Home in Vail, Christmas is one of two things: just another work day (bonus time and a half) or a day to go skiing with minimal holiday crowds.
Here in Korea, almost the entire community of ex-pat teachers has Christmas day off. We don't have our families here to celebrate with, so we celebrate with each other. The last few weeks have been a whirlwind of Christmas potluck parties and baking sessions, or rice crispy treat-making marathons if you live in my oven-less apartment.
Though there are many Buddhists and Christians in Korea (the latter mark their houses of worship with big, red, illuminated crosses on the highest point of their churches) the vast majority of the population is decidedly blase about religion. some of my students have plastic Christmas trees, and many will get gifts, but few know the history behind the holiday.
I enjoyed the lack of gratuitous Christmas advertising, which generally starts just after Labor day in the United States. Only a couple weeks before the big birthday could you find a few Christmas-related items in shops and see a smattering of lights and decorations around town.
Breathing under water
On Sunday, six days before Christmas, I got sick -- the kind of sick that generally puts me out of commission for several days and involves a trip to the doctor's for antibiotics, syrups, pills and two types of inhalers. But there are no sick days in Korea (unless you have swine flu) so I suffered through it at work. On Wednesday, Dec. 23, I was so sick, I felt like I was trying to breathe under water. I had coughing fits so violent, my students would look at me wide-eyed (well, as wide-eyed as Koreans get) and say, "Teacher, hospital." Even my boss told me to get myself to a clinic.
But miraculously, I woke up on Christmas Eve tremendously improved. Not healthy by any means but no longer drowning in a colorful array of my own bodily fluids and well enough attend the festivities. About 25 friends and acquaintances gathered at Lucky Aparte (my home away from home away from home) for a massive potluck dinner and Secret Santa, at which I won a huge, squawking rubber chicken key chain that I will use to freak the daylights out of my naughty students.
Everyone spared no expense for the soiree. Avocados run about $4 per piece here, but we had a huge bowl of guacamole. There was chicken mole, bruschetta, carne asada, cheesy spinach dip, deviled eggs, crab dip and cold cured meats -- all the foods that you at home wouldn't raise an eyebrow at, but we haven't had it in ages and it was well received. On the big-screen TV, a cracking fireplace played on a loop, adding to the ambiance that was momentarily destroyed with the boys decided to watch porn, but that being less well received was quickly put to an end.
For the number of people in the apartment, we were extraordinarily quiet, but that didn't stop the first noise complaints from rolling in at around 11:30 p.m. We tried to placate the security guard with our delicious food, and he promised not to call Bossman Nick, but perhaps something was lost in translation because a few minutes later, Bossman Nick was on the line. Thank the stars he was hammered. He slurred about how he understood it was an important holiday for us foreigners, but the party was going to have to end. We eventually adjourned around 2 a.m. when most traveled to the Kyeongsung watering holes, but in my weakened state, I opted for bed.
Don't forget the Christmas pudding
The next day, Amy, a friend from Tennessee who's lived in Colorado for the last five years, hosted a lovely brunch. And then, still full from pancakes, bacon, eggs, smoked salmon and bagels, we traveled to Novotel on the Heundae beach and feasted like the shameless gluttons we are. For W55,000, about $50, we dined on a massive spread, including sushi bar, raw seafood bar, pasta station, shabu shabu station and carving station with turkey, stuffing, roast beef and prime rib. The grill offered a variety of steak, sausage and seafood, including lobster, and there were another dozen hot entrees and salads to choose from, in addition to the decadent dessert assortment. All this was accompanied by unlimited red and white wines and a Korean Santa Claus (he called himself Santa Claus' brother) who made us balloon animals.
Two hours later, we rolled ourselves out of Novotel and made out way to Rock and Roll bar a couple blocks away. There we stayed imbibing beer and spirits for the next five hours. Needless to say, the group thinned as the night wore on. At half past midnight, it was time to move on to the discotheque, but by that time, all that food had caught up to me, and all I wanted was bed.
However, taking leave of my friends is often a tricky situation. You see, if you tell someone you're leaving, he or she will inevitably protest your departure, at which point others will learn of your plans to bail and join in the protest. So, the best course of action, and one that I've nearly perfected, is to wait until everyone is engaged an/or so inebriated that they won't notice when you slip away. Being in an uber-packed nightclub when you give 'em the slip is also recommended.
And so my Christmas festivities ended with a pack of Pepto Bismol and tall glass of water. Christmas being on a Friday, I comforted myself with the fact that I'd have the weekend to recover from my gastronomic ordeal and drifted off to sleep. Hope you all had a very merry Christmas!
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Conjugating adjectives and the Korean daily grind
(Written Oct. 25, 2009)
I hear it's snowing at home. Here, cooler weather has arrived, though cool is relative. It's still T-shirt weather during the day, though the frequent, stiff breezes make a hat a necessary accessory. At night, throw on a hoodie or light jacket and you're good to go. Unless, of course, you're Korean. Then, instead, it's the season for miniskirts and fur jackets.
I'm so relieved by the onset of fall. It's finally pleasant to take a walk or hike, instead of just brutal sweat equity. I no longer sweat while watching TV. They say it was a mild summer, and thank God. I don't know if I would have survived a hot summer. Of course, it's not so much the heat as the humidity, and I'm slowly acclimating.
Along with the season, the face of ECC has changed since I arrived five months ago. Four teachers' contracts have ended, including my roommate, Sarah's. Three went back to their homes in the United States and Canada, while the fourth followed his girlfriend to Norway. They were replaced by Krista of Nova Scotia, Max of New Rochelle, New York and my new roommate, Steven, of Glasgow, Scotland. Steven and I generally accept that we don't like each other very much and try to be civil, despite our drastically different views on cleanliness.
Like, I've mentioned before, most of the people I met when I arrived in Korea have left the country. I'll admit I enjoyed a fair share of alone time for quite a while. But through events hosted by groups like Couchsurfing and Meetup, I'm expending my social circle once again.
Most of my classes are second nature to me now, though we get new books every once in a while that need to be learned. I plan lessons, teach, grade journals, do evaluations, and every 24 days, the cycle repeats itself.
I love my little kids best. I could happily teach those little people all day. The older, mute ones still prompt periodic rages and drive me to drink.
Life has established a comfortable rhythm. 1:30 p.m. to 9 p.m., Monday through Friday, I'm at school. Weekends are peppered with little trips and outings. I go to the gym Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings (and on Saturday, if I'm feeling motivated). And Tuesday and Thursday mornings are occupied by Korean classes.
Yup, for the first time in several years, I'm a student again. I started Korean classes in mid-October and now know a bit of patchwork Korean, though things can only get better from here! It's nice to be able to tell when my students are talking about me and know a few phrases to throw out at them. They're floored by any amount of Korean I speak.
"Teacher! Korean speaking!" squeal the little ones. The older ones snicker into their hands or look at me like I've lost my mind.
Koreans have two number systems, just to complicate things. One system is for counting things, like one apple, two horses. The other system is for everything else. When telling time, you just one system for the hour and the other for the minute. That makes me cry a little inside. You also conjugate your adjectives in Korean, which has illuminated why my students seem to think, "Dog cute" is a complete sentence.
I really want to get to the point where I can proficiently read a menu or have simple conversation with a non-English-speaking Korean. Wish me luck!
I hear it's snowing at home. Here, cooler weather has arrived, though cool is relative. It's still T-shirt weather during the day, though the frequent, stiff breezes make a hat a necessary accessory. At night, throw on a hoodie or light jacket and you're good to go. Unless, of course, you're Korean. Then, instead, it's the season for miniskirts and fur jackets.
I'm so relieved by the onset of fall. It's finally pleasant to take a walk or hike, instead of just brutal sweat equity. I no longer sweat while watching TV. They say it was a mild summer, and thank God. I don't know if I would have survived a hot summer. Of course, it's not so much the heat as the humidity, and I'm slowly acclimating.
Along with the season, the face of ECC has changed since I arrived five months ago. Four teachers' contracts have ended, including my roommate, Sarah's. Three went back to their homes in the United States and Canada, while the fourth followed his girlfriend to Norway. They were replaced by Krista of Nova Scotia, Max of New Rochelle, New York and my new roommate, Steven, of Glasgow, Scotland. Steven and I generally accept that we don't like each other very much and try to be civil, despite our drastically different views on cleanliness.
Like, I've mentioned before, most of the people I met when I arrived in Korea have left the country. I'll admit I enjoyed a fair share of alone time for quite a while. But through events hosted by groups like Couchsurfing and Meetup, I'm expending my social circle once again.
Most of my classes are second nature to me now, though we get new books every once in a while that need to be learned. I plan lessons, teach, grade journals, do evaluations, and every 24 days, the cycle repeats itself.
I love my little kids best. I could happily teach those little people all day. The older, mute ones still prompt periodic rages and drive me to drink.
Life has established a comfortable rhythm. 1:30 p.m. to 9 p.m., Monday through Friday, I'm at school. Weekends are peppered with little trips and outings. I go to the gym Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings (and on Saturday, if I'm feeling motivated). And Tuesday and Thursday mornings are occupied by Korean classes.
Yup, for the first time in several years, I'm a student again. I started Korean classes in mid-October and now know a bit of patchwork Korean, though things can only get better from here! It's nice to be able to tell when my students are talking about me and know a few phrases to throw out at them. They're floored by any amount of Korean I speak.
"Teacher! Korean speaking!" squeal the little ones. The older ones snicker into their hands or look at me like I've lost my mind.
Koreans have two number systems, just to complicate things. One system is for counting things, like one apple, two horses. The other system is for everything else. When telling time, you just one system for the hour and the other for the minute. That makes me cry a little inside. You also conjugate your adjectives in Korean, which has illuminated why my students seem to think, "Dog cute" is a complete sentence.
I really want to get to the point where I can proficiently read a menu or have simple conversation with a non-English-speaking Korean. Wish me luck!
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Eat the living
Even though the tentacle had been removed from its body for more than a quarter of an hour, it refused to quit wriggling. For a baby octopus, it had a lot of fight.
Finally, it stopped, and after a couple tries, I managed to secure a slippery strip between my metal chopsticks. But it was still too slick and went falling into a dish of chili sauce where the vinegar spice set the limb into a fresh wave of spasms.
Let me tell you -- it's weird to watch your food die slowly.
But there was no turning back now. Spearing the little morsel again, I shoved it into my mouth and bit down hard into the chewy flesh. Barely any taste at all, I noticed. Good.
I relaxed; stopped chewing for a moment. Bad move. The suckers on the little let suctioned to my tongue. A quick shot of soju and it was down the hatch. I hear you have eat the adults more quickly lest the suckers suck your esophagus shut. That's a little more danger than I usually like in a meal.
Five of us had congregated at the famous, seaside Jagalchi Fish market to celebrate the Fish Market Festival and offer the merchants our business. Founded during the Korean War by Korean women, the massive indoor market is known for its salty fish mongresses and their exceptional array of fresh and dried seafood.
Sea squirts, sea cucumbers, muscles, fish, squid, sea urchins and dozens of other oceanic creatures flounder and squirm in huge aquariums waiting to end up on your dinner table.
This is the sort of outing you need locals for. We perused the market with ShunMi and Dongjin picking out the best baby octopus, scallops, squid, flat fish, sea cucumber and two types of sea cucumbers. Clad in knee-high, red galoshes, plastic apron and elbow-length, bright yellow gloves, the fish monger lady deposited our lunch to be into a a blue bucket and led us toward the restaurant on the second floor.
One of the larger fish made a break for it on the second floor landing. He leaped from the bucket in his desperation but was quickly wrangled and converted into a delicious fish stew in spicy broth.
Another fish was seared and topped with slabs of tender radish, greens and a savory chunky chili paste, while the scallops were steamed without any accouterments and all the more delectable for it. The flat fish, squid, sea cucumber and octopus were all sashimied. And while it was certainly a cultural experience to try all the raw food, I think I'd only ever order the fish sashimi again.
The rest seemed to be so chewy without a while lot of flavor payoff. Still, all in all, a most memorable and delicious meal.
Check out photos and video of the meal on my Facebook page, album "Eat the living."
Finally, it stopped, and after a couple tries, I managed to secure a slippery strip between my metal chopsticks. But it was still too slick and went falling into a dish of chili sauce where the vinegar spice set the limb into a fresh wave of spasms.
Let me tell you -- it's weird to watch your food die slowly.
But there was no turning back now. Spearing the little morsel again, I shoved it into my mouth and bit down hard into the chewy flesh. Barely any taste at all, I noticed. Good.
I relaxed; stopped chewing for a moment. Bad move. The suckers on the little let suctioned to my tongue. A quick shot of soju and it was down the hatch. I hear you have eat the adults more quickly lest the suckers suck your esophagus shut. That's a little more danger than I usually like in a meal.
Five of us had congregated at the famous, seaside Jagalchi Fish market to celebrate the Fish Market Festival and offer the merchants our business. Founded during the Korean War by Korean women, the massive indoor market is known for its salty fish mongresses and their exceptional array of fresh and dried seafood.
Sea squirts, sea cucumbers, muscles, fish, squid, sea urchins and dozens of other oceanic creatures flounder and squirm in huge aquariums waiting to end up on your dinner table.
This is the sort of outing you need locals for. We perused the market with ShunMi and Dongjin picking out the best baby octopus, scallops, squid, flat fish, sea cucumber and two types of sea cucumbers. Clad in knee-high, red galoshes, plastic apron and elbow-length, bright yellow gloves, the fish monger lady deposited our lunch to be into a a blue bucket and led us toward the restaurant on the second floor.
One of the larger fish made a break for it on the second floor landing. He leaped from the bucket in his desperation but was quickly wrangled and converted into a delicious fish stew in spicy broth.
Another fish was seared and topped with slabs of tender radish, greens and a savory chunky chili paste, while the scallops were steamed without any accouterments and all the more delectable for it. The flat fish, squid, sea cucumber and octopus were all sashimied. And while it was certainly a cultural experience to try all the raw food, I think I'd only ever order the fish sashimi again.
The rest seemed to be so chewy without a while lot of flavor payoff. Still, all in all, a most memorable and delicious meal.
Check out photos and video of the meal on my Facebook page, album "Eat the living."
Fire in the sky
Five massive flaming birds careened across the night sky. They flew like comets, fire streaming from their tail, eventually burning themselves out to reveal their red and blue bodies.
Behind then, a symphony of fireworks exploded. They came from above and below, in the shapes of hearts, cubes, palm trees. Some were fast, rapid-fire bursts, violent in their beauty. Others were slow and meandering. Choreographed to music, it was enough to bring tears to the eyes of the 1.3 million spectators on the Gwangali Beach.
The Fifth Annual Busan Fireworks Festival didn't begin until 8 p.m., but we'd heard about the crowds. So to play it safe, we arrived at 1 p.m. -- a party of foreigners to be reckoned with, along with a few sympathetic Korean friends thrown into the mix. We claimed a patch of sand and spread our blankets and towels at what we hoped would be front and center of the big show -- it was.
Attack on the sand
Around us, the party was just getting started. Food vendors sold the requisite fish cakes and a dozen different types of squid. A three-story-tall soju bottle was inflated, and a few of us took turns posing with our favorite Korean poison. Streets performers showed off traditional drumming and folk dancing. We walked around, finally settling back on the sand with decks of card and new friends.
As evening set in , the crowds came out in earnest, and we were pressed on all sides by fire-loving people. Massive TV screens had been set up on barges just off the beach, and a series of performances and speeches began.
During one speech, I realized I'd been sitting with my legs pretzled under me for hours, and I could no longer feel them. So I stood to stretch. Apparently, I was grossly offending an aw-ju-ma (middle-aged women with notoriously bad fashion senses and even worse manners) behind me because I was suddenly assaulted by slapping, grabbing hands trying to force me back down.
Now, you all know, I don't take well to being manhandled, and I whipped around shouting, "What the hell is wrong with you? Is it so hard to be polite? Is it so hard to say please, juseyo?"
I raged until Shun-mi, being a local, intervened and sent the woman back to her blanket. I, of course, was still incensed, and retaliation was certainly in order. So, each member of our group (now about 30 strong) took turns standing up and doing a little dance while the rest of us wei gooks (foreigners) cheered them on with all the volume we could muster.
Not the most mature move, I know, but relatively benign, and, really, most of the people around us got a kick out of the wei gooks making fools of themselves. It was a gas.
Great balls of fire
At 8 p.m. sharp, the countdown began, and 10 seconds later, the first of 85,000 fireworks lit up the sky. This year's theme was 'love,' and the show was absolutely gorgeous and equally touching. For 45 minutes, more than one million people ooh-ed and ah-ed, their faced turned toward the heavens.
The end of the show left us breathless, exhilarated and in desperate need of a bathroom. Leave it to Becca, tall and blond as she is, to elbow us through the crowds and into a washroom in record time. God bless her.
While others in the group were ready to continue the festivities, I was spent. There was nothing else we could do that night to top that show. Best to end on a high.
Behind then, a symphony of fireworks exploded. They came from above and below, in the shapes of hearts, cubes, palm trees. Some were fast, rapid-fire bursts, violent in their beauty. Others were slow and meandering. Choreographed to music, it was enough to bring tears to the eyes of the 1.3 million spectators on the Gwangali Beach.
The Fifth Annual Busan Fireworks Festival didn't begin until 8 p.m., but we'd heard about the crowds. So to play it safe, we arrived at 1 p.m. -- a party of foreigners to be reckoned with, along with a few sympathetic Korean friends thrown into the mix. We claimed a patch of sand and spread our blankets and towels at what we hoped would be front and center of the big show -- it was.
Attack on the sand
Around us, the party was just getting started. Food vendors sold the requisite fish cakes and a dozen different types of squid. A three-story-tall soju bottle was inflated, and a few of us took turns posing with our favorite Korean poison. Streets performers showed off traditional drumming and folk dancing. We walked around, finally settling back on the sand with decks of card and new friends.
As evening set in , the crowds came out in earnest, and we were pressed on all sides by fire-loving people. Massive TV screens had been set up on barges just off the beach, and a series of performances and speeches began.
During one speech, I realized I'd been sitting with my legs pretzled under me for hours, and I could no longer feel them. So I stood to stretch. Apparently, I was grossly offending an aw-ju-ma (middle-aged women with notoriously bad fashion senses and even worse manners) behind me because I was suddenly assaulted by slapping, grabbing hands trying to force me back down.
Now, you all know, I don't take well to being manhandled, and I whipped around shouting, "What the hell is wrong with you? Is it so hard to be polite? Is it so hard to say please, juseyo?"
I raged until Shun-mi, being a local, intervened and sent the woman back to her blanket. I, of course, was still incensed, and retaliation was certainly in order. So, each member of our group (now about 30 strong) took turns standing up and doing a little dance while the rest of us wei gooks (foreigners) cheered them on with all the volume we could muster.
Not the most mature move, I know, but relatively benign, and, really, most of the people around us got a kick out of the wei gooks making fools of themselves. It was a gas.
Great balls of fire
At 8 p.m. sharp, the countdown began, and 10 seconds later, the first of 85,000 fireworks lit up the sky. This year's theme was 'love,' and the show was absolutely gorgeous and equally touching. For 45 minutes, more than one million people ooh-ed and ah-ed, their faced turned toward the heavens.
The end of the show left us breathless, exhilarated and in desperate need of a bathroom. Leave it to Becca, tall and blond as she is, to elbow us through the crowds and into a washroom in record time. God bless her.
While others in the group were ready to continue the festivities, I was spent. There was nothing else we could do that night to top that show. Best to end on a high.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
"D" is for "delicious dog"
(Written on a particularly hot day in August.)
From the eighth floor of the office building, a myriad of scents waft through the open windows while I plan my lessons for the day. The sticky sweet of red bean cakes on their outdoor griddles. The pungent dried seafood and fermenting vegetables. Exhaust, sweat, perfume: it all comes pouring in, assailing my nostrils, disrupting my work for better or worse.
After a five-day holiday, we were all back at work, though "all of us" now has new meaning. Last week, we said goodbye to Andy and Casey, replacing the two men with one woman, Krista of Nova Scotia. Unexpectedly, we also said goodbye to my roommate, Sarah, who rushed home to Illinois after receiving news that two family members had been in a bad car accident. Sadly, her grandfather and uncle did not survive. However, Sarah will return in a couple weeks.
She and I had planned to travel to Thailand for our little school holiday, but we canceled plans after the bad news arrived. Instead, I spent many quality hours inside some of Busan's finest drinking establishments getting to know our newest arrival. But no, I didn't drink the whole five days away. I was also able to explore the city a little more. For the first time since I'd arrived two months ago, I didn't have Sarah to guide me. There were a couple wrong turns, a couple missed stops on the bus and subway, but all in all, I think I did pretty well.
Gupo marketing
Just beyond the burrough of Deokcheon, where my school is located, is the burrough of Gupo, which boasts a large wet/open-air market. Now, a supermarket divides its goods into departments: the fish here, the produce there, etc., but there is no such organizational structure at the Gupo Market. A fish monger filleting squid with surgical precision and horrifying speed stood next to a weathered woman hawking melons and peaches. Dozens of live frogs in netted tubs peered over at equally large tubs with a hundred varieties of fermenting kim chis and soy bean pastes. A man gutted a massive hog next to a woman selling socks.
And so it went for blocks and blocks until I found what I simultaneously was and wasn't looking for. I was told I'd hear it before I saw it, but all of a sudden, I looked up to meet the gaze of a big Malamute mutt. He sat in a huge cage with a couple of Lab-looking dogs. Deciding I wasn't worth his attention, he turned his big, furry head back to the toy dog yapping at him from the street below his elevated cage. Sporting a little, green jacket, with ears and tail dyed yellow and pink, this yappy pup was a pampered pet. The big dogs in the cages would not share the same fate -- they were the meat dogs.
The demand for dog meat is dwindling in Korea, I hear. Apparently, only older people still eat it, and you have to search out a restaurant that serves it, though the meat is easy enough to find. Most of my students have never tried it and recoil when they learn I want to.
"Teacher, no!" they cry. "Dog is dirty!"
Fido without his pajamas
I don't know why I wanted to see the dog market. I don't know why I want to eat it -- perhaps just to be able to say I have, to cross it off my list of cultural experiences and be done with it. Certainly, I don't relish the slaughter of an animal I consider a beloved pet.
I took a deep breath and continued into the heart of the dog market. I looked into a butcher case to find Fido without his pajamas on. He was cracked down the middle of his ribs and missing his organs and guts, though still carrying his head and tail. Cage after cage were crammed with large dogs, the kind we're so fond of in Colorado. Only the large ones are fit for eating, I'm told, and they're usually mutts, though I saw some beautiful, pure-bred-looking dogs.
Really, I was expecting worse living conditions. Although the cages were made of wire mesh, they were, for the most part, clean. I saw a few dogs tiffing with each other, but most hung out, fattening up and unknowingly awaiting slaughter. The dog carcasses were more disturbing, and I started mentally tallying how many dogs my apartment would hold. How many could I rescue?
Soon, the dog cages became more varied. These meat vendors were diversified, selling goats, ducks, chickens and rabbits, and it was almost comical to see all these animals sharing the same cages. Sometimes, only the big animals were caged, and the birds kept on top of the cages with twine tied around their legs to prevent escape. Eventually, the dogs disappeared from the cages. I breathed a sigh of relief and left the market congratulating myself on my bravery.
Check out photos of life in Busan on my Facebook page.
From the eighth floor of the office building, a myriad of scents waft through the open windows while I plan my lessons for the day. The sticky sweet of red bean cakes on their outdoor griddles. The pungent dried seafood and fermenting vegetables. Exhaust, sweat, perfume: it all comes pouring in, assailing my nostrils, disrupting my work for better or worse.
After a five-day holiday, we were all back at work, though "all of us" now has new meaning. Last week, we said goodbye to Andy and Casey, replacing the two men with one woman, Krista of Nova Scotia. Unexpectedly, we also said goodbye to my roommate, Sarah, who rushed home to Illinois after receiving news that two family members had been in a bad car accident. Sadly, her grandfather and uncle did not survive. However, Sarah will return in a couple weeks.
She and I had planned to travel to Thailand for our little school holiday, but we canceled plans after the bad news arrived. Instead, I spent many quality hours inside some of Busan's finest drinking establishments getting to know our newest arrival. But no, I didn't drink the whole five days away. I was also able to explore the city a little more. For the first time since I'd arrived two months ago, I didn't have Sarah to guide me. There were a couple wrong turns, a couple missed stops on the bus and subway, but all in all, I think I did pretty well.
Gupo marketing
Just beyond the burrough of Deokcheon, where my school is located, is the burrough of Gupo, which boasts a large wet/open-air market. Now, a supermarket divides its goods into departments: the fish here, the produce there, etc., but there is no such organizational structure at the Gupo Market. A fish monger filleting squid with surgical precision and horrifying speed stood next to a weathered woman hawking melons and peaches. Dozens of live frogs in netted tubs peered over at equally large tubs with a hundred varieties of fermenting kim chis and soy bean pastes. A man gutted a massive hog next to a woman selling socks.
And so it went for blocks and blocks until I found what I simultaneously was and wasn't looking for. I was told I'd hear it before I saw it, but all of a sudden, I looked up to meet the gaze of a big Malamute mutt. He sat in a huge cage with a couple of Lab-looking dogs. Deciding I wasn't worth his attention, he turned his big, furry head back to the toy dog yapping at him from the street below his elevated cage. Sporting a little, green jacket, with ears and tail dyed yellow and pink, this yappy pup was a pampered pet. The big dogs in the cages would not share the same fate -- they were the meat dogs.
The demand for dog meat is dwindling in Korea, I hear. Apparently, only older people still eat it, and you have to search out a restaurant that serves it, though the meat is easy enough to find. Most of my students have never tried it and recoil when they learn I want to.
"Teacher, no!" they cry. "Dog is dirty!"
Fido without his pajamas
I don't know why I wanted to see the dog market. I don't know why I want to eat it -- perhaps just to be able to say I have, to cross it off my list of cultural experiences and be done with it. Certainly, I don't relish the slaughter of an animal I consider a beloved pet.
I took a deep breath and continued into the heart of the dog market. I looked into a butcher case to find Fido without his pajamas on. He was cracked down the middle of his ribs and missing his organs and guts, though still carrying his head and tail. Cage after cage were crammed with large dogs, the kind we're so fond of in Colorado. Only the large ones are fit for eating, I'm told, and they're usually mutts, though I saw some beautiful, pure-bred-looking dogs.
Really, I was expecting worse living conditions. Although the cages were made of wire mesh, they were, for the most part, clean. I saw a few dogs tiffing with each other, but most hung out, fattening up and unknowingly awaiting slaughter. The dog carcasses were more disturbing, and I started mentally tallying how many dogs my apartment would hold. How many could I rescue?
Soon, the dog cages became more varied. These meat vendors were diversified, selling goats, ducks, chickens and rabbits, and it was almost comical to see all these animals sharing the same cages. Sometimes, only the big animals were caged, and the birds kept on top of the cages with twine tied around their legs to prevent escape. Eventually, the dogs disappeared from the cages. I breathed a sigh of relief and left the market congratulating myself on my bravery.
Check out photos of life in Busan on my Facebook page.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Peering into North Korean
Korea, like most Asian countries, is in love with all things cute. While the United States showcases a stern bald eagle as the symbol of our nation, the Korean Army has a smiling cartoon rodent (a red panda perhaps) in camouflage as their mascot. Here, if they can make it cutesy, they will.
Still, it was a surprise that as we entered the Korean demilitarized zone, the huge, metal cutout DMZ sign was in pastel pink, purple and green with flowers sprouting out from each letter. Way to make one of the potentially scariest places on earth seem like a walk in the park, Korea.
I understand that a demilitarized zone is an area in which military action is not allowed to take place. But it still seems like a misnomer to me, since in reality, this 155-mile-long, 2.5-mile-wide stretch of land is the most heavily militarized border in the world.
On a beautiful, albeit scorching hot, day a few weeks back, Amy, Kristi, Sarah and I set out to see just what all the fuss was about. It was an eye-opening field trip.
You can't just waltz into the DMZ, so we made like good tourists and signed up for a bus tour. During the hour-long bus ride from the South Korean capital of Seoul to the border, our tour guide caught us up on the last hundred years of Korean history.
A bit of Korean history
The Korean peninsula was one country until after World War II when the Soviet Union and the United States split the country in half down the 38th parallel, with the Soviets taking the north and the Americans claiming the south. These sponsor states drilled their ideologies into their spoils of war, and the Soviet Union eventually backed North Korea's invasion across the DMZ in 1948.
The next five, war-torn years claimed more than 3 million lives and cemented the divide between the two countries. The ceasefire in 1953 was never followed by a peace treaty, so technically, Korea is still at war.
Bonding with barbed wire
Living in the United States, military squabbles always seem so far away. I know we've got our fingers in every pie, but the pies aren't usually at home, and certainly not in my home of Vail. So it was surreal to see the camouflaged guard towers pop up along the Han-gang River, parallel to the highway, surrounded on both sides with layer upon layer of barbed wire. The Han-gang River runs through Seoul and into the Imjin-gang River, which flows into North Korea, and there have been innumerable attempts by the North to sneak into the South via these waterways.
Our first stop was the beautiful Imjingak Park. It's opened to the public and includes Freedom Bridge, which was used to exchange prisoners of war. There are train tracks that once traversed the peninsula and a massive steam locomotive full of bullet holes that was shot off the tracks during China's invasion of Korea. Among the stone statues and monuments are living exhibits -- messages written on bits of ribbon and scraps of cloth covering the chain link fences topped with razor wire.
Don't touch the commies
Approaching the DMZ and our second stop, we were reminded of the dos and don'ts in our brochure. The rules governed issues like dress code, photos and passports. They also included:
- Any equipment, microphones or flags belonging to the communist side are NOT TO BE TOUCHED.
- Do not speak with, make any gesture toward or in any way approach or respond to personnel from the other side.
At the Dora Observatory, we got a hilltop view of the DMZ and the southern tip of North Korea. There is one farming village within the DMZ, but the area is primarily a wildlife preserve. On a clear day, you can see Gaesung City in North Korea, but it was hazy when we were there. The two flagpoles, however, were all too visible. The North and the South have been in a pissing contest to see who can build the tallest flagpole in the DMZ for years now.
The third stop was perhaps the most interesting -- an underground tunnel drilled by the North with intentions of attacking Seoul, the South says. It's one of three or four tunnels the South has discovered so far. A North defector led them to this one. The North claims they're old coal mines, but the rock is granite.
A little monorail took us more than 200 feet down into the earth where we wandered the cold, dank tunnel until we reached the guardhouse. There's someone on duty around the clock. Seems like a raw job to be shut up underground for hours on end.
Hope for the future
Our last stop was Dorasan Station, Korea's hope for the future. A rail line had been under construction up until just a few years ago when the North decided it didn't want to play anymore. It would have connected to a greater Eurasian rail system. Now this modern station sits empty, expect for tourists and military personnel.
Here, we posed for photos with stoic soldiers and stamped our passports with the North's seal, though I'm not sure we were supposed to do that. We were given pieces of paper to stamp as souvenirs, but Kristi and I thought putting them in our passports would be more legit.
While the whole experience was very controlled and regimented, it was simultaneously enlightening with great lessons in history and culture. I know a trip to North Korea would be similarly structured, likely even stricter, but I want to go anyway. Americans aren't allowed in right now, but hey, that's what the Swiss passport is for, right?
Check out my photo album "Seoul and the DMZ" on my facebook page.
Still, it was a surprise that as we entered the Korean demilitarized zone, the huge, metal cutout DMZ sign was in pastel pink, purple and green with flowers sprouting out from each letter. Way to make one of the potentially scariest places on earth seem like a walk in the park, Korea.
I understand that a demilitarized zone is an area in which military action is not allowed to take place. But it still seems like a misnomer to me, since in reality, this 155-mile-long, 2.5-mile-wide stretch of land is the most heavily militarized border in the world.
On a beautiful, albeit scorching hot, day a few weeks back, Amy, Kristi, Sarah and I set out to see just what all the fuss was about. It was an eye-opening field trip.
You can't just waltz into the DMZ, so we made like good tourists and signed up for a bus tour. During the hour-long bus ride from the South Korean capital of Seoul to the border, our tour guide caught us up on the last hundred years of Korean history.
A bit of Korean history
The Korean peninsula was one country until after World War II when the Soviet Union and the United States split the country in half down the 38th parallel, with the Soviets taking the north and the Americans claiming the south. These sponsor states drilled their ideologies into their spoils of war, and the Soviet Union eventually backed North Korea's invasion across the DMZ in 1948.
The next five, war-torn years claimed more than 3 million lives and cemented the divide between the two countries. The ceasefire in 1953 was never followed by a peace treaty, so technically, Korea is still at war.
Bonding with barbed wire
Living in the United States, military squabbles always seem so far away. I know we've got our fingers in every pie, but the pies aren't usually at home, and certainly not in my home of Vail. So it was surreal to see the camouflaged guard towers pop up along the Han-gang River, parallel to the highway, surrounded on both sides with layer upon layer of barbed wire. The Han-gang River runs through Seoul and into the Imjin-gang River, which flows into North Korea, and there have been innumerable attempts by the North to sneak into the South via these waterways.
Our first stop was the beautiful Imjingak Park. It's opened to the public and includes Freedom Bridge, which was used to exchange prisoners of war. There are train tracks that once traversed the peninsula and a massive steam locomotive full of bullet holes that was shot off the tracks during China's invasion of Korea. Among the stone statues and monuments are living exhibits -- messages written on bits of ribbon and scraps of cloth covering the chain link fences topped with razor wire.
Don't touch the commies
Approaching the DMZ and our second stop, we were reminded of the dos and don'ts in our brochure. The rules governed issues like dress code, photos and passports. They also included:
- Any equipment, microphones or flags belonging to the communist side are NOT TO BE TOUCHED.
- Do not speak with, make any gesture toward or in any way approach or respond to personnel from the other side.
At the Dora Observatory, we got a hilltop view of the DMZ and the southern tip of North Korea. There is one farming village within the DMZ, but the area is primarily a wildlife preserve. On a clear day, you can see Gaesung City in North Korea, but it was hazy when we were there. The two flagpoles, however, were all too visible. The North and the South have been in a pissing contest to see who can build the tallest flagpole in the DMZ for years now.
The third stop was perhaps the most interesting -- an underground tunnel drilled by the North with intentions of attacking Seoul, the South says. It's one of three or four tunnels the South has discovered so far. A North defector led them to this one. The North claims they're old coal mines, but the rock is granite.
A little monorail took us more than 200 feet down into the earth where we wandered the cold, dank tunnel until we reached the guardhouse. There's someone on duty around the clock. Seems like a raw job to be shut up underground for hours on end.
Hope for the future
Our last stop was Dorasan Station, Korea's hope for the future. A rail line had been under construction up until just a few years ago when the North decided it didn't want to play anymore. It would have connected to a greater Eurasian rail system. Now this modern station sits empty, expect for tourists and military personnel.
Here, we posed for photos with stoic soldiers and stamped our passports with the North's seal, though I'm not sure we were supposed to do that. We were given pieces of paper to stamp as souvenirs, but Kristi and I thought putting them in our passports would be more legit.
While the whole experience was very controlled and regimented, it was simultaneously enlightening with great lessons in history and culture. I know a trip to North Korea would be similarly structured, likely even stricter, but I want to go anyway. Americans aren't allowed in right now, but hey, that's what the Swiss passport is for, right?
Check out my photo album "Seoul and the DMZ" on my facebook page.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Getting Dave out of a Korean jail
It was after 4 a.m. when we three girls jumped out of the cab and hurried toward the South Korean police station. From the street, you could hear the wails of the captive, our friend Dave. There he was, handcuffed and tied around the ankles, flat on his back in the lobby of the police station and making it well known he was not happy to be there.
"Let me go; let me go; let me go," he screamed at the officers surrounding him, tears streaming down his face. "I'm going to kill you all."
The officers were so happy to see three white girls willing to take the beast of their hands that they immediately moved to untie Dave. But in his drunken stupor, Dave hadn't yet fully registered that friends had arrived, and we were pretty sure he'd get up swinging if we didn't calm him down first. His fists were what had gotten him into trouble in the first place.
Just a quiet night
After traveling for more than 24 hours, Mary (the teacher I'd replaced) had arrived back in Busan after two months in Canada. Sarah, Mary and I were all tired and wanted nothing more than an evening on the couch.
Dave had other plans. Like most nights, this Torontonian was getting liquored up. When sober, Dave is a sweet and witty guy capable of cracking up the most severe individuals, including Bossman Nick. To a point, this rings true when Dave starts drinking, but he quickly disintegrates into a destructive and depressed 22 year old, who will punch out someone just before he turns around to cry about a boy who hasn't returned his phone calls.
Dave is also a chronic drunk dialer. So it wasn't anything new when Sarah and I started receiving goofy calls from him around 11 p.m. But by 3 a.m., the calls had a frantic edge to them.
"You were supposed to take the last right," he screamed into the phone, only to hang up before anyone could respond.
"I'm at the bottom of a mountain," he said during yet another call.
Usually, I'd just brush off Dave's craziness as, well, Dave's craziness. Tomorrow, I'd hear yet another story about how he threw up in a cab and then stiffed the cabbie before making his getaway down an alley. Just the day before, Dave had had too much to drink during dinner and then insisted we go watch "GI Joe" (which was god-awful). While in the movie theater, he hollered at the screen, left on beer runs every 15 minutes and to top it off, lit (and smoked) an entire cigarette. After the movie, he played in six very busy lanes of traffic. He's single-handedly giving the foreign population of Busan a good name.
But that night, there was something in his voice that just didn't sit right with me.
"Let's just call him one last time," I said to Mary.
To our surprise, a Korean answered the phone and promptly hung up on us when he realized we didn't speak Korean. However, a moment later, the phone rang. It was a translator from the police station saying they were holding one belligerent Dave and could we rush down and pick him up.
We were out the door in a flash and arrived to find a terrified but very angry Dave on the police station floor.
The biting and the breaking
He was covered in blood, sweat, tears and what was likely urine. He'd struggled for so long that he'd worked his pants down and the top of his penis was hanging out for the world to see. He turned to spit at a police officer and got me in the arm instead. I stared down at the massive, brown wad of phlegm, quickly deciding Dave wouldn't be any worse off if I wiped it on his jeans.
Finally getting across that we were there to take him home, we told the officers to untie his legs, all the while telling Dave not to kick because I was kneeling at his feet. As soon as his feet were free, he started bellowing to get the handcuffs off.
"Promise you won't hit anyone," we girls yelled back at him.
"I won't do anything, just let my hands go," he sobbed.
But as soon as he was free, Dave was ready for a fight.
"I'm going to call my daddy," he screamed, lunging at the officers. "You're going to lose your job. I'm going to kill you."
The three of us managed to push Dave out the front door before his fists could connect with anymore faces. Without the officers to berate, Dave turned his anger on us.
"You're too late. I've been here for three hours, and I'm crying like a baby," he said.
While Sarah dealt with the police paperwork, Mary and I concentrated on keeping Dave away from the cops by promising him cigarettes from the convenience store at the end of the block. During the 100-meter walk, Dave managed to rip the side mirror off a car.
Appeased by nicotine, Dave alternated between calmly musing about the night's escapades and bemoaning his broken body: a big, busted lip and assorted cuts and bruises. When Mary left to see what was taking so long, it fell to me to keep the 6'3", 250-lbs boy in check. I left the scene a little worse for the wear, but Dave never did get back in that police station.
From what we can piece together, Dave and a few of our other friends had been heading home in a cab earlier that night, when, at a red light, Dave leaped from the vehicle and took off running. It's not the first time he's done this, so his party continued on its way home. Dave found his way onto a roof where he wrecked about $1,000 worth of property, which is when the police arrived.
Of course, it'd be too easy to go peacefully, so Dave fought back, possibly breaking an officer's nose with a well-placed head butt and biting one in the neck. Even after they wrestled him to the ground, Dave bit a cop in the the ankle and threw punches at whatever was in front of him.
He doesn't remember a thing
Of course, after that ordeal, Dave claims amnesia. He'll have to pay a fine, but he's not getting deported. Things are turning out fine for Dave, which means he hasn't learned a damn thing and will likely do it again. Sarah and I have yet to receive thanks or an apology for the services rendered. What do you do with a kid like that?
"Let me go; let me go; let me go," he screamed at the officers surrounding him, tears streaming down his face. "I'm going to kill you all."
The officers were so happy to see three white girls willing to take the beast of their hands that they immediately moved to untie Dave. But in his drunken stupor, Dave hadn't yet fully registered that friends had arrived, and we were pretty sure he'd get up swinging if we didn't calm him down first. His fists were what had gotten him into trouble in the first place.
Just a quiet night
After traveling for more than 24 hours, Mary (the teacher I'd replaced) had arrived back in Busan after two months in Canada. Sarah, Mary and I were all tired and wanted nothing more than an evening on the couch.
Dave had other plans. Like most nights, this Torontonian was getting liquored up. When sober, Dave is a sweet and witty guy capable of cracking up the most severe individuals, including Bossman Nick. To a point, this rings true when Dave starts drinking, but he quickly disintegrates into a destructive and depressed 22 year old, who will punch out someone just before he turns around to cry about a boy who hasn't returned his phone calls.
Dave is also a chronic drunk dialer. So it wasn't anything new when Sarah and I started receiving goofy calls from him around 11 p.m. But by 3 a.m., the calls had a frantic edge to them.
"You were supposed to take the last right," he screamed into the phone, only to hang up before anyone could respond.
"I'm at the bottom of a mountain," he said during yet another call.
Usually, I'd just brush off Dave's craziness as, well, Dave's craziness. Tomorrow, I'd hear yet another story about how he threw up in a cab and then stiffed the cabbie before making his getaway down an alley. Just the day before, Dave had had too much to drink during dinner and then insisted we go watch "GI Joe" (which was god-awful). While in the movie theater, he hollered at the screen, left on beer runs every 15 minutes and to top it off, lit (and smoked) an entire cigarette. After the movie, he played in six very busy lanes of traffic. He's single-handedly giving the foreign population of Busan a good name.
But that night, there was something in his voice that just didn't sit right with me.
"Let's just call him one last time," I said to Mary.
To our surprise, a Korean answered the phone and promptly hung up on us when he realized we didn't speak Korean. However, a moment later, the phone rang. It was a translator from the police station saying they were holding one belligerent Dave and could we rush down and pick him up.
We were out the door in a flash and arrived to find a terrified but very angry Dave on the police station floor.
The biting and the breaking
He was covered in blood, sweat, tears and what was likely urine. He'd struggled for so long that he'd worked his pants down and the top of his penis was hanging out for the world to see. He turned to spit at a police officer and got me in the arm instead. I stared down at the massive, brown wad of phlegm, quickly deciding Dave wouldn't be any worse off if I wiped it on his jeans.
Finally getting across that we were there to take him home, we told the officers to untie his legs, all the while telling Dave not to kick because I was kneeling at his feet. As soon as his feet were free, he started bellowing to get the handcuffs off.
"Promise you won't hit anyone," we girls yelled back at him.
"I won't do anything, just let my hands go," he sobbed.
But as soon as he was free, Dave was ready for a fight.
"I'm going to call my daddy," he screamed, lunging at the officers. "You're going to lose your job. I'm going to kill you."
The three of us managed to push Dave out the front door before his fists could connect with anymore faces. Without the officers to berate, Dave turned his anger on us.
"You're too late. I've been here for three hours, and I'm crying like a baby," he said.
While Sarah dealt with the police paperwork, Mary and I concentrated on keeping Dave away from the cops by promising him cigarettes from the convenience store at the end of the block. During the 100-meter walk, Dave managed to rip the side mirror off a car.
Appeased by nicotine, Dave alternated between calmly musing about the night's escapades and bemoaning his broken body: a big, busted lip and assorted cuts and bruises. When Mary left to see what was taking so long, it fell to me to keep the 6'3", 250-lbs boy in check. I left the scene a little worse for the wear, but Dave never did get back in that police station.
From what we can piece together, Dave and a few of our other friends had been heading home in a cab earlier that night, when, at a red light, Dave leaped from the vehicle and took off running. It's not the first time he's done this, so his party continued on its way home. Dave found his way onto a roof where he wrecked about $1,000 worth of property, which is when the police arrived.
Of course, it'd be too easy to go peacefully, so Dave fought back, possibly breaking an officer's nose with a well-placed head butt and biting one in the neck. Even after they wrestled him to the ground, Dave bit a cop in the the ankle and threw punches at whatever was in front of him.
He doesn't remember a thing
Of course, after that ordeal, Dave claims amnesia. He'll have to pay a fine, but he's not getting deported. Things are turning out fine for Dave, which means he hasn't learned a damn thing and will likely do it again. Sarah and I have yet to receive thanks or an apology for the services rendered. What do you do with a kid like that?
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Games Koreans play
Koreans love to go to the hospital. And with extraordinarily affordable health care, it's not surprising that no malady, from headaches to hangnails, is too insignificant to necessitate a trip to the hospital.
Still, it was a surprise when at the makeup counter yesterday, the salesgirl took one look at my painfully broken out face and said, "Hospital."
To be sure, my face is taking longer than I would like to adjust to this new climate, but I didn't think it wasn't anything a bit of foundation and a little more time couldn't take of. (Oh, who am I kidding, my face is a disaster!) But it got me thinking that perhaps, I too, should make use of South Korea's renowned health care system. And so tomorrow, I, along with a Korean teacher/interpreter, journey to the dermatologist. And with any luck, I'll be looking prettier soon.
So long, farewell ...
This weekend, I began the process of saying farewell to some of the new friends I've made since I've been here. It seems that I was among the first of a new wave of teachers, and by September, not many of the people I've met will still be teaching here in South Korea.
Ironically, I met most of these folks at another going-away party -- one for Mary, the teacher I replaced. I'd only been in Korea for five days before Mary left her final mark on Korea with a blowout at a huge German pub (good beer, horrible food) featuring a Bulgarian band belting out songs in a dozen different languages, including a far-too-accurate cover of "Step by Step" by the New Kids on the Block.
Not surprisingly, the expatriates tend to hang out together at expat bars, so it was off to Moe's where a punk rock band rocked some original songs with a little Nirvana and Ricky Martin thrown into the mix. I hear the most random music here. Old and new American music is certainly prevalent, but Koreans also love their K-Pop, the catchy, mind-numbing, bubblegum, Korean pop that's played in every shop, taxi and disco in the country.
It was only my second weekend here when I was carted off to go camping on the beach of picturesque Geojedo Island, a hour-long ferry ride from Busan. Sadly, the beaches are pretty littered, but our group was able to carve out a pretty spot to pitch tents, roast weenies and, of course, imbibe a mind-erasing amount of soju as we played in the sand.
Out to the ball game; off to the races
Busan is a baseball loving city, and the home team is the Lotte Giants. So far, I've only been to one game, but they're a blast, so I hope they schedule more home games on the weekends. Games are a spectacle of rabid fans waving newspaper pompons and wearing inflatable seagull headbands (the Giants' mascot). You can bring in our own food and drink, though you can buy everything from hot dogs to sheets of dried squid in the stadium.
The local horse-racing track is also a hot spot in town and an event for the whole family. When my roomie, Sarah, suggested a day at the races, we were all envisioning a dusty track and a few bleachers, so we were blown away by the gorgeous and massive racing complex before us. In addition to the four-story viewing building, with a couple restaurants and the nicest restrooms I've found in Korea thus far, there was a large outdoor seating area.
In between races, there were dance groups to entertain the crowd. There were horse-drawn carriage rides, an alpine slide for the kids, along with a random assortment of games, including one where children stood barefoot on a block of ice to see who could last the longest. The stables were open for viewing, and the grounds were a sight to behold all by themselves. Truly an impressive experience that I'd like to repeat. Maybe I'll even bet on a horse next time, though the whole process confounds me.
Another Korean institution is the norae-bong, or private karaoke room. Now, you all know, I am not a karaoke-ing sort of girl, but there's something about being in semi-private company and watermelon-infused soju that loosens the tongue. I'm generally hoarse by the time I step out of the norae-bong, which has been as late as 5 a.m. since norae-bongs (and bars) never seem to close. Just this morning, I watched the sky brighten over the ocean at Guangali Beach as another farewell party came to a close.
Check out my photo albums "Just another Friday night," "Take me out to the ball game," and "A day at the races" on my Facebook page.
Still, it was a surprise when at the makeup counter yesterday, the salesgirl took one look at my painfully broken out face and said, "Hospital."
To be sure, my face is taking longer than I would like to adjust to this new climate, but I didn't think it wasn't anything a bit of foundation and a little more time couldn't take of. (Oh, who am I kidding, my face is a disaster!) But it got me thinking that perhaps, I too, should make use of South Korea's renowned health care system. And so tomorrow, I, along with a Korean teacher/interpreter, journey to the dermatologist. And with any luck, I'll be looking prettier soon.
So long, farewell ...
This weekend, I began the process of saying farewell to some of the new friends I've made since I've been here. It seems that I was among the first of a new wave of teachers, and by September, not many of the people I've met will still be teaching here in South Korea.
Ironically, I met most of these folks at another going-away party -- one for Mary, the teacher I replaced. I'd only been in Korea for five days before Mary left her final mark on Korea with a blowout at a huge German pub (good beer, horrible food) featuring a Bulgarian band belting out songs in a dozen different languages, including a far-too-accurate cover of "Step by Step" by the New Kids on the Block.
Not surprisingly, the expatriates tend to hang out together at expat bars, so it was off to Moe's where a punk rock band rocked some original songs with a little Nirvana and Ricky Martin thrown into the mix. I hear the most random music here. Old and new American music is certainly prevalent, but Koreans also love their K-Pop, the catchy, mind-numbing, bubblegum, Korean pop that's played in every shop, taxi and disco in the country.
It was only my second weekend here when I was carted off to go camping on the beach of picturesque Geojedo Island, a hour-long ferry ride from Busan. Sadly, the beaches are pretty littered, but our group was able to carve out a pretty spot to pitch tents, roast weenies and, of course, imbibe a mind-erasing amount of soju as we played in the sand.
Out to the ball game; off to the races
Busan is a baseball loving city, and the home team is the Lotte Giants. So far, I've only been to one game, but they're a blast, so I hope they schedule more home games on the weekends. Games are a spectacle of rabid fans waving newspaper pompons and wearing inflatable seagull headbands (the Giants' mascot). You can bring in our own food and drink, though you can buy everything from hot dogs to sheets of dried squid in the stadium.
The local horse-racing track is also a hot spot in town and an event for the whole family. When my roomie, Sarah, suggested a day at the races, we were all envisioning a dusty track and a few bleachers, so we were blown away by the gorgeous and massive racing complex before us. In addition to the four-story viewing building, with a couple restaurants and the nicest restrooms I've found in Korea thus far, there was a large outdoor seating area.
In between races, there were dance groups to entertain the crowd. There were horse-drawn carriage rides, an alpine slide for the kids, along with a random assortment of games, including one where children stood barefoot on a block of ice to see who could last the longest. The stables were open for viewing, and the grounds were a sight to behold all by themselves. Truly an impressive experience that I'd like to repeat. Maybe I'll even bet on a horse next time, though the whole process confounds me.
Another Korean institution is the norae-bong, or private karaoke room. Now, you all know, I am not a karaoke-ing sort of girl, but there's something about being in semi-private company and watermelon-infused soju that loosens the tongue. I'm generally hoarse by the time I step out of the norae-bong, which has been as late as 5 a.m. since norae-bongs (and bars) never seem to close. Just this morning, I watched the sky brighten over the ocean at Guangali Beach as another farewell party came to a close.
Check out my photo albums "Just another Friday night," "Take me out to the ball game," and "A day at the races" on my Facebook page.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
House of sand and mud
There's a little beach town on the western coast of South Korea, which is known for two things: being the most popular site in the world for great white shark attacks (which don't actually happen in town) and the Buryeong Mud Festival.
Every year, tens of thousands of people -- mostly foreigners, but a few Koreans, too -- come to take a dip in the Yellow Sea, soak up some sun and drench themselves in the local mud, known for its therapeutic properties.
Take away the sun and add about four oil tankers of beer and soju, and you're starting to come close to the weekend I had.
A gray sky melted into a gray ocean, and the gray ocean flowed onto a gray, mud-soaked beach. But the drizzly weather couldn't keep us down. After a five-hour bus ride, my party of nine was all too eager to ditch the bags at the mimbok (Korean-style motel) and head to the beach.
We almost literally dove into the mud housed in big plastic tubs on the beach. The beach is sand and the mud was transported from nearby mud flats. There were big paint brushes and mirrors and we went nuts painting each other, slathering it in each others' hair and making mud hand prints in places that ought not be touched in public. With most of us half a dozen cocktails into it, we threw mud around and generally made a big mess of things, which didn't really matter since the whole scene was one big muddy mess anyway.
All around people were reveling in the mud. Sad, unattractive white men wailed for someone, anyone to paint them with mud, while a pair of girls mud wrestled a few feet away from me. Finding the wrestling too exhausting, they settled on making out with each other as a way to entertain the gathering crowd.
At the highest part of the beach, huge inflatable water slides quickly became treacherous as they became coated with mud and sand, guaranteeing riders a dose of road rash should they risk a slide. Above-ground pools were filled with mud and more mud spewed from showers aimed into the pools. Slippery with mud, people writhed against each other in a rubber jail -- though I'm still not exactly sure what the jail was for.
On the boardwalk, vendors hawked mud skin care products and cosmetics, along with t-shirts and other random souvenirs. There were lots of freebies too, like the colored mud tent, which let you paint yourself, and your friends, in red, yellow, purple, blue and green mud. When the tent ran out of water to mix the mud, the color-happy festival goers used beer and soda. Since "paint your neighbor" was the name of the game, I was soon a sticky, beer-soaked cacophony of color.
As the drizzle turned to rain, the colors ran into each other, and soon all the people were gray, too, just like everything around us. While there was certainly a great deal of good, clean (read: muddy) fun, the prevalent vibe was drunkenness, and by about 6:30 p.m., we were putting the first of the girls to bed. Mimboks don't have actual beds, just blankets and pillows, and everyone sleeps on the floor. Ours was about the size of a standard bedroom and slept all nine of us very cozily.
The rest of us cleaned up the best we could in the bathroom with near no water pressure and headed back into the rain. The beach-side auditorium was packed with people watching the Korean song and dance. We braved the ever-increasing rain to watch an amazing fireworks display, but then traded the monsoon for a bit of quiet conversation and later, a raucous norae bang (private karaoke room), where we belted everything from Avril Levigne to Journey.
We called it an early night around 2 a.m., but we seemed to be the only ones. We woke to find the landings of our four-story mimbok covered with shards of broken beer bottles and enough blood to demand a trip to the emergency room. The icing on the cake was a sizable pile of human excrement on the second floor landing. But compared to other mimboks, ours was relatively unscathed, I hear.
Despite the typhoon raging outside, we went in search of lunch (convenience store instant noodles, called ramyan). Eventually the rains died down, but the gale-force winds persisted. We persisted right along with them, making the most of our last few hours in Boryeong before returning to Busan exhausted but boasting glowing, mud-enriched skin.
Check out photos from MudFest on my Facebook page.
Every year, tens of thousands of people -- mostly foreigners, but a few Koreans, too -- come to take a dip in the Yellow Sea, soak up some sun and drench themselves in the local mud, known for its therapeutic properties.
Take away the sun and add about four oil tankers of beer and soju, and you're starting to come close to the weekend I had.
A gray sky melted into a gray ocean, and the gray ocean flowed onto a gray, mud-soaked beach. But the drizzly weather couldn't keep us down. After a five-hour bus ride, my party of nine was all too eager to ditch the bags at the mimbok (Korean-style motel) and head to the beach.
We almost literally dove into the mud housed in big plastic tubs on the beach. The beach is sand and the mud was transported from nearby mud flats. There were big paint brushes and mirrors and we went nuts painting each other, slathering it in each others' hair and making mud hand prints in places that ought not be touched in public. With most of us half a dozen cocktails into it, we threw mud around and generally made a big mess of things, which didn't really matter since the whole scene was one big muddy mess anyway.
All around people were reveling in the mud. Sad, unattractive white men wailed for someone, anyone to paint them with mud, while a pair of girls mud wrestled a few feet away from me. Finding the wrestling too exhausting, they settled on making out with each other as a way to entertain the gathering crowd.
At the highest part of the beach, huge inflatable water slides quickly became treacherous as they became coated with mud and sand, guaranteeing riders a dose of road rash should they risk a slide. Above-ground pools were filled with mud and more mud spewed from showers aimed into the pools. Slippery with mud, people writhed against each other in a rubber jail -- though I'm still not exactly sure what the jail was for.
On the boardwalk, vendors hawked mud skin care products and cosmetics, along with t-shirts and other random souvenirs. There were lots of freebies too, like the colored mud tent, which let you paint yourself, and your friends, in red, yellow, purple, blue and green mud. When the tent ran out of water to mix the mud, the color-happy festival goers used beer and soda. Since "paint your neighbor" was the name of the game, I was soon a sticky, beer-soaked cacophony of color.
As the drizzle turned to rain, the colors ran into each other, and soon all the people were gray, too, just like everything around us. While there was certainly a great deal of good, clean (read: muddy) fun, the prevalent vibe was drunkenness, and by about 6:30 p.m., we were putting the first of the girls to bed. Mimboks don't have actual beds, just blankets and pillows, and everyone sleeps on the floor. Ours was about the size of a standard bedroom and slept all nine of us very cozily.
The rest of us cleaned up the best we could in the bathroom with near no water pressure and headed back into the rain. The beach-side auditorium was packed with people watching the Korean song and dance. We braved the ever-increasing rain to watch an amazing fireworks display, but then traded the monsoon for a bit of quiet conversation and later, a raucous norae bang (private karaoke room), where we belted everything from Avril Levigne to Journey.
We called it an early night around 2 a.m., but we seemed to be the only ones. We woke to find the landings of our four-story mimbok covered with shards of broken beer bottles and enough blood to demand a trip to the emergency room. The icing on the cake was a sizable pile of human excrement on the second floor landing. But compared to other mimboks, ours was relatively unscathed, I hear.
Despite the typhoon raging outside, we went in search of lunch (convenience store instant noodles, called ramyan). Eventually the rains died down, but the gale-force winds persisted. We persisted right along with them, making the most of our last few hours in Boryeong before returning to Busan exhausted but boasting glowing, mud-enriched skin.
Check out photos from MudFest on my Facebook page.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Fan death
If you go to sleep with your door and windows closed and the fan on, you will die. The fan will rob your bedroom of all oxygen and you will suffocate in your sleep.
That's the premise of "fan death," a very real, "scientifically-proven," Korean condition. It's part of the basic elementary science curriculum taught in local schools. The South Korean government lists "fan death" as one of the five most common causes of death during the summer in the country. Everyone from young children to the elderly live in fear that one day their handy electric fans will turn on them and snuff them out as they slumber.
"Children," I say to my students, "I sleep with my door and windows closed and the fan on every night, and here I am talking to you, alive and well."
"No Teacher," they reply, "Korean bodies are different. We will die."
You just can't argue with that.
Here in Busan, rainy season has begun, and I'm convinced the country's economy is sustained solely by umbrella sales. The rain either cools things off nicely or turns the city into a sweltering sauna. I've all but abandoned straightening my hair, instead letting it run wild in its embarrassingly frizzy state. My face is still wondering why we left cool, dry Colorado for this steam room and is punishing me with an ever-present oil slick. The humidity has also sent my hair and nails into a growth spurt ... strange things are happening.
Busan is a city of contrasts. Lush green mountains separate the many boroughs that make up the metropolis. Those boroughs, which hold about 3.5 million people, are filled with an uninspired concrete jungle of squat buildings -- in a cornucopia of pastel colors -- holding all types of shops and restaurants. These concrete boxes are juxtaposed by taller concrete boxes, generally apartment buildings, offices and malls.
I live in one such unimaginative 15-story high rise. Home is a two-bedroom apartment on the sixth floor of Building 3 in the Samsung Apartments. Front doors are all aluminum here. I'm not sure why, but it's awfully loud when you slam them. There's a little entryway where my roommate and I leave all our shoes for the other to trip over, and then you're in the kitchen/dining area. A two-burner gas stove is standard. It looks like a glorified camping stove, and it works just fine if you're not planning anything fancy. We have the luxury of a microwave and toaster oven, but conventional ovens are not standard kitchen appliances here. It should go without saying: we have a rice cooker.
The last roommate left a lovely, comfy sectional couch and big TV, but she'll be back to claim those at the end of the month, so Sarah and I are going to have to scrounge up some new furniture. Off the kitchen is the laundry room with a deep blue washing machine that looks like an overgrown bread maker. All the water from the machine drains directly onto the floor and into a drain at the lowest point in the floor. I still panic for a moment when I see three inches of water in the laundry room.
There is no dryer -- they're not common here. We have an enclosed patio with a large drying rack suspended from the ceiling, which can hold sheets and other larger items. Everything else dries on portable drying racks, and on a good laundry day, the whole apartment is covered with drying clothes. It generally takes a couple days for things to dry. Once dry, they lack that great fresh-from-the-dryer feel. Instead, they're stiff. And without a dryer, every little spec of lint and hair still clings to the clothes. I suppose it's a hassle, but you simply budget laundry time more carefully, and know that if you wash those jeans Sunday, it'll be Wednesday before they're on you again.
All in all, it's a comfortable home, and I feel lucky to be here.
If you're reading this, join the blog! Comment, and let me know you're out there, or I may fall into despair and abandon the whole damn thing. (That means you, Mom and Dad!) My own parents won't follow my blog ...
That's the premise of "fan death," a very real, "scientifically-proven," Korean condition. It's part of the basic elementary science curriculum taught in local schools. The South Korean government lists "fan death" as one of the five most common causes of death during the summer in the country. Everyone from young children to the elderly live in fear that one day their handy electric fans will turn on them and snuff them out as they slumber.
"Children," I say to my students, "I sleep with my door and windows closed and the fan on every night, and here I am talking to you, alive and well."
"No Teacher," they reply, "Korean bodies are different. We will die."
You just can't argue with that.
Here in Busan, rainy season has begun, and I'm convinced the country's economy is sustained solely by umbrella sales. The rain either cools things off nicely or turns the city into a sweltering sauna. I've all but abandoned straightening my hair, instead letting it run wild in its embarrassingly frizzy state. My face is still wondering why we left cool, dry Colorado for this steam room and is punishing me with an ever-present oil slick. The humidity has also sent my hair and nails into a growth spurt ... strange things are happening.
Busan is a city of contrasts. Lush green mountains separate the many boroughs that make up the metropolis. Those boroughs, which hold about 3.5 million people, are filled with an uninspired concrete jungle of squat buildings -- in a cornucopia of pastel colors -- holding all types of shops and restaurants. These concrete boxes are juxtaposed by taller concrete boxes, generally apartment buildings, offices and malls.
I live in one such unimaginative 15-story high rise. Home is a two-bedroom apartment on the sixth floor of Building 3 in the Samsung Apartments. Front doors are all aluminum here. I'm not sure why, but it's awfully loud when you slam them. There's a little entryway where my roommate and I leave all our shoes for the other to trip over, and then you're in the kitchen/dining area. A two-burner gas stove is standard. It looks like a glorified camping stove, and it works just fine if you're not planning anything fancy. We have the luxury of a microwave and toaster oven, but conventional ovens are not standard kitchen appliances here. It should go without saying: we have a rice cooker.
The last roommate left a lovely, comfy sectional couch and big TV, but she'll be back to claim those at the end of the month, so Sarah and I are going to have to scrounge up some new furniture. Off the kitchen is the laundry room with a deep blue washing machine that looks like an overgrown bread maker. All the water from the machine drains directly onto the floor and into a drain at the lowest point in the floor. I still panic for a moment when I see three inches of water in the laundry room.
There is no dryer -- they're not common here. We have an enclosed patio with a large drying rack suspended from the ceiling, which can hold sheets and other larger items. Everything else dries on portable drying racks, and on a good laundry day, the whole apartment is covered with drying clothes. It generally takes a couple days for things to dry. Once dry, they lack that great fresh-from-the-dryer feel. Instead, they're stiff. And without a dryer, every little spec of lint and hair still clings to the clothes. I suppose it's a hassle, but you simply budget laundry time more carefully, and know that if you wash those jeans Sunday, it'll be Wednesday before they're on you again.
All in all, it's a comfortable home, and I feel lucky to be here.
If you're reading this, join the blog! Comment, and let me know you're out there, or I may fall into despair and abandon the whole damn thing. (That means you, Mom and Dad!) My own parents won't follow my blog ...
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Red means go
It appears that bus drivers here feel a little put out about having to pause at all those pesky bus stops around town. So to make up for the inconvenience, they ignore a majority of the red traffic lights they encounter. It started out as unnerving, but now it's just one of the little joys of living in South Korea -- blinding careening through the streets, hanging on for dear life, since there aren't actually many seats on the bus. (The better to squeeze more people in, I suppose.)
I'm now in my third week here in Busan, South Korea. After a week of orientation, (during which I was given no direction except to observe the classes I would take over) I was thrown into the teaching fray. So far, I'm keeping my head above water, though I'm not sure why it seems to take me so much longer than the other teachers to plan my lessons.
School ends at 9 p.m., and while most of the Anglo teachers bolt immediately, I've been in the faculty office planning lessons until after 11 p.m. Granted, I'm still learning the ropes -- the books, the procedures, etc. And as a new teacher, I have to map out the entire class period by two-minute increments, as opposed to the brief overviews the veteran teachers are allowed to do.
The school, ECC (I forget what it stands for), occupies three stories of an office building. At 27 years of age, I am the oldest of the 7 Anglo teachers, from the United States and Canada. There are also five native Korean teachers. To me, their English skills are dubious. I hear they write and read better than they speak, which is good, since they're responsible for all the grammar lessons. Each hour-and-a-half class is broken into two 40-minute sessions. A Korean teacher teachers on half, and an Anglo teacher teaches the other half.
Anyone who knows me knows that I'm generally pretty anal and organized. The Korean teachers are not. It's very slowly driving me bonkers ... Oh, who am I kidding. It's very rapidly driving me completely nuts. I was in a class today wondering why none of my students brought the right books, only to figure out half-way through the class that the co-teacher had changed the lesson plan. Of course, it was Bossman Nick who brought that to my attention, (he watches my classes through the window in the door) adding that it was half my fault that I hadn't checked with the teacher before class. Why the hell do we have lesson plans if we're not going to follow them?!
My students range in age from 7 to 17. For the most part, they're good kids, though I had the preconceived notion that Asian kids are very well behaved, and that's not necessarily the case. I get the impression they're better for the Korean teachers, and try to get away with murder in front of the Anglo teachers. I enjoy the 10- to 12-year olds the best. They're English skills are generally decent, but they still have a sense of fun. The older teens are dead inside ... Really, they're just super overworked and exhausted. With regular school, extra math classes, extra science classes, extra music classes (and on and on...) those extra English classes just aren't a priority. They're unprepared, unenthusiastic and mute in class.
The work day here is an OSHA nightmare. It starts at 1:30 p.m. There's one-and-a-half hours for planning, and classes start at 3 p.m. There's a 5-minute break between each class, and you have classes strait through 9 p.m. There are no sick days, per se. You do not accrue vacation time, though there are holidays. I go in early and stay late to plan my lessons. It's week 2, and I'm exhausted.
Of course, I'm not skimping on the fun either, but that's a story for another day.
I'm now in my third week here in Busan, South Korea. After a week of orientation, (during which I was given no direction except to observe the classes I would take over) I was thrown into the teaching fray. So far, I'm keeping my head above water, though I'm not sure why it seems to take me so much longer than the other teachers to plan my lessons.
School ends at 9 p.m., and while most of the Anglo teachers bolt immediately, I've been in the faculty office planning lessons until after 11 p.m. Granted, I'm still learning the ropes -- the books, the procedures, etc. And as a new teacher, I have to map out the entire class period by two-minute increments, as opposed to the brief overviews the veteran teachers are allowed to do.
The school, ECC (I forget what it stands for), occupies three stories of an office building. At 27 years of age, I am the oldest of the 7 Anglo teachers, from the United States and Canada. There are also five native Korean teachers. To me, their English skills are dubious. I hear they write and read better than they speak, which is good, since they're responsible for all the grammar lessons. Each hour-and-a-half class is broken into two 40-minute sessions. A Korean teacher teachers on half, and an Anglo teacher teaches the other half.
Anyone who knows me knows that I'm generally pretty anal and organized. The Korean teachers are not. It's very slowly driving me bonkers ... Oh, who am I kidding. It's very rapidly driving me completely nuts. I was in a class today wondering why none of my students brought the right books, only to figure out half-way through the class that the co-teacher had changed the lesson plan. Of course, it was Bossman Nick who brought that to my attention, (he watches my classes through the window in the door) adding that it was half my fault that I hadn't checked with the teacher before class. Why the hell do we have lesson plans if we're not going to follow them?!
My students range in age from 7 to 17. For the most part, they're good kids, though I had the preconceived notion that Asian kids are very well behaved, and that's not necessarily the case. I get the impression they're better for the Korean teachers, and try to get away with murder in front of the Anglo teachers. I enjoy the 10- to 12-year olds the best. They're English skills are generally decent, but they still have a sense of fun. The older teens are dead inside ... Really, they're just super overworked and exhausted. With regular school, extra math classes, extra science classes, extra music classes (and on and on...) those extra English classes just aren't a priority. They're unprepared, unenthusiastic and mute in class.
The work day here is an OSHA nightmare. It starts at 1:30 p.m. There's one-and-a-half hours for planning, and classes start at 3 p.m. There's a 5-minute break between each class, and you have classes strait through 9 p.m. There are no sick days, per se. You do not accrue vacation time, though there are holidays. I go in early and stay late to plan my lessons. It's week 2, and I'm exhausted.
Of course, I'm not skimping on the fun either, but that's a story for another day.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Not all kim chee is created equal
It's my third day here in South Korea, and I've had kim chee (fermented or picked veggies -- usually cabbage) with every meal. Like bread at many American restaurants, the kim chee is plopped down on the table even before you order. Unlike the U.S., even the cheapest restaurants provide kim chee right off the bat, but I'm finding I don't love all of it. Some is too tangy; others are too sweet. In fact, getting that perfect blend of spicy, savory goodness is something the Koreans have been working at for centuries and will likely never be attained. But hey, it's the journey, right?
Two nights ago, at the end of my first workday, Bossman Nick (really Eo Dook Cheon or something equally unpronounceable to me) said that while tradition stipulates taking the new employee out to dinner, to prevent the spread of swine flu, the staff would not be allowed to congregate for several weeks. Apparently, Canadians and Americans hanging out with each other or native Koreans is the only way to spread swine flu ... This coming from a people who seem to have no concept of just how germs are spread. It's completely normal to see a bucket of water in public with a communal ladle from which everyone happily slurps. Here at school, there are a dozen plastic cups by each water fountain that everyone shares. I'm unsure if anyone ever washes these cups. And don't even get me started about those narrow squatty potties that are the only facilities at school. I've quickly learned to avoid the ones the children use, and my aim is improving.
So moments after Bossman Nick's contamination alert, the six Anglo staffers promptly ignored his orders and took me out for shabu shabu at ta Korean restaurant -- one where you take your shoes off at the door and sit on little square mats on the floor. Shabu shabu, I've discovered, is the Korean version of fondue. It starts with a chili-beef broth, simmering over a propane-fueled range in the middle of the table, to which veggies (mushrooms, cabbage, etc.), shrimp and sliced beef are added. That's the first course. When most of the meat and vegetables have been gobbled up, udon noodles are added to the broth. And when those have disappeared, and the broth has condensed, rice, eggs and scallions are thrown into the pot for a porridge-y third course. It's warm, filling, cozy goodness.
After my second workday. Bossman Nick seemed to get over his swine flue scare and took five of us Anglos to a Soju tent. Soju is the local firewater -- rice liquor that tastes like vodka. It's imbibed straight or mixed with vodka or juice. (I wonder if I can make a martini with it?) I hear these Soju tents pop up all over the city when the weather gets warm. The floor is made of gravel, and the place is filled with low, plastic stools and tables. In the middle of each table is a pit in which waiters put a bucket of hot coals covered with a grill. Then comes the best part -- a massive platter filled with a crazy array of clams -- some were the size of two hands! The tasty morsels were piled onto the grill and came out perfectly tender. I don't think the seafood was seasoned at all, and the delicate flavors were perfect all on their own.
I'm told all the Anglos lose wait when they move here, but I'm thinking the opposite may be true for me. Wish me luck!
Two nights ago, at the end of my first workday, Bossman Nick (really Eo Dook Cheon or something equally unpronounceable to me) said that while tradition stipulates taking the new employee out to dinner, to prevent the spread of swine flu, the staff would not be allowed to congregate for several weeks. Apparently, Canadians and Americans hanging out with each other or native Koreans is the only way to spread swine flu ... This coming from a people who seem to have no concept of just how germs are spread. It's completely normal to see a bucket of water in public with a communal ladle from which everyone happily slurps. Here at school, there are a dozen plastic cups by each water fountain that everyone shares. I'm unsure if anyone ever washes these cups. And don't even get me started about those narrow squatty potties that are the only facilities at school. I've quickly learned to avoid the ones the children use, and my aim is improving.
So moments after Bossman Nick's contamination alert, the six Anglo staffers promptly ignored his orders and took me out for shabu shabu at ta Korean restaurant -- one where you take your shoes off at the door and sit on little square mats on the floor. Shabu shabu, I've discovered, is the Korean version of fondue. It starts with a chili-beef broth, simmering over a propane-fueled range in the middle of the table, to which veggies (mushrooms, cabbage, etc.), shrimp and sliced beef are added. That's the first course. When most of the meat and vegetables have been gobbled up, udon noodles are added to the broth. And when those have disappeared, and the broth has condensed, rice, eggs and scallions are thrown into the pot for a porridge-y third course. It's warm, filling, cozy goodness.
After my second workday. Bossman Nick seemed to get over his swine flue scare and took five of us Anglos to a Soju tent. Soju is the local firewater -- rice liquor that tastes like vodka. It's imbibed straight or mixed with vodka or juice. (I wonder if I can make a martini with it?) I hear these Soju tents pop up all over the city when the weather gets warm. The floor is made of gravel, and the place is filled with low, plastic stools and tables. In the middle of each table is a pit in which waiters put a bucket of hot coals covered with a grill. Then comes the best part -- a massive platter filled with a crazy array of clams -- some were the size of two hands! The tasty morsels were piled onto the grill and came out perfectly tender. I don't think the seafood was seasoned at all, and the delicate flavors were perfect all on their own.
I'm told all the Anglos lose wait when they move here, but I'm thinking the opposite may be true for me. Wish me luck!
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