After a quiet Christmas and a crazy New Year and saying goodbye to some soon-to-be-ex-expat friends in Busan, we wasted no time getting the hell out of dodge (Nic’s first time in a year, my first time since August 2008).  First stop: Northern California.  While it rained (and even snowed) most of the time in San Jose, there were some mid-winter sunny days for which the state is known. 

 

On the social side, the insanity of this trip was expected.  Over-booked, running here and there to get our share of family, friends, US products (clothes, food, wine, beer, all the good stuff).  There are a ton of pictures to share, so I think I’ll break it up in four parts. 

 

Mom and Dad took us out for a night in downtown Modesto (dinner and symphony: Rachmaninov 3rd Piano from the fifth row was astounding).  Diron and I went to a couple of games and got silly (though to a much tamer degree) in the old stomping grounds of DT San Jose; we (and Cara) also took Nic to her first NHL game (I saw three live games; the first I’d seen since Playoffs 2006).  We got to spend some quality time with John Campos, who is a good friend from my time in the trenches of another life.

 

Lars, Pam, Ian, Audrey and T-Bone made us feel very at home.  It was good to mend some fences with Lars; our history as brothers is storied with rifts and reunions; hopefully we can stay on the reunion side from here on (Lars, if you come across any pics from the Chicago game, please forward them to me). Nic is already loved and I would assume is already Auntie Nic; she and Audrey were quick buds; then again, so were Lex and Nic.  Ian and I reconnected in spite of a long seperation (as old buddies will). 

 

Ella Leigh arrived five days after our arrival; Nic and I both held her at about five hours old (a first but not a last for both of us).  I’m so proud of my sister for her bravery and strength; I hope she can get caught up on some sleep (and her wine-drinking) right quick.

 

Okay.  I’ll post some more in the coming weeks.  I miss everyone immensely.

The question recently posed by the Gwangan Writers’ Group: “What makes you angry?”  What a fucking question.  After three years of living in this country, there is a laundry list, though they may be said to be minor annoyances on a good day.  The way people drive, the mouth open chewing, the bargaining for grades, the long grade change period, the last minute nature of quote un quote important projects, annoying foreigners who embarrass me with their obnoxious, look-at-me loud behavior and the conversations that I have with said way-gookens which are almost always a monologues: diatribes about bad visits from parents or about how they know more than you about this country or another (yes, the population of California is larger than all of Canada, by the way; but I’m called a liar anyway; then again, I’m not one to lord it over anyone).  Despite all these things, the thing that makes me the most angry is the fucking mo-gee, that nasty ghostly fuckhead mosquito that kept me awake last night.

As I was trying to fall asleep, thinking about the deep, round tones I heard earlier in the evening from the bell from the Buddhist monastery a quarter mile away, I had  finally put in check all the other things that piss me off and was 90% of the way to dreamland, that nocturnal place in my unconscious where I have dreams that make me sit bolt up-right and disturb my sleep…anyway, I was well on my way to that place that doesn’t allow for good sleep anyway, but at least there’s a few hours of restfulness before the heart-stopping night-terrors…okay, so I’m pissed about a lot of things and there’s nothing I can really do about them unless I completely isolate myself from the world, so fucking deal with it, right?  Anyway, I can usually find a little peace of mind as I drift off to sleep, rolling over on my side, about to go over the edge into full sleep when a high-pitched sound finds its way to my ear; swatting at it, I clobber my ear with a flat palm…my ear ringing, I stay still, fully awake from the little bastard that just buzzed the tower…I close my eyes and try to find that place again where I am about to fall off to sleep, but its difficult with the ringing in my ear, as if I have popped some sort of insular material around my psyche that protects me from all things unsavory in my life…the things that piss me off drip-drop at first, then trickle, then turn to a torrent…but goddamn am I tired…

Fighting the waves of anger that leap up in front of me, I close my eyes, get about 50% of the way to sleep when the mo-gee seems to land on my shin bone; I use a foot to brush him away; then he seems to land on my scalp, so I swat my increasingly balding headtop…ear ringing, shin scratched from un-cut toenails, bald spot throbbing, the waves of all other things increase in height.  As if to mock me, Nic starts snoring.  Insult to injury, she turns over and lances my back with her pointy elbows.  She mocks me, I know.  She’s playing like she’s asleep.  Sleeps like the dead, and that just ain’t fair.  Dreamless.  Worry-free slumber.  She compartmentalizes and rarely has trouble falling asleep.  But maybe she’s dealing with her anger, dealing with it by mocking me, snoring, piercing me with those stiletto elbows, getting back at me for something I did, something left unsaid.  Really, though, she’s not like that; but I’m just pissed because I can’t sleep and all I can do is think irrational thoughts.  Too tired to read, too angry even to write.  Oh, maybe I will write.

Little bugger buzzes the tower again and I hit myself in the forehead, the needles of this smack are still present as I swipe my hand over the impact crater to find no moisture of dead mosquito; fuck it, I say.  I turn on the lights to hunt, the only poor bastard awake in the entire world.  Mano y mosquito now, fuckface.  I search all the normal spots where the guerilla mosquito hides.  Behind the headboard?  No.  Behind the chair back?  Nope.  On the big neon light that now engulfs the room?  Nada.  So where the hell is he?  Nic is really good at hunting these bastards, but she has just covered up her eyes with her arms and sleeps on as if there weren’t a war going on right now.  A land-air war.  And the mo-gee has stealth technology.  It wasn’t like this in the beginning of the mo-gee wars back in May.  They were slow, stupid and easy to splat where they rested.  As the war wore on, though, there were refinements in their intelligence, each successive blood-sucker getting more refined in his evasion, more attuned to the victims sleep habits: waiting until said victim is asleep before biting six times on the top of my foot, or once on each knuckle of my left hand, making me look like an eczema sufferer in front of my classes for an entire week.  But now they are getting dumber again, too hungry perhaps to wait until the victim has gone to sleep.  I wonder, as I turn off the light and wait for the one-sided battle to continue, what the lifespan is of these fuckers, wonder where they go when the weather is too cold, wonder why they don’t seem to attack Nic, that sound sleeper who has begun to lightly snore again. 

Once again, I feel the dreaded mo-gee move on me and I get up slowly and go over to the light, turn it on, find him near the head of the bed on my side, glaringly obvious against the white wallpaper.  Swiftly I walk over and, concerned about besmirching the wallpaper, I make him go airborne so I can clap him to death mid-air.  Never as satisfying and way more difficult to pull off, this method is very workman (or workwoman-like), the chosen method of my soundly sleeping bedmate.  A couple mid-air attempts, the fucker buzzes me, trying to get me to fall victim to friendly fire by buzzing my head and my nose and my eyes, but I’ll not do that again.  I sit down, taking a break from the pitched battle.  He alights not far from me, I say to hell with the wallpaper.  I’m gonna mount this bastard on my wall like so much hunting trophy.  Smack.  Done.  His legs and body a perfectly flattened Picasso bug.  His blood is not mine—he only stole my sleep—; his blood plunged out of him every which way.  A good kill, I tell myself.  A relatively quick battle in this seasonal war.  Well, maybe not.  But at least the only casualties are him and my tormented sleep. 

I lay down again, waiting on my back for slumber to descend onto my battle-weary limbs when…oh, shit.  Was that his brother?  I try to remain calm as I think I feel another bastard landing on my shin bone.  The thing that makes it difficult for me is that I am a hairy bastard.  Sometimes—probably most of the time—I feel something on my leg-chest-arm-head-shoulder, it is just one of my millions of hairs getting comfortable, rearranging itself for the night.  But by this point I am a paranoid SOB, so the mind is twirling off into anger instead of curling up into sleep.  Off goes the mind again, imagined mo-gees playing in the tall golden and brown stalks of my body hair.  Finally, I just cover the whole of my body and head under the sheet.  Suffocation be damned.  Sleep, the sleep of the dead would be better than these tormenting thoughts keeping me awake.  Awake and angry.  I wonder what time it is.  It’s 4am.  I know by the sound of the low, round tones from the Buddhist temple not a quarter mile away.

Lots of other activities this summer: a hike up Geumjeongsan (801.5 meters) with Mike Noonan, Peter DeMarco and Yanick Guay.  Yet another ascent of Eomgungsan, this time with Nicole and her sister.  A few trips to the ballgame with various friends, including Punchy, Amanda C. and Yanick.  Numerous trips to the beach (still can’t go a week without getting in the water).  A roadtrip up the east coast for a few day getaway with Nicole to a small fishing town called Hwajin (200-250 k north). 

 

I owe some more writing, but the pictures are long overdue.  Hoping to post something about motorbike riding and mosquitoes.

Just a lazy day down at the Jagalchi Market.  If you have the means, I highly recommend it.

On July 4th, I thought I’d treat Ma to a Korean interpretation of a very American pasttime: baseball.  I won’t go too much into it becuase I don’t want to detract from hearing Ma’s impressions, but suffice it to say the experience is far different than anything you may have experienced in North America.  If you have the means, I highly recommend it.

 

The following day, Ma and I went to church.  While this is something that I would not do on my own, I was a good son and a good agnostic, leaving an open mind to the experience.  Ma seemed to appreciate the ritual and the singing, but both of us thought the preist was a little long-winded in his sermon (30 minutes is too long in one’s own language, not to mention a foreign one).  After sitting through that, we repaired to lunch and a couple glasses of wine before heading back to the apartment to get Nicole and head out to Hywamyeong, the other side of town where Punchy lives with his family, including a 3 month old Emily.  It was apparent that Ma missed her grandbabies–that or she’s staying in shape for another one in the future (no, not me).

We went off to Gyeongju, where Ma treated us to a room at the Hilton.  The accommodations were far better than a sleazy love motel, that’s for sure.  Almost immediately after settling in, we went to the Folkcraft Village.  Korea is famous for its pottery, so this was a great place to see and buy works of art, not to mention, experiment with the camera and the different textures and colors I would pick up through the lens. 

 

That night, we went to a traditional Korean multi-course meal that included more side dishes than you could count, much less name.  The service was perfect. and the conversation was stimulated by the exotic and unknown foods and flavors.

 

The next day we went to Bulguksa (Temple) and Seokguram (Grotto), both of which are a must-see for this area.  The temple had some original remaining pieces despite that it, like many other treasures here in Korea, had once upon a time been destroyed or damaged by foreign invaders.  I think Ma liked the grotto the best: high in the mountains above the city sits an almost wholly preserved relic that is over 500 years old, if not much more.  There are no photos allowed of this white Buddha that sits in a cave serenely as people visit and take a picture in their minds. 

 

We rounded out the day with a visit to the royal tombs of Daereoungwon.  I had visited this and the other sites before, but the amazing contrast between fall and summer visits is stark.  If you look back to one of my first photo spreads here on this webpage, you can observe the differences yourself.  The tombs were no exception: all the lush greenery covering the numerous burial mounds (not unlike miniature pyramids in their purpose).  At the very same time we were entering the grounds, a group of 200 or so ROK soldiers also were coming through the gates.  I suppose that the purpose behind their visit is to give a sense of history and heritage to those who are asked to defend said history and heritage.  Let’s hope there very presence can deter any foolhardy attack by the North.  On July 4, Kim Jong Il fired a group of rockets into the East Sea/Sea of Japan.  It’s a strange thing.  I was so busy thinking of the next thing to do with Ma that I didn’t read the news for a couple days.  No one here seems to be terribly concerned and it has been that way for all DPRKs saber rattling ever since I got here.  Though I reacted the same way my dad and many others did when I heard back in October 2006, I don’t find myself terribly concerned, having faith that Kim Jong Il knows how terribly miscalculated an attack would be, especially if we are to believe the reports of a starving people in that reclusive country.  Nicole has likened him to a spoiled child, kicking and screaming for attention.

The mist shrouds the mountains only to extend our imagination of what those peaks look like. The subsequent sheets of water only wrap the experience of the mysticism of this, Beomosa, the biggest Buddhist temple in Busan.  The weather enhanced this excursion, giving a dramatic heightening of the experience.  The drizzle gradually increasing as we climbed a few steps into the mist and clouds—over a bridge past a gentle stream, and into the midday service: harmonized sutra chants accompanied with steady, hollow, wooden mokt’ak beats.  The timing of this visit couldn’t have been better for an observer; Ma was able to see an aspect of religion I am almost certain she’s never been exposed to.  As we made our way through the architecture and the sounds of the temple, the rain increased in pace and ferocity.  By the time we made our way along the stream again, it was a torrent; in fact, the steep path that we walked down was a rushing stream.  Our shoes and most everything else soaked through, we hopped a bus back down the mountain, satisfied in a way which sun cannot inspire.

Ma is finally here.  We’ve been sampling the Korean culture over the last week or so.  A few pictures to tell a story instead of a heap of words that cannot even begin to express how cool it is that she’s visiting.

The dreams are running rampant in my sleep.  Anything from getting into fights to protect Nicole’s honor to playing hockey and falling through the melting outdoor pond.  It’s been a while since I got creative with the writing, am still waiting for feedback from some of my trusted readers, am working this week on putting forth concerted effort on the pitch letter to the prospective literary agents, am looking to dust off the Spanish skills, yes, the Spanish skills.  Not only is the Spanish more useful throughout the world, I need to be able to impress Nic’s sister, Amber, when she comes to visit at the end of the summer (she studied Spanish in uni); nothing like being able to tease the girlfriend’s sister in two languages.  Nonetheless, I just the other day finally learned how to say, “Have a good day” (jo-un ha-ru dae-sae-oh) in Korean from the guy down at the 24 hour convenience mart in my building.  Two and a half years and that’s all you got, Mr. H?  Well, aside from ordering beer, food and taking a taxi, there’ve been other things going on.  For two and a half years, the mind-numbing cold and boredom has been thawing.  It continues on, thawed by life.  Nicole.  Burgeoning growth at every turn.  Great friends, decent wine, new dishes, new music.  Paul and SoYuan’s baby, Emily Jade.  The business of selling writing.  New writings.  New travel plans.

 

Dreams are abound here in the new season of Spring and I have been using the camera quite a bit lately.  A month and a half ago, I took a hike and saw the dormant buds tightly bound against the cold; now, the whole city and its mountains are a-flower; it snows pink and white petals everywhere.  Two weeks ago, Nic and I rode 100 km on the scooter, most of it with Punchy, on a tour out to a temple.  Sure, sure.  Seen a lot of temples here in this web commentary, but each has a little of its own character.  Besides, if you can mess around with the photos on your home computer, anything can look unique in its perspective.  Hoping to do another tour, this time with The Original Two, as Nic will be staying up in Seoul this weekend.

 

Just last weekend, Nic and I went on some beach/urban hikes in search of the buildings that would be most suitable for our eventual co-habitation.  Likely, this will be the largest and most affordable place I have ever lived in.  Ah, look at me, getting all domesticated.  Hey, now, I have cooked, I have cleaned, I have made my bed.  It’s just that I do it more frequently now.  The plans on the docket for me, (the 300,000 KRW bachelor) and the young Milwaukee vixen who snapped me out of the clutches of a Korean cougar at the bachelor auction back in December (taking the bidding from 220,000 straight to 300,000 scared that much older Korean woman away) are a visit from Ma to the Big Bu at the beginning of summer; after that, Nic and I will tour Thailand where we’ll explore and trek for three weeks before heading over to Cambodia for twelve days.  Ten days after we arrive back here and get our stuff into the new apartment and start the Fall semester (keep your fingers crossed for Nic getting a suitable job at a university; smart as she is, it shouldn’t be a problem), Amber will visit for ten days.  Then, buckle down and save more money for the N. America tour in January 2010. 

Way back in May 2007, the definition of a Street Commander was decreed on this website.  As you all know, an SC in the ROK is one who is defined by his own terms.  So now that the Canadicans (the dynamic two-wheeled, two-member squad/gang of expat/waegook whiteys from the two biggest countries in North America; let’s call them The Street Commanding Canadicans (SCC)) are fully mechanized, Street Commanding has a whole new dimension.  Let’s see how the guidelines stand up with the Canadicans overlay. 

 

Guideline # 1.) an SCC has sense enough to know when it is time to go on solo excursions for the purposes of adventure and/or meditation.  Well, just look at the thriving masses of this motorbike gang; the numbers (and pictures) should speak for themselves.  Though solo ventures are encouraged, I doubt that I would have had the sack to go on those lonely, remote roads without Punchy (my partner in crime) when roving the countryside.  Surely, adventures have been and will be had, though the impending arrival of Punchy and SoYeon’s baby girl might put the dynamics of the Canadicans and the Guidelines of Street Commanding into another revision.  Oh, and meditation?  What’s that?  Just concentrate on not getting smashed by a bus.

 

Guideline # 2.) an SCC has sense enough to have a sense of direction (never eat shredded wheat).  Pardon my French, but êtes-vous de la foutue plaisanterie je? (Thank you, Babelfish.com, because I don’t speak a lick of French past croissant, Dijon, douche baguette and chatte.)  This country doesn’t even have names for its streets.  It took me three weeks to find the best way to get to work; furthermore, I still get lost going and returning from Punchy’s place on the other side of town.  I am getting better at finding my way, though, and I know much more of this city due to my losing my way so many times.  When the Canadicans ride, a general direction or area is often settled upon, but since we are not fully automated, we have neither GPS nor walkie-talkies built into the helmets yet, so we end up in some pretty outlandish outlying areas.

 

Guideline # 3.) an SCC has 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.  Guilt?  What’s that?  And the only obligation is to pump that 125cc past 100 kph on those long straight-aways in the middle of BF Nowhere.  Oh, and the obligation to generally kicking ass.  If the excursion is, indeed, an outing for the Canadicans, it is automatically assumed that it is an all-day venture, finishing with a few cans of Kronenbourg outside the local GS 25 (convenience store).    

 

Guideline # 4.) an SCC has sense enough to dress smartly and comfortably, bringing along essentials so anything beyond the absolute minimum amount of money is required.  Lesson hard-learned in winter riding is that wind cuts through two pairs of gloves with fierce ease and can take up to a day to get full circulation back into your fingertips.  Money for coffee and gas is essential.  There is no such thing as too much money, because anything can happen in the middle of nowhere.

 

Guideline # 5.) an SCC has sense enough to know his limits and to push those limits—physically, emotionally, spiritually—to extremities never before discovered or rarely visited.  Yeah, I pushed my limits physically and nearly had to have my pinkies removed due to their near-death experience in the wind sheer.  Emotions?  Well, you’re fucked if you let those get the best of you when driving in this country.  The Zen of Driving is a practice encouraged for your safety as much as for your happiness.  Spiritual?  You best find your God or some inner-peace before taking on the drivers here who think they are still riding their bicycles around.  Personal space does not exist here in The Big Bu (much less in the Seoul-Suck up north, I can assure you).  But outside the city limits, the views and silence and solitude and the relative cleanliness are so choice.  If you have the means, I highly recommend it (a la Ferris Bueller).

 

Guideline # 6.) as per the tenet set forth in guideline #5, an SCC has sense enough to keep an open mind.  Going with the flow is much better than fighting the way of things on the road here.  As mentioned above, the Zen of Driving is best applied at all times.  And remember that most traffic “laws” here are like the “rules” of Street Commanding itself: more like suggestions or guidelines rather than actual laws or rules.

 

How Street Commander are you?