Wandering, Part One

My second Wednesday was a holiday: Kids Day. It is a nice concept now isn’t it? Once a year Korean kids are given the day off from school to presumably be doted on by mom and dad. I asked one of my students, a really bubbly girl who is called Clara, what she would be doing on Kids Day.

“I will be…. Studying!” Crazy Koreans.

After Kids Day, students would return to school and celebrate Parents Day on Saturday. Here, they would presumably worship mom and dad for their praise on Kids Day; or at least they would be less pains-in-the-asses.

A Korean construction site.

I spent my Kids day determined explore at least a tiny bit of Cheongju. I was also determined not to lose my way as I had yet to change the rest of my money and was down to my last 8000W (about $8) which I was hoping to spend on a dinner that didn’t involve rice ramen. Therefore I became the foreigner drawing a map on a piece of cardboard at every intersection.

A word on food. Everything here is fresh as fresh can be. Even the convenience stores that sell pre-wrapped meals sell fresh food. My hunger has gotten the best of me in the States and I have been doomed to spending a good chunk of days on the toilet, but that does not seem to be the case here.

Take Kimbap for an example. The convenience store variety consists of a triangle of sticky-rice, a little bit of sauce and topping, all wrapped in a dried sheet of seaweed. Pop it in the microwave for twenty seconds (or just hit any button and count to twenty as no microwave here seems to have roman numbers) and you have yourself a solid snack. Really, these things are amazing! You run the risk of getting something you don’t particularly want if you cannot read Hangul and some companies vary on their color coating a little bit. Red seems to be beef. Yellow was not chicken. I do not know what the hell yellow was but it was not chicken.

I digress. I walked out of the side street of my apartment and school and decided to go left. I do not know what direction it really was, but I was in a lefty sort of mood so that is where I went.

After a few blocks, the hustle and general chaos of my little urban neighborhood gave away to quieter, if a bit dirtier, streets. I passed a heap of junked scooters and a store selling Buddhist statues and shrines made of bronze. Restaurants became more traditional, exchanging bar stools and whiskey signs for floor mats and shoe cubbies. The people too seemed to change, if in fact people can change within blocks. There were fewer kids and teens walking about. What children there were clung near by their parents who poked out of a shop for a cigarette. Every now and again I would pass a stooped old woman as she walked past me in the opposite direction.

I walked for a good mile or more before I came to a great intersection at which I stood for too long waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green. I crossed a large bridge and saw that below a river was running. I marked a bridge and the river on my map and found stairs onto the walk way.

The path around the river was pretty clearly marked. There were two lanes for bikes going in either direction and one lane for people on foot. That being said I played a few games of chicken as old men with sour looks seemed intent on running me down head on.

The path is surrounded by reeds, rocks and speakers pretending to be rocks. It was nice to see the green and brown, and to hear the river running next to me. The Cheongju that I have seen seems to be one of grey, neon and smog; the river and reeds seem only to be an oasis in chaos.

The plaque before the Unity Bridge
of Cheongju.

I walked beneath a couple of bridges (and marked them on my map) that shaded old men playing croquet on flattened square courses. They reminded me of the old Italians playing Bocce at the victory club back home. Both seem to be unaware of the day and neither seem to ever be anything more than vaguely pissed off at something.

Off in the distance I saw the red and blue spine of the Unity Bridge. Ah! This would be my destination of the day. I marked it on my map, pocketed the cardboard and kept on my way.

The place was hopping much like it was on that second day. If anything, the place was even more chaotic with families walking or riding about for Kids Day. Still, if you are as red as I am or as blonde as I am or as monstrous in size as I am people tend to get out of your way; it’s easier for them to stare if they are off to the side.

I meandered across the bridge, back and down to the fountains to take a few photos. At every hose it seemed there was a family. At every other hose there was a kid trying to stick his face in the jets and a parent screaming at him.

The Unity Bridge of Cheongju.

The skating rink was a mess. I couldn’t figure out where to safely make a few shots as every now and again one of the older guys would decide they didn’t want to ride with anyone and would b-line it in my general direction. Finally, I simply found a step further to the back and watched.

Koreans love those screwed up bikes that nobody in the States would be caught dead on. Hell, they probably still love pocket-bikes. The wheels were often tiny, or one would be giant giving them the look of the bicycles of old. I saw a grown man riding a tricycle with two front wheels and one back. In his defense, he didn’t seem to know how the hell to operate the thing. I saw those odd scooters where you hold the handle bar and pump in either direction with your feet on two separate bars. I saw a girl on roller blades trying to use one. Talk about multitasking.

The Rock Formation.

On my way back I passed a massive stone structure that seemed significant and meaningful, but my Kimbap had worn off and I didn’t care anymore.

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By the time I got home it was well past dinner time, I was tired and I would have been sweaty if the sun hadn’t baked it all off of me. My stomach groaned as I walked the streets near my apartment looking for something of substance that I could order without looking like an utter moron. I tend to go for things with pictures of food on the wall as my pointing skills are not lost in translation. Then I found what I was looking for.

Pizza Manu.

Koreans love pizza. They love strange toppings like sweet potato, hot dog, mayonnaise and any number of other things. I am spoiled when it comes to pizza. I have had pizza in Manhattan in the middle of the night and I have feasted on deep dish in downtown Chicago; but I am eternally bound to Village Pizza in Shrewsbury.

A collection of junked scooters.

By American standards Pizza Manu is actually pretty horrible if you are craving good pizza. For one thing, their dough has less flavor than Dominoes, their sauce might actually be ketchup and there are no brick ovens here. Instead, I watched as my pizza was put onto a conveyor belt that ran beneath a heater and came out five minutes later. The pie was then put into a box and wrapped with a red bow, I shit you not.

As much as I complain here, I ran home to eat the thing. I plopped onto my floor and turned my music on, opened the box and found a surprise! It was a little dish of what must have been garlic or marinara sauce. I opened it, more excited than I should have been about something to dip my crust into.

Pickles. I am in Korea, of course they will give you pickles with your pizza. Hungry I was, though, and the pickles were a nice break between slices.

Spending 6000W of my last 8000W was acceptable. What isn’t so acceptable is the fact that I ate the entire damned pizza. Not only did I eat the entire damned pizza but I did so in less than half an hour.

So, incapable of moving more than a few inches for the rest of the night, I sat on my bed with my computer editing photos. The photo software on my netbook is no Photoshop to be sure and has some kinks (there is no option to crop with a photo ratio and the auto-leveling is pretty friggin horrible) but it was free. As much as I bitched about all of the time I spent editing at home and for work it is actually something that puts my mind at ease. All was right with the world.

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Fish and Norebang (re. Nightmare)

My first week seemed just a countdown ‘til Thursday, like so many other weeks in my life. Thursday, Albert told me, was a work party day. Having experienced the welcome that I did, I assumed that it would be, well, a shit show. It was indeed.


Albert owns two schools: a high school and an elementary school (mine). This evening would be an occasion for both schools to unite and welcome me and say goodbye to the other girl. I feel like a jerk saying “the other girl” because she was really awesome and put up with me checking Facebook on her computer, but I do not remember her name.

My office consisted of myself, Han, Boram, the Oder Receptionist and the Younger Receptionist. The High school consisted of a good deal more.

I should have known that I was in for one hell of a night when the Young Receptionist showed up as the last kid was leaving with a bag of bottles she claimed would kill the next day’s hangover. The stuff was putrid and it was all I could do to swallow the brown stuff . I could not even pretend to like it. This gave everyone a laugh, but it was really very horrible stuff.

From here, the Young Receptionist drove us to a further part of town that was home to all of the hot discos in the area with such amazing names as Don’t Tell Momma. We arrived to the kick off meal already in progress.

We sat at a collection of tables on one side. At one end were the teachers of the high school, including a Korean-American whose husband had remained in California. Around her were several girls who obviously thought I was funny looking and kept staring at me. Next to me were Han and Boram, and further down was Albert and three Korean guys.

When asked if they were English teachers Albert spoke for them with a laugh.

“These boys, they are very bright in many things, but English? It is not one of them.”

All the same they tried the hardest of anybody to talk to me, asking me what teams I liked and so on and so forth.

Now, about the meal: I will try anything if only so that I can say that I have had something outlandish. I once made myself bone marrow and had to leave work because I had gone and gotten myself sick. Generally speaking I hate seafood. I used to like the standard fried clams but now I just don’t like any fish. That being said I was at a dinner that was being paid for by the boss and I had decided that I would not turn anything away for fear of looking rude or ungrateful. Han knew my aversion to seafood and turned to me when she heard what was coming our way.

“Tom, I am sorry!”

The first dish was soup, brought over and placed on top of three propane heaters. It looked tame enough. When the waiters brought over three decent sized, thick octopi I knew I was in trouble. After they hit their respective bowls and 24 arms shot up in panic, I too began to panic. After a short time the waiters picked up the recently departed and cut them into not so small pieces. The boss’s wife made sure that I had a couple of the purple arms in my dish.

Octopus arms are hard to eat. They are not soft for one thing, and another thing is that their suction cups add a bulbous and funky sticky factor to the whole meal. I choked down the smaller pieces but was left with the thicker base of the tentacle. Han, feeling sorry for me, tried to cut them down a bit but was promptly sprayed by a rupture that spewed black ink. I tried dousing the things in wasabi and soy but it wasn’t much more than a hotter and saltier monstrosity.

The next dish was sashimi. Being fairly popular at home I figured it would be easier for me to down than the octopus. I was wrong. I am a baby when it comes to texture and I could not get through more than one piece without gagging. I am serious; I gagged a bit twice and once more would have brought the octopus back to what was left of him on the table.

I was relieved when the final dish came. Chicken. Thank God! I smiled and finished my drink to have another poured by the Older Receptionist. I asked Han what this was and she smiled and told me to just go for it.

It looked like little hunks of pale grilled chicken. It didn’t taste like much and it certainly was not horrible, but it was tough! No matter how hard I chewed the piece would not break down. Here, Han looked at me and told me the bad news:

“Err, it is, I do not know the real name in English, but it is chicken ass?”

Then I remembered my Anthony Bourdain. The chicken was, in fact, chicken sphincter muscle. It was also the best thing I had eaten at that point of the night. Soon, there would be chafers of baby snakes and monkey brains in the skull and I would be off to free the slaves of the Temple of Doom.

At that point the food was done and the general drinking commenced. I was mostly left to my own devices as multiple Korean conversations popped up Albert came over to me and we smoked one of his very thin cigarettes and he seemed generally happy to talk to me.

Afterwards, we walked to my biggest fear: norebang. Karaoke. We took the stairs to the fourth floor of a neon-lit building and walked into a large room with a horseshoe couch surrounding a long table, all facing a huge television.

The singing began instantly. Asians seem to love this concept, but to me it was a nightmare. Han rocked the place like no tomorrow with rehearsed moves and crowd involvement. I was too soon to realize that I was not nearly drunk enough and I couldn’t get any courage from the whiskey fast enough: it was too soon my turn. I stood up and walked to my doom in front of virtually total strangers.

I had hoped I would feel better with the whine of the harmonica but I looked at my crowd and realized that there would be no way out of it, that I wouldn’t find myself suddenly and pleasantly hammered. Hell, vomiting or wetting my pants would have been an acceptable alternative. So, I sang.

The place was generous enough so that there was a fair amount of sustain added to my voice as I butchered “Piano Man.” At a certain point Albert, who was completely hammered, came up and sang with me all the while banging on a tambourine. Not so soon enough it was over. I received a few whistles and much applause, but my ego had already pulled the trigger.

The night becomes a fuzzy memory at this point. We made it back to the cars at 4am and I remember walking with Albert when he began to hold my hand. I am told that it was a mix of Korean culture and the fact that he was totally wasted, but it was an awkward walk. When we sat in the car he mumbled on about something and could not sit up straight and began leaning on me until finally he pulled it together enough to lean against the door.

We were driven home by some sort of chauffeur service for drunks. I was let off at my apartment to pass out at 5am. At work the next day I came to the conclusion that the anti-hangover potion did nothing. If I was doing horribly, my cohorts were not doing much better; kids learned nothing from us that day. Also, I suddenly remembered being told to dance with a big group in front of the television. It is something I wish I could get out of my mind’s eye.

At about 2pm, Han told me that I would be moved that day and that I had to give the keys to the Young Receptionist. I only wish I had been sober enough to pick up all of my underwear.

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On Dogs and Alcohol

The next day I got lost.

It was bound to happen as it always does. When I moved to Beacon Hill I managed to get all turned around in the brownstones for two hours before I found my way back to Somerset St. I was going to meet Larry from Cheonan at Starbucks in Cheongju and there we would have a reunion neither of us thought would ever happen. Larry found Starbucks with no trouble. I never had a chance.

 

Starbucks, it turns out, was in Uptown while I thought it was in Downtown. This mistake didn’t make much of a difference because I couldn’t find Downtown to begin with. I walked for an hour or more until the people all disappeared and the trendy shops were replaced with dirtier streets and shambled stores.

Being lost in your own country is embarrassing, but being lost in Korea on your third day can be panic inducing. I managed to get so jumbled about that before I knew it I couldn’t even find my way back to where I had come from. I walked and walked until I was pouring sweat in the humidity and more or less wanted to cry.

Eventually I came to the main gates of Chunbuk University. Remembering that Downtown was situated off of the University, I walked a half mile in either direction but never found Downtown. Finally, I plopped myself down against the gates and told Larry that I would not be moving any further or else I might be wandering my way into a North Korean Gulag. If he wanted to hang out then he was going to have to try and find me.

Larry found me in all of 5 minutes. He was a sight to see after not seeing him since my old place at 24 Proctor , and what’s more he was decked out in leather and riding an old black motorcycle. It was good to see him; after all, he was the one who convinced me to pack up and head to Korea.

Together we walked to Uptown as it was the only place we knew the general direction of. It was a long way and it was humid as hell. I would have taken my jacket off if I hadn’t been sweating like a tweeker. We wandered the markets that we came across; almost hidden in alleys. They reminded me of the markets I found while wandering about Mexico: dreary and far off the tourist path but vital arteries of culture. The first was tiny and soon spit us back onto the main road, but the second was something to see.

It was one main throughway on a dingy street. It was dark and a little bit dank but there were so many people! Vendors sold everything: Bugs, crops, sand shrimp that jumped from their baskets, the ugliest fish I had ever seen and bags and bags of this and that. We continued on down the main path until we came at last to a live market.

If people were speaking around us I no longer remember. There were the squawks of chickens and the calls of roosters. One vendor had pens and pens of farm birds, while another had a collection of ducks sitting in tiny wire cages. Another sold rabbits and everybody sold eggs. If only I had my camera. If that was all that was at the market I would have left happy and satisfied. As it was we came into the last stretch and Larry broke our silence.

“Yep, there’s the dog.”

I had heard rumors of this, but I didn’t really believe them, but there was the proof right there. First, it was just cuts of formless meat beneath clouded glass, but finally we came to a few stalls that had de-furred or skinned dogs hanging like sausages in a butcher shop.

It is hard to look down on a culture that you do not understand, and I don’t, but there is something sacred about dogs. Whatever I have ever heard about the historic relationship between man and canine was that it was generally a mutually beneficial sort of thing; but here, there was nothing beneficial going on for Fido who now dangled dead from a chain.

I asked and Larry told me that they got many of the dogs from China as it was illegal in Korea and had been since Seoul hosted the Olympics, but it apparently was not enforced. Still, even he was surprised to see so many openly hanging or laying about.

It was a sad sight to be seen by somebody who misses his dog.

Still, life goes on and I am just a visitor to this place in the end. We wandered for a long time. We passed through Uptown, and through the street with the animal-people and microphones and sound systems and I was once again finding myself dizzy as we walked through the thousands. It seems that always we are walking against the crowd here.

We ate a good lunch in a food court. I had spicy pork, rice, kimchi and soup until Larry informed me that it was essentially squid broth and the once odd flavor and funny little chunks became disgusting. We walked back to the general direction of my place.

I would like to say I went and got my camera and took a bunch of photos, or that Larry and I went and had a cultural outing. I would like to say all of these things but we didn’t do any of them. Like most of my Suffolk friends, the original bond between Larry and I had a high proof. We went to one dark and smoky local bar, then to another where we watched Korean soap operas and ate a potato sampler and drank Cass beer and soju. We ended up at a joint called Vons that had the most wonderful chicken, though I have no idea where it is anymore, where we had one last pitcher. Actually, I had one glass and could not drink any more and poor Larry drank the rest of it.

That was the end of the night.

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