Los Angeles to Seoul

The flight from LAX to Korea killed me. It went along without incident but it went along sickeningly slow. Despite utter exhaustion, sleep never found me and my fantasy of falling asleep and virtually skipping the 13 hour trip never happened. Instead, I watched Avatar in all of it’s glory: on a 9 inch screen with fuzzy headphones.


The plane was stuffy and cramped; and again I was popping pills like a fiend. In an attempt to keep our internal clocks from completely breaking, the airline forced us to close the blinds as we were flying in perpetual sunlight. Towards the end I was beginning to feel a bit panicky and more than a little claustrophobic but I am proud to say that I kept it together.

It was heaven when I landed. I disembarked and followed the crowds, hoping they were all going to the same general place as I. They were and I soon found myself standing in the immigration line.

Sad as it may be, one major appeal of traveling is the stamp you get each time you cross that border. It is something of a notch in your bedpost type of deal, but I have become quite proud of my stamp collection; despite the lack of a Greece stamp. The addition of an official Republic of Korea visa… my god it might be frame worthy when I come back.

I was met outside of the baggage claim by a finely dressed Korean guy who called himself Mr. Moran. Moran was a driver who had apparently been hired by my recruiter, Steven, to find me and buy me a bus ticket to my destination of Cheongju and sit with me until I was safely on the bus. Perhaps I was a flight risk?

The bus ride from Incheon to Cheongju was 4 hours long according to Mr. Moran, but only 2.5 according to the kid from Hartford on the bus. If I were anything short of exhausted, I would have appreciated the idea of traveling to Asia and instantly meeting a fellow New Englander; but I was exhausted and the humor was lost on me.

Whether Hartford gave me his name or not, I do not remember. At that point I had been up since Wednesday morning Eastern Standard and it was now Friday evening Korean time. I tried over and over to calculate the hours in my head but simple math skills had been lost a day ago. I didn’t know where or when I was. What’s more is that in this state I was starting to see things; not an “I see dead people” kind of see things but on the airplane I was pretty sure I was seeing flocks of birds at 30,000 feet.

Hartford, it turns out had just returned from a Visa run to Japan and was heading back to his second year of teaching.

“I hope you know Korean,” he said, “because where we are going nobody knows English.”


Damn, I knew I forgot something.

But before my head could slump over in exhaustion induced and general un-preparedness aided dread, Hartford told me that Cheongju was actually a pretty dynamic place with its array of neon and ancient fortress walls.

Hartford was right about the neon and the 2.5 hours in any case, because 2.5 hours on the dot the bus pulled into a neon filled lane and stopped.

“Well, this is us,” Hartford said. “Man, I am sure I will see you at the bars.” He then told me where the expat bar section was and I forgot immediately. I stepped off the bus and was virtually assaulted by my welcoming committee.