Day 1:
From Seoul, it takes about three hours' worth of trains to get to Daegu. We get in around 11pm and immediately start looking for a taxi, to take us to our hostel. The pressure of the clock is upon us; the hotel staff keeps calling and asking, in broken English, if we're coming. Finally we find the taxis beyond some small stairways. We knock on one of their windows. The taxi driver speaks no English; we show him the address, written in Michael's tiny notebook. He says "ok." We twist through the city, bright lights reflecting in our pupils. It's not so different from Japan. I think about how fun it will be to explore tomorrow. I wonder when we'll stop, what kind of neighborhood our hostel is in...
After about fifteen minutes, we find ourselves exiting the city. Storefronts exchange for trees, and the road begins to preciptously incline. It's dark, and we have no idea where we're going. Are we even still in Daegu? We can't ask the driver; we can only trust that we wrote down the address correctly.
We did. The hostel is located up in the mountains. It's midnight by the time we come stumbling in. To our surprise, it's no hostel, but a full-fledged hotel. The staff is happy to see we made it safe and sound. We pay the fairly expensive hotel price, and go up to our room. There, we find a large bed. One large bed. That's not right - we ordered a room with two beds. A double room. Despite our fatigue, we trod back downstairs to the lobby.
"Excuse me," Michael inquires, "we have a problem. We ordered a double room."
"Oh no!" The hotelkeeper laughs. "Double bed! Sorry, no rooms with two beds. I know, you are surprised: one bed, man and wife!"
He laughs again. It's late; arguing is futile. There are no other rooms available. So back we go, up to our room. On opposite sides of the rock hard plastic mattress, we curl up and go to sleep.
Day 2:
The reason we came to Daegu was to see the World Track and Field Championships. It was Michael's idea - for him, this was the whole point of our vacation. For me, as I absolutely detest running, it was a mild annoyance. The day was mostly uneventful; we spent the morning on a long bus ride around the city, looking for a way to get to the stadium. We made it in time to catch the women's 100m semi-finals and the Decathalon pole vaulting, to close out the morning session. Then we went to a restaurant for lunch - but we couldn't read the menu. In what would be the first of an ongoing series of restaurant rescues, an old Russian man came over and helped us out. We ended up with a pot of chongol: a big stew with lots of meat and vegetables, and a small army of shared side dishes. It was quite good. Then we returned to the stadium for the evening trials. Sandwiched between two large groups of Jamaicans, we watched the women's long jump, the box-shaped female discus throwers, the men's 10,000m run, and the mother of all events, the men's 100m final.
As you may have heard by now, that last event didn't go as smoothly as hoped. Right after the start, we heard the crack of a gun. False start: DQ. The stadium grew silent.
"Was it - was it Bolt? Bolt? Oh my God, I think it was Bolt."
Usain Bolt - the world record holder in the men's 100. Arguably the most famous runner on the planet. The Jamaicans exploded.
"Noooo! Why, Bolt, why! You would have won - easily! You didn't have to false start! Whyyyyy!"
Not gonna lie: it was the most entertaining part of the night.
Day 3:
Started the day with no real plan - had a few hours to kill before heading off to Gyeongju. So we left our bags at the hostel and went out to explore a bit. We spotted a trail branching off from the parking lot and decided to follow it, thinking it would probably lead to one of the temples in the area. About a half hour or so of climbing, we realized that this wasn't the case.
We went up the mountain. At every clearing, we stopped, thinking that might be it, only to find another trail snaking further onward. We started to hear noises. Voices chanting. The sound of a drum. Surely we were near a temple now. But no matter which direction we went in, the music grew louder, as though closing in from all directions. Eventually we came to a rock ledge.
At the top left, you can see a large rock. Next to it, we identified a small building. Was that the source of the chanting? It was so loud, now, we may as well have been in the same room. The music echoed out all down the mountainside. We decided to try and climb up there.
We followed the trails, and ended up at a signpost that pointed to a "stone buddha." .6 km away. We changed direction and went off to search for it. The path got a bit treacherous: wooden railings on barely-there ledges; ropes down steep cliffsides. And me, with only the same poor pair of treadless Asics that saw the snowy mount Gozaisho - but I was not deterred. The music grew louder; louder still.
Eventually, our path met up with a stone staircase; apparently, this was the easy way up the mountain. People were clambering towards the source of the sound. And there, at the top, we found the stone buddha.
Known as Gatbawi (which refers to the buddha's large hat), it is apparently a popular place with Koreans all over the country, due to the legend that the buddha there will answer at least one of your prayers. Before it, in contrast to the silent prayers one typically offers at Japanese shrines and temples, people of all ages knelt fervently on prayer mats, clasping their hands together and reading aloud from little books. The vitality of the scene was moving; against the backdrop of clouds, it seemed these people were really in touch with their spirituality, with the power of life around them, and were one with it, not reserved or detached from it; seemingly oblivious to their appearance or to our appearance or to anything but the world and their presence in it. This impression would emerge again, on numerous occasions throughout my time in the country...
GYEONGJU
We found ourselves on the wrong side of the mountain. Convinced we could just catch a bus back to the hostel, we stared at the large map and attempted to formulate a plan that didn't involve spending another three hours hiking back the way we came. An old woman selling fruit nearby meandered over and made a big X with her hands. No bus. She traced her finger back over the mountain path. We'd have to go back.
Needless to say, this was not what we wanted to hear - or have demonstrated to us, at any rate, as she spoke no English. We hung around her fruit stand and waited for some other opportunity to present itself. We didn't have to wait long.
The old woman spoke to her husband in Korean. Then pointed at the car. Then spoke to us in Korean; not wanting to presume, we shrugged our shoulders. She pulled out her phone dictionary and showed us the word "vehicle."
"Oh, you want to give us a ride? Really? Are you sure? Oh, thank you!"
It was about a half hour's drive back - no small excursion on their part. We thanked him profusely upon its conclusion: "Kamsahamnida!" He may have been the first one to teach us this phrase; I would mangle it or forget it many times throughout the trip.
We caught a six o'clock train to Gyeongju. It was only fifteen minutes away.
Gyeongju is known, to some, as the "Kyoto of Korea," due to its historical importance and the number of old shrines and temples in the area. But we didn't see any of that the first night. After a couple random people helped us - in perfect English - to find our bus stop, we got off and went up to our new hostel. It was like an apartment; a small group of college-age guests (or workers - it was hard to tell which was which) hung around the living room/kitchen. We would meet them later, at the hostel's oft-touted "rooftop parties."
First, though, we went off to find some dinner. On the way, we ran into a couple girls, who called out to us as we passed them on the street. They were sitting in front of a 7-11. One was in a hospital gown; the whole left (or maybe it was the right) side of her body seemed to have suffered some sort of accident, her arm and leg in casts. They asked where we were from. Then some guy came over and started chastising or poking fun at them, and the non-injured girl got up and chased him down the street. It was weird. We continued our journey, which eventually came to a stop at a Korean fried chicken joint. We watched TV and sat on couches while we ate. It was kind of like a nicer KFC, with that spicy red Korean sauce replacing the BBQ. Then we stopped at the fore-mentioned 7-11 and picked up some beer for the night's rooftop gala.
The reason I chose this hostel in Gyeongju was because they host a party on the rooftop every night of the week. Beginning around 9, many of the staff and patrons congregate at a table under a tent and listen to music, drink and eat snacks. It was a very pleasant affair that really set this hostel apart from all the other hostels I've stayed at. If you ever find yourself in Gyeongju, I would highly recommend it.
The first night, we met a French cinema studies student, an older Turkish artist, and - surprisingly, for a hostel - a large number of native Koreans, exploring Gyeongju out of personal curiosity and national interest. We stayed up there for a few hours, talking about a bunch of topics that I no longer even really remember; but it was quite fun. Then we went off downstairs to bed.
Day 4:
On recommendation from my friend Ji (who we would meet up with later in Seoul), the only concrete objective we had going into Gyeongju was to go to Seokguram, which is a large stone buddha in a grotto in the mountains. To get there, we took a bus to Bulguksa, a nearby temple. We spent about an hour there, looking around, then we climbed up the mountain trail - our daily hike, if you will - to continue our journey.
I'd like to show some pictures of Seokguram, but photography was strictly prohibited in the little viewing room where you can see the statue. But it was quite beautiful - renowned as one of the finest examples of Buddhist sculpture of its era, in a little chamber hidden away in a hill lies a buddha encircled by engravings of bodhisattvas and other figures. The jewel in its forehead, especially, struck me, still gleaming after all these centuries (they must keep up regular maintenance...) Perhaps this schematic will give you an idea; for actual pictures, I recommend google images.
After Seokguram, we still had quite a bit of time, so we boarded a bus and decided to try and make our way to the coast, to see the underwater tomb of King Munmu. First, though, we stopped to get lunch at a large outdoor event, where men in drag sang screechy songs and banged obnoxiously out of rhythm on pots and pans.
Lunch was nice enough. Then, after a bit of deductive sleuthing, we managed to board a bus in the right direction. It was a long bus ride. We passed a highway under construction that went over the mountaintops; large concrete supports jutting out of the hills, occasional fragments of road floating in the middle of nowhere like a surrealist painting. Slowly, the rest of the passengers departed. And finally, it was our turn.
The tomb is not visible. It's just a bunch of rocks, underneath which King Munmu was supposedly buried. His ashes may have been scattered, though. All in all, not much of an attraction. But it was nice to be on the shore, and it was quiet and peaceful. Not much sand - certainly no beach to swim at - but a lot of very polished stones. I looked for interesting shapes and colors, while Michael used them to try and hit a nearby buoy. Oh, and I got this picture, which was probably the best one of the whole trip.
I also got these, which are some of my personal favorites...they came out surprisingly dull upon upload, though, so the colors have been slightly (or, in the case of the third one, greatly) enhanced:
So all in all, it was a nice detour, even if it was a bit out of the way. By the time we got back, it was dark - almost time for the rooftop party. But there was something else I had to do first. Our new French friend, Benoit, had recommended going to a place called Anapji Pond after nightfall. Since this was our last night in Gyeongju, we had to bike over there first. I was a little tempted to just skip it, but upon arrival, I was immediately glad I didn't.
The pavilions had recently been reconstructed; their remains had been found at the bottom of the pond. Everything was lit up beautifully, and soft instrumental music played throughout the park. The pictures don't really give justice to the scope of the place; the pond was designed so that you could never see all sides of it from one perspective, creating the impression that you could spend all day walking around it, even though you can probably do it within ten minutes. Of course, it took much longer for me - these pictures also don't give justice to the countless inferior, botched versions I got trying to capture its splendor - and Michael eventually had to more or less drag me from the park. I will say though, if I lived in Gyeongju, I would probably go there every night and just sit and relax for an hour or so. A sublime finale to a peaceful afternoon...supplanted in short time by an hour or so of Korean drinking games on the roof, taught to us by a whole new group of hostel-goers. The night came to an apex with a karaoke rendition of the hit K-Pop song "Roly Poly" performed into an Oreo box microphone by a girl whose name I no longer remember. Her friend was awfully cute though.
Day 5:
Before going to sleep last night, I discovered the two aforementioned girls were planning on going to the Gyeongju National Museum; I told them we should meet up, and we decided on 2pm. They were going to check out Seokguram beforehand, and Michael and I wanted to see some of the large grassy mounds that dot the area. Tombs. We took our rented bicycles and biked to the outskirts of the city, where we found a couple parks filled with the tumuli.
They were neat to see - though you couldn't run up them, which kind of detracts from the enjoyment. And they got to be a bit same-y. So we biked back towards the museum, stopping for lunch upon the way. We found a restaurant with a little bit of English on their sandwich board menu outside - "seafood rice" - so we went in there. The seafood rice was great; oysters or some sort of shellfish in rice, and, as seemed to be the trend in Korea, a ton of little shared dishes on the side.
Unfortunately, the food was so good, we ended up leaving the restaurant a little late, and showed up at the museum around 2:10. The girls were nowhere in sight. Had they arrived already, and gone inside? Were they running late themselves? I cursed my habitual tardiness. The thought of going in, only to have the girls arrive and wait for us gave me great unease...but we only had a couple hours, if we were going to get to our hostel in Seoul by seven, which was the time I'd told them we'd arrive by. Of course, it'd be closer to nine by the time we ended up arriving anyway...but I'm getting ahead of myself. After about ten minutes of waiting, we decided that, whether or not they'd already arrived, we'd probably run into them inside. We went in.
Well, as you probably guessed, we did not run into them inside. No. But we did run into some extremely eager older gentleman who spoke really garbled English and insisted on being our tour guide and explaining every single item in the museum in his own words.
"See that frog? Do you know why there's a frog? Because the frog was good for the fertilities!"
"Do you know why the snake is biting that frog? Do you know why it doesn't eat the frog? Because the snake is the man, and the frog is the woman! It's good for the fertilities!"
"See these bean-shaped necklaces? Do you know why women wore them?"
"...To help with fertility?"
"Yes! For the fertilities!"
This went on for at least thirty minutes. Neither of us had the heart to send him away; instead, while he blathered on to one of us, the other would wander off. Eventually, we'd meet back up and trade. Finally, we managed to ditch him when he ran into a European couple and, probably sensing our disdain, decided to help guide them around instead. But not before he managed to get off a jab about how the Japanese are really bad at English and, even when they can speak it, it's really hard to understand what they're saying. Subtle anti-Japanese sentiment: another recurring theme of our trip (to say nothing of the irony!). I suppose this was just desserts for not waiting for those girls.
SEOUL
As expected, we got into Seoul later than expected. I originally said four; called to say seven; we arrived around nine. Finding the hostel was no problem. It's more a habitual inability to tear myself away from whatever it is I'm doing beforehand in time to get to where I'm supposed to be on time, if you catch my drift.
Anyway, our tardiness was no problem. We were shown to our hostel, where we met an Australian girl who was very Asian looking and spoke with an ambiguous accent; she said she was studying for some language school. I was unsure whether it was Korean or English...it was kind of awkward. We didn't hang around long. Instead, we went out for some Korean BBQ.
Korean BBQ, if you don't know, seems to be the big "thing to do" in Korea. In Japan, everyone's like "make sure to get the yakiniku!" (Japanese for - you guessed it - BBQ). And the first time I had it was actually in NYC. As far as internationally renowned cuisine goes, it's not exactly foie gras, but I guess it'd be like making sure to try some local pizza while in Italy - or maybe kimchi gets that distinction? I don't know. But anyway, you order a bunch of raw meat, and then you grill it on the grill in front of you. Then you dip it in some spicy sauce or garlic sauce and add some greens or whatever you want from the inevitable array of side dishes you're presented with, and you typically put all this in a piece of lettuce and eat the whole thing in one bite. At least, this has been my understanding of it.
On the tastiness front, the restaurant we chose scored good marks. The atmosphere, however...well, let's just say, we were eating outside, and there were a bunch of very drunk older Korean men sitting up in the restaurant nearby. Among them, one man in particular kept calling us over and talking to us incoherently in Korean. He gave Michael some beer. Then he called me over.
"He wants to give you some beer," Michael informed me.
I brought my glass. He shouted some things. I uncomfortably shrugged my shoulders and apologized for not knowing Korean. I kind of nudged my glass next to his beer bottle, but he didn't pour anything. He just kept talking very loudly and drunkenly. Finally, I gave up, in a very nervous state of unease, and returned to my seat. I kept apologizing and shrugging my shoulders, reiterating that I had no idea what he wanted me to do.
The situation simmered for about ten minutes. Then the bottle fell.
Apparently, he was angry at us or just lost his grip or something, but the big bottle of beer he was drinking from ended up shattered all over the ground next to our table. We and the people at the table next to us all edged our chairs away and looked at him, confused. His face was beet red and he was mumbling, disgruntled. Nobody seemed to do anything. Some people laughed. The owner, with a disappointed sigh, came over and swept up the shards of glass.
Dinner continued, but it was as though a vacuum had sucked all the joyousness from the occasion, and like an opportunistic disease, paranoia had prospered in its place. Every glance to nearby tables brought increasing laughter in light of our predicament. This seemed to be amusing to everyone else. I felt myself shriveling like a piece of grilled meat before their compassionless gazes.
A few minutes later, the plates started dropping. The first one broke; a piece ricocheted and brushed Michael's arm. He stood up.
"That hit me!"
Staff came over and hoisted our table, with the grill and all our dinner plates on it, off to another location. But I could still see him, as he continued to drop his plates from over the railing. One after another, in rapid succession. All those side dishes we're so generously given, reduced to ceramic shrapnel.
The owner brought us another plate of meat and a bottle of beer, on the house.
At some point, somebody apparently called the police, and we watched as three or four cars pulled up and way more police officers than was necessary got out and mulled about the scene. They looked at the broken plates, the food splattered like a Jackson Pollack painting across the asphalt. They talked to some of the other patrons. They did not talk to us. Then, they took him and put him in the backseat of one of their cars, and drove away.
Now, this wasn't the first time I've had to deal with a drunk, older, vaguely racist individual. It happens sometimes in Japan, too (though the broken dishware was a first). But it's not something you get used to. It's unsettling. Maybe it'd be the same if it were an angry white dude throwing dishes at me for no reason. Michael argued that we were collateral damage; that he was drunk, that we probably had nothing to do with his disgruntlement. But you can't erase that doubt. I had to get off the street.
Nearby was a place called the Beatles Bar. It touted itself as an "oldies bar." In retrospect, going to an oldies bar - which would attract, presumably, older people - after just getting directly or indirectly harassed by an older gentleman was probably not the wisest choice. But we went in. It was quiet, and mostly empty, except for a couple of businessmen in the corner. And all along the back were records; cubbies and cubbies of records, as if a wall of WHPK's record library had been transplanted to this little underground tavern in Korea. It had a nice familiar feeling, and did a lot to erase the bad vibes of the previous experience. The owner, though he didn't even try to speak English, gave us pen and paper and gestured that we could make requests. We did, and then we asked him for his recommendations; we tried guessing the records he put on (and did somewhat surprisingly poorly). We even had a little conversation, via sliding the pad back and forth. If not exactly warm and fuzzy - and his sullen, college-age-looking barkeep did try to swindle Michael out of 40 bucks - it was at least, as far as my experience with bars in Asian countries goes, one of the more interesting and rewarding atmospheres I've found myself in.
After that, we hit up another bar, where we tried "hof," which, my friend Ji explained later, is apparently Korean for "hops" - though I have a hunch that it's the Korean equivalent of the fake beer you can get for cheap at the supermarket around here. Michael ducked out after that, but I felt the restless itch I often get when I'm surrounded by the vibrant life of the city. A sort of premonition of possibility... I wandered around the same few blocks, three or four times, trying to decide a place to go into. It was a Wednesday night, maybe around 12:30; the crowds were dying down, but had by no means dissipated. I eventually settled on one of the many Occult Bars that seemed to be popular in the area (there were at least three).
The inside was disappointingly not-cult-like. It was pretty average: a bar, with some tables around it. Neon beer signs. Some photos on the walls. Completely devoid of anything that would differentiate it from any other totally generic bar. Two girls were seated, talking with the bartender. They were not even remotely attractive. I immediately regretted coming in. At least, I told myself, there weren't any red-faced businessmen.
I sat down a few stools away from the girls and ordered a beer. Then I realized that the three were taking part in some sort of game. They were moving cards around the bar. After awhile, it dawned on me that it was, in fact, a Tarot reading. There's not much else interesting to this story, so I'll just stop it there - but it seems that Tarot readings are quite popular in South Korea (or at least in Seoul). We would pass a number of people doing it on the street, and various storefronts advertising it in the coming days. If I thought about it, maybe I could come up with some sort of clever commentary regarding this peculiar pasttime, but I'll leave that for you, the reader, to decide upon.
Day 6:
Ah. Day 6. So...Everyone has certain reasons for maintaining a blog. For some, maybe it is the idea of sharing that genuinely pleases them. Good storytellers? Looking for attention? Maybe this describes you, or someone you know. But not me. Personally, blogging is just practice doing something that I moderately enjoy but hope to continually hone, if only so as to have some sort of valuable and potentially marketable skill. But, occasionally, I come across very important moments of my life that I do legitimately wish to document, entrusting the internet to do the job my brain is supposed to do, long after it ceases to function as well as it should.
This is one of those moments.
For the sake of continuity and completeness, I'll start from the morning. Approximately 4:30, to be more precise. I was awoken by a siren, and a repeating message in Korean. I tried to ignore it. I imagined police officers like we'd met before chasing some criminal down the street with bullhorns. I was starting to really dislike this neighborhood. After about twenty minutes of this, I got up to use the bathroom. On the way, I ran into the ambiguous Austral-Asian girl.
"What the hell is with this siren?" I asked, half-awake.
"I think it's some kind of emergency." she responded.
"...Really?" The thought had never crossed my mind.
"Yeah." She was heading downstairs, to look for the owner of the hostel. I decided to tag along. We found a small crowd of other tenants gathered around him, near the staircase.
"Apparently, they're saying there's a fire on the block," someone informed us. "But Mr. Kim says that it's not true; that there's no fire, and it must be some kind of error."
A fire? And here I was trying to sleep through it! I'd never even thought of something like this happening; it was quite frightening. Fortunately, it was a false alarm. About five minutes later, it stopped, and I crawled back into bed for another five hours of sleep.
We didn't leave the hostel til around noon. On recommendation from one of the Koreans we met in Gyeongju, we set out vaguely for the Insa Dong neighborhood, which had been recommended as a "traditional" area of the city, and seemed to be conveniently located near some other interesting-looking attractions.
Unfortunately, Insa Dong itself was not so terribly interesting. Aside from a "museum" of really old toys and other various collectibles - which was more ratty old garage than museum, though it did have some neat stuff (and a lot of Burger King toys that I hadn't seen since I was like, eight, and needless to say never thought I'd see again) - the rest of the neighborhood was just really bougie and sterile.
We kept walking and eventually ended up in what seemed like the financial district, and then the area around Seoul Station. From there, I got the idea that we should check out Seoul Tower - I'd heard of it from one of my middle school students, who had gone to Korea the month prior, and had recommended checking it out. I knew we could catch a bus from somewhere near the station...About twenty minutes or so later, we finally found a stop for the right bus, and off we went.
Upon disembarkation, we found ourselves facing another mile walk up the mountain: our daily hike. It was nice though, and provided good views of the city. When we got to the tower, we paid ten bucks to go up to the top, which provided even better views - though it was a bit foggy.
In the second photo, you'll notice a significant mass of very similar-looking highrises. This is not a one-off phenomenon; in fact, it is a South Korean specialty. We saw clusters like this in Taegu, the outskirts of Gyeongju, Seoul, Incheon...They're usually numbered, from anything like 1-6 to 1-20, and they always stand out conspicuously. Why are they there? Large apartment buildings? Who's filling all those rooms? Very strange.
From here, we took a bus back into the city. We had no destination in mind, so just hopped on one randomly. As luck would have it, the bus rode past a Seven Stars Casino, which gave Michael the idea that we should go in and check it out. I'd never been to a casino, and though I was a bit apprehensive about sticking out like a buoy in a sea of Asian businessmen, I figured now was as good a time as any to get acquainted.
After about ten minutes of trying to find the way in, we went up through the parking garage and into the Hilton, which housed the casino. It was a tad awkward, but not terribly so. We took the elevator up to the top floor, where we were informed that we would need our passports to enter. Everyone needed a passport; only foreigners were allowed entry. So much for my fear! Ji told us later that it was illegal for South Koreans to gamble; the ones we had seen inside must have green cards or foreign citizenship to gain entrance. Go figure. Anyway, I had my passport, but Michael did not - fortunately, they accepted his driver's license and alien ID card as veritable proof. We were in!
The casino was quite small, but about as ritzy as I'd expected - though I did spot a few other guys in T-shirts and jeans (or in Michael's case, athletic shorts). We got some juice and coffee at the free drink bar (I thought you got free alcohol at casinos? Did I just make that up?), then wandered around, slowly examining the tables. Craps. Roulette. Poker. Not since high school have I felt so...child-like; like I was exploring an adult world I shouldn't really be privy to. But I guess the introduction to every vice starts out that way...
We decided on the slots. It was cheap, and didn't involve interacting with others. We took machines next to each other and each put in about ten dollars; this bought twenty pulls. I figured I'd just go until I ran out. But - I kept hitting! Small things, usually; just enough to stay afloat. Then a larger one, so I was playing at about even. Michael had long since expired; he disappeared for another cup of coffee, then came back and tried his hand at another ten. Meanwhile, I was still doing pretty well, when I hit - triple 7s! Now I was raking it in.
"This is unbelievable! Nobody wins at slots!" Michael informed me, incredulously.
"Really? I always hear stories of people coming away with money from the slot machines..."
Which is true: I do. But apparently Michael and his associates have not had such luck. And soon enough, Michael's second ten dollars evaporated into the colorful chrome box. Me, at my highest I could have walked away with about 100 dollars, but I was enjoying the thrill and wanted to keep playing, so I ended up stopping with a cool net 50.
At this point, Michael was, not surprisingly, ready to go. I was hankering for some blackjack, but I was a little intimidated, and wasn't totally familiar with the house rules. I didn't want to make a mistake and look like some dumb American kid who was out of his depth (which I was). So we left. Besides, I had already made all I needed to to ensure the rest of the night would go as wonderfully as it did.
Our next stop was Hongdae. Or Hongdik University, as the train stop says. We were recommended the Hongdae area by a number of people we'd run into thus far, but had had some difficulty locating it on a map. Ji explained later that the name "Hongdae" comes from a conglomeration of "Hongdik" and "Daehakgyo", which is the Korean word for "university." Somehow I'd had a hunch that they were one in the same. Maybe it was just the "Hong." Or I figured maybe the "dik" was pronounced "dae." I don't know, but we found it all the same.
Hongdae is your typical affluent college area: lots of restaurants, bars, shops, and young people. It may as well have been America, for all its familiarity. Such a statement can be interpreted derisively - if you're so inclined - but, especially after living two years in the middle of nowhere in rapidly-aging Japan, I found this kind of vibrancy to be as welcome as an oasis.
We settled for dinner at what looked like a Korean version of Chili's. It was packed, and the food all seemed pretty good, if kind of plain (think, well, Chili's). We ordered some black Korean sausage dish which turned out to be not exactly delicious, but edible. Excited to check out the rest of the area, we made a quick meal of it and headed out.
It is difficult to find suitable bars when travelling in foreign countries. In some ways, Korea is much nicer in this respect than Japan - in Japan, bars are not places where one goes to be social with strangers, but tiny well-kept boxes intended to provide a place of relaxation for a select few. You should typically know the owner, which reduces your options to places you've been brought to by friends. And a lot of places aren't bars so much as "snacks," which are ridiculously expensive places where Japan's sarariimen go and pay to talk to women because they can't talk to their wives at home.
Korea did not seem to be like that. But when faced with bars and clubs in every direction - most of which, unlike many bars in America, you cannot look into from the street to gauge how popular they are - it's hard to make a decision. Furthermore, there are often seating charges (as there are in Japan), so it would be rather uneconomical to go in, pay 5-10 dollars to sit down, order a 6-7 dollar drink, and then leave to go check out a different place.
Fortunately, we were in luck: as we were making our way down one of the streets, we noticed a very long line of college kids, waiting to get into a club called Cocoon. It was Tequila Shot Night, as the large advertisement plastered onto the street informed us.
Now, I'm not a clubgoer by any means, but I do like being around people. Preferably people I identify with (and as my life has not seemed to progress in any meaningful way past college graduation, I still tend to stick myself in with that crowd). And dirty secret #2: I like dancing. I never dance in Japan (again, not much of a clubgoer - such is life). So I was all but ready to jump into line, but there was a slight hitch: it was only like, 10:00, and we were very much sober.
So we settled on the bar across the street. Bar Zen. It was located in the basement; when we walked in, we were met by a surprisingly large open room, with a big rectangle-shaped bar in the middle and tables along the outer rim. Big-screen TVs played music videos that did not, I discovered quickly, match up with the music playing. But this is irrelevant; it was a nice atmosphere. We stayed for maybe an hour and a half.
Then it was time to make a big decision.
I wanted to check out the club. But I didn't want to do it alone. Going to a club alone is worse than going to the bar alone (something I've made peace with during my time here in Japan). It affects your mood, your persona. If I went in by myself, I'd have "creepy American guy coming in here alone" written all over me. Maybe I had that written on me anyway, but it wouldn't feel that way with Michael there. At least then we'd just be a couple friends checking out a fun place. I wanted to check it out.
Michael was decidedly less eager to do so. He was pretty much ready for bed. I'd been dragging his ass around to do touristy stuff all day. This was disastrous. Here was my chance for real social interaction! With girls! Who weren't 40 years old! Michael simply could not go home. Fortunately, I had one last trick up my sleeve.
"I will pay for you to come with me," I told him. "I've got that fifty bucks I made at the casino. Let's use it to go have a good time, my treat."
He was not convinced.
"Well, at least come wait with me in line."
To this, he acquiesced. The line was much longer now than it had been before - it wound all the way around the building and down another street. It was intimidating. But I was determined. And Michael was at least waiting with me, which would remove the stigma of just standing by myself for all to see in that damn line. Meanwhile, I continued to chip away at his defenses, until finally he agreed to join me.
About twenty minutes later, we were in.
The club was packed. Loud, but not unbearably so. We could hear each other speak - though I'm not sure we said much to each other. I went to a bar and got a tequila shot. I thought it would be like free or cheap or something, but they were not. Oh well, I reasoned. Casino money. I got a beer and went out to dance.
Dancing is fun on its own. But of course the allure is dancing with someone. My record on this front is decidedly spottier. Michael and I had actually been to a club once before, in Osaka - the infamous Club Pure - which had been much more packed and louder and generally unenjoyable. The only girl I'd danced with that night was very drunk, and she didn't dance so much as slouched herself over my shoulders and let me sway her to and fro (needless to say, I was pretty drunk myself at the time, and when I realized how much drunker she was, I got out of there pretty quickly).
But, as my luck would portend, tonight would prove much more successful.
Ah, forgive me, dear reader! I have drawn it out so long - and made an utter mockery of my entry's title! - but, like the memory itself, I have found myself clawing to every detail, afraid to lose even the slightest bit. Even now, weeks after it has come to pass, I find I can no longer draw her face into my mind at will. I have only the vague memory of her eyes, which were so unafraid to look into my own! How many girls I've glanced at across trains, at restaurants, while passing on sidewalks, at bars; only to be avoided, to find embarrassment or shame. Why should this be! And she, who did the same to me, to find, upon my gaze returned, she did not look away! No - she only broadened her smile. She allowed me to dance closer, to brush her backside with my palm. We laughed. Spontaneous mutual affection between strangers: a life-affirming phenomenon, so rare, I can count instances of its occurrence on one hand. To feel desired, and to desire in return!
A few minutes later, she abruptly fled.
I looked at her friend (who had been dancing near us) with an imploring gaze. Where did she go! Why did she leave? She just shrugged her shoulders.
I was utterly deflated. Such highs, replaced so suddenly and inexplicably with such a miserable low: a terrible come-down, all the worse for its unexpectedness. I wrung my hands and wandered aimlessly in search throughout the cavernous room. Little whimpering sounds escaped pathetically from my lips, but I didn't care enough to stop them. After about ten minutes, I told myself to move on. That it didn't matter. There were plenty of people here. I should just dance. I slapped myself, trying to invigorate my lifeless body. Tried to make myself forget the crushing let-down of disappointed expectation. There is little in this world so dangerously annihilating as the wave of nihilism disappointment leaves in its wake.
To some extent, though, I succeeded. The alcohol and the sheer vibrancy of the people around me sustained my mood enough to keep me dancing. I danced for myself, oblivious to the people around me. I was not even sure if Michael had left or not. I didn't care. I had no more hopes for the evening. I had nothing but energy, which I intended to fully expend until there was nothing left to think or feel.
Then, without warning, came a glimpse. From the far side of the room. Those eyes. It was as though I felt them, preternaturally. I saw her. She and her friend, dancing intimately with two other guys. And once more, I felt the irresistable urge to laugh.
Day 7:
I don't remember all of the details of the rest of that night. But I do remember running into that girl once more, near the exit. Her boyfriend (or whoever he was) was nowhere in sight.
"Are you leaving?" I asked her. She nodded, smiling. She seemed incapable of not making that face when looking at me. It was, I confess, a wonderful feeling, even then.
I motioned for her to come over. Then I kissed her and waved her off.
Michael told me I shouted for joy all down the streets that night. Then we got a cab ride that turned out to be about 3 dollars and 30 seconds to our hostel.
I woke up the next day with that same joyous feeling. How could I not? So rarely do I feel so satisfied with my existence. And Friday was going to be a great day too - we were meeting up with my friend Ji. The college-age nostalgia-fest would continue unabated.
We spent the day at Gyeongbokgung, which translates literally to "Palace of Shining Happiness" and is the largest of the "Five Grand Palaces" built by the Joseon Dynasty. Most (if not all) of it has been reconstructed, which takes away from some of the splendor, but the sheer size of it is overwhelming and magical in its own right; my camera was dead, so alas, I have no pictures, but pictures would not have done justice anyway, since they would just look like kind of ordinary (by palace/temple standard) buildings on their own, and only in context of the sprawling maze-like nature of the space do they achieve their magnificence. Someone at the hostel had said it was "big," but I'd had no idea just how "big" she meant; the first couple courtyards seemed impressive enough, but only as we kept disappearing through gates into further subdivisions that seemed to go on without end did we realize what we'd gotten ourselves into. You could literally spend your entire life within the walls of the palace complex. It could house its own small city. All sorts of buildings - some living quarters, but many unfinished in their reconstruction and simply empty - stood in their own little walled enclosures, surrounded by parks and a pond and other natural amenities. You'd think you'd escaped the whole thing, only to eventually find larger walls, still boxing you in.
We spent hours here. Our other ideas for the day vanished. I suddenly understood why so many Disney movies centered on the prospect of princesses escaping the confines of their royal lives. Just getting out of the place seemed a Herculean feat.
From there, we ended up in a nearby museum, which was not terribly interesting, though we did get to see a singijeon (literally translated: "God machine arrow"), a primitive rocket-powered arrow launcher. We also got to learn about turtle boats, watched a bad "4D" movie with rocking seats and water jets about how the outnumbered Koreans fought back the evil Japanese invaders, and learned how to write our names in Hangul (the Korean alphabet). Then we got some more Korean BBQ, ordered by pointing to someone else's meal and nodding. Michael said it looked good. Turned out to be unchewable intestine. Korean BBQ fail #2.
All in all, not a terrible day, but not a great one - just a bit worn out from the day before. We went back to the hostel to rest until meeting up with Ji around ten.
I won't spend too much time on the rest of the night, but it was nice to meet up with her and reminisce about old times. She showed us a cool bar where we caught the end of a local rock band playing (and watched the beginning of a bad post-rock French band in drag), and then we hung out in a park nearby. Many of Ji's friends were staying in for the night - apparently they, like us, were recovering from a big bash the night before - but the park was teeming with people, mostly foreigners, and we talked a bit with some people she knew before she (somewhat abruptly) decided to call it a night. A bit underwhelmed and restless - considering it was Friday night and what was supposed to be our last night in the country - we decided to head back to Bar Zen, just to see what was up. Unfortunately, it had transformed from calm, cool hangout spot into a can-hardly-move, music-blaring nightclub - and not nearly as enjoyable a one as we'd gone to the night before. We paid for a drink and hightailed it.
I was much more muted walking through the streets this time; perhaps sensing a little bit less drunkenness on our part, the first taxi we flagged even refused to bring us to a destination as close as our hostel. If we'd known the direction, maybe we would have walked it; as it was, we just wanted to get home and sleep. We found a taxi that would service us despite the low fare and called it a trip.
Day 8:
This was supposed to be our last day. By the time we got out of the hostel, we had about two hours to kill. Michael had noticed an old prison in a tour guide, now open to the public as a museum; we decided to go there. It was, like much of our experience yesterday, underwhelming - though perhaps, after Club Cocoon, everything just seemed a bit duller, a bit less important.
We rode the hour long train to the airport. We waited in line to check in, only to be told it was too soon; we ate some lunch, then went back. Then we were told our flight was cancelled.
"What?! Why?"
"Typhoon in Nagoya."
She didn't actually say this so clearly; her English was quite poor, as we discovered as we tried to ask her what we should do. Were there other flights we could take?
"There is a flight tomorrow at 3:55."
"What?! We have to wait a whole day?! Where will we stay? Are you going to provide us any sort of compensation?"
She could not answer these questions, so we waited another half hour to talk to someone else, who informed us with the following answers: "Yes, I don't know, and no."
We were not pleased. Michael was infuriated. I didn't mind the prospect of staying another day - it certainly beat the alternatve, which was a flight to Hiroshima around 6, followed by a 100-dollar Shinkansen ride back to Ogaki, providing we could even catch the bullet train at that time, and that it wouldn't get held up because of the typhoon - but I only had about thirty dollars on me. Michael didn't have much more.
Fortunately, through the use of an airport computer - which precariously ate up about a dollar of our change - we located a nearby hostel, which would pick us up at the airport and only cost nineteen dollars to stay the night. We called up using Michael's dying cell phone and within the hour, we were in nearby Incheon, on the top of a very large hill, in what may as well have been a beach house, if only there had been a beach in sight. There was a very nice sea breeze, though.
We met some fellow travellers that night - Yuka and Mark, I think their names were, the former being an airline worker from Australia (nee Japanese) who'd been stranded the past three days on cancelled flights into her home country; the latter was a Canadian ex-ALT, now a financial advisor and newspaper columnist, who was travelling back to Japan to do some surfing. Maybe this sounds cool or interesting to you, but I found him to be overbearing and generally distasteful in that way successful older people tend to be. I had enjoyed speaking with Yuka before his arrival, but it was pretty much The Mark Show once he stepped through the hostel door. And he clearly had much more interest in her than he did me (duh), but I suspect he felt kind of uncomfortable talking/spending time with her mano-a-mano (or perhaps figured she'd find it uncomfortable; Mark didn't strike me as uncomfortable in any situation whatsoever), so I got dragged into their drinking and dinner plans. Unhappy at the prospect of being third wheel to an obnoxious stranger, I tried to decline, but Mark was relentless. I've never seen a 30-something-year-old so hellbent on getting everyone to "have some fun."
After caving to their requests - and I'd been so looking forward to reading My Name Is Red, which I'd picked up in Seoul a couple days earlier! - I went and more or less woke Michael up and dragged him along with me. And so we went out for Korean BBQ attempt #3.
Fortunately, expectations were so low that there was probably no way I could have had a lousy time. The food was great - no nasty meat, no nasty old people throwing dishes at us - and Mark actually turned out to be kind of interesting and not such a terribly guy after all; if I still didn't relate to him at all, at least he didn't totally dominate the conversation, and I found it kind of reassuring to hear he'd gone from happy-go-lucky English-teacher-without-much-direction in Japan to a relatively successful individual. Sure, the times were different back then; but the times are always different. If he could do it, I could do it. I left the restaurant feeling quite content, and suddenly pleased that we'd ended up here an extra day, after all.
Mark wanted to find a bar on the walk back - his treat, as me and Michael had just spent the last of our money - but there was pretty much nothing around; that restaurant had been the only thing open for blocks, and it was pure luck it had turned out as satisfying as it did. But Mark bought us some drinks back at the hostel, and we hung around the porch, looking out at the neon lights of the high-rises arranged like sentinels in the distance, the hostel's three dogs yappering around our feet.
Day 9:
Not much else to say about Day 9. We got a free ride back to the airport from one of the owners - forgoing the typical five dollar fee, which was lucky for us, as we didn't have it - and finally got on a flight back to Japan. Coincidentally, I write this during an unexpected day off from work; cancelled due to another typhoon. And, as this hardly-brief blog entry comes to a close, I find peace reflecting on the lovely time I had in Korea. I've even thought about maybe looking for work teaching there, after leaving here. I most certainly won't, though - how quickly it would ruin the magic! I would much rather let it live on, in its own timeless capsule, isolated and forever enshrined, now, in the memory banks of the internet.
Six months until I return home. If I do not find another adventure so rewarding in my time here, at least I can rest assured knowing that the time will pass quickly and that, finally, maybe, the next phase of my life will begin. May it bring adventures as exciting and life-affirming as this one! In fact - dare I say? - may I, like Mark, continue to live those adventures long into the future.
But for now, I am off to experience, once more, the unexpected pleasures of a typhoon day. Until the next time!
