Police Beat: Lowlife on the Loose

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.