The Stegner book is a group of essays that summarizes the influence of the West on his writing.  Also he exposes some lesser-known writers of the West like George R. Stewart, Wendell Berry, Norman Maclean and Walter Clark, whose names have been introduced to me and piqued my interest after reading Where the Bluebird Sings to the Lemonade Springs.  And, of course, who can deny the influence surroundings had on Steinbeck?  To be clear, this is west of Denver to the Pacific Ocean, not so broad a term as Western Civilization.  Stegner grew up in a family with a restless father who was in constant pursuit of the next big score in farming, mining, irrigating.  This rootless existence—brought on by the Western need to harness nature for profit—influenced his creation of characters that populated his books.  Furthermore, one of his main themes in the group of essays about the West is this itinerant manner of living that was influenced—maybe still is today—by the struggle for survival in an a semi-arid climate; some call it a savannah, others would just call it a desert.  Though he has been dead for many years, Stegner’s extensive writing about the influence of settlement in the West on the natural environment—not to mention a whole treatise on the history of bureaucracy and politics that entangled such issues in the western states—seems apropos.  It is difficult to ignore the issues that face the ecosystem of the world today, much less California.  What can we learn from cities like Portland, Oregon or Kyoto, Japan that have a massive workforce that gets to work via bicycle, or the relative clean manner in which Japanese cities like Kyoto or Fukuoka manage to exist?

 

Certainly, the ecosystem had little to do with my moving from the suburbs of a farming community all those years ago, but, having seen the pollution problems that face Beijing, Seoul and New York, I wonder how much my current mentality has to do with wanting to do something for the greater good of this world, the next generation that I will propagate and/or educate and/or for whom I create.  Surely, I am no farmer and am not actively involved in an environmental cause.  But, the miracle of air travel has expanded the boundaries of the global nomad, allowing me to see more of the world; the California in which I grew up is the California of Stegner’s later writings and life, where I grew up, a place where native Americans living off the land were subjugated and extinct by the farms and orchards like the ones that surrounded my hometown.  And every time I have returned home for a visit for nearly thirteen years, it seems another subdivision has sprouted where a walnut grove used to be.  The simple life-sustaining earth long ago replaced by complicated—not to mention, damaging—ways to irrigate the life-sustaining crops of California.  And the population has been booming for years and the orchards and trees of my youth have been gradually disappearing beneath concrete and lawn.  Granted, there is still plenty of land on which to farm, but how can these crops sustain the population.  What’s even more important: how can life be sustained without a respect for the environment in which we live?

 

The importance and meaning of “environment” surely has changed for me over the years.  It used to be a word that simply referred to my immediate, self-important surroundings.  But, after gaining an education and reading and seeing certain parts of the world, the connotation of the word changed to include the basic elements of life that help us stay alive.  And I learned concepts like “symbiotic,” “food chain,” and “conservation.”  And while my first departures from hometown and home state were of the self-interested sort, my travels now seem to have an added gravity in the face of environmental crises that face this world.  But there is a connection, I think, between my first selfish reasons for traveling and the current state of mind I am adapting.  The inconstancy of the surroundings of my youth, the disappointment that sometimes occurs when change is unwanted and un-foretold, perhaps led to my roving habits.  When I was old enough, I wanted to make my own little world a better place; so, when I finished high school, it’s possible that I asked myself—subconsciously, at least—Why not be in more control of my own surroundings, the life I want to lead outside of this small town, my parents’ house and a limited perspective?  That was, perhaps the history of my grandparents, Dad’s parents moving from Iowa to Sacramento, Mom’s parents moving west to Southern California and bouncing around down there before moving to San Jose; even my parents bounced around the bay area a bit in the early years of their marriage, three kids born in three different cities.  Why were they doing this?  To make their surroundings better, more suitable for their growing families. 

 

Of course, I only remember Modesto for the first eighteen years of my life; occasional trips to San Francisco or, to a lesser extent, San Jose or the coast, heightened my awareness of much more out in the world; boredom was a factor that sent me to San Jose for university—that, and my beloved brother was there to show me the ropes of (semi-) independent living. The fact that I moved nine more times over the following eight years in San Jose had as much to do with an unstable future ex-wife and the price of rent in the Silicon Valley as it did with trying to get myself situated in the best possible environment for my endeavors.  Also, my sense of restlessness was fed over the years by hearing stories from the better-traveled cousins, brother and even the late Granny Evelyn Kelly who took to traveling and even living away from home in the years after Grandpa Joe passed.  Inspired by the stories of their travel, I lived on the road for a couple months in the fall of 1997, eschewing book learning for a semester for the education of the world.  Any of those relocations in those first years away from home I’m sure had as much to do with the survival of my soul as it did with my developing domestic situation.  My departure to New York City in the summer of 2003 (leaving a new bride as much for an education to secure the future family as I did to satisfy my desire to live in NYC, living in the Bronx and Washington Heights), my return home in the December of 2004 (living with my brother and his family for four months, Erik for three months and with Bryan Stapleton for a year) all had something to do with getting the better of a less-than-optimal setting for writing, education, reading, possibly raising a family, and finally just for emotional survival. 

 

After having tried to eek out an existence in the expensive San Jose area, I was on my own and again on the move.  Here to Korea, living in Busan for seven months, on couches for a month and finally to Anyang, where I have lived for nine months.  And, in April of this year, it will be the nineteenth or twentieth move (depending on how you count) in twelve and a half years.  Domesticity is intriguing, but were I to jump into that again, un-dealt-with restlessness could lead to not only my unhappiness, but the unhappiness of others.  By the same token, were I to not share my impressions of polluted and over-populated Korea and China or look for global solutions in a relatively clean Japan, not only would I be unhappy for having wasted my time bouncing around the world to no affect, I will have also caused the eventual unhappiness of others for not informing them of the environmental problems and their possible solutions around the world. And I can see no end to this ambulant life unless I spend the next year or so sharing what I see.  It is not that I am trying to “find” myself—that was what my early twenties were for—nor is that I am running from something—that was what my late twenties were for.  Rather, while I travel for the purposes of educating myself in the ways of the world and improving my personal situation, I can also see the world for the purposes of educating others.  A world tour will allow for multitudinous input for ways in which to live a good life.  And to live a good life is to live—and help others to live—without should have and could have to burden their children.

The last I wrote here, I said I was unsure about what I was doing for Christmas.  That was, however, one of many ruses I placed in order to create a surprise for my family in California for the holidays.  With three months of planning and hardly the gumption to muster the guile for that amount of time, Mom, Dad and I were able to pull off the greatest subterfuge in family history.

 

On the wings of some of Dad’s one billion frequent-flyer miles—and one last feint to Kristen to make her believe I was going to Japan again to wander for a few days—I arrived in the States undetected on December 23^rd at 8 in the morning at SFO.  After meeting Mom and Dad at the gate and giving the first of many embraces to try and make up for sixteen months away, we scooted down to San Jose to make final preparations for my popping out of the cake.  While there wasn’t really a cake or sparklers or me in a bathing suit (to the dismay of most, I am sure), the surprise was easy to pull off with the two bedroom suite way up top the Fairmont in downtown that Mom and Dad said they had won in an auction.  Why not get the kids together and go to the amusement park and Christmas in the Park? maneuvered Daddio a month ahead of time.  And shortly after they had all gathered, I came around to the main door and rang.  Everyone was sufficiently surprised but Kristen’s reaction was the best: she walked slowly toward me, gingerly carrying her jaw of disbelief along with her, as if she expected me to disappear as quickly as I had appeared.  Finally I bear-hugged her into reality.  And the party began. 

 

Surrounded on all sides by the family I had been so long separated from, I acclimated myself quite easily to the abundant love and booze and food that was in that room.  It was like I was never gone.  Most importantly, I saw my little buddy Ian again, his sister Audrey—whom I held easily in one arm when last I saw her—and my niece, Lexi—whom I had only seen in pictures and video that Kristen had sent me over the past year.  Ian is smarter than any whip I ever met—and just as rambunctious as could be expected from a four year old boy.  Audrey slowly warmed to me; she was the one I was most worried about getting in good with since I knew her fairly well as a wee one but not since her more recent formative years.  And Lexi, well, she was just as happy, friendly, and hilarious as I had been given the impression of by Mama Kristen.  After dinner, I met up with Diron for a drink and, once again, it was as if I had never gone.  We sat down and talked about the same old stuff—women, family, sports (not in that order)—and we planned my birthday party for a few days later.

 

The next day, Mom, Dad and I carted back to Modesto where I was finally able to see their pride and joy: the Great Room, a hot topic of conversation in the year past and a magnificence I had not been privy to.  I was immediately taken in by the new amenities and, just as usual, made to feel completely at home.  I was at home in a home that has changed so much over the last 30 years that it is hardly the same thing.  I suppose that house is like any of its current and former inhabitants: it is bound to change over the long term.  I am so glad that Ma finally relented on her position to keep that dividing wall.  But I am much more glad that the former and still current inhabitants have adapted and changed and made their own lives and their own families all the better for it, better for having seen that not only does change happen; it also is made to happen. And that change often takes a little bit of demolition before the interior decorator’s vision can be fully realized.

 

After a couple days running around town for sundry items, eating some outstanding food—including the first two of about five pounds of cheese I consumed that week—we went off to Vallejo to see Mama Kristen and Papa J’s house for Christmas dinner.  Kristen and J pulled off a few great spreads and accommodated every whim, all while maintaining grace.

 

The next day, Dave, Terry and Taylor came by on their way home from an out of state trip.  I am grateful that they made the trip, as the energy of their family often sustains me. That evening, I sped off in a red rental Chevy Cobalt, listening on the radio to the Sharks finish off a victory.  And down into the cold San Jose night to pick up my foreign visitor.  Janine came in around 930 to SJC and damn near tackled me flat out in baggage claim.  After five months of being apart—especially in the unique circumstances in which we met and became close—I was equally ecstatic to see her on my home soil.  No sooner had we retrieved her bags than we were chatting about our usual things—family, each other, plans for the next couple days.  The five months evaporated as if nothing had happened.

 

Over the following two days, I showed her some of my favorite spots along the coast between Half Moon Bay and Santa Cruz.  On my birthday, I got a speeding ticket that I must make a phone call on soon or I will have a warrant out for my arrest when I return.  But I shook that off before we returned to San Jose for a luncheon with the entire family.  To share with my family a part of my Korean experience that has been so important to me was as important as showing Janine the influential people in my life.  And lunch was just the beginning.

 

That night, after Kristen went with her family to Tahoe and Lars went to a concert, Janine and I went to Diron’s house for BBQ pork (smoked for 12 hours to perfection) and a hockey game on the tube.  Mom and Dad made it for dinner but soon left to prepare for their own party, the Family Holmberg Gathering which was happening the next day back in Modesto.  But Janine got to meet The Fellas, the roving band of variously domesticated guys—and their dolls—that I call my extended family.  The night was too short, but I started a common refrain as I said my goodbyes at the dingy bar we later found ourselves in: I’ll be back for an extended powwow before you can blink your eyes.  As of this week, it is about thirteen weeks until my return for weddings and North America jaunts to connect with my people in BC, Ontario, LA, NYC.

 

The next day, at a not-so-break-neck-speed in that rascally red car, we went to Modesto for the annual Dad’s side family gala where I was run ragged by the aforementioned ankle-biters and their little cousins Abbey, Hanna and Joshua.  Also, I was kept away from my beloved cheeseball by my own cousins.  I think that day was so active that I was probably saved from gaining 3 kilos rather than the 2 extra kilos I carried home in my gut the following day.

 

Upon reading this over again, I realize the abundant praise I have showered on everyone.  This sentimentalizing is easy to do when so far away from the day-to-day action and drama of family life.  Out here, I have pursued my own ends and have only partially attained satisfaction in that regard.  I don’t know how my brother and my sister and their tenacious spouses accomplish what they do.  The selflessness of parenthood is only a glimmer of understanding in my inexperienced mind.  And this selflessness goes on into the years when your children have children, a time when you can hatch so covert an operation to surprise and elate a spread-out family together, if only for a few days.  Here’s to the selflessness that my family embodies.  May I some day—after more wandering—be able to achieve what they have.

I can’t believe it’s been a year since I spent Christmas with the Buddha in Busan.  And, it’s twenty-two days until I pass my second birthday here in Korea.  Four months and a few weeks will find me back on US soil.

 

I realize it has been a while since I wrote on this or posted any pictures.  To be honest, things are pretty routine.  For me, it is exciting to be making good progress with the book.  Also, work is an ever-changing environment, what with co-workers arriving and departing on an almost monthly basis (my friends Amanda, Colin—of Beijing Trip fame—and Alex—of fame I will not mention here—are all gone off to their next adventures).  Also, the kids at work are great and of various dispositions that keep me guessing every day.  I am commissioner of a Wednesday night bowling league that saw expansion after just one six week season.  I must admit, I am almost a bit too into it to be above names like Munson or Lebowski (though I am sure those characters rolled better than I do, not to mention, they were waaaaaay cooler).  Nonetheless, after half a week of work, its good to go knock shit over, so long as it isn’t the kids—or the Korean counter staff.  I am unsure at times who needs it more.  Yar yar.

 

Since I moved up here to Anyang, I have never posted any pictures of my apartment or of my “office.”  I am teaching a good group of kids.  Three of my five classes are pictured; can you guess which ones are 10, 11, and 12?  Their distinguishing characteristics are more defined than I can ever remember in my subbing days, yet I can certainly see, after five months of working with these particular groups, how much change happens in these three years.  Anyhow, the groups shown can, in the span of one class both amaze me with their apprehension of certain aspects of language and, in the very next breath, irritate the hell out of me for forgetting the simple past tense of irregular verbs that we studied only four weeks prior and that I have hounded them about constantly ever since.  But that’s the teaching of grammar: repetition.  And though they sometimes feel the wrath of my discontent, often I think they might describe me as fun and most often just flat out crazy.  I am sure that the former is due to the latter.  Sarcasm is a different, even foreign, concept here, but there is a word for it: pung-ja-joken; it is written phonetically and in the Hangul up on my whiteboard so I can point to it as often as needed.  If there is anything I leave here having taught, it is the beauty, subtlety and necessity of pung-ja-joken (despite it’s being “anger’s younger cousin”—see movie Anger Management).

 

I also realized recently that I had no pictures of the changing fall colors.  So, early on a Saturday morning, before too many of the natives clambered up Morak-san, I took a hike.  I painfully recognized about halfway up the hill that I am in piss-pour climbing shape, but want to get into shape for a February attempt at Korea’s tallest peak, Halla-san on Jeju Island.  Anyway, it is quite a sight here in this temperate zone when fall rolls around, what with the dramatic hills surrounding, turning gradually from reds to yellows to rust.  And now, most of the deciduous trees are naked like the prickly spine of a porcupine.  In fact, a couple weeks ago there was a light dusting of snow that cleared the air that is often so smoggy and unbearable.  Also, I took a four hour bus ride to the northeast coast, a border town called Sokch’o, the imposing mountains to the north and west, the East Sea to, well, the east, of course.  Dried squid and a sparse population greeted me for my brief stay there.  I turned in the New Year earlier this year in another sparsely-populated area called Uljin.  I guess cold weather deters people from the beach.  And I am glad of that; so often those kinds of places can be swamped with people.  I am fortunate to have visited those places during the off-season when the beaches are clean and the cafes and restaurants are amenable to solo travelers.

 

There really is not much more that is noteworthy or photo-worthy in my life right now, but I am sure that there will be some adventures to share soon, with a long-overdue visit to the Big Bu and Big “Punchy” Paul and his wife, my former co-worker So-yuan.  Also, I have an eleven day Christmas break coming up—am still unsure what I am doing—and the Halla-san hike during Sol-nal (Lunar New Year).  I hope all is well and I hope you will fill me in on your happenings.

Chu-Seok, time to give thanks for more time off. Work’s been a bitch, my attitude, not much different from that of a bitch.  Ideas of communism in my mind, little research on where I was going, the stage set for the unknown.

 

Expecting a thorough going over (like the figurative lube and plastic gloves I experienced at Japanese customs, arrive 1PM and breeze through all stages of immigration in 10 minutes and come out to KFC and Starbucks.  Bus ride reveals to me numerous Audis and VeeDubs. Oh, Communism, what’s happened to you?  Selling out to The Man, as it seems. 

 

The Beijing Lotus Hostel is located west of city’s center amidst hutong, areas of sprawling one-storey houses that create a series of alleyways.  Though these charmingly raw areas are rapidly disappearing due to the construction boom that accompanies a strong economy, my penchant for these out of the way areas is protected for future vagabonds by some government decree to save parts of them.  This doesn’t really help the residents, when they deal with cancer-causing agents day in, day out.  According to one NY Times article (Aug. 26, 2007) in a series about China’s rapid growth, there are also major—but all too typical—problems that face a nation that industrializes too fast: pollution.  According to the article, the north suffers from a water shortage where nearly half the population is without clean drinking water.  The cancer rate has skyrocketed in the last ten years.  Also, a red tide of toxic algae has made it impossible for sea life to survive in certain coastal areas.  Not only is there a problem in China, but its pollution affects its neighbors. Seoul—and even as far south as Busan—which is often engulfed in clouds of yellow dust from the ever-expanding Gobi Desert, also suffers from the acid rain produced by massive industrialization.  Poisonous particulates also fall on the cities as distant as Tokyo and Los Angeles (though that last fact is doubtful in its veracity; besides, I am sure those cities have pollution problems of their own).  

 

A welcome respite from the dirt and the furious pace in the days to come, the Beijing Lotus Hostel—and its crawling-vine courtyard, full-service kitchen and nice, cheap rooms ($95 US=713 yuan=four nights in a private double sans bathroom)—provides a good place to nap before venturing out.  Around four, I walk toward the Houhai area, encountering a guitar player in a street underpass, masses on bikes—their lane as big as the ones set aside for cars. Still adjusting my cerebral currency converter, I pay 375 CNY ($50 US) for some choice green tea; the bright side is that I got an unused portion that I will be able to one day share and compare with Jeju green tea.  Li, an early twenties woman from lower Mongolia studying Chinese history in Beijing,  introduces herself.  We walk around the lake while we are accosted by those wanting to sell postcards or rides on the back of a bike.  Many clubs and restaurants seem a good way to ease into the Beijing lifestyle.  Later, back under the underpass, the guitar player’s post was now taken by a prostrate youngster—about seven or eight or ten—bowing rapidly for the spare yuan.  This kind of abjectness occurs in this communist country while above on the street, people are driving around in Audis and VWs and even Buicks.  What’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?

 

Back at hostel to meet Amanda and Colin then again to Houhai for dinner; this area is a fairly foreigner-friendly area which is all the energy I could muster after a couple hours of sleep and travel all day.  Enjoyed a little down time, some nice weather and descent food while sharing first impressions with Colin and Amanda.  A drunken middle aged man had passed out and then was dry heaving, making a general scene as we leave.  Some things never change.  Amanda told of a comment that one of the workers at the hostel made, where do you live.  Korea.  Oh, Korea.  That’s the worst country in Asia.  And, on the way home, as Amanda related this story, poverty, women weeping, sad couple, a woman trying to stop a bleeding nose and other things that are only slight variations on a sad theme.  Familiar smell of stale piss, circumstance or luck goes into the situations people find themselves in.  Or self-loathing?  Whatever the case, if certain things never change, certainly the variations were worth investigating.

 

Next day, 25 minute $4 (32 CNY) cab ride, we went to Panjiayuan Market (also known as the Dirt (cheap) Market) to take a look at what this place has to offer.  A row of furniture stores, the men on 3 wheel bicycles sleeping but ready at a moment’s notice to take your purchases where you need.  We came upon a massive yard filled with Buddha statues and other Buddhist figures, somehow the urban Buddhas, in the company of commerce and thriving city, calm came.  Also, it was nice to be traveling with people who were like-minded in pace and scope of adventuring.  We cruised and bought a few things at the stalls and covered areas that were hawking everything from tapestries and decent artwork to shoulder bags, watches, winding alarm clocks with big red stars and images of Mao.  Haggling off up to six times below the asking price.  It’s expected.

 

Back to the hostel for a nap, rent some bikes around 4 and cruise to Tiananmen Square, folded into the traffic of bicycles and cars, we embrace a strange effortlessness in negotiating our way through the strange patterns of getting here and there, only to be described as an interpretive dance to a jazz piece.  Tienamen is bustling as we are constantly approached by those selling postcards that picture a Beijing with blue skies—I had yet to see it, grey smog dominated the sky—but cruise around, observing the people, admiring the vast open space in the middle of the city, the massive hall built for Mao, a Mao-soleum if you will.  We think we should catch a viewing of his body, see what the hubbub is about, seeing a dead person, a god as far as the Chinese (government) is concerned.  Lucky there are still ancient sights to see after his “Cultural Revolution” where all that was old was considered bad.  As people gathered to watch the lowering of the Chinese flag in pomp and circumstance beneath the twilit sky of the preceding Asian sunset, Amanda and I sit on the Square as Colin snaps photos and people—most likely from the Chinese countryside—treat us like stars, no fewer than six or seven groups of people—including a grandmother and her three grandchildren—come up to have their picture taken with us.  Off to food street, have spicy shwarma and look at scorpions and seahorses (yes, seahorses) on sticks.  Off to sleep early, the Wall awaited the next day.

 

Up the next day for a three and a half hour bus ride to Simtai, a section of The Wall less populated by the masses of.  It was about two times as far as other sections of The Wall, but well worth the trip for someone looking to escape the beaten path for a breath of unique experience—as I am often looking for.  When we get there, Colin and Amanda decided not to go on the 10k hike along the top of The Wall to Simitai.  So, off with a group of about 15, each went at his own pace.  After the initial ascent, I paired off with a fella from New Zealand, Callum.  A sinewy, muscular man of 34, was able to outscramble me in most steep parts, but I kept pace.  Occasionally, we’d stop for a drink of water or a banana and a talk.  Amidst the breath-taking views and astonishment at the steep angles of The Wall—not to mention, the incessant hawkers—we spoke of travel and fractions of the past and glimpses of the future.  We also commented on how the crowd had thinned out, being that we were well ahead of any others who had undertaken the hike.  Unless I went deep into the western portions of The Wall, I doubt I could have gotten a glimpse of an unpopulated portion of this massive engineering feat that has been left, so far as I could tell, in its normal state of decay; many times, portions of brick and stone were loose and a careful step and watchful eye was needed.  Some areas, there was a seventy degree incline on the steps and the ascent or descent, yet I still saw a few septuagenarians gingerly yet bravely take on the challenge.  Through their spirit, I remember Granny Kelly who, no doubt, would have hiked that Wall.  She and her tenacity were definitely with me; often, her spirit has inspired, helped me through or simply co-existed with me through this Asia Experience. 

 

Amongst the ideas talked about, Callum and I discussed a goal-oriented life.  I often have felt such pressure from visible and invisible and powerful forces to walk a certain path at a certain pace—get a job, get married, have kids, get a house—and this seems “the plan” that people my age pursue.  However, the fact that I don’t have that and that I failed at an attempt at that has led to much disappointment.  So, as Callum said, why not have a direction rather a goal?  Having a direction allows for some deviation in reaching a point, whereas a goal sets a time limit, thus forcing its pursuer to eschew preceding desires.  Some may be thinking, “Time to grow the fuck up, Nick.”  Let it not be mistaken, that house and all the accoutrement are still desirable, but this direction-based idea has affected my outlook, perhaps given words to a definition that I have been working through for a few years.  It has also allowed me to feel less alone on its meandering path, knowing that there are others who live a good life without all the “essentials” that are thrust upon the definition of success.

 

Certain paths are more quickly traveled than others, I guess.  Callum and I finished the 10k hike in about ninety minutes, about two hours ahead of the allotted time.  We eventually made our way back to Beijing, my body tired, my mind and spirit fully revitalized on the ancient ruins of The Wall—a feeling I don’t anticipate leaving me for quite some time.  This is a good thing.  My attitude toward being here in East Asia was definitely at a low point recently, feeling too tired to meet new people and too tired to continue to plan future international adventures, too tired to continue on the path outside societal norms.  I somehow opened myself up to meeting people again—Callum from NZ, Meagan and Michelle and Gilbert (teachers in Korea) from eastern Canada.  The thing that gets a little tiresome is having to say goodbye so often.  But, generally speaking, the foreign travelers and teachers seem to have a direction rather than a goal.  This is not always the case out here, unfortunately, because some great people I have known out here have gone back to the path with a goal.  Yet there are others who find boredom back home and are fixing to head out again.

 

The next day, Colin and Amanda and I head for Mao’s early viewing, but Amanda forgot her passport.  Maybe I could go later while they were meeting up with their friend Pat.  In the meantime, we went to the Forbidden City, of which I was skeptical, having heard from the people I met the previous day that the scaffolding and green shrouds of Olympic preparatory renovation was off-putting.  Though this was definitely the case, we found our way to some outer sections of The City for a few photos with Colin’s spiffy camera.  In these areas it was a little easier to imagine what life may have been like over the 500 years of Ming and Qing rulers who inhabited this place; I have since learned of American involvement in China’s economic development in the early 20^th century, wanting to force the doors open for trade of many, including European countries.  The culmination of US assertion in the China trade theater occurred at the front gates of the Forbidden City when 2,500 sailors and marines saved diplomats who were about to be overtaken in the Forbidden City by 20,000 peasants in the Boxer Rebellion.  Anyhow, the vast open spaces of the main tourist path are impressive, but having visited the outer regions allowed for much better rumination on the history that happened there. 

 

Through the photo shoots and meandering, we missed our meeting time with Pat and the afternoon viewing of The Chairman.  So off to the Temple of Heaven were we.  Impressive architecture and the dwindling crowds in the main attraction of the park allowed a few ponderings of this former spiritual center of ancient Peking.  Along the way, we meet up with Pat and his friends and decide on Peking duck for dinner.  We split up into two cabs thinking we’d end up at the same restaurant.  No dice.  Forty minutes standing at a rush hour intersection of ballet to John Coltrane scrambled eggs—what it means or how it works is a mystery—without total disaster; the bikes, taxis, cars, busses and pedestrians effortlessly find their way, honking liberally with no anger but with certain purpose, all narrowly missing each other, striking just the right balance of chaos and form.  The entire city (when not locked in maddening traffic) gets around like this.

 

Finally Colin, Amanda and I make it to one of the duck restaurants and encounter some of the best service I have ever seen—definitely a far cry from what we’d seen up to that point—where even the bird’s certificate was shown to us and read while that same bird was sliced, diced, presented.  And soon we’re eating the rich skin, dark meat and liver-textured brain of Peking Daffy. Requirements for Asian travel: in Japan, eat Nemo; in Peking, eat Daffy; in communist country, see the Father of said country, chilled, neither shaken nor stirred.  After sumptuousness, another attempt would be made the next day to see Mao. 

 

Colin and Amanda gone the next morning back to The Country.  Breakfast with Pat and off to another trap: summer palace, a place where the Empress Dowager Cixi entertained and attempted to cajole the greedy western pigs who were after her country’s natural industrial goodies, a massive area around a lake with numerous structures—including a three tiered opera stage that made me think of Uncle Dave— none of which are more than a hundred years old due to French-Anglo pyromania in the Opium War, another time when white trash pushed around an antiquated Chinese imperial army for rights to trade, not to mention the privilege to chase that rascally dragon in the comfort of Paris, London, Copenhagen, Amsterdam, Berlin, St. Petersburg opium dens.  I was tired of the crowds by that point, stifling my imagination of what it was like back in other times.  I suppose that wandering up Machu Picchu, trekking the jungles of Viet Nam or stopping in little towns along the Trans-Siberian Railroad might allow for a little more reflection.  Alas, my imagination about dead deep-frozen communist Fathers will have to suffice until I am on my way out of Ho Chi Minh City and into the jungles.  Having misread the matinee times for the Mao Motionless Dance, the seeing of sights was complete.  I went off to the airport.

To hell with all that work.  It was time to get the out of here.  A vacation was never better deserved, what with 11 hour days (9 hours teaching) over the previous month. I say, if it weren’t for the kids, I would have gone completely batty.  Human rights violations, I tell you, these poor kids completely amazed when I told them about the summers of some short trips, swimming and screwing around with friends, constantly ducking my summer reading in order to live a little.  Seems so unfair for these kids to have their future planned out for them in such rigid—and often brutal—terms.

 

I walk the streets of Japan

Till I get lost

‘cause it doesn’t remind me

Of anything.

 

I have been listening to Audioslave quite a bit lately and these lyrics seem apropos, as Cornell’s lyrics have that quality.  So much work, though, there wasn’t much to really remember, except Punchy’s visit, the DMZ; and one thing difficult to forget: the resonating absence of Janine.  The colors and details became blunt and even non-existent, looking into the beyond—the 1000 yard intensive stare—counting the days minutes seconds until a solo hop over to Osaka and Kyoto.  I kept hoping that moment would come before I quite literally crawled out of my skin from lack of my own routine. That moment is slowly returning, the vacation a chance to get my head straight, reacquaint myself with priorities.

 

Had a few farewell beers with Matt and a couple others worth their salt, the priorities were clear as I hopped a plane the next morning.  On a plane, the only destinations known were the places of rest for the first three nights.  After that, only wandering the streets and the alleyways and subways and trains and busses was planned.  Like reading a review of a movie before I see it, I tend to limit my reading on destinations when traveling, excepting the transportation systems.  I just don’t want to be hedged into sights that only the throngs go to; I want to be surprised, I want to wander, I want to keep my mind sharp—or, as the case may have been for this trip, re-sharpen mind—on the constant lookout for characters and buildings of shady or intriguing nature to describe or shoot a photo of. 

 

Landed Kansai Airport afternoon of 23.  The random kindnesses of an older Japanese couple got me on the right train.  And after a few bounces in the wrong direction, I finally found the Guesthouse U-en, the recently opened small hostel in the Osaka Castle area in the east central part of the city.  Shortly after I checked in, lay down in front of a fan to get the humidity off me, I struck up a conversation with two fellas on their third week of four in Japan.  Lo and behold, they were from California.  One—the blonde dude—was named Nick.  The other guy was named Ian.  If I believed in serendipity, that would have been enough to hang with them.  (Imagine little Ian hangin’ with Uncle Nick in Osaka.  Man, I miss that kid.)  But they were simply good cats in the last stages of university, Nick a Bakersfield resident, finished with video game design degree and Ian an English major at UCSC with emphasis in creative writing.  The co-owner, Kana—a twenty nine year old Japanese woman who spoke spot-on English—was taking Nick and Ian to some seedy part of town—Shinsakai (“New Town”) so of course I went along with them.

 

As far as I could tell, this was a textile and/or machine factory area of town, the blue collars working screwed hours.  Anyhow, we went to a locals-only standing-only grill that served up various little dishes like cow intestine and liver and flank, tofu, and squid.  The workers and proprietor both accommodating, especially since Kana was our eyes and ears and voice.  Stayed there for an hour or so, eating and drinking and having hilarious half-translated conversations.  Then went along to the younger, cleaner area of Namba in search of some live music.  To no avail.  Made our way back to Shinsaki and some shady underground seven-seater bar that played seventies and eighties music to our request as it was a slow night.  We sat and talked shit till 230 or 3 about music, books and the future of biotechnics (no, not L. Ron Hubbard).

 

Early-ish on morning of 24 cruised solo to Osaka Castle.  Was touristy, but spotted a few characters. Fellow with pigeons for friends and another some clown-dunce who will stand there, stock-still until given a yen or two (not my yen, mind you) and pound on his plastic drum with plush drumsticks for a couple minutes.  Really believed in what he did, as insane as it seemed.  But, if the committed were always committed, there’d be no entertainment for others.

 

Back at the guesthouse, Nick and Ian still sleeping, I ate a bit and read.  They soon got up, and I convinced them to roll with me to Kyoto—they’d been planning to head back up to Tokyo.  They were able to book beds at the Bakpak Hostel for the couple nights I was going to stay there.  We treaded lightly in the evening—a little worse for the wear from the previous night—looking at the crowd and area around the hostel, the Kamo River lined with restaurants with deck seating, had some sushi that, up to that point, was the best I’d ever had, though the presentation and atmosphere lacked—as it often does at a sushi boat.

 

It would not be until the day of 25 that I would truly appreciate the beauty of Kyoto, that smaller, cleaner, more cultural sister city to Osaka.  Traditional houses were still intact, untouched by Allied bombing decades ago.  We rented bikes for the day (500 yen=$4.30 USD).  North along the Kamo—traditional houses mingled with the more modern, willows and other trees abundant—to where the Takano River joined it, went to a shrine.  Traditional wedding in progress gave the somewhat run-of-the mill Shimigamo Shrine—seen one temple or shrine, seen them all, the architecture not varying much from one to the other in Korea or Japan, so far as I could tell.  Went across town, cruising with the locals, ringing the bells, occasionally wobbling our way around and through the foot traffic, both Nick and Ian having little wipeouts to the uncontrolled laughter of all three of us, getting relief from the heat and humidity from the air moving in our faces.  Found our meandering way to some golden shrine which was actually a summer home for some pimpin’ sho-guns three or four hundred years ago.  The pond surrounding it was spotted with tiny islands and a single tree, the rest of the area was landscaped to perfection.  So, glad to be proven wrong, seen one shrine, you haven’t seen them all.

 

When street commanding, never go back the way you come.  Cruised through Imperial Park but soon needed a break from the sound of heat: cicadas, the ugly insects that sound like psychotic, crack-headed birds.  Visited the cool confines of a microbrewery/sake microdistillery in the home of an old sho-gun that was large and well-constructed for defense from rival sho-guns. 

 

That night, went for sushi again, this time on the bikes, this time in an area on the banks of the Kamo where restaurants lined narrow streets,  a place with atmosphere, the restaurant a place with melt-on-your-tongue hamachi and maguro, life-threatening but delicious blowfish and the treat for any sushi gourmet: toro (fatty tuna).  We bought the chefs a few beers and they flowed some samples of various this and that.  Two hours later, we hopped the bikes, and I got reminding of why I don’t go clubbing.  After an hour of that, Ian peeled off, Nick and I went to some unpopulated bar after cruising the backstreets some more.  Talked of women, plans, ideals, their fruitions or lack thereof.

 

Day of 26, after ditching a plan to go far south to a coastal town called Kushimoto (time the biggest factor), I went on Ian’s recommendation for a coastal town a couple hours closer on the bus, Shirahama.  So, after a meal and the ultranationalists-ultraisolationists in black vans emblazoned with the Rising Sun saying that all foreigners should be expelled from the homeland, Ian and Nick headed off to Tokyo and I went south to Tanabe, a little town just north of Shirahama that had a hostel.  On the way out of Osaka on the bus, I did most of my sightseeing, truly grasping the size and resulting importance in Japan as a massive industrial port.  It took four bridges and forty-five minutes on the freeway to get out of the city limits.

 

While I probably could have stayed in Kyoto for another couple days, I wanted a chance to diffuse a bit, having been on the go for most of the first three days and otherwise wanting to get away from the urban metropolis life to which I am so accustomed.  And on the three hour bus ride to Tanabe, I reacquainted myself with the characters of my book, what they had done and what they were going to do.  I had not thought about the novel much in the past month.

 

Upon arrival in Tanabe in late afternoon, I decided to check out the motels near the station for a central location. Found one reasonably priced.  Still in reacquainting mode, I took to the dark streets that were occasionally lit by vending machines with beer (of course, I had to partake in this novelty).  This quiet fishing town and its many shops were both Sunday night calm and Sunday night pulsating from the recently departed weekend crowd.  Silence welcome.  Subtle movements and shadows good fuel for imagination.

 

Morning of 27, paid for another night at Nankairo Hotel.  More walking in the bright heat, in search of more fuel.  Walked through fishery docks and found my way to a cemetery.  Burial grounds seem a recurring theme in my east Asia wanderings, yet this motif has no clear meaning.  And then onto the sparsely populated and otherworldly tide pools of Cape Tenjinzaki, a pair of scuba divers, a lone fisherwoman, a lone lighthouse rising from the tidal flat, tiny fish in tiny pools, a few other wanderers. 

 

After a couple hours, I make it back to my hotel to get a change of clothes and then catch a bus down to the beach at Shirahama, thoughts of reacquainting myself with the beloved Pacific in its rough invitingness that I’ve not seen in over a year.  Though the beach was crowded, the waters calmer—given its location in that little bay—I dropped my pack, got in the warm water and floated and swam a bit in a less populated cove of the beach area.  Sat in the shade of a rock most of the afternoon, reading and watching the people.  A young Japanese girl of 15 came up and sat next to me wanting to practice her English.  I obliged for a half hour.  She hardly said a thing.  Surely her mother had sent her over.  She soon scurried off.  Funny.  The previous night and the two nights following, I had dreams where I actually woke myself up talking or yelling, trying to teach English to Asian ESL mutes.

 

Morning of 28, decided to head back to Osaka and Guesthouse U-en, as my flight was leaving the following afternoon and I had no interest in rushing back up and ruining my reacquainting state.  Wrote some postcards, had a coffee and a conversation with the proprietor while waiting for my bus.  Rolled into the Guesthouse U-en around 5pm and Kana had no room for me, all ten beds booked for the night.  She gave me directions to a cheap hotel in Shinsaki—that “New Town” of my first night in Osaka—and I took a small room at the New Annex Hotel for 2100 yen in the company of clacking trains and the first couple innings of the Osaka Tigers baseball game on TV, across the street from street shops and Pachinko dens (Pachinko is a game I will have to try some day; the Japanese seem to love it; it’s some sort of gambling slot game with silver balls).  But those “casinos” were too loud and bright.  After a couple more innings of the ballgame and a dinner of chicken don-kaas (pounded flat chicken breast breaded and fried topped with gravy—oh the gut, oh the arteries, oh the goodness), it was into the shadowy alleyways again for a walk amongst smell of stale piss and refuse of the occasional homeless.  Some things don’t change from SF to NY to Chicago to Seoul.  Back in the hotel room, the ballgame ended after 12 innings in a tie.  A tie in baseball.

 

Next day of 29, after a light breakfast and an attempt to rid myself of all that damned coin money on various small items (the smallest bill being 1000 yen), I got to Kansai Airport, with the thoughts of coming back here for a longer, more in-depth immersion in the culture—its kind people, excruciatingly beautiful-tasting raw fish and millennia of history—not to mention, bringing someone who might keep me from too much time in darkened alleys. Was double-took by the immigration officer looking at my fat-faced passport photo, watched a couple women get dragged into the bowels of Japanese customs, had a couple coffees and passed the time rationing the last seventy pages of a book Uncle Dave sent me, Going After Cacciato.  Back “home” now.  Reminded of all things important, whether near or far.  Reacquainted with routine and ritual. 

It was August 12, 20__ and the foreigner English teachers were out in full force, celebrating payday amongst the hip and young Koreans in Hongdae-dong.  It’s hot and sweaty and the air full of moisture on the streets, clubs—the skin and the sex and the immediacy of pleasure a brief escape of the mid-summer intensives, debt, uncertainties in the North. 

 

Then, buildings were pierced, neon lights shattered, European and American cars are flipped on their sides against Daewoos and KIAs.  The North has commenced an attack on Seoul.  Why they chose Hongdae as a focal point for a rocket attack is pure speculation.  To show how far into Seoul they could reach with their firepower that they successfully deployed through a new infiltration tunnel?  To quickly kill the young and intelligent and those full of potential for an future uprising against the new Korean Peninsula under communism? 

 

The sudden death of Kim Jong-il a few months ago, left the country in the hands of weak eldest son Kim Jong-nam, effectively putting a small group of military hardliners in control.  The ramifications spread across Asia.  China supported the military leaders and Russia—under the de facto rule of Putin despite the election of Valentina Matvienko in 2008—wanted to continue the drive toward socialism throughout Asia.  So, North Korea forcefully unified Korea with men and materiel from Russia and China.

 

The political situations would have to be ideal for the North to start a war on this peninsula.  However, what if those scenarios played themselves out in quick succession?  Certainly, the sudden demise of Kim Jong-il would leave the world on edge, for he has not named his successor.  And, if we believe the western media perspective, the desire of the North to take over control of the peninsula is great since resources are low and people are starving.  Maybe there’s some reason the North is depicted this way; maybe there’s some way it is advantageous to the North to be seen this way.  Whatever the case, I had to see the frontier of the most massive troop build-up in the world, maybe to see a few of the 1.7 million active duty North Korean soldiers.  So I spent last Saturday touring the DMZ.

 

For months, Paul “Punchy” Dumont and I had been trying to match weekends of availability to do this trip.  He arrived after 11 Friday evening.  Before we knew it, we’d had a few beers and had caught up on the latest and it was 0230.  Stayed at a hotel near the USO, where we arrived at 0700 to catch the bus to the DMZ.  Our tour guide was a nice enough Korean man who seemed to be a broken record or a RainMan of his own brand of propagandized indoctrination (“There are concentration camps, okay, in the North, okay, for anyone who opposes, you know, opposes the Great Leader, okay?  And there are, you know, concentration camps. You know.  Concentration camps.” He also talked about the North’s use of humanitarian aid on the military rather than the people it protects or the concentration camps there are throughout the country.  (There are 103 concentration camps.  Yeah.  103.  Yeah.).  Upon arrival to the DMZ, we had a briefing by a youngish PR sergeant.  We also signed a release form that stated that hostilities could break out at any time and the armed forces deployed there would not be responsible for your death if such an event were to occur. 

 

After that, we went to the Joint Security Area (JSA) conference room where we were technically in North Korea for about five or ten minutes, the South Korean guards stiff in a tae-kwon-do stance and ready for action at all times; these gentleman were not open for conversation, though I really wanted to know what goes through their minds while standing motionless for hours at a time, always presenting the impression that they could kill you or put you in submission at a moment’s provocation.  There wasn’t as much tension in that room or that area as I had expected as there were no North Korean soldiers directly staring down the South Korean guards.  There was a couple Northies with binoculars in front of the building across the JSA conference area.  And they were mysterious and that’s what made them more imposing.  What image is the North trying to present by a show of only two soldiers at this most publicly visible area in the DMZ?  As I left, I began to realize how important impressions are in this international stare-down.  Cameras and people watch each other on a daily basis, not only here at the JSA, but all along the fenced border between this divided country.

 

We next found our way to an observation area where we could see Propaganda Village and its 160 meter-tall flagpole (who says size doesn’t matter?) flying a 600 pound North Korean flag.  It was rather impressive in its magnitude, imposing in the moist windy breeze a little over 1 kilometer away.  We later moved to another observation area.  I looked through the binoculars into North Korea and its treeless mountains (contrasting with the foliage-covered Southern mountains) that I am familiar with, and after a while of searching for one living soul, I was unable to see a single person—neither soldier on beyond the barbed wire fences that stretched to the east and west, nor civilian in the village itself.  The Propaganda Village is largely unused.  For what purpose?  The South says because the North is afraid of frequent attempts at defection.  And, what of the lack of sightings of military personnel?  1.7 million hidden that well? 

 

Though I imagine at least the military presence is stronger at places outside the areas frequented by tourists like me, I still wonder what the advantages are of hiding your population so well.  There is mystery and fear of the unknown.  And we toured one of the infiltration tunnels some 73 meters below the surface of the earth.  The North said, upon its discovery in 1978, the tunnel was the exploratory digging for coal, while the South firmly believes this tunnel, along with three other tunnels, were dug for the purposes of a surprise attack.  It was estimated by our Korean guide that there could be as many as 20 other tunnels under construction beneath various points along the DMZ.  Instilling fear?  What would be the purpose of sharing that information with the general public?  Perspective and impressions, giving the sense of importance to this operation along the 38^th Parallel.  No matter the perspective, the idea of political and military tension was becoming more and more apparent.

 

Restrictions on photography were imposed and lifted throughout the day, but the last stop was the highlight, in my mind.  Dorasan Station is the northernmost train station in the South, only recently modernized (opening in February 2002) and even more recently used for the first time, taking two trains in opposite directions of both North and South Koreans as a test run between the station and a point shortly north of the DMZ (the North apparently has done nothing to restore the tracks on their side).  The station was absent of travelers, but the marquee scrolled messages of departure times to both Seoul and Pyongyang, there were brightly colored murals with somehow dark themes in them: a rusted locomotive with weeds growing through it; silhouetted figures striding toward something with arms out in front of them.  The impression given both here at the station and in a propaganda film shown to us earlier (an unabashedly sentimental and hopeful short film about how the DMZ will one day be the peaceful, natural environment without landmines and barbed wire), is the sense that the South strives for the unification of their country.  If unification does occur, it seems there are potential problems when a middle-class of the South—that has been indoctrinated with this kind of propaganda for generations—emerges as superior-minded and the Northerners are still isolated due to their continued status as poor and un-educated.  The potential for a violent class-struggle after a reunification seems imminent.  The problem with propaganda is that it is as short-sighted as it black and white in the ignorant ideals it instills in the general public.

 

Throughout the previous night and during the tour, Paul and I caught up on the people in our daily lives, co-workers and friends, we agree, are not one in the same.  I have recently developed a bit of ageism toward the young foreign teachers that I have encountered both at work and when going out on the rare occasion that I do.  I just feel bored, that I have nothing to learn or take from anyone who is younger than I am.  And I admit this is a bad headspace to be in; and there are those who will say that I am just bitter about being old.  On the contrary, 30 is the best year in many years.  What I do often see from younger people is the bouncing around and off of each other in this seemingly unique situation, trying to figure things out, testing the limits of social norms and values and how they hold up against the backdrop of Korean culture; and not to be forgotten, there is a sense of their situation being that of a new brand of freedom (more money than they ever had in a country where most things are fairly cheap by western standards).

 

This has been my prevailing attitude in the last month or so, getting annoyed by the posturing and superficiality that I often see in younger foreigners.  But, to the credit of the younger, there some bright ones who, despite still figuring things out (as all of us in the world are doing at any age, whether we admit it or not), have enough sense about them and confidence and social intelligence enough to know that acting out in certain ways is unacceptable and makes people uncomfortable. 

 

This past weekend, Matt, a lanky 25 year old philosopher from Kitchner, ON, decided he would have a last bash a couple weeks before his last class and heading off to other parts of the world and then home.  Matt is an astute observer of people (almost to a fault, because it comes off sounding like he’s talking shit) and is well-spoken about a great many things that really seem to matter: politics and art.  Along with all that, there is no humor that is lost on him.  [It’s unfortunate that he is leaving soon because in a large foreign group at work, there are a lot of social rejects and duds.  It is my hope that with every new month, we can get at least one person who is as interesting and intelligent as Matt.  Besides, who the hell am I going to jokingly say fuck off to on Mondays without it being misconstrued as anything other than hello].  Anyhow, I digress.

 

Paul and I met up with Matt and 16 of his closest friends at Platinum in Gang-nam dong; this is a microbrewery that has an all you can eat buffet of international cuisine and all you can drink of the brews on tap for three hours on Saturdays (be sure to make reservations well in advance).  This is a place where Sundays go to die, what with all that beer to be had.  I sat with others of the interesting ones at work.  Paul M (who has a heightened interest in photography and has a degree in bullshit—aka English—just like me), Colin and Amanda (the odd couple, he being a contemplative type who shows his personality on rare, but well-timed occasions and she being a bit more outspoken and humorous).  And then there’s Heather B, the alternately bubbly and caustic Bostonian and self-described Blanche Deveraux character of “Golden Girls” fame (though, she’s the extremely young version, maybe to be put in a prequel sitcom, “Green Girls” or “Wet Behind the Ears Girls”)  who’s been hilarious to watch and interact with since her boyfriend went away a couple months ago, by far acts “her age” more than anyone, but something is charming in that unashamedly goofy way in which she carries herself.

 

A group of about eight or ten of us made our way to Chi-cha, a hookah club in Hong-dae (an area I am only starting to explore and some pictures are displayed of last weekends maiden voyage through this youthful university district) whose atmosphere is simultaneously dark and lively, the center of its front room has a shallow pool of flowers and candles floating in it.  This is surrounded on all sides and spread out from wall to wall with low-set tables, Afghan and Indian rugs and pillows.  There are pillars and areas to seclude yourself in a corner if you so choose, cozying up to a friend and a hookah.  Also, there are bongos to play. 

 

Somehow possessed, I took a hold of one of those bongos after Paul jammed a bit with a young co-worker of mine who seems to have his head screwed on right and was able to keep a good steady rhythm while Paul riffed off of that.  We began to sing, making up silly lyrics about various friends scattered around the few tables we surrounded.  Eventually, we stopped, hands throbbing from pounding on the drums.  There were those who seemed not to mind the semi-or-lucky bongo playing of a couple slightly drunk 30 year olds, but others didn’t seem suited for this kind of a club where the atmosphere was not conducive to hostilities or the breeding of them.  And yet another cool, young person talked with me for a bit.

 

A young woman, Krystal, who seemed to be cozying up with Matt, came and talked with me a bit.  She told me of her disgruntled disposition toward the major she had chosen: journalism.  Not wanting to be a slave to the mass media’s rendition of the “facts” in world events (all this starting on her first day of journalism school: 9/11/2001), she seemed to be using her time here in Korea to figure out what to do with an education that she doesn’t see herself using—at least not in any conventional way.

 

I toe the line between ignorance and bliss.  Whether I wonder about the depictions of North Korea—pondering the significance of a population that is largely visible only through the lenses of western mass media—or about the a person’s public persona as an accurate depiction of their true self—young or old—I prefer the bliss of inquiry.  

Expats’ Lament

It came upon us like an elephant lumbering
And we ignored it like the elephant in the room
And now—long before you are gone—
I miss you already.

What more there is to you–
beyond the veil of this Korean affair
with all its intensities and countdowns–
I can only surmise.

 

Though I wrote the above to try and capture all of the friendships I have made while out here, it was written a few weeks ago when the impending departure of Janine loomed too large to ignore any more.  It will do well enough not to belabor the point.  I will only  say that in my time with Janine, I found a sense of home: comfort and contentment in that she allowed me to be myself at all times, as a good friend will do.  Is there really ever any other way to be?  And it’s not as bad as it may seem.  Sure, I am a little sad, but I think I will see her (and any other person I meet out here who is worth a damn) again.  

Upcoming events in the Pan Asian Theater:

 

1. A mystery tour of which the events and locations will be revealed after the weekend of August 11.  Companion: Big "Punchy" Paul.

 

2. Japan (August 23-29) after Summer Intensives are completed. Companion: none.

 

3. China (September 22-26) during the Korean Thanksgiving called Chu-Seok. Companion: possibly co-workers Amanda and Colin; possibly none.

 

4. Thailand (the last week of December).  Companion: "Punchy," maybe his wife SooYeon.  (not to mention, a bowl of Thailand’s finest).

 

Hope all is well in your world.  Keep me in the loop.

 

I am sure there will be other picture and journal-worthy happenings in between these jaunts, so continue to check regularly.

June 27, 2007  

Another short set of friendships reach that unsure time.

Greg and Jen are gone, back to Canada.  Have known them for two months.  Together, they were both gracious upon my arrival; separately, they each had their own talents.  It is astounding what we can learn of a person in such a short time.  I sat down with this couple a few times over Korean barbeque and a few times over a glass of wine.  In the one time I saw Jen teach, I remember being amazed to learn that she had no formal training in instruction; she is a master at engaging the students.  Also, she has a level of confidence that endears her to her students and friends alike.  Greg is a seemingly scatter-brained philosopher whose slow way of talking was refreshing; I like watching people think.  In waiting for him to compose a thought, you could tell he was always searching for the right words to say.  Too often, people are too quick to say something or anything and it comes out sounding like either a load of hog-shit or it is just completely stupid (often I am guilty of both).

I feel at this point, having met so many Canadians in my time here that, whichever contacts endure the tests of time and life, I will have to plot a driving trip across the great white north sometime in the next couple years.

June 29, 2007

Another friend gone. 

Rob arrived yesterday afternoon here in Anyang, we hung out in the humid apartment, talked some shit, talked about our plans (mine after this contract could go one of two ways (as I conceptualize it): traveling or back to work here. Rob is going back for weddings after a brief stop in Hawaii and some traveling around Canada and then he starts a job at a small school in northwest Alberta).  After work, I met up with him again—he had bummed around the parks in the immediate neighborhood, hung out at my apartment, taken a nap—and we went to dwegi galbi with some coworkers.  The next day, I saw Rob off at the bus bound for Incheon International.

The two small town fellas I have met here that have the quiet MO about them (Jed from northern New York state and Rob from Nova Scotia) both have this air of wanting to soak up all knowledge and live life like it never has been lived before—the borders of a small town too constricting; they are not ones to get trapped in the drinking scene—Rob dabbles but isn’t excessive, Jed is on a sober kick.  Rob is always thinking of the trips he is going to take next (wanting, for instance, to go to Thailand next summer) and Jed seems to have his hands in so much—playing chess, writing music and short stories, reading for example.  It is as if the ways of the small town were so oppressive for them that being out in the wider world is so fascinating that they seem not to want to get caught up in the mundane or wasteful.  I admire that kind youthful energy (yes, I am playing the old card because, goddammit, I am old compared to most pups out here).  While my energy in my own endeavors are not as diverse or as youthful as these two fellas, I accept that I am not so young anymore and that the energy for so many different projects is just not there any more, unlike my young small town brothers-in-Korea.  But, I am finding focus in the things that matter—working on the book, reading, good routines and rituals. 

And this feeling of acceptance settles into so many other aspects in my life.  Certainly, this is a lesson I am learning from having to say goodbye to friends on such a regular basis—tomorrow, goodbye Jenie; four more weekends with Janine.  These friendships I form out here are short; but what they might lack in permanency they make up for in intensity, fascination and motivation.

July 1, 2007

In times of stress, chaos, sadness and overwhelming uncertainty, it can be difficult to see that things will get better.  As often as these strenuous circumstances are often beyond our control— and, even more often, they are unforeseeable—a conscious departure from the safe and known are within both the control and predictability of the individual.  But, it would seem that, no matter how much planning you utilize, there will inevitably be unanticipated pitfalls—the manifestation of those fears you had before you took this leap into the “controlled unknown.”  And, before the final leap into that “controlled unknown,” the fears of what is to come can loom so large.

It would seem that, what I just spent a whole paragraph stating could be summed up in one phrase: expect the unexpected.  But why would I trivialize such an immense undertaking as returning to what was once known and is now, almost inexplicably, unknown?  What I write of cannot be tossed aside with such a trite saying when given the circumstances into which an expat might repatriate herself into.  And would sitting down with Jenie on that rainy Saturday night in The Wine Bar Bliss of Itaewon have meant the same had I uttered clichés?  As others surely said their own genuine well-wishes that evening, the only way I could think to send her off was the story of my Catholic-Gypsy ancestry.

Earlier that day, Janine and I spent the afternoon at the 4/19 Memorial in northeast Seoul—which commemorates an April 1960 student march against a fraudulent election that resulted in the deaths of 142 students at the hands of nervous police; Korea’s version of Kent State—we made our way down to Itaewon   With plans to get a motel so we wouldn’t have to travel in a just-as-expensive cab later that night after the trains had stopped running, we got to Itaewon with the lack of foresight on the summer tourism booking up the main hotels, Itaewon and Hamilton.  As time neared to meet Jenie, we still hadn’t found a place, but thought we could take care of it later.  So we stashed our belongings at the Itaewon, met up with Jenie and Jude for a nice dinner at La Cigale Montmartre, my little buddy of past mention, Sarang, was brought along, as Jenie would say, because the little thing was just too nervous, thinking Jenie was leaving her alone.  All night, the little dog accompanied us, lucky not to get smashed by those who aren’t used to such a little thing in a drinking establishment.

At The Wine Bliss Bar, people sat and talked with Jenie, Jenie tearing up because she was saying goodbye to a life she’s known for five years.  Eventually, my opportunity came to spend a little one-on-one time with her, finding out some of the variables in her “controlled unknown.”  I suppose her situation is unique amongst most of the people I have met here, being that she has had so much more time to create lasting relationships and to really adopt Korea as her home, her own country.  So, Jenie, why do you go back?  “Because it’s time,” was her response.  Time for, I guess, a career—though she’s had so much success here—and to be return to the fold of “family” life—though it certainly seems to me she had a pretty secure “family” here.  She acutely feels the social pressures.  But I know she will do just fine, the strong woman that she is will again assert itself in the new situation back home.

Just to say that, though, wouldn’t do.  I had to tell her my family ancestry, how we were a nomadic group of gypsies from what is modern day Minsk, that as we moved west across Europe over the generations, we somehow picked up Catholicism.  Through all the moves and persecutions, my family still maintained their abilities to tell fortunes, using the money to finally move to America.  Thus, I read Jenie’s palm, telling her that this line meant she was going to live a long, happy life and that line told me that the successes she was going to have upon her return to the US.  From my obvious stunt of total bullshit, she laughed some, seemingly allayed of her uncertainties for at least a couple minutes or so.  The real rub to this, or any situation where such enormity seems to lie on success or failure, is that humor can only take you so far; one can only say “fuck it, let’s go laugh and have a few drinks” so many times.

The things that can be easily fixed or really have no fix at all (aside from the fact that you are just a plain old knucklehead) deserve laughter.  The enormity of other problems can be so large and real, why get bothered with the trite?  Around one ay-em, Janine and I said our goodbyes to Jenie with the usual promises to stay in touch and assurances of future visits—and there are many of these that go for naught, but you learn to develop a sense about whether a friendship will be maintained in one fashion or another; with Jenie and me, that’ll certainly be the case.  Hell, we’ve known each other for twenty-five plus years, she was, and will remain, one of my biggest supporters here in Korea. 

So, down to the subway station to retrieve our belongings before heading to this motel around the corner.  The rain was picking up and we were sans umbrella.  When we got below, we realized that the barriers were closed one level above the lockers for the subway.  After some mild pleading, we were unable to persuade the guards to let us in.  We’ll just pick it up tomorrow.  Back out into the rain, sans all things stowed for use that night (toothbrushes, dry clothes, that sort of thing) all safely locked away in the bowels of Itaewon Station.  The rain came down harder as we made our way up what is known as Hooker Hill, the red light district.  I had heard about it but thought the name was a title left over from the war days; besides, we saw none of the women that gave the street its namesake.  Though moisture is always good for the act of sex, maybe the business of sex is not always good when it rains.

Laughter was mounting in our throats as we continued up the road through the neon lighting, the unknown nature of this place, the absurdity of the situation.  Finally, we came upon the designated motel and went, soaking like a couple of stray cats, into the lobby (more like a hallway) where an agima came out of a darkened room.  “Uhl-my-oh?” we ask, just wanting to get a price—not to mention, a viewing—of the room.  “E-chan-o-manwon,” she says as we indicate that we’d like to see the room before paying.  We then followed her up three flights of stairs, alternatingly in and out of the rain in the sometimes unenclosed staircase.  You’d think we would be okay with just about anything given the circumstances (not to mention the price—about $26 US), but a moments hesitation and the old woman turned off the light and closed the door.  I think we may have stayed, deciding on our way down that it’s just a place to crash for a little while.  But then the woman started pounding on one of the doors, yelling what I can only guess was, “Wake up! Get the hell up and out!  Your hour is over!”  We could barely contain our laughter as we made our way down those treacherously slippery stairs, leaving the agima to batter at the door demanding more money or vacancy from the hooker and her john or a couple of teenagers doing it for the first time.  We decided that twenty-five was really expensive for an hour and we, no doubt, wanted at least eight—for sleep.

We hopped a cab, I making the decision for and an eventual return the next day, the twenty-five we’d spend on the ride was worth it for the comfort of my pad and a non-existent checkout time.  Our cabby was a good one, knowing exactly where he was going and dutifully ignoring what must have seemed to him like crazed laughter in his backseat.  But out of that laughter came my oh-shit realization: my keys were in my backpack back in Itaewon.  Laughter soon resumed as the resignation to circumstance and the humor of it all took a hold.  Mind you, this is not the laughter of drunken idiots—honestly, Janine and I had only had a few well-spaced drinks apiece throughout the evening.  This is the laughter of an idiot and his companion laughing with him or at him.  So, we were headed back to my area of town to stay in a hotel that could’ve been just as easily acquired in a neighborhood adjacent to Itaewon.  I quickly decided on the one I knew: the Isabel, the very same I had stayed in for two and a half weeks upon my arrival in Anyang.

Upon arrival at Beomgye Station, I decided to let the Seoul cabby go, I was a little turned around and wanted to take an Anyang cab.  We darted across the street in the pouring rain, slopping through an unseen roadside lake, hopping in another cab, thinking I knew where to go, “E-Mart Pyeongchong,” I said as a landmark near the motel.  But no dice.  We drove around for another 20 minutes as I slowly figured out it was Lotte Mart (as Janine had suggested earlier).  There’s a lesson in this for all of you: Always let someone else make the tough decisions for you.  But why would I want to do that when I can ultimately share my comic stupidity in story form?

Back in Itaewon the next day for a little gift shopping and breakfast, Janine and I decided this was a great weekend, if only for the way in which we had amused ourselves with plans gone awry.  We later went to a Canuck bar, saw some friends from a previous weekend excursion to Muuido, celebrated Canada Day (I being the honorary Canadian for the day).  

My fourth friend has gone this week.  There are three ways I can deal with this regular loss of friends.  One, I can stop making friends.  Two, I can accept the brief but intense nature of these relationships that I do have and continue to form.  Three, I can enjoy insight and humor from the people I meet as I journey—often blindly—through the Korean experience.  The former is just not a possibility.  A combination of the latter two will continue to be my mode.

June 6, 2007

It’s Memorial Day here and I have the day off from work.  I was planning on getting out of here early to attack a peak in Pukan National Park, but I want to get a few lines in before I leave.  An opportunity to solo adventure is upon me; I was going to go with some of the fellas from around here, but they just weren’t feeling it for one reason or another.  I have no idea what to expect on the hill today.  Will it be busy?  A midweek holiday (Wednesday) is a strange one to encounter. 

June 7, 2007

Made it up and down a mountain peak or two, taking the hard route many times.  After finally leaving the apartment, I made my way up to Bukansan National Forest in the north of Seoul.  After hiking to the base of Hayallabong (Peak), I quickly decided to scale the face of the peak, defying—like many others—the danger-do not enter signs; I gave only a brief acknowledgement that there may be an easier way to attain that peak.  I saw that there were people older than I scaling these rocks—as if only this had something to do with the ability to do such a task.   

Shortly after scaling the first few crevasses, I was about to turn around and just go around, a feeling of failure already creeping in, my legs shaking slightly, the hangdog tail-between-my legs dread at being overcome by my fear of heights and my inability to hoist myself up the more-difficult-than-I-thought climb.  I, of course, was not outfitted to climb rocks, my boots, built for hiking, were too big and inflexible to fit the footholds and the traction not designed to grip slippery rock at such extreme angles.  And, when I left the apartment earlier, I noticed a couple loose threads on the toe, thinking to myself it might already be time to replace these cheaply bought duds.  I was more right than I thought.

As I was being beckoned by the middle-aged man above me and the middle-aged man below me and as I was trying to let the man below me go past so I could descend the peak, the option was not given me as there really was no room to go around him.  Finally, I reached up, grabbed the right holds based on the man above me giving me advice and the man below me giving a firm hold on my heel.  It is remarkable the things one can communicate with only the limited use of language.

After a few slightly less precarious ascensions to that peak—still with the assistance of the two men—I sat to rest, sweat pouring.  I caught my breath, took in the hazy view of downtown Seoul and drank some water, sharing some with one of the men who had helped me from below up to the peak.  No exchange of names.  Just a shared slake of water and a brief rest.  He was, as far as I could tell, older than I by at least five or ten years.  All he asked me was if it was my first time in Bukansan.  Yes, I said, thinking to myself that it was almost my last had I fallen without his assistance or been vanquished so quickly by that first peak. 

In an indirect invite, he simply said let’s go.  So we went.

As we hiked, I was pleased that there wasn’t too much talking between us.  He knew enough for us to communicate but, after my first success on the first peak, my confidence in other rock climbing endeavors become less inhibited.  The people on the mountain were thick, this being a midweek day off and, since many Koreans work six days a week, the extra day for activity was fully taken advantage.  As I have mentioned before, the crowds can be a bit off-putting.  However, there has been, at least the last couple times on the mountain, a good feeling of camaraderie, especially now that I had a new companion. 

While we sometimes dodged people on the more well-traveled paths, we once or twice more went beyond the “Danger” signs and scaled slippery when dry rocks.  And after a few of those climbs, learning holds and grips from the example and suggestion of Chee Pyung-Yun (my new fellow trekker), he noticed that the toe of my right book had come completely undone.  Now I have been doing a lot of hiking as of late, but hardly should two months of intensive once-a-week hiking merited this to happen.  But, you get what you pay for, in most cases.  Time for new shoes.

After Pyung-Yun, a 42 year old small business owner who is in Bukansan at least once or twice a week, showed me a lesser known spot where the rocks were shaped like two thrones that overlooked Seoul and shared his kimbap and a slug of congnac with me, we looked at other peaks in the distance, I desiring higher altitudes, looking to one day far surpass the 530 meters of that day’s Bibong. Someday, we both agreed, we would meet up to do some of the 800 meter peaks a little further to the north.  I need, first, to get new shoes.  We laughed.  On our way down the mountain, we saw some people walking up some 60-70 degree sheer rock without ropes, only good shoes.  I asked Pyung-Yun if he liked to do that.  He said yes and I said that’s crazy.  “Next time, I will give you education.”  I don’t know about that.  But I won’t put limits on anything, either.  Went down the mountain and had some cold noodles and parted ways after we exchanged cell numbers for future climbs.  Five and a half hours of hiking and scaling.

I will make a point of it to hike solo much more often, as the last two solo excursions (both urban and mountain) have been very rewarding and have provided a different way of thinking, outside the normal routine of reading and writing.  Every so often, I will hike with the new crew here, but I find coordinating shit with other people beyond the scope of Street Commanding.  And I find myself fully embracing the idea of solitude much more.  Also, I find myself trying a bit more to read and teach myself Korean as a tool to keep my mind sharp and, in effect more fully embrace the cultural experience.

June 11, 2007

A perfect place to get away from the grind of the city: Muuido.  Janine and I took a bus from Hwajeong (one can take a bus from pretty much anywhere in town) to Incheon International Airport, we transferred to the 222 between departure exits 5 and 6 and took a 10 minute bus ride to the ferry terminal.  We paid for a round trip ticket at the office (W2,000) and boarded for a 10 minute boat ride.  (If you’ve ever seen Hitchcock’s The Birds and have a resulting fear of them, do not sit out on the deck; the seagulls, the vermin of the sky, are fed by the locals and swarm impetuously to get some snacks.) Once on Muuido, we found the island bus that took us on a 15 minute ride to the other side of the island at Hanagae Beach.  Once there, we came upon the small beach huts, rented one for W30,000 and settled in for a long day of sun and just plain old relaxation.

We soon befriended our neighbors, a group of Canadians more around my age than Janine’s (this being a rarity) and these folks–Steve, Matt, Rhiannon and Adam—have all been here for three and four years.  To consistently meet people and talk of your path and hear of theirs is good as a constant reminder of what brought you here and where you want to go.  Often, in the rare dark times, it is easy to lose sight of all of your goals and fall back into old habits.  By constantly putting yourself out there, you realize through the people you meet and the places you see, that you must balance future goals with living in the now.

I could see myself coming back to that small island and doing a little more hiking and just relaxing, reading a book, watching the kids play around, taking swims and observing the dramatic change of tides (the mud flats allow for you to go about 250 yards—or 228 meters—to see small crabs, hermit crabs and dig for clams), and see a dramatic sunset.  Later, we had a feast of samgapsal (“three layers of fat” pork), a campfire and some beer, easily meeting locals and waegookens (foreigners) alike. 

The next morning, the tide was in and we went into the gentle surf to wake up the body and mind.  We watched an agima at lunch tear apart an octopus limb from limb after puncturing its head to a squishy sound of water; she chopped that bad boy up while its tentacles were still flailing, suckering her deft hands.  The pieces of tentacles were still moving a little as she delivered the delicacy to a neighboring store. 

Back in the water shortly after lunch and then packed up, making plans for another island excursion in the near future (though I think I may have to miss it because Jenie is leaving the same weekend they are planning their next trip).  Next weekend: the Big Bu for Paully’s housewarming party.

June 18, 2007

Got back into Seoul this morning with a few hours to spare before heading back to the salt mines.  It was good to get back to Busan again.  I realized how much cleaner and easier it is to get around in that town (as compared to Seoul).  Don’t get me wrong, I like where I live now and I like the massiveness of it and all the things there are to do.  But, it would be nice if there were a little more Busan in Seoul.  Like the clean air, the beaches and my buddies from the Busan era.

After a brief wandering of Nampo Dong—for various and sundry items in that huge shopping area—Janine and I hopped a cab to the northwest part of town (Hwamyeong) to go to Paul and Rachel’s house.  I used to work with Rachel and Paul is her husband, whom I have become good buddies with over the last ten months; he and I will probably do some traveling together in the summer of next year—Thailand, Vietnam and Cambodia. 

Janine took a nap and Paul and I went for a cruise on his scooter.  After riding on that thing a couple times, I am definitely in the market for one in the next couple months.  So much fun and just think of all the cruising around I could do, scootering to a hiking spot and parking it while I climb.  The biggest benefit would be that I could go places and not be at the mercy of a subway schedule, the crush of crowds on the subway and the altogether too-underground of said mode of transportation.  More adventures to come in that regard.

Anyhow, Paul and I picked up a few things for his housewarming party, he having moved out of a small studio where he lived with his wife for a year and into a breezy three-bedroom apartment with a view of the Nakdong River and a crystal clear view of the mountains across the valley.  Both Paul and Rachel seemed very happy and that was good to see.  Later in the evening, after watching the sunset and having a glass of wine with some pizza, people began to show up, including my old buddies Andrew and Rob from the YBM days.  Was good to see them and get caught up on some of the silliness that is Andrew’s weekend exploits.  Rob will be dropping by Anyang on his way out of the country in a week or two; he is leaving early from the contract for a couple weddings and a PE job back in Canada.

Stayed up late talking with Paul and Rachel after everyone left.  Got up late the next morning, had a great brunch (one that would make Ma proud) and, before heading to Haeundae Beach for a swim in my second sea (the East Sea) in one week, Paul, Janine and I headed to the UN Cemetery.  Anyone who has read the long emails I used to send out before starting this online journal knows I have been here a couple times before.  But, each time, it is a sobering experience, realizing the numbers of people who died in the Korean conflict of the early 1950s.  I probably wouldn’t have gone back there if Janine hadn’t wanted to visit the grave of the only soldier from Paisley, Ontario (her hometown) to have been killed here.  But I am glad I did.  It was good to see that so many people still remember the sacrifice made by so many.

June 19, 2007

And, if we do not remember, history—terrible history—tends to repeat itself.  Yet, it seems the cycle never really stops in the Middle East.  It also appears that Russia is flexing its muscles again.  It is fascinating to see how things develop around the world, but it is also a little disconcerting to see thing such as the dispute over the US insistence on the missile shield and Russia’s bristling over such threats to their share of the balance when it comes to military strength and global influence.  I mean, if there’s one thing the US needs is a series of checks and balances when it comes to its expansion.  I wonder how much studying is going on in the White House of the past empires of Rome and Great Britain and where they made their mistakes and where bloodshed could have been avoided.

Anyhow, I do my best to learn from my own history, constantly asking questions of my actions and thoughts.  Though, I am no global super power; I have the luxury of acting foolish (at least in my own eyes) as long as I am conscious enough to ask the important questions of myself before I do anything stupid to harm other people.  Perhaps that is the luxury of someone so far from family.  

The best I can do is keep the peace around me and inside me.

The following has been stated before, but it bears repeating:

A Street Commander is one who is defined by his own terms.  The essential characteristics of a Street Commander, though, are as follows:  1.) sense enough to know when it is time to go on solo excursions for the purposes of adventure and/or meditation, 2.) sense enough to have a sense of direction (never eat shredded wheat), 3.) sense enough to know that these excursions can and must be made without any plans later in the day (or night) that might impinge guilt or obligation, 4.) sense enough to dress smartly and comfortably, bringing along essentials so anything beyond the absolute minimum amount of money is required, 5.) sense enough to know his limits and to push those limits—physically, emotionally, spiritually—to extremities never before discovered or rarely visited, and 6.) as per the tenet set forth in guideline #5, sense enough to keep an open mind.

With the knowledge that it was time for a solo excursion, I packed my things and hopped a sub out to the port city of Incheon, west of Seoul.  True to the idea of Street Commanding, I knew next to nothing of my destination, barring a few sketchy details about the UN landing there at some point in the Korean conflict of the 1950s.  I thought that the Incheon landing happened late in the war but, as it turns out, it was in the early stages of the conflict that Mac Arthur’s forces landed there three months after the initial commencement of hostilities; a week later, Seoul was liberated for the first of four times during the war.  As it turns out, so much happened in the first six months of the war that it is difficult to sum it up here.  I am in the process of digesting the history of it and to research maps. 

History’s physical aspects are much easier to grasp when you live in the country where the history occurred.  The city I used to live in—Pusan—was an important location in the war; for six weeks, at one point early in the war, the US-UN-ROK forces were pushed back but maintained a perimeter as the final stronghold.  The holding of Pusan allowed preparations before the Incheon landing in September of 1950, 100 miles behind enemy lines on the west coast of the peninsula.  (http://www.korean-war.com/)

Anyhow, to get a real perspective of the conflict, one must go to certain areas of the country, as the modernization of South Korea leaves very little remnants in major urban areas.  In Pusan, on a hike a couple months back, I encountered some old weed-infested trenches at the top of a peak and on a Gwanaksan hike last Sunday , I came across some barb-wired openings to mountainside bunkers that faced north to Seoul.

The point here is that these bunkers and trenches are given little if any designation with informational placards; they just sit unused, ghostly and fascinating in their mere existence.  One is led to imagine what happened at this particular site or that.  Who was stationed here?  How many times did this position change hands?  What was it like to fight such extreme uphill battles against fortified positions?  Who fought here?  Who died here?  Given further research and interviewing of the right people, there is sure to be even further perspective given to these historical but seemingly neglected sites.

With a brief tour of Incheon and a perspective given by a vista point called Mt. Wolmi, one gets a true feeling for the massiveness and, therefore, the importance of this port.  Just as Pusan had its importance for establishing and maintaining the flow of troops and materiel into the conflict in the early days of the war, so too did Incheon.  And today, the two large ports just as important in other ways for this 12^th largest economy: both Pusan and Incheon are major ports for the export and import of international goods.  I guess that’s why people fight wars: to get their share.

And, just as Pusan, it is massive, and it hums with the activity of industry.  The main point of entry into the country is just west across the water (on the inland of Jung-gu) at Incheon International Airport, the construction of a 12.5 km bridge (Incheon Grand Bridge) south of my vantage, the 3^rd Incheon Bridge to the north, and the massive port surrounding me in the more immediate north-east-south.

Before the short climb to the top of Wolmi (what used to be a small island and was the focal point of the Marine landing in September 1950), I walked along the boardwalk area where there are many restaurants with huge bay windows from which to look out over the water.  Being a Saturday and the day before a celebration of Buddha’s birthday, the parents were out in full force with their kids, engaging in larger numbers than usual (due to Buddha’s birthday celebrations, I am guessing) in arts and crafts in the perfect breezy weather of the ocean side. 

After encountering a couple unused bunkers, a tribute to an uprising against the Communist influence on one of the islands off Incheon and well-maintained flower gardens amidst the more natural foliage, I made it to the top of the small mountain.  There is one space-age looking observation deck and two outdoor observation areas.  I preferred the simplicity of the outdoor areas; besides, it afforded better picture-taking of simple curves and shadows and lines in the waning afternoon.  Couples. Families.  Sunset.

An older man, maybe in his later forties, came up to talk to me, “Where you from?” the standard introduction.  Shortly thereafter, he begins to tell me his personal philosophy about family, religion and what country he thinks is the best.  I haven’t quite figured out how to handle these situations, the ones with proud Koreans telling me how great their country is.  It makes me a little uncomfortable that someone can just come up to you and start speaking as if I asked them, “What is your view on religion?  Family?  International affairs?”  He just began to share, and it began to sound more like he was proselytizing not only his view that each person is a god (which I found interesting since I, too, have thought along these lines for many years), but also about the importance of family, about how Korea is “Number One.” 

The easiest way to turn someone off to your cause is to put your views in terms as if they were absolutely true.  Now, I have no way of knowing if this man was trying to convert me to some new faith or to make me Korean but, after thinking about it on the train ride home, I came to a conclusion that there is a certain amount of tact that I now know is absent in Korean culture. It’s not as if they are trying to be rude, but the importance of status is so much more overt here.  For instance, if you are like me—thirty, unmarried and without child—the students will give a look and a brief query as to why.  This can be quite jarring to western standards, since it is our way to look the other way or not to ask certain questions (the proverbial elephant in the room).  Also, westerners have a certain idea of territory and boundaries when it comes to personal space (Koreans will touch you when, by our standards, it is most inappropriate) and personal ideals (the over-arching theme of this people who have been colonized and brutalized throughout history is one of pride in a long, rich cultural history and of overcoming adversity and then establishing rapid modernization and its accompanying wealth).  I also have to apply the filter of the language barrier: Maybe there is no other way for this man to say in his good but still limited English that, of all the countries he knows of, Korea is “number one.”  So, this man whom I found initially irksome, I have concluded was simply an ambassador for his country, trying to make interesting conversation and expressing his pride in his country.

The next day, I went with Jed and Randel into Seoul to meet up with Ryan and his lady friend at the Lantern Festival, a celebration of Buddha’s birthday that included a street festival with arts, crafts, dancing, contortionists, traditional children’s fitness exercises.  Eventually, we were made comfortable by a middle aged woman and sat on the floor at the Jogyesa Temple for a brief education on the three Buddhas in front of us: the one in the middle is the earthly manifestation of Buddha, the one on the right for health, the one on the left for those who have reached Buddahood. 

And, in my time here in Korea, I have yet to see as many foreigners at one time: all the hagwon teachers were out; I even ran into my replacement at my old job from down in Pusan.  But, in addition to the long stream of lantern-carrying Korean Buddhist monks that streamed into the temple later that day, there was a large contingent of Buddhists from other countries.  Sri Lanka, Thailand, Vietnam.  The parade—with thousands of lanterns, thousands of thousands of people and hundreds of ornate floats of dragons and Buddhas all made of brightly colored paper and lit by lights from within—was massive, ran for over two hours.  It is good to see that Buddhism can still survive, if only culturally, in the most Christian country in East and Southeast Asia.  Finally, I had to head home as the parade’s end was still not in sight.

On Thursday last, it was the official birthday of Buddha.  This afforded me an opportunity to do a little sight seeing.  Seoul is a city full of palaces.  While these palaces are probably not the originals (the Japanese surely destroyed as much as they could during their occupation), the grounds on which they are built are still genuine, the re-creation of authenticity convincing enough.  A rainy day—scratch that, a day of absolute piss—was unable to deter me and my companions for the day. 

I met up with Janine, her mother, Joanne, and Janine’s brother, Michael.  As we toured the site and the adjacent folk museum, Michael and I talked of travels and exchanged sarcastic remarks (usually at the expense of Janine) while Joanne and I talked of teaching.  As far as people go, Michael is among the most genuine. And as far as mothers go, well, Joanne was top notch, taking a great interest in her daughter and the friends she has accrued.  We were later joined by Dan, a Korean-Canadian who will likely be my bowling competitor in the months to come.

To round out the week, I visited with Jenie on Saturday after spending the day finishing up my first round of grades at the new job.  On Sunday, Ryan, Louis and I hiked the crowded mountain of Gwanak.  I’ve never seen so many people on a mountain before, the weekend crowd made the hike difficult at times, having to skirt around people who were going at a different pace, waiting in a line to get down a tricky rock embankment.  However, as on other hikes I have been on, we were accompanied by the chants of Buddhist monks and the good spirits of the people.  Once we reached the summit on that sunny yet smoggy day, observing the masses of people amidst the radio towers, an observatory and a couple bunkers that made me feel like I was on some sort of Star Wars planet, we sat with a group of young university students and shared a bowl of dong-dong ju and some ice-cakeys (popsicles) and talked about hiking and camping and university life and girls. 

Though the complexities of this country and its social issues can, at times, be frustrating if not confounding, the communal aspect of so many things here (i.e. eating, drinking, hiking) gives a sense of surrogacy, whether from the other foreigners encountered here or from the Koreans themselves.  This idea of family is comforting so far from home.