Somewhere South of Seoul

Look Mom, I'm Famous!.. (Almost)

2008-10-06T11:32:00.008+09:00

I'm savoring my moment of stardom with the discovery this morning that my photo was featured in the Korean Herald. No, not one that I took... that would have been ridiculously cool. One that I'm in. But still, a little limelight never hurts, right? Even if it happens to be only my dismembered head sitting atop Adam's monstrous backpack. Oh yes, I believe I see a hand in there as well...

The shot is a photo taken of me, and Adam Hawkins, a friend I made at the MaskDance Festival in Andong last weekend. We were stringing small flags bearing our hand-painted wishes on a rope of twisted hemp strung near the Mask Theater. One of my friends from home asked me recently what the significance of, or the history behind, this event was. I can't really say too much about either, other than that the writing and raising of wishes is something Koreans do during a part of a number of celebrations. Often the wishes are strung around a "Wishing Tree." Here at the MaskDance festival, we hung them near wooden effigies of Hahoe masked men... our "wish protectors"?

As for my newspaper moment of fame, some of you who aren't as fluent in Korean as me are probably wondering what it might say. Actually, as I'm not in the least bit fluent, I'm still waiting on the translation... so I'll get back to you on that :)

Drinking Vinegar, Sweet and Sassy (An Update)

2008-10-04T11:09:00.010+09:00

I get a surprising number of hits on my piece about drinking vinegars, "Drinking Vinegar: It Does a Body Good,"which I posted a couple of weeks ago. Within just the past few days, however, several more references to this favorite Asian health tonic have popped up (the Law of Attraction is at work!). Maybe we're paving the way for this to become a new Western trend... ok, maybe not, but I'll take making a few ripples in the pond any day...

For those of you catching on to the hype about this sassy little sipper, here are a couple of sites worth noting:

The blog This Time in Seoul is run by a freelance photographer and writer (such as I aspire to be!) who has returned to Seoul after previously spending a year here. I'm already getting some great tips from her on places to explore for good drinks, eats, and haunts in and around the big city.

She did a piece last year on an unusual theme cafe, which, after my success in exposing you to the finer pleasures of drinking vinegar (wink), may be as tantalizing to you as it is to me. I, for one, would definitely like to check it out.
Vinegar Cafe: Vine Eau

And another blog, My Korean Diet, is written by a Korean native who has been living in L.A. for the past seven years. So you get the "insider's" perspective on this whole drinking thing. Even he/she (?) admits a healthy dose of skepticism at first hearing about the vinegar trend... and then being slowly swooned by its magnetic personality :) She gives some great info about the different types of vinegars available in Korea and what to look for on the label (if only I could read the darn things!) so that you know you're getting good quality. You can take a look here:
Drinking Vinegar, Gamsikcho, Hongcho, Heuckcho

Finally, Nyam Kitchen even offers a recipe for concocting your own pomegranate brew so that those not living in the land of the calm can take matters in your own hands. (As it turns out, it's not too complicated, so the only thing holding you back is your own preconceived notions of vinegar as anything other than palatable).
Check here for the scoop: Pomegranate Vinegar Drink

Want more? I'll keep it comin'...

Taking Slide.com for a Test-Drive

2008-10-03T11:16:00.004+09:00

I've just found a cool little site that whips up photo-montage slide shows in a jiffy, ready to be posted to your website, blog, Facebook page, or wherever suits your fancy. The site is called Slide.com, and I gave it a test run to see how user-friendly it was.

After setting up your own account (fast and FREE), you simply upload photos from your computer (or directly import from Flickr, MySpace, Facebook, and a slew of others), arrange them to your heart's content, save, and you're good to go. You'll get an HTML code on the spot for posting it online, and it appears you can add music as well (though I think that's part of the paid service subscription).

Here's to spicing up your (virtual) social life!

Korean Superstitions and the Red Kiss of Death

2008-10-02T10:39:00.001+09:00

It's always intriguing to me the superstitions that exists in different cultures and societies. Take, for instance, the Western notion of "Friday the 13th" as a veritably unlucky day, or walking under a ladder, which would most certainly result in some terrible kind of bad luck to befall you. Ever see a coin lying on the sidewalk and bent down to pick it up, only to notice that it wasn't heads-up... and kept walking? I know I have. Yes, superstitions are deeply rooted in our culture -- even the simple blowing out of one's birthday cake candles is the embodiment of a superstition: if you blow them all out, after all, you'll get your wish. And how about the tooth fairy... you can't tell me you never put a lost tooth underneath your pillow...

During my stint in Taiwan, I had a chance to observe the superstitions of an entirely new culture. The most iconic, at least for me, were the liberal swaths of red that drummed up quite a visual feast in temples, homes, and businesses. Red is the token color for good luck, prosperity, and happiness. Take, for instance, the highly celebrated Lunar New Year holiday, in which children are given red envelopes, filled with money, as gifts. For ceremonies of all kinds, including wedding ceremonies, it is only befitting that red be a part of the performance (red shoes for the bride, or a red tie for the groom, even).

Which brings me to Korea. Nearly every day that I'm at work, I find myself red in hand, in the middle of grading papers, and stumbling upon one with no name. I'll do my detective work to find out which student the paper belongs to, poise my hand to write his or her name at the top, and then, in a moment which I can only credit to Korean deities watching from above, I realize the pen I'm holding is RED. I have sidestepped once again the heinous act of writing a person's name in red, which as everybody knows, is equal to giving them the kiss of death.

Wait a minute, you're saying, RED is RED, right? Red in Taiwan is good luck and prosperity, and red in Korea is... death and destruction? Yes, my friend, that's exactly right. The Koreans, for as far back as I imagine we white people have been sidestepping ladders (no, I take that back -- much, MUCH longer), have been writing the names of the dead in red ink. A couple of times I've nearly slipped in front of my students, and have been met with sighs and snorts of terror, signaling to me that I am about to make a grave (pardon the pun) mistake.

So if you're ever in mixed company with Koreans, do yourself a favor, and refrain from pulling that red pen out of your briefcase or purse of backpack when it comes time to swap contact info. A name writ in red might get you blacklisted :)

Creating in the Kitchen: Connecting to the World Through Food

2008-10-01T13:08:00.001+09:00

I ran across the weblog today of a self-taught amateur "world chef" and backyard gardener (such as I aspire to be) who has dedicated his cyberspace to sharing cooking adventures of a predominantly Asian kind. Though he currently resides in the deserts of California, he spent several years of his life living abroad, including a stint in Tokyo where his first exposures to Korean cuisine bloomed into a full-fledged love affair with Asian-inspired cooking.

His background struck a chord with me, as my first experience living abroad -- teaching in central Taiwan --introduced me to foods and preparations I had never heard of before, and which tempted my curiosities unendingly. I sampled the smoke-scented of street vendors, sipped exotic teas, slurped authentic chao mian noodles and spicy chicken innards, and began peeling off the layers of Eastern gastronomy one morsel at a time. For me, my year in Asia was the beginning of what has now grown into a deep passion and appreciation for all things Eastern... not the least of which is food.

I scrolled through the pages of sumptuous photos and straight-forward narratives so carefully archived by Mr. "Evil Jungle Prince", eagerly recognizing names of Korean dishes I've sampled and beginning a mental list of others I want to try. Kimchi, for instance, has been high on my agenda of foods to prepare with my own two hands, and seeing the at least half-dozen renditions of kimchis presented on this site was encouraging, and somewhat demystifying. His version of Cubed Radish Kimchi (kkaktugi), for example, looks particularly appealing.

Mostly, however, I think I was attracted to this site not for the pretty pictures or the down-to-earth descriptions. It was a paragraph I read in his "About Me" section that seemed to echo -- almost eerily -- most own sentimentalities about food and cooking and sharing my thoughts with the world:

"...Cooking for me is... an escape of sorts. After having spent many years of my life living outside the United States, 'growing up' has meant settling down a bit. And while settling in a particular place in the world comes with it so many joys, it also means giving up one's freedom to roam around the world at will. Cooking allows me to have it both ways.

"...The act of cooking is also a form of therapy. In a world which is largely out of our control, cooking allows one to cultivate beauty and perfection... [To] prepare food with one's own hands is to exert control over an otherwise chaotic world."

Amen to self-therapy and complete creative control in the kitchen. Amen to the simplicity of wielding common ingredients to an uncommon end. And although I'm fortunate to be living abroad at the moment -- an experience which I truly am savoring, I know I won't always be so fortunate as to be immersed in the sights, sounds, and flavors of another culture. Preparing a dish from other parts of the world roots me to journeys from my past that are infused with an exotic blend of unforgettable impressions and fond memories. And perhaps that explains my fascination with not just seeing the world, but tasting it.

On Wounded Pride and Cryptic English

2008-09-30T21:55:00.000+09:00

I don't know what's more discouraging-- watching one of my students rip her exam into shreds right before my eyes, or reading the almost cryptic writing that they hand in for their homework...

Today I handed the freshly graded exams back to my students and tried to temper their collectively wounded pride with a reminder that it's not the grade that counts, it's the effort you make. And if you truly tried your hardest, then that's what matters most. Erin, a slightly tempestuous teenager who usually keeps her lips too tightly pursed to allow a word of actual English to slip past them during class, surprised me today when she pulled what appeared to be an exacto-knife out of her innocent pencil case and began slicing her test score from the top page of her exam. She then proceeded to tear it into miniscule pieces, prompted no doubt by a duty to guard her sensitive ego from the bruising of classmates who ousted her with higher marks.

I slaved, I tell you -- slaved -- over preparing those exams. Couldn't she have had a modicum of respect and at least waited until after class to rip it up, instead of making a grand display of it on her desktop during class today? Forget her ego; what about mine?? (calm down, everybody, that's sarcasm.) That pretty much cements the deal that I struck with myself late Friday night after tearing through more paperwork than I've seen since my days working in the Human Resources department of a high-turnover company. Melanie, overzealousness is not thy friend. Time to take it down a notch and do thy job with a little less heart.

But then, I run across the seriously disjointed and almost altogether incomprehensible garble submitted by another student, Annie, later today. The handwriting was perfect, as was her spelling. But the rest of it sent me somewhere between guffaws and giggles. I will say one thing about my Korean students: for the most part, they are excellent spellers. Along with the study skills they've perfected in their Korean school system, they are more or less masters of repetition and memorization. But as I read (or tried to read) through her almost-too-short-to-qualify-as-a-paragraph paragraph, I had the funny feeling that I was reading something churned out from the "Korean to English" button on a web-based translation mill, such as BabelFish, or WordLingo:

Today with the moms and the bosom friends does a silt experience went together. Watch to shrimp, caught the clam and a beat from the silt and took the picture. And ate the lunch rice, made and did. Truth was fun. ~ ~ happy

Bosom friends. Lunch rice. This is good stuff, Annie. Just one thing -- what the hell is a silt experience?? ;) So I suppose I can't bring myself to do my job with less heart after all. These kids, snotty, sensitive, silly and everything in between, need good English like I need air to breathe. It's their ticket to a future filled with promise. Besides, at the end of the day, what matters most is that I'm making a difference, that my students are happy, and that they know they matter in this big world. I think my student Max sums it up quite memorably:

A school is funny so happy school but, school is sad too but, I Love school

On the bright side, I think it's safe to say I've got pretty good job security here in Korea... my students are going to be needing me for quite some time...

Seosanites Unite -- Foreigners on Facebook

2008-09-29T23:44:00.005+09:00

Last Thursday night, I rode my bicycle to the Family Mart (Korea's version of the ubiquitous 7-Eleven) near Seosan's movie theater, to meet my good friend Chetty for a mid-week drink and chat. I had sent out an invite to several of the other foreigners that I've befriended in my few months here, and was expecting to see at least a couple of familiar faces sitting under the big, blue, plastic umbrellas on the corner when I pulled up. But I was bemused and surprised to instead find nearly a dozen strangers, including a couple of fresher-than-fresh recruits -- a cute young couple from the U.K., who had literally just arrived in Korea the day prior.

Over the next hour or so of laidback chatter, I realized how much things have changed since I arrived here nearly 3 1/2 months ago... And how my perceptions of Seosan as a small-town, off-the-beaten-path kind of place -- where I'd scarce cross paths with another foreigner for perhaps weeks on end -- has changed as well. I chose to come to Seosan for more reasons, obviously, than a high-rolling social life -- its charms (for me, at least) lay in its supreme accessibility to mountains and the coast, and its decent proximity to the action in Seoul (1h40 by bus isn't bad). Here, I thought, I'll have time to contemplate, meditate, and make progress on a number of personal projects that really don't require involvement by anyone other than myself. And I figured I could live with that, at least for a contract-length year. If I found myself going stir-crazy by that time, I'd just pick up and move on.

As time has passed, though, and as fate has led me smack-dab into the path of one foreigner after another, I've realized that living in Seosan really isn't quite as solitary as I had once imagined. Which isn't a bad thing, at all. It's been an education in human psychology to see how social boundaries that would exist under normal circumstances seem to all but completely fold when members of an absolute minority (such as the foreigners working as English teachers here) meet. It's almost as if we create our own little network not so much for friendship and comraderie, as for support and sanity. Getting together for a late-night conversation in the middle of the work-week, sitting on a street corner amid the trailing taillights of taxi-cabs and neon signs of nearby storefronts, we bond almost without consciousness, as if reaching out to others who also don't "fit" somehow restores our sense of belonging.

After getting home that night, I decided it was time to create an "official network" for all of us Seosan folks, especially so that the new people coming here could have a resource to tap to ease their adjustment. I've lived overseas before, and I know it can be a roller-coaster of a ride, trying to adjust to a new culture, strange foods, an incomprehensible language, and the hundreds of instances, large and small, that separate you from your former world and your place in it. It can all be quite overwhelming. Thanks to Facebook, anyone living in or around Seosan, South Korea, can find, with one click of a button, 25 other instant friends (and surely more to be found, as we get pulled into one another's paths).

And tonight, after connecting via our new Facebook group, "I Live in Seosan (and Surrounds)", about a dozen of us met together for a few rounds of bowling in Seosan's nightlife district. It was again a treat to just unwind and be social without the need to navigate language or cultural boundaries. Even if I do suck at bowling.

And I'm eager to see where this little social experiment of a foreigner community will go over time.... Will we organize activities and meet-ups more regularly? Will our numbers continue to grow? Will we find among ourselves the solution to one of the largest hurdles foreigners face while living abroad: finding a niche and filling social needs? Or will involvement in our own "exclusive foreigner circle" extricate ourselves even more from fitting in to our surroundings? Time will tell... in the meantime, I guess I better start learning a thing or two about bowling!

Highlights from Andong's MaskDance Festival

2008-09-29T08:32:00.002+09:00

I'm back from an incredible weekend in Andong and Hahoe, where the annual Maskdance Festival is still underway. And though it was short (and I missed the traditional wooden-masked dancers, too sad!), it was worth every bit of effort (which was quite a lot) to get there. There was so much to see and do, and I'll definitely plan to return next year to catch more of the action... provided I'm still here in Korea ;) (something tells me I will be).

So, in a departure from my usual type of blog post, I'm going to make this more of a photo montage, with some brief explanations for the sake of "cultural education." Here we go ~

One of many venues within the festival complex, the Mask Theater is a covered dome stadium with a stage, where international dance troupes performed throughout the weekend. Here, Russian dancers wow the audience with a Troika or two:

And more dancers, these from the Philippines (aren't those costumes fantastic?):

At another venue, near the bank of the river, a shaman (fortune teller and spiritual vessel) entrances the crowds with her hypnotic singing (note the W10,000 bills stuffed under her hat), while a skinned pig (this is real, folks) sits just outside the tent, a token symbol of good luck and prosperity. (I actually read up a bit on this, and pigs are considered such a good omen because of their portly build, which connotes abundance and wealth, and because females produce such large litters, which symbolizes fertility. A pig's head will always be found at Shamanist ceremonies and sacrifices, as well as events such as the opening of a new business, moving to a new home, or even buying a new car. Want to read more? Look here)

Kites were flying high throughout the festival. This young guy was quite a skilled kite-flyer. Over the course of several hours, he succeeded in raising one kite after the other into the air, connected on one verrrrry long string. It was quite a spectacle:

Food vendors lined the streets in white tents, their delicious-smelling dishes spilling out into the crowds and across the streets. You could try any one of literally hundreds of snacks and dishes, including freshly grilled corn, marinated meats on skewers, miniature waffles filled with bean paste, roasted chestnuts, corn dogs with fried potato ... I even saw a doner kebab stand!!

One of my favorite activities was dipping a calligraphy brush in a pot of thin black ink and scratching my wish onto a thin strip of paper. Following the lead of the buzzing crowd, I then wedged my paper strip between the fibers of twisted hemp strung up among tall wooden statues. What did I wish for? You'll have to see for yourself:

And last but not least, the masks themselves... wooden masks, Venetian masks, masks from all over the world... masks that begged a touristy photo-stop, masks that towered over you from their lofty perches, masks printed onto balloons, embedded into stone walls... masks lining shop fronts, spilling out of vendor's displays... mask necklaces, mask wallhangings, mask puppets, mask dolls...

So, if you're in Korea at the moment, and trying to find some last-minute ideas for how to spend the upcoming three-day weekend, run -- don't walk -- to your nearest bus station and hit the road for Andong!

Want to know more about Mask Festival? Check out these links:
Andong Mask Dance Festival
The Official Website for Maskdance Festival 2008
Korean Traditional Masks

Or, to see more of my pictures, follow this link.

At Home in Hahoe Village, Maskdance Festival 2008

2008-09-28T23:56:00.003+09:00

What do troupes of masked performers, hoards of happy onlookers, one quaint traditional village, and a shower of shimmering fireworks have in common? If you guessed the Andong Maskdance Festival, you were right :)

This weekend marked the beginning of a ten-day celebration in Andong, Korea's south-eastern Gyeongsangbuk province -- a festival to honor the tradition of the mask and its place in cultures around the world, and in Korea's history in particular. Hahoe, home of the legendary Korean wooden masks, is steeped in the folklore surrounding their creation.

According to legend:

"A series of disasters and bad luck were happening in the peaceful and beautiful Hahoe Folk Village, and all villagers were very concerned. One day, Mr. Heo, a good person from Hahoe Folk Village, dreamed about a Folk God who told him what he must do:

'You should clean your body every day and carve a set of masks with your heart -- then all disasters will disappear. But there is one strict rule: You must finish the work within 100 days and no one is allowed to see you during the time that you are making the masks.'

"So Mr. Heo started to work on the masks. He did not tell anyone else in the village about his dream. One day, a lady who lived in the same village and who loved Mr. Heo very much, his as she waited for him. She could not bear it any more at stole a glance at him. As soon as she did this, Mr. Heo fell down and died, leaving one Mask unfinished, Imae (Foolish Servant). This is why Imae Mask does not have a chin, as it was left unfinished." [note from me: can you find it in the photo to the right?]

"Villagers of Hahoe danced with the Hahoe masks (aristocrat, scholar, young bride, meddler, Buddhist monk, butcher, old widow, young woman and foolish servant) and finally danced the village back to peace. "

Even today, Hahoe is a peaceful and beautiful folk village where life seems to carry on much the same as it did centuries ago. And despite the busloads of tourists that come from around the country (and world) to sample a taste of traditional Korean life and enjoy its peaceful ambience, it maintains some semblance of authenticity, which is part of its subtle charm.

This past weekend, I had a chance to spend a chilly night and leisurely morning soaking up the special flavor of Korean culture that Hahoe serves up on a heaping platter. I arrived by bus with a group of CouchSurfers (who converged in Andong from various points around the country) Saturday night, after poking around the festival grounds. As we stepped off the bus and into the dark night, I tugged at the cuffs of my jacket, pulling them over my hands to ward off the sting of the evening chill. We walked along a quiet dirt road which followed a riverbank until we arrived at the traditional house, Hagungje #13, which was our home for the night.

Though it was dim, as we stepped into the house, muted light emanating from an open door gave us a view of the house's unusual arrangement. It was built as a series of rooms, which comprised four outer walls, all facing an inner courtyard which was exposed to the open air. Short sets of cement steps led from the ground to any of a number of rooms, most of which served as sleeping areas. I peered inside one of the rooms and was intrigued by its small size and spartan furnishings. There was enough room for four or five bodies to lay sardine-style on a hard floor, and a "yo" (traditional Korean mattress) and stack of blankets to warm us. A window at the opposite end of the room, a simple wooden frame lined with rice paper which slid along a wooden track and latched with a fabric tie, was the only other decoration.

The kitchen, set in the back corner of the house, was bustling as the old couple living in the house began to prepare our dinner. After dropping our bags and removing our shoes, we stepped into the "dining room," a large, low-lying wooden slab near the courtyard. Although the table was quite long, our group was bursting in size, and we spilled over onto two adjacent round tables, filling up the entire area with our bodies and energetic conversation. The man of the house began what turned out to be an insanely busy job of waiting on the lot of us as we feasted on platters of steaming hot and spicy "jjim dalk," Andong's signature dish -- a mixture of chicken bits, glass noodles, leeks, and near-lethal doses of hot pepper (though somehow, I didn't think our dishes were deathly spicy).

Some of the group took off for the riverbank to watch fireworks, while others (myself included) stayed behind to finish dinner and warm up under layers of blankets. I later found out that this wasn't your typical fireworks show -- it was a special affair (...and I'm still chiding myself for missing it. I suppose there's always next year...) Seonyu Julbulnori, or traditional Korean fireworks, aren't shot from the ground, as are the festive explosions we're accustomed to. These fireworks are like gigantic sparklers strung above the ground. When they're lit, they create the ethereal feeling of falling stars or, as Roboseyo describes (and I quite like his visual), "bright flower petals floating to the ground."

[Check out this video footage from Roboseyo]

The rest of the night was a blur as round after round of soju and maggeolli found their way to our table, and the energy wound up before the evening wound down. Eventually, I retired to my shared room, tucked my too-thin blanket around my shivering body, and managed to settle into some sort of sleep (though between the winter chill and neighboring snorers, it wasn't particularly productive).

The next morning, after waking the the sounds of chirping birds outside our rice-paper window, new-found friend Adam (also an English teacher in Korea) and I did a little exploring around the village. We circled its perimeter, walking along narrow, dusty roads that tangled their way through the village, out to the edges of its rice fields and along the river, enjoying the peaceful pace of this rural respite from the busy world just outside its gates. We watched local farmers working in their fields, listened to the sound of wind blowing over vast carpets of rice crops, and even managed to find a litter of playful puppies. After putting our cameras to good use at some sort of wooden statue mini-park, we said farewell to our fair village and returned to the festival grounds to finish out the Maskdance weekend.

See more pictures of my visit to Hahoe Village here

On Missed Buses and Meditation

2008-09-28T09:50:00.002+09:00

So I missed my night bus to Seoul Friday night. As it turns out, this wasn't the only bus leaving my behind on my journey to Andong for the Mask Festival... After an excruciatingly long week of giving and grading written exams for EGA's entire student population, I woke the next morning to find my backpack and everything in it saturated from a water bottle that had leaked slowly throughout the night... The only silver lining (thank God for silver linings) is that my camera, cell phone, and batteries were somehow spared from the flood.

I had planned to take the first express bus Saturday morning to Daejeon, one of the big hub cities in the central-western part of the country, and the place from where I'd catch an onward bus to Andong. I pedaled to the bus terminal, bought my ticket, and settled into a hard plastic seat outside the terminal, underneath the sign posted for Platform 12. While I obviously don't read Korean, the tickets are usually pretty straightforward -- with a little hangul I can manage to double-check the destination I've purchased for, and besides that, the rest is mostly numbers: departing time, ticket price, platform number, you get the idea.

I knew I had a little time to kill, so I got out a book and started reading, watching through my peripheral vision for the bus that was bound to soon pull into slot 12. Minutes went by, then ten, then twenty, and with still no bus in sight, I pulled out my cell phone to check the time. It was 8:11 AM which, for my 8:10 bus, meant it was time to start panicking. Korean buses run like Swiss clocks -- they are extremely precise on departure times, which is more than a little impressive. In my three and a half months living in Korea, I've never been on a bus that has left more than one minute late. So you can imagine my reaction at seeing the time...

The realization somehow I'd made a grave mistake, and my express bus (the only one for the next three hours) had left without me hit with incredible speed. Sure enough, after thrusting my ticket at an elderly woman sitting next to me and sputtering out what could have only sounded like confusing jibberish to her, she shook her head despondently and pointed to the opposite end of the bus terminal. And there it was confirmed, by three chainsmokers employees hovering around the apparently correct Daejeon bus platform. It was still somewhat early Saturday morning, I felt slightly drugged from the events of the past week, and was just handed the bad news that I had missed my bus...

After inspecting my ticket, one of the employees brought me back to his office, where he looked up the bus timetables and pointed out the next departure for Daejeon, which was a 0h45 wait, but an indirect bus at that (meaning that one little minute between 8:10 and 8:11 AM had cost me a minimum of 2 hours). My mind clicked and whirred, as if trying to calculate whether to it was even worth making the trip to Andong, or whether I'd be better off scrapping all of my plans and turning back for the consolation prize of a quiet weekend at home. In the end, though, I willed myself onto that next bus, determined to see the trip through. Mask Festival is one of the events that I had had my heart set on experiencing while in Korea, and I just couldn't give up that easily.

I can't quite put my finger on the moment when my attitude shifted from disappointment to enjoyment, because for sure I spent the first bit on the bus convincing myself that I'd made the right choice to hop on board. But I spent the next seven hours on highways and city roads, winding my way slowly towards the opposite side of the country, peering out tinted windows and the ever-changing landscape and losing myself in thought. Out on the open road again, flying as much by the seat of my pants and with any real itinerary to note, and riding along in the solitude of self-contemplation amid the shuffles and chatters around me, my body began to loosen. My mind began to roam free. And I felt again the raw, visceral sensation which fills me whenever I find myself in touch again with my nomadic spirit. I began to remember my place in the ebb and flow of the world around me, and the freedom that I feel when I let go of time and schedules and just let life be.

As much as I was looking forward to the festivities in Andong and meeting up with some fellow CouchSurfers for the weekend, I was finding an unusual sort of fulfillment in this lengthy bus ride eastward. It was like a meditation of sorts, and a gratitude session, and my own little noraebang (karaoke room) rolled into one, and I no doubt amused my seatmate with the Rascal Flatts melodies I spiritedly emitted (when I'm feeling the music, I just can't hold back!). I felt the energy of being in motion, the childlike wonder of new experiences surrounding me, the recognition of the gifts that my previous experiences in life have bestowed upon me, even the overwhelming emotion of gratitude for all that I have been blessed with and have had the opportunity to learn and experience. It was like a beautiful upward spiral of thought and emotion, lifting me beyond my slightly cramped seat on the bus and out into the universe of possibility.

And seven hours later, as I pulled into Andong, my spirits were high, and I felt a smiling beaming out from somewhere deep within me. I would never have imagined that a missed bus could have resulted in such a thing... maybe I should miss my bus more often...

Surviving Exam Week

2008-09-27T06:45:00.002+09:00

Another week has bullet-trained by, dragging me along behind it as I tried to keep up with the exam prep, testing, and grading that has marked the end of the bi-monthly grading period at my hagwon (private academy). Early last week, I held review sessions with all of my students to cover the grammar points, reading passages, and vocabulary that we've focused on since the beginning of August. Meanwhile I raced to finish writing up written exams for each of 16 classes, and began entering grades and comments on 119 report cards.

It's not such an easy thing to grade students on oral comprehension or intonation, I've realized. I try to be objective and consistent from one student to the next, to consider my justification for each category on the report so that I'm not just arbitrarily entering letter grades. But it all begins to blur together after a while, and after typing the equivalent of a mini-novel, I wonder how much of my personalized comments my students and their parents are going to actually comprehend anyway. Not to be rude, that's just the reality.

Thursday and today, I administered the exams, and madly graded thousands of test questions, trying to finalize all of the scores and grades and report cards before leaving for what promised to be an exciting weekend trip to one of Korea's famous fall festivals. It was all a bit much, and by tonight at 10:00 PM when I finally got home, I nearly fell into bed with exhaustion.

I had hoped to take the last bus out of town to Seoul, and stay overnight with a soon-to-be-friend Leah, who was also going to the festival. But as it turned out, the buses finished running before I did, and there went my chance to jump-start the long journey to Andong for the weekend festivities. Perhaps it was all for the best -- this girl was in desperate need of some rest.

So as my eyes fell heavily shut against the flicker of the TV screen, I made myself a promise -- I've never been a believer in doing things halfway, which generally means I OVER-do them instead. Exam Week was no exception. But I promised myself to be more of a slacker next time around, to spend less time and less worry on these grades and written tests and rein in my strong impulse to "do the job and do it right." I'm not sure exactly what that solution is going to entail, but if it can take the edge off of the flurry of academic activity that pummeled both me and my students this week, it will be a step in the right direction.

There's a Cockroach in my Teapot!

2008-09-25T09:35:00.006+09:00

I slept like a baby last night, the combination of a steady, light rain through the wee morning hours, an open window filtering cool early-autumn air above my head, and a cozy blanket to warm me. I could have slept in for hours, straddling that fuzzy line between awake and asleep, until I had felt sufficiently lazy and well beyond rested.

But, duty called this morning; I am running against a ticking clock to write up 119 report cards for my students, complete with personal comments, before noon today. And then, this afternoon, I begin administering written tests (which I spent most of last week writing) to those same 119 students. Ugh. This is the ugly side of working at a highly respected private language academy.

So, emerging from my deep slumber, I shuffled across the floor to my cabinet, pulled out my highly prized bag of pure South American Yerba Mate (if you're wondering where I managed to find this in South Korea, don't -- this is one of the "luxury items" I managed to bring along in my luggage.), and set about spooning its loose-leaf contents into my shiny silver measuring spoon.

Just a few weeks ago, while on a shopping trip at the local supermarket, Seosan Mart, I splurged on a shiny new kettle that won my heart when I popped the lid to reveal a steeping chamber for loose-leaf teas. Since that day, it's been put to use on a number of occasions, though I admit I've been a little too lazy lately to boil water on the stovetop, having a filtered water dispenser that emits near-boiling water with the touch of a button. But today, with the rain plinking down and the whisper of autumn breezes beckoning from my open window, a "proper" pot of tea was calling to me.

I'm somewhat of a new kid of the block when it comes to the wide world of teas. Being raised in a Mormon home, teas were always off-limits, with the exception of the occasional fruity herbal tea picked up at the market, or a batch of Mom's "Mormon tea," which was actually a cup of milk warmed on the stove and sweetened with sugar to taste. Over the past few years, however, I've managed to "educate" myself a little about the wonderful world of steeped beverages, and have reached one epiphanic (is that a word?) conclusion: teas are magnificent!

I could go into a soliloquy on the health benefits of teas (with green and Yerba Mate high on my list of healthy favorites), and maybe I will, if you'll indulge me for a minute...

Yerba Mate, a wonder crop of South American origins, is more than a tea, it's a deeply-rooted and treasured tradition. The tea is prepared daily in many countries in the early afternoon, just following siesta, to help enliven and energize the masses as they wake from their tw0-hour nap and get back to work. It's normally prepared in a special cup (a mate cup) and and sipped through a bombilla, which is more or less a steel straw with a built-in filter (so that all the loose leafs don't make their way to your mouth). (I don't know all of this from personal experience... I've yet to make it to South America myself, but I find the whole cultural tradition quite fascinating.)

So other than being a cool South American custom, why Yerba Mate? For starters, it's gentler on the body than coffee, which can tend to cause jitters. In fact, it's even been "prescribed" for use by people who have to stop using caffeine-containing products for health reasons. With its high concentration of pantothenic acid, it prevents overstimulation of your nervous system, so that you get the benefits of increased energy, boosted metabolism (yes, it can boost your metabolic rate by as much as 25%), and reduced appetite, without the jitters that a cuppa joe often brings on. It's non-addictive, and non-habit-forming as well, which my body appreciate. Finally, yerba mate is also high in magnesium, which eases anxiety (how many "energy" drinks do you know that can do that?), and anti-oxidants, which can boost immunity from colds and flus and help cleanse your body of toxins. (You probably didn't figure you'd be reading about South American teas on a Life-in-Korea blog today, did you? Are you sold yet?)

Thanks for the indulgence. Now, back to this morning. Ready to steep my own South American wake-up cup, I lifted the lid off of my shiny metal teakettle, and pulled out the tea leaf basket, only to find a six-legged visitor lurking in the basin of my teapot. A cockroach had somehow managed to crawl its way in! This was mildly disturbing, since I don't normally flavor my teas with insects. Kidding. What's really disturbing is the thought that there are cockroaches in my kitchen... (Okay Dad, I confess, I haven't been washing my dishes up right after dinner, I'll do better!) My only thought is that the little critter crawled inside while my teapot was left to dry upside-down in the dish rack last week. But who really knows...

A thorough scouring and longer-than-normal boiling session later, my teapot was steaming with freshly brewed Yerba Mate and I was again a happy camper. And I'm sipping it now, while the rain still patters outside my window, which reminds me, I've got to get on those 119 report cards pronto...

. . . . . . . . . . .

If you'd like to read more about the tradition of drinking Yerba Mate, check it out here: The Yerba Mate Story
Interested in a PhD perspective on its health benefits? Try this: Does Yerba Mate Contain Any Caffeine?
Ready to buy your own blend and start sipping? Shop here: Loose-Leaf Yerba Mate

A Spoonful of Sugar (or Corn Syrup) Helps the Vinegar Go Down

2008-09-24T08:36:00.004+09:00

My pomegranate-flavored bubble has been burst... I just learned (after doing some virtual shopping on Hmart.com, that the number one ingredient in my new favorite "health drink" is high-fructose corn syrup, otherwise known as the single biggest calorie vacuum in the Western world.... HFCS (high-fructose corn syrup) is the very stuff laced in processed, packaged foods back home, particularly the ubiquitous Coca-Cola (and most every other soft drink made in the USA).

I had just yesterday stumbled upon an insightful article on Mercola.com (which is, as far as I know, the most popular natural health website in the world). The article, "The Plague of High Fructose Corn Syrup in Processed Foods," spoke to the ill effects of consuming HFCS. And I tend to agree with him: corn syrup is essentially a calorie bomb, devoid of nutrients, and complicates a number of health problems that the Western world is already battling against, namely heart disease, diabetes, and obesity.

According to Dr. Mercola,

"Part of what makes HFCS such an unhealthy product is that it is metabolized to fat in your body far more rapidly than any other sugar, and, because most fructose is consumed in liquid form, its negative metabolic effects are significantly magnified...
To add insult to injury, the corn that the high fructose corn syrup is metabolized from nearly all comes from genetically modified corn which is fraught with its own well documented side effects and health concerns."

So I guess I'll have to scale back my head-over-heels infatuation with my syrup-sweetened pomegranate vinegar a bit... though I'm still sold on consuming vinegar as a health tonic. It's been keeping the Chinese going, after all, for over 3,000 years...

Drinking Vinegar... It Does a Body Good

2008-09-23T22:24:00.005+09:00

Say the words "health drink" and, depending on which part of the world you claim as home, any of the following would naturally come to mind: For Europeans, a tall glass of drinking yogurt... For Turks, a cup of kefir... For Indians, a smooth, cool lassi... My fellow Americans might reach for an order of something freshly squeezed from the juice bar, with heaven forbid, some lab-processed whey protein and additives mixed in for good measure. Or maybe a sports bottle of Gatorade to restore all those lost electrolytes from a mega cardio session at the gym... that's healthy, right? :)

Flip to the Asian side of the world, and it's a different story altogether. The health tonic of choice in Korea and Japan is nothing dairy- or yogurt-related, but a vinegar instead. Drinking vinegar, you say? Your nose is already wrinkling up with distaste at the prospect of sipping a vinegar on purpose. Yes, vinegar. But not just any vinegar. There's apple, raspberry, pomegranate, black currant, and others to choose from... With such delicious fruits to balance out the puckering bite of a pungent mouthful, you can maybe start to imagine that sipping a drinking yogurt is more than strictly medicinal: it can actually be something of a culinary experience.

Weeks ago, I picked up a couple bottles of pomegranate vinegar on special at the supermarket. I had noticed on more than a few occasions, while combing the store aisles, the neatly shelved smoked-glass bottles taunting me with their colorful labels and slender design. I had looked them over carefully, eyeing the packaging, trying to decide which of the many flavors would be first to come home with me. I remembered vaguely reading something about pomegranate's health properties and, as it's always been something of an exotic fruit to me, the sale price provided the final bit of arm-twisting needed to land a couple of shiny bottles of pomegranate drinking vinegar in my shopping cart.

I'm not a stranger to vinegar myself. I began a habit a little over a year ago of swirling a spoonful each of apple cider vinegar and honey in a mugful of water, and sipping on it slowly during my morning commutes. I had read about the health benefits of vinegar during some in-depth research on cleansing, detoxification, and natural health. I was impressed to learn that a simple spoonful of vinegar could aid my digestion, boost my energy, improve my circulation, moderate my blood sugar, and even speed my metabolism. I was sold!

After coming to Korea, ironically, I fell out of the habit. And sadly, even after my great buy at the market weeks ago, the bottles were stashed unopened among boxes of cooking supplies soon to be shuttled to my new apartment. So it wasn't until today that I unearthed the vinegar, popped off the lid, and mixed up my first real Korean vinegar drink. And if I was a believer in the power of the almighty vinegar before (which I was), today I became a born-again drinker. Mid-glass, I began to imagine mixing my new favorite flavor with seltzers and club sodas, pouring it over ice in a frosted martini glass, spritzing it with a splash of vodka, garnishing it with a plump cherry. Yes, it was really that good! Its flavor was a perfect blend of sweet, fruity notes and sophistication. I think I've discovered my new favorite beverage.

. . . . . . . . . .

For more information on drinking vinegars, where to buy them and how to mix them, try the following websites:
DrinkingVinegar.com
Health Benefits of Drinking Vinegar
HMart Online Asian Grocery

And some other blogs with good vinegar info:
Pomegranate Vinegar Drink (including a recipe for making it from scratch)
My Korean Diet (scroll down to the Drinking Vinegar section)

A Leisure Walk Around Lake Park

2008-09-21T22:11:00.007+09:00

I've been holed up in my cheery little apartment for most of the weekend, forced to cancel my already-up-in-the-air plans to adventure up north to the islands of Ganghwado and Muuido (just off the coast of Incheon) after waking to an unsettled stomach Saturday morning. It seems that with the changing of seasons, and with the bursts of hot and cold air that vie for top billing from one day to the next, colds and sniffles are bound to come knocking on our door. So I suppose it wasn't much of a surprise to feel that my mind and body needed nothing more than peace, quiet, and rest -- a mini-retreat to heal and recondition -- before starting what promises to be a hectic workweek.

Saturday was the perfect stay-indoors day. Rain hurtled down through deep layers of gray clouds on and off from early morning when my eyes opened until the sun had long gone down. Cool winds blew through my apartment windows, the coolest I've felt thus far in Korea, sending me to my wardrobe for a sweatshirt and then crawling under my bedcovers to keep my toes cozy and warm. I managed to spend the entire day reading, resting, skimming new recipes, catching up on emails, making a few overseas phonecalls, cooking some soul food, and falling into a relaxed rhythm that felt just delicious.

Today, still craving quietness and downtime, I stayed in again, hoping to continue recharging my batteries and focus on a few personal projects. At some point in the day, I told myself, I'd get out for some fresh air and sunshine, especially since the day promised to be a beautiful one -- the air clearer and the temperature cooler from yesterday's showers, with bright blue skies and billowy clouds to entice me out.

Catching up on a few of my favorite blogs, I ran across a recent posting by my friend Michael, who lives not so far away in a busy urban sprawl in big-city Cheonan. His piece took me on a virtual walk through his neighborhood, to the bank, the local bakery, and past a park where local families swung their badminton rackets back and forth with gusto. I chuckled to myself as I read, because the imagery was so vivid, and so true to life in Korea.

Finally, around 5 pm, I headed out the door with my camera in hand, ready to pedal my bike down to Seosan's newest attraction, the beautiful Lake Park (which enjoyed its official opening ceremonies this weekend, and which, had completely slipped my mind). I had been here just two weeks ago, the day after moving into my new apartment, and had been so impressed with the beautifully landscaped surroundings that I vowed to return with my camera and capture some of its ambience. As the sun was starting to sink slowly in the sky, I figured I had just enough time to take a leisure walk around the park and savor a quiet Sunday evening in Seosan.

It took only a second or two after arriving to realize that there wasn't much peace and quiet to be had at the park this evening. Huge carnival tents flanked the southern edge of the park, where vendors offered a curious mix of cotton candy, fried peanut cakes, skewered meats, and boiled silkworms. Karaoke singers dressed in shiny hanbok costumes performed energetically on a stage overlooking the lake, and the whole area was crawling with young kids on bicycles, fathers and sons batting at badminton birdies, old men enjoying a smoke together, families parading along the inlaid-stone walking path. A large banner, hoisted by two helium balloons, flew over the lake, announcing to all that this was a day to be celebrated.

So I began my stroll around the park, feeling like something of a cross between a sore thumb and a celebrity as this solo "waegookin" (foreigner in Hangul) was approached again and again by the young and the curious who wanted to say hello to me. I don't know how I could still be a novelty in Seosan after being here for three months already, but these little faces were washed with such genuine curiosity that I couldn't help but feel a spirit of camaraderie with them. It was the least I could do, for all the energy they were sending in my direction, to offer a big hello and even bigger smile in return.

I stayed long enough to see the sun disappear behind a mountain of apartment buildings to the west, and content with my explorations for one day, headed back the way I came, ready to finish out the weekend with a little more R&R at home. It was refreshing to see a nice slice of Korean life at the park this evening, to be reminded that I am surrounded by thousands of people who, despite language and cultural barriers, are at the core much the same as me. Tonight I was part of the neighborhood, hanging out with Seosan's families and enjoying a pleasant celebration with my local community. And perfectly enough, it really did feel like home.

Reclaiming Happiness: Our Greatest Freedom

2008-09-20T12:13:00.008+09:00

There has been a subtle building of negative emotion within me over the past week, which I haven't been able to pinpoint entirely until yesterday mid-morning, when I heard myself voicing a laundry list of concerns and worries to my best friend Jenny during a lengthy heart-to-heart phonecall. I've never been big on following the news, partly because I tend to be too wrapped up in my own little world, but mostly because I find it overwhelmingly depressing to hear about all of the terrible, horrible things going on in the world around me.

But during the past several weeks, I've been turning more and more to world news reports, as my daily "staff meeting discussions" (a.k.a. English practice for Harrison and Terry) have focused on U.S. politics, the upcoming election, recent plummets in the economy, hurricanes and natural disasters, and concerns over the stability of North Korea's leader Kim Jong-il. There has been no end of bad news in sight. And unfortunately, being exposed so many problems and their potential effects within a relatively short period of time has not left me unscathed.

It all came tumbling out yesterday, in what turned out to be more of a vent session than a mutually uplifting chat. Which got me thinking... What good can come of filling your mind with such pessimism? Sometimes information is not power, but a hindrance. There has to be some way of being aware of the world's happenings without getting pulled into the powerful vortex of negative thought. What I heard myself saying as I spoke with Jenny was, beyond anything else, fear of the unknown, wondering how I would respond, adapt, survive, thrive, if the world as we know it were to suddenly and drastically change? What if the economy suddenly crashed? What if war broke out in North Korea, just a few hundred kilometers away? What if, what it, what if...

So it was perfect timing that I finished reading an incredibly simple yet profound book called "Zen and the Art of Happiness," written by Chris Prentiss. I took it with me to Seoul last weekend, and finished it in the quiet space of early morning today, while still wrapped underneath my thin cotton bedsheets. The central message of this book can be summarized in one very important sentence: "Everything that happens to me is the best possible thing that can happen." Regardless of whether an illness befalls you, or you lose your job, or a friend, or your right arm, the path to happiness is as simple as acting as though whatever is causing the difficulty is for your maximum benefit. Not trying to find a shred of good that you can salvage from your miserable circumstances. Instead, actually believing that every event which comes to you is absolutely the best possible event that could occur, and that there is actually no other event that could benefit you any more than the circumstances you are currently experiencing.

Those are big thoughts, and quite unattractive to wrap your head around if you're used to perceiving life as most of us tend to do -- a series of hurdles to jump through, challenges to face, and uphill battles to fight. I am grateful to say that some time ago I removed myself from the grip of these limiting thoughts. Still, as this week has shown, my personal weaknesses can lead me back into the cloud of pessimism and confusion that stunt my ability to experience happiness in my life.

As I contemplate the unknown, the constantly shifting world around me, and my place within it, I have to acknowledge that thus far in my life, I have benefited incredibly from the experiences (which we humans conveniently label as "good" and "bad"), that life has presented to me. And as I had an opportunity to discuss with one of my middle school classes yesterday, the happiness that we feel within from one day to the next does not depend on anything other than our very own selves, our very own minds. We are truly the authors and creators of every next moment of our lives. We bring into our lives the energy and gravity of hope, happiness, and positive thought, or the energy and gravity of its polar opposite: fear, unhappiness, and negative thought.

I shared with them the inspirational story of Victor Frankl, a well-renowned psychologist and university professor who survived the concentration camps of the Holocaust, due to his diligence in maintaining a mindset of hope and belief, even amid such terrifying and unthinkable circumstances. He later went on to write a book entitled "Man's Search for Meaning," in which he elaborates on the one simple truth that paved the way to his mental, spiritual, and physical survival of the camps: Man's last freedom, the freedom which no one can ever take from you, is his response in any situation.

Browsing the Internet this morning, I came across a well-written weblog article that caused me to also stop and reflect on this power within us to choose happiness. In it, the author, a writer and traveler named Lee, shared his powerful response to visiting Tuol Sleng, a children's school turned into a living graveyard for prisoners during Cambodia's Khmer Rouge regime. I too had an emotional reaction as I read his words, my mind harking back to the vivid images, sensations, and feelings I kept with me during a viewing of the film "The Killing Fields", which I watched a year ago.

I cannot help but feel my own struggles, fears, and worries pale miserably in comparison when I am reminded of the challenges that countless others have faced, and continue to face, as they live out their lives in war-torn and poverty-ridden nations throughout the world. Yet even despite such extreme circumstances, the human spirit and its capacity to find meaning, hope, and happiness, prevails. It is a powerful message to each of us, isn't it? Happiness is... all around us, percolating inside us, holding its outstretched hand out to us, patiently, faithfully calling to us. My life is too precious to me to spend my days feeling trapped beneath the weight of endless worries. Thank you Chris, Victor, and Lee, for reminding me of what I had forgotten. I choose happiness.

Keeping it in the Bank: Waiting out the Dollar's Downward Tumble

2008-09-19T08:19:00.003+09:00

The U.S. economy has been center-stage in discussions with my staff over this past week, as the tumbling stock market and the fallout of large companies going bust have ranked on the front-page headlines in Korea's major newspaper. The almighty U.S. dollar has a strong global impact, as I am learning first-hand from my humble post in this small-ish, export-driven Asian country.

A conversation with my dad several days ago clued me in that several big-name U.S. corporations were floundering -- and going bankrupt, all of which only perpetuates the state of fear and economic concern that propels recession and market instability. It is extremely disconcerting to learn that high-profile companies who have been around for decades have suddenly vaporized with the most recent of market tumbles. When such disaster looms for the "big guys," you start to worry about how its effects are going to trickle down to you. Because sooner or later, they will. Even if you're living across the pond in Korea.

Before coming to Korea this past summer, I studied conversion tables, trying to get a handle on the rate of exchange between the U.S. dollar and the Korean Won. The dollar was worth roughly 1,000 won, give or take, although during the early part of 2008, it was a very favorable 970K - 980K won to the dollar.

During the past three months that I've been living overseas, the value of the dollar has declined noticeably, enough that I've decided to hold off on money transfers back to the States in hopes that it will pick back up again. Certainly money wasn't the only reason I chose to come to Korea, but the opportunity to save a healthy chunk of change was definitely a big factor in the equation that led me here.

Last week's U.S. stock market nosedive resulted in a sizeable devaluation of the dollar here as well. I've suddenly found my salary and savings slashed by a whopping 20%. There's no other way to say it -- OUCH! My only solace is to keep in mind that in time, the market always evens itself out. But how long will it take to recover from recent downward trends? Will the dollar continue to plunge for months to come? How much farther will it fall? Are we heading towards a severe economic depression, as many financial analysts are forecasting? Or is this just a painful hiccup that will go away on its own without much more financial crisis?

For the time being, at least, I'll be keeping my earnings right here in Korea. And I'm lucky, in that regard, that I have a fairly long stretch to wait out a possible recovery. For those expats who don't have the same flexibility, particularly TEFL teachers who are ending contracts and returning home within the next month or two, their earnings can't help but be painfully squeezed. I'll be keeping an eye on the economy, to be sure. And in the meantime, I'll be hopeful that Americans won't lose their confidence in the economy. A further market collapse is one self-fulfilling prophecy this world doesn't need.

Time is Marching On...

2008-09-18T10:02:00.006+09:00

You know that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach when you remind yourself of something you really need to do, and the longer you wait, the more behind you get? That's the feeling I've been trying to dislodge ever since my last major blog catch-up session. I've fallen terribly behind yet again...

Time keeps marching by, and lots keeps happening. As I've crested the three-month mark for my time here in Korea, I realize that some things (namely, ME) don't change the world over... I am pretty much the same person regardless of where in the world I happen to be. So it shouldn't be too surprising that I've managed yet again to create a mountainous list of goals, projects, books to read, topics to study, places to go, and things to experience while in Korea that have gotten me running around in circles. I seem to think I am super-human and have at my disposal a wrinkle in time that allows me to elasticize my day into 59.2 hours instead of the customary 24.
It's time to re-evaluate and prioritize, I suppose, so that I feel a little better about what I'm actually accomplishing.

In all fairness, a lot has transpired since I last wrote:

I led my first all-adult English class for some of Seosan's well-known doctors (which subsequently folded when they decided my rate was more than they were willing to pay).
I gave my weblog an entirely new look (which was a lot more time-intensive than I had imagined, but I'm really happy with the outcome)
I moved to a new apartment (which, though smaller, is a much sunnier, happier place to be). My dungeon days are over :)
I traveled to Seoul (yes, actually staying overnight this time) over the Chuseok (Korean Thanksgiving) holiday weekend, and had a great opportunity to see a unique blending of modern and traditional Korean life as families celebrated around me.
I hosted a traveler visiting from Germany, who is making her way through Mongolia, China, and now Korea as part of a gap year experience before returning to her home country to pursue her career.
And now, I am trying to get back to some sort of normalcy this week, meanwhile preparing for the bi-monthly written report-and-grading fest which usurped so much of my time two months ago. (I'm hoping I'm a bit more efficient at it this time around, but time will tell).

While there isn't any way to make up for lost time over the past few weeks, I'm hoping to make up for my absence of entries with a peace offering -- I have just finished uploading several new albums to my Flickr account, which includes a whole album of Chuseok festivities (including little children in traditional dress, playing traditional games, making traditional foods, and other fun stuff). And while I won't make any promises, I'm going to TRY to get back around to writing up a bit more about the foregoing events, particularly the Chuseok holiday, so that I can share with you a bit of what I've learned about this important Korean holiday.

And now, I'm behind on my Korean homework, so I'm off to practice some more hangul before starting work for the day! Have a wonderful day, everybody, I'll write again soon!

Does This Incense You?

2008-08-30T13:01:00.003+09:00

I recently received an email from a group called NowPublic which runs news stories about current events (submitted by members in a similar vein to Wikipedia, from what I can tell). They had written to request the use of a photo I recently took in an article entitled “Incense Gives You Cancer, So Pray Less.” The title caught my interest, and my ego had been properly stroked with the request to publish my photo, so of course, I dropped in to take a look at the site.

The article presents an interesting conundrum for lovers of incense the world over and, as was obvious from the comments generated on the site, it managed to strike a nerve. Two readers even went so far as to refuse to share their photos on the grounds that the author’s tone was disrespectful and he was spreading baseless rumors. Ouch.

I'm currently living in Korea, where incense is a part of the religious tradition for a great portion of the population. It’s certainly not as omnipresent here as it was in Taiwan (where I also spent a year working as an English teacher), where the heavy scent of burnt offerings would spill from street-level shop fronts and chase you down the sidewalk. But if you visit the grounds of any Buddhist temple and peer respectfully inside, you will see faithful followers lighting joss sticks and beginning their successions of bows as the thick temple air swirls around them.

I find myself turning to the sticks when I’m craving the scent of their musky perfume, or the calming effect incense brings as I watch its feathery plumes of smoke meander through the air. It’s a somewhat entrancing, and certainly pleasant, experience, and the article didn’t dissuade me at all from continuing my incense tradition. I'm of the camp that most anything done in excess can't be good for you, but I have serious doubts that my infrequent use of incense could cause any more long-term damage than the many vices so easily accepted by mainstream culture.

I appreciated the comments of one poster who said,

“Probably inhaling any kind of smoke can cause cancer, but I also believe that cultivating a meditative state of mind, through meditation or prayer or what you want to call it, reduces the risk of getting cancer from anything. As with everything else; find a balance.”

In the end, I did opt to add my photo (you can see it here)... although the other 174 photos already linked the article proved to undermine my short-lived ego boost. I rather doubt that worshippers will start cutting back on incense usage in the way that dieters restrict their calories, but it doesn’t hurt to be reminded that our health is, to a large extent, affected by our environment.

Western Indulgence and Peanut Butter Pancakes

2008-08-30T02:39:00.006+09:00

It has been a week a Western indulgence for me. Call it what you like, but I think of it as my unique way of experiencing the culture shock that is bound to hit all foreigners away from home after a months abroad. While homesickness and loneliness haven't made an appearance (and I say that in great hopes that they'll keep their distance), my cravings for the foods that shaped my American appetite have increased exponentially over the past week or two.

I managed to hold my ground for long enough, I figured. So, this week, I gave in to my wanton whims and traded in my chopsticks and healthy Asian fare for a true slice of the SAD (Standard American Diet, that is). My soy sauce and pepper paste didn't even make it out of the fridge this week.

... Beginning with an overdue lunch at Pizza Hut with new friend Elana, a Canadian gal teaching at a university in neighboring Unsan, where we systematically dismantled and digested a cheese-laden pineapple pan pizza (her half with Canadian bacon, of course)...
... Picking up speed with a mid-week plate of pan-fried potatoes, sliced super thin and lightly fried with a dousing of salt, pepper, and vinegar...
... Building to a steady roar yesterday with a late-night run to the mini-mart across the street for a box of chewy chocolate chip cookies...
... and celebrated with a grand finale tonight, an utterly decadent twist on the familiar weekend breakfast plate of down-home pancakes (which is my true motivation for confessing this embarrassing display of complete and utter calorie denial).

Somewhere between my mouth-watering recollections of lazy Sunday brunches at home and the availability of Korean kitchen staples, I managed to strike a delicate balance, and emerged from my mini-kitchen tonight with a plate of syrupy goodness that really deserves to be shared. And repeated.

And I've decided that this is perhaps a bit more of what cooking in Korea is about for me, after all -- not a tossing aside of my culinary heritage (which is more an eclectic mix of the world's cuisines than straight American cooking anyway), but as a workshop for me to experiment with the added dimensions of Eastern influences in my cooking repertoire.

I had soy milk in my fridge tonight, a tub of raw peanuts in my cabinet, not an egg or stick of butter to my name, and an intense urge to sink my fork into a pile of pancakes. Feeling adventurous, I started pulling random baking ingredients out of my cupboard -- a bag of vanilla-flavored powder, ground cinnamon, oil, flour, baking powder, some terribly dark and granular brown sugar, and the remnants of a jar of peanut butter that I had paid top dollar for at the local grocery store a few weeks ago (I confess, the absurdity of paying $5 for a small-ish jar of generic PB completely escaped me at the time). Maple syrup was out of the question, though I did have a bottle of Korean malt syrup which was sweet enough to do the trick.

I got to work measuring and mixing up a bubbly bowlful of brown-tinted batter, using a recipe for eggless pancakes (vegan-style) as my starting point. The taste of roasted peanuts had been my inspiration, so I decided to layer the cakes coming hot off the griddle with a thin layer of peanut butter, and top the whole lot with a dousing of syrup and a handful of crushed-up peanuts. It turned out to be an absolutely winning combination.

For the peanut lovers among you (and especially anyone staring blankly at their Korean kitchen cupboards wondering what to do with your IHOP cravings), give this a try:

Peanut Butter Pancakes (Serves 2)
1/4 cup raw peanuts, chopped (divided)
1 cup flour (spoon-sifted)
2 Tbsp sugar (I used dark brown, though any kind should do)
1 Tbsp baking powder
1 tsp vanilla powder (sub with vanilla extract)
a sprinkle of salt
a dash or two of cinnamon
1 cup soy milk (you can probably sub with regular milk, though the soy adds a nice flavor)
2 tablespoons oil (nothing strong-flavored, EVOO and sesame are out)
2 Tbsp peanut butter
1/2 cup syrup (maple works, as does Korean malt syrup)
Dry-roast the chopped peanuts in a griddle over medium heat until lightly toasted. Set aside to cool.
Combine flour, sugar, baking powder, vanilla powder, salt, and cinnamon in a small bowl. Add milk, oil, and half of roasted peanuts; beat with a fork until smooth. Pour batter onto a hot, oiled griddle (in ~1/4-cup increments).
Flip quickly when bubbles break the surface, and the edges are a bit stiffened. Cook one minute longer, then transfer to a serving plate. Repeat with remaining batter.
As you stack the pancakes, smoothing a thin layer of peanut butter over each cake. When finished, spoon the remaining chopped peanuts over the pancake stack, and douse with syrup. Serve warm with a glass of soy milk. Enjoy!

A Cool Wind Blows

2008-08-25T23:31:00.001+09:00

I left school a little after 9:00 this evening, all of my students long gone with their carpools and neighborhood walking groups. I was the last to leave, as is often the case -- Sunny (our head secretary) and Terry (the boss's wife and my co-teacher) are anxious to get back to their families, and I am just as anxious to quickly finish grading the day's papers and update the gradebook before going home to unwind in solitude. (I've long since abandoned the idea of bringing home my "teacher work," and I prefer to keep it that way.)

So again tonight I shut off the lights, heaved the heavy glass door closed, and locked it shut. As the magnetic lock clicked into place, it dawned on me. There was a change in the air. The breeze scuttling around behind my back was a cool one. For a moment, I wished I'd brought along a sweater. Fall was on the wings. The dogged, miserably damp and heavy heat of summer was all but over... How has the time gone so quickly?

When I arrived in Korea, it was barely summer. I remember lying in the guest bedroom in my host family's 10th floor apartment, pulling the weighty cotton blanket over my ankles and toes as a cool breeze swept in through the windows and tiptoed across the floor. Within weeks, I had moved in to my own apartment, and was spending the wee morning hours kicking the bed covers as my dainty oscillating fan tried to keep up with the lingering, thick heat.

And now the changing of seasons is whispering again, and it seems impossible that an entire summer has slipped away without my scarcely being aware of it. It feels as though summer was somehow pulled right out from under me, though I know that can't be so.

It was just five days ago that my little brother flew back to Utah to start the fall semester at BYU, where he is working on his undergrad. It was just yesterday that my parents and baby sister pulled out of the driveway together, for the last time, heading north along the interstate taking them to their new hometown, on the outskirts of Boston. They're relocating just in time for Emily to start her senior year in high school. And it was today that the bulk of my students resumed Korean public school after a month-long summer break.

Change is in the air everywhere, it seems, stretching all the way from this side of the world to the other, touching even my roots back home. Change has been blowing through Seosan as I've had to say goodbye to yet another good friend who helped to make my first few months here memorable, and to several students I adore who have been admitted to EGA-II. And change will continue to keep me on my toes, I am sure, as the months march on. New friends to make, new students to teach, a new apartment to settle into, a new season to greet. Bring on September, I'm ready for another cool wind to blow...

How Do You Eat an Elephant?

2008-08-23T10:22:00.006+09:00

It has been a restful weekend so far, something I've been desperately in need of after a long week. Aside from my normal plate of teaching 40 classes this week, I managed to pull two all-nighters, crashing after the sun came up for a few hours before going off to work. (I'm not quite sure either time how I thought I would last through the next day of teaching until 9 PM, but somehow or another I survived... and I suppose I should give credit where credit is due -- thank you, instant coffee -- you might be too sweet, you might be watered down, but you did the job!)

I have to laugh, though, because this ridiculous refusal to follow a normal sleeping schedule like normal people do is such a perfect example of the large pattern that is my life. I have never been one of those people who was good at breaking up a big project into itty bitty pieces and then plugging away consistently at it, one day after the next. (The socially acceptable answer to the question "How do you eat an elephant?" is "One small bite at a time.")

No, I have always been the "binge-on-elephant-until-you're-ready-to-explode" type. Okay, I realize that doesn't sound too pleasant. But it's this kind of intensity and passion for what I do that I pour into my work, whether it's teaching eight-year-olds or studying Korean or trying to perfect photo images from my latest shoot. Or, in this case, writing up a dozen blog posts and giving the whole weblog a much-needed facelift. Was it worth dragging through work the next day? For me, yes. As much as I like to think I can multi-task with the best of 'em (whoever "them" are), I know I will forever and always be more of the tunnel-vision warriors who put on their blinders and charge ahead.

So today, with my blinders in my back pocket, I tried out Microsoft's Movie Maker software. I have hundreds of photos from my recent backpacking adventure in southeastern Korea that are neatly catalogued on my Flickr page, just begging for a little attention. And after visiting the weblog of Tory, the EFL teacher from California that I met while at Palgongsan, I was inspired to take a stab at making my own video. After viewing my finished work, I realized that it's really nothing to brag about. The picture quality is unimpressive, and it's truly a photo montage, as I didn't have any video to splice in between still frames. But in 4.5 minutes, I think it does a decent job of giving you a taste of Korea. And let's be honest, that's kind of the point of reading my write-ups, no?

So, without further adieu, I give you "Summer in South Korea"... :)

Note: If you're having trouble viewing this video (it has been embedded in high-quality), you can view it in standard quality by following this link.

How to Create a Custom Header for Blogger

2008-08-22T02:08:00.024+09:00

I recently decided to give my Blogger weblog a facelift. The default title-and-description on my Minima layout just weren't cutting it anymore, and after perusing enough flashy blogs toting full-color headers, I figured I could do a lot worse and it would still be a big improvement.

I didn't have any flashy programs like Adobe Photoshop at my disposal, but armed with my Microsoft 2003 Suite, a handful of favorite digital pics, and Google's Picasa program, I was able to put together an eye-catching header that both speaks to the content of my site and leaves a lasting first impression on my visitors (or so I hope).

...And if you're reading through this posting, I'm going to assume it's because you like what to see at the top of my weblog and you'd like to know how to recreate it for yourself...

I've prepared the following tutorial to help you achieve a professional-looking header that is customizable to your specifications. Your graphic header will include:
(1) a 3-photo background graphic image (with the option to wash-out the image),
(2) a title and description, and
(3) a foreground photo (optional).

As for the instructions that follow, I'm assuming that you have at least a basic working knowledge of the following programs:
-- Picasa (v2.7), by Google (download here)
-- Microsoft Word 2003 (I haven't tried this with OpenOffice freeware, but it might suffice; download it here)
--Microsoft Paint (included with Microsoft Windows, look in Programs\Accessories)

It's really not as difficult as it might first look, though be prepared to spend a little time tweaking everything from font sizes and colors to the finer nuances of cropping and photo detail.

Part I: Creating the Background Photo Image

Using Picasa, select three (3) photos from your digital collection that create the feel and style you at going for. Modify the photos to your liking (I desaturated all three of mine to create a black-and-white image that would pop against my red blog background).
When you are finished with your photo edits, crop each image using the 4x6" crop setting, and export the images (File --> Export Picture to Folder). Follow the prompts to designate output location. Resize to 1024 megapixels, and choose your Image Quality setting (for the header you are viewing, I used the "Normal" setting). Hit "OK" to confirm and close.
Open Microsoft Word. From File --> Page Setup, select "Landscape" from the Margins tab, and set the margins to 0.7" on each side. Select "Legal" from the pull-down menu on the Paper Size tab. (With these settings, I am able to view the entire 3-photo spread with MS Word at set at 100% zoom.) Hit "OK" to confirm and close.
Insert each photo by selecting Insert --> Picture --> From File, and browsing to the image for insertion. As you insert each image file, they will append so that the three images are juxtaposed on the document.
NOTE: It is important at this point that you are able to view the entire layout of 3 photos on your screen without scrolling. If you are unable to view them completely, double-click on each photo and rescale by entering a smaller % for height or width under the "Size" tab. (If "Lock Aspect Ratio" is checked, the other dimension will automatically scale to match.)
NOTE: If you are NOT creating a washed-out image (See Part II below), make sure to right-click each photo image and select Format Picture --> Layout --> Behind Text, so that you can create a title and description as an overlay to the background image.

Part II: Create a Washed-Out Background Image (Optional)

Locate the print-screen function key (labeled "Prt Scr" or similar) on your keyboard. (Mine is located at the top of the keyboard, between "Pause | Break" and "Insert.") After first making sure that the photos are deselected and the cursor is outside the margins of the photo images, press "Prt Scr" and paste into Microsoft Paint.
Use your mouse to drag the image to the top left corner of the screen. Crop as follows: (a) Click the "Select" button (looks like a broken rectangle) on the toolbar. Drag your mouse over the image so that the desired image is within the dotted lines. Press Ctrl+X, then Ctrl+N, select "Don't Save," and then Ctrl+V. If any white area is showing beneath your image, click the bottom right corner of the white space with your mouse, and drag it to match the bottom right corner of your image. Save the image.
Hit Alt+Tab to return to Microsoft Word. From the Format menu, select Background --> Printed Watermark. Select "Picture Watermark" and browse to the location of your Microsoft Paint image. Scale should be set to "Auto", and make sure "Washout" is deselected. Hit "OK" to confirm and close. You now have a muted background image (hit return several times until your cursor is on page 2 to view it). From page 2, you can begin creating your title and description as an overlay to the background image.
Follow this link for an example of a washed-out background image that I created for another weblog of mine.

Part III: Creating The Title and Description

Begin typing the text of your title and description over the background image.
NOTE: There are hundreds of fonts available for download at 1001 Free Fonts. Installation of new fonts is fairly straightforward, though beyond the scope of this article. For more information on how to install fonts in Windows Vista, follow this link.
Experiment with multiple fonts and other formatting options, such as expanding or condensing text (go to Format --> Font, select the "Character Spacing" tab, then select Expanded or Condensed from the Spacing drop-down menu). Or, try font effects such as embossing or engraving (check to select or de-select from the "Font" tab).

Part IV: Creating a Foreground Photo (Optional)
For added dimension and visual effect, consider adding a foreground photo to your header. It is simple to do, and can add quite a bit of visual interest to the finished product.

Select a photo from Picasa to use for your foreground photo.
Using Picasa, modify the photos to your liking.
When you are finished with your photo edits, crop the image to your desired size (I used the "custom" setting to achieve a square image), and export the image (File --> Export Picture to Folder). Follow the prompts to designate output location. Resize to 1024 megapixels, and choose your Image Quality setting (for the header you are viewing, I used the "Normal" setting). Hit "OK" to confirm and close.
Hit Alt+Tab to return to Microsoft Word. Insert the photo by selecting Insert --> Picture --> From File, and browsing to the image for insertion. Right-click the image, and select Format Picture --> Layout --> In Front of Text, then drag the image to your desired location.NOTE: It is important at this point that you are able to view the entire layout of 3 photos on your screen without scrolling. If you are unable to view them completely, double-click on each photo and rescale by entering a smaller % for height or width under the "Size" tab. (If "Lock Aspect Ratio" is checked, the other dimension will automatically scale to match.)

Part V: Saving the Final Header Image
These steps are nearly identical to Part II, Steps #1-2 above for creating a washed-out image.

Locate the print-screen function key (labeled "Prt Scr" or similar) on your keyboard. (Mine is located at the top of the keyboard, between "Pause | Break" and "Insert.") After first making sure that the photos are deselected and the cursor is outside the margins of the photo images, press "Prt Scr" and paste into Microsoft Paint.
Use your mouse to drag the image to the top left corner of the screen. Crop as follows: (a) Click the "Select" button (looks like a broken rectangle) on the toolbar. Drag your mouse over the image so that the desired image is within the dotted lines. Press Ctrl+X, then Ctrl+N, select "Don't Save," and then Ctrl+V. If any white area is showing beneath your image, click the bottom right corner of the white space with your mouse, and drag it to match the bottom right corner of your image. Save the image.

Part VI: Uploading the Header to Blogger

While signed in to Blogger, select "Layout" from the Dashboard menu for the blog that you wish to customize.
On the "Add and Arrange Page Elements" page (under the "Page Elements" tab), select "Edit" from the "Blog Title" box. Under "Image," select the option "From your computer," and browse to your location. Under "Placement," select "Instead of title and description," and hit SAVE to confirm and close. (You may also opt to select "Shrink to Fit," though I have had better luck approximating the dimensions on my own.)
After the image has been uploaded, you can PREVIEW your blog, or SAVE and view your blog with the saved changes. Congratulations! You did it!

Lost in Translation: Hangul is Hard Work

2008-08-19T12:46:00.003+09:00

I met Kim Cheong Sun, my new Korean teacher, again today at 11:20 for my second language lesson. With last week's Korean National Day holiday falling on Friday, a week had lapsed since our first session together. But I had done my homework, and put in several hours of study time, trying to master the two pages of hangul characters and new vocabulary words she had assigned to me.

As I walked down to the school to meet her, I thought back about twenty years, to the days when I'd be walking across the subdivision to the house of my piano teacher, Dee Stoutenborough. I remember distinctly the weeks when I had really practiced hard, when I knew I had made real progress and was sure to meet with the praise of my pleased teacher. And those same familiar feelings began surfacing again -- excitement tinged with apprehension, wondering if I had done enough to earn Cheong Sun's mark of approval. (When did this "need to please" begin with me? I'm amazed to think I've never outgrown it!)

The lesson was hard work, as the language barrier between us is so incredibly thick. It is all I can do for the bulk of the lesson to try to latch on to the simplest of syllables she speaks and repeat them back. I'm not entirely sure she even wants me to repeat what she's saying, but I haven't yet learned how to distinguish otherwise. We worked through a review of last week's vocabulary, for which I earned two thumbs up and a big smile from my teacher.

Then came Part II, a drill of the final segment of hangul characters for me to memorize -- diphthongs (blended vowels) that tested my listening skills to the extreme. The difference between /yeh/ and /yae/ are negligible, but more difficult still are three diphthongs, each spelled with a unique character, but all of which seem to bear an indistinguishable /weh/ sound. God help me if I'm ever going to learn how to distinguish between the three!

The word study that followed should have seemed a natural progression from the diphthongs... only, I had a dozen very similarly-shaped characters swimming around in my head and was at a loss to keep any of them straight! Rather than sounding out any of the syllables on my own, the exercise turned out to be another parroting session: I watched and listened intently while Cheong Sun formed the word, and then tried my darndest to replicate it at least close enough that my attempt was passable. From the final tally of remediated pronunciations, I don't think I did so hot.

Being the language student of a teacher who speak next to nothing of my native tongue has connected me in new ways to my English students. It's discomforting and somewhat discouraging to leave a 50-minute lesson feeling as though I've probably managed to comprehend about 5% of it. Sometimes I forget that I'm teaching language learners, and fall back into my normal clip and pace of talking and giving instruction. But the truth of it is, it can be extremely exhausting to be sitting in the student's seat, fighting over comprehension of every word. I have a new appreciation for my students.

So I'm going to keep plugging away at Korean. I still feel as though my brain has next to no constructs to begin sorting out and making sense of this foreign language I am trying to wrap my head around. But I'm not a quitter. I'll work on these hangul characters. I'll finish mastering these diphthongs. And I'll make a fresh batch of flashcards to see me through until Friday's lesson.

Host a Traveler, Gain a Friend

2008-08-18T14:13:00.008+09:00

After being the recipient of two fantastic CouchSurfing hosts during my recent trip to Busan and Daegu, as well as countless hosts during my months-long backpacking adventure back in 2006, the time finally came for me to play host. I've never lived someone exciting or exotic enough to lure travelers to my humble abode (Mechanicsburg, PA and Provo, UT aren't exactly hopping), and to be honest, I thought it would take quite a bit longer than two months in Seosan until someone found a reason to schedule a stop in my general direction.

But as it turns out, a fellow English teacher and American named Michael (who actually puts my transient history to shame) happened to land at my place over the holiday weekend. Michael, who has called Cheonan "home" for only a month now, is adjusting to life in one of Korea's more urban sprawls. And while living in the midst of high-rises and a menagerie of mandu shops must be quite handy when you're in the mood for munching, spending a little time off the beaten path, in small-town Seosan really must sound like a welcome respite from the throes of the cement jungle.

I had planned to spend some time this weekend showing Michael the surrounds of Seosan and experiencing them for the first time myself -- two months have passed and still I haven't managed to even make the 40-minute bus ride to nearby Palbong Mountain or the beaches in neighboring Taean National Marine Park. Mallipo, a 40-minute bus ride due west, was until last fall one of the pretties beaches along Korea's western shore. But unfortunately, an oil spill drenched its beaches, rendering it uninhabitable. After a widespread effort to clean it up and restore it for public use over the past several months, the reports from my students who visited Mallipo over last week's vacation were actually very favorable. And so it was that Mallipo made the agenda.

That is, until the weather made other plans. From Friday morning until Monday afternoon, rainclouds played games with us, blotting out any stray rays of sunshine trying to peek through, sending down light sprinkles that would last for hours, stretching their grayish-white mass across the skies like double-thick cotton candy. Michael and I spent the better part of Friday chatting at the bistro table in my apartment, stopping a few times for a pot of tea or a plate of spicy noodles and eggplant.

On Saturday, I took Michael on my walking path that cuts east behind some high-rise apartment buildings into a typical cross-section of rural farmlands, rice fields, and swampy reservoirs. I always enjoy this peaceful 3-mile path; you can literally smell the freshness in the air as you step into farm territory. We watched an old but sprightly fisherman poling his small boat through the shallow swamp waters with a long bamboo staff, and returned hellos from curious locals looking on wide-eyed at the sight of two waegooks (foreigners) footing it through the backroads of Seosan.

Back in town, stomachs gurgling, we walked to Koggiri (Korean for "elephant"), famous for serving up Seosan's best bibimbap. But my attempts to order up a late lunch deadpanned, so we took off for downtown to hunt down lunch Russian Roulette-style. We wandered up and down side streets for the better part of an hour (maybe more!), before getting up the nerve to drop into one of the completely empty mom-and-pop-shop restaurants and fumble over the menu. I dropped the few Korean words I know for dinner foods -- bibimbap (met with an inquisitive stare), naem myul (more stares), and jigae (which registered with Pop, as he subsequently replied with, "Kimchi jigae!" and a smile, and ushered us to a table).

Ten minutes later, we were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the shop, smacking our lips over seaweed salad, salted radish, kimchi, and a handful of other tasty banchan. Pop brought a black pot filled with a reddish broth to our table, flipped on the burner, and seconds later, the mixture was boiling before our eyes. The combination of spicy kimchi and salty pork, spooned over rice, was the perfect solution for two strong appetites. We managed to finish nearly every morsel at the table, including two cups of coffee (which is, amazingly, almost always complimentary after your dinner meal in Korea), and made out like bandits with a total bill of approximately $10.

The rest of the weekend was a blur -- a visit to the local movie house to catch the new Batman flick, a night hike to the observation tower overlooking the city, a leisurely breakfast of home-cooked rice pudding, another hike through the farmlands, all interspersed with an immense amount of conversation. By the time I left Michael near the bus station on Sunday, my head was reeling with saturation of thought, and my insides felt exhausted from the intensity of a very full weekend. Not that it wasn't well spent; it was. Host a traveler, gain a friend -- at least, that was the end result of this weekend's adventuring. I was due to be on the giving end as a host, and yet, one can never give anyone without receiving in return. And although it might take me a few days to recover my energy (yes, I'm an introvert by nature), the experience of welcoming a stranger and parting as friends is one I hope to have again and again.

Book Reviews: A Thousand Splendid Suns, The Beach

2008-08-16T23:01:00.006+09:00

There is something that feels downright indulgent about lazing about on a beach towel, a sunny patch of grass, or a comfy couch, and soaking up the lilt and rhythm of well-crafted words on the written page. During my 8-day break from teaching last week, I managed to devour two novels, neither of which bore any resemblance to the another.

The first was pure fiction, a typical holiday read -- a few adventurous travelers careening off the backpacker trail and managing to all but disappear in an idyllic island utopia. The second, which much more challenging and at times difficult to digest, was for me, the more magnicent of the two, by far. Rooted in realism, it spoke of hardships hidden away behind closed doors in a faraway land where one's rights as a person hinge almost solely on gender. Coming face to face with the injustices of Afghani women in such a personal way was moving, endearing, humbling.

I belong to an online community of readers called GoodReads, which I wholeheartedly suggest booklovers anywhere. It's a great spot to pick up new titles for reading material, keep track of your favorites, share your own perspectives and discuss book with others. Here are my latest entries:

A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
Reading this book led me almost forcefully into taking inventory of my challenges as well as the countless freedoms and opportunities that I have been given. In this book, Husseini exposes Afghanistan domestic life in an intimate and painfully straightforward way. The plight of Afghani women during the period surrounding the Taliban regime is heart-rending. Husseini has not written this work as a judgment on Afghan culture, but as a window for readers to look into the private lives of women who have been touched by the inequalities that have existed there. It is unthinkable to almost every single woman I have ever personally known to be denied the right to walk down a street, to wear her hair down, to make eye contact with whomever she chooses. And yet, this has been life as countless women have known it. Eye-opening and humbling.

View all my reviews.

The Beach by Alex Garland

My review

rating: 2 of 5 stars
A very Lord-of-the-Flies-esque read, heavy on backpacker pop-culture and quite a bit of the darker side of humanity. Having read it while on the beach in Busan, it was more or less entertaining, but I found the overall storyline, while an intriguing perspective of human nature and worthy of some discussion, a bit too raw and pessimistic. There's more to life than hunting down the "perfect" beach and smoking weed... right??

View all my reviews.

On Being a Giant Onion and Life as a Tasty Side Dish

2008-08-12T13:09:00.004+09:00

Today, Harrison handed me two envelopes -- one with the receipt for my most recent paycheck deposit, and the other with a personal note, which I am gathering is a tradition with Harrison for each month that passes. In mid-July, after hitting my one-month anniversary at EGA, I opened the letters to find a warm, complimentary, handwritten message that really took me by surprise.

This was was work "family" I had been fortunate to join -- a welcoming, kind, and truly genuine couple who seem to truly hold respect for me and extend that respect in a number of ways on an ongoing basis. But to read Harrison's words, to see them in black and white, to think that he took the time to write a personal message of thanks, struck me as something incredibly simple and powerful. And I felt the same today as I read his message for my second month anniversary.

Just because I think Harrison's words have a sweetness and cultural richness of their own (and not because I want you all to think I am something spectacular), I thought it might be a nice touch to include them here.

Month 1:

Dear Melanie, Thank you very much for your passion and dedication to our students. From the beginning, we were amazed to see how professional but very friendly you are. As we get to know you more, we feel we are so lucky to have you with us.
Our students are happy to be in your class. You are a giant! You are like an onion which shows no limit or end. As you take off one layer, we are surprised to see the magic of your wisdom. Congratulations on your first month survival!
~Harrison

Month 2:

Melanie,
Thank you for your great dedication to our students. You survived from the "unique" hardships of the second month here. I'm sure that's the end of your bad experience in Korea and you'll talk about it as a tasty side dish while you are chatting with your friends in the future.
Thanks, Harrison

I find it interesting that in both, he refers to me and my experiences in Korea thus far with references to food -- onions and side dishes... what will next month's letter bring? Thank you, Harrison, for extending your warmth and hospitality to me. It has been a pleasure to teach at EGA!

Unstitched, and Unexpected Wrinkles

2008-08-11T03:27:00.008+09:00

It seems like so much more than a week has transpired since I last set foot in my classroom. It's funny how elastic time can feel when you break outside the norms of schedules and appointments and responsibilities. Fortunately, I had the morning to try to remind myself where I had left off with my classes, and get my head out of the clouds with respect to all of the unexpected adventures this last week brought to me. I can honestly say that although as a whole, traveling solo in Korea was much more of an isolated experience than when I traveled through Europe two years ago, it still turned out to be an absolutely and unique fantastic trip.

I managed to meet party-loving locals, backpacking newbies and experts alike, fellow Americans teaching English abroad, and just about everything in-between. I slept on couches and firm mattresses and even the bare wooden floor. I hiked mountains and fortress walls. I waded through stream water, chugged chilly mountain water, bought tons of bottled water, and sampled some new teas. I soaked up the sun on pebbly beaches, slept through the rain plinking on rooftops, and shot frame after frame of Korea's photogenic faces (of which there are many). I reveled in the timelessness of Buddhist temples, stumbled upon ages-old stone-carved relics, circled a city by bicycle, and added a few new Korean dishes to my growing repertoire. It was by all counts a successful trip, and even with my debit-card disaster in Daegu, I would do the whole thing again in a heartbeat.

But, back to life and work as usual today. Or not. As it turns out, today brings me yet another unexpected wrinkle.

I went to see Dr. Shin this morning, for the follow-up appointment we had scheduled before leaving on my trip. I was sure he'd be pleased with the progress of my wound over the week that I had been away, and sure enough, things were looking good. So good, in fact, that right then and there he clipped out the stitches that had been holding my skin together for the past several weeks. And as quick as that, I had been unstitched. I asked Dr. Shin how many days until I came back again -- later this week? next week?

"No," was he reply, "Finished." And as much as the drudgery of daily doctor visits had been a bother, suddenly realizing I wouldn't be seeing my dog bite healer anymore was a sad thought. I hadn't realized this day would mark the end of my treatment, but here it was. So as we parted, I thanked him one last time for all his kindnesses. And then, I rushed back for my noon staff meeting.

Two hours later, while finishing lunch and preparing to pop out the door to begin teaching for the day, my phone rang. It was Laura, Dr. Shin's daughter, calling me from Canada. She had a favor to ask me, for her father, she said. Her father wanted to study English. Her father had a friend who wanted to study English as well. Would I teach them, two nights a week, after I finished my other work?

I wasn't sure how to respond. Dr. Shin had been such a help to me during my recovery. He had been patient and generous and consistent with his care. I didn't want to disrespect him for anything. But how did I navigate this? Was this meant to be private lessons for pay, or lessons I would volunteer in return for his favors in treating me as his patient? If these were to be paid lessons, I was contracted to teach for my hagwon only. Did I mention this to Harrison or keep it to myself? I didn't even know if I wanted to teach additional lessons. And I had never taught English to adults before... So many questions...

But my time was out. I had to get to work. I left her question to hang in the air, told her I'd call her back, and ran off to school. Dr. Shin is the expert at stitching up wounds... but what to do with this unexpected wrinkle?

Debit Card Disasters and Leaving Daegu

2008-08-10T11:57:00.005+09:00

I managed to narrowly make it back home last night after an unexpected setback nearly left me stranded in Daegu. I almost always travel with a debit card back-up -- it's just good practice whether you're backpacking through unfamiliar terrain or driving across your own neighborhood. I did as much while overlanding through Europe and Morocco in 2006, and while I never had a cash crisis, I knew my spare card was there just in case.

I suppose I got a little too comfortable here in Seosan, pulling cash off of my US-based debit card at the 24-hour MiniStop shop just down the street from my apartment. So it didn't cross my mind to bring a second card along. Although I noticed right away in Busan that finding an ATM which would accept foreign cards was a bit trickier than I had expected, I eventually did manage to take out enough cash to last me right up to the last day of my trip.

Returning from my day-trip to Palgongsan yesterday late afternoon, I thought I'd make a pit-stop at the KB Star Bank across the street from the bus stop, and pull out enough Won to get me safely home. KB banks have always accomodated my foreign ATM card. But today was different. I tried one machine after another, each rejecting my sole source of cash and leaving me with a painful message, "Your card is not accepted here. See a teller for more information." I felt the beginnings of desperation rising from my belly, and though I tried to keep my mind focused on a solution, the tellers certainly wouldn't be of any help whatsoever -- it was Saturday afternoon, and aside from ATM machines, the banks were closed until Monday.

I raced back to Bron's place, aware that the clock was ticking and not having more than a vague idea of what route I'd need to take (let alone what times to make those connections) to get back to Seosan by nightfall. He was home, thank God, and I placed a call to my bank back in Pennsylvania to make sure they hadn't placed some kind of hold on my account. There was no answer. Naturally, although it was 4 PM for me, the time difference of thirteen hours was really cramping my style. It was 3 AM Eastern Standard Time, and the support lines were closed for another four hours. Being that I was delving deeper and deeper into distress, Bron spotted me some cash to cover the cost of my bus ride home. I vowed to wire some money back to his account when I got home.

An hour later, after hefting my backpack through Daegu's city streets and metro stations, I arrived at a sprawling tangle of bus terminals, each taking passengers on in quite different directions. My next challenge was to find the bus terminal leading me back toward Seosan, which was no small undertaking. Bron had hinted that there were as many as thirteen bus companies, and that I'd need to check carefully to make sure I was heading towards the right destination. Fortunately, the third company I approached sold me a ticket to Daejeon, from where I was sure I'd be able to find a bus on to Seosan.

I didn't think twice about things until three hours later when, after a short layover in Daejeon, I boarded the last bus for the night back to Seosan. I realized then that had my timing been off even just a bit, I would have been circling the bus terminal in the dark, trying to find some safe and inexpensive place to rest my head until morning came and the buses resumed. It was enough to bring a surge of relief to my heart, and gratitude that, after a week of fantastic adventures, I would be able to crawl into my own bed and sleep off the tensions of the afternoon.

At around 11:30 PM, my bus pulled into Seosan's terminal, and I found myself back on familiar streets, heading uphill towards home. It had been an adventuresome day, and I got a little more than I bargained for. There's nothing like a close call to make you realize how often fortune crosses your path. And I was certainly no exception. Thank goodness for good fortune, I'd made it home.

Passing Time with Pals in Palgongsan

2008-08-09T22:46:00.010+09:00

I have one more day-trip in mind before heading back to Seosan and bringing my vacation week to a close. Palgongsan Provincial Park, located just 20 km north of Daegu, is on my radar. I figure I could catch the bus to the park, spend a few hours hiking around, then make it back to Daegu in time to make my connections out of town in the direction of home. It all sounds simple enough. Naturally, this final stage of my trip is the one I have put zero research into. But I figure I have all afternoon to figure out the details. It is already 10 AM and thanks to last night's imbibing, I am running late to get myself to Palgongsan.

The trip up the mountain takes a lot longer than I planned. During the couple of days that I have spent in Daegu, I seem to keep forgetting what a big city it is. And with a mediocre metrorail system at best, walking from Bron's pad to Daegu's main local bus hub takes a chunk of the morning time remaining. By the time bus #1 coasts to a stop and opens its accordion doors to the swarm of hiking-boot-clad Koreans congregated around me, I've all but given up on the possibility of getting a seat. Somehow, I get seriously lucky, as I happen to be standing just next to a seat that opens up at the next stop. I quickly climb into position, and watch as passengers pack into the bus so tightly that it would make even sardines claustrophobic. We are so full to the brim that the driver starts turning new passengers away at each stop that we roll up to, despite their pounding fists on the doors. I'm feeling pretty lucky that I'm not stuck waiting for the next bus or the next bus or the bus after that to have room enough for me.

Then we begin the long, snaking ascent up the mountain. The air is stifling in the bus, and although the scenery is quite lovely, the window panes are foggy from too many bodies and too much humidity. I keep my eyes forward, hoping to ward off any motion sickness from the winding road and changes in altitude. A half hour later, the bus stops and a horde of passengers step off, many carrying hiking equipment with them. "Palgongsan?" I ask the young guy standing next to me. He gives me a puzzled look, but then nods his head affirmatively. Not having much time to still make the stop, I bolt for the door, only to find out as soon as the bus has pulled away that I have managed to take the wrong exit.

No matter. Fresh air, a little exercise, and plenty of space to stretch out... being off the bus isn't really such a terrible thing, I quickly surmise. I hike northward, along the shoulder of the road, wondering after each S-curve exactly how long I'll be walking to reach the entrance to the park. It takes me a while, but eventually I do make it to the gates, where an old man dressed in park ranger clothing collects my W2,000 in exchange for an entrance ticket.

A few minutes later, I catch up to a group of three twenty-something gals walking up the hill together. As I make eye contact with them and exchange an "Anyeong haseyo" greeting, I think I hear a conversation in English resuming among them. I turn back around and say, "Hello, do you speak English?", to which I am met with a throng of three eager voices in a language I can actually understand. Tory, a young college graduate from California (whose short, dark hair and petite body frame initially disguised her among her Korean friends), and two twenty-something Korean gals from Daegu have come to hike around Palgongsan today. We quickly hit it off and spend the next several hours enjoy the beautiful scenery, striking temple architecture, and sweeping landscape views.

While standing outside a particularly colorful pagoda, an elderly man approaches our group and, seeing two foreigners in the mix, offers a round of explanation about the Buddhist practice of ringing bells. He explains (in Korean, which is then translated by Tory's bilingual friends) that the bell is rung only on special occasions by a monk, and that its purpose is not to tell time, nor to make music, but to remove pain and suffering from the people of the world. There are other instruments also, noticeably a large, wooden fish, mounted on the upper floor of a temple structure overlooking the grounds. This, he explains, is for removing the pain and suffering of animals.

I think the explanation is both simple and beautiful, and it leaves a peaceful image with me of a prayerful monk going about his day-to-day work of sending prayers and focused thoughts towards others whom he may have never met in this life, spending the bulk of his time and energy on bringing more peace and less pain to all that are experiencing life. It seems exactly fitting that this message is delivered by a kind-faced old man, without

We spend a little time at Donghwasa, the temple complex within Palgongsan Park with a history of over 1,500 years. A beautiful statue of Buddha, called the Tong-il Daebul, stands tall over the outer courtyard, its right palm upturned in a gesture of peace, left hand gently encircling a medicinal symbol. The white stone carvings stand out strikingly against a backdrop of lush green mountainside. We walk among the statuesque stones and then find our way to the exit, continuing a stream of easy conversation as we begin a downhill walk in search of something to appease our empty stomachs.

I thoroughly enjoy the plate of Korean-style cabbage slaw, sesame-sprinkled tofu, green onion pajeon, and a cold soybean-noodle soup brought to our table in the quaint restaurant we have chosen for our afternoon meal. We are sitting under an outdoor canopy, overlooking a meandering stream, when the rain begins to pelt. The sound as it plinks on the canvas above us is relaxing, the perfect white noise to blot out any would-be distractions to our corner of tranquility. As the rain picks up speed, we do as well, making a dash for the nearest bus stop and herding on board with the dozens of other day-trippers who had the same idea.

It was a perfect day, spent with another small group of perfect-strangers-turned-friends, and the rain held off until just the perfect moment. Back in Daegu, I trudge back towards Bron's flat, preparing to say goodbye to the city and relenquish the last of my holiday memory-making.

Handwritten Histories in Haeinsa

2008-08-08T13:11:00.007+09:00

Thanks to what I can only surmise was a bad combination of an intestine completely stripped of all healthy bacteria (antibiotics will do that to you) and a rather large helping of mountain spring water from Wednesday hike up Mount Namsan, I spent the better part of today with the Korean equivalent of "Delhi Belly." I really shouldn't complain; I wasn't stuck on a bus somewhere or out somewhere with Mother Nature, miles from a porcelain throne. My body even had the decency to hold off until I had some quality reading material to keep me occupied in between potty trips. There's nothing pretty about a bout of traveler's diarrhea, but it is what it is and there just ain't no getting around it.

Finally, by early afternoon, my body seemed stable enough to consent to me taking a day-trip by bus to Haeinsa, another of the glorified Buddhist temples (and a UNESCO World Heritage site at that) sprinkled among the mountainous footholds of Korea. What makes Haeinsa famous isn't so much the temple itself as what it houses: 81, 340 carved wood blocks, on which are written by hand the entire Buddhist scriptures. Known as the Tripitaka Koreana, these ancient records have been passed down for nearly 1,000 years (although apparently the current records were recreated in the 1200's after invaders destroyed the originals). They are one of the world's most complete records of sacred Buddhist texts.

I was fortunate to visit Haeinsa late in the afternoon, while clouds misting through the mountains of Gayasan National Park, which border Haeinsa to the west, kept the air cool and the mood mystical. On the road sloping into the hills where the Haeinsa temple resides, families walked together along waterfalls and over bridges, the sing-song of their voices hanging in the air like the low-lying clouds just beyond reach.

I took a short detour which led further down the road past the temple's main entrance, to a hermitage and a side road lined with brightly colored lanterns. A cool breeze blew through the leafy branches, and rippled through the lanterns with the softness of feathers. A monk, dressed from head to toe in a long, gray robe and loose cotton pants, walked in silence along the shoulder of the road, a cane in his right hand. There was nothing but the soft patter of his footsteps that could be heard above the rustling leaves.

Returning to the temple complex, I joined other temple visitors in walking through what appeared to be some kind of meditative maze, a system of concentric pathways leading in one fluid course from entrance to exit, folding in on itself and back out again in four geometric quadrants. Respecfully, we each walked in silence, our palms touching lightly as if in a posture of peace or prayer, eyes focused on the perimeter of the path marked with raised stone along the dirt-covered ground.

Climbing above the pagodas and the maze on a series of stone steps leading to another, much larger group of buildings, I looked back to see a frame of gray-blue mountain peaks jutting out from just beyond the borders of Haeinsa. In the late afternoon light, the scenery was poetic.

I continued walking along the outer walls of four earth-colored buildings before recognizing them as the rooms holding the Tripitaka Koreana. Through slats in the walls, I peered in at row upon row of books lining wooden shelves, carefully housed within the confines of the temple. I watched as an elderly monk, his body cloaked in loose-fitting linens, took a young boy by the hand and led him into one of the special-access libraries. His face was curled up in a smile as he pointed out sacred texts to the boy. I watched for a few moments longer through the slats before descending back towards the pagodas, back towards the temple entrance, back towards the road where I would meet the bus returning me to big-city Daegu once more.

The rest of the evening was a blur. I made it back to Bron's place in time to shower and change, and head off for a little nightlife with him and some of his foreigner friends. Quite in contrast to my day of rest and old-world reverie, and probably against my better judgment considering the state of affairs of my stomach just this morning, we swigged a few pots of maggeoli (traditional Korean rice wine) down the hatch, along with a few yummy side dishes, pajeon (vegetable pancakes) and dubu kimchi (kimchi cooked up with pork belly and served with heated squares of tofu). Maggeoli was another "first" for me, and before I knew what hit me, my head was spinning with the familiar reminder that full-blown overindulgence wasn't far off.

Near midnight, I bowed out of the party with Bron (who had a teaching gig the next morning), and we stumbled back to the Sinchon River area to his flat, where I promptly got horizontal on the two-seater sofa and tried to still the seesaw in my head. Between dongdongju in Busan, the soju fest at Hanjin Hostel, and tonight's indulgence, I was ready to take a break from the bottle for the rest of my vacation. But while it lasted, I certainly had managed to find good company to celebrate my vacation time with. Tomorrow marked the last day of my trip, and as I tumbled into a deep sleep, I vowed to make it one to remember.

Blue Skies from Bulguksa to Daegu

2008-08-07T22:24:00.002+09:00

My last day in the Gyeongju area was nearly perfect -- a naked blue sky, not a cloud in sight, and plenty of time to take in a day-trip to nearby Bulguksa Temple and Seokgoram Grotto. After a leisurely morning at the hostel, I packed my bags and took them down to reception to be stored after I checked out. I was leaving for Daegu later tonight, another hour west by express bus from Gyeongju. After a quick stop at the bus terminal to buy my onward ticket, I crossed the road and waited for local bus #11 to arrive.

The bus stop was filling quickly with Korean day-trippers heading to Bomun Lake for a day of water slides and carnival rides, and I was happy to get a seat as the last couple dozen to board were left with standing room only. Although only 16 km from Gyeongju, the ride to Bulguksa took the better part of an hour, as the bus careened along local roads, stopping every few minutes for a stoplight or to swallow a new passenger in its vinyl-padded bucket seats.

Finally, we arrived at the entrance to Bulguksa and within a moment or two, I had entered the temple grounds. I have been to a number of palaces and temples over the nearly two months that I have been in Korea, and while all have been impressive and beautiful in their own way, this temple in particular seemed to have some special magnificence.

It could have been the two stone pagodas standing majestically within the courtyard of the temple's main complex. Or perhaps it was the stairway carved in thick, gray stone, leading to the temple's main hall. It was upon this stairway of 33 steps, representing the 33 heavenly worlds of Buddha (or stages of enlightenment), that nobility during the Silla period would step.

But I tend to think that what set Bulguksa apart was the simple ambience of towering trees, meandering trails, and happy-go-lucky families lining their children up for photos among lilies and beside temple facades. All of the giggles and chatter and smiles seemed to breathe an easy air into this historically spiritual hotspot. And it was contagious. I found myself enjoying the sea of people coming and going as the scenery itself.

Then it was time to make the upward climb from Bulguksa to Seokgoram Grotto, another UNESCO Heritage site, where ancient carvings of Buddha and many other dieties have been preserved since the 70o's. The hike itself, apart from the oppressive humidity, led along a shaded rock-strewn path, climbing upwards into the mountainside. Unfortunately, I don't have much to say about the grotto. I felt disappointed with its size, and with the fact that the statues themselves are all carefully protected between a thick wall of plexiglass. The W4,000 entrance fee seemed a bit exorbitant considering the lackluster attraction. (Or, maybe I've just been spoiled with so many stellar finds around Gyeongju and Namsan mountain.)

Back at the car park, I began a series of bus rides to take me back the way I came: first to Bulguksa, then to Gyeongju, where I collected my bag and picked up a plate of kimbab for dinner, and finally on to Daegu, Korea's third largest city and the last of my bases from which to explore during my week of backpacking south-east Korea.

At 9:30 PM, I met my CouchSurfing host, Bron, in downtown Daegu, and began our walk back to his flat just a stone's throw from the Sinchon River, which runs north-south along the eastern fringes of the heart of the city. An hour later, I was showered and comfortably splayed out in his two-seater leather sofa, my home for the next two nights. I had been eyeing a book sitting on his bookcase, a novel I had months ago written onto my "Books to Read" list, yet had never gotten around to buying. Khaled Husseini's "A Thousand Splendid Suns" was calling my name, and after getting the go-ahead from Bron, I pulled it off the shelf and began picking through its pages.

Sleep hit late for me that night, probably more the consequence of my new reading material than anything else. Finally, around 1 AM, I cut the lights, closed my eyes, and drifted off to sleep. For the next seven hours, it was just me, the leather couch, and one pesky mosquito to keep me company...

Roaming Among Relics in Mt. Namsan

2008-08-06T13:35:00.004+09:00

The plan was to spend the day hiking in Mt. Namsan, a virtual open-air museum of ancient relics strewn through the mountains bordering Gyeongju to the south. I'm a lover of nature and while not necessarily big on walking through carefully-displayed artifacts behind heavily protected museum walls, I was fascinated with the idea of combining a day of hiking with the discovery of some Silla period pieces of history.

As I rounded the stairwell towards the front door, Mr. Kwon caught me. "Where you going today?" he said, in his cheerful, heavy Korean accent. I shared with him my plan.
"You walk, don't take bus," he told me, more of a direct order than a helpful suggestion. "Walking, not far. I walk Namsan all the time. You take bus, two hour, maybe three hour," his hands making a snaking motion to hit the point home. He gave me some basic directions -- walk to the main traffic circle, take a right, walk straight for quite a ways. I figured that was enough to get me started. I wasn't in any hurry, I had carved out the entire day for exploring Namsan. So I set off on foot.

Half an hour later, already drenched with sweat from the burning sun, a sprightly older man, heading my direction on his bicycle, stopped to surmise where I could possibly be walking all by myself. "Namsan," I told him, which brought an immediate look of concern. He pointed at his bicycle, as if to say I was going to need one if I was planning to get myself all the way to Namsan, and then continued in a stream of Korean chatter. I hadn't realized how intent he was on helping me out until a few minutes later when, armed with a very ambiguous mental map of where it was I'd find the next bus, he walked me across the street and waved me on in a different direction.

I'd like to credit my keen sense of direction for finding the bus stop, but I think it had something more to do with good fortune that I managed to maneuver myself through a hodgepodge of mud-baked walls and a century-old Korean neighborhood before finally turning down the street that led to a bus stop. But either way, I soon found myself en route to Samneung, entrance point to Namsan's hiking trails.

As luck would have it, within an hour of setting off on the trail, I had managed to connect with Noemi, the Belgian actress I had met at the Hanjin roof party. And a short time later, the two of us crossed paths with Kevin and Katie, who had decided to spend their last day in Gyeongju hiking as well. Being that Namsan was no small walk in the park, I found it incredible that all of us would happen to meet on the trails. Is there such a thing as coincidence?

We climbed up to Sangseonam, a Buddhist hermitage, and cooled ourselves with refreshing swallows of fresh mountain water from an adjacent spigot. Colorful paper lanterns swayed ever so slightly in the subtle breeze, and the peaceful stillness of the place gave each of us a temporary respite from our hiking rigors.

At Sangseonam, Noemi and I parted ways with Kevin and Katie, who had to head back to the bus station for their onward connections. But it turned out to be the best of all possible scenarios that Noemi and I had met, as I doubt seriously that I would have managed to make the journey up and over the ridge of Namsan mountain, and down again to Yongjang village, on the other side of the mountain... at least, in one piece.

Together, we hoisted ourselves up gigantic rocks, and lowered ourselves down steep inclines with the use of thick ropes. We cut through a thick, dark bamboo forest and rested our feet in the cool water of a gurgling stream. Here and there, we came upon ancient figures carved in the rock face of the mountain, a crumbling pagoda standing erect against a backdrop of mountains, a beheaded statue commanding a reverent pause.

The entire adventure lasted about six hours before we descended into Yongjang village. From there, we managed to find a bus that brought us back to Gyeongju proper. Our bodies were tired, leg muscles exhausted, stomachs gurgling from emptiness, but the journey had been a memorable one. And having someone to share the experience with made it even more of a pleasure.

Back at the hostel, Noemi prepared for her departure to Busan, and I headed off to the showers. Before long, I had fallen asleep under the open pages of my guidebook. And aside from a middle-of-the-night awakening when Mr. Kwon opened my door to check that I was in (he locks up the hostel each night), I slept right through until the following morning, oblivious to the continuation of the backpacker party on the roof just a flight of stairs above me. Sometimes a girl just needs her rest.

Discovering Gyeongju

2008-08-05T23:07:00.005+09:00

(continued from previous post)

And so it was that I discovered Gyeongju...

... discovered the camel-like humps in Tumuli Park that served as ancient burial tombs.

... discovered fields of orange-gold wildflowers stretching out towards the mountains.

... discovered Gyerim Forest, shaded and shadowed with towering trees arching against the sun.

... discovered side streets and back roads, ancient pagodas and modern playing fields flecked with uniformed youngsters running after soccer balls.

I wandered through Wolseong Park, where families and cuddly couples rode along the flat, paved road in foot-powered buggy cars, listening to the cicadas pulsing their song through the heavy August air. And I meandered through the lily gardens near Anapji Pond, taking in the delicious smell of freshly blooming flowers against of backdrop of verdant green.

And after all of this, plus a bike ride taking me several miles out of town to Bomun Lake, my back tire gave out, slowly leaking out air until it was dead flat. Miles from the bike shop, I tried riding my way back towards town, but the going was tough, and very inefficient. Eventually, I
hopped off the bike and began my long walk back.

I was perhaps within a mile of the shop when an old, half-hunched little ajumma, stopped at a red light with me, noticed my flat tire and my predicament. She gestured and pointed and rattled on for the entire 3-minute wait to cross the road. The old woman kept pointing at my tire
and pointing down a street in quite the opposite direction I was intending to walk. I assumed she wanted to show me to a shop where I could fix my tire. But that wasn't my plan -- I'd just walk the bike back to the shop, I figured, and do my own gesturing and pointing to let them know the tire had gone flat. It was only a rental, after all, and I was sure that they were used to the occasional flat tire brought in with a returning customer.

But the ajumma wouldn't have any of it. She flagged down a young girl walking towards us to help her relay her important message, and finally, not knowing how else to communicate that her help was appreciated but not needed, I gave in and followed her down the road. We walked and walked and walked, probably close to a kilometer, before stopping outside a shop spilling over with bicycles. The ajumma exchanged a few words with the shop owner, pointed at me, then waved goodbye and scurried on further down the sidewalk.

I had no intention of paying for a new tire or even a repair, and wasn't quite sure how to get out of the obligation of either. So I was greatly relieved to find that the man could speak a little English, enough at least that he could understand I had rented the bicycle. When I pointed out the shop's phone number stickered on the bicycle, he grabbed his cell phone and called the rental shop for me. And then he motioned me to a chair where, he explained, I could wait until the rental shop came with a van to pick up me and the bike.

An hour and a half later, I was back at the hostel. The wait had been long and tedious, but I had managed to stick it out. Tired, sticky with sweat, and hungry, I managed to cook up a plate of vegetables and settle into a cushioned chair on the hostel's rooftop, where a small party of backpackers was forming.

The rest of the night was spent in good company -- Desmond and Patrick, two solo travelers making large circuits through Asia, and who happened to both be from Ireland; Jean Luc, a middle-aged man from France, whose wife and young son were sleeping just downstairs; Katie and Kevin, two college friends from California backpacking around Japan and Korea before continuing on to Beijing to watch a friend of theirs compete on the U.S. water polo team. There were others, as well -- Noemi, an actress from Belgium, traveling solo in Korea and Japan; and a twenty-something French guy (whose name I could never pronounce), with beautiful features and an even more beautiful accent.

By 1:00 AM, the impromptu party had begun to disband. I shuffled back down to my "closet" and quickly resigned myself to a night of sweltering sleep. But what could I complain about? I had seen an eclectic mix of Gyeongju -- ancient relics, urban sprawl, helpful old ladies, and even the inside of a couple of bicycle shops. Gyeongju was quickly making its way up the "My Favorite Places in Korea" list.

Jagalchi Fish Markets and Getting My Feet Wet in Gyeongju

2008-08-05T22:05:00.007+09:00

I somehow managed to drag my tired body to the Jagalchi Fish Markets this morning, mostly because, this being my last morning in Busan, I figured I'd later be pretty chapped with myself if I skipped it altogether. It took an hour each direction via metrorail to get to the markets, which in retrospect, had I realized upfront, would have blown the deal altogether.

Still, I made the trip, but either I arrived too late (@ 7 AM) to see any "real" action, or it was basically the same as any traditional Korean market, with a really, really huge critters-of-the-sea section. No matter. It was still a vivid sensory experience to take in the sights and smells of the market, to walk past umbrella after umbrella showcasing long, slender, silver-gray eel-like fish, or gigantic snails still wriggling underneath a netted tarp. It was almost a game to see if I could recognize the items for sale as seafood I had ever eaten before. (In case you were wondering, I lost the game by a landslide.)

After walking the perimeter of the markets, I returned to Marina's place to pack up my bags and head on to my next destination, a city famously known throughout Korea as the capitol of the ancient Silla empire -- Gyeongju. I had heard plenty of great things about Gyeongju; everyone from Koreans I know to foreigner teaching in Korea to backpackers working their way across the country seem to have a special affinity for Gyeongju. And I was looking forward to my three days there.

Buses from Busan were incredibly frequent, and it didn't take more than 20 minutes from the time that I arrived at the bus station to purchase my ticket and be on my way. A short hour later, we pulled into the Gyeongju Express Bus Terminal, and my backpack and I were on our way to Hanjin Hostel. Hanjin is the one (to my knowledge) backpacker spot in Gyeongju, and compared the cost of even low-end minbak (hotels), cheap as chips. Of course, as I was soon to find out, it is cheap for good reason.

Mr. Kwon, the hostel owner, met me at the door. An older man with deep-set wrinkles, wiry body, and a kind face, Mr. Kwon had been running his hostel for years. He showed me to my room, the last door on the right down a long, dim hallway, where a dingy mattress was parked on the floor and the entire hostel's set of folded blankets was stacked on a low platform against the wall. The room (more of an elongated closet) was equipped with a broken fan that could only circulate air within a 12" radius, and a large iron-barred window without a screen (meaning, I'd be taking a gamble with lurking mosquitoes if I wanted to to open it for circulation at night).

But probably the most disconcerting feature was that there was no key to my room... and no way to lock any valuables inside. Mr. Kwon seemed honest enough, and his hostel had been around long enough, that I was willing to take my chances that my backpack and belongings would be safe despite the lack of a lock. As it turned out, it was a good gamble to make.

After settling in to my "closet," I headed out to the main street where I had remembered seeing a bicycle rental shop. Though Gyeongju is a fairly large city, the bulk of its attractions are clustered in a compact section that can easily be transversed by bike. Plus, the idea of riding around town behind a set of handlebars sounded appealing. I've had a "thing" for bikes since backpacking through Europe two years ago... something about the way the wind rushes around you as your feet and legs propel you down the road, the way that the smells of fresh-cut grass or the sound of chirping birds can't escape you the way they can in a bus or a car. There's nothing to close you off from the world around you, and yet you can see so much more and go so much further than your feet alone can take you.

(to be continued)

Cable Cars and Kickin' It Korean-Style

2008-08-04T23:59:00.001+09:00

While standing at the cable car platform, waiting for my panoramic lift over the cityscape of Busan, I caught the attention of a wrinkly old man donning a baseball cap and toothy grin. I didn't know what to make of him, exactly -- he was smiling and rattling off one word after another of I didn't know what, pointing at my camera, gesturing for me to take a photo of this, or stand there and snap a picture of that. In my ignorance, I assumed he worked for the cable car company, and I suppose I went along with his charades more or less to humor him.

It didn't take long, however, for a middle-aged couple standing nearby to start chuckling at the scene. And a tall, quite attractive Korean guy who looked to be around my age, exchanged jovial words with the couple as well. For the life of me, I couldn't make out a word of the exchanges, but it seemed like everyone was amused and I figured I could handle being part of the spectacle until the cable car brought us all to the mountain top, where I would no doubt part ways and get back to doing my own thing again (I've found that, in general, Koreans really don't mix much with foreigners. They'll smile at you, and reply back if you offer a gretting, but any curiosity they might have about a solo traveler or foreigner living abroad is lost under the front of formality that the majority of Koreans seem to display).

The slow, smooth ride to the top of the mountain was fantastic. While the skies were more gray than blue, at least the city itself was visible as we rose above the trees, hoisted upward with steel cables. I managed to get several nice shots from my window perch at the front of the cable car before we coasted to a stop and exited the car. I was a bit confused when the wrinkly old guy with the cap started walking up the hill towards the mountains (as I had thought he was an employee), and even a bit disgruntled when he gestured that I join him for something to drink. No, that wasn't quite the afternoon I had in mind, coupling up with someone twice my age who didn't speak a lick of English and would no doubt, in 10 seconds flat, start making googly eyes at me.

But suddenly I realized that it was not him alone but the entire party of four -- the old man, the middle-aged couple, and the good-looking tall guy -- that I'd be joining. And even though I knew any communication among us would at best be a shot in the dark, I found myself sitting around a large wooden table with my new "friends" (I'm going to name them Pops, Mark & Lisa, and Jim, just because that's easier), feeling somewhat like a novelty and yet also feeling their genuineness in befriending me. Minutes later, a large bowl of something cool and milky was brought to the table and Pops began ladling it into mugs that were then dispersed among us.

I followed their lead as my new friends chinked their cups and took a swig. The bite of liquor cut through the slightly sweet flavor of the beverage that had just crossed my lips, and I felt as if I, the foreigner, had just become privy to some kind of secret Korean drinking tradition. Mark leafed through my guidebook, stopping on a page that was meant to serve as a language liaison for decoding Korean menus. He pointed at a string of hangul characters and then looked at me, and I understood that what we had just sipped was dongdongju, a kind of liquor mixed with corn. That explained the sweetness.

We spent the next hour wandering up and down mountain trails together, stopping at another little mountain shack for a tasty pajeon (Korean pancake) a plateful of acorn jelly, and some incredibly spicy kimchi. Of course, they insisted on doling out another few rounds of dongdongju to wash it all down. Partly because I was curious, partly because I didn't want to offend my hosts, and partly because I was really kind of caught up in the whole idea of being part of this very Korean experience, I went right ahead and indulged.

By the time we were heading down the mountain in the cable car, the sun was hanging low in the sky. More time had passed than I had realized, but it didn't matter. The experience of joining them had been well worth the time. They offered for me to come with them to Haeundae beach, and I didn't hesitate to say yes. I knew my way back to Marina's by subway, and after all, this was my vacation -- why NOT do something completely out-of-the-ordinary with some friendly strangers? Mark, the designated driver for the night, chauffered us all to some high-in-the-mountaintops thoroughfare where we stopped to watch fireworks exploding along the beachfront and then walked along an outcropping of rocks for some amazing birds-eye-view scenery of Busan.

And then we descended back into the city, through the building traffic of folks looking for nightlife along the beach's promenade. We ended up back at the very spot I had been just the night before, looking on at staged dancers and heading towards one of those tall, flashy multi-story buildings I had eyed just the night before, when I had been hungry for some company to share the night with. Isn't funny how quickly things can turn around sometimes?

We entered the main floor of the building, and the sight and smell of fish, thrashing around in dozens of glass tanks overwhelmed me. Mark and Jim started their bargaining, choosing a huge and healthy live fish which was subsequently pulled from the tank, placed on a cutting board, and beheaded right before my eyes. The headless fish was bagged and handed back to Mark, while Jim, not quite finished with the transaction, reached his hand into another tank holding baby octopuses and pulled out a live one.

I watched as the almost transparent creature wrapped its suctioning tentacles around his wrist and fingers, with a fluid motion that, aside from being quite beautiful, seemed more than a bit of a shame. But my curiosity turned to shock as Jim untangled the tentacles from one finger and, with his other hand, began pulling the legs off the poor little creature. I had heard from more than one source that live baby octopus was some kind of delicacy in Korea, and I assumed that at some point I'd have a chance to sample it or watch as someone else did. But I didn't see this coming, especially when Jim thrust a tentacle at me and gestured for me to eat it.

I hesitated for a few moments as the detached tentacle clung to my finger as if making one final plea for mercy. It's hard to bring yourself to eat something that is writhing and moving acting absolutely still alive. Before I could think twice and talk myself out of it, I closed my teeth around the translucent-white tentacle and began to chew. Surprisingly, I didn't feel an overwhelming impulse to spit it out. Surprisingly, it really almost tasted pleasant. Surprisingly, I was eating live baby octopus. (Scott, you said it would happen... you were right!)

The rest of the evening was spent with the five of us sitting cross-legged around a low-lying table, a spread of sashimi-style raw fish filleted on a circular platter before us. There were dipping sauces (mostly of the soy sauce and wasabi variety), a clam stew, a seaweed salad, kimchi, and a plate of raw onions and garlic. It was the second time in the space of as many months that I had eaten raw fish, and in all seriousness, an experience I wouldn't mind repeating a few more. The entire meal was fantastic. Pops kept us all entertained with his laughable antics, Jim kept me distracted with his chiseled features and scruff (what IS it with me and men and scruff??), and Mark and Lisa just balanced out the whole wacky party.

Hours later, and way past bedtime, I crept quietly back into Marina's flat. Within the space of a few minutes of being back at Marina's, my entire Korean night on the town seemed like a tease, as if it were something I had simply dreamed up. What are the odds that a group of people would invite some random stranger along for a night of boozing and fine dining? It's amazing what kinds of adventures will find you when you're open to new experiences and not looking for anything in particular...

Trekking Up and Tracking Down the North Gate

2008-08-04T23:39:00.003+09:00

At 5:30 AM when my alarm clock went off, reminding me of my standing appointment with Busan's early-morning Jagalchi Fish Market, I rolled over and played dead. I can't remember the last time my body was actually up and at it at 5:30 AM and today just didn't seem the day to set any new precedents. It took about 0.2 seconds for me to fall back into a delicious sleep, and I somehow was so deeply unconscious that I never even heard Marina get ready or leave the apartment for her day at work.

My short visit last night to Gwangali beach had been so entertaining that I figured it was worth a second look. From my observations, the sand had less of a rough sandpaper quality than Haeundae, and I was keeping my fingers crossed, at least, that it being a Monday, a lot of the beachgoing population would fall off. It didn't matter that the sky was thick with a milky haze, so much so that not a sliver of sun was leaking through. Just to sit on a beach, undisturbed, and listen to the sound of the waves break against the shore sounded as close to perfect as a beach could get in Korea. Besides, my skin had turned distastefully pale since coming to Seosan 7 weeks before, and the though the skies above were clouded over, I was still convinced that I wasn't beyond reach of a little UV.

It turns out my plan was a wise one. Within 20 minutes of parking myself on the sand, the clouds lifted and hot, hot sun filtered down through deep blue sky. It was amazing the immediate difference the sun made in the temperature and heaviness of the air surrounding me. And though (thanks to Fido) I wouldn't be cooling off from the sun in the salty water just a few meters away, I at least had the luxury of a makeshift "bathhouse" just a stone's throw away, where I could rinse away stray sand with a cool stream of shower water at the push of a button. It was perfect. And with no threatening ajummas or parades of parasols or interrupting intercoms, Gwanali -- at least for today -- seemed comparatively fabulous.

After a leisurely sunbath, I was ready to stretch my legs a bit, and managed to find a Tourist Information desk quite nearby where I hoped to get some information about hiking around Busan's old fortress walls. From Geumjang Park, in northern Busan, it is possible to hike to Beomeosa temple, along trails that lead towards ancient gates and crumbling walls. And with the disappointment of finding myself without camera batteries on my visit to Beomeosa two days ago, it seemed fitting to return.

The young girl behind the counter met my English "Hello!" with one of her own, and I was relieved that she seemed a bit eager to speak to me in a language that I actually understood. I asked her my questions, and she started in with a reply in a beautiful British accent that seemed so oddly out of place coming out of a Korean mouth. Of course, she had either been taught by British teachers, or had spent some time studing the language in England itself. It was refreshing, and amusing, and she was so downright nice (although as it turned out, not very knowledgeable) that I couldn't help but leave with a smile.

An hour and a half later, I was again walking the quiet temple grounds at Beomeosa, amusing myself with the vertigo-inducing upward views into the bamboo forests and lush, verdant downward views overlooking the temple and the green hilly mountains beyond. With a little luck, I managed to find the entrance to what turned out to be an astonishingly steep hike up a forest of gargantuan boulders and rocks. Either side of the trail was tied off with bungee cables, marking clearly for would-be hikers the path leading out of Beomeosa. Despite the thick, humid heat, I kept charging ahead, hoisting myself up the trail while perspiration saturated my skin and clothing and my lungs burned a bit from my breathlessness.

Finally, I reached the North Gate where I took the stone steps leading to its lookout post and caught the view of a low-lying stone wall running up and over the green hills to the east and the west. These were fortress walls built centuries upon centuries ago, now nestled among shrubs and flowering trees, holding the attention of curious hikers for a few minutes or more before being left to stand in their stoic isolation. After exploring the area, I continued on straight ahead down the trail, not realizing until too late that the trail itself must have turned along the fortress walls. I kept walking for some time, passing quaint mountain huts and a family of charcoal-black goats who eyed me with apprehension.

A few minutes later, I heard a gentle honk and turned to see some slightly famililar faces smiling out at me from the backseat of a shiny black car. A few Koreans I had crossed paths with at the gate were on their way out of the mountain, and were offering to give me a lift. Sticky with sweat, I folded at the thought of sitting in a cushy air-conditioned car, and hopped into the front seat. We drove for 15 minutes before reaching the exit of the park, and with each minute that ticked by, I was increasily grateful to these strangers for saving me from what would have been a very long, and not remotely scenic, hike.

When they finally dropped me off, I managed to find my bearings enough to realize that I was close to Geumgang Park, which was my original plan anyway. From here, I could take a cable car up the mountain for impressive views of bustling Busan, and that was precisely what I set out to do. Little did I know that within the hour, I would be making friends with a lively if somewhat odd mix of Koreans would would invite me into their circle, and that I would end up on a crazy escapade lasting until the wee hours of morning... But that's another story...

The Beaches of Busan: Trading Peace for Parasols

2008-08-03T23:37:00.004+09:00

I woke early this morning as sunlight streamed in the windows of Marina's flat -- what a change from the subtle rays of indirect morning light that barely seem to reach my apartment back in Seosan. It didn't matter that my body had been horizontal for nearly twelve hours; I was relishing the reality that I had a week to take at whatever pace I chose.

And for the moment, at least, a lazy Sunday morning chewing through Alex Garland's novel "The Beach" seemed the best of all possibilities. Especially when, minutes later, a shroud of gray settled over the sun and stayed put for the next few hours, bringing on a few light showers that lasted until late morning.

By 11:30 I was tired of waiting for the clouds to burn off, and eager to see a bit more of Busan. I had hoped for bright skies and beach-perfect weather, but I'd make do with whatever I had at my disposal. So I pulled a slipdress over my swimming suit and headed toward the metro station. An hour later I was stepping off the metro in Dongbaek, a 15-minute walk to the rocky headlands on a small peninsula overlooking the Sea of Japan. I wandered through the APEC building, a famous spot for national and international peace talks, and took in the view of Gwangali bridge and the gray-blue water stretching out and beyond it. Here a sailboat breeze along the water, there a fisherman cast his line in the foaming spray.

I walked along the coastline until I reached Haeundae, Busan's most popular beach bustling with more weekend activity than should be allowed on any beachfront. Parasols literally stretched from one corner of the beach to the other, a continual sea of red and white plastic, creating one enormous canopy of shade for the sun-phobic beachgoers (is that an oxymoron, or is it just me?) settling into the sand.

After some ordeal trying to communicate to the eager entrepreneurs flocking to me that I didn't want a parasol, beach chair, or anything else for that matter, I managed to miraculously find some unshaded spot to spread out my meager towel and relax under the cloud-covered sky. No sooner had I stretched out and begun to relax, then a high-pitched voice squealed from mounted loudspeakers just a few yards from where I lay, shattering any semblance of peacefulness I had begun to spin around me. It didn't take long for me to realize that the obnoxious loudspeaker announcements were more or less a permanent fixture, background noise to the caucophany of distractions swirling around me.

This was a beach, was it not? People did come here to relax, did they not? This has to amount to one of the most stress-inducing beach experiences I've had thus far...

Minutes later, I woke to see a fiesty ajumma rattling off some unpleasant-sounding words aimed at me, pointing at her beach mats and gesturing to me wildly, as if I were some kind of low-life for taking up her precious sand space without agreeing to pay for the pleasure of using one of her plastic beach mats. I hastily gathered up my things and stomped off northward, in disbelief at the impossibility of relaxation to be found on Haeundae. I must have lucked out because, after walking for several minutes, I came to what appeared to be the perimeter of a sound stage and just adjacent to it, a comparably quiet spot of sand where I promptly parked it.

I spent the next hour in relative peace, despite the continual stream of people traipsing up and down the boardwalk just behind me. At one point, the Korean family spread out in a beach tent just next to me made their way to my towel with a hunk of juicy watermelon to share. It was a simple gesture, but went a long way towards smoothing over the irritations of the day.

I rounded out my day with a late-afternoon trip to nearby Yongungsa Temple, about an hour by bus northward along the coast. This Buddhist temple is set beautifully on an outcropping of rocks along the shore. And between stone carvings, lilting monk-led melodies, and a massive gold-laquered smiling Buddha set into the hillside, it was the perfect place to ward off the heat of the day.

I sat for awhile on the rocks overlooking the grayish waves rippling below, watching the parade of Korean parents toting youngsters, older couples hobbling up and down the stone-carved steps leading to the temple complex, others stepping forward to light incense and send a prayer to the skies.

As night began to fall over Busan, I took one last subway ride to Gwanali Beach, hoping to enjoy a little bit of the night scene that comes to life here on summer evenings. Sure enough, there was no shortage of couples, families, and larger gatherings of people milling about, parked on blankets along the beachfront, walking to and from the restaurant area where flashy, multi-story buildings glowed with neon lights of enticement, and looking on at dancers on a wide stage, performing for an appreciative audience under the stars. The energy of the locale was so enjoyable that I felt a bit disappointed at the realization that I had no one to linger here longer with. But this is the trade-off for the freedom of traveling alone.

And with that, I began my hour-long walk and metro ride back to Marina's flat, where I finally got to meet the girl who saved me from bumming off a park bench the night before. As it turns out, Marina was absolutely delightful to visit with; an optimistic and warm young woman who had no doubt been dealt a challenging hand at the public school where she had been working for the past month since coming to Korea. Talking to her brought home to me a wave of gratitude for the teaching situation that I have been given in Seosan.

It's always tempting to compare and to assume that others have things better than you. Marina's apartment, for example, was much more modern and spacious than my own. She lived in the middle of a thriving metropolis with access to beautiful mountain trails and beaches, and on an excellent train line connecting her to points all over the country. On the surface, it seemed, I really had the short end of the stick. But after spending some time visiting with her, I began to see that truly, everything evens out, and that for me, teaching at EGA is the best of all possible scenarios for me at this point in time.

Day 2 of vacation week had come to a close. It had been eventful, moments of relaxation sandwiched between overpopulated beachfronts and a plethora of perspiration. But all things considered, today had been a discovery, a change of pace, and a soft adventure. And with a little rest, I'd be ready to do it all over again tomorrow.

Backpacking Begins: The Bullet Train to Busan

2008-08-02T22:20:00.003+09:00

Despite nearly cancelling my travel plans due to complications from my nasty Fido attack, I decided Thursday afternoon that I was well enough to still make the most of my one-week vacation (which began Saturday morning). It was cutting things close by Thursday when I made the final call, close enough that all hostels in Busan were booked, and I had to reserve my second-choice bullet train from Cheonan, as all seats on Saturday morning's first train to Busan had all been reserved.

The next few days were a bit stressful as I sent off multiple CouchSurfing requests in hopes of finding someone who would be willing to host me. I hadn't realized until far too late that the weekend of my intended arrival was also the beginning of a huge month-long beach festival in Busan proper. And everybody, it seemed, was planning to attend.

I managed the good fortune of getting in contact with a sweet girl named Marina, originally from the Ukraine, and on teaching contract for a year in Busan. Although she wouldn't be back from the Rock Concert until Sunday afternoon, she offered to leave me her keys so that I could help myself in to her flat and crash at her place for the night. This is the spirit of CouchSurfing, which is something that, try as I might, I simply can't seem to successfully explain to friends and acquaintances curious about this worldwide travelers-helping-travelers community.

Yes, Marina and I were complete strangers. Yes, she was leaving me the key to her place. Yes, I have done the same. And yes, people really can be that trusting.

Saturday was a long one -- I was up Friday night until far too late (2 AM!) catching up with a few close friends, tying up loose ends, and packing up for a week of backpacking. It had been a while since I was last in "backpacking mode," and I have to admit that my efficiency was terrible. But finally, a few slim hours before my bus would pull out of Seosan's terminal and route me to Cheonan (where I'd catch the high-speed train to Busan), I managed to fall into bed and passed out without a moment's hesitation. Finishing up all the odds and ends (watering my lily, taking out the trash, etc. etc.) took me longer than I had planned and, after running to the nearest taxi stand, flagging down an empty cab, and flying down the quiet Saturday morning streets of Seosan, I made it on the bus with just a minute to spare before my one chance of making my connections slipped out of my reach.

Several hours later, I was in Busan, standing in a mob of people waiting to purchase subway tickets in one of Busan's busiest metro stations. Marina had called me while I was en route on the train, and I had quickly scrawled onto a corner of my guidebook page her detailed directions on how to reach her apartment somewhere in the middle of Korea's second-largest city. After managing to get my metro ticket and board the right metrorail train, I settled in for what turned out to be another 45-minute commute uptown to the Oncheonjang stop. As it turned out, Marina's directions were flawless; within the space of another 20 minutes, I had unearthed the key from a potted plant one flight up from her apartment entrance, and was sopping the perspiration off of my face with the hem of my blouse. I had forgotten how oppressive high-summer humidity can be, especially with a 20-pound backpack strapped to my back.

After settling in, repacking the bare essentials into my daybag, rehydrating myself with some cold water, and giving my guidebook a quick once-over, I decided that my best plan of attack would be to head to Beomeosa, a Buddhist temple set in the mountains of Busan, and one of the city's finest attractions. Navigating a foreign country with little to no language skills always proves to be an interesting undertaking -- depending on the amount of patience involved, it can be either humorous or irritating. Fortunately, even with sideshow of a toothless man dressed in camouflage and combat boots who insisted on blowing me kisses for the entire bus ride up in the mountains, I was able to keep everything in a pleasant perspective. That is, until I walked onto the temple grounds, drew out my SLR to take my first photo... and discovered that I had failed to install the battery...

That discovery put an immense damper on my explorations, but soon I was reveling in the silent peacefulness of the temple grounds, craning my neck upwards to the tops of the bamboo shoots springing up alongside a temple wall, eavesdropping respectfully on the chanting and song of monks and worshippers kneeling barefoot in the inner chambers of many of the prayerhouses. A monk dressed in simple brown clothing stepped out from behind a closed gate and began sweeping the stone steps leading up to the entranceway, and a gaggle of school children, dressed in matching yellow tee-shirts, pattered through open courtyard, both bringing a unique energy to the scenery and stillness surrounding me.

After soaking up the whole experience, I managed to make it back to Oncheonjang and rounding up a few days' worth of fruits and vegetables before my body all but caved in from exhaustion. I had Marina's flat to myself and, despite the charms of Busan beckoning from just beyond her windowpane, I knew that what I needed more than anything was some quality sleep. So I curled up on the hard wood floor with the novel I had borrowed from Tahira just before leaving, and let the written words lull me to sleep. And despite my best intentions to venture out again later that evening, I managed to sleep almost straight through til morning on that hard wood floor. My vacation had officially begun.

Upgrading Your Weblog Experience :)

2008-07-30T19:25:00.005+09:00

I've been playing around with my weblog, trying to make it a little more user-friendly and curious to add some features that you, my readers, might enjoy. The live traffic feed, for instance, or clocks broadcasting the current time from a number of international time zones, or even the auto-play playlist feed. (Doesn't music somehow make everything a bit better?)

Months ago, I became a fan of a raw food website called Gone Raw, which had one incredibly cool feature: you could browse recipes not only by the standard search box, but also by clicking on any of the hyperlinked words in what I later learned was a "label cloud." I thought it might be cool to add this little feature to my weblog, and was able to find a tutorial for configuring a label cloud that, although a bit intimidating, I was somehow able to follow successfully.

If you look to the right sidebar, you'll notice the label cloud, which contains keywords I've pulled from my blog posts to date. Click on any one of them, and it will take you to other postings tagged with the same label.

And in case you're interested in adding the same to your weblog, check out this link for the how-to.

Night Under the Knife, Part II

2008-07-29T23:35:00.003+09:00

I stood in front of Dr. Shin's medical office last night, batting off mosquitoes, wondering when I would see him coming up the road to unlock the doors and let me in. Earlier yesterday, at the conclusion of my checkup, Dr. Shin had told me that he would need to "operate" again on my wound, as some of the skin surrounding the bite had become necrotic -- dead, unwilling to regenerate -- and needed to be removed. We had made this arrangement before to meet in the evening after I finished teaching, and I could only assume from his stilted English when he had said, "See you tonight," that that was what he meant to communicate.

But an hour later, still swatting at the biting bugs that were making nosedives for my ankles, I had to assume he wasn't coming. Probably I should have left much sooner, but I knew the doctor made special arrangements to meet with me at night after his clinic had closed, and the thought of him arriving late only to find me not there seemed somehow disrespectful. It was late, and dark, and the air was heavy, but I walked home, letting my mind empty and hoping that perhaps a little extra circulation might reverse some of the necrosis that had been spreading beneath the bandage.

At today's checkup, my suspicions were confirmed. When I asked Dr. Shin about our missed appointment last night, I could see that he was was confused. "No, tonight," he said, almost as if it surely must have been me that had misunderstood our arrangements. So it was. Somehow I couldn't be angry or upset. I'd become quite fond of this gentle man with tufts of gray at his temples whose hands had cleaned and cared for my wound more than a handful of time.
So tonight I went "under the knife" again, this time with the benefit of knowing in advance how the procedure would unfold. It made for a much more comforting experience, despite the pain and discomfort of the massive pressurized wrap around my leg. Laura, Dr. Shin's daughter, was there again to help with the translation. That was a kind touch on the doctor's part, as well. Everything seemed to go smoothly, him inserting injections and making incisions in all the right places, tightening up the stitches that he had placed during my first night surgery, sewing my leg up with all of the skill and grace of a well-practiced surgeon. "There will be some scarring," Laura had told me, translating for her father. "But don't worry," she added, "my father is like a plastic surgeon. He will make the scar as small as possible."

It wasn't until the surgical procedure had ended and I was nursing my left leg back into circulation again that I met the rest of Dr. Shin's family, a second daughter, younger than Laura, and a third child, his son, the youngest of the three. As it turned out, tonight was the last night the family would be together before all three of the children left for Vancouver, Canada, where they lived during the school year and studied in an English-speaking public school. I felt somewhat horrified to realize that this surgery had been scheduled during their last night at home, feeling guilty for having taken time away from their togetherness. At the same time, I felt quite honored that the doctor would go to such trouble to meet with me, his foreign patient, and give me the treatment that my wound apparently needed.

I left his office that evening feeling gratitude again for the people that have been placed in my path since coming to Korea. I couldn't have chosen a more caring doctor to help nurse my wounded body back to health, and being surrounded by his children last night, talking to them in English about their upcoming return to Canada, I felt almost as if I were part of the family. It's always a beautiful thing to be reminded of the goodness, the giving-ness, that exists in others. It tends to bring about the same response within us. When you receive a genuine gift from another, you somehow can't help but feel the desire to give back.

A Sea of Change

2008-07-28T21:49:00.005+09:00

I said farewell to Penny today, over breakfast at the bistro table in my crackerbox apartment. She dove into a bowl of cereal and milk sprinkled with raisins while I nursed an iced coffee, both of us musing at the pace with which life bring change.

It's a strange thing, the transiency that permeates life living abroad. I've always considered myself an adventurer at heart, a free spirit with a soul that longs to experience life firsthand from a wide range of geographical perches. My family and friends who know me well, I hope, appreciate this as one of the qualities that defines me, while others who are perhaps less in tune with my curious yet genuinely humanitarian nature might write me off as some kind of a gypsy.

It's true that my life has been a constant stream of movement. Since my early years as a youngster, following my parents along on cross-town and cross-country moves, I became well practiced in the art of packing my things, settling in to a new home, and finding my place among new friends. And the pace only quickened as I reached my college years. I don't think I can truthfully count the number of places I have lived, or the number of times I have moved. But that's okay with me. It's part of the learning curve that is my life, and I wouldn't change it.

Still, it's a reality I have had to adjust to, that here in Korea, I am rubbing shoulders with so many others for whom life is also a sea of change. Most of the foreigners in Korea have come to work as an English teacher for twelve months. That's the standard contract length. Of course, there are a host of expats, mostly settled in and around the suburbs of Seoul, who have chosen to make themselves more of a permanent fixture in Korea. I'm somewhere balanced between the two, for once -- not particularly eager to sprint out of Korea at the first chance I get, though certainly not ready to put down the kind of roots that would keep me for years on end.

With Penny gone, I'm reminded that life is fleeting, that friendships are to be appreciated and savored, and that I am blessed to have been touched by people who have come into my life, bringing rays of sunshine with them. Penny is off to begin another chapter of her life, in the same way that each foreigner I meet will in turn. And then one day, it will be me again who spreads wide my wings and soars to some new perch from which to take in the world around me.

I am grateful to have learned through my life experiences that hellos and goodbyes, while often tinged with emotion, are never final or absolute -- that the world, despite how tremendously large it is, can still in its own miraculous way bring people full-circle back together again. I am grateful that I have learned how to take that feeling of "home" with me wherever it is that I have chosen to be, and that I can be thousands of miles away from family yet still somehow feel "surrounded" with the love, support, and care of those who matter most to me.

Life is a sea of change. Sometimes we drift, sometimes we swim against the current. But always, in the end, it is the sea that carries us beyond our humble beginnings and into the vast and open space where more than we have ever imagined can become possible.

A Walk to Remember

2008-07-26T16:34:00.004+09:00

Today's check-up went smoothly -- the worst of it was just getting to the examination room. Waiting rooms tend to be more crowded on Saturdays than most days of the week, I've decided. Being one of the few people I know who has ever actually BEEN in a waiting room every single day for a week straight, I'm qualifying myself as a local expert. In fact, Wednesday or Thursday, mid-morning, seems to be the ideal time to come down with something worthy of a hike across town to the doc's. And you can just forget about seeing anything other than the waiting room wallpaper for hours on end if you have plans to see the doctor on a Monday morning. That's the day when all the little old ladies and hunched-over grand-daddies who live in the outlying villages take a trip into town.

I left Dr. Shin's office with relief that the severe swelling I experienced yesterday was a normal part of the healing process and nothing to be alarmed about. The good doctor gave me the green light to loosen or remove my bandages when the swelling gets unbearable and give my ankle a gentle stretch to get my circulation flowing again. (This, of course, is my loose translation, but I think I got the gist of it.) And also, I've graduated to 48-hour stretches between appointments! This means I can stop single-handedly keeping the taxi drivers of Seosan in business! :) Today's trip to the doctor marks my tenth since my leg troubles began. The statistics: 1 emergency room stint, 1 hospital visit, 2 surgical procedures, and 6 office visits. Wow, I'm becoming a regular in medical circles all around town.

After leaving Dr. Shin's office, I stopped in at the pharmacy next door to refill my prescription. The pharmacist always greets me with a warm hello and a chilled mini-beverage from his "vending refrigerator." It's always some kind of energy drink laced with gobs of vitamin C, which is probably a good thing, as I don't get much citrus these days (it just goes against my grain to pay as much for a kilo of oranges as I would for a gallon of gasoline). I sipped down the cool drink while I waited for my prescription to be filled, and I felt a welcome, if odd-timed, smile wash over my face and a quiet contentedness start to kind of ruffle through my insides like the tickling of a feather. Wherever this feeling was coming from, it felt fantastic.

In a bright mood, and joyfully aware of the absence of rain at the moment, I decided that rather than pile into yet another taxi cab to whisk me home, I'd just hoof it. The skies were chalky gray, and ahead I could see a dark cluster of storm clouds building up for another downpour. But for the moment, at least, no rain was falling, and I could make out the tiniest whisper of sunshine from behind the gray haze. As I walked slowly back down Seosan's main street, I felt that my senses were somehow heightened, that I was, for whatever reason, taking in the buzzing of comings and goings around me with more than my normal dose of perception. (Maybe there was more than straight vitamin C in that energy drink...)

I passed a young mother, dressed to the nines, with her three little kids in tow, traversing the hectic sidewalks and detouring around the cars that had unkindly pulled up onto the pedestrians' walkway. The youngest looked to be about four, and he toddled behind with full concentration on the puffed rice cake he was trying to navigate to his mouth. My eye caught a colorful umbrella to my left, down the narrow little where a local woman usually sets up shop. Today, she had laid out baskets of carefully portioned tomatoes, and a large, steaming tub filled with purple-flecked corn on the cob, steamed and ready to eat. I sidestepped two taxis that were about ready to sandwich me just outside the bus terminal, and put on a little speed to make the green light across to Seosan Mart (where I do most of my grocery shopping these days. You don't want to get stuck at this light, as it's a minimum 3-minute wait -- trust me, I've eyed the clock more than a few times this week from the back seat of my taxi ride to the doctor's).

As I rounded the last stretch before crossing the street and heading up the big hill towards home, I passed one of many local eateries, with patrons sitting out front under large shade umbrellas. It was going on noon, and Seosan's version of cafes lining the piazza was, while notably less charming than its European counterparts, equally entertaining. It wasn't the locals queuing for lunch who caught my attention, but a loud, flapping sound, like birds wings rattling against a metal cage. Curious, I looked, trying to place the sound. What I saw evoked a chuckle -- two fish, soon to be on a serving platter, were flapping their little hearts out on the hard cement sidewalk, just out of reach from the safety of the bucket that just moments before had held them.

Splash! My attention snapped away from the flip-finned fish as my foot sent muddy water flying every which way. I had been too immersed in the cafe scene to notice that I was heading right for a mud pit of a rain puddle! Somehow, it didn't seem to matter -- my jaunt across town had been nothing out of the ordinary, yet still quite a walk to remember.

Penny, Pals, and Pepperoni Pizza

2008-07-26T15:57:00.004+09:00

By 2:00 today, my left foot and ankle had ballooned into a painful and nearly unrecognizable mass. I hadn't realized how bad it had gotten until I noticed that I had been hobbling around my classroom in quite a bit more pain than normal. Finally, as if it were an afterthought, I glanced down at my foot. I think the look on my face must have been somewhat horrified. One glance south-ward and I could feel despair looming large on the horizon. It had been almost a week since my leg became dogfood, yet somehow I felt the past 6 days had really aged me.

I try to take things with an open mind and accepting spirit, but by this afternoon, I was DONE with the dog bite from hell. I was done with the limping and done with the doctor's visits and done with the iodine stains peeking out from underneath my bandages. My leg hadn't been shaved since.... I couldn't even remember when, and I had just plain run out of smile to paint across my face.

I wanted to be free to hike the hilltops and ride my bike to the grocery store and just... be normal again. It was, then, absolute medicine for my soul to meet up with with Penny, Francois, and Chetty tonight after the workday -- and workweek (hooray!!) -- had ended. This was it, one final round of pizza and beer at our favorite Friday night hangout before Penny left Korea for good. I arrived in it-might-kill-me-to-be-happy spirits but not ten minutes passed by, I think, before I had all but forgotten the worst of my troubles. Good friends will do that, and a few bites of thin-crusted, mozzarella-laden pepperoni pizza don't hurt either!

As Penny handed me a sweetly framed photo of the two of us, yet another parting gift from this little lady with a big heart, I felt my own heart sink a bit with sadness at our pending farewell. In literally three weeks time, I have grown quite attached to this sweetheart of a girl from Down Under. It seems like surely we've been friends for months, so easy and enjoyable has our time together been. I've stopped by her and Francois' place often on my evening walks home from work, and have ended up staying for hours, chatting over slices of perfectly chilled melon and nectarines. We roamed the boardwalk and side streets of Daecheon Beach together in our mud-splattered bathing suits, hiccuping all the way, and climbed the hills of Seosan, which was a perfectly beautiful hike right up until Penny's four-legged friend deciding to give me a laceration or two. And she's been my angel these past days as I've begun, as she says, my "week of healing."

The cuddly little blue teddy bear she brought by Thursday night sits on my nightstand now, a sweet reminder that however far I roam, the genuine caring of good friends can make any foreign place feel just like home. A few laughter-filled hours later, my spirits are high, my tummy is full, and my head is ready to hit the pillow. Good night, world!

A Bowlful of Green Gold

2008-07-24T22:18:00.003+09:00

My energy has been severely lagging these past few days as my body has tried to recoil from the stress of a brutal mauling to the leg, various pokes, prods, incisions and injections, and unfamiliar medicines coursing through my system to ward off infection and pain. All of this, topped off with my full teaching schedule, has brought me at the point of complete exhaustion. The other day, I felt clammy and lightheaded, and was sure to have fainted if not for a 40-minute dinner break. So it was that Tahira, my coworker and the only other "foreigner" at EGA, offered to make me some seaweed soup.

Seaweed soup is a Korean cultural icon. Ask any pregnant or nursing mother about their pre- and post-baby diet, and seaweed soup will rise to superstar status. Harrison's wife, Terry, was the first to introduce me to this wonder food, as she was still consuming it daily when I arrived (just a couple of months after the birth of her third child). And curious about the health benefits she claimed it possessed, I did a little research of my own (thanks, Google!). As it turns out, she was right.

This soup, made from the dried leaves of seaweed, has been part of Korea's history for 5,000 years. Nursing moms rely on it to help stimulate health breastmilk production, and students usually drink up the night before the big exam, as it is believed to support brain function. Seaweed itself contains the broadest range of minerals found in any food, according to one source -- including potassium, calcium, magnesium, iron, and iodine. It is reputedly an excellent blood cleanser, and contains a host of vitamins (particularly B-vitamins which your body needs to produce energy). Seaweed soup is also touted for promoting fast tissue repair, preventing diabetes and heart attacks, and reducing cholesterol, arthritis, and acne.

All this, and it goes down quite smooth...

Later tonight, after enjoying some home-brewed medicine, compliments of Tahira, I found a recipe for making my own seaweed soup (Mi-Yeok Guk, in Korean). If the above health benefits sound appealing to you, you might just want to make your own batch as well:

Traditional Mi-Yeok Guk (Seaweed Soup)
30g dried seaweed for soup
60g flank or sirloin steak, sliced into thin strips
2 garlic cloves, crushed
1 tbsp Asian sesame oil
2 tbsp dark soy sauce
1 tsp instant beef stock powder (can replace with dashi)
1.5L water
1. Soak the seaweed strands in warm water till they have become soft and supple, then discard the soaking water and set aside the seaweed for now.
2. Heat a large pot over medium heat, then add the sliced steak, garlic and sesame oil and sauté till the meat has browned nicely. Add the soy sauce and seaweed and sauté for another minute to make sure that the meat and seaweed are taking on the flavour from the garlic and soy.
3. Add the water and stock powder to the pot and stir to make sure that the powder has dissolved, then bring to a vigorous boil. Boil for about 15 minutes, then put the lid on and reduce the heat to a simmer and leave for another 30 minutes, or till the seaweed is very soft and the liquid has turned slightly milky and thickened.

Note: Photos and recipe from Kitchen Wench

Book Review: The Law of Attraction: The Basics of the Teachings of Abraham

2008-07-22T14:14:00.002+09:00

Over the past week, mostly since the cluster of cataclymic events which have shaken up my relatively calm and peaceful world, I've been reading a book that has proven to be incredibly profound.

I have been taking my time wandering through its pages, pondering after over a phrase or a paragraph and painting large swaths of yellow with my trusty highlighter to mark the passages that most appeal to me. The book is entitled "The Law of Attraction, The Basics of the Teachings of Abraham," by Esther and Jerry Hicks. It's perhaps a little "out there" for those who come from more traditional religious ideologies. But if you're willing to have an open mind to the sources or channels through which messages can be revealed (as I am), then you will find the wisdom packed into the pages of this book to be invaluable.

The core message of the book is that each of us is responsible for shaping and creating the experiences that make up the fabric of our lives -- the very thoughts that we think are the seeds from which our experiences are born. We are like magnets, bringing into our life experiences the things that occupy our thoughts. We can attract abundance, success, good relationships, money; or we can attract loss, failure, loneliness, and poverty. It is all within us.

I find this message so empowering, and precisely in tune with my own personal philosophy on life, fate, destiny. I can accept that there is a mental and thus spiritual creation of all things before they are physically manifested. I suppose this mentality falls hard on those who choose to see themselves as victims of circumstance. But for those of us willing to take accountability for the direction of our lives, willing to see the connection between not just those things that we do, but the things that come to us, this book is pure inspiration.

If you are interested in learning more about this book, you can visit the following link.

Night Under the Knife, Part I

2008-07-21T22:39:00.002+09:00

My Monday morning meeting with Dr. Shin was pushed back, as his office was overflowing with patients. Finally, I was able to meet with him, and he agreed to take my case. Apparently, he had some apprehension about treating me, an American, as years before he had had a very unsavory
experience treating another one of my compatriates, a man who was quite insistent with the minutiae of his treatment, and somewhat untrusting of the doctor's experience and wisdom. I tried to communicate through Harrison that I would be a different patient entirely, that I of course would trust his recommendations and experience. I, after all, had never been attacked by an animal. I was completely at the mercy of those with experience -- in this case Dr. Shin -- who would able to guide me back to good health.

Dr. Shin explained that my wound was quite deep, and that he was concerned there might be muscle damage. He needed to open the wound a bit further to inspect it for any further complications. We would need to wait on stitching until probably Thursday. In the meantime, I needed to come back at 6:00 for the first surgery. I could tell from the exchange that this wasn't a popular idea. 6:00 fell right in the middle of my workday. (I work from 12:00 until 9:00 PM).

Teaching at such a small hagwon, there is absolutely no substitute coverage for me. So if I can't make my classes, they are cancelled. This being the case, I was given the distinct impression that, as concerned and caring as Harrison was, the expectation was that I would of course fulfill my normal teaching schedule despite having an attack just a little over a day ago that had landed me in the emergency room. I was completely blown away, then, by the generosity of this doctor who had just met me, when he agreed to return to his office 9:30 PM tonight for a special visit. Certainly a doctor with his prestige didn't need to be coming back to the office after hours. It was certainly a special favor on his part to offer to do so. I felt humbled at his giving spirit.

Finding the energy to push through 7 hours of teaching while sitting in a chair with my wounded leg propped up next to me proved to be an enormous challege. Halfway through my fourth class, I could feel my blood sugar drop, and my hands begin shaking. I felt I was near passing out, which was unsettling. Just about then, my cell phone rang. It was unusual that I had my phone with me at school, and even more unusual that it would ring just as a break had opened up in my teaching schedule (today was the first day of the instituted dinner break after my first 4 classes). As I answered the phone, I was relieved to hear the voice of my dear friend Chetty on the other end. He had called to see how I was doing, and it did my soul a lot of good to talk with him for a few minutes, and to be reminded that I was not alone here in Seosan.

Three hours later, when my last class ended, I took a taxi to the surgeon's office. As promised, he was there waiting with his wife, head nurse, and 17-year-old daughter, who was home visiting her family between school sessions in Canada, where she attended high school. I was grateful to have her there, as her English was quite good and she was able to communicate to me each step of the surgical procedure. First, the head nurse fitted my leg with the same kind of wrap used to constrict your arm for taking blood pressure. Only, this was on a massive scale, and within moments, a machine had compressed wrap's grip on my thigh so much so that it was somewhat painful. But I understood: the surgeon needed to restrict the blood flow so that the he could cut into my leg with minimal bleeding.

I was instructed to roll onto my right side so that the doctor had better access to the wound. Lying on his surgical table in this position, I reach my arms across my body as if giving myself a hug. As much as I knew this procedure was what my body needed in order to begin healing, I also knew that more shots and cutting and strange medicines was going to cause some additional stress to my already traumatized body. And though Dr. Shin had the highest reputation for his surgical skills in Seosan, I was going on faith that his expertise would match with the needs of my body, and this his wisdom and adept hand would be enough to ensure the best of all possible recoveries.

So as I lay there, encircling myself in my own little hug, I sent messages to my body of calmness, peace, and faith. And I continued this over the next hour as the surgery took place.
Next came the pain shots. There were several injections of local anaesthetic around the wound. I actually lost count of how many pricks I felt on my lower leg. But I praised his thoroughness -- it would pay off later when he began his incisions. It was an odd sensation, as the numbing medication spread into my tissues. I could feel the pressure of his fingers on my leg, feel tugs and movements that must surely be cutting, but there was no sensation other than the dullest awareness that something was going on doing there.

He proceeded with this for some time, while his daughter asked me questions about the U.S. -- either out of boredom or curiousity on her part, or out of pity for me. It didn't matter the reason, it did help to pass the time. And with each further step of the procedure, she gave me a much-appreciated heads-up. "My father is now deepening the incision." "My father is now cutting out the dead tissue."And the best of all: "My father says you are lucky, there is no damage to the surrounding muscle."

I was so happy to hear those words. His initial diagnosis (during my office visit earlier today) sounded as if the depth of the wound had caused some serious damage, but now, with this news, I felt assured that my recovery could progress much more quickly. In fact, after a closer inspection of the wound, he decided that he would begin some preliminary stitching to begin closing the gashes. So I held on for a little while longer, my left leg completely numb at this point from the pressurized wrap on my thigh. I could feel only a whisper of tingles in my toes as the surgeon sewed two lengths of strong, black thread into my wounds.

With the procedure completed, I sat on the surgery table to regain feeling in my leg. The surgeon's daughter told me that I needed to return to the clinic every day this week for a check-up, so that her father could make sure no secondary infection developed. Later this week, he would need me to meet with him for another procedure in the evening, when he would trim away any tissue that was not healing and close the stitches. I left the doctor's office that night, not with fear or concern, but with a genuine respect and appreciation for this family that had come together at such a late hour to help a foreigner in need.

I took a taxi home, and had been inside my apartment only a minute when my phone rang. It was my mom, checking in to see how I was doing. I couldn't believe the timing of my two phone calls today. First Chetty, calling just at the moment when I needed a boost of energy. And now, my mother, calling just as I had returned home from my surgery. I counted those not as coincidental happenings, but as gracious gifts from the Universe that I had been counted and was being taken care of. It was a serendipitous feeling, and as I settled to sleep for the night, despite the turmoil of the past days, I felt a sweet peacefulness envelop me at the realization that despite the vastness of the Universe, I was Known.

Bad Things Come in Threes

2008-07-20T21:29:00.002+09:00

It has been an incredibly long 24 hours since the dog attack, and I think I'm still trying to wrap my head around all that has transpired during the past week. It has truly been a beast. I try to take comfort in the proverb that says things come in threes. I tend to think that's more often than not the truth. And in this case, I truly hope so.

Incident #1: Drama with Harrison over unexpected contract changes
Incident #2: The Peeping Tom turned intruder turned lingerie thief
Incident #3: My run-in with the jaws of the devil dog

As upsetting as the issue was that I had with Harrison early last week, he has really been there to help me when I've needed it. He actually stopped by my apartment last night at 10 PM after finishing his teaching shift, to check on my wound. His reaction was almost identical to that of the nurse during my emergency room visit last night... but even more pronounced. He offered to drive to a nearby pharmacy for some gauze and cleansing solution so that I could redress my wound before going to bed, and then told me he would meet me the following morning to take me back to the hospital.

Harrison met me in front of Penny's apartment this morning at 10. We drove to the farmhouse so that he could talk to the dog's owners about whether the dog had received its rabies shots. The owners were, naturally, nowhere to be found, and while Penny and I waited in the van, the ear-piercing barking that ensued from my furry white assailant was enough to put me on edge. Harrison eyed the dog closely as he walked back to the van, and as we sped back to town to drop Penny off at home, he offered his advice. This kind of dog, he informed us, is a very common breed here in Korea. It's a Korean fighting dog, and can be very vicious. (Think Doberman -- the kind of dog people keep on standby as burglar insurance, the kind of dog that hesitates not before attacking anyone that attempts to cross its path.) Harrison's final caution was to NEVER try to pet one of these dogs. Chances are better than good that you'll end up with a fate similar to mine.

Next we headed to the hospital, which was quite backed up with weekend people traffic. We got our number for the queue and had a seat. An hour later, I was shown to a cot and told to lie flat while the attending doctor looked at my wound. I was so grateful to have Harrison there to communicate for me. There was quite a bit of verbal exchange as I lay there on the white sheet covering the cot. The doctor flexed and rotated my ankle, obviously checking for breaks or sprains. Fortunately, none of his motions caused any extraordinary discomfort.

Then, as the doctor began literally scrubbing out my lacerations, I clenched my fist and tried to bristle against the stinging pain that resulted. It seemed go on for quite some time before I could hear his footsteps gradually fading. He returned minutes later with bandaging. With the ordeal finally over, he properly wrapped my leg and ankle, and then gestured for me to stand. Even with subtle motions to step off of the cot, my wound was producing so much pain that tears sprang to my eyes. The thought of having to limp around for the next however many days was deeply concerning to me, but my attempts to try to locate some crutches were unsuccessful. Apparently, because there were no sprains, etc., crutches were not being offered to me. Harrison took me to the in-house pharmacy, where the pharmacist behind the counter handed him my prescription (a pain and antibiotic combination), and informed him that it had been ready for me since last night. Why couldn't someone have helped me find the pharmacy!?

Next, Harrison drove me to the office of one of Seosan's most reputable doctors, an orthopedic surgeon named Dr. Shin (haha, that's actually his name, but I just realized it's also quite a pun!!). His office was closed (as it was Sunday), but Harrison told me that he felt it was best I transfer to the care of Dr. Shin, rather than continue treatment at the hospital. I was in full agreement on that count. We would return to the clinic tomorrow morning and talk to the doctor about him taking on my case then.

The last stop before heading home was the local branch of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, which is the religion of my family. After hearing the news of my dog attack, my mom's only request was that I please try to find the nearest church building and request a blessing for my body to heal quickly and without complication. Out of respect for her, and because I do believe that faith and prayer can bring about some miraculous results, I asked Harrison if he could help me find the church building. I was surprised when he replied that he knew just where it was. A few minutes later, we were parking right outside a multi-story building housing a restaurant, several offices, and the meeting rooms for the church's Sunday services.

I didn't know how fortunate I was that the church was located so near my home until I was inside, speaking with a young girl from Arizona, who is volunteering for a year and a half to work as a missionary in Central Korea. This young missionary told me that she came to Seosan several times a week, including every Sunday for church services, because it was the nearest LDS church in the vicinity. Still, her bus ride took an hour. I think I could probably ride my bicycle here from my apartment in under 10 minutes. Finally, I was able to ask for a special prayer, or blessing, for my health and recovery. By the time I left, I felt my spirit had calmed. My mind seemed much more focused on the possibilities for my healing rather than the inevitability of my current pain. I had made a mental shift, and that in and of itself was healing.

As we drove back home, Harrison offered me two parting gifts: an umbrella (the rains which had usurped most of yesterday's daylight hours had returned), and a carry-out bag holding a tuna roll (chamchi kimbap) and a container of spicy rice noodles and fishcake (ddokboki). Being that my mobility was so poor, he had bought lunch for me so that I could go immediately home and rest. I disembarked from Harrison's van feeling very indebted to him for the kindnesses he had shown me today. Truly this was above and beyond the call and responsibility he holds as my employer and sponsor. Still, I felt these kind actions generated from a spirit of genuine desire to help. And it was encouraging, and reassuring, to feel a strong positive relationship in place again between us.

The rest of the day was a parade of cheerful friends calling and stopping by to check on me. Penny brought triangles of sticky-sweet watermelon and a few books I might enjoy reading. Dave stopped by to see if I'd like a few scoops of Baskin Robbins' ice cream as a treat later that evening. And Chetty came by to share some peaceful, meditative music and just be some good company for a while. By the time Chetty had left for home and Dave had returned with my ice cream scoops (walnut, and some kind of blueberry-cheese, delicious!), I literally felt as if someone had wrapped a warm, soft, cozy blanket over me and rubbed my shoulders until my whole body had relaxed.

Even with the terribly shitty experiences this week had brought to me, I couldn't fail to acknowledge that good had surely come of it. Wasn't it a beautiful discovery to make, knowing that despite being so far away from my roots, my family, and many friends, that here in this small little town in the middle of some until-quite-recently completely foreign country, I had a support system, a network of genuine and caring people who would see me through the worst of times? Truly, if we just look below the surface, everything can have an element of positivity.

The Devil's Jaws, Part II

2008-07-19T23:22:00.002+09:00

(continued)
. . . We neared a tree on the left shoulder of the road, and I could see a rather large dog lying near its trunk, its white fur matted down with rain and mud. It looked rather beastly, and I kept a bit of a distance as Penny approached him and held out her hand for him to sniff. He recognized her, that was certain, and slowly he proceeded to raise up on all fours and respond to her with some long, wet licks. Then Fido looked in my direction, and walked towards me. I held out my hand, slowly, wanting to give him an opportunity to familiarize himself with my smell.

I've been around dogs as much as the next person, I guess. I even owned a dog for a short time. I know animals can smell fear or nervousness. So as we approached one another, I monitored my emotional base to make sure he could sense trust from me. He sniffed at my hand, my fingertips, the cuff of my pants, my ankle. And then he reciprocated with a few slobbery but gentle licks, which seemed to say he accepted me. All seemed to be going according to plan.

But in a split second, everything changed. A deep, low, fear-invoking growl suddenly surfaced from somewhere closeby, but before either Penny or I had a chance to realize what was happening, I saw a flash of white and felt a burning sensation as something deep and sharp cut into the flesh just above my ankle. I looked down in shock to see this dog, who had just a moment ago given me a token of friendship, tear into my leg with determined aggression. I pulled back, completely stunned, my mind straining to interpret the nerve signals firing up from what had instantly become a bleeding mass. I limped further away from the dog, my only solace being the rope tethering him to the tree just beyond my reach.

I looked down to see blood gushing from a long, deep gash, and instantly the sight of it, coupled with the effect of hiking for over an hour on an empty stomach, left me feeling light-headed and weak. We were only about 3/4 mile from home, but as Penny and I attempted to continue on the road leading back to town, I realized that I was not going to be able to make it back on foot.

Within minutes, Penny had flagged down an approaching car, carring a local farming family headed out of town. Through gestures, we were able to quickly garner their help -- one look at my leg, and they herded us into the backseat of their car, minutes later dropping us off just outside my apartment door. The next few hours were more or less a nightmarish blur. I grabbed my wallet and health insurance papers from my desk, and hopped into a taxi with Penny heading towards the local hospital. Once admitted to the emergency room, I was ushered to a cot while an on-call doctor began removing my shoe and sock and inspecting the wound. His assistant approached and as soon as she took a look at my leg, began making terrible noises that, regardless of language, indicated that whatever was going on down there was NOT pretty.

Two hours later, I had been allergy tested for contraindications to some kind of medicine the nurse was planning to shoot me up with, shot in both the arse and my left forearm with menacingly large needles, and had nearly fainted and vomited from the immediate effect of these unfamiliar drugs as they started coursing through my bloodstream.

With little ability to communicate with the doctor, I had to be content with the shoddy patch-up job that the doctor had done on my wound. He somehow was able to explain to me that I needed stitching, but that because the wound was from an animal bite, they have to wait a few days first. I was still bleeding through the gauze as I hobbled out of the hospital. I thought I had understood something about recieving a pain/antibiotic prescription, but there was no one there to help us find the pharmacy and, as the evening was dragging on and on, Penny and I finally decided it was time to head home.

An hour later, I was at Penny and Francois' kitchen table, my leg propped on an adjacent chair, trying with all of my energy to focus on the plate of clams and pasta and fresh parsley loving laid out before me, and not on the perilous incident that had undoubtedly changed the course of the next few weeks. Penny apologized profusely, but I wouldn't hear it. She was not to blame. No one was to blame. It was just one of those things, and it happened, and that was that. There was no undoing it and it was best that I just start focusing on my healing.

But all kinds of fears creep up under the guise of realistic concern when you're brought head to head with an unexpected crisis. What about rabies, I thought in a half-panic. With the dozen plus jabs that I received before embarking on my round-the-world travels in 2006, rabies had NOT been on the agenda. How would I know if I were at risk? And why couldn't they stitch me? What would happen when I returned to the hospital tomorrow? How was I going to get through the night with the throbbing pain from my ankle?

A few glasses of wine and an hour of candlelight later, and my mood was tranquil, my spirits calmed. I was ready for sleep and anxious to meet with Harrison, who had offered to take me back to the hospital for more treatment Sunday morning. As I laid my head back on my pillow and thought of the trauma of the past few hours, and of the past few days, I took solace in the sweet reminder that I was not alone, that I was so very fortunate to have many caring people around me, and many caring people far from me, whose thoughts and prayers would surely be reaching me over the days to come. It was almost enough to allow me to black out the angry bite that a four-legged stranger had inflicted on me just hours before. The devilish jaws of this insidious animal may have wounded my flesh, but I was determined to see that my spirits stayed high, intact, and unharmed.

The Devil's Jaws

2008-07-19T23:02:00.006+09:00

There is a portion of the world-famous Iguassu Falls, which straddle the border of Argentina and Brazil, known as the Devil's Throat. Iguassu Falls (Foz de Iguacu in Portuguese) is one of the most impressive waterfalls I've never seen (but someday, God willing, I will).

Imagine taking the grandeur of Niagara, stretching it out to a width of 15 miles, and then splicing it up into pieces, so that instead of two of three major falls, you have literally hundreds of them (there are as many as 260 on record). It is one of the widest and tallest waterfall systems in the world.

The Devil's Throat is the oldest and largest fall in the complex, one of the most dangerous to approach, and one of the most spectacular to behold. Movie buffs familiar with the classic film "The Mission" will remember the protagonist, a peaceful humanitarian and monk intent on helping the indigenous peoples of the Guarana tribes. He climbed the falls at the Devil's Throat in order to pass into the tribal territory and make a connection with the Guarana people. Flash forward to present day, Seosan... and bear with me as I take a literary leap to connect the dots between Brazil and Korea...

This morning came and went with no change in the steady, heavy rainfall outside my window. Monsoon season had indeed descended upon Seosan, and it seemed there would be no reprieve from the precipitation that was most certainly staying put for the next several days. It was unfortunate, as I had missed quite a few of my daily walks and hike due to the drama with work and with Seosan's Most Wanted (a.k.a. Mr. Lowlife) that seemed to make a complete mockery of an otherwise peaceful entry to Korean life.

I was eager to get out and stretch my legs a bit, but with the rain coming down in heavy sheets, it was nothing doing. So, I stayed holed up in my tiny little one-room apartment, losing myself in one project after another -- a recipe hunt for a Korean-style cabbage dish, reading up on yoga poses, tweaking my Facebook page, finding good excuses to procrastinate entering report card grades for my 115 students. The day literally evaporated, which seemed quite ironic, given that just outside my window, the weather was doing anything but. Finally, about 5:30 PM, the rains died down and I seriously contemplated picking up my tennis shoes and going for a walk. After I finish this one last project, I told myself.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door, followed by a familiar voice. It was my friend Penny, stopping by to see if I'd like to join her on a hike. Realizing that my good intentions would all too possibly fail to materialize if left to my own timetable, I thought there seemed no better plan than to go along. A little company after a lonely Saturday sounded like the great way to round out a relaxingly quiet day, and I knew I'd enjoy Penny's company. Plus, with Penny leaving the country soon, I knew I had precious few opportunities remaining to learn from her where some of Seosan's best hiking trails were located. A few minutes later, I was sporting my workout gear and we were out the door.

We climbed and chatted for nearly an hour, clomping our way uphill through seldom traveled mountain trails and then downhill again, ducking under spiderwebs that had become illuminated by the strings of pearly dewdrops from the afternoon rain. We turned off of the trail connecting one mountain to the next, and continued on along a rural but paved road leading straight through some of Seosan's most picturesque farmlands. The backdrop of rolling hills and late afternoon sun, coupled with the lifting clouds and deep saturated greens made for some awe-inspiring sights. About an hour into our hike, we started down a narrow one-lane country road that snaked past yet more farmland as well as some dilapidated lean-tos and shacks.
"I have a little secret," Penny began, "and now that I'm leaving, I think you're the right person to share it with." My mind quickly started turning circles, my curiosity trying to pin down what this secret might be. She hadn't hinted at anything all afternoon, yet I could tell from her tone that it was something important to her. But first, she began with a question: "How do you feel about dogs?"

Penny explained to me that she had befriended a poor dog that was chained to a tree right along the road, and that she often stopped to play with him and give him some attention. It's true that Korean dogs, in general, are treated quite miserably. They are tied to trees with short leashes, given no opportunity to run or play freely, and quite often look despondent, neglected, and downright depressed.

Being a country girl herself, Penny had a natural affinity for animals that seemed to know no bounds. Where she had gotten the idea to get chummy with a strange dog, who probably had fleas and a whole host of other maladies, not to mention a sharp set of teeth was beyond me. But her secret was this: she was worried for the dog's wellbeing and hoped that she could pass the torch on to me to befriend her "pet."

(to be continued)

Police Beat: Lowlife on the Loose

2008-07-17T22:08:00.004+09:00

After last night's post, I started to wonder if I had been a bit too melo-dramatic. . . Maybe the incident really was nothing more than just some pissed-drunk stranger accidentally stumbling into the wrong apartment on his way home from soju shots with his Korean buddies. I thought that maybe I had just been too emotional, that I had sensationalized the incident a little too much, and that I was worrying my friends and family back home unnecessarily with strange stories of Peeping Toms and malignant men perpetrating unsuspecting foreign women.

That was, until about 11:00 this morning, when I managed to pry the sleeping mask off of my eyes and face the world. It had been only a little more than 5 hours since nodding off to sleep post-sunup. But I had less than an hour to get cleaned up and dressed and make my way to the school for our daily staff meeting. And after all the drama that had presented itself between my boss and I earlier this week, I wanted to make damn sure I kept things as positive as I could until I was certain the storm had all blown over. (Yesterday's meditation session, by the way, was significant in helping me center and getting things back on a positive track again.)

After rising from bed, I unlocked the sliding glass door leading out to my balcony and stepped onto the damp tile floor to open the blinds. Just the thought of touching the vertical blinds a few hours before had send chills up and down my spine as I thought of the whistling stranger who had been positioned just on the other side. But now, with the coming of a new day and fresh morning sunlight trickling through the narrow gaps between me and the sidewalk running along the length of my balcony, I was ready to emerge from my self-imposed "lockdown."

As I went to adjust the blinds, I couldn't help but notice that something didn't seem quite right. Was something missing? Or was it my imagination? Where had my brand-new black lace bra gone, the one that I had bought in the States just before leaving for Korean, the one that I had hung on the drying rack on my balcony last night? What about the pair of underwear I had left to dry on top of the washing machine? Was it gone too? It was then that I noticed the rather obvious gap towards the eastern end of my window where the blinds had been misaligned by some outside force. Anger shook me as the reality of the incident settled over me: the ill-intending stranger who had stood outside my window for the better part of an hour last night had done more than just stand there. He had reached his ugly hand right up through the bars on my window, knocked my blinds out of the way, and stolen my bra and undies.

I went through the scenario a few times in my mind, hoping that maybe I could come up with another explanation for my missing bra. But no, I was certain, I had hung it out on the laundry rack on my balcony, just as every other Korean family does every single day of the week. I suddenly felt that familiar and entirely unsettling feeling of being both vulnerable and violated seeping into my skin, which reciprocated with an outbreak of tingles and bumps that confirmed to me the worst of my suspicions. And in that moment, it was apparent to me as well that the menacing door-ajar discovery I made at half-past midnight last night was much, much more sinister than a case of mistaken identity.

The lowlife who had stood outside my window and watched me, the same lowlife who had taken my underwear, who had reached inside my balcony just a few short feet from me, had also entered my apartment building, found my room, and deviously attempted to enter without my knowledge. This was beyond what I was prepared to keep my mouth shut about. With the full force of last night's incident weighing on my mind, I proceeded to the school, knowing that I needed to break the news to Harrison.

An hour and a half later, Harrison had all but completely restored my faith in the goodness and helpfulness of the Korean people. He had contacted the police, who came to my apartment with him to take down a report. He had told them that for the next few weeks, it was their obligation to make additional night rounds to look for suspicious characters near my apartment. He had even volunteered to drive by my street on his late-night/early-morning drive home after finishing the last of his TOEFL prep classes at 1:00 AM. He had spoken to many of my neighbors to warn them of the perpetrator and to ask them to keep an eye out for anyone suspicious. He had written, laminated, and hung several posters warning the apartment community that the police were looking for a man who was stealing women's underwear. And he had brought his toolbox and muscled several screws into the mosquito screen outside my balcony, so that there was no way anyone could reach his or her hand inside or out of my balcony window again. Wow, Harrison really came through on this one.

It was amazing the difference in my feelings of overall safety, knowing that so many measures had been taken to ensure a safe living environment for me. I don't know whether the S.O.B. who came around last night had any intentions of returning, but I'm willing to take it to the bank that any plans to stand outside my window again will be quickly discarded when he is shamed into submission by one of Harrison's "Most Wanted" posters!

The Honeymoon's Over

2008-07-17T05:17:00.002+09:00

At the conclusion of a tiring yet fulfilling day in Seoul, I returned home last weekend, exhausted and a bit dizzy with the realization that yet another week had passed since my arrival in Seosan. Things have been going so smoothly, I proclaimed to myself. I feel happy to be here. Happy to be teaching here, living here. Happy to have the autonomy and wherewithal to take off on a day or weekend trip by my little ol’ self and “see the world” (thanks George Bailey – that was an “It’s a Wonderful Life” allusion for those of you not related to my awesome, movie-quoting family.)

And yet, as things always seem to have a way of doing, barely 24 hours after uttering these simple words, the bottom dropped right out from under me. It all started on Monday afternoon when my coworker Christine enlightened me with the fact that we were entering the “busy season” at our hagwon (private school). This week we needed to prepare the written exams for all of our classes, next week administer them, and the week following, grade them and write up report cards with comments for all 120 of our students. And before I could even exhale, she informed that this cycle would repeat itself again two months later, and two months later, and two months later again. (And I was feeling pretty sorry for myself until I found out that the previous teacher experienced this whole assessment insanity every single month!)

My jaw started to gravitate towards the floor at the realization that this was no small thing. I have fifteen classes, only two of which overlap in curriculum, and writing up exams to match classroom instruction alone would take, I knew, more than a little midnight oil. But there was no wisdom in ignoring it. Denial was only gonna dig me in deeper. So that very night, I started drafting up multiple choice and true/false and fill-in-the-blank and matching and oral dictation questions for one class, and then another. (Yes, I know, I can be a bit OC about whatever it is I wrap my head around doing… why should this be any exception?)

So a week ago yesterday, I had worked a full day at school, gotten home at 8:30 PM, and put in another 5 hours on the test-writing project. Wednesday night, I was hitting the books until 2:30 AM. By Thursday night I was dragging, but I knew with Mud Festival on the wings (and standing plans to leave either Friday night or Saturday morning with Penny, Francois and Chetty) for Daecheon Beach, I had better try to get as far along as I could. I managed to squeeze out another late night Thursday and even an hour or two on Friday after work before meeting up with “the gang.” I was 90% finished, but was seeing fill-in-the-blanks in my sleep, and knew the best medicine was to just take the weekend off!

Enter Mud Festival. (I’ll write-up about this one separately, so check for it later this week!) I’ll just be really brief for the moment and say that some R&R, great company, quality conversation, and some in-depth pillow time was just what I needed to be ready to face work again on Monday.

If only! I found out Monday that a new class (which I admittedly had been contracted for, so no surprise there) was going to be added to my plate – a “kindy” class, with zero-proficiency students. After just finishing a hellishly long workweek, it wasn’t exactly a sugarpill to get that little memo. But it didn’t end there. The drama kicked up a notch with a lot of junk that I also won’t go into, only to say that my boss and I had a bit of a “difference of opinion” when he presented me with an unexpected change to my contract schedule. Trying to navigate through the layers of cultural nuances without making a complete ass of myself proved to be, at the outset, more of a failure than a success. But two days, some fitful sleep, and a good cry session later, I’m feeling like things are back to good.

And then, tonight... Wow, I’ve got a horror story that just takes the take. Maybe I’m just overreacting a bit because I’m a single woman and I live alone and I’ve had more than my fair share of exchanges with creepy men. But I swear, that old saying “When it rains, it pours” couldn’t be more accurate.

Finally tonight, with all of my exams printed and copied and ready for tomorrow, I decided to take a little time off this evening and start to do some planning for my upcoming vacation. (My school closes during the week of August 4^th, which means I’ve got a week to do some traveling). So I settled in at my desk in a strappy black tank and short shorts, trying to keep up with the heat and humidity that’s been building relentlessly from one day to the next. My head bobbed back and forth between my computer screen and my Lonely Planet Korea book as I searched travel blogs and flickr photos and then cross-referenced places in my travel “bible.”

Seosan had a nasty day of rain today, with the tail end of the typhoon spinning up from Japan hitting us around lunchtime, and bringing down pouring rain for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. So uncharacteristically, the sliding glass door to my balcony had been shut all evening. And I was rather enjoying being all “holed up” and just relaxing into the rhythm of researching for my week of freedom. But as luck would have it, relaxing was not exactly on the agenda for me.

As I continued my reading, my concentration kept breaking with the sound of a repetitious whistle outside my balcony window. It was dark outside, but my blinds were “closed” and my bedroom ceiling light was on, so there was no seeing out. (Eerily, it is entirely possible to see IN to my bedroom, as my blinds don’t seem to shut entirely, something I learned after experimentally “stalking” my own apartment last week. The fishbowl factor is terrible; I feel totally exposed most of the time I am in my apartment.) I kept working. The whistling continued, and it was apparent to me that it was more than just some random whistling outside my window. You know how you just have that sense sometimes that something is directed at you, even when you don’t exactly have any circumstantial evidence to prove it? Something in your gut just seems to know. Inner wisdom, I guess.

This was definitely a male voice, and my insides were all signaling me that this person had me on his radar. The whistling went on for over an hour, a series of calls followed by a few minutes of silence, before the whistles would resurface from the silence again. The longer it went on, the more bothered I became, but I figured the best thing for me to do would be to ignore it. At this point in time, if whoever was standing out there got some kind of a reaction from me, then there’s no telling IF they’d ever go away tonight, right? Finally, it seemed the whistling stopped. Relieved, I kept at my reading.

It wasn’t but a few minutes later that I had the shock of my life. Sitting at my desk, which is at the far end of the same wall as my front door, I thought I heard something, a faint noise. I glanced across the room to the door and couldn’t tell exactly, but it seemed as though my doorknob might have moved. Just typing this now is making my skin seriously crawl.

….

Weeks ago, when I first moved in to the place, I started a little habit of flipping the safety latch over the door after coming home. You live alone, it’s smart to take precautions, I suppose. It doesn’t matter that South Korea is reportedly one of the safest nations in the world. The latch is like one of those old-fashioned chains that I remember from apartments as a young girl. The end of the chain slides into a clasp on the door facing, allows the door to be opened only a few inches, until the chain is pulled taut. I usually like to err on the side of caution, so I didn’t think anything more of my safety habit. I never imagined that those few inches would be what saved me from an unwanted intruder minutes after midnight on a random Wednesday in the middle of small-country Seosan.

….

So, I thought I heard a noise, and popped off of my chair to check things out and put my mind at ease. I HAD locked the door, right? It was then that I realized that someone (who I could only purport to the whistling prowler) had helped himself in to my apartment complex, had sneakily turned the doorknob to my room, and had succeeded in opening my front door without my even knowing it. As I stepped closer to the doorway and saw the gaping 5-inch gap, large enough for someone to put their hand through, I was overtaken with rage, fear, vulnerability, incredulity, all in the same moment. I could feel the adrenaline, my fight response, burgeoning up from that powerful reserve within me that has sprung into action on those rare occasions when my safety has been threatened. And I yelled – top-of-the-lungs yelling, mind you – to the S.O.B., wherever he was hiding, who tried to walk right into my apartment. My stomach literally flipped at the thought that, had I failed to chain my door after coming home from work tonight, my situation could have been far, far worse.

It was after midnight by this time, and my hands were shaking badly as I walked back to my desk and picked up my cell phone. I texted Tahira, my co-teacher, who would be getting off work shortly. I then called my friend Dave, who lives just a 2-minute walk away, and told him with rattled breath of my near-miss. Tahira and I talked for a solid 45 minutes after she got off work. By 2 AM, she was heading home. It’s now 5:10 AM and I haven’t yet been able to get back to sleep. But I’ve got to try. The teaching day will begin again before I know it.

My only saving grace is that Koreans are a drinking bunch. It’s very possible this perpetrator, whoever he was, was just some slovenly drunk dude who had a little too much soju in his belly to be thinking clearly. It’s hard for me to contemplate the possibility that this was premeditated and intentional, and I actually don’t think I’ll be sleeping soundly for quite a few nights now, as all of my instincts will be on the alert for any unsafe signals out there. One thing’s for damn sure, I’ll be getting some kind of decals to cover my balcony windows pronto, and I am going to fight tooth and nail to be moved to Tahira’s 2^nd floor apartment next month when she leaves for home. Signing off and praying for a little shuteye,

~Melanie

Simplicity Speaks: The Answer Is Within

2008-07-16T22:04:00.002+09:00

Attempting to avoid impropriety and also keep a positive spin on the experiences I am having here, I will refrain from going into detail about the recent upset that I experienced at work. Suffice to say that between Monday's staff meeting, yesterday's afternoon's self-proclaimed "emergency" discussion with Harrison (a.k.a. Repairing Business Relationships 101), and gratefully, today's apparent resolution, there has been drama on the employment front.
I knew that sooner or later, it was to be expected that there would be a disagreement or conflict of some sort between my boss and I. I just didn't realize that it would be quite on this scale. I also didn't expect that he'd fight so dirty. But it was what it was, I lost a fair amount of sleep over it the last two nights. During this little crisis, if I may call it that, I worked hard to hold onto my belief that the best course of action would be to maintain a positive mind, and to believe in a swift resolution. I coached myself in trusting in my own gut-level feelings and intuition to steer me toward the best possible outcome and as little collateral damage as possible.
And I worked at the sentiment of blame that seemed to be lying obtrusively just below the surface that somehow, from a perspective other than my own, this whole issue of disagreement was brought on by selfishness, shortsightedness, and inflexibility on my part. I didn't believe those things to be true, but beyond any criticisms or accusations pointed at me, I knew that I needed to find a way to bridge the gap of offense and misunderstanding that had tarnished what had been a mutually fulfilling working relationship and friendship. That was the hardest to bear: that this person whom I had spent several months building bridges with, had suddenly turned into someone that I didn't recognize. Small, close-knit EGA (my academy) had become my "family" in the weeks since my arrival here, and the thought that now my relationship with the key person linked to my livelihood here was strained and tense was something I just couldn't stomach.
So, what did I do? I used this experience as a springboard for my explorating and ashamedly spotty study of meditation. I came to Korea with many goals in mind, one of which was to begin a solid practice of meditation. I have yet to show any real consistency with my practice, but I am learning to use it as a tool to help me transcend the noise of daily life and experience the stillness of what is. And that's the point, after all.
What follows is an intimate look into my innermost thoughts as they surfaced during this most recent meditative session. I wrote this journal entry separately, intending it to be for my eyes only, but as I think about the purpose of my blog, and particularly of the shaping and growing that my experiences here in Korea are providing for me, I felt inclined to share it here, hoping that it will perhaps spark within you some questions or curiosities about how you can tap into the wonderfully calming, centering influence that meditation can bring.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I am still a complete beginner in the practice of meditation. Sometimes it seems an overwhelming thing to wonder at how I can sit in utter stillness and contemplate only the rhythm of my breath, to still the thoughts that swirl inside. But after the past few days in which things have been weighing heavily on my mind, I knew that meditation was calling me.
I started out simply, sitting cross-legged on my plush yoga mat, the doors and windows in my small room closed, a fan circulating a cooling breeze, and the flow of simple melodies through my headphones. I felt I needed something other than the silence to help me lift out of the weight of the world that I was feeling.
As the melody carried on in my ears, I tried to simply focus on my breathing in and out. Just breathe, breathe, breathe. And then naturally, I started to picture all my strains and tiredness, my fears and uncertainties, my frustrations and sadnesses, being emptied out through my breath. And as I breathed in, I could picture healthy, clean, loving air entering my lungs, infusing into my body. I continued this for some minutes.
I am reaching a stage where the "honeymoon" is ending, and the realities of navigating a career and a life in a foreign place are becoming more and more daunting. I have had some upsets in the past 2 days with my boss, which have been weighing on me heavily. And yet, I know that what I put out into the universe, what I think about, what I believe in, will be echoed throughout the waves of life and ripple back to me again. So I have been working with myself to continue creating the positive, the envision the best of all outcomes, to believe that the wisdom and love that I need to exist with peace and happiness in my life is within reach.
So it was a beautiful and empowering thing what I next experienced in my meditation session. As I continued to center my thoughts on my breath, other smaller thoughts continued to surface. I would simply acknowledge them and set them aside, and return to the thought of my breath. But then, a thought came to me with a more powerful force, a force which my body responded to special attention. I felt my breath deepen, as if I were entering into a deeper cognition. The thought was simply this: "The answer is within you." I felt it then, as I feel it now, like the tenderest of touches of divinity, a soft and loving energy sliding down my shoulders, surrounding me. I melted into this awareness. It felt so inviting, so beautiful.
As I continued my contemplation on this thought, another came to me, with even more power. It was such a clear and simple, yet profound, awareness that I felt as this thought introduced itself to me: "The answer is love." And suddenly, it was as if I was being washed by a waterfall of energy. I felt love radiating around me. I felt the absolute truth of it, the truth of those words, the truth that the anwer inside me, the answer to the essence of what I need to find a joyful existence, is LOVE. It is that simple. I sat for the next few moments wanting to just hold on to that beautiful feeling surrounding me, like a bubble, a shield, that seemed to put any negative thought or reality so far from my reach. Tears streamed down my face, as my body deliciously enjoyed this feeling so strong that it could not seem to be contained.
After a time, my thoughts turned to my colleagues, my "work family," with which, until these past days, I have given and exchanged love and respect. I saw Sunny, our school secretary. I saw Terry and her little boy Ben. I pictured Christine. And Tahira. And I pictured Harrison. As I saw each one in my mind, I enfolded them one at a time in an embrace and, with my arms wrapped around them, spoke in a genuine voice, "I love you." I made it as real in my mind as it could be in physical form. I wanted them to feel and know absolutely that I loved them.As I ended my meditation session, I felt a stillness and peacefulness that I hadn't felt for some time. It was a necessary reminder that the fruits of meditation are worth the time to cultivate. My meditation experience today was sweet and full, and left me feeling lighter somehow, reminding me in the simplest of ways that the answers I seek are within my reach. The answer is within me.

Show the World How Dirty You Can Be

2008-07-13T21:59:00.002+09:00

There are few sensations that I can equate with the goosebumpy feeling of mineral-laden mud being literally painted onto every square inch of my bare skin... Painted as in, hand me the paintbrush, we need to apply a second coat. Your first thought is something along the lines of "Ewww, this is cold and sticky and dirty and wet." And it just seems to go against the grain of any well-bred person taught from a young and impressionable age to stay out of the mud. But three point seven seconds later you're over it, your inner two-year-old has made contact with you again, and your artistic spirit takes over, ready to dip the paint brush in the bucket and wield all kinds of new and exciting designs on your mud-scaped bod.
Mineral mud. In liberal doses. This is the attraction that draw thousands to what has become in a short time Korea's most popular annual festival. Daecheon Beach, renowned for its unique blend of minerals naturally occurring in the soil, has carved out quite a name for itself as the home of the mud "makeover." For nine days straight, foreigners the country over (and a fair amount of Koreans, which was pleasantly surprising) turn out for morning-to-midnight mud-a-thons, mud wrestling contests, mud slides, mud massages, mud races, swimming in mud fountains, and of course, the ubiquitous mud painting that is most likely each visitor's first exposure to the grayish goo.
Mud is the single unifying element bringing together people from a wide cross-section of backgrounds and nationalities, and giving them reason not only to slap a fresh coat on perfect strangers, but then turn around and tackle them (all in good fun) in the wrestling ring two minutes later. And then, when they've had enough dirty fun, it's time to head to the beach and let the ocean waves wash their bodies clean. (This of course, is soon thereafter followed by a return visit to the mud buckets... at least, that was the case for me.)
When Chetty, Penny, Francois, and I started discussing the prospect of attending the Boryeong Mud Festival together, we knew right away we were on to something good. Penny had access to a tent from the school where she worked, and Chetty and I had sleeping bags to contribute. Penny and Francois had a connection with a Korean guy living in nearby Taean who was planning to drive to the festival, so we even had "wheels." And before we knew it, we had schemed up a pretty spectacular weekend -- wallowing to our hearts' content in mud, splashing in the ocean, partying it up, and camping somewhere near the beach when our bodies finally caved from exhaustion.
We left Saturday at noon with Jeff and some of his Korean friends, and drove south along the coastal highway, dodging pockets of light rain that sprung up along the way. The views of Korean's emerald hills and brilliant green rice fields were enough to keep Penny and me entertained as we headed towards Daecheon. Before long, we had arrived and managed to find one of the beach huts housing buckets and paintbrushes and mud that seemed to be practically evaporating into thin air. Everyone, literally everyone, seemed to be in on the fun, and if you didn't think quick, you were left without a paint brush or left to wait until the bright-orange-shirted Mud Festival official helpers came to replenish the buckets with another dose of mud.
After spending some time all muddied up, I have to say that pigs are a lot brighter than they get credit for. Being covered from head to toe with liquid clay actually offered an immediate relief from the stifling rays of the sun (which had managed to overtake the rainclouds and make a fine appearance for the balance of the afternoon). Not only did the mud provide a natural "sunscreen," but as the breeze would blow in from the coast, my wet body would prickle with goosebumps, and I could feel my outsides tightening as the mud dried into place, enveloping me in a grainy, light plaster. (Girls, you know that feeling, when the mud mask you've painted onto your face starts drying and you can hardly crack a smile because your skin has turned into a semi-permanent museum exhibit? That's what I'm talking about.)
We spent the rest of the day flitting from one mud exhibit to another, resting here and there with a bottle of something cold to wash down our parched throats, wading in the salty ocean, and relaxing on the golden-brown sand spilling up from the shore. My camera, unfortunately, had to go into hiding as my fingers were in absolutely NO condition to try to operate it. (You can either be an onlooker, or be in on the fun, but unless you are toting around some kind of mud-proof disposable, it's next to impossibly to do both... that being said, there were a LOT of folks there with big expensive cameras, making the most of this very lively photo op. They were, however, in all cases staying a pretty safe distance from actually touching any mud themselves.)
Later that night, we managed to make friends with a very outgoing party of Koreans camped out for their dinner meal under the large canopy umbrella where we had carefully stashed our valuables earlier that afternoon. As we arrived and started poking around for our backpacks and cameras, a jovial guy seated at the outdoor table picked up on our plight and helped us locate our things. Then, in what turned out to be one of the highlights of the entire Mud Festival experience, one by one he and his friends drew us into their circle, offering a bite of this, a few words of that, a shot of soju to swig down together. By the time we left, we had posed for several photos from cameras belonging to both camps, and we all had that "natural high" feeling that comes when, as a traveler, you've made a connection with others that feels genuine and authentic and in no way touristy. It was definitely memorable.
The rest of the night was a blur. We fed ourselves well on freshly caught -- and raw! (but oh so delicious!) -- white fish fillets, got a bit hammered with a few too many rounds of soju, took a stroll along the boardwalk and caught a few glimpses of fireworks lighting up the night sky, and ran our voices into the ground in an underground karaoke room. By 2:30 a.m. we were ready to start scouting out a place to call home for the night, and started heading back to Jeff's car to unload our tent and other gear. Just then, it was as if the sky split a seam, because rain began pouring down in torrents. We quickly ducked under a hotel awning and stood for a few minutes in disbelief at the downpour, and then, as if we were reading each other's minds, unanimously decided that now was as good a time as any to head on back. The Mud Festival had far exceeded any of our expectations. It was a definite not-to-be-missed experience, and for the uninitiated, my only hope is that you'll make it a point to cover yourself in mud from head to toe at least once in your life, so you can understand first-hand what all the hype is about :) Don't be afraid to show the world how dirty you can be!

A Little EVOO Does a Body Good

2008-07-10T21:41:00.001+09:00

I'm a food-loving girl, I've got an adventurous appetite, and I don't shrink back from trying the exotic and unusual (I DID actually swallow silkworm larvae, now didn't I?) However, there comes a time for even the most eclectic of chefs at heart when a taste of the familiar ranks higher on the scoreboard that another culinary expedition.
I've had some extremely rewarding kitchen workshop sessions during these past few months, and have managed to cook up a whole host of Korean dishes ranging from miso soup with tofu to barley rice to my own version of bibimbap (rice topped with fried egg and seasoned seaweed strips). I've delved into the art of banchan, the deliciously seasoned side dishes mostly consisting of cooked and raw vegetables that populate the tabletops of restaurants from one side of this nation to the other. I've blanched bean sprouts, stir-fried garlic-laden eggplant, marinated tofu cubes, and stir-fried gorgeous mixtures of fresh vegetables which are found in abundance at my local grocery store. But what I really wanted tonight was a taste of home... which in all honesty is actually more a taste of Italian meet Vegetarian, but happens to be the kind of food I absolutely love when I'm listening to what's good for my body.
During my shopping spree at Lotte Mart with Terry weeks ago, I bought a tall, cylindrical bottle made of dark green glass, bearing a tempting label: "Extra-Virgin Olive Oil, imported from Crete." I find the prospect of anything imported from Greece here in Korea highly exotic, and I simply couldn't roll my cart on down the aisle until I had managed to pluck a bottle off the shelf to take home with me. I was so excited to saute some vegetables and drizzle some of the intensely flavored green gold over the entire plate... or mince up some garlic and craft some of that mouth-watering Italian dipping oil that has won quite a few accolades from friends, family, and roommates with whom I shared my secret :)
But alas, the metal lid factory-sealed on my purchased bottle had an unfortunate flaw: it wouldn't release or unscrew. So I was stuck with this gorgeous bottle of EVOO and no way to get at the goods. It was like the old adage come to life, "Water, water, everywhere and not a drop to drink." Miserable. So Harrison came to the rescue. I brought the bottle to the staff meeting today and, with a pair of high-quality wire cutters and more elbow grease than I personally could muster, he was able to pop the seal and open the bottle which I had almost resigned to being no more than a piece of fine kitchen decor. I could contain myself no longer... Back in my humble little kitchen, I julienned several red peppers into thick, meaty slices, and chopped potatoes into cubes. I tossed the potatoes with sea salt, black pepper (oh, how I wish I had a pepper mill at my command!), and rosemary, and drizzled them generously with olive oil. Minutes later, the timer on my teeny little toaster oven was clicking away as the potatoes began sizzling away.
Separately, I sauteed the red pepper strips in a puddle of EVOO and doused them with a generous sprinkling of herbs. The end result transported me back to late autumn evenings last year in Pennsylvania, when I first began experimenting with and quickly fell in love with roasting vegetables in all forms. Roasting seems to bring out the subtle and temptingly delicious flavors latent in even the mildest of vegetables. You really can't go wrong. I would give up my microwave in a heartbeat any day of the week, as long as I can keep my tiny little portable oven on hand. (To be honest, my microwave has been demoted from kitchen countertop to the balcony, where it has been sitting unused since I arrived.) Some things, a girl can live with out. Fortunately for me, here in Seosan, a bottle of EVOO isn't one of them!

The Secret to Eternal Youth

2008-07-08T13:54:00.002+09:00

The sun popped out today from behind the seemingly impenetrable wall of milky clouds that have owned the skies now for days. On my morning hike yesterday, I felt as if I were muck around in a soup bowl -- everything seemed murky and dim, as if the low-lying cloud consuming us had somehow desaturated the colors of the usually vibrant trees surrounding me to an almost dingy sort of green. But today, heading to the hilltop from my lowly apartment, I was greeted with the greatest of surprises -- a deep blue sky peppered with billowy bubbles of cloud, and the feeling of sun, warm and delicious on my skin.
Seosan hasn't done much for my tan, unfortunately. Color doesn't come easily to this fair-skinned, freckled girl, and in all honesty, I worked quite hard for the base tan I built up before arriving here. It's funny, but just as was the case in Taiwan, women actually go to great lengths to keep any unsuspecting sunrays from bronzing their delicate skin. They carry parasols down busy city sidewalks in full sunlight, and don long cotton gloves that cover them from sleevecap to fingertip to keep their arms milky white. On the hiking trail each morning, I pass dozens and dozens of women covered literally from head to toe in long pants, long-sleeve shirts, visors, and some kind of face mask. I've seriously contemplated the reasoning behind these last two, particularly since we are, after all, on a MOUNTAIN trail, which is practically covered with a thick canopy of trees, and hence very little sunshine filters through. I still haven't come up with
a good explanation for it...
I had a discussion yesterday with one of my middle school classes about this very thing. We've been talking about vacations and summer break lately, which is coming up in a few weeks for them (one month off of school, beginning July 19th). And last night we read an article about how tempting it is to spend a day soaking up the sun on the beach, and that "healthy glow" we get when we've spent some time in the sun. Four girls looked up at me with a puzzled expression on their faces, and after a few minutes of conversation on the topic, I had at least convinced them that, to the Western mind, a tan is a beautiful thing. Still, I don't think they'll be turning in their umbrellas for sunglasses anytime soon...
So as the days go by here, I feel my hard-won suntan fading away. I suppose I could just accept the fact that, at least in this part of the world, "white is beautiful." On the bright side, I may have
stumbled upon the Korean secret to longlasting youth!

Spirit of a Shaman

2008-07-07T15:58:00.001+09:00

Religion and spirituality -- I can't deny that one of the magnetic forces which brought me to Korea was to experience the beauty of Eastern culture as it pertains to the spirit. I have for years been drawn to the ancient elements of religions such as Buddhism and Hinduism, and to the philosophies such as Taoism that guide life for modern society in Asia in much the same way that it has for centuries and centuries.
And so, when I found myself with an opportunity to spend a Sunday morning soaking in the tranquility of ancient rituals being carried out in the foothills of Seoul, I knew the experience would be its own reward. After exiting the metro at Dongnimmun, I followed north along a nondescript alley until it became a steep road leading up into the mountainside. I felt my breath escaping forcefully as drops of sweat fell from my face -- with monsoon season in full swing, the weight of the air was nearly suffocating. Still, I kept one foot in front of the other until, rounding a hairpin turn, I began to ascend a series of shallow, jagged steps cut into the mountain stone. Here, a Buddhist temple stood proudly atop a hill, its golden-painted rooftop shining out from among the deep-green trees. And there, a middle-aged man tossed handfuls of rice to pigeons clucking in symphony near a modest shrine which had been decorated with candles and fresh flowers.
Another turn and upward climb took me to a stairway leading to the Zen rocks, two monolithic rock formations eroded by centuries of wind and rain, a sacred spot for many, as I was about to find. As I crested the steps, I paused at the entrance, suddenly very aware that I was not alone. A simple platform flanked the rocks, and upon it were several men and women, in various stages of worship, their bodies posturing in prayer poses on soft woven mats. I slipped off my sandals and settled onto a mat at the far end of the platform, listening to and watching the humble prayers of these serene strangers. A door opened next to me and a wrinkly grandmother stepped out from her hut, the strong perfume of incense wafting through the cracked door. Behind me, pigeons pecked and gaggled, and she took a broom to sweep them away. To my right, an elderly woman kneeled with a thin book in Korean script and a chain of wooden prayer beads. Her mouth moved in silence, but nothing needed to be said. The atmosphere was spiritually charged yet peaceful. Though I looked a bit out of place, I felt a part of me connected to these people and the serenity which permeated the mountain air on Inwangsha.
I stepped back into my sandals and headed back towards the main gate, then turned east onto a pathway leading along the spine of Inwangsan Mountain. As I ventured further upward, I paused at the entrance to yet another shrine. Candles flickered from inside the dim cavity of a room, and I stood quietly as another elderly woman prostrated in bows of respect before a golden statue. Only a few paces separated us, and I continued on, not wanting my presence to distract her from her worship. I continued upward, minutes later glancing back through a clearing to view a remnant of the Seoul Fortress Wall, its gray stone rising up in a curving ridge along a lush, green background of rolling hillside. I contemplated what this wall has seen and heard in its 700 years of life.
Rounding the corner along the trail, something tinny and rhythmic filtered through the dense, cloudy air. I listened with interest, hoping I was climbing closer to the source of the drum and high-timbered voice which echoed throughout this little pocket of mountain foliage. At last, I found it, at the apex of the trail, in a spot marked with a large slab of flatrock yet somehow tucked neatly out of sight. From the stone steps where I stood, I leaned my torso over the wild brush and watched, my eyes and ears finally nodding to one another in agreement -- this is where the magic was happening. I felt transported, almost, as I gazed on this middle-aged woman, dressed simply yet colorfully in vibrant blue. Here I was, on a peaceful mountaintop, soaking in the fervor of this shaman's prayer, studying the melody, the rhythm, the solemnity with which she chanted. Never once did her eyes open or her voice weaken; her prayer went on in one continuous loop, beginning again and again where I could still not perceive that it had come to an end. I tiptoed quietly back the way I had came, feeling some kind of soulful satisfaction at having stumbled upon this mountain, this woman, her song.
For a few hours of my morning, I felt another world away, swept up in the spirit of the mountains and the religious traditions that coexist here. It has been awhile since I last sat on a church pew, listening to a sermon. Yet I felt spiritually satisfied and at peace. And for me, it was simply enough.

Solo in Seoul

2008-06-30T23:00:00.001+09:00

One of the ten largest cities in the world? ... Intimidating.
A metro system with arms like tentacles reaching across landspace housing millions of inhabitants? ... Overwhelming.
A lack of language skills or even a phrasebook to afford me a shot at the most basic of communication? ... Stressful.
But impossible? Absolutely not. I've dealt with worse.
I simply couldn't let another weekend pass by without taking the plunge and attempting to day-trip to Seoul. It didn't have to be anything large-scale... it's been a while, after all, since I've flexed the ol' backpacker biceps. Just to spend a full day walking around the city, see what I see, and hopefully meet up with an old friend in Seoul, that was my plan. I had my chance to explore Seoul just this past Sunday, despite ugly weather forecasts and foreboding skies. Granted, I almost got stranded at the bus terminal... but that's another story.
I biked to the bus station in a gray drizzle, and managed (with the help of an absolute stranger) to buy a ticket and find myself on the road northward, aboard a comfy if tattered bus. I had intended to sleep on the trip, but excitement for the day's adventure kept my mind spinning as I leafed through one page after another of my "Lonely Planet Korea" book. By the time I arrived in Seoul, a mere 1h33 had elapsed. It pays to take an early morning bus... little or no traffic to contend with. I spent the next hour hopping along Seoul's many metro lines and walking in circles through busy city streets, trying to get my bearings. (It really sucks not having my trusty sidekick compass...) But finally, it all started to click and before long I was standing outside the entrance gate to one of Korea's ancient palace complexes, Changyeonggung. The air was buzzing as young women, dressed in vibrant blue dresses, scampered across the stone bridge leading to another palace hall. As I poked my head inside, I was delighted to find billowing bundles of flags, dragon-bedecked drums, and carefully arranged plates laden with colorful fruits and other offerings. I spent the next three hours meandering along shady, forested trails, admiring the gracefully sloping rooftops of one palace structure after another, marvelling at the beautiful wood craftsmanship and balance of nature and structure that the Koreans seem to have perfected.
As the afternoon wore on, I took a walk along the pedestrian-only thoroughfare known to tourists throughout Seoul as souvenir headquarters, Insadong. Shopfronts, food stalls, and kitsch-covered carts beckoned to the thousands parading along this busy merchant quarter. I eyed a set of traditional-looking clay bowls and plates with longing, before my attention was caught by yet another, then another enticing display. Certainly this was no place to hurry through -- the din of voices in myriad languages, the abundance of solid bargains, and the joyful exuberance of shoppers anxious to take back with them a little piece of Korea all melded into an atmosphere that almost insisted you linger. Only, I couldn't. I had a timed-entry ticket to another of Korea's old-world gems, the UNESCO palace known as Changdoekbang.
By this point, my feet were growing tired. But I felt another wave of energy overtake me as I entered the palace grounds and walked again among centuries-old wooden masterpieces. Something about Asian design, its simplicity and gracefulness, resonates with me. I couldn't seem to get my fix of the contoured rooftops and the harmony of all elements, both natural and manmade. The highlight was a walk through a secluded area known as the "Secret Garden," complete with a lily-pad topped pool and octagonal pavilion. The earthy green of abundant foliage bled across the scene, and the serenity I felt was inescapable.
Afterwards, I followed one street after another past a huge English bookstore (I'll definitely have to make a return visit there!!), and into a very artsy section of town. A right turn across from Changbukgong (yes, another palace!) landed me smack dab in the middle of... Greenwich Village? Some little European plaza? Where was I?? This place reeked of class, with boutique after cafe after cutesy coffehouse spilling one after another in succession down an ambling sidestreet. Old-world buildings butted up against others boasting a modern design, and vines and flowerboxes peppered the walkways and window sills. This was definitely a happening area, and I was already planning my return visit to Samcheongdong.
Before evening came, I made connections with a friend from the U.S. that I haven't seen in years, another brave soul who decided to break from the norm and come to Korea in search of teaching work. After two years teaching in Busan (Seoul's little sister on the southeast shore), she decided to make her stay here a bit more permanent when she accepted the marriage proposal of her soon-to-be husband Sung Jin. We met at the Daeheung metro station and walked to their flat, a cozy little space on the 8th floor of their high-rise, overlooking a beautiful section of the city. Over rice, quail eggs, and some yummy vegetable banchan, I got to know her husband and hear a bit about their lives over the intervening years.
And before I knew it, time had run away. Literally. So I found myself running to the metro in hopes that I could make my 18 metro stops and line transfer to the Nambu Bus Station in time to catch my bus to Seosan. For the next 40 minutes, I eyed my watch impatiently, counting the seconds between stops as though life depended on it. I had seriously underestimated the time involved to traverse Seoul's metro system, and that lesson hit home with a decided bang as my clock chimed 8:00 PM. I was still 3 stops away. At this very moment, my bus -- the last bus of the night -- was pulling out of the station. I knew I could ride the metro back to Dionne's place, wake up early, catch a morning bus back to Seosan and make it in time for my noon staff meeting. But I was tired, grungy beyond reason, and wanted a warm shower and a good night's sleep in my own bed.
And then, the silver lining shone through. I remember Terry, my boss's wife, telling me that there were two bus stations in Seoul. Maybe, I told myself, I still have a shot of getting on a bus from the other terminal. A mere 40 minutes later, I was cruising out of town on yet another cross-country bus. I had to eat that ticket leaving from Nambu, of course. But at W6,800 (approx US$7), it fortunately didn't set me back too much. By 11 PM Sunday night I was back home again, reliving the highlights of a spectacular Sunday in Seoul. I have a feeling it won't be long before I find myself kicking around the big city again...

A Foreign Affair

2008-06-29T11:42:00.001+09:00

I had to give myself a little talking-to the other night. I have been here in Korea for over two weeks now, and I've barely explored beyond my own little quiet corner of Seosan. Oh yes, I've hiked on the nearby, forested trails into the hills of Seosan (thanks to Terry for showing me where to catch the trail). And I've driven around town a few times with Harrison and Terry -- for groceries, bedding, even my beautiful peace lily, which I adore (again, thank you Harrison and Terry!). But as for solo exploration... I've been severely lacking in this department, and I'm ashamed of myself... where is the nomadic explorer within me whose heart beats for the adventure of discovering the unknown? It's been a while, I guess, since I had to deal face-to-face with the intimidation of a complete language barrier. Beyond "annyeong haseyo" (hello), I'm at a loss.
Fortunately, I've managed to meet a few more foreigners here in my town -- one through Maggie (the teacher I replaced), and another quite by accident on the trails just the other day. Dave, it turns out, is from Missouri (my old stomping grounds!) and a friendly guy. I met him at Maggie's farewell party, along with a handful of other foreigners. He's the only one who I've managed to meet up with again. He lives just down the hill and kindly called the other evening to see if I'd be up for a night walk around town. It was a perfect idea -- the temperature was cool, the air not too heavy, and the outskirts of Seosan are lined with astroturf trails, for the hundreds of locals who round out their evenings with a stretch of the legs as well.
Chett (or Chetty, as he likes to be called) is a South African native, teaching in a public school in town. He's been here for only a few short weeks longer than me. We were a few meters apart on the trail last Wednesday evening when a flash of recognition hit us both... recognition not of a familiar face, but of our "foreigner" status. Yes, this was the bond. We chatted for a minute, swapped email addresses, and both headed back out on the trail in opposite directions. It was a well-timed affair, and panned out well -- I had a chance to meet up with Chett and a lovely couple on Friday night while we bonded further over pizza at a cushy little joint near the movie theater.
I have to back up a bit, because this story has a bit of a funny beginning. I was on my way home from work Tuesday night when I turned the corner to hear some casual conversation floating out through an open window on the ground floor. At first, it didn't strike me as anything. I heard the clatter of dishes and thought, oh, a nice dinner conversation. And then it dawned on me that the conversation was not some caucophony of foreign sounds, but down-home English. I half considered rapping on the window and saying hello, but thought that might come off a bit too random. So I sauntered down the sidewalk and smiled at the thought that there were yet a few more friends yet to meet.
Friday night at the pizza joint I met up with Chett, and was introduced to Penny and Francis, a very chill and pleasant couple who had somehow managed to survive living on separate continents (Penny is from Australia, and Francis from South Africa) to teach in yet a third. I could tell right away I was in for a good evening. I hadn't been sitting for more than a minute when Penny said to me, "Hey, I know you! Your face is on a huge banner just around the corner from our apartment." And it was only then that I put it together -- they were the couple I had heard through the screen a few nights ago.
Over a large pan of pizza and a few pitchers to wash it down, we chatted together about everything from inequalities for women in Korean society, to teaching rambunctious kids (while at the same time pitying them for working longer days than most adults back home). And their adventures! The more I listened to my new friends' travels, the more I started to feel my own been-there-done-that list blend into the wallpaper... Chett had recently finished a two-month cycling trip through southern India, in which he had gone completely off the beaten track and managed to bunk down with locals along the way. Penny and Francis had just last year backpacked through Vietnam, Thailand, and Laos, and were in the final stages of planning their round-the-world trip to commence next month when they leave Korea. Still, I was happily in my element among these free spirits who, like me, have some inexplicable inner pull to cross oceans and traverse great expanses of land with little aside from the barest of essentials and a very open mind. It's this sameness that has brought us here to Seosan, I want to believe -- much moreso than the glimmering promise of cash to stash away. And it's somehow comforting that here, even in the counter-culture nomadic lifestyle I have chosen for myself, I am yet in the company of others whose passions are close to my heart.

I'm an Alien!

2008-06-29T02:22:00.002+09:00

Wow, as of today, I believe all of the bureacracy of setting up life in Korea is done! Visa, check. Mobile phone, check. Foreign Residency Card... check! (It came in the mail Friday!!) And this morning, bank account, check.
Getting the Foreign Residency Card (aka my "green card") turned out not to be too painful, but with Korea's recent upgrade of requirements for incoming language teachers, there was a lot of runaround as most of the key people who are supposed to enforce the new requirements don't quite know what they're doing.
Take, for instance, my visit to the hospital just a few days after arriving. When my boss explained to the receptionist that I needed blood and urine testing for (for communicable diseases and drugs), they looked wide-eyed and a bit confused, and then began a string of phonecalls to find out what to do with me. From there on out, the experience was painless. The hospital was quite new and not especially busy. The medical workers seemed quite professional. And aside from having to carry my "sample" back to the nurse in an open container (plastic cup!), everything was on the up and up.
Harrison and I returned to the hospital this past Tuesday for the results of my testing. Everything was clear, which was not surprising but still a relief. (I've wondered what my recourse would be if my results came back with some question... would I be deported without further analysis? Did I have any recourse? Some things are better not messed with, and I was rather glad at least this part of my "initiation process" was straightforward.) We did, however, have to wait for quite some time again while the hospital staff tried to figure out what kind of documentation to give us. It seems I am the first foreigner to this hospital to request testing for alien status. I knew Seosan was small, but I didn't think it was THAT small!
After leaving the hospital, Harrison drove me to Taean's (next city over) Immigration Office, where I filled out a bunch of forms and left my passport in their careful protection. And apparently they processed me quickly, because Friday night, I had my green card in hand! It really helps to have a boss who is watching out for me -- I have read of quite a few experiences of English teachers in China who find out only too late that their visas, which their bosses were apparently attending to, never materialized, and they are forced to leave the country. Nothing like that here... fortunately :) I have to say, I am impressed with the efficiency of things in Korea. I guess we're getting off to a pretty good start!

My Battle with Bureacracy

2008-06-27T10:20:00.004+09:00

Living in Korea Lesson #1: Never underestimate the amount of bureaucracy involved in getting your E2 visa!!
This process that I started literally 3 months ago is still not yet finished, despite the fact that I am actually here in Korea! After a quite lengthy, somewhat confusing, an often nerve-wracking paper shuffle, and a little good karma, I managed to get the green light to step onto Korean soil. Here is my E-2 visa two-step, in a nutshell (written especially for all of you who I know are secretly thinking, I want to teaching in Korea!! But... where do I start??):
The early part of the process involved applying for a new passport (my passport from my Round-the-World trip in 2006 was "seriously mutilated," according to the postal worker taking my application), which meant ordering a new birth certificate and getting my picture snapped. Then I had to arrange for fingerprinting at my local police station and forward them to the FBI with a request for my criminal report. Being that I was in Utah and my diploma was buried somewhere in a box in my parents' house in Pennsylvania, I next had to contact my university for a new diploma and multiple sealed transcripts. And then I waited... and waited... and waited.
The first to arrive was my new passport, which was utterly amazing. Without expediting my order, I received it in a week's time (when are government agencies EVER ahead of schedule?? I was amazed.). I was impressed with he new passport layout -- pages watermarked with symbols of American pride and heritage, and encoded with a microchip, plus biometric scanning capability of my passport photo. Most exciting was that they had returned my mutilated passport to me (I was told I wouldn't get it back)... so all of the stamps I acquired from stomping around Europe and Morocco) are mine to keep!! Then the diploma and transcripts arrived. And finally, the FBI report. As it turns out, they took me off the "Most Wanted" list. OK, kidding, I'm still on it. You would think that a report from the FBI would be "proof enough" for Korean Immigration. But no, they require a special seal to be affixed to your report, which is called an apostille. I'd never heard of one before, but apparently, after some such Hague Convention a few years back, a system was agreed upon for authenticating documents for international recognition. Quite a few countries now required that documents be authenticated with an apostille. As this is a fairly new requirement, I got quite a bit of run-around from the US Authentications Office (in Wash. D.C.) and the office of Utah's Secretary of State. No one wanted to take responsibility for helping me out. In the end, Utah came through. I had my documents notarized by a local notary, and then forwarded them to Mr. Sec'y of State for the official apostille. And you guessed it, waiting again to get them back in hand.
The next step was to FedEx my documents to Korea. OK, I way underestimated the cost of this! Copies of my passport, check. 3½ x 4½ cm photos, check. Diploma and transcripts, check. Resume, check. Employment contract, check. Criminal report, check. And last but not least, Korea's Medical Self-Evaluation Form, check. Sending this tidy little stack of papers over the Pacific set me back a handsome $78. And for that princely sum, it still took 4 days to be received!
Are we done yet? Oh, not even close :) So, Korean Immigration processed my documents and sent me a Visa Issuance Number. The next step was to forward another set of documents to the closest Korean Embassy within the U.S. (which happened to be San Francisco), along with this Visa Issuance Number, visa application, my actual passport, and of course, more money... followed by more waiting.
Normally, the embassy requires that you visit in person for an interview with a Consul (this is an official requirement for your E-2 work visa). Because I was living in Utah at the time, the embassy waived this requirement and allowed me to conduct my interview via telephone. (One word of warning: please CALL the embassy to make sure they received and are processing your visa... mine was lost in a paper shuffle in their office for almost a week while precious time ticked by. When I called, they told me they hadn't yet received it, and only later after I had confirmed delivery with USPS, did they find it!)
After completing my interview, the Embassy finished processing my visa, and then shipped my passport + visa back to me. I received it on Saturday, June 7th, just a few days before leaving the country. The whole process took about 2.5 months. (Note: If you're serious about teaching in Korea, go ahead and order your FBI report and university transcripts, dig out your diploma (or order a new one), and make sure your passport is valid. Having these in your back pocket makes you a much more attractive candidate and saves you quite a bit of time waiting, once you find your "dream job.")
That's it for this installment. Stay tuned for Part II, getting your Foreign Residency Card :)

The Destiny We Create

2008-06-26T15:14:00.001+09:00

I am realizing more and more how fortunate I feel to be exactly where I am, at this moment. During this past year of my life, something really amazing happened. Mostly it was an inward change, and gradual one at that, but it was as if this little flame of light inside me grew brighter and brighter until I looked clearly at myself one day and realized that I had grown into a person I really loved. I began to see my uniqueness not as something to separate me from others, not as something to hide away or minimize or deflect, but as something to prize, to celebrate, and appreciate.
For a soul whose spirit yearns for serenity and inner freedom much as an eagle yearns to soar the skies, and who has experienced through the harsh realities of life the ache of clipped wings and tethering relationships, this realization was monumental. It was as if I granted myself a huge gift -- the freedom to be exactly who I am, with no guilt, no apologies, no hiding behind the paradigms of others or shrinking to fit within the outline of someone else's shadow. I could live my life, live my dreams. My life became truly my own.
And in the year that has followed, I have witnessed and felt so much healing within myself. I have experienced what I can only explain as an upward spiral as life has taken on brighter and brighter hues, as the doors of opportunity have opened wider and wider for me, as I have reconnected with more and more of the people who have been touchstones in my life. Gone are the days of closing myself off from others or shutting down my innermost self in hopes of calming the raging storm that existed in those who pretended to care most about me.
I have felt, certainly for the first time in a long time, an inner assurance that I am where I am "meant" to be, if there is such a thing, or that, at the very least, I am where I have destined myself to be. I remember countless afternoons spent circling the Hampden Heights East neighboorhood during my daily walk. The sun would filter down through clear, cloudless skies and as I relaxed into the rhythm of my pace, I would visit a corner of my mind where I kept an eye on my future life. It was here that I envisioned myself living and breathing and smiling and ... soaring. And now, months later, here I am, the living embodiment of those earlier visualizations.
What we dream of, what we think about, even that which we fear, we pull towards us with the magnetic energy that is within us. I believe this, I believe this, I believe this. And so, as I begin this new journey, I challenge myself to hold on to the highest and best that exists in my mind and heart, to keep it close to me, and to make this experience another in which I continue to soar.

Power in My Pocket

2008-06-25T03:52:00.001+09:00

After some serious consideration, I have decided that man's best friend -- on this side of the world, at least -- is not a dog or a puppy or some other furry friend. Man's best friends (and woman for that matter) is a pocket-sized piece of plastic and shiny metal usually found attached to the ear, mouth, or hip pocket of said man or woman. That's really not a slam. It's the truth. And after becoming the proud owner of a slick and shiny LG-KH1600 Cyon slide mobile phone, I'm pretty sure I'll be keeping mine close at hand as well.
Here's the low-down. Getting a mobile phone in Korea is not such an easy undertaking for foreigners. Although we have the legal right to live here and work here, owning anything (a cell phone, an apartment, a house -- even for foreigners married to a Korean citizen) is a no-go. Enter Harrison, answer to my every problem.... Harrison and I went cell-phone shopping today, after returning from the Korean Immigration Office in Daesan (story for another time). A new shop just opened right down the street from the local grocery store right across from the post office, pretty convenient. He had heard that there were some special promotions going on, and I figured it was worth the investment to get connected while here in Korea.
The good news about mobile phones abroad is that, in most countries other than the good ol' U.S. of A., incoming calls are FREE to you. Which means that I only have to pay for calls I make. The second piece of good news is that text messages are ridiculously cheap (about ₩20 per message, or about 2 cents). No wonder teens are typing and texting ad nauseum all over the place. And the third piece of good news is that virtually every plan is a pay-as-you-go type of deal. So for a basic fee of $13, I've got a mobile number and free incoming calls. And from there, I'll pay only for the calls I use. Oh yeah, that, and my phone was free.The catch? Of course, there's a catch... Every mobile provider alive has a deal to hook you and a catch to sink you with. I wouldn't expect any different in Korea! The phone is free with a 2-year contract, and if I cancel early my opt-out is the full cost of the phone, about ₩200,000 (~US$200). And for the first two months, I'm obligated to enroll in some kind of premium service (internet capability, which I don't expect I'll get much use of, as the browser is configured in Korean). Nonetheless, for ₩50,000 (US$50) to set up my account and ~₩9,000 ($US9) for my SIM card, I was out the door with my shiny little sidekick.
I spent some time last night getting to know my little Cyon. She's a beauty, but this phone is much more than just skin-deep :) Inside her Tools menu, are some pretty powerful features... especially for a foreigner such as much. Not only is there a calculator, stopwatch and world clock, but a unit converter useful for Won to USD (and a slew of other currencies), inches to meters, Celcius to Fahrenheit, pounds to kilograms, you name it. There's even a map of Seoul's metro hidden in here. My favorite feature, by far, however, I think will prove to be worth its weight in gold. Built into my mobile is an English-Korean dictionary... type in the word of your choosing, and its Korean equivalent will pop back in a millisecond. This is gonna be a great tool for me, a pocket translator on-the-go! Of course, it translates single words only, and I'm gonna have to get a handle on hangul (the Korean writing system). But from there on out, little Cyon and me are gonna go places!

Serving it Up Korean-Style

2008-06-22T15:26:00.001+09:00

This weekend marked the beginning of my Korean culinary experiments! After finishing up the marathon shopping trip with Terry on Saturday, I returned home with MASSIVE hunger pangs! My bare cabinets were bare no longer, and it was time to silence the hungry beast in my belly. So what's a girl to cook??
I decided to take Terry's suggestions and cook up some rice with barley and Korean black beans. Following Korean cooking protocol, I rinsed and drained the grains and beans three times in tap water, then left them to soak for 1/2 hour. I drained them once more, and then loaded everything into my studio-size rice cooker.
The next trick was figuring out how much water to add to the pot. Harrison, nice guy that he is, had stopped by my apartment yesterday to pump up my bike tires and introduce me to the wonders of the rice cooker (seriously, is he too good to be true, or what?). He showed me the age-old Korean measuring technique that his mother used, and that his wife uses still today. No measuring cups needed. OK folks at home, give this a try next time you're making rice in a cooker. Cup your hand over the rice so that your fingertips and the palm of your hand rest on the top of the rice. Now fill the pot with water utnil your knuckles are almost submerged with water. That's it. I'm here, in part, to glean the secrets of ancient wisdom, right? So be it. I cupped the rice with my palm, filled the pot just so, popped down the lid, and let the machine take over.

Meanwhile, I scoured my painstakingly collected Korean recipe "box" (I am in love with the computerized recipe database Big Oven... check it out at http://www.bigoven.com/) to find some general guideline for making a soybean-based soup. With Terry, I had purchased Korean-style miso (soybean paste, called "denjang" in Korean), as well as garlic, Korean chives (think really, really big spring onions), tofu, "gochujang" (a spicy paste made of red peppers), and enoki mushrooms. A few minutes later, the rice cooker was steaming itself into a frenzy, and the fragrance of onion and mushrooms permeated my tiny apartment.
I quickly set the table, and prepared the final ingredient, chopped seaweed, which at Harrison's suggestion, I would eat atop my rice bowl. I spooned everything into little round bowls and, after documenting the big moment :), took a big spoon of my "guk" (soup)... The verdict... a little spicy, with an otherwise mild flavor... and the mushrooms... delicious! And the barley rice with black beans and seaweed? The taste was pleasant, the seaweed added just the right balance of flavor to the very subtle grains. I had to adapt a bit to the purplish hue that the rice took on from the black beans, but in all, I felt quite pleased with myself :) Not bad for my first Korean cooking adventure! Bon appetit!

Stocking the Pantry!

2008-06-22T14:55:00.001+09:00

What an adventure I had today!! I spent several hours at Lotte Mart, Seosan's biggest department store, where I had my first lesson in Korean grocery shopping. Fortunately, I had done a little homework before heading out, or I would have been in some serious hot water. Those of you who know me, know what a passion -- verging on obsession -- I have with all this ethnic, cultural, international. So it shouldn't come as any surprise to you that while I'm here in Korea, I fully intend to do a lot of things Korean-style. Bloom where you're planted, isn't that right? To my mind, a fully authentic experience, one that rings true to my reasons for coming here in the first place, does not revolve around dinners of pizza, Kentucky Fried Chicken, or spaghetti. (Actually, all of the above are right here in town, for those times, which I'm sure will happen, when I'm craving something really Western).
For a while now, though, I've immersed myself in a love and fascination of Eastern cultures, philosophies, religions, medicines, and of course, cuisine. That love is one of the over-arching reasons I chose to come to Korea. I happen to believe that there is a lot of wisdom passed down from generation to generation in these cultures that have been in existence since ancient times. And I think it would be a terrible waste if I were not to really try to integrate and assimilate as much as I can, this knowledge. So with that rather philosophical opening, I give you ... My First Korean Shopping List!
I thought it might be interesting for some of you back home to take a look at what a typical trip to the market yields here in Korea. Also, the prices are listed in Won, as well as USD, which is also kind of interesting (or is that just the analyst in me coming out? Thanks, Dad, I've always attributed my number-crunching interest to you!!)
₩8,780 $8.51 dried small anchovies, 900g (for using to flavor soups)
₩4,130 $4.00 rice vinegar
₩2,430 $2.36 apple vinegar
₩1,420 $1.38 buckwheat noodles (Japanese style)
₩1,030 $1.00 wheat noodles (Korean style)
₩1,580 $1.53 black bean paste chunjang
₩2,130 $2.06 roasted sesame seeds
₩3,860 $3.74 rice paper wrappers (Vietnamese style, for spring rolls)
₩1,868 $1.81 yellow miso paste (Korean style, made of soybeans)
₩2,740 $2.66 red pepper paste
₩3,866 $3.75 soy sauce (regular)
₩4,320 $4.19 soy sauce (Korean style, for making soups)
₩7,632 $7.40 sesame oil
₩7,930 $7.69 dried black beans (Korean style, for cooking with rice)
₩15,980 $15.49 ground soybean + grain health drink
₩1,300 $1.26 sea salt
₩3,800 $3.68 barley (dried, for cooking with rice)
₩1,630 $1.58 seaweed paper (for chopping into cooked rice)
₩1,920 $1.86 Nori sheets (seaweed for rolling rice/kimbap)
₩1,950 $1.91 oyster sauce (Chinese style)
₩2,740 $2.66 soy milk (1 quart)
₩1,050 $1.02 soybean curd (tofu)
₩3,680 $3.57 eggs (1 dozen)
₩1,160 $1.12 bananas (5 little bananas, ~$.022/ea)
₩4,333 $4.20 sweet potatoes (4 medium, $1.05/ea)
₩2,115 $2.05 carrots (4 HUGE!)
₩2,980 $2.89 fresh pineapple
₩1,760 $1.71 bean sprouts
₩2,123 $2.06 tomatoes (2 med, ~$1.03/ea)
₩830 $0.80 fresh garlic cloves (about 12)
₩980 $0.95 Korean chives (1 massive bunch)
₩860 $0.83 fresh ginger
₩650 $0.62 baking soda
Who knew, for instance, that there was a special kind of soy sauce just for making soup? Or that there were so many different varieties of sea plants / seaweed? I'm already missing the abundance of fresh fruit I enjoyed at home... prices for fruits here are steep, and with the exception of this week's pineapple sale and little bananas (which are very affordable), I had to pass them up :(Stay tuned for my next post, in which I'll be trying to turn some of these ingredients into the solution to my already-growling stomach!!