The Gem

The Grand Ole Opry, Itaewon.

For the past few months I have been something of a hermit.  After losing my Gangnam job, my money situation fluctuated between frugal and oh-shit.  Add in various factors like apartment furnishing, a trip to the States for Christmas, a fairly luxurious dinner at the top of Namsan Tower (I realize that these things are all elective expenses), and life in general and the sum of the parts was a not very social Tom.

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.

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Indian Food and Guitars

The weeks continue to fly by here in Cheongju. Already I am approaching the two month mark and it seems as though I just touched down at Incheon the last week. This makes me happy because I came with the fear that the year would drag on in misery but it has also made me realize that 10 months from now it will have gone too fast. It seems that I have come to the age where time flies and years go on too quickly.


About a week from now, two of my best friends will arrive in the Land of the Morning Calm and begin a teaching position in the southern part of the country. They are a good three hours away but it will be a god feeling to have familiar faces in a strange place. Also it will give me an excuse to do a lot more local traveling and something to do on my birthday which is just around the corner.

Two weeks ago I was walking into my apartment building as two other non-Koreans were walking out. I must have looked like a kid who just saw a ghost. I have been in this place for over a month and I was under the impression that I was the only American here, but alas it isn’t the case.

So, I found myself sitting at a table on the patio of the restaurant down the road eating and drinking with a big group of fellow westerners that I didn’t know existed. There was Amanda from Ohio who lived in my building, a Canadian, a girl from New York, a Texan and a girl from Louisiana.

The highlight of the evening even before the Korean at the table next to us drunkenly bought us two flavors of Pringles and a giant pitcher of beer was his 8 foot tall friend in some snug shorts.

To the Canadian: Where are you from?
Canadian: I’m from Canada. Where are you from?
Korean: (pulls out imaginary machine gun from god knows where) I’M FROM NORTH KOREA!! (Shoots us all dead.)

So, while I was planning on spending the weekend writing I found myself at a birthday party at an Indian joint in Downtown.

The last time I had Indian food was at some ethnic food festival in Cambridge years back. I felt pretty tame ordering the simple chicken curry and basmati rice, but it was delicious. It was a fairly small joint so how the small staff handled a good 15 - 20 foreigners that barged in with no reservation I don’t know. I’ve worked in restaurants and anything beyond 5 people sent me into panic mode.

The night wore on and we went first to a place called Seduce which for some reason had it decided that those out drinking on a Saturday night in Korea must want to watch Ghost Whisperer starring Jennifer Love Hewitt. From here we went to a place that gave us bowls of Orville Redenbacher popcorn and shots that tasted like some sort of tamed Goldenschlager that appeared to have some sort of brain in them. They tasted fine but there is something unnerving about taking down a glass of something nobody can identify.

Here, the party began to break. I remained for a while longer only to enter the hell that is Frog Rain. The place had one thing going for in that for 10,000W ($10ish) you could have all the beer you could drink. In another place that would be a dream come true, but the place had some of the strongest strobe lights I had ever seen which totally screw up my vision. Besides, the floor was sticky enough to pull your shoe right off of your feet.

So, I left. Still, I was happy to have some social interaction that didn’t rely on the simplest English or kids who do not know what I am saying.

In other news, I now have an air-conditioner which is amazing. I also bought a pretty acoustic guitar yesterday. It needs some work as the action is pretty painful but I am happy with it. Also my heater is busted so I haven’t had anything but a freezing shower in 4 days.

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Sweat and Sashes

Thursday began what would become a very long weekend. Friday, thanks to a huge population of Buddhists, would be another day off for me and almost every other expat teacher. Friday was the Buddha’s birthday. Happy birthday Buddha!

Thursday started off too early and way too uncomfortable. I was told by my coworkers that I would be attending a special meeting at the broadcasting station down the road. I tried several times to understand what it was that I would be going to and how important it was. Still, the most explanation that was given to me was that it was for the parents of our students and that I would be picked up by Boram in front of the Paris Baguette down the road at 8:45am.

Ok, fine, fair enough: 8:45am is not very early for most people but I haven’t woken up at a normal hour in I don’t know how long. One of the benefits of working for a nightlife magazine and then being unemployed is that your hours don’t really change all that much. Further, sleeping later has allowed me to forget that breakfast even exists outside of the realm of breakfast-for-dinner, or Ihop. Heck, there are times when I roll out of my bed to go into the school at 1pm. So, 8:45 was damn early to me.

I dragged my sorry behind, wearing fresh jeans and my favorite sweater, into the humid Korean morning a little early so that I might grab a little breakfast. I do not recommend pizza quesadillas and orange juice. It is not a good combination to start the day with.

Boram arrived shortly after and we were taken by cab to the broadcasting center where we met up with Han, the Younger Receptionist, Older Receptionist, the Directors Wife and apparently everybody who worked for our chain of schools. I walked and soon learned that jeans and my 5-inches-too-short Freddie Kueger sweater were a pretty bad idea. Of the 70 or so people in the lobby almost all were wearing dress pants and a tie at least; a few had full suits.

To make me look even more idiotic and uncomfortable I was given a blue sash with Hangul script and soon looked like an anti-beauty queen.

After standing about for 30 minutes or so the Younger Receptionist waved me over to the door.

“Thomas,” Han said, “you will be the greeting party!”

This day was turning into a nightmare. Here I was in jeans, Hadley’s worn out shoes and a sweater that looked like a belly shirt, ready to single-handedly cause every parent to turn around and pull their kids from the school. To make things even worse the pizza quesadilla and warm orange juice in my stomach were beginning to quarrel. Things had the potential to take a very bad turn.

Then, to my surprise I was joined by a handful of other Westerners just outside the entrance in the hot and humid late Korean morning. I was beginning to think that I was the only white person in this dirty little city. I didn’t even know what to say; it had been a little while since I had had a proper conversation in English that involved much more than noun, one adverb, verb.

There were three guys and we all asked the standard questions. All of them had been in Korea for a pretty significant amount of time and none of them had any immediate plans of returning. The three of them knew each other fairly well and were really nice. If any of that original three were from the States I do not remember but I remember at least two being from Canada.

The heat and humidity were oppressive. Each time somebody walked through the doors we bowed and said “hello” in Korean. While I know the word I generally lack confidence in my pronunciation skills so I spent most of the time bowing, sweating and mumbling.

After a time, another Westerner showed up with a beard in sunglasses. He might have been nursing a hangover but of this I don’t really know. As conversations sprung up amongst us I asked him where he was from, expecting another Canadian.

“New Hampshire.”

Another New Englander! I asked him what town he lived in and to my shock he said Rochester. I laughed and asked if he knew Larry Boire.

“Are you shitting me?”

He did know Larry Boire. Not only did he know Larry Boire but his aunt had been his neighbor at a summer house on some lake. Last he had heard of Larry was a newspaper article announcing Larry’s achievement of Eagle Scout.

It is a small world when it comes down to it.

One thing I was not prepared for in Korea was the humidity. Massachusetts summers are hot and humid but they have nothing on Korea. It would not have surprised me if upon reaching the entrance, a parent would have looked at the four of us pouring sweat and simply turned around and walked back to their car.

We stood there bowing and talking for over an hour until finally we were pulled from our posts and told to sit down until it was time to leave. It was then that we realized that our part at this special meeting was simply to show off that the school employed native speakers. That was it.

A couple of hours later we turned in our sashes, exchanged our phone numbers and were off to our respective schools in soaked through clothes.

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Busses and Quizzes

The general layout of things.

The new apartment is fantastic. It has a more separated and natural layout. The kitchen is a bit more spacious and the bathroom is awesome. The walls and floor are laid with green tile meant to look like marble and it is much bigger than the last one which makes showering a bit easier given that the shower is just a hose pinned to the wall. The main living space has a much bigger fridge and even includes an actual freezer. What’s more is that inside the freezer is a big heavy bag with the picture of a cow and nothing else. The floors are made to look wooden, though they are still made of a sort of soft plastic or rubber. I even have a couple of closets!

My lovely bathroom.  Ignore the
Urkel style.

There are two problems however. The first is that when I close the sliding, foggy glass door between my room and the kitchen and then try and turn on the kitchen light in the dark it looks absurdly creepy and each time I think I see the girl from The Ring. Also, the bathroom sink’s pipes aren’t actually attached so that whenever I run the sink the water just pours out in the general direction of the drain. Oh, another issue is that I have no idea how to heat the floors, but this won’t be an issue until fall as it is starting to get pretty muggy.

A big plus is that this place is directly across the street from my school, so my commute takes about 40 seconds.

After much trial and error I figured out what was wrong with the computer, or rather what was wrong with me. The converter was unnecessary and was preventing enough wattage from getting to the computer; now all it takes is my cheapo adaptor plug. I should have brought more adaptors because as it is only one thing can be plugged in at a time.

Days at school pass by quickly. I get by on a lunch and dinner of rice, a platter of side dishes, a few slabs of spam and occasionally a cold chicken nugget. One thing I must say is that their ketchup is refreshing. For one thing they put it on the last things you would expect anybody to put ketchup on. Spam and sausage, for example, are always eaten with ketchup. Also, it has a much bolder flavor than our own being fortified with a heavier dose of garlic.

The view from my window.

On my first Saturday I walked out my door armed with a list of phrases written in Hangul that would get me to a bus station and then to Cheonan where I would be met by Larry. After, I would be taking part in a pub quiz in an expat bar called Adonis.

There could have been many reasons why I couldn’t get a cab to stop for me. It could have been because I was a foreigner and would be more bother than I was worth, it could have been because I was holding a piece of paper and they knew they would have to decipher from it what I wanted, it also could have been because I was holding my Lonely Planet guide to Korea and nothing good ever came from picking up somebody holding one of those. Whatever the issue, it took me 30 minutes to get into a cab.

I handed the cabbie my paper and assumed it would be a quick and quiet ride. Instead, he began asking me questions to which I just stared at him in utter fear. I said “bus terminal” and he said something impossible for me to understand. After this we both fell back on the idea that if you kept repeating the same statement over and over and louder and louder that it would break a language barrier. It doesn’t.

He drove aimlessly as I called Han and Boram, neither of whom answered. On a small road I called Albert as a last resort. I handed the phone to the driver and they had a long conversation with much laughter that could only be at my expense. After hanging up, the driver looked at me, smiled and said: “Tough driver!”

How I survived the ride is beyond me. He drove at speeds that exceeded even those of the other lunatics that occupy Korean roads. He would sometimes take the trouble to roll through red lights, but would generally just swerve around cars that actually stopped. At one point he took a left in front of 3 lanes of oncoming traffic and then cut in front of a city bus as he settled onto the new street. All the while he kept repeating the words “tough driver” with pride.

Interesting fact about Korea. Almost everybody has a suped up navigational system, and almost all of these are equipped so that they can and do watch television on them. It is horrifying.

So, finally we arrived at the bus station. No sooner had I gotten out of the car when I got a call from Albert. Albert, worried about my general incompetence, had just arrived at the bus station to ensure that I was put onto the appropriate bus. My self -esteem to say the least was on a downward slope.

The bus station was like any bus station in any country in the world. Albert got my ticket and escorted me to the line of people waiting beside the bus to Cheonan. There we waited for a time and Albert would not leave my side, only asked the driver if I might be let on early because I may be capable of somehow screwing that up.

Ten minutes passed and I was soon sitting in my seat watching Albert smoke his tiny cigarettes. A second later he was back on the bus and asking a 10 year old kid to make sure that I got off the bus when it arrived at Cheonan. Albert then patted me on the shoulder and gave me a coke. My self-esteem was somewhere south of Hell.

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The bus ride was great. I am a fan of slow speed transport and have always looked at bus rides as a great way to see a place if you are on your way to another place. I have taken busses across Mexico, to Canada, and from Athens to the edge of Albania and I often find myself too mesmerized to sleep despite utter exhaustion. This ride was no exception.

The land between Cheongju and Cheonan is rural. There were sparse villages and sloped tile roofs. Rice patties dominated the way, but every now and again there were the burial mounds from times forgotten or never recalled in Western memory.

Downtown Cheonan is massive. The bus station quickly becomes a four-story shopping center with a food court and cinema on top. I wandered for a time while I waited for Larry. Upon walking into the food court I remembered that I was starving and that if I was going to have anything to drink at all I needed food, or else I would be barfing after one beer.

There were so many options that I am ashamed that I fell on the American comfort food that is McDonalds. Please, please do not judge me too harshly: I was starving!

I sat alone, the only non-Asian in the place eating a Mc. Chicken and fries. I was fully aware that if there were a decent photographer present I would wind up in some article critical of fast food imperialism and our unwillingness to adapt to another culture.

After, I sat on a bench outside of the complex and watched people cross the street. This was something to behold. Koreans obey crosswalks and pedestrian signals as though they would be thrown away for life with no parole if they jaywalked. They will wait at the corner regardless of the fact that there are no cars coming.

When they do cross, though, now that is really something! By the time the cars stopped and the cross walk opened up there had to be over a hundred people going to opposite sides. It looked like two enormous waves crashing and breaking into one another.

Eventually, Larry and a friend found me and we were waiting for a taxi while he spoke to an American guy and his sister. A short cab ride took us to the suburbs of Cheonan: the domain of Larry Boire.

The drinking began instantly and I was thankful that I at least had a stomach full of Mc. Chicken. While Larry set off to make final arrangements for the pub quiz, I was left in the company of the first native English speakers I had met since home.

We sat around on the floor and played drinking games with orange juice and soju. We played a game I used to play a long time ago in an East Boston apartment off of Maverick Square and they all reminded me of old college friends who are lost now to life in time. They told me how bizarre it was to speak in proper sentences with adjectives after trying to speak simply to Koreans. Before we left we played poker with a big pile of cigarettes in the center of the floor and I felt like I was in prison.

The pub quiz at Adonis was something else. I came to Korea so that I might experience another culture for a year and that I might come away from it a little richer emotionally and monetarily. It is important though to take a breather every now and again. It is perfectly acceptable to go and get drunk with 60 other English teachers every now and again.

My team consisted of Larry’s friend CJ (actually Larry was friends with everybody) and a Canadian named Miranda. We somehow came up with the name Husky Hamsters. We also lost horribly, but I guess that is not really the point now is it?

We drank and drank and all became friends or at least something like it. Miranda was finishing up a job and would be on to at least another year in Korea. CJ was looking for another teaching job. I stepped outside with everyone else for a cigarette.

I remember talking to a guy who looked exactly like Kevin Bacon and the Pixies started playing. Out came the guy from the taxi stand that Larry was talking to. He had been in a motorcycle accident since we had last seen him and had gotten the worst of it. His shorts were stained with blood as well as his shirt. His limbs were covered in road rash and gashes. It was pretty obvious that he needed stitches, though I found out later he would be going to his doctor in the morning to avoid an expensive visit to the emergency room. It was a shock to see.

Still, the night wore on. The quiz ended but the beer kept coming. Miranda left and Larry and I sat in a booth watching people dance or generally have a good time while we finished our beers.

We headed back to his apartment, drank a bit more and called it a night. Larry apologized for a pounding head and what was apparently an early night for this crowd. It was 4am by the time my head hit his hard couch.

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