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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.