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.