Insadong

Insadong

Mandu Near Tomgi.  Insadong.

It is a place that I have spent the most time in in Seoul but also a place I know the least about. 

It was my R and R destination when I lived in Cheongju.  I don't know how many nights I spent in the Tomgi Hotel that last time around, but I figure they came away from our torrid relationship with no less thn 500,000W of my not-so-hard-earned money. 

The Tomgi was good to me.  I can't imagine I will ever be desperate enough or rich enough to stay there again now that I am a resident of Seoul but it is nice to see it as I come to the surface from the subway.  It is still there: neon letters, trash, derelicts, and business cards for in-call prostitutes.  Empty green bottles, once containing soju, rest against the curb and the trash bins are overflowing; remnants of the soju tents that appear at night and vanish come sun-up.

I smile when I see the building.  A Korean couple (at least in the physical sense) open the tinted door and run in.  40,000W for 4 hours in the day, if I remember. 

Still this is basically the extent of my knowledge of Insadong.  I remember hearing about art galleries, antique dealers, and stalls selling every manner of traditional Korean goods.  I saw this part of Insadong only once, with Dawoon who I met in Greece, when she took me on a walk through the main drag.  I remember drinking coffee and catching up, talking about trees and mountains in the coldest and most rugged part of Greece in the winter.  That day, Korea was an extension of our experience together in a work camp. 

I remember tea shops and hipsters, tourists and the Blue House but not much else.  My real area of expertise then was the stretch of road between the Tomgi, the store next door that sold soju and cigarettes, and the McDonalds down the road.  On these solo trips I made no effort to get to know Seoul- I got drunk and watched Jersey Shore (known locally as Mad Party House) and sat in the in-room jacuzzi.  A love motel at its finest requires no love other than a man and his snack wrap. 

The music shop is still there.  I bought a guitar there.  It was cheap and a higher quality than anything I had owned previously.  I played "Puff the Magic Dragon" with it for the Christmas Pageant in Cheongju.  It is now owned by Han's father.  I remember it fondly.

I walk to Tapgol Park.  As far as historical monuments go it is easy to pass.  Inside, behind glass panneling stands a 10 storied pagoda.  It is a remnant the 15th century Buddhist temple that once occupied the area.  Now, it is perhaps more relevant as the place where the March 1st Movement of 1919 began.  In this area the Proclamation of Independence was read for the first time. 

Old men sit about, cross-legged drinking booze.  A school group is waiting in line for the bathroom.  I cut infront of them, see the 50 foot troth that serves as a urinal and walk right on out.  There are certain moments in which kids who want to say "hi" to you are not welcomed. 

I wander through alleys for a long time.  A few hours pass and I am lost in that I don't specifically know where I am but not worried because the bustle and the smell of fresh fish and burning meat tell me that I am still in Insadong. 

The alleys are dark.  The overhangs of the buildings that form these arteries and the spider webs of cables serve to blot out the sun.  If this wasn't Korea it would be a prime place to get jumped.  It is Korea though and the biggest danger is, as always, the possiblilty of being run down by a lunatic delivery man on a scooter or scaled by steam pouring from a mandu shop. 

I surface again on the edge of a park.  To my left are the walls of the Jongmyo Shrine, a place that has existed in one form or another since 1394.  It is an extremely significant place in Korean history and thus its nationalistic culture.  Ordinarily, a tour guide is required to enter but as luck would have it it is Saturday, and on this day it is not. 

I am about to walk in but to the right I find what might be one of the most ridiculous things I have ever seen in this country.

In Cheongju I came across 30 or so ajummas practicing some sort of rythmic drumming routine on the side of a river.  As they marched back and forth pounding giant drums while still dressed in the standard, clashing ajumma uniform they struck me as an army.

Instant Cancer.  Insadong.

In the park next to Jongmyo are hundreds-no thousands- of ajoshis sitting beneath the trees.  I want to say that I see their movements like birds in a bush but the truth is they are hardly moving.  The only thing that really gives any indication that they have not all died at once is the murmor of ambiguous conversation.  Occasionaly there is a loud grunt, sometimes the sound of a throat being violently cleared (one of the main tracks on the Korean Soundtrack album, by the way). 

As I walk through, cautiously snapping a couple of photos, I become aware that there isn't a single woman in this whole bunch.  They are all playing, waiting to play, or hovering over a game of Reversi.  Just about every last one of these unsmiling men is chainsmoking to such an extent that even in the open air the smell of ash and tobacco is overwhelming.  There are no pigeons here.  In any other park of this sort they would be lingering everywhere.  They have either been replaced by this lot or they have all died of avian lung cancer. 

I pay my 1,000W to get into Jongmyo.  It is a serene place in this city but still obviously in a city.  While its grounds are expansive there are groups of school kids running around everywhere.  I have to walk all the way to its forested rear to get any solitude.  I find a colorful shack in the trees and wonder how old it is and if it is haunted; turns out to be a bathroom. 

Jongmyo Shrine.  Insadong.

I see tourists now and again with the English guidebook, available free of charge.  Mine is in my pocket.  I often go to these historic places with no previous knowledge of them whatsoever and then read about them later.  This is a stupid habit as I often pass by something really awesome without knowing that it is anything but a mound in the grass. 

I am making this whole treck because I am on a kind of self-imposed deadline.  The One Year Issue of Kamikaze Magazine is set to come out the next morning.  I am going to be spending the rest of the weekend trying to finish it.  The purpose of this trip is to make a few more images.  I don't linger anywhere too long. 

There is something unearthly about the shrine if you can remember that it is not a fancy place that is going to blow you away with sparkle.  It is subdued and natural in a sense because it is old as shit.  Like most ancient places in Korea, the Japanese felt the need to burn it when they came over.  If you want real accurate dates and a detailed history Wikipedia is always close at hand. 

It was built for the sake of ritual memorial services.  After a time of mourning that lasted various amounts of time for various kings and their wives (maybe others, I don't know) tablets representing the souls of the departed were brought to this place.  A ceremony with sacrifices was held and these spirit tablets were entoumbed. 

This place still hosts the Spirit Tablets of the kings of Joseon Dynasty.  I feel linke a bastard when, upon hearing "Spirit Tablets" for the first time, I think of The Legend of Zelda.

The wole thing was a somber and ritualistic affair.  It is something that seems to be taken seriously.

Ceremonies have been greatly simplified but the place is still sacred.  Amongst the paths and colorful pagodas, ponds and twisted trees is a line of stone.  Atop is a sign that asks visitors not to step on the rocks:

This is for the spirit.

I leave and find my way to the main drag of Insadong: Insadong-gil.  It is a stark contrast to the shrine.  It is not peaceful.  It is chaos.  It is every boardwalk and tourist strip put together.  It reminds me of the streets I wandered aimlessly in Barcelona, almost a year to the day earlier, but somehow it seems busier here. 

I realize that photos would be fairly crappy here because I can't see more than a few feet ahead of me.  Off to the side Turks sell ice cream and fuck with little Korean kids, denying them ice cream with clever turns of a giant spoon.  I see loads of tourists.  I know that they are tourists and not expat teachers or military personel because sometimes they say "hi" to me.  It is nice to not be in a place where even in a tiny kimbap joint it is standard practice to ignore other foreigners, despite the fact that almost all of us are here because we don't know what the fuck we are doing with our lives.

Off in the alleys I find restaurants and curiosities.  I pass a cafe with caged birds outside the door.  The next alley is vacant and polluted: a recycling plant devoid of anybody but a bent old woman hauling a load of cardboard that would rival the shingles my father spends endless hours hauling up roofs.  It is an interesting sight but nobody so much as slows down because they don't sell pottery or calligraphy pens. 

The Spirit Path.  Jongmyo Shrine.  Insadong.

In the middle of it all, parting the sea of people like Moses, is a man with an intercom and a cross painted onto cardboard on his back.  I can't understand him but people avoid him more than they avoid the legless men who drag themselves singing into megaphones here.  I get the idea.  He is the local equivalent of the guy with the signs that say "repent" in Boston and every other local in the greater Massachusetts area. 

As I leave this place, back to my current dwelling in rich-ass Gangnam I pass a stage surrounded by people.  An old woman is playing a traditional instrument.  It is set to that universal Korean ballad tempo and everyone seems enthralled.  It sounds beautiful.  I look around and all ages seem smitten with this lady.  I snap a few more photos and listen for a time.  I listen long enough to identify the song, even if it is in Korean.

Elvis.  "I Can't Help Falling in Love With You."

More photos of this and Gangnam here.

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Wandering Downtown

Cherry Blossoms.

A year minus a day or two I said my extended "so longs" to my girlfriend (at a train station), my sobbing mother (in my predawn livingroom), my less sobby sister (same room), and my dry-eyed father (amid exhaust and noise at the departure drop-off at Logan Airport). In a few days I say goodbyes that are likely to be permanent to all of my Korean friends.

I haven't thought too much about the real end of this Korea thing. Most of the time it seemed to be so far off that giving it too much thought wasn't worth it. Then, before I knew it, I didn't want to think about it because I knew it was right around the corner. Now that I have less than a week left in Cheongju; in this one room apartment with warped floors and no attached plumbing on the sink, I have no other choice.

I now realize that I basically have no departure plan. With preoccupations (the lost passport) and money issues with my school (with a dash of extreme procrastination thrown in) I have failed to book any hotels, looked into any activities or things to do on my trip. Hell, I haven't even booked my final ticket home yet.

The plan:

Leave Seoul on 4/25 and arrive at some point in Ho Chi Minh, Vietnam.

The next ticket I have booked leaves Bangkok, Thailand a couple of weeks later, give or take.

In the mean time I am spending a few days in Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, and MAYBE a brief trip in Malaysia.

I then fly to Barcelona, Spain to see my friend Jordi with whom I used to wait tables and be taken apart by customers routinely.

Then, I fly to Logan whenever I get a ticket and complete this around-the-world loop.

The River.

As for what I’ve been up to recently: nothing very productive. The cherry blossoms have come and have basically left. The days have been really nice in Cheongju, a couple I would dare say hot, so I have made time enough to walk along the river even though I usually end up in Home Plus just the same.

The Yellow Dust also came. It blows in from the industrial towns in eastern China as an off colored haze full of mercury and lead. Between that, the radioactive rain from the disasters in Japan, the over-reactive minds of Koreans when it comes to health, the news would have you believing Korea was one toxic heap at the moment. But, it isn’t. I don’t think. I will make a note to see if I have super strength before I leave.

I’ve seen some pretty cool things recently while walking around the river. While meandering around with my camera (soon to be upgraded!) I followed what sounded like drumming. The beats led me to the track near Downtown (or Uptown like I used to call it) where everyone skates or ride all sorts of inane, ass-backwards bikes.

Members of the Ajumma Army.

It was here that I saw a dozen or so ajummas marching around in circles, drumming in formation. There were some older guys and college students mixed in, all led by a young guy in some sort of fancy pants. I don’t know what they were doing but I guess they were practicing for some sort of traditional performance. Either that or the guy in fancy pants now has well disciplined army of ajummas.

Last Friday / Saturday and Saturday / Sunday I spent a lot of time at the bars with my friends here. We saw a band that played Oasis covers and they made me prematurely nostalgic for Korea. It is hard to imagine a Friday or Saturday that doesn’t involve the same four bars and my Cheongju friends. Heck, I still expect to see my friends who have left walk in.

On Sunday, after realizing that I was way too hungover to deal with the hell that is Home Plus on a Sunday, I walked a but further down the river than I had before. Where as traditional drumming led me to the Ajumma Army, old-school bob brought me to some festival at a Buddhist temple that I never noticed until that day.

I walked in and tables lined the courtyard. A few were covered with canopies as those sitting under it served simple Korean foods or made crafts. Across the dirt ground was a cluster of covered tables withh a half dozen families eating. Monks walked here and there. I could see shadows of people bowing in the main temple.

A Buddhist temple in Cheongju.

I lingered for a while there until an older guy, having something to do with the party, came over and talked to me for a while, asking if I wanted to eat something or anything else. I bought a bracelet and left as Louis Armstrong came on over the loudspeaker.

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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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