I moved into my new place here in Anyang on May 3, relatively easily making the transition from vagrancy to normalcy in matters professional, much pleased to have finally unpacked my bags for the next year of my life, committed to the job.  But that’s not the only reason I am “out here.”  And I ask, What now?  Routine?  Ritual?  What’s the difference? 

Routine—while carrying with it a sense of comfort—carries the element of work or obligation that doesn’t require much introspection.  On the other hand, ritual has the connotation of spirituality.  While I am doing fine with the routine at the new job, it is taking me a little more time to find the ritual in my workday, non-work-hours.  After five weeks of sleeping on couches and strange beds and living out of my bags, I have to now complete construction of the transition span and once again find the essential parts of my daily ritual.

Upon my arrival in Seoul, I was made to feel comfortable by Jenie—much more than I ever expected.  And for that I thank her.  During the days, I would sit and write either at her place or down in Itaewon; while sitting for a few hours next to an empty coffee cup at a café, I actually penned some lyrics for Punchy Pusan Pablo to adapt to music.  Also, I did a little wandering, going on walks or bike rides along the Han River, taking the time to try and foresee the routine and ritual I would be adapting once I moved into my new apartment down in Anyang.

The Han River bisects Seoul and is crisscrossed by fifteen or sixteen bridges.  Aside from a few minor decorative touches, these bridges are not of the artisan type; they are, rather, utilitarian roads elevated on cement beams rising from the water.  Yes, the definition of a modern bridge.  And they were built with one purpose in mind: to get millions of people across the river efficiently.  But, as I hear, what they lack in daytime splendor, they make up for in nighttime radiance, lit up with colored lights.  So, in Seoul, it is better to cross or walk along the river in darkness.  It is something I shall investigate, camera in hand.

On April 19, I moved from Jenie’s to Anyang.  But, my apartment was not to be ready for two weeks.  Hotel Isabel, a “love motel.”  These places, clustered in certain areas of towns all over the country, were not built with two week stays in mind.  One night, a couple hours, one hour.  Some may recall my rendition of the first week here in Korea, where hooker’s heels clicked in the hall early in the morning and hookers—or simply women eager to please their men—screamed in brief, feigned pleasure.  But, the Isabel was of higher standards, maybe more expensive (I certainly didn’t pay for any of it) and not as many nocturnal moanings of said hookers or accommodating girlfriends or loving wives.  So, with no drawers and only a few hangers to place my stuff, I continued to live out of my bags in a “love motel,” in the throes of exorbitant comfort—a sixty inch television, a Jacuzzi, for example; all of this in line with the standards of this competitive industry of “love motels” but far from conducive to routine that would help me find my ritual.

Work began, finally, on the 26^th, five days of training/observation at work finally finished.  I will be sure to post some pictures of my classroom and a few of the students and teachers around the “campus.”  It is a strange place, as far as hagwons go, with 26 to 28 foreign teachers and only a handful of Korean “counselors” to field discipline problems and the phone calls from concerned and/or overbearing mothers.  Most academies in Korea consist of partner teaching where foreigners and Koreans work together to bridge the gap between conversation and grammar.  But, at Yongdo, the idea is full immersion, the foreigners being the only ones to teach all aspects of writing, speaking and grammar.  A challenge, to be sure.  I will have to fully evaluate the benefits and drawbacks of both approaches at a later date.  As for now, I like having my own classroom, the small number of classes I have (three groups MWF for two hours each, two groups TTh for three hours each), and the routine that this provides.  The next challenge upcoming is dealing with report cards and comments on a monthly basis.

The apartment I finally moved into is on the first floor of a four storey building.  It is, over all, smaller, cleaner and quieter than the Gegeum pad.  But to say it is bereft of its share of noises would be untrue.  It is, after all, an urban setting, albeit much more suburban.  And these noises are to be expected.  The bell at the nearby school, the people coming and going from the surrounding apartments, the fruit and vegetable salesman driving around in their trucks with recorded messages blaring the approach of wonderful produce.  One would think they are selling religion or political propaganda.  But, no.  Just tomatoes.

In this country, there is no shortage of mountains to climb and temples to be seen.  And, if you have seen any of my pictures, you would be sure to note that these are among my favorite things to do here.  Whenever there is a need for perspective and introspection, there is always a mountain to hike and a temple to be found.  There are a few young fellas at work who like to hike.  I went with Jed (from Buffalo, not to be confused with Jed from Chicago/Denver/ Houston) to a small temple on a rainy mid-week day off and earlier this week with Jed, Randal (from Toronto) and Ryan (a Canuck from all over) for a rare mid-week morning hike and some sun before work. 

All around my apartment are the things that, in one year, may or may not be part of my next transition.  Same for the people I meet.  A couple weeks ago, I met up with my buddy Josh from the YBM Gegeum-Busan days, he on his way to China after leaving his own contract early.  He’s a long-haired fellow (who has appeared in past photo albums on this site) from the northeastern US who is only a few months younger than I.  He has this wanderlust that I, too, possess.  The difference being that he has actually seen many corners of the world.  But, our twenties were much different. 

I don’t know if I will ever see Josh again.  He raised an interesting point as we sat and drank coffee near Insadong: people are “out here” (anywhere but home) for one of two reasons: boredom or running away from something.  I find this to be true.  In addition, the people I have met “out here” are of varying transitions.  The youngsters are typically fresh out of university and taking the time to see the world as they cross from one era in their lives to another, gaining perspective before settling on the stable banks of employment and/or domesticity; others are biding their time, saving their money to repay student loans and/or travel the world.  Yet others are here to traverse the cavernous boredom between one half-life and another.  I am a hybrid.

It is important to keep people like Josh near (if not in miles, than in the occasional spirit of a story or character—via email—found in this bar or that alleyway or some remote region) not simply because they give ideas for (and listen to plans for) traveling and adventure, but also because of the perspective they can give on the fairly unique situation we “out here” put ourselves in.  And, I have found, in my first nine and a half months here, that a routine/ritual has dulled the reality that I am, in fact still living the vagabond life.  To challenge the comfort of routine is to challenge perspective.  And that, to me, is everything.

Cool, mist-laden pre-dawn air muted my steps as I walked out into the early morning of Seoul.  It had rained the night before and there was a sense of freshness in this day already, always a rarity in the usual chaotic crush and rapid pulse of a city.  Walked 20 minutes to Seoul Station, my mind blank but receptive in that early morning.  Japan was a few hours away.  But first, shuttered stores, news stands and street meat huts.  Lady at counter directed me to the airport bus stop. W10,000.  Man, mid-thirties sitting amongst the few people waiting for a train, wailed, sounding like a woman, as inconsolable as anyone who’s lost something dear.  I’d a bus to catch.  Me and two other people sat quietly as the bus maneuvered the streets, twisting route of interchanges and seeming backtracks, soon along the ghostly gray of the Han River, cross a bridge.  Time for a short nap.

Ticket booth, lady asked “Do you have your immigration card?”  Going to the Korean consulate in Fukuoka to get a new one.  Security checkpoint, man takes my brand new tube of Crest toothpaste (over 100mL).  Damn, there goes the W6,500 and the minty freshness of American toothpaste that is impossible to find except in a hole in the wall place in Itaewon that has goods smuggled from the Army bases.  Lucky I didn’t get my new stick of deodorant confiscated or I would likely have stunk everyone out of Japan.  Anyhow, back to Korean toothpaste for now.

Saw many white folks on the plane, their goal likely the same as mine.  My mind focused on getting through immigration, I would make friends with these like-minded individuals after.  But Jed, a 41 year-old Yankee salesman-turn-teacher/writer from Chicago/Denver/Austin approached me, we decided to pal around in our quest for legal work status in Korea.  I needed the quick reminder on how easy it is to make friends when traveling.  As he and I talked of various things, Korean toddler pissed in a cup just ahead of me.  I love the smell of warm urine in the immigration line.  Smells like…victory.  Nothing like watching the mother, father and grandfather managing this just so they don’t have to get out of the line. 

Immigration asked, “Do you have your immigration card?”  On my way to take care of it, sweetheart.  Found a tourist map of the city, the shuttle bus to the subway, another new friend, late-twenties Anna from Poland who’s just left her sales job with Samsung to work in infrastructure development of Daewoo’s shipbuilding division.  She’s been to four or five other cities in Japan.  I was feeling fortunate to have met these seasoned travelers with whom to explore Fukuoka. 

And this is what travel is like, it is all coming back to me.  People with varying backgrounds and travel experience.   When at the last job, I planned travel with my friends, looked to the future, tried to save money, tried to take advantage of the little spare time in Korea.  With this short trip, I saw much more, unclouded by past failures or unsatisfactory work the following day, was in the present tense the whole time, a unique anxiety that comes with all the unfamiliarity and uncertainty right in front of me, observing my surroundings, learning about new people and a new culture.  The lessons learned on the Fall 1997 North America Tour all come flooding back to me, though I didn’t think of it at the time.  And, even if only for a short time in Japan, I was able to attain the elusive now-living.  I wonder if I will ever try to reach this now-living state in the domestic life I had once chosen in a past life.  It seems much easier to accomplish when obligations and loyalties back home are maintained in a much different way.

We took the subway not twenty-five minutes from the airport to our stop.  The subway is expensive (¥290 for the ride is roughly equal to $2.40 US or W2,260), clean (no gum, dirt on tiled floors, similar to Busan’s subway) and comfortable (the benches as soft as a good, antique sofa).  At our stop, we walked fifteen minutes to the consulate, walking along one of the many small rivers that stripe the landscape on that seaside town.  As it turns out, we were fifteen minutes late for the morning session, the consulate not accepting visa-seekers from 11AM to 130PM.  We, along with all the other whiteys, had a little time to kill.  Anna, Jed and I got some food (¥550 for a bowl of noodles with a couple slices of pork), looked at the map, went to the beach for a little bit, touched the warmish, clean water; Jed checked into a large, expensive hotel nearby, the women walked us up to his room that had a nice view of the ocean side and the Yahoo Dome.  They told us that there was a SeaHawks baseball game that night, and that sealed our plans for the evening.  We bought ¥1,000 tickets (the cheapest possible tickets, similar to bleachers) for the 6PM first pitch. 

Filled out paperwork and left passport at the consulate.  I have heard some less than glowing reviews of Fukuoka, the city of 5.5 million in the greater metropolitan area (http://www.citypopulation.de).   People have said there are only businesses and not much to do.  It seems, though, a good introduction to Japan, comprised of clean living, polite people and enough sites to see in a couple or three days.  Compared to any other city I have seen, I can’t remember ever seeing such varying styles of architecture in the business towers and residences—from traditional to modern to post-modern.  And I have never seen a stream running parallel the sidewalk.  A certain level of pride comes across in a city that is unique in these ways.  And from what Anna says, major Japanese cities are as unique as the architecture.  If this is what Japan has to offer form a “less desirable” city, you will hear from me again, hostelling and packing my way up and down that nation.

We spent nearly four hours walking around and taking pictures of Ohori Park and surrounding attractions (many can be done for little or no money) like the Gokoku Shrine and Fukuoka Castle Ruins, enjoying the 20˚ C weather, clean surroundings, sparse populations of a weekday afternoon, fresh air.  Took a nap on a bench on top of the ruins, headed toward the dome much refreshed and ready for some beer.  The cost of a beer was slightly less than it would be at an American game (¥700), but the domestic beers in Japan are the likes of Asahi and Kirin, not the relative swill K-beer (Hite—aka Shite—and Cass—aka Ass) or Yank domestics.  Even before first pitch, the visiting team’s section (near where we were seated) were chanting like the Euros do at their soccer/football matches, playing horns and making a general ruckus.  Soon, the home team fans got involved.  All told, the stadium was 90% full by mid-game.  Though the home team lost, it was by far the most entertaining game I have been to in terms of the fans.  Sure beats the usual bleacher fare of drunken Giants and Dodger fans fighting and throwing shit at each other.

After the game, the subway was closed, took an expensive cab ride (¥450 just to get in the cab) toward the hostel with Anna.  She was staying at a hotel nearby.  The hostel was closed so I ended up staying at the hotel for ¥7000, talking the clerk down from ¥7800 after he asked me “Do you have your passport?” Yeah, I got your passport right here, buddy.  I really wanted to save the money YES Yongdo had given me for this trip, but that wasn’t to be the case.  So it goes, though.  Roll with the punches.  The whole trip only ended up costing me about three bucks of my own money.  Not bad. 

Next morning, I feel content not to try and squeeze in another site before or after getting my passport and visa back at 10AM.  Would have been nice to see a Japanese outdoor market or maybe go to the top of Fukuoka Tower or hit the beach again, but we all felt a certain sense of satisfaction with all we had seen the day before.  Headed to the airport around 1PM, there in plenty of time for a 330 flight.  Back at Incheon International Airport—after “Do you have your immigration card?” and what makes you think I’m an immigrant?—we parted ways to varying destinations in this massive city, maybe to once again meet up for a beer and a ballgame on Korean soil or an adventure in outlying areas.

Next day, back in Seoul, my desire to see as much of the city in the next year stoked, my need to make comparisons between Seoul and Fukuoka a necessity of curiosity.  I may have only gotten a taste (not literally, with all those pig heads and raw fish and bandegi that I saw) of Namdemun Market and its massive number of passageways and wares, but since I am here for another year, there will be sure some more photos and friends with whom I will document the market maze of clothing, food, hardware, software, people.  Nonetheless, just as I appreciate Fukuoka for its cleanliness, I have always had a certain spot in me that wants the down and dirtiness of any city, the bacteria and germs found in that market, for example, are stimulants for the imagination and fascination.

Not much to speak of at Olympic Park.  Had a nice walk along a stream, saw the outside of a number of sporting arenas from the 1988 Olympics that are still in use.  Met up with Janine back near Namdemun for dinner, movie, a couple drinks and general silliness.

 

“…I know what a boy is, which is to say, either a fool or an imprisoned man striving to get out.”  –Robertson Davies, Fifth Business

Reading this the other day I, being an old mythologizer, couldn’t help trying to apply it to my own life, thinking that the imprisoned man inside must be freed throughout his life, constantly becoming imprisoned by a man-child who likes the comfort of routine.  Though routine certainly has its place, situations have come upon me in the past or I have made choices that challenged a previously accepted way of life or self-perception.  And it seems there is a cycle: Just when I think I have everything figured out, it becomes time to move, change jobs or make some other important adjustment. Also, the people in my life have challenged me constructively or torn down my self-perception by reminding me of and magnifying my past failures.  And one might think, "Well, fuck, Nick.  You’re thirty years old.  Get it together."  Perhaps that’s a good to keep in mind, a mantra, if you will.  In essence, though, I believe this: when the cycles of regeneration cease, the questions of Self have ceased.  That whole Socrates “unexamined life is not worth living” thing.

When I look at certain aspects of my life, I find I am still a fool, still the archetypal boy imprisoning the man inside.  These realizations come upon me in situations that challenge my set routine, at times like this (changing jobs, moving).  I must make clear that the acute isolation I felt last week may have given the wrong impression of my time here in Korea.  While I was indeed feeling lonely, I have yet again realized my responsibility to my Self, that another cycle is beginning and I must embrace it; I must be careful to balance this with maintaining relationships with friends and family.  Change, though often difficult or painful initially, has always produced some good in my life, no matter how slowly I adjust to it or how I may go kicking and screaming. 

So the question now: What can I learn now?

By the time last Thursday rolled around, I had become better friends with DuBu, that crazy cat getting used to my company and I getting used to her habits and psychotic behavior.  When getting home, play with cat for she has been alone all day; if you don’t she’s liable to attack.  When playing, expect injury by claw or tooth for she is unable to decipher the difference between play and hostility.  When opening a can of tuna, expect cat will not leave you alone until you have shared; there’s no question that you will even if you don’t want to for she will follow you, whining until she gets what she wants.  When sitting on the couch using the computer, keep writing but do not move since she has decided your thigh is finally worthy of reclining against.   When all else fails, put her in Murphy’s room and close the door for a timeout.

I got out for the fourth day of excursion and went to Beomeosa Temple, taking the one line to the Beomeosa stop in northern Busan to that largest temple in the area.  Took some good pictures, but the overall experience paled in comparison to Gyeongju in size (two hours north by slow train), Haedong Younggungsa (last stop on line two and then a cab ride to the shore) in splendor and Sunamsa (up the hill from Gegeum) in simplicity.  Nonetheless, if you want a vigorous hike on well-maintained trails, continue past the temple up to the North Gate of defenses built against Chinese and Japanese invasion in the 1700s.  One must, though, imagine what was inside these 17 plus square kilometers since the Japanese occupation of 1910-1945 saw the destruction of most of it.  At the North Gate, there was a peak I was tempted to hike and catch the sunset.

Alas, Geumjeongsan and its summit of 801 meters were unattainable, my previous three days of hiking catching up with me.  By far the best part of the day was reclining on a rock in the semi-warm sun and silence beneath the still-barren branches of the trees.  After that, I hiked down, found some sustenance of oh-dang (reconstituted fish on a stick) and a bottle of water sold off the back of a truck parked on the roadside.  Then, I came upon the backwoods village of Sanseong that seemed to have a number of restaurants and motels amongst its dilapidated housing and abundance of wood-smoke.  I hopped a bus around dusk, ready to go home and shower and eat a full meal.

The next day’s hike was foregone, my need to rest the bones superseding my desire to go to the mouth of the Nakgongdang River and its bird estuary.  Busan is a wonderful city with much to do.  With good planning and stamina, much of it can be seen in four or five days.  I will go back there again with plans to see that estuary and other sites it has to offer.

A couple evenings of more farewell activities were had in a pub crawl on Friday night with the boys in Danggam-dong and Buam-dong, a short way up the hill from Gegeum.  Had dinner with Paul on Saturday and pitching contest at a recently torn down batting cage in Seomyeon.  Met up with a few more of the fellas and went to a dong-dong ju cave for some of that milky-white Korean rice-based wine and pajeon (vegetable pancake with assorted meats or fish).

Goodbye Busan.  Said my goodbyes to the boys, toted my belongings to the train station and hopped a train to Seoul.  Janine met me, we got some food and now here I stay at Jenie’s, taking care of odds and ends.  There is a new little friend here, a dog named Sarang who is no bigger than half a football.  She is a tiny little thing that I will try not to crush.  She sleeps most of the time, waiting by the door for Jenie to come home.

Thursday and Friday will find me in Japan for the visa run.

April 4, 2007

 

Many times over the last seven months have I felt isolated.  The isolation from being in crowds really isn’t unique to this country at all.  It is the character of the isolation that is unique.  Living in New York, I garnered either no recognition of my person—because of the crush of all different types of people trying to get this point of safety or that destination of segregation—or negative attention—because I was the only white guy living in a Puerto Rican neighborhood and everyone thought I was a cop. 

 

                Here—at least in Busan—the unique character of isolation has to with my whiteness—not to mention, my ability to speak English.  While the color of my skin was the dead giveaway in Washington Heights of northern Manhattan and caused people to think I was an undercover cop (hiding in plain sight, I guess was the prevailing sentiment if I were to be thought of as a pig in a blanket), here the added dimension of isolation has to do with language.  Not only do I stand out like a sore thumb—glowing red when embarrassed or gleaming pinkish-white in the afternoon sun—but I have no ability beyond ordering a beer and directing the cabby when it comes to the language.  Back in NYC, I was able to pick up a little of the racism directed toward me; not that I ever did anything about it.  Here, however, the level of tolerance is low and the unrestrained foreigner bashing is prevalent. 

 

                Paul has had more than his fair share of physical confrontations with Koreans who think he doesn’t understand insults in Korean.  I have seen many of these confrontations and I am concerned about the flippant attitude of some Koreans for their lack of discretion.  It also troubles me that Paul’s actions of beating Koreans leaves a lasting, negative impression on the beaten Koreans and the ones who see the beatings.  Paul is the flipside of this quintessential duality of man.  Such hatred and anger boils over in such interactions, yet he is married and dearly loves his Korean wife, So-Yeon, my former co-worker.  Such complexity confronts me, the non-committal (in most cases cultural) white man-observer in this country.  I am gagged by my own ignorance and bound by others’ intolerance. 

 

                The history of Korea lends to this prevailing sentiment, the country being a strategic stepping stone for the expansion of other east Asian countries like Japan, China and has been plundered by European countries, stripped of ancient relics and artifacts by the French.  And the presence of the United States here over the last 57 years has not helped Korea form a sense of itself.  When a people has to struggle with maintaining their culture and heritage in the face of continual forced outside influence, it is cause for anger, resentment and hatred to all “other” outsiders. 

 

                How do we, as members of this or that country maintain a sense of cultural identity?  How, in fact, does any individual maintain a sense of Self in the global-commercial homogenization that seems to blur the lines between Western and Eastern ideologies?  I am not one to get political.  I am simply trying to reflect, to fathom the idea of “individuality” in the face of dualistic way of life: the need to be both individual—which is, in essence, isolating—and the desire to be accepted—which can also have the adverse effects of isolation due to loss of Self and the flexibility of (or inability to form) personal morals and integrity.  And will the new generation of Koreans be able to think critically about such issues?  Are they already?  I am a teacher.  It is my job—not to mention, my passion—to combat ignorance.  Both that of others and my own.

 

                Having said that, I have had a unique few days here in Busan, this last week of my residence in this city.  I am a few days away from moving near what is supposed to be a much more cosmopolitan area, that of Seoul.  As for now, though, I am able to roam the streets and mountains at times when most others are at school or work. 

 

                On Tuesday, I went out for an excursion, deciding that I should take a bus instead of the subway, thus getting more opportunity to see the city.  I hopped the first bus that said Haeundae on it.  I immediately felt self-conscious because not only am I a white man not at work like the rest of the whiteys in the hagwons, but I have also made a commitment to wearing shorts all week long. 

 

                The weather has turned fine, though the air is still dry and, to the standards of some, “nippy.”  But, shorts represent a certain freedom, if only a certain status of bum-dom that I relish to a certain extent.  Anyhow, I have developed a certain peripheral eyesight that comes from living in big cities.  In NYC, I had peripherals to make sure no one was fucking with my shit or trying to steal it while trying to avoid direct eye contact to maintain the status quo of “ignore me and I will ignore you and that will be best for all involved.”  Here, however, the peripheral comes and goes depending on where I am or what I am doing.  When at work, I consider myself different in an all-around good way, having a wealth of knowledge about something to share with others, promoting eye-contact in my most teenageresque students while trying like hell to get them beyond the “hello” stage when it comes to encountering English-speakers outside the classroom.  When out with the boys, I am admittedly absorbed in talking to people about things that concern me without having to worry about general comprehension of the English language, so I don’t really notice if people stare or if they might be saying rude things. 

 

                However, when I am cruising around solo, I often find my intolerances heightened and my peripherals sharpened, noticing Korean habits such as mouth-open gum chewing and shameless staring.  At one point of my bus ride, I was driven so crazy by a woman chewing her gum that I got off the bus in haste, thinking I knew where I was and believing I could walk the rest of the way.  Not a chance.  But wandering certain paths of hasty or flighty decisions is the luxury of the briefly unemployed. 

 

                Eventually, I got back on the bus and out to Haeundae, the popular beach area with many hotels, a couple casinos and not much in the way of waves on the ocean.  Enduring my hypersensitivity to the stares of some young folks, I sit in the sun for a bit on the cement steps near the sand and watch a developing situation.  A Korean man in his mid to late 30s was dressed in all white (including his tennis shoes and rims on his sunglasses) and was passed out on the cement.  I have seen some strange stuff in this country, and I just chalk most of it up to my own ignorance.  Next thing I know, though, is that a cop has pulled up in his squad car; he took a good minute and a half to wake the man.  The Man in White finally wakes (to most everyone’s relief, he is not dead) and a small crowd has gathered.  The Man in White finally stands but sways as if there were a gale force wind.  Sure. Sure.  Been there done that.  But I have never passed out in public due to drunkenness at two in the afternoon on a Tuesday.  This guy was in such bad shape that, by the time he made it to the squad car, he had to sit down again, which he did so heavily.  A man near me feels my sentiment and laughs and turns to watch the ships in the distance.

 

                Soon, I decided to walk down toward the Westin Hotel on the cement “boardwalk,” around the point, enduring my own self-consciousness at the staring-curious youngsters on a field trip, the obnoxiousness of older kids who I think should be buried elsewhere, like in a mound of books or a number of private lessons or four back to back lessons at different hagwons.  This, however, is generational, not cultural.  Kids are mostly curious, and I enjoy that about young minds.  But teenagers everywhere are just assholes.  And I always assume they are making comments about everyone, regardless of race.  They are equal opportunity offenders.

 

                Anyhow, around the point there is a well-constructed wooden walkway that crawls along the rocks.  There were a lot of tour groups out that day, this was my first encounter with such tour groups that were, for all ostensive purposes, Korean.  Provincial?  I couldn’t be sure, but my whiteness and foreignness was keenly felt.  I kept my distance and stopped only briefly at a small lighthouse and decided to move on, looking for the mouth of a river that I had earlier seen that I thought had a path along it.  To no avail.  Came across, instead, a parking lot full of tour busses.  I kept hoofing, looking around me for some camera shots, searching for something to wrap my imagination around instead of thinking of uncreative ways to avoid my self-consciousness amidst the natives.

 

                Around me, there were many buildings in various stages of construction, this city seeming to continue to find places to build, Haeundae booming the most of all the neighborhoods here; would be interesting to see it in five years.  Anyhow, I eventually find my way, unwittingly, to a subway station.  I had been out for a few hours and was not terribly impressed with the hike or the photo opportunities or the culture: not quiet, not scenic, not essentially Korean, respectively.

 

April 5, 2007

 

                Next day, woke up early to watch the Giants season opener on the internet.  I really can’t understand how I spent so much of my time in the past watching games on television; live is really the only way to go.  From 530 until 7ish, I watched the Giants get their asses handed to them by Jake Peavy and the Padres.  Shutout, they were.  But, baseball is this way sometimes.  None of this early morning crap, though.  And definitely no 3 hours a day watching the games.  The last three innings is all I will allow myself.

 

                Anyhow, messed with psycho kitty DuBu, rested some more and did some writing. Finally left the house around two, Eomgwangsan the destination, hiking all the ridges between here and there.  I have looked at those looming ridges for seven months across the narrow valley that makes up the Gegeum area, this being my first chance to hike it.  The six days of work a week is a grueling schedule for someone with the desire to have adventures when time allows.  The first four and a half or five months Rob, Andrew and I were pretty good about seeing sights on that one day off.  But as of late there has been prevailing desire to just stay home and relax, something I still intend to do with one of my two days off a week. 

 

                If coming from other parts of the city, take the sub to stop 222 (Dong-eui University) and get out exit five and start walking up the hill, parallel the Mt. Sujeong Tunnel road but continue to walk up to the “T” and take a left and the first right and continue walking up the hill.  As you walk about twenty minutes straight up, you will come upon Dong-eui University and its series of tree-lined common areas.  Here is where I start to feel a little uncomfortable with my hypersensitive peripherals and linguistic wonderings.  What is it these kids are saying about me?  When all is said and done, who gives a shit?  I mean, it’s not as if it’s more than words, not as if they are going to start a fight with me.  Nonetheless, self-consciousness is acute and I walk on.

 

               When the road “T’s” again, go left and then switch back right; you’ll come upon a baseball diamond.  Here is where I come upon the Busan Giants practicing.  I don’t watch much, my desire to get to places sparsely populated by young people urging me on.  I come upon a semi-paved road and walk up it, feeling a sense of excitement as my prediction of some hike across the ridge seems to be coming true.  I hike on the semi-paved road for about ten or fifteen minutes, coming upon some baseball players who must hike some for conditioning.  Soon, though, I encounter only older people.  I stop a few times, taking the first of 130 pictures for the day, the white blossoms on the trees that line the road are reflecting the sunlight and attract my experimentations with the camera.

 

                As with all main roads of hiking in this country, there are labyrinths of less-traveled paths that wander off.  I kept my eye on the peak of my destination as I ventured up one of these paths, almost instantaneously finding a peace not found on that main road, blasting music from the university common area seeming to be gobbled up by my turning a bend and hugging the mountain and being among the trees.  My ears became relieved, silence so strange that I was nearly at the point of madness.  The muscles in my ears used to the tenseness of city noise.  All I heard at that point was the muted hum of the city as I look across the valley to Baekyangsan, a mountain peak which I have hiked not three months previous.  I was able to point to my old apartment.  I stood and absorbed it in the shadow of the ridge, protected from any wind that there might be.  Most importantly, I was protected from and most certainly astounded by—as I have often been in the mountains of this city—the relative ease at which I can escape the grinding noise of city life.

 

                Eventually I resumed my ascent, now almost straight up, finally coming upon the backbone of the ridge.  There was still hiking to do as I followed the backbone up to the first peak.  Before that, though, I began to notice that the blossoms on the trees were predominantly purple.  The sun was coming over the crest of the mountain in just such a way that I had to take a number of pictures.  As I gradually made my way along the ridge, I stopped a number of times to look at the panorama.  I saw most areas of the city and all the peaks I have hiked over the past seven months here.  This ridge seems to be the most central.  To the northwest, you can see Deokpo-dong, the Nakdong River and the airport beyond.  To the north, the aforementioned Baekyangsan, to the northeast is the Dongnae area and further east is Jangsan (the tallest peak in Busan that, like the Eomgwangsan hike, is not for the faint of heart, lungs or spirit); directly east and in the far distance, one can see the Gwagan Bridge; closer to the east is downtown (Seomyeon) and to the southeast is Busan Main port.  As you continue to turn to the south, you can see the south port to the right of Tejongdae (Yeongdo-gu) and all the container ships just waiting for their turn to dock and unload their goods in the world’s fourth largest port.

 

                As I mentioned before, I have gazed upon this ridge from my apartment window for the last seven months, not truly understanding what lay beyond it.  I once woke in the middle of the night and heard the horns of a ship.  I never before and never again heard this because of the traffic racket that engulfs Gegeum.  But, as I ascended the final tallest peak Eomgwangsan, I hear the sound of a ship horn again.  Immediately, I am reminded of what I had thought of that night back in my apartment as I tried to get back to sleep:  my grandmother.  She has visited me twice since I have been in this country and again she visited me briefly on that ridge, she being available to my own spirit when I am on a journey of solitary nature.  I walked on, smiling at the burn in my legs as I ascend the final peak, 504 meters above sea level. 

 

                The wind picks up on the windward side of the ridge and is with me the entire way down the other side.  I pick my way down a well-kept path made of small logs that create a series of steps.  Eventually, I come upon a cement stairway and take it into another university campus, that of Dong-A.  I found a Kim-Bap Nada restaurant and had a hot meal of duen-jong je-gey, a small bowl of boiling soup, veggies, tofu, mushrooms and a little bit of shellfish with a side of bap (rice).  By far, my favorite cheap meal here.  But it is not a quick meal, because the soup stays extremely hot in its stone bowl.

 

                As I sat and ate, I thought of my company on the mountain: old people, most other people being at work Wednesday afternoon.  If crowds are not your thing, get on any mountain day hike in this city during the week.  I tend to like the older generation much better because, for the most part, they seem less threatened by my mere existence.  I exchanged a number of pleasantries with other hikers on my way up and down the mountain.  This has done my soul well.  This hike did as much good for my spirit as the muted sounds did for my ears.

This will mainly serve as a travelogue for those of you interested in foreign travel.  It will also serve as motivation (not that I need much of that) to have and then convey adventures.

 

Premeditated.  Hookie is still as fun as it was in high school.  Escaped Busan (and Saturday work) late in the evening last Friday, hopping a cab directly after work at 9pm and making it from Geageum to Busan Station with fifteen minutes to spare, enough time to get a quick, expensive, shite burger from Lotteria. 

 

The train starts loading as I am squatting and Hoovering the sustenance.  Then, with my bagful of crap that I cannot seem to rid myself of just yet and some clothes for the weekend in my backpack, I board the train with intentions to read much of Fifth Business by Robertson Davies.  Soon, though, I feel tired, and just play some puzzle game on my cell phone, sleep a little through the racket behind me.  The area between cars—where the bathrooms and cell phone talking area is—is just behind me.  The trip starts with KTX employees trying to calm a furious businessman who doesn’t seem to have the proper ticket; later, an older military man gets on the train drunk and loud.  About half way through the trip, my mouth waters for a beer but, by the time the guy comes by again, he is fresh out of mekju.  I text Janine to see if she wants to go for a beer when I get there.  Sure, she says.

 

She meets me at Seoul Station around 0030 (the KTX is consistently 10 to 15 minutes late getting into either Busan or Seoul) and it is raining and there seems to be no place around that is open for a beer, the area around there unfamiliar to both of us; there seems not much going on in terms of a pub to sit and have a drink without the high-priced anjou (side-dishes for drinking that are usually required to order unless, in some cases, you can play the foreigner card and indicate that you want no food).  Besides, this food is of marginal quality by Western standards.  I once had a plate of what I thought was going to be beef of some sort, but I ended up getting a plate of three partially dried fish and mayo and glorified ketchup that I think was supposed to be cocktail sauce.  Don’t get me wrong: I like fish, but this was too over-powering in all senses fish.  And if I ever see a lemon in this country, I will be sure to eat it right there on the spot, with or without fish. 

 

Anyhow, we end up seeing a number of places for a beer but decide it’s just late and we should try and find a cabby to take us out to her neighborhood.  A cab ride out to Hwajeong at that time of night can go upwards of W25,000 (~$25 USD).  A few months back, Janine and I took a cab from Itaewon to Hwajeong and the cabby missed the exit something fierce; the fare was W45,000, of which we paid about half, using many W1000 bills and opening the door before he could lock us in.  No way we were going to pay 20,000 more for a fuck up on his part; besides, how else were we to explain to him that 45 thousand was not going to happen, was not fair?

 

After standing in the rain for fifteen minutes, we find a cabby willing to go that far and we share a ride with a businessman and pay a flat rate of W20,000.  Hwajeong is a northern suburb/satellite city of Seoul, out near Ilsan, about 40 minutes by subway from Seoul Station. Janine’s place is a two minute walk from the subway stop. Among other conveniences, she works in the building right next to her apartment building.  Also, she is directly across the street from E-Mart (like a WalMart.  In fact, used to be a WalMart but WalMart failed in their venture here in South Korea and all have been sold to E-Mart, LotteMart, HomePlus or other major competitors) and many other amenities like western coffee joints and fast food chains (this is pretty common throughout Seoul and Busan).  All these conveniences are a short walk from her place; also, there are a couple parks that will be, come full spring, great places to sit or play soccer or tennis or basketball.  Parks are curiously lacking in the area I am living now.  While there are plenty of mountains to hike on day or half-day excursions, sometimes, I simply want to sit in a park and read a book or talk with a friend or listen to music without the strain of climbing a mountain. Though, Busan does have the beaches.  That is one major aspect that I am giving up with my upcoming move to Anyang.  The Yellow Sea that feeds into Incheon Port to the northwest of Seoul is, from what I hear, less than spectacular.  But I will have to experience that for myself to really make a judgment; that is what a couple of full weekends will allow me to do now that I will have those two days to trip down the west coast of the peninsula; I have seen parts of the east coast, a place called Uljin: clean, quiet.

 

After quite a few laughs and a beer or two and some food near Janine’s place, we call it a night.  

 

We are out the door and on the train by around noon on Saturday.

 

We take the sub back into Seoul, twisting our way through the demolished old shanties and their refuse in piles, backhoes slowly removing the debris to make room for a new group of high rise apartments and businesses; the cranes in the distance, helping to build the first of many new high-rises in that area.  The size of this city continues to grow past 21 million (Korean National Statistics Office) in the greater Seoul area (the third largest metropolitan area in the world, second only to Tokyo and Mexico City—35 million, 22 million respectively (AllExperts.com)—and through the center of the city to the south, a satellite city of Anyang.  My first impressions are good: conveniences like a gym, my favorite cheap Korean foods, a couple small hills to hike nearby.  I will have to write more at a later time because we hopped on a train after an hour or so of wandering the area around my new employer. 

 

Anyhow, we go back to Hwajeong and then back into Seoul’s Itaewon area for the birthday party of Janine’s friend’s fiancé.  Now, I’ve been to Itaewon before, drinking at bars like Gecko’s Terrace and listening to live music and drinking at Woodstock and dancing and drinking at the UN Bar.  And at all these places, I saw such a mishmash of different cultures and races.  Blacks, whites, Indians and locals alike.  But this time, I am struck by the five or six different cultures I see represented as we walk up the subway to the street.  As far as I have seen in my seven months here in South Korea, Itaewon is the virtual mixing pot that I have only experienced in New York City.  In fact, this is a place unique to my experiences because NYC still seems somewhat segregated according to socioeconomic standards.  But, this heterogeneity is refreshing in comparison to the relative homogeneity of the rest of the country (Busan’s foreigner population is insignificant compared to Seoul; and Uljin is void of foreigners—and that is good for local flavor, to be sure, and highly recommended).  Travel over the next year and a half of my life will tell if cultural diversity is really what makes a city a great one.

 

Eat at New Delhi, an Indian food joint just down the street from the Hamilton Hotel, just down the street from the subway station, just around the corner from the Rocky Mountain Bar (a Canuck joint that supposedly shows hockey and, since the playoffs are about to start, I may be frequenting that joint if it’s open at the right times to see the Sharks games).  The Indian joint is all you can eat all day during the weekends.  It doesn’t seem worth W15,000 for Janine who ate next to nothing (Indian food not for the faint of palate). I, however, chowed down on a number of helpings of the spicy lamb stew and savory flatbread; the K-beer was five bucks a pop (unheard of for a pint of local beer) and of varying temperatures.  Didn’t smoke from the five foot hookah, but intend to at a future date.

 

Next, it’s off to the Nashville Extension, a fairly large bar with massive leather chairs and comfortable booths, one pool table and a massive big screen TV that is showing an English Premiership game.  The atmosphere is agreeable to western standards, though the portions small (a by-the-book shot of my JD or Janine’s Bailey’s at W5,000).  Would be worth it to pay 10,000 for a double: at least you wouldn’t have to get up again, though the cocktailers are well-versed in need-to-know bar English.  Stick around for a few drinks, watched the birthday boy do a beer bong (constructed by the staff for just such an occasion) and downed a beer in a birthday toast/challenge.  I was the victor by a small fraction of a sip; it was definitely my experience and not my age that allowed me to win.  We called it a night around midnight, trying to catch the last train to Hwageong to no avail.  Another expensive cab ride. 

 

The next day, plans are abandoned: we were going to go back into Seoul to see Jenie and then go to Namdamun Market, but we didn’t get out until half past 11.  Instead, we spend the day strolling around and sitting in the park with a cup of coffee. 

 

For a late lunch, we have shabu-shabu.  A boiling pot of spicy broth and green onions and mushrooms is put in front of you on a burner.  Thinly sliced beef is given to you to cook in the boiling broth.  After that, noodles are added to the broth for the second course.  The third course, if wanted, consists of rice fried right in the same pot where the broth used to be.  This is my favorite special meal in Korea.

 

I am now the Full Two-Day-Weekend Expat Warrior.  Over the next week or so, I will be visiting places around Busan that I haven’t gone yet because of the 36 hour weekends.  Until then…annyonghi kyeseyo.