The Gem
Thursday, January 17
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| The Grand Ole Opry, Itaewon. |
Finally, after the alignment of the stars (payday with no huge expenses to worry about) I managed to take a trip to the pub with my coworkers. It has solidified in my mind that if my school isn’t entirely the coolest place on earth, I got lucky again in that I have cool coworkers
We went to Itaewon. In the past I have been extremely down on Itaewon. Part of my disdain for that place is legitimate. Saturday night that place turns into a horrible place. I have, however, learned to appreciate it for what it is on the surface: an escape from the monolith of Korean society.
Grand Ole Opry. Itaewon, Seoul.
Take the Wolfhound. We go here first. It is a two floored Irish pub. I had been here once before, briefly, with my girlfriend. The place is actually owned by the same owner as a little sports pub in Yaksu that we frequent. At that time there was a soccer game on TV and the place was teeming with screaming, chain-smoking, drunk Brits. We turned around and found our western food elsewhere.
Tonight it is a lot different. A recent law that bans smoking in bars and restaurants with more than 50 seats saw to the cigarettes. Further, the upstairs is open and we are led that way and shown to a booth.
The place is accented with dark wood and plaques. Off to one side a game of darts is underway. It is owned by Koreans but it is no different than an Irish pub in Boston. I can’t speak to its authenticity as an Irish Pub in Ireland but it hit the spot for us. It serves a mishmash of burgers, sandwiches, pub grub, and Irish dishes like lamb stew. I avoid all of this and get the chicken fingers. Fucking great. They might not actually even be great. I don’t care. I am so hungry that I load on the barbeque sauce just for extra sustenance.
We talk and drink at two different tables before congregating together. Sometimes going out with coworkers makes me wonder if my kindie teacher went out and got drunk with all the other kindie teachers at Beal School after work. We pass the point of having really wonderful ideas and wander over to a bar called the Grand Ole Opry; which is the real point of this post.
We take a left outside of Wolfhound. People are out. Itaewon is at its prime. Teachers, soldiers, and Koreans are at all manner of trashed. Nobody is passed out on the curb yet, so it is still pretty early. We cross the street and begin walking up a hill; or should I say: The Hill.
Hooker Hill has served as an enigma since I arrived in Korea. I had heard about it in seedy stories about wild nights out or in jokes. I remember reading about some US soldier who damn near burned the whole place down when he knocked over a candle in one of the brothels that line the street. He did take out one of them. I had been there once, or rather, been near it with Larry the first time we went to Itaewon. I caught a glimpse of it in the daytime a couple of weeks ago when I was looking for Golden Grahams cereal and Cheez-Its.
Here we are though, right at the mouth of the beast. We walk up the hill a little. It is night time but I don’t see too many of the shady scenes that I expected. Just a glass storefront and some drunk foreign guys sauntering down from further up the hill. There could be great bars further on, at the top of the hill, but I just assume everyone is coming from a brothel. It’s easier to lump them into stereotypes that way.
This bar we step into is called the Grand Ole Opry. It is dark. The sides of the bar are dimly lit in a pale, orange hue. The lights are dimmed and diffused by the smoke of a dozen cigarettes. It gives the appearance that candles or torches dance behind the shade. The floors are dirty and the walls are covered with notes written on US dollar bills, Korean won, and probably a handful of other currencies. Despite not being a thief, I think of taking some of them to both read the notes closer and then buy some candy later on.
In the center of the giant room, surrounded by groups of people who laugh deeply and loudly, is a small wooden dance floor. As it is, nobody sets foot onto it. Not for a while, anyway.
Our group sits at a table on the side. Even in the light that seems to whisp around me, contained in tobacco smoke, I can see that some of the bills pinned to the wall are ancient. This place has probably been around for ages (I look up the history, later, and find almost nothing other than the bar owner’s anger over a recently enforced early curfew for U.S. troops; courtesy of a rape and some other pretty serious trouble).
Our beer comes. I order a Cass. We talk and I look around. The clientele of this place throws me off. I see cowboy hats. Particularly, I see a ten-gallon hat. The man wearing it is my age, perhaps a bit younger. His hat is black and he wears a black button down-shirt that leads down to a flamboyant belt buckle. He is polished.
I immediately take on this cocky attitude. This place is so foreign to me. I realize pretty quickly that I am more at home in a Korean hof than a country-western bar. I am from New England. This place in Itaewon is so damn far from my experiences in Shrewsbury, in Worcester, or in Boston. I sneer. I don’t do it maliciously. I have the attitude of almost any New Englander in a place like that. Maybe it’s because I realize I don’t fit in here. Maybe it’s because I am taking it too seriously.
Suddenly everyone is standing. I am laughing about something and I recognize the words to the Star Spangled Banner. I am in a state of light-hearted disbelief. Hats are removed from heads and placed on hearts. Eyes turn at attention and focus on the Stars and Stripes hanging from a dark wall. Hanging next to it is the Confederate Flag.
Immediately after the anthem is “And I’m proud to be an American…” which is perhaps my least favorite song of all time. I sit down and wonder what will come out of the speakers next.
The night wears down and we have some laughs. What comes from the speakers is a steady stream of new and old country, a spatter of folk and blue grass. At the end of the night, before a group of us make our exit into the Itaewon night, I see the man in the cowboy hat dancing with a girl. If she is Korean or not I don’t now remember. It strikes me that they are not grinding or bumping or anything like that. He is smiling as they waltz along to the music. I don’t know if it’s a waltz but it was classy and even through the booze and the smoke I could see his smile.
We are greeted by hookers. They sit behind glass in the storefronts (actually brothels) across the street from the Opry. I am beginning to feel a little guilt over my immediate disdain for the Opry, but my first thought is about how much money these places must make from a bunch of whisky-drunk country dudes.
I see a girl, a bit larger than the average Korean girl. She is sitting on a chair behind glass. The lighting is red and dim but she seems to be reading something. She shifts in her seat and I can tell she is barely even wearing shorts. Behind her is an older lady, fully dressed that I take to be the madam. Another girl walks out but she barely pays our group more than a vaguely annoyed glance.
We make our way to the main drag and fight for a taxi and go home.
When I wake up I get to thinking about the Opry. I feel a bit bad about the stereotype I had for, well, most of the people in there. I get to thinking about how it might be the most legitimate “old west” saloon I have ever or will ever go to.
It was smoky. The bartenders were gruff old women. There were pictures of one in a whole bunch of different countries. Whether she picked up a pension for Americana on her travels or just fell into the Opry, I don’t know. There were cowboy hats and belt-buckles worn with pride instead of irony. People seemed to drink hard and smoke hard. Likely, everyone in that place could have handled themselves in a brawl. And, like every bar in the West according to Deadwood, it was surrounded by prostitutes and the grime of a seedy and dirty road in a seedy and dirty neighborhood.
