Highlights From My Most Recent Trip To Woobang Tower Land

In The Line In The Bathroom:

I’m standing there, towering over all the small Korean women, when I feel something very wet and sticky on my arm. I’m hesitant to turn around. This just can’t be good. Wet and sticky in a bathroom just isn’t a good combination. Curiosity wins. I slowly turn around, and there, in his mother’s arms, is a baby, stroking my arm with the duk (glutinous oblong rice pasta) he’s been slobbering on. I smile. He smiles back.

Conversation While Waiting In Line For A Roller Coaster:

He: I had chicken on a stick for only 1,000 won today. That’s 71 cents. From one of the street vendors.

Me: Was it good?

He: Yeah. But that’s not the point. How can you produce chicken for only 71 cents? It was a big stick.

Her: Labor is cheap. Land is cheap. Feed is cheap. It happens.

He: I’m dubious. Have you noticed there are no rats here. Or cats.

Me: Don’t go there.

He: Think about it.

Me: Oh, c’mon. Be for real.

He: I’m just saying. Everyone puts those huge bags of trash on the sidewalk. Every day. Lots and lots of food scraps. Wouldn’t you expect rats?

Me: (thinking)

He: And you don’t see cats anywhere. So there aren’t natural predators to take care of any rats.

Me: (still thinking)

He: I’m just saying…

Actually On The Roller Coaster:

I’m screaming “Oh, my god! Oh, my god!” and shrieking. From behind me, I hear my friend screaming, “Oh, kim chiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!” What the ????

Trying To Kick The Soccer Ball:

I love midway games. Give me a chance to win a prize and I’m so all over it. Unfortunately, there aren’t a lot of games like this at Woobang Tower Land. Tons of video games, but very few carnival games. I found one, though. Try to kick a soccer ball through a giant (and I mean giant, like, 20 foot) tire. Doesn’t matter that I’ve never played soccer. Or that no other women are attempting to do this. I get in line. I pay my 1,000 won. I kick the first ball. It hits the base of the tire, but comes nowhere close to the opening. I attempt this feat 5 more times, with no success whatsoever. As I’m returning to the line for the ride, my friend says, dripping with sarcasm, “God, that was so good, Lori. Just, like 4 more feet and you so would have won.” Gee, thanks….

The man in line behind us tapped me on the shoulder. “So good. You American? American women. So strong. You excellent athlete. Very, very good at soccer.” The irony of his words seemed to be lost on him. But it made me smile.

Hellllllll-llllllooooooo~~~~~~~

Is how I always greet my classes. I never really noticed how I was saying it until one day I started class *without* saying it and the children became quite agitated. “Teacher, what’s wrong? No Hellllllll-llllllooooooo today. You okay?”

One class in particular, two elementary boys and a girl, anticipate my greeting every class. They sit in their seats, watching the door. As soon as I burst in, they sit up taller, taking a deep breath. I start my greeting, and they say it with me. They’ve gotten quite good. They’ve begun imitating my intonation when they answer questions in class. Which at first annoyed me, but now I just laugh.

Tonight the lesson was about countable and uncountable nouns. We had read the dialogue and I was explaining the grammar lesson. When I’m teaching they often will mouth words as I do, or imitate my hand gestures. Again, at first it annoyed me, but I then I thought, “at least they’re paying attention….” Tonight as I was delivering the lesson, I noticed one of the boys had already completed the first exercise. I then noticed they had all completed it. I quickly thought to myself, “Have we already done this lesson? I didn’t think so.” I was obviously confused, and they were obviously pleased with themselves. So I asked them, Have we already covered this? Did I forget? “No, teacher.” But, but you all have already done the first exercise? How? They all faced me with huge grins. “During break. We want surprise you. We study lesson. We know.”

This is one of those moments when I’m really glad to be a teacher….

I Figured Out How *Not*…

to make pa-jeon, the delicious pancake concoction I consume on a regular basis. It’s delicious. Incredibly so. Flatter than a pancake, but almost all vegetables (mostly green onion), usually containing squid legs, too. And so tasty. I had some for lunch again today. After mmming and smacking my lips, I commented I wanted to learn how to make it. My friend said, “So easy.” Chang-mal?? “Yes, really. That, that, that, with water. Paste. And fry.” That what? Egg? “No. No egg.” Flour? “No, no flour.” What, then? I think flour. “Wheat. When (and he rubbed his hands together as if grinding). Meal.” Yes, flour. Powder, right? “Yes. Very easy.”

I believed him. On the way home I bought some flour. I sauteed mushrooms, carrots, green onions and sprouts. I mixed together flour and water. Hmmm. It’s a paste, but I don’t think this is going to work. I mixed it some more. I think I do need to add an egg. So I added an egg, to help it stick together. I poured the mixture over the sizzling vegetables. After a minute, I flipped it.

It didn’t look like the pa-jeon I’ve had in restaurants. Not even close. It could best be described as a cross between a pancake on steroids and a fallen torta. That pretty much describes how it tasted, too. Thank god for kim chi.

I Will Be There…

One of my favorite mindless pastimes is going into stationery stores here. There is always a section with paper, envelopes, and cards with English sayings on them. And they *almost* make sense. But there is usually a misspelling, or a thought, that just makes it not quite right. Here’s my latest favorite:

“You won’t remember when this is blown over. And everythings all by thy way when I get older I will be there at your side to remind you.”

The ultimate stalker stationery.

The Road Trip

I was scheduled to pick up the rental car at 9:00 am at, where else, DongA Department Store. My life revolves around a department store. At 8:30 am my partner in crime knocked on my door and said he wasn’t going. Ohhh. Hmmm. Decision time. Do I still get the car and drive the two hours by myself? In a country where I’ve never driven and can barely read the signs? Or just not show up to meet the rental car agent and head to the train station? Oh, I can’t just not show up. I made a commitment. Off to DongA I went.

The Vehicle

And there, a big, black, shiny car was waiting for me. I looked at the rental agent. This? For me? This was a serious car. Huge. A parental car. With leather seats. How much am I paying? She just smiled. “Yes, yes. Show me your license, sign the papers, okay, it’s yours.” But, how do I get to Andong? Is there a map somewhere? “I’ll drive you to the highway entrance, then follow the signs. BukDaegu to JoongAng, second Andong exit. Very easy.” Okay, that sounds like a recipe for disaster to me, but what other choice do I have? She drove the car to an interchange I had passed before, smiled, then quickly got into her partner’s car waiting behind us. I slid over to the driver’s seat. Hmmm. Okay. Let me get everything in place before pulling into traffic. Seat adjusted back. Rear view mirrors just so. Radio station tuned to Korean music, not talk show. Coins for tolls. Water bottle by my side. Sunglasses on seat beside me. Deep breath. I can do this. I’ve driven before. It can’t be that difficult.

I found the BukDaegu highway, no problem. I was starting to feel very confident. Road trip! Then, whizzing by me, were the signs for JoongAng Expressway. Oh. That’s bad. How do I get back there? I tried getting off at the next exit, and circling around. They don’t do cloverleaves here. I ended up right back on the same highway I had just exited. But, I saw signs for Andong. I’ll just follow those.

The Roads

I think I took the back roads. Small, two lane roads shared with tractors and carts. But I didn’t mind. I was enjoying the scenery, wondering what was growing in the fields I passed, watching cities dissolve into towns dissolve into villages dissolve into bare land. Sure enough, after a couple of hours I entered Andong. Then it hit me. What now? I’m here – but where do I go? I know what I want to see, but I don’t have any maps. I looked around. I was on one side of a river. It appeared that the other side of the river was more developed. I turned onto the next bridge I saw and crossed over to the other side. And sure enough, there was a sign. Pointing to the Andong Folk Museum, one of my intended destinations. I followed the signs, turning here, turning there. Oh, look. There’s the dam. Another thing I wanted to see. This is great. I feel like I’m on one of those rides at DisneyWorld where you’re driving, but on a pre-set course.

The Folk Museum

I pulled into the almost empty parking lot at the museum. I parked the car and started walking towards the museum. There was a huge “tourist map of Andong” posted beside the entrance. I read it – picked out a few things I wanted to see, and continued to the museum. There, on the grass, were at least 60 kindergartners, all dressed in matching bright yellow sweatsuits. My first thought was of dozens of baby chicks, darting this way and that. The teachers/adults stood nearby, talking amongst themselves, glancing at the children every now and then. A few spotted me, pointed, and echoes of “Hell-looo” came forth. I smiled, waved, and said Hello back. I reached the door to the museum. “Ticket?” Op-sayo. Al-ma-ee-yo? (I don’t have one – how much?) “O peck won.” Hmmm. Five, five, five hundred won? 35 cents? No, that can’t be right. It must be five thousand won. I started pulling out 1,000 won bills and the lady shook her head. She took one of the bills and ran away. Out the front door and down the sidewalk.

I stood there alone for a moment, then shrugged and made my way into the museum. The museum was a series of still lifes from an era long past. Praying for the birth of a son, Childbirth customs, Coming of age ceremony, Wedding ceremony, 60th birthday celebration, Funeral traditions, Ancestral worship, Costumes, Food, Housing, Education, Folk Plays, Games, it was all there. Long, detailed descriptions in Korean, a sentence or two in English. I was impressed by the thoroughness of the exhibit, the organization, and the fact that there was so much information in English. My favorite description was this: “Andong soju has been designated as Local Cultural Asset No. 12 (distiller: Mrs. Cho Ok Hwa) in an effort to preserve the know-how which goes into producing this popular drink.” I pondered to myself, hmmmm, if San Francisco were to designate Local Cultural Assets, what would they be?

I started up the stairs to view the second floor of the exhibit. The front desk clerk came running after me. It turns out I had completely bypassed the ticket booth on the way in, so that’s where she disappeared to earlier. She handed me my ticket, my change, and some pumpkin candy. I’m so often amazed at the consistent high level of service here.

I left the museum and noticed there weren’t only more cars in the parking lot, but buses as well. Many tour buses. I walked to the outdoor section of the museum, a park that contained various examples of houses and buildings. I noticed groups and groups of people picnicking: senior citizens, high school boys, more high school boys, and still more high school boys, all dressed in matching navy blazers and black dress pants. I prepared myself. It’s one thing when little people no higher than my waist call out “hello” but quite another when I’m surrounded by teenage boys, shouting “Hello! What’s your name? Where are you from? Are you married? How old are you? Do you have a boyfriend? Why are you here?” I realize these are not intended as personal questions, they are fairly standard basic vocabulary from any beginning language course. But when they are being hurled at you, from all directions, from at least a dozen boys at once, it’s somewhat intimidating. I smiled, and tried to calmly answer their inquisitions. I’m not sure if anyone has actually answered them before, or maybe they really don’t see that many foreigners. But as soon as I spoke, I heard choruses of, “Oh, my god!” and “Oooooooos.”

They headed in one direction to eat their lunches, I headed in another to explore the recreated “village.” After poking around for a few minutes, I headed back to the car. I still can’t believe I’m driving such an adult-mobile. This shouldn’t surprise me. I guess technically I am an adult. But I don’t feel responsible enough to be driving such a “real” car. I feel like I’m merely acting like an adult for the day.

I could take the road I came in on. But there’s another one. The opposite direction. Let me see where that goes.

On The Set

I follow the winding road up further and further. After several kilometers I’m at a parking lot. There’s a big building, some smaller food stands, and a path. And more tour buses. I get out and explore. The big building is just that. A big building of offices. I walk in and am greeted by many surprised faces staring up from their desks. I smile, turn around and quickly walk back out. I meander down the path. I’m on the set of a popular tv series, “King Wanggeon.” I’ve never actually seen the series, but I’ve heard my students talk about it. After taking several moments to sound out the Korean characters, I recognize the name of the series. There are houses, boats, and various other ancient looking artifacts. I snap a few pictures then I’m back in the car.

The Pagoda

I wind my way back down the road, then follow the brown signs. I don’t know what they say (I can’t decipher the Korean in the few seconds before I pass by them), but I think I’ve figured out that brown means something neat to see. At least someone thought it would be neat. My next stop is a 7 story brick pagoda. That’s all. Really nothing more to add.

Hahoe Mask Museum

Back on the road, I see signs for Hahoe. I’ve heard there’s a village there, so I follow those brown signs. Less than an hour later, I’m at the Hahoe Mask Museum. As I pull up, I think it might be closed. There are no other vehicles in the parking lot. The building looks dark. Well, I’ll try anyway. I go to the door, and sure enough, it’s open. I enter, pay the 1,200 won admission fee, and start wandering. Walls and walls of masks. It’s overwhelming how many eyes are staring at me. The signage is all in Korean, but there are a few English translations in the brochure I was given. Evidently there are 12 masks that are indigenous to the Hahoe mask dance (but three have disappeared). The remaining players are the Bride (“with a tiny mouth indicating that she should not talk much”), the Aristocrat, the Flirtatious Young Woman (“with an oval face and high nose, she plays the role of professional entertainer or concubine”), the Butcher (“when the head is tilted backwards, the mask forms an insane smile, and the butcher come to get crazy with guilt feeling”), the Old Widow, the Foolish Person, the Scholar, the Scatterbrained Meddler, and the Fallen Buddhist Monk. The acts are as follows (my summary from various pamphlets and signage at the museum – 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!

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.

The End

I want to see this play. It has everything. Power, intrigue, corruption, happy ending.

As I’m wandering around the “visiting exhibit” of masks on the second floor, I hear a commotion. A tour bus of elderly people have entered the museum. I feel like I’m just one step ahead of the tour operators today. I quickly scan the masks and leave.

Hahoe Maeul

Another brown sign! I follow it. Oh. A fork in the road. And two brown signs. Which to do first? Right. Always go right. I follow that road and minutes later arrive at Hahoe Maeul – a 16th century Korean town. This is where Queen Elizabeth celebrated a birthday. I’m not sure which one. But there is an entire building dedicated to her visit. The chair that she sat in. The desk she signed a letter on. A replica of the table of food presented to her. And huge, life size pictures everywhere.

I wander through the village. The village is unique in that it rests in the bend of a river. All houses and buildings face outwards from the center of the village to face the river and the majestic cliffs on the opposite side. I walked through some houses open to the public and walked past private residences. I viewed letters dated from the 1500s written in beautiful Chinese script from King Sonjo to his Prime Minister Ryu Song-ryong (who lived in Hahoe). Saw cases containing armor, hats, shoes from the same time period. Walked along the river. Groves of pine trees provide shade on the hot day. I pass a playground. A mother is swinging on a traditional swing, standing on the seat, going higher, higher, higher, until her toddler, still on the ground, cries for her to stop. Middle school boys are playing on a version of a seesaw where one jumps on one end, trying to topple the boy on the other end.

As I am leaving, I realize, once again, I haven’t eaten. An elderly lady is selling something, white cubes. I’m guessing it’s candy. She offers me a piece. I pop it into my mouth, as I do, realizing it’s very, very, tacky. Sticky. Not easily chewable. But it has a good flavor, so I point to a small package and ask how much. 1,000 won. I hand her the bill, she puts the package in a bag, then grabs a handful of loose candy and throws it in the bag as well. I smile and thank her.

Back in the car, I’m trying to figure out how many more places I can see before everything closes. I still don’t know standard working hours here. Do tourist places even have standard hours? The flowers on the side of the road grab my attention. The colors are so bright they appear fake. Incredibly hot, hot pinks. Ultrabright yellows. Outrageous purples. The colors remind me of a set of fluorescent crayons I had when I was a child. As I’m driving, admiring the flowers, something else catches my eye.

The Protectors

The big, carved from tree trunks, totem pole-esque creatures that usually are seen in front of a public building. I’ve seen them in front of schools, at mountain lodges, in front of government buildings. But here, oh my god, there was literally a forest of them. Hundreds and hundreds of them, ranging from three feet to 20 feet tall. There is a parking lot and a small building. I park the car (again, the only one) and start to wander through the protectors. Some of the faces are humorous (in a twisted sort of way), others are downright evil looking. Which is good, I guess, since their purpose is to scare off evil spirits.

I walk into the building. It’s a workshop and a pseudo gift shop. There are a couple of people in there who appear to be employees. They ignore me and let me snoop around in peace. One wall is covered with magazine articles and newspaper clippings. It seems that this is the workshop of the master carver of the protectors. I begin to read what I can. There are newspapers from all over the world, most highlighting Queen Elizabeth’s visit. A picture of the Queen and the woodcarver was prominently in each. Just then, a door opens, and *he* walks out. The woodcarver. His long, graying hair tied in a knot on top of his head. His loose white shirt not hiding his incredibly defined arms. I look at him, then look at the pictures on the wall. It’s the same man. I don’t know why this surprises me, but it does. He smiles and offers “Annyong Ha-sayo.” I return the greeting. He hands me pamphlets, some in English, some in Korean, about his work. About the mask dances.

He motions for me to follow him outside. We walk through the protectors, him explaining about them (in Korean), me smiling and nodding, not understanding most of it. I point to one I really, really like. That I think a friend at home would like. I think I ask him if I could have a smaller version made. I use a lot of body language as well. It seems as though he interprets it as I want the regular size one, but in a short period of time. He starts to lift it. Oh, no, no, no. I laugh. I can just see me carrying a 6 foot wooden statue to the post office. Could you wrap this and send it first class please? Probably would be cheaper to buy it a plane ticket.

Byoengsang Seowan

We go back in the shop and he returns to his workshop. I purchase a couple of souvenirs then jump back in the car. I follow the road back to the fork. I go right again. I think I’m going to a traditional ancient Chinese school, a soewan. I follow the road, which turns from two lane to one lane. Then from asphalt to dirt. Then from a road to more of an overgrown path. Did I miss something? Is this still the right way? Sure enough, there ahead is another brown sign. I continue. About 5 kilometers later there is the soewan. I enter and walk around. There is no one else present. I look out to the river, admiring the foliage. It’s a beautiful, peaceful setting. There really isn’t much to see, just a couple of buildings, so I walk around the grounds one last time then head back to the car.

I’m relieved when I get back on a real road. The rental car is definitely not made for off-road driving. I haven’t seen any other people in over an hour and am not sure what I would do if I somehow wrecked the car or rendered it inoperable.

Bongjeongsa

As I’m driving along the road, I see the signs for Daegu, for the Joongang Expressway. Hey, that’s what I was supposed to take to get here! I pull onto it and accelerate. It’s not long before I see an exit and another brown sign. Oh, just one more stop. Then I’ll go home. I see the syllable “sa” at the end of the sign, so I know I’m headed to a temple. I follow the road for about 30 minutes. The road ends. I look around. There’s a parking lot. So I park the car. But I don’t see a temple. Or the entrance to a temple. I get out and just start walking. It’s almost dusk. I do see a bathroom, so I head there. As I’m exiting, almost by magic, I see a path. I start to walk up it and hear someone yelling, presumably at me. I’ve unintentionally bypassed the ticket booth again. How do I keep doing this?

I return, pay the admission fee, and start up the path again. I’m surrounded by a dense forest. There is just a trace of sunlight left. Various birds and insects are calling to one another. After about 15 minutes of climbing, I reach the temple and it is under renovation. Oh. The main hall is still open, so I enter and sit down before the Buddhas. I reflect on the day, on my time here, enjoy just being there. Just being.

After a while a monk comes in and collects the bags of rice that have been left as donations throughout the day. She turns on some lights, then leaves quietly. I follow her out. I start back down the path, humming to myself. Then it hits me. It’s almost dark. I don’t see well in the dark. I especially don’t like to drive in the dark. How could this have slipped my mind? I pick up my pace and reach the car in minutes. By the time I reach the Expressway, it’s dark. Interesting thing here, headlights are rarely used. It’s considered rude. It will hurt the eyes of the driver in front of you. Surprisingly, though, it’s not that difficult to drive without headlights. You really do adjust.

I can’t get over the apparent contradictions in this society. The service I receive in stores and in restaurants is amazing – absolutely outstanding. Then there are these incredibly polite cultural behaviors, such as don’t use your headlights, it might hurt someone else’s eyes. Yet, I have never been pushed and jostled more than I have since living here. People are constantly bumping into me and pushing me aside. Or pointing and staring. It’s not acceptable to blow your nose in public, yet it’s perfectly okay to spit or burp. I know these are the things that make each culture unique, but I just haven’t figured it out yet.

Back in Daegu

Driving on the Expressway, it only takes me 40 minutes to reach Daegu. I can’t believe it. This morning it was a 2 hour trip to Andong. I’m feeling pretty good when I realize I don’t know how to get back to my part of town. I know I’m not there. I think I know the general direction. I don’t even know how to stop and ask directions (note to self – good phrase to learn – which way to….). So I drive. And drive. And drive. And see many of the same things two or three times. I know I’m going in circles, but I’m not sure how to stop. An hour and a half later I arrive to my friendly little neighborhood.

I drive up and down the alleys (because they really are not streets) looking for a parking place. Again, a wave of panic sweeps over me. What if I park the car in a no-parking zone? I mean, there aren’t any signs posted, but what if it’s something that is just assumed that everyone knows. Like, you’re supposed to separate your trash into trash, recyclables, and food scraps (all in separate bags) before throwing it out (which no one told me for the first 3 months I lived here). The rental agent wasn’t coming to retrieve the car until morning. Should I place a big sign in the window that says “Wegug saram” (foreigner) and hope that if I am parked illegally they’ll take pity on me?

I decide I can’t worry about it. I’m tired. I’ve had a full day. I use my most excellent parallel parking skills (thank you, San Francisco) to fit into a spot in front of the local elementary school. I carry my belongings into my apartment, and spread all my pamphlets on the bed. I saw a lot today. All good.

Picture This…

A sunny day in the park. Four benches, two and two, set perpendicular to each other.

Bench one: a screaming elderly man, eating choco-pies and attempting to drink soju. The soju bottle would slowly waver up to his lips as he shouted obscenities and other loud things, then come closer, closer, closer to his lips, tilt, then liquid would cascade down his cheeks, maybe dribbling into his mouth, maybe streaming through days of stubble down to a tattered shirt. Each time a passerby walked in the vicinity, he addressed the loud utterances to them, mumbling, slurring, eventually returning his attention to the bottle of soju.

Bench two: empty

Bench three: Me. Dressed in my conservative school uniform. Gray respectable length skirt, black pumps, black blazer, hair twisted up. Reading a book while waiting to meet a friend.

Bench four: Two thirty-something moms. Chatting quietly while their toddlers played in the sandbox.

I’m enjoying my book, despite the raucous one bench away. All of the sudden I feel it. The presence of someone’s eyes on me. I’m hesitant to look up, thinking it may be the drunk. I can’t stand it. I have to know. I glance up. The toddlers have stopped about three feet in front of me. They are staring open mouthed. When they see me look up, they run to their mothers, who cuddle them and cluck.

Have I missed something here? How is it that I, sitting quietly and minding my own business, attract more attention than the obnoxious drunk?

“Your Eyes Light Up…”

This is what my friend Sang Jae said to me. We were discussing some of the problems at my school. I was trying not to become frustrated. He asked me, “Hungry?” I thought for a moment. Yeah. I am. Want to come over? I’ll fix us grilled cheese! “You always say green cheese. What this green cheese?” First, it’s *grilled* cheese, not green. And it’s so delicious. Ma-chi-tta. Really. “I will try. Only because your eyes light up when you say this green cheese.”

As I was preparing our sandwiches, these thoughts struck me. This is a country where rice, not bread, is a staple. Dairy products are few and far between. Heck, it took me weeks to even locate cheese slices. Would he think grilled cheese is as wonderful as I think it is? Would he understand this is what moms fix their children on rainy days? Would he understand why my eyes light up?

I grilled the sandwiches, cut them into perfect triangles, and garnished the plates with strawberries and orange slices. I reluctantly handed him the plate. Careful, it’s still hot. I watched with anticipation as he gingerly took his first bite. He chewed, then looked up at me. The moment of truth.

“Sooooo goooooooooood.”

Maybe there really are universals.

“They will enjoy it instead of Coke”

Daniel sent me this link today. It got me thinking. They really need a marketer. I mean, “dog meat juice” just doesn’t sound appealing. Even if it is free. Even if it is tasty. I tried translating it into other languages to see if it sounds more appetizing. Kay ko-gee choos-sa. Jugo del perro. Hund fleisch saft. Il succo di carne di cane. Nope. Still doesn’t work for me.

Lesson of The Day

Don’t bend over to blow out a candle after liberally applying hair spray. Especially if you have (had) long hair. Ouch.

Dreamin’

Last night I dreamt I was in DongA (the local shopping center/department store) and as I walked down the cleaning aisle, there was, no, could it be – Lysol! Lemon fresh scent!

As I walked through DongA today, I wasn’t sure if it was a dream or if it had really happened. Do I dare chance walking down the cleaning aisle? Could I find it? One thing I’ve noticed – they love to rearrange that store. Every time I go in there everything is in a different location. Everything. Today, the hair products were where the cleaning products once were. Which was good, because I needed hair spray, but still…

I found the cleaning products. I stood at the end of the aisle. I closed my eyes, breathed deeply, opened my eyes wide, then began to walk, searching the shelves. Lysol? Lysol?

Alas, it really was but a dream. No Lysol to be found at DongA.