It's A Nice Day for A White Wedding

My first time at the bus terminal in Incheon, the day I arrived in Korea, the woman behind the ticket counter made an interesting comment when I requested my pass to the town that would soon be home. "Cheongju? (chawng-joo)" No, I corrected her. She made a perplexed face, shrugged and decided the silly American could have his ticket to tiny town.

Cheongju, one and a half hours from Chungju, is only 3 times the size of it's oft-confused counterpart. Those extra 400,000 people make it the biggest city in the region- making it the only important place there.  The clerk's one word implied a lot. 

Here in Korea, bigger is better.  Progress is improving the quality of life.  The more money you have, the more you can be trusted.  If you have a position of power, you are always right- at least when it comes to anyone below you.

This includes the relationship between husband and wife.  So, as I sat in the immigration line in Cheongju, I wondered if the young Vietnamese girls knew what they were getting into.  An older, pie-bald man with a sun-freckled face and deep-creased eyes helped one of the young females fill out her visa application.  F2 family visa I assumed.  The girl looked to be maybe 16 at the oldest, but she was now sporting some crisp, new clothes and properly thick Korean-style coat of makeup.  No sense judging, much the same happens in America.

I was part of a fairly rag-tag assortment of out-of-place faces in an out-of-place immigration office.  We consisted of two white-as-snow wayguks, one Korean-born-but-American-raised girl who spoke no Korean, a few chinese fellows, the Vietnamese brides, a man who looked like an islander by blood but dressed like an American and only spoke English.  The building was surrounded by norebang clubs, 'love motels' and 'business clubs'.  Business like business-time business.  It's business, it's business club!

Liberation Day (part 2)

“Hurry! I don't want to miss it!” Comrade rushed me along beneath gourds and fruit hanging from the arched trellises. I thought they were ingenious, edible adornments decorating a memorial celebrating independence. Much like the vegetable gardens that dot the city of Chungju itself, this was a sort of functional beauty that America could learn from. But she was right, and the plants passed from my mind the moment we stepped out onto the plaza.

The dancers whirled about to the hypnotic, percussive drone. With each toss of their head, the streamer attached to their hats blurred in a white circle around them. It took me a minute to take it all in. They weren't just dancing, they were also drumming at the same time. Then the dancing and drumming were complemented by a show of acrobatics.

I asked my students later if they danced like that. They laughed at my silly wayguk question and explained that it is very expensive to learn- something for the privileged and not the average Korean student who idles their days away in an English classroom.

Onward and upward we wandered to the Independence Hall- the memorial museum dedicated to Korea's dark and tumultuous history over the past 200 years. Comrade and I left some thirty minutes later, unable to bear any more of the horrible images and tales. The only message of hope we managed to spot was this sculpture celebrating the Samil ('three-one') movement- an underground resistance to the Japanese occupation.

Outside I found what I had been looking for all along. A bandstand held a group of four performers clad in black leather pants and playing more Korean drums. Throngs of people gathered around to watch and participate. The drummers whipped the crowd into a modest frenzy- clapping along while crying out nationalist slogans. Here was the pride I had hoped to see. After what we witnessed in the Independence Hall museum, I think Korea and her people deserve to celebrate their autonomy.

Interlude

The smell of the sun-warmed rice paddies and the sound of cicadas buzzing in the trees bring me a sense of peace after a long week of teaching.  It's almost mandatory that I at least leave the immediate city limits to find my own peace of mind.  That's not to say that Chungju isn't nice, it is.  In fact, it has more parks than almost any other city I've been to.  Nearly every corner is green space.  There's even a beautiful lake and a lotus garden not too far from my house.

What I am saying is that I need more than just to be teased with a sample of nature.  Despite the fact that most of the area around my little city is agriculturally developed it's still strikingly beautiful.  With that, I invite you to take a short ride with me on my bike.

And to enjoy a few photos that haven't fit into any specific category thus far.  For more photos, you should check out Comrade's blog.

Liberation Day (part 1)

'And the sky opened up' or so some would say to describe the deluge visited upon us early that morning. The diluvian downpour fell like waves crashing against the concrete outside of Comrade's foyer. Any other day the morning sky would have been lit by the first rays of the coming dawn.

The room quivered at the roar of thunder. Foiled. We would have to wait for a break in the storm and catch the next bus. I hoped we wouldn't miss anything.

Four hours later we arrived in Cheonan- a bustling city of half-a-million people and third-rate bathroom facilities. I discovered this when I detoured to the lavatory and found three very unpleasant surprises waiting for me there. The lights had malfunctioned, casting the bathroom into almost pitch black. Second, water was dripping from the sagging ceiling directly into the stalls. Lastly, and I think there is a lesson to be learned here, there was no toilet paper. None. Wherever you go in Korea, bring toilet paper with you.  

Oh, and did I mention it was a Turkish toilet?

Rattled and wet I met Comrade to find our way to the Independence Hall of Korea. At least the girl at the help desk spoke some English- enough to tell me that our destination was another 30 minutes by bus. Two-and-a-half hours each way by bus. This wasn't exactly the way I had wanted to spend my weekend, but I had high hopes for the Liberation Day festival. I expected the Koreans to express their pride on this day, maybe even show a little nationalism. Actually, I anticipated a lot of nationalism- today was important.

The Japanese occupation of Korea had been brutal. Not that it has been spoken of much, but the Japanese took many cues from Nazi Germany. Awful as that was, Korea's problems began before that. For over a hundred years prior, the peninsula had been caught between three great powers- Japan, Russian and China- that tried to assert their influence in the region and control its commerce. Only fifty years ago on this Sunday did Korea finally regain its autonomy.

I looked up from the help desk and spotted a television monitor. Korean president Lee Myung-Bak was on the screen addressing the crowd gathered at Independence Hall. My spirits dampened again. I had wanted to be there for this speech. For a minute I watched. The cheering crowd punctuated each of his phrases for him. I didn't understand a word. Maybe, if we were fast, we could still catch it.

We rushed for the intra-city bus-stop and climbed aboard. The ride before us reminded me why I never want to drive in Korea. In the crowded transport I clung to the overhead grab-bar, trying not to be thrown into the lap of the old lady sitting nearby. The vehicle quickly accelerated then lurched to a halt as a taxi cut it off. A delivery-boy on a scooter prompted another sudden stop as he flew through a red light right in front of us. It was a long thirty minutes before we arrived.

The park was worth it by itself. The grounds of the Independence Hall of Korea are enormous with various monuments erected to celebrate their nationalist endeavors. The names on the signs were translated into sometimes pitiful engrish, but the art was impressive. The raised, minimalist relief style of some of the sculptures reminded me of the fascist monuments erected in Nazi Germany and Mussolini's Italy.

The scale, however, was far more grand and the art celebrated the human spirit. The fascist style of Nazi Germany only glorified an ideology that cast humans in the role of mindless, obedient ants.

A Korean skating team greeted us as we walked the promenade towards the great hall itself. Wearing rollerblades and baring significantly more muscle-tone than most of the inhabitants of Chungju combined, they put on a small, awkward spectacle. The walkway was uneven (as are nearly all walkways in Korea) and completely unsuited to skating. A poor girl fell on her rear and another stumbled on their way over a bridge.

We came upon the 'White Rotus Pond' (sic) and wondered at the lack of flowers. The surface of the water glittered gold with the teeming koi. Perhaps the overfed fish had greedily devoured them in an attempt to keep their fellows from accomplishing the same. They certainly seemed intent on not sharing any child-supplied treats with their turtle neighbors.

Food for Thought

It all started with an invitation to a barbecue, or so I had believed. With far too many bottles of soju in hand, or in bike basket rather, and some apples to throw on the grill I sped down the streets of Chungju after my comrade. Our destination was a vague meeting point in front of a western clothing store along the south fork of the trickling creek that runs through the middle of Chungju.

My bike tires screeched to a halt as my friend pointed out a remarkable sight. Down a side-street were hundreds of pinwheels hung up overhead, spinning frantically in the slight breeze. People milled about- chatting, bargaining, hawking, eating. A lively bazaar filled the narrow space, snaked, and branched out into a multitude of other streets. The offerings on hand ranged from tantalizing splashes of colorful fruit to the unknown and truly bizarre.

With plenty of time to spare we diverged from our intended path to jostle through the throng. Trucks plunged menacingly into the swirl of humanity like sharks harmlessly scrambling at a school of tuna. Shopkeeps lined the alleys two rows deep- the first spread their wares on tables and tarps on the street itself while behind them lay the stores proper. This was what I had been looking for, not those westernized stores that charged dearly for the perceived status they peddled.

A woman called to us from a storefront, beckoning us to come in. She instructed us to sit next to her family, a husband and a mother, and partake of their water, their food. Patties of fried egg with caviar or spring onions tantalized our palates. A smattering of English poured from her lips. She had a son in Canada. She was the Apple Princess. Photos were exhibited to us of her- on the evening news in a verdant headdress, at Jungangtap amongst the other contestants and then receiving her sash. We tarried as long as we could, relishing the exchange.

No, not a barbecue, but Korean barbecue- at a restaurant. Our fellow wayguks (foreigners) led us from the meeting point to a cheaply furnished establishment with enormous sliding-glass doors. Bulgogi, 'fire-meat' as barbecue is called in Korean, sizzled on a foil-lined pan surrounded by short glasses of pale, Korean beer. Wrapped in lettuce next to garlic and spicy red paste, the meat filled our greedy mouths and conversation spilled out, displaced by the savory intrusion.

Gentle souls had been found and bellies filled. The comfort of these basic interactions was elevating. Such urges, so primal, seem more deeply felt and less easily quenched seven thousand miles from where we began.

Journey to the Center of the Earth

My feet no longer hurt from pounding against the brick walkways. Drenching my clothes in sweat after walking a mere block wasn't an issue anymore. Nor was sweating all over the bag I usually had slung over my shoulder. For all of this I had to be grateful to my new bike.

The first day in Chungju was enough to walking for my taste. Two days into my stay here I found my way to a bike shop, gave the man $50 and rode away with my beautiful Lespo Typhoon. 'Blow away the fear' she proclaims loudly on her black frame while her tires advertise 'absolute power'. Should I have an ego trip? Or maybe just commit senseless acts of violence against things that go bump in the night. Her dark whispers are a constant siren's call.

The comrade also got a new ride, one with a luxuriously plump seat and a cool mint green paint job, and we decided to give our delightful new toys a whirl. From the bright, cartoonish town map we had picked up at Lotte Mart I chose a destination that intrigued me. Ancient tombs were to be found in the hills west of town. It seemed fascinating- and more importantly close. The weather was still desperately hot and I had no idea how far I could go in the heat. The tombs appeared to be just a stone's throw away, perhaps the distance of a few city blocks past Lotte Mart.

At the time, I hadn't read the tiny print on the map indicating that it was not just not to scale but, in fact, wildly disproportionate. However, sitting at a table several hours later with a drunk Korean woman who was desperately interested in speaking with comrade and I, I didn't regret it one bit. It took that slightly misguided trek to finally feel as though we were experiencing something different.

The path that brought us here led past many a new sight. The robo-flagger was one of the less significant, but it was still very entertaining. I didn't understand until after we had passed it that it wasn't a real human waving his orange stick up and down in such a mechanical, weary fashion. The Koreans used robots to warn people of impending danger on the highway. Trusty, reliable robots- I think CalTrans could learn a bit from these guys.

click me for video
A pity the robo-flagger couldn't give me directions, we might have actually found the tombs. However, it is nearly impossible to navigate to a destination when all the signs to lead you there are in a foreign language that is written in a foreign alphabet. Still, comrade and I happened upon something extraordinary- Jungangtap.

Physically, the pagoda is only moderately impressive. The modern art sculptures in the nearby park and the beautiful vistas of Tangeum-ho lake create a pleasant atmosphere only slightly marred by the passing of a family riding a giant banana. The real majesty of Jungangtap, however, is that it was built in the 8^th century to mark the center of the kingdom during the Silla dynasty.

I didn't appreciate that fact at the time, but my comrade and I both knew we had stumbled across something amazing. Meanwhile, we sipped on a drink that I at first thought was called 'broccoli'. Our drunk Korean acquaintance quickly educated about the proper pronunciation. Apparently the Korean 'm' sounds very similar to a 'b'. Many letters in Korean do- in fact, 'p' and 'b' in Korean are essentially the same sound.  The drink is actually called 'makali'.

Like Jacques Cousteau With the Munchies

One finds French Bakeries in the oddest of places, and Chungju is more than a little odd. These shops all have something in common that make any world traveler feel immediately chez soi- pigs in a blanket. Yes, they religiously supply those greasy sticks of meat-like pâte wrapped in a flaky croissant which seem, for these shop-keepers, to conjure up the essence of french cuisine. Despite the time I lived in France, I'm not sure I share this sentiment.

Earlier that morning I had frightened some young Korean man by slipping in the door to his apartment building as he was leaving. Finally united, my comrade and I meandered our way about town, determined to find a proper Korean breakfast. It must have been nine in the morning and the humid heat was already stifling the streets. Obscured by the ever present haze, the sun glowed like a little dob of honey in the sky.

We had approached some older Korean gentlemen who were gathered around a plastic table with an umbrella and asked where we could get breakfast, or so we believed. They deliberated amicably amongst themselves for some time, presumably arguing about which was the best restaurant to go to. The antics reminded me of groups of older men anywhere. They sent us off, we supposed, two blocks up and to the right.

We found a pizza delivery joint there and, considering our hunger, we decided to order despite it not being very Korean. We pointed to an item on the menu and seemingly got an acknowledgment from the man who was working there. I breathed a sigh of relief. Aside from the jeju barley cream bread neither of us had eaten anything substantial since the flight. As we put down the menu he started speaking quickly in Korean and gesticulating incomprehensibly. Before I could make sense of it he was pushing us out the door and away he went on his scooter.

Slightly disheartened and not really desiring pizza anyway we sauntered on and enjoyed yet another awkward encounter. I went in to a shop to ask for directions, again, and had come upon a Korean couple. I greeted them before I realized they were both sitting over a bowl of soup- I suppose it must have been their breakfast. The woman stood, flustered, and greeted me curtly. Had I known how to apologize I would have as she shooed me out the door.

Ten minutes later, we were forgoing the artfully presented hot dog in a croissant for an enormous bear claw. What a pastry! I don't believe I've ever tasted one quite so good, even in the land of Gaul, and to top it off it was only $1.50. The coffee was surprisingly good as well. All in all, for having such a ridiculous name as 'Paris Baguette' (bah-gette, hoh hoh hoh!), this little cafe was a blessed oasis in a breakfast desert.

I find myself indebted to those forlorn francophiles who open pastry shops in the far corners of the earth, longing for the days they spent in Paris. As long as they're still around, I'll be well fed wherever I may go.

So Easy a Caveman Could Do It

I liked my apartment well enough despite the size, or perhaps because of the size. The modest dimensions were a part of its Korean-ness along with its other peculiarities. The bathroom that moonlighted as a shower stall, the sunken entry-way where one would leave his or her shoes, and the locks that have to be turned opposite of how you would expect- all the oddities of the place delighted me with the foreign flavor they immediately left on my palate.

Sleep was forgotten after only a few hours and the moon still hung heavy between the high-rise apartment buildings when I looked out my door. It was the same moon I had seen framed by palm trees as I departed San Francisco the night before- which was a comfort. Had it taken on a ghastly new form or been replaced by some imposter I suppose I might have felt a bit cheated.

Too excited to force myself back to sleep, I busied myself with reading and tidying up my things until the sun rose. I figured that people tend to get up with the sun, or at least most early risers do.  I was shocked when I finally burst forth onto empty streets around a quarter past seven. Even the corner shops were closed, preventing me from embarrassing myself by negotiating for toilet paper in a language I didn't understand.

Yes, that was a bit uncomfortable as I was jarred from my pristine porcelain pondering with the realization that the empty rod on the wall to my left was indeed the toilet paper holder. A good deal of disbelief preceded any action- the details of which are better left undisclosed.

The night before, or a mere six hours prior if that suits you better, was spent viewing the new abodes my traveling companion and I would inhabit. It was also spent receiving directions while nearly comatose. With no businesses open, I decided to put those directions to the test.

Utilizing what I recalled of my superior's guidance I attempted to locate my cohort's nearby apartment. 'One block down and to the end of the road' or something like that had been the indication. Apparently, none of the streets had names. Well, after following several of these 'one blocks' and heading to the end of a few nameless roads in a fairly circular direction for well nigh an hour I finally found the correct building. Of course, the door onto the entryway just had to be locked.

No one had said anything about there being a passcode to get into my friend's building. Normal people might simply pull out their mobile and give their chum n abbr txt msg. Alas, I was in Korea with no such device. I didn't even have access to the internet, or a plug with which to charge my laptop. I supposed I might buy a phone as I looked around at the legion of small shops with garishly colored signs advertising any number of possible services- none of which I could ascertain. Pointless, really, since my comrade possessed no phone of her own.

Desperately craving the familiar technology of home, I resorted to barbarism as the only perceived means of meeting my clan-member for the morning hunt. There was a garden that I supposed was public which lay in front of her building. I hurled deformed ears of corn from it at her window. I bellowed as loudly as my lungs would allow. Briefcase wielding businessmen on their way to work stopped to stare at the spectacle. My comrade, however, completely failed to notice.

Quite possibly starving at this point from not having eaten for some twenty-four hours and possessing no food stuffs I decided to find something to chew on. Better that than continue with the street-side chimpanzee exhibit. That something wound up being a pastry item called 'Jeju Barley Cream Bread' and a container of milk (perhaps the best I've tasted since my short stay in Sweden). I gleaned them from a kind gentleman working at a convenience store who helped me correct my pronunciation of 'kamsahamnida'- which means 'thank you'. An undisclosed amount of bathroom tissue was also procured.