-byes and thank yous then they drove off, waving out the windows into the darkness.

Instruction Has Taken An Interesting Turn…

At so-yae. A couple of days ago I was practicing the Chinese symbols for earth (pronounced “gee”) down the right side of my scroll, then on the left side writing the Chinese character for son (pronounced “ja”). Mr. Lau (funny man) works across the table from me. He saw what I was writing and began singing a nonsense song, “gee, gee, gee, gee, ja, ja, ja, ja” over and over again, clapping his hands and laughing hysterically. Shortly thereafter, he left to have a cup of tea. Mr. Kim (my translator) and I were the only two in the room. He tiptoed over to me and told me he had to tell me something veeeeeeeeeery important.

I put my brush down and looked at him. He pointed to the symbol for earth and said, “gee – Chinese pronunciation. You see – you say.” Okay. Gee. “But Korean word is ttang.” Okay. He pointed to the symbol for son and said, “ja – Chinese pronunciation. You see – you say.” Yes. “But Korean word is ah-dul.” Yes. “But…” and with this he leaned closer to me and started whispering, “only ever, ever, say gee ja,” and he stared at me with wide eyes. I nodded. Okay. “Because, you say, ja-gee, in Korean, it means…” and even though we were the only two in the room, he looked to his right, then to his left, then over his shoulder, then, ever so softly, whispered, “penis.” I, trying to match his solemnity, but not doing a good job, nodded and said Okay. He then looked at me intently. “You understand?” I stared back. Yes. “You know what…” and again he looked to his right, to his left, then over his shoulder “penis means?” At this I just stared. Surely he jests. He knows I was married. He knows I’m 33, or 35 by his count (Korean age – adding the year I was in the womb plus one for the Lunar New Year). But he was so serious. So, I, as seriously as I could, whispered, Yes, I know what it means. I will be careful.

The next day I arrived to so-yae and Teacher Song immediately took me aside. I followed him. He pointed to a paper hanging on the wall. He had written the Chinese characters for “virginity” “chastity” “purity” “virtue” and “goodness,” along with the Korean words, *and* the English translations. He had spent some time on this. He pointed to each one, saying the Chinese pronunciation, the Korean word, the English word. “Learn-na!” I almost smiled, then thought maybe that would be considered impudent, so merely nodded and said, Yaaaaayyyyyyy.

Today, I arrived while the men were already enjoying “ko-pee time.” I sat down to the right of Teacher Song and joined their conversation. Sort of. I mostly just sipped my coffee and watched them argue, discuss, banter, cajole. Teacher Song showed me the front page of the newspaper. It pictured many beautiful flowers in bloom – in parks, in the forest, various natural settings. As he pointed to the myriad of blossoms, he would say the Korean word, I would offer the English version. He came to one that resembled what we referred to in North Carolina as “pink lady’s slipper.” I wasn’t aware that it grew anywhere outside of the Appalachian mountains, but this surely looked like it. I offered the name, with a pantomimed translation, saying it might be that, I wasn’t sure. At that point, Mr. Kim, sitting to my right, took the paper and started laughing. In English (which the others barely understand) he laughed and said, “This flower. We call…” and he laughed uncontrollably. The others seemed to know what he was going to offer; they laughed as well. I waited. He regained his composure. “This flower. We name it… dog balls.” I just stared. What? “Yes. You know? Balls. Testicles. Look. They look like dog balls.” Welllllll. Wasn’t the first thought that came to my mind, but….

Teacher Song appeared agitated. I can’t wait to see what tomorrow’s lesson will be.

“Thank You Teacher…”

Wednesday was Teacher Day in Korea. On Teacher Day in the States I usually got coffee mugs. American children must think teachers consume an inordinate amount of coffee. Which they probably would, except trips to the bathroom are a rare luxury, therefore fluids are usually avoided during the work day.

The children here are amazingly resourceful. A team of children “interviewed” individual teachers to find out what *other* teachers liked. They then disseminated this information among the students. As a result, Chanta received many bars of chocolate. She was happy. I received several arrangements of flowers. I was very happy. All the men teachers received socks. I think maybe there was a breakdown in communication somewhere…

Let There Be Light…

Yet another example of how the seemingly most simple tasks can render me worthless. I have been showering in the dark for 4 days now. I am embarrassed to admit I don’t know how to change my lightbulb. No, that’s an incorrect statement. I know how to change the lightbulb. I just don’t know how to remove the globe without breaking it, I don’t know what kind of lightbulb to buy, I don’t know where to buy it…

First mistake – trying to remove the globe while standing on the toilet. My apartment is part of my compensation package. Read into that – not highest quality. My toilet seat is made of flimsy plastic. So as I was standing there, holding on to the globe, trying to figure out how to remove it, the plastic gave way, slid to one side and sent me reeling into my tile wall. Ow.

Second mistake – pulling the only chair I have into the bathroom and standing on it. My lone chair swivels. See ending of mistake number one.

I am an independent woman. I have never asked for help to do any household tasks. I own my own tool set. I have painted houses. I have cleaned gutters. I have mowed lawns.

And today, I called my friend Sang Jae. Please come over, it’s important. “Another contest, Rori?” No, *really* important. He arrived, saw the situation, said he would take care of it. I arrived home tonight to light. Glorious, glorious light.

Sometimes The Journey…

Lately I’ve been feeling I’m not taking advantage of my time off. I need to go more places. See more things. I’m almost at my “half-way” point in my contract/time living here. I don’t want to look back and think “Gee, I wish I would have…”

So I got out the Lonely Planet. Where can I go that’s close enough for a one day trip? Hmmmm. Tongdosa, “the largest and most famous (temple) in Korea.” The description went on to laud the temple’s many buildings, famous tomb, new artifact museum, and beautiful surroundings. I studied the “Getting There & Away” section. “Take the Busan-Daegu inner-city (not express) bus from Busan.” I (erroneously) assumed that meant I could take the same bus from Daegu. I still haven’t figured out why that didn’t work. It just didn’t. I studied the map. I thought the entire trip would take about 6 hours. Two hours there, two hours at the temple, two hours return. It is now ten hours later. Most of that time spent on, or waiting for, a bus. But it was worth it.

I caught a taxi to the inner city bus station nearest my house. At the ticket counter I told the clerk I’d like to go to Tongdosa. “Op-sayo.” Literally, we don’t have. Hmmm. I got out my map. Where is the nearest city en route? Okay, Gyeongju. I bought a ticket for Gyeongju and waited on the platform. Within minutes, the bus arrived, I boarded, found a window seat and began studying Korean. An hour later, I was at the Gyeongju bus terminal. I headed to the ticket window. Tongdosa, ju-shipshee-yo. Hanna. (one ticket for Tongdosa, please) “Op-sayo.” What? I had a perplexed look on my face. “Op-sayo. Yang-san. Chang-gee.” Okay. Hanna, jus-shipshee-yo. Khamsa hamnidaaa. I paid my $1.50 and went to platform number 10, just like my ticket said.

The bus was waiting, I boarded, and found a seat. The ticket taker came down the aisle. I handed him my ticket. “Ani-o. fast Korean phrases” then he pointed for me to get off the bus. I did. I looked at my ticket. It *said* platform 10. There was no time on the ticket. Do I just keep getting on buses at platform 10 until no one kicks me off and hope it’s the right bus? The ticket taker came back to me. In Korean, he explained a lot. All I understood was “30.” Hmmmmm. Does that mean 1:30? Or in 30 minutes? Which would be 1:45? I’ll just stand here. I watched an elderly man sweeping trash with a straw broom. Using a bona fide straw broom, like found in the illustrations of a Hans Christian Anderson fairy tale. Stooped over, he made his way around the buses, up to the platform, getting nearer and nearer. He swatted my heels with the broom, I moved, he swept, then he swatted me back to my spot. He didn’t appear in a hurry. He didn’t appear to have a goal. He swept, moving down, down, down the platform, then returning, sweeping the same areas, never looking up.

At 1:35 the ticket taker pointed at me and yelled “Yang-san!” and pointed to the bus at platform number 10. I smiled and thanked him. Again, I found a window seat and settled in. I got out my map. Hmmm. By going this way, I’m going *past* Tongdosa, then will have to backtrack back up to the temple. Oh, well. Another hour later and I was in the Yang-san bus terminal. I went to the ticket booth. Okay, surely, surely there will be a bus to Tongdosa from here. I smiled. Annyong ha-say-yo. Tongdosa ju-shipshee-yo. She smiled. She handed me a ticket. I handed her my 40 cents. She pointed me to platform 7. I waited there, along with about 20 middle school girls. They all stared, pointed, whispered, and giggled. I smiled and generally tried to ignore the attention.

After only a few minutes on the bus, I realized this was a regular route. It was making stops everywhere. Oh, my. How would I know where to get off? I stared out the window. Okay. If I was a temple, where would I be? This stop. No, I don’t think so. Still too close to town. This one? No, doesn’t feel right. Eventually, I saw a brown sign. Oh, how I love the brown signs. Tongdosa, 5 km. After what I judged to be 5 km, I got off the bus. In a tiny, tiny town. There was a woman selling hot bread-like treats by the side of the road. Tongdosa? Odi-ay-yo? She talked, and talked, and pointed, and talked some more. Hmmm. That sounds like a lot of instructions. I thanked her then hailed a cab.

A few blocks later, we were at the temple entrance. Gee. I could have walked that. If I had known which way to go. I thanked him and he pointed me in the right direction. I walked through the parking lot, past the vendors selling cheap souvenirs. I heard a squawking “Hands up! You’re under fire! Drop your guns!” coming from a model of a US military airplane. It circulated on the ground, bumping into something and changing directions, red and blue lights flashing. Why are they selling this at a temple? I wondered.

I crossed a bridge. There, before me, stood hundreds of tombstones. Huge pillars supported by granite turtles, or lions, or dragons. Lots of Chinese inscriptions. Beautiful green grass. Tall, elderly trees providing shade from the bright afternoon sun. I walked through it, then continued on the path to the temple.

Wow. The entrance to the path was flanked by an enormous gate. Each temple I visit seems to outdo the previous one in terms of attention to detail and craftsmanship. I stared at the construction, the precise meeting of joints. The application of the most vibrant blues, greens, and reds I’ve ever seen. The glittering gilt. Tiny, delicate cranes soaring on the uppermost beams. I snapped a few pictures, people around me staring quizzically. Don’t they realize how spectacular this is?

The tree-lined path followed a small stream. People sat on stones beside the stream, picnicking, talking, skipping stones across the shallow surface. Lanterns hung from the trees, in anticipation for Buddha’s birthday next weekend. I’m not sure to what to attribute my feeling of uttermost serenity as I walked along the path. The warm sun dancing through the tree branches, creating dapples of light here and there? The children chasing each other around the grounds, laughing and squealing? The beauty of *not* being in a crowded city, even though there were many people present?

I came upon a huge modern building. Ahhhh, this must be the museum. I’m a sucker for museums. Maybe it comes from my days as a public school teacher. But I love them. I paid my 2,000 won ($1.40) entrance fee, removed my shoes, and entered. The greeter said a lot to me in Korean. I smiled. She repeated it, slower. I understood, “Do you speak Korean?” I answered, a little. She said a lot more. I smiled. She ran away.

I started walking through the exhibit. Wow. Very impressive. The exhibits were laid out in an incredibly well organized manner, with thorough descriptions – in Korean, English, and Japanese. Tales of the history of the temple. Artifacts. Objects used in the various rituals and ceremonies. I left one room and started into another. I heard a shuffle of feet behind me. Quicker and quicker, coming straight towards me. I turned around. Several museum volunteers were pointing at me and saying something. Oh, my god. Have I gone somewhere I wasn’t supposed to? I stopped. They approached me, dragging a girl who appeared to be in her teens. “Hello,” she said. Hi, how are you? “Fine. Thank you. You have seen the exhibit?” Yes, it’s wonderful. “You are lucky. I only come one time a month. And today, I come, and there are English signs. You are lucky. Go upstairs. See paintings. Go upstairs again, see writings. Come downstairs, see artifacts. Enjoy.” And with that, she left me.

I continued upstairs. To the Buddhist paintings exhibit. Not just paintings that are over 1000 years old, but an explanation of the process of the paintings. The rituals the monks performed before creating the paintings. The strict discipline. The stones ground to create the paint. The incredible, incredible colors. Greys, blues, reds, ochres. All shimmering powders in small vessels. The volunteer in this section, an elderly man, followed me around (I was the only patron). “Hello.” Annyong Ha-shim-nikka. “My English, no good.” I smiled. It’s okay. Khamsa hamnidda. When we arrived at one section that wasn’t original paintings, he pointed at a sign. Ahhhh. It mentioned the upcoming World Cup games. Of course. That’s why the signs are all in Korean, English and Japanese. They’ve done an excellent job.

I continued through the other sections, then out to the path to the temple. I approached a second gate. Here was the actual entrance to the temple. From here, hundreds and hundreds of lanterns fluttered in the wind. I walked under the canopy of lanterns, feeling very regal. I ascended the steps and walked into the actual temple complex. Approximately thirteen buildings greeted me, along with a huge courtyard and beautifully landscaped mini-gardens of azaleas, hydrangeas, and other flowering trees I didn’t recognize. And the lanterns. So many lanterns. So beautiful. I wandered from hall to hall, viewing the different Buddhas, stopping to pray here, meditate there. I watched the sun sinking lower and lower in the sky, descending behind the majestic mountains surrounding the complex. For over an hour I wandered, just enjoying the afternoon.

I finally decided it was time to figure out how to get home. Surely there was a bus back to Gyeong-gu without backtracking back to Yang-san. I was over halfway to Gyeong-gu, it just made sense. I walked along the stream, watching the families enjoying the afternoon. I reached the entrance to the temple and found my way back through town to the “bus stop.” There was a small booth there. I asked the ticket clerk for a ticket to Gyeong-gu. He shook his head and pointed to the side of the road. There? I asked. Yes. So, I waited by the side of the road. And a bus did come and stop. I got on and asked the driver if he went to Gyeong-gu. “Ani-o.” So I got off. Maybe the next bus. I waited. And waited. No buses were coming. I turned to the lady selling the bread-like treats. Gyeong-gu? Yogi-ga? And with that, she just started talking. Explaining this. Explaining that. And acting as if I knew what she was saying. I stared, wide eyed, trying to catch *any* word. Any syllable that I recognized. Finally. “Inter-change-gee.” Hm. Highway? Interchange? So I asked, Chick-chin? (straight ahead) And with that she pointed, waved, explained. Okay, khamsa hamniddaaaa. And off I went. Thinking to myself. Where am I going? I walked along a small road until I came to a fork. Right? Left? I looked both ways. Neither seemed to promise a highway. An elderly, stooped lady with her shower basket approached me. She, too, began talking. I smiled. She grabbed my hand. Okay, I better at least let her know where I’m trying to get to. Daegu ju-ship-shee-yo. She smiled and kept walking. I followed her. Not sure why I followed her, but I did. We came to the highway. She led me across it, then pointed me down a small, winding road. Okay, calling it a road is using the term in a very liberal sense.

When I came to the open field, I thought I surely took a wrong turn somewhere. Except that I hadn’t made any turns. I looked around. And around. There was a highway in the distance. And sort of a path to the highway. Sort of. I turned around and made my way back how I came. There was a small house, maybe it was a store, with woman sitting inside. I knocked on the window. She smiled and opened the sliding glass door. Daegu ju-ship-shee-yo? “Yaayyyyyyy.” And she pointed straight ahead. Through the field. Okay. Khamsaa hamniddaaaaa. Maybe I am going the right direction. I can’t imagine this is the way to a bus stop, but…

I trekked through the overgrown grass until I reached the highway. There, to my right, was a large toll entrance. Is this what she meant by interchange? I walked along beside the speeding cars. I reached the toll booth. There was an office to one side. I entered. It appeared empty. I wandered down a hallway, wondering how this happens to me. Where am I? How am I going to get back home? I entered an official looking office. A woman sat behind a desk. I smiled. Annyong ha-say-yo. She returned the greeting. I asked for a ticket to Daegu. She asked if I spoke Korean. Only a little, I’m sorry, I apologized. She motioned for me to follow her. Oh, my god. I am in the right place. I can’t believe it.

We went outside and she ran across several lanes of traffic. I just stared. Should I follow her? I looked both ways, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and prepared to dart. I heard her yell at me to stay put. Oh, okay. She talked to one of the toll booth operators, then darted back across the lanes of traffic to where I stood. Once again, she motioned for me to follow her. We walked. And walked. And walked. Then ran across 6 lanes of traffic. To a tree. Where, amazingly enough, there was a small shack that sold bus tickets. I bought one ticket for Daegu, thinking my journey was almost done. But, no. She motioned for me to follow her again. Back across lanes of traffic. Up a ramp. Through a hedge. Yes, a hedge. Across another road. All I could think of was, God bless this woman. Oh, mighty power, bless Korea. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

She smiled and pointed to a bus shelter. Taeden heee khamsa hamnidaaaa. (thank you so very much) She smiled, then returned the way we had just come. I sat down at the bus shelter, watching the sun set across the highway. I pulled out my book and started reading. A pickup truck stopped. Two elderly, toothless women got out. They sat down to the right of me. I continued to read until one of them literally put her face into my book so that I was staring down at her. I looked up, then over. They were both staring intently. I smiled. They began talking quickly. I guess I should be flattered that so many people think I can understand Korean, that I just don’t talk much. I’ve never been perceived as the quiet type before. It’s an interesting feeling.

They continued to talk to me, I continued to smile. About 40 minutes later, the bus arrived. I found a seat near the back and put on my walkman to listen to various Korean dialogues. I think I dozed off to “How much is this newspaper….” I awoke an hour and a half later, in the pitch dark in Daegu. At the Express Bus Terminal. The one Lonely Planet said not to go to. Life is funny sometimes.

Out Of The Frying Pan…

Who was the genius who came up with the idea of *rubber* spatulas? It just defies the whole concept of cooking. Cooking = heat. Heat melts rubber. Go figure.

In My Inbox

I know it’s spam – but it still made me laugh. Subject: FURRY NAKED BARNYARD FRIENDS! Since when were animals *not* naked?

Pree-tee

I’ve been feeling antsy. Ready for a change, but I’m not sure what. Today I decided to get my hair dyed. Pree-tee. The chunky highlights that so many Koreans have in a rainbow of colors.

I took the bus downtown. I remember one of my Korean girlfriends pointing out a good hair salon, and I’ve passed it several times, now I just need to find it again. Hmmmm. Maybe if I go to the main plaza I’ll remember which street to take. The main plaza was hustling and bustling with people, as it always is. Older people slowly meandering this way and that. Middle school girls in their oh so conservative school uniforms. Younger couples arm in arm. I was trying to get my bearings when I noticed people gathered around a table. I crept closer. There were mostly older women, housewives, ajumaa. They were making something. Oooooo – lotus flowers. So pretty. Hot pink and baby pink crepe paper petals overlapping, surrounded by intensely green leaves. As I stared an older women motioned for me to come closer. She handed me a dixie cup, poked my fingers in a tub of paste, and guided me in making a lotus flower. From what I could gather, it was a religious group (I got a pamphlet about a temple) and the lotus flowers are to commemorate Buddha’s birthday in a couple of weeks. I think. Maybe.

I continued to wander, now carrying my beautiful hot pink lotus flower. I went up this street and that. After about 45 minutes, I stopped. *sigh* I’m never going to find it. I looked up and lo and behold, there it was. Talent Hair Salon. I climbed the stairs and walked in. I smiled at the receptionist. I had practiced what I would say during my wandering. Annyong ha-say-yo. Pree-tee jushipshay-yo. She looked very flustered. I seem to have that effect on people. She took my bag, my lotus flower, and my jacket and put them in a locker. She helped me into a robe and led me to a chair. It was a good sized salon, maybe 25 or 30 stations. Almost all of the stylists stared at me, giggling. I heard whispers of “miguk… miguk….”

I sat down in the chair. Three stylists came over, giggling. I smiled, said hi, then repeated, “Pree-tee jushipshay-yo. Bleach-chee.” They laughed, fingered my hair, then one left and returned moments later with a hair color sample chart. I pointed to the color I wanted, then held up chunks of my hair to indicate I only wanted *part* of my hair dyed, not all of it. Another left then returned, mixing a pungent foam concoction which made my eyes sting. I squeezed my eyes to keep from crying. I felt her applying the foam to my hair. It was at that moment I realized the tenacious nature of communication. What do they think I’ve asked for? I kept my eyes closed. It’s only hair, I thought. The worst that could happen is, well, I guess it could all fall out. Okay, so I’d save money on shampoo.

An hour later my head was being shampooed and massaged. By far, the best part of going into a hair salon. Okay, even if the dye job is a disaster, it was worth however much won I’m paying to have this done. Back to the chair and the drying began. I still kept my eyes closed. Please, just let it look, not monstrous. I only opened my eyes when I heard the *snip* *snip* of the scissors. I tried to stop her, but it had already been done. I have the bangs of a 12 year old again. Just then, I caught my image in the mirror. Wow. It definitely wasn’t what I expected. But I wasn’t displeased. I kind of like it. She had dried my hair so that it wasn’t the normal wavy mane that usually surrounds my face. It was slick as glass, hanging straight by my face, appearing to have grown an instantaneous 3 inches longer. Delicate streaks of bleach blond wove in and out of the dark background. She, very proud of her work, said, “So pretty.” Khamsa hamnidaaaa. And I really meant it.

I walked out on the street and stopped. I was a little disoriented. Which way to the bus stop? As I turned, I was face to face with a young Korean man. “Oooooo – more beautiful….” he said. The ultimate compliment upon leaving a beauty salon…

Pabo

Pabo means “stupid” in Korean. I hear it all the time. The students tease each other, my Korean friends will use it sometimes jokingly, sometimes in earnest.

I had just come home from DongA and I was very excited. I had bought a multi-pack of toothbrushes and there was a game card on the package. I love games. I will enter every sweepstakes that I can get my hands on. And I usually win. Not the Publisher’s Clearing House million dollars type of win, but wins nonetheless. I opened the package of toothbrushes and pulled out the entry form. Oh. It’s all in Korean. Duh. What did I expect. Hmm. But there are pictures of the prizes – a trip to Paris, an electronic thing of some sort, toothbrushes.

I excitedly called Sang Jae. Jobsay-yo… “Hello. Who are youuuuu? Korean girl? Speak English.” What are you doing tonight? “Class, Rori.” When do you finish? “Soon. Why?” I need you to come over and help me with something. It’s very important. “Okay. Later. Bye.”

He arrived a couple of hours later. “What is this so important?” I showed him the package. He stared at me in utter disbelief. I need you to help me with this contest. The entry form is in Korean. Just help me complete it. “Rori. No. Not win. Too many people. No. I will not help.”

I spent the next 20 minutes trying to convince him why he should help me complete the form. I told him about all of the contests I had entered and the prizes I had won. I showed him pictures of the prizes I could win in this contest. I told him he could come to Paris with me. I think, out of sheer desperation to get me to be quiet, he agreed to help me complete the form. Under his breath he muttered, “pa-booooo….”

I sat up straight and stared at him. Ani-o. Nanun pabo-ga ani-ay-yo. He stared back at me in amazement. What? What? “I can’t believe.” What? “You. Your Korean. It’s right. So smart. I will help you now.”

Look out Paris, here I come….