Busan Aquarium: Swimming with Sharks

I've never been one for fireworks.  But, when my boyfriend decided he was deadset on going to Korea's largest fireworks display in Busan, I immediately decided it would be a perfect time to learn to scuba dive in a tank full of sharks.

After a quick check to see what would be required, (all the information is on the website: http://scubainkorea.com/), we had our reservation.  It was going to be a perfect fall weekend before winter set in with fireworks on the beach, good food, and a new experience.  Unfortunately, when we showed up for the fireworks on Saturday, the weather looked like this:

We were stopped by a reporter who asked us to speak slowly and clearly about how we felt about the fireworks being delayed until Sunday night.  It didn't interupt our train schedule, or our shark dive, and I think my boyfriend and I were just happy to be out of Seoul, so we told the camera things like oh, well we understand.  The weather is awful. Maybe it will work out.
The cameraman lowered the camera with a disappointed look on his face.
"Can you maybe sound angrier?" asked the reporter.

Thank goodness we were in such a good mood, because the next three hours were spent trudging in the rain looking for a hotel in a city booked to its bursting point.  Every hotel had no vacancy.  Finally, after numerous calls and some nasty looks on my part to a boy hogging the much-needed computer for a video game, we were helped by the concierge, who probably just wanted us homeless-looking folk out of his lobby.  For 50,000 won each we had a comfy bed with a view just in time for us to put our bags down and find something to eat, which (of course) was one of the most delicious seafood meals I've ever had.

The next morning we were up bright and early as the doors to the aquarium opened to the public.  Mike met us at the entrance, and simply motioned for us to follow him, where we paid the other half of our deposit to the aquarium (which also included full entry to the rest of the aquarium).  We entered a room filled with fish, but didn't have to time to take it in because Mike casually leaned on an unsuspecting door, leading right into a large room meant for staff only.  This was how the staff fed the creatures in the tanks, and where we would enter the shark tank from. We found out, to my absolute delight, that we would be his only customers that day.  A private scuba diving lesson for two.  To celebrate, Mike brought in a giant sea turtle to say hello, which was a special privilege I had never expected.

Much like rock climbing, white water rafting and skiing, scuba diving was not what I thought it would be.  In response to the fact that the wetsuit was actually torture to put on, Mike simply shrugged and said, "Well, you're not shaped like a Korean."  This is true.  I also somehow forgot that breathing, hearing, and seeing would be completely different while underwater.  The first time I tried to empty my goggles of water while underwater, I was hyper-ventilating so much I had to stand up in the practice pool.  When he explained how to put the mouth piece back in underwater, I actually didn't believe it would work, despite his decades of experience.  Turns out it did work, however. 

He was also right about the fact that once I got in the tank, I would forget about trying to breathe altogether. Immediately after reaching the bottom of the tank, I made friends with two beautiful porpoises, who followed my every move.  By the time both our instructor and my boyfriend were down at the bottom of the tank, I remembered to turn around.  There, right in front of me, was six feet of shark with some 100 teeth at the end.  Then there more. Then a sea turtle, some tropical fish and two giant groupers, which Mike said were more dangerous than the sharks. (Needless to say, I didn't believe him when he said that, either).  We spent the next fastest forty minutes of my life collecting shark teeth, waving like a celebrity to the children gazing in at our bravery, and making sure we didn't stick our arms out too far in case it looked too delicious.  At first I was hesitant getting into the tank.  By the end, I didn't want to leave.

We dried off, had a delicious lunch at Taco Senorita's, and explored the rest of the fish in the aquarium, proud to point and say we were in there.  We took a crowded subway to a crowded place to see the fireworks. We enjoyed the show from a motel roof with a perfect view away from the crowds with a couple good friends.

Hiking Seoul: Mt. Ingwangsan (인왕산)

When I was younger, my dad used to take all five of us kids out for hikes in central New Jersey. Of course, the trails weren't exactly mountainous, but there were trickling rivers that never ran in a straight line, shaded paths from the many oak and pine trees that scented my clothes for hours afterwards, and the occasional deer or rabbit that froze long enough for you to admire it before it scampered off into the brush. As we got older the trails got more adventurous, and soon nature was whizzing by as we tackled these trails on our bikes, sometimes skidding into rivers, sometimes bushes, or sometimes into my brother, leaving him a scar on his calf from my bicycle chains and a sense of guilt on my end  (until, of course, he crashed my car into an unsuspecting curb). Still, the sense of adventure and the appreciation of life outside suburbia and then metropolitan life never left me.

So, following my promise to myself to continue hiking Korea, I set out to hike the "Benevolent King Mountain" or "White Tiger Mountain": Mount Ingwangsan.  I got lost about 150 meters up.  I sat on a boulder very far off the trail, had lunch and read my book, Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods.  I found the path again a few bug bites later, and saw gorgeous views and appreciated the last of the season's flowers. I also stumbled onto this very interesting area of old vs. new: a functioning temple grounds with many ornate buildings coupled with old and decrepit housing covered in vines.  I felt like a modern day explorer.

I finally left the woods and wandered back through town.  Two men were yelling at any brave passerby about the atrocities of North Korean containment camps, blocking the sidewalk.  Women were heckling me to buy a bottle of water for 500 won.  The subway was crowded and when I met up with a friend for dinner, we had Chinese.  I sat there, after what was in effect a leisurely Sunday stroll, trying to figure out where I fit in to all these different aspects of life in Seoul.

Sokcho (속초): Hiking and Beaches

For only a moment, I planned on a weekend outing to Sokcho solo, and then I remembered people that move across the world are adventurous people....

How to get there from Seoul:  There is another station on the 2 line, but the Express Bus Terminal on the 7,3, and 9 lines is the most accessible to everyone, and it's easy to find the terminal from any exit, (although closest to the 3 line).  From there all you need is to purchase a ticket to the Sokcho Express Bus Terminal (17,000 won one way, about 3 hours).  Buying online requires you know Korean, so either go a day early and buy tickets for a large party, or show up early enough to get a ticket in-person (or learn Korean).  Also good to know: the bus terminal in Sokcho has literally everything you need.  You can walk to the beach from there in five minutes, and there's the 7 or 7-1 bus to the mountains from the terminal. 

 When I moved to Korea, the most amazing things to me were the busy city skylines against ranges of mountains.  The summer was particularly brutal, and simply moving from one room to another was a slow, heavy process, so it wasn't until mid-August that hiking was even a possibility.  Since then, I have been headed out to the mountains as much as possible, taking in the scents and sights of flowers and fresh green leaves before Fall sets in with it's fiery hues.  It became top priority to get to the beach one last time, and the lure of Ulsanbawi just made it more tempting. 

I had mentioned it to a friend that I was thinking of going, and she was in suddenly.  Then my other friends wanted to go, and suddenly I had to limit the invitation to 10 people, plus me.  Thanks to my Korean friend, I was able to find an open pension right on the beach last minute, and another buddy offered to get our bus tickets early so with the basics set, we were ready to go. 

When we arrived and piled out of the bus, the man whose pension we were staying at was leaning against a car that could hold six people, smoking impatiently.  He crammed eight of us in, then drove us to the pension and went back for the other three.  It took a long time of broken Korean and pantomiming, but I finally expressed the desire we had to get to Soraksan Mountain.  He finally just marched me up to the roof of the building and pointing to a sloping hill on the beach.  "There.  San.  Kayo," he said.  There.  Mountain.  Go.

Despite or lack of communication, we eventually changed into hiking shoes, got on the right bus, and headed up the mountain.  One new teacher, Laura, was with us and all she wanted to find was the giant Buddha statue, which was easy enough. 

I wanted to find the cave that had a temple carved in it, which we also found.  Three of the girls went too fast for my taste, who seemed to have some sort of appoinment to get to on the mountain and they raced ahead. Four were too slow and I worried about sunset, so we all eventually spread out to our own pace. 

We finally got above the forest, and looked up at the bright red stairs intertwining in and out of the rock.  The stairs were shaky, and steep, and were actually very, very dangerous. 

Ulsanbawi (울산바위) actually has a legend.  One day, a creator of all things decided gather all the great mountains in order to make a mountain that was the most magnificent in the world, which would be named Geumgangsan Mountain (now in North Korea). 

Ulsan came along, but it was so big and heavy it was too late "to be incorportated", like the creator finally liked how everything lined up and just said "Oh.  Right.  Ulsan....sorry we don't need you any more.  This is awkward." According the Korean sign on the mountain, Ulsan was headed home feeling rejected when it fell in love with the beautiful Seoraksan Mountain, and decided to stay.  Or, you can believe what my history major friend Belva told me, which was, "the rock was big and fat, so it got tired and decided to stay here."

We got to the top, 873 meters high, and I opened up my kimchi snack and enjoyed the view while my friends fought with the two men who had set up shop there, charging for pictures and/or making you hold a sign that advertised themselves.  We had arrived in Sokcho at 1pm, so it was nearly 5pm when we finally decided we should start making our way down the mountain.  That was even scarier, but well worth the patience it requires.  We just got back to the hostel when our pension owner offered to drive us to get some galbi.  He came to me and held up his phone.  It said 13,000 won each.  Then he typed something in and held it up again.  It said "indefinitely".  We had unlimited panchon and delicious meat, which we of course paired with beer and lots of water.  We ended the night lighting fireworks and running through waves on the beach, proud of our accomplishment of the day and excited to do nothing but lay on the sand all Sunday, having made an average weekend something else entirely.



Also, this happened.



Hiking Seoul: Inwang and Bugaksan Mountains

"Hello, this is the Dasan Call Center for Tourist Information how can I help you?"
"Hi, I'm trying to get to Bugaksan Mountain, and the directions say to take the 1012 bus, which doesn't seem to exist."
"Hm, let me see.  No, I don't know where you got your information, but there is no 1012 bus."
"I got it off of Seoul's tourist website."
"Oh."

"Well, thanks anyway," I said and I hung up.  It had been a mess of a night the night before, and I was feeling a little helpless and out of control of my own life.  My solution was to wake up at a reasonable time the next morning, take a cold shower, and find Changuimun Gate somewhere in the depths of Seoul's tallest mountains.  I packed the September issue of Groove Magazine, The Tiger's Wife, and an umbrella just in case.  On the way I picked up a small bag of health crackers, a mozzarella stick, two bananas, and two bottles of water.  From Cheolson it's quite a trek, but I had finally found my way to Gyeongbokgung Station when I hung up with the Dasan Call Center, lost and directionless once again.

Annoyed, I looked up at the city skyline, past the Paris Baguette and Ebiya, before me.  There in the distance, past some more low buildings I saw a giant mountain.  I had been to Gyeongbokgung Palace the weekend before, from where you could see the very same mountain, and even then I had declared: "I'm going to go hike that."  I felt like I needed to conquer something.  Something about venturing into the unknown, where there is no subway nearby to rescue you or coffee shops to spend 5,000 won for a cup of energy to rely on, is exciting, scary, and challenging all at once.  I started walking in the general direction of the mountain, not caring which one it was.  I didn't care what was there, if there were any trails, or where it led me.  I was going to hike that mountain, dammit. 

I walked only fifteen minutes through Seoul's winding backstreets before I found it.  In perfect weather I found the base of the mountain, which happened to be Suseondong Valley, a famous place immortalized by many painters hundreds of years ago.  It's known for its beautiful streams and rock formations that haven't seemed to change one bit.  Already feeling renewed from the sound of fresh running water, I felt energized and ready to conquer whatever lay ahead of me as I jumped precariously from rock to rock.  Still being close to the bottom of the mountain, casual visitors waded in the various pools of water and watched the children climb over the rocks playing imaginative games involving kings and dragons.   One woman set up a lawn chair in the middle of the river, in a nice spot of shade, and was reading a book, using the rock beside her as a table for her cup of coffee. 

As I got higher and higher, the hikers got more serious.  Koreans with professional hiking gear passed me in their Northface outfits with obvious judgment on their faces. I for one am not a fan of their $60 manufactured walking sticks, but after a little while I did begin to consider investing in a real hiker's backpack.  Koreans hike all the time, it seems, and every weekend the subway is filled with people dressed in their hiking colors and fabrics, ready to spend their Sunday as I was now, exploring Seoul's topography. The path eventually split into two choices: I could go left on the paved and sunny road, or venture into the shaded forest and follow the sound of the river.  I couldn't bring myself to part with the river just yet so I went right, and continued hiking up for two hours.  I hiked through what used to be known as the land of tigers: famous for its attacks on both unsuspecting visitors and those banished by the king to suffer death by wild cats.  As I hiked up through paths that ranged from carved rock steps to slippery paths of pine, I noticed the view get more and more spectacular.  When I finally reached close to the top I came upon this sign:

I had found my mountain after all.  First I went right to Changuimun.  Walking along the fortress wall, first built in 1396, I felt I had regained my sense of power.  Not only was I conquering this mountain, I was conquering my Sunday, all on my own, able to control my life once again. I was in that moment exactly where I wanted to be, doing exactly what I wanted to do. 

Looking down I saw Cheong Wa Dae, the President's house, which means either "The Blue House" or "The Blue Roof".  In 1968 there was an assassination attempt on the South Korean President Park Chung-hee, led by 31 North Koreans.  It was unsuccessful, but many South Koreans died as well as 4 U.S. soldiers.  The hunt for the assassins lasted a couple of days and took place on the very mountain I had decided to hike.  There is even a tree with fifteen bullet holes in it that I hiked past.  Because it was considered such a threat, it was only until a couple of years ago that the hiking path was even open to the public by the government.  You're still not allowed to take pictures in many spots, and parts of the wall is closed off still.  Still, to see the old world fortress wall along modern 21st century security was fascinating, and a gentle reminder of just how close I live to a country that is still technically at war with this one.  It was time to turn around and head to the very top of the mountain, 338 meters high (1,109 feet).  

At the top there is a large, flat area, and I had to laugh when I saw it: in the middle of this area is a single boulder about six feet high.  On top of that boulder, which was only maybe 3 feet wide, stood a significant group of Koreans.  They had hiked to the top of the mountain, and in that spacious area had formed a gaggle on the single spot that was technically the highest point, I guess around 340 meters.  Wearing black with various Northface neon spots they held firmly to their hiking sticks, which when in a group made them look even more like birds perched upon their thin legs. When they dispersed, I found myself unable to resist and climbed up too. I had it all to myself until a man in khakis and a button up plaid shirt in dress shoes joined me. 

 

"Excuse me, where are you from?" he asked.

"New York."

"Ah, a New Yorker," he said as though it meant something, and in the silence I wondered how he had gotten up here in that outfit. He pointed to Namsam Mountain, which looked like a small hill from where we were standing.

"Namsam is 236 meters," he said, "and where we are is 338 meters.  That one over there is 320 meters."

"Do you work here?" I asked, and wondered what "here" would even mean.  Do you work for the mountain?

"No, I just like it here." 

We sat in silence for a while.  I promised myself I'd go hiking next Sunday as well, something so wonderfully accessible in such a diverse city as Seoul. 

"Well, it was nice to meet you," I said.  Before I could make my way off the boulder he took my hand and bowed so deeply I thought he was going to kiss my hand or quite possibly my shoe.  I awkwardly tried to bow back.  Sometimes I forget that I'm in Korea or in Asia at all, really.  Our bowing seemed like an appropriate reminder in that moment, a perfect way to end this day.  I made my way down the mountain, walking until I found a major road, found the subway and headed home.  Happy.

Tokyo: Tsukiji Fish Market

The Tsukiji Fish Market is the largest of its kind in the world.  There are around 60,000 people working there, and it grosses about 6 billion U.S. dollars a year.  It is a must in every guidebook, sight-seeing pamphlet, and travel blog...Which is why I was suprised when I showed up admist a chaotic sea of trucks, men carrying heavy loads, carts being rolled the wrong way down the street and endless forms of machines transporting precariously balanced crates of sea creatures.  The lot was madness--but not from tourists.  From people just working, trying to make their way around you.

To get to the main warehouse full of fish one must cross the actual lot. Nothing about crossing it to get to the warehouse was appealing.  First of all, I assume it's where all 60,000 employees park their car, because it is compact and crowded.  Obviously, the already questionable driving laws of Japan are null and void: there is no safe place to stand.  Still I looked around just in time to see two brave souls crossing it to get to this "tourist" hotspot and decided to try and join them.

I survived, getting to the warehouse all in one piece, but not before I was handed a pink piece of paper by a man in rubber overalls and high boots.  It read: "This is not a tourist spot.  This is a place of business.  Please do not take video or photos unless given permission.  Please do not interupt this workday."

Now aware that I wasn't welcome, I sort of awkwardly bowed my recognition and chose an aisle to go down.  It suprised me how much it didn't suprise me.  Compared to the Noryangjin Fish Market,  the fish were just everyday fish.  Some pieces were very large, but it looked like meat all cut up and skinned.  And it really was a workday: the vendors knew better than to assume I was there to purchase raw seafood, and shouted past me, or rubbed against me with their fish as they travelled through the endless aisles.  I got there around 11 a.m., when the market is just about to start shutting down, with most of their goods sold for the day.  Men smoked cigarettes over the fish, women hacked of heads and brushed them to the floor.  After an hour of wandering around I decided to head back into the fresh air. 

The best piece of sushi.  Ever.

Back across the lot, (where I stopped to try to record the chaos on my phone, and was handed another pink slip), is the wholesale kitchen supplies market.  Unable to cook even grilled cheese correctly, I was uninterested.  I was more concerned with trying to find a cheap sushi place.  



That obviously doesn't exist in Japan, but in the heart of the market was a decent, well-lit, fairly reasonable sushi bar.  I ordered three pieces.  I just want to try it, and I'll get a cheaper meal later I reasoned with myself.  I ordered a tuna sashimi, a crab and avacado roll, and a shrimp roll.  I looked around for some wasabi but saw none.  I saw ginger, but knew better than to put it on my sushi, and use it instead as a pallette cleanser.  So I just ate it with a little bit of soy sauce. I was immediately happy I hadn't added anything.  This is the most stereotypical thing I'll ever say (I promise):  It was amazing.  I ordered more and the chef simply smiled knowingly. It was no longer a cheap meal, but that was more than okay. 

Japan: Yokohama

Of my eight nights in Tokyo, I didn't sleep for four of them.  Not even a little.  The night before I went to Yokohama for the day I had been karaoking with basically my entire hostel.  A Californian native with a Korean background (Clara), a guy from the states, a girl from Australia and I were sitting around the lounge when Noraebongs came up.  In Korean, it literally means "a place of singing".  Karaoke is actually a Japanese word, combining "kara" which means "empty" and "oke" which means "orchestra", literally meaning "empty orchestra". 

We did not have to tell the rest of the hostel this to get them to come.  Two Spaniards, two Dutch guys (Kyle and Steve), two girls who were also teaching in Korea, a teacher from Oregon, and the first guy I met at the hostel--the one who was going to try and get arrested in order to have a place to stay--all went out for some good old-fashioned singing. 

Then it was 5 a.m., and everyone went to bed except me, (of course), Steve, and the girl from Australia.  We stayed up and watched the Olympics, talking about the randomness that is life.  The girl got up to get something and peaked out the window.  "You guys, the sun is up. I'm going to bed," she said and she left the room rushing for her bed, as if going to bed before the sun fully rose would somehow help her avoid the inevitable hangover that awaited her.

Steve's eyebrows went up: "Do you want to walk to the river and watch the sunrise?"

I said yes immediately, which I think surprised him, and we set out.  Thankfully, the hostel is only a short walk, but on the way I managed to make an enemy out of a stray cat.  Happy, a little drunk, and a little delusional from lack of sleep, we began a sort of staring contest in which I most undoubtedly lost: it resulted in my running down a random street in Tokyo and dodging around corners trying to lose something that has been on the streets its whole life, who knows every detail.  I think it realized its advantage because when I gave up and stopped to face my attacker, it merely looked at me in a way only cats can, and slunk away into some well-known escape route.  Unscathed, we made it to the river, and I bought us the only brand of coffee I could find at that hour.  It was awful. Still, the conversation, the talk of culture, (he made me read dutch just so he could laugh at my accent), the river, Tokyo as the sun rose, and the watered-down coffee was my moment.  It's mine, in my life.  Something about that is beautiful.

We made plans to meet at 10 a.m. after a three hour nap and head to Yokohama.  On the way we recruited Clara and Kyle.  A short train ride from Shibuya Station and we were in an entirely different place, a place I was relieved to be in.  Living in New York City, a tiny island of 9 million people, I thought I could handle any sort of crowd.  Escaping Tokyo, however, was like bursting out from under water.  I sucked in the cool air and could see, even as we emerged from the ground, the blue from the ocean peeking out from over the next street. 

First Clara and I decided that we should explore Chinatown, and I sucked down a bubble tea as I wandered through three stories of a panda store, looking at panda key chains, panda fans, panda pillows, panda lighters, and everything in between.  My companions had gotten caught up in the scenery outside, and as I headed back out onto the street, a Japanese girl approached me.  She had pigtails on the sides of her head, with different colored highlights streaming up until they faded at her perfectly black hairlines.  She was wearing white platform boots and an outfit that was entirely metallic gold.  When my eyes finally reached her face, I realized she was wearing pink blush in perfectly round circles and fake eyelashes. 

"Can I take your picture?" she asked.

I was shocked. This real-life doll wanted to take my picture?  Because I couldn't think straight I said yes, and became even more surprised when she held out her hand for my camera.  She wanted to take a picture of me with my camera?  As I computed this I saw her become startled by something behind me.  I followed her gaze across the street, and there was Steve taking a picture of us talking.  I had to calm her down, explain that he was a friend, and that photography was his hobby, to someone who spoke only Japanese.  Like the cat I frightened earlier she scurried away, and with a half-hearted good-bye she was gone.

From there Clara and I figured out how to leave Chinatown and find the park, which was right on the water.  We walked up it, consulting maps as the boys recorded each other doing fancy tricks and running around.  I was intent on finding a certain park I had read about online: the abandoned and broken-down remains of a foreigner's village from when Japan had completely closed it's borders at the beginning of the 20th century.  Something about that was fascinating to me.  Imagine being trapped in a country like Japan, where even their religion--Christianity--was considered crazy.  They picked up the language, and the culture, and adjusted to the seasons while they taught their Japanese neighbors tennis.  What a comfort tennis must have been for them.  Just when I had lost hope we found it.  Finding these dilapidated western buildings was exciting to me.  We could see where the plumbing for the bathroom was, where the living room used to be, and how big their houses were.  The hike was up a significant hill, but well worth it.  At the top were the most stunning views of the city, and we sat there for a long time pointing out the old-styled houses, the modern buildings, the windmills and power plants, the boats and trains and bridges and footpaths.  Looking out, we realized it really was a marriage of old and new.  The traditions and technology weren't competing, but working side by side, creating a new landscape I'd never come close to seeing before.

Starving, we decided to splurge on dinner.  Travelling for a while means budgeting--you can't go out for every meal if your travelling for months.  Travelling in Japan in a whole other story.  It means not going out for meals ever.  The day was perfect, however, and I think the fresh city-free air made us feel like we had escaped it all, and we invested in the first restaurant we saw.  Clara and I ordered beers while the boys had water and juice.  Steve tried a scallop for the first time.  I ate roasted peanuts off of a stick.  We sat there like old friends, talking about our day, planning for the next.  Before I knew it, it was time to get on a bus to Kyoto.  I had just made friends, and it was time to move on.  Steve was heading back home soon, Clara was moving onto yet another country, and I was headed south on a midnight bus, moving onward, towards a brand new city with new people and adventures in store. 

Japan: Tokyo: Where are you going, where have you been?

Lonely Planet writes that Japan basically said, "We'll take you're technology, but we're keeping everything else."  Yes, there are convenience stores stuffed between wooden buildings, and Starbucks next to temples and shrines.  And some shopping areas are so intense you might as well be on Park Avenue.  However--when you really get down to it--Japan in uncannily Japanese.  It's what everyone's been talking about when they tell me they've experienced a "backwards culture".  It's not that there's anything wrong with it at all, it's just truly different than the one you know.  I've been in Korea for almost four months now, and it wasn't until I landed in Tokyo that I was reminded that I was on the other side of the world.  

I already wrote about my first day in Tokyo, and the last day there I took an easy day-trip to Yokohama before heading out to Kyoto on the overnight bus.  Inbetween though, Tokyo truly has everything:  the shopping is truly unlimited, the shops sell just about anything you could ever want, there's sushi, there's sake, and an endless choice of spectacular views.  Needless to say, it's easy to get lost.  In search of one of these views, I got very lost.  I thought at one point I was headed west, but looking at a map I realized I had not even been close.  A man came up in broken English and offered help, and I was so incredibly relieved.  We got to talking--he is a grandfather of two, and visited the states two times.  I told him I lived in Korea.  Moments later I was not back at the subway like he promised but instead in Japan's Koreatown.  He wanted me to help him order food.  In Korean.  After helping him order some kimbab he more or less just shuffled away.  One of the phrases I learned in Japanese was "doko", which means "where", and it was the only word I could muster as I watched him walk away.  Where are you going?  Where have you been?

Still unsure of any direction, I moved on.  I was again approached by a man.  This one was a bit younger, maybe in his late 20's, and had wild hair.  He was holding a plastic bag with plastic things in it, beat up sandals, cut-off sweatpants and a tank top, and I wondered if he was homelesss.  He spoke English really well.  He asked a bunch of questions as he led me to the government building, but he made a lot of sounds too.

"What's uhhhhhhhhhh mm.  What's your, uhm, name-uh? Eh?"

I would answer.

"Okay okay.  Mm. Hap.  This way.  We go mm?"

I would try some encouraging affirmation, to which he would unfailingly reply, "Okay okay."

If I hadn't run into two helpful Germans I'm not sure what he had been expecting of me, but I was able to attach myself to these perfect strangers and enter the building just fine.  He stood waving for a few minutes and although I was glad to be left alone, I was sad I would never see him again, never know where he was coming from, or where he was going with all that plastic.

In my time in Tokyo I tried some odd desserts, I explored some temples, I bought a MarioKart shirt, visited the Tsukiji Fish Market, joined an anti-nukes protest in response to their decision to rebuild the powerplant that had caused a nuclear disaster, and visited the Imperial Palace.   I hyper-ventilated in Shibuya Crossing where 100,000 people cross through every hour. I went karaoking all night with fifteen new friends and watched the sun rise over Tokyo with one good one.  I had really good sushi and really bad coffee.  It was my first time truly travelling alone, and I loved every minute of it.  I was free to try whatever I wanted, to change plans in an instant, and to meet new people with an open heart and mind.  I met some amazing people in Tokyo.  The beauty of meeting other travellers is that they are all open to experience, adventure, and people as well.  Where are you from, where are you going...by the way, how did you get there?  They emphathize with your stories of set-backs and they appreciate and applaud your accomplishments.  I've never completely in my element while in one place, and so it was when I was transient that I really felt at home. 

Japan: Tokyo: Day 1

The night before I was leaving for Japan, a co-worker had a going away party.  I was planning to have a drink then go straight to bed, but before I knew it is was 1 a.m.  I had an early flight for which I had to be up at 5 a.m. for, so I did the responsible thing and decided to recruit people to stay up through the night with me.

One buddy had an 11 a.m. flight to Taiwan, and promptly got us another round to buckle in for the night.  One friend wasn't going anywhere for break, and because of that, had nothing to lose and stayed up along with us.  I have wonderful friends.

After talking, and laughing, and hanging out all night I noticed the time around 5 a.m. and realized I had to actually go home, grab my suitcase, and head to the airport.  The only moment I thought maybe staying up had been a bad idea was when I saw buddy #1 from the bus as it drove away.  He was crossing the street in his sunglasses, some comfortable travel clothes, a rolling suitcase and a over-sized stuffed dinosaur that was bright blue with yellow stripes.  I texted him, advising him as a grown man to not bring a stuffed animal on an international flight and fell asleep against the cold, hard, shaky bus window. 

 

I didn't realize until I was on the flight just what I was in for--the slightly familiar Korean was being announced, followed by Japanese.  There was very little, if not any, English.  I tried to relax and fall asleep, but it's no easy feat on Asiana Airlines.  On a two hour flight you are catered to the entire time, being given drinks, a full meal, and dessert.  Just as they cleared off the last of my coffee we were ready to land in Narita Aiport.

I wish I could tell you how I got to the hostel, but the multitude of the people, the speed of the train, and my lack of sleep resulted in me somehow standing in the lobby of the Khaosan Tokyo Ninja Hotel listening to an abnormally tall Swedish man trying to figure out where to sleep for the night.  I've come to find every hostel has that person--the person who's been travelling too long.  That person who is past comfort, past planning ahead, out of money, and has on some level lost their sense of reality.

"I'm sorry," the girl behind the desk was saying, "we're fully booked for tonight."

"Shit.  Well, I saw a park around the corner.  Maybe I'll stay there."

"Don't sleep in the park.  You'll get arrested."

"Nah, it's fine."

"No really, you shouldn't sleep in the park."

"If they arrest me, hey, at least I'll have a place to sleep."

To this the girl had no response, and she went silent.  I took this opportunity to inch around the man, check-in, leave my bags in the lobby, and just explore.  By pure luck I ended up in Asakusa, which has a famous five-story pagoda, Kaminarimon (Thunder) Gate, and most notably, Senso-Ji, Tokyo's oldest temple.  It was the perfect place to get a taste of Japan.  It's where old met new in imaginative ways I couldn't have dreamed up myself.  Girls were dressed up as geishas with their designer bags hanging from their arms.  Men pulled people in carriages while the subway rumbled from below.  Shops sold generic key chains probably made in China while men demonstrated their artful fan-making skills.  The iconic gate, originally built in 942, stood glaringly wooden and defiant amidst a sea of shiny modern buildings.  I allowed myself to get lost in the crowd, gazing at intricately painted ceilings, tasting different foods I had never seen before, and cleansing myself in both the purifying water and incense smoke. 

After some time the weight of the last 24 hours got to me, so I found a fairly accessible menu and rested.  I ordered some skewered chicken, edamame, and a Sapporo.  Sitting there, enjoying the silence of this little restaurant, I realized two things.

1) This was not Korea.  This was not western.  This was the culture of Japan with technology, and I had better be ready.

2) Japan was going to be expensive.  ($1 = 0.75 yen, while 1 KRW = 0.53 yen)

I paid, and as I was wondering back out into the street I was chased down by my waiter.

"These are for you," he said, handing me three separate bouquets of flowers.  I wanted to ask why. I wanted to talk to him or at least tell him my name.  All I could muster was an "arigato" before he bowed and simply went back inside to the air conditioning.  Despite my exhaustion, I felt a lightness in my step as a went back to the main road.  I looked around, and felt a sense of uneasiness.  Something was different.  I knew where I was and where I had to go.  I saw the bridge all lit up and the people, but nothing was blatantly wrong.  Then it hit me: the people were in the street, and there were no cars.  Tokyo was truly mine.  I joined the crowd, and purposely walked right in the middle of the street, passing through intersections and major roads whimsically.  A girl I had talked to earlier at the temple called to me, and I went back to the sidewalk.

"We're selling beer," she said, less to sell me one and more as a definitive statement.

"What is going on?  Where is everyone going?"

"There's a really popular fireworks festival starting just now.  It lasts, like, two hours."

"Wow."

"Where did you get those flowers?" 

"Here," I said, handing her the purple bouquet, "take them. Aren't they beautiful?"  I looked at her friends and offered them the other two, happy to pass on the happiness I felt.  These flowers were meant to be passed on for no other reason than that, it seems.

"Thank you!  Here, have a beer.  Enjoy the show!"

I spent the night wandering in and out of crowds as we all stood, or sat, or laid right in the street facing the night sky.  I watched buildings turn green, then gold, then purple.  I watched the water as it emulated the colors and shapes above.  I watched friends, and couples, and strangers all gather in the streets in silence and watch the colors move around the night sky.  It was a fitting welcome to Japan.

Boryeong: Mud Festival

One of the wonderful things about Koreans is that they will tell you just about everything is good for you.  Kimchi is good for your body.  Silkworms make your skin whiter.  Ox blood cures hangovers.  Turning to a Korean friend last week I asked, "Is soju good for you, Jae-Min?"  He said he was sure it was.

 

So, it's no surprise that the Boryeong Mud Festival has become what it is now: Koreans largest festival that attracts people from all over the world lasting two weeks.  The mud is supposedly good for your skin.  With this in mind, I was more than excited to experience magically beautiful mud-skin for myself.  Many different groups in Seoul offer a flat price for transportation (a three hour bus ride from Seoul), two nights in a pension, and sometimes even a meal that's a flat free of around 100,000 won.  We picked one, and were on our way.

While I'm glad I went, overall I wouldn't recommend it: it's definitely not a must while in Korea, and certainly not the reason you should come to Korea in the first place.  It's not a beach of mud--there is a beach, which is wonderful, but the mud is contained to an area filled with organized, wholesome fun that costs 5,000 won and requires a wristband. There are one or two obstacle courses, and an interesting pool for dodgeball, but the mud is it's own special brand and nothing about the experience was particularly "genuine", nevermind Korean. Of course, like anything, most people I talked to enjoyed it thoroughly but remember only tidbits.  Listening to Nickelback can be a blast if you're wasted out of your mind.

 

That being said, some highlights:

1) Gretchen and I were making sure we were thoroughly covered in mud when I turn around and there were five cameras clicking away.  I felt like a celebrity and struck a pose, which brought two more cameras towards us.  In a brilliant marketing move, the Mud Festival holds a picture contests where the best photograph wins a considerable amount of money.  So they are everywhere, snapping pictures.  My friends joined me and Gretchen in the middle of our vogue shoot, and soon there were fifteen people taking pictures.  They only stopped when we ran out of poses and ran away.  In the universe somewhere, there are literally hundreds of pictures of my friends and I looking fabulous.

 

2) We happened to be there for opening night, and the most amazing fireworks show went off above the ocean.  Something about seeing fireworks when you don't expect them makes them that more amazing.

3) Lastly there was Rachel and I, and we started swimming as far out into the ocean as we could, trying to talk to China whilst on a high that can only come from pure happiness.  A few weeks before we were in the Sea of Japan, so being in the Sea of China made us unreasonable, ridiculously happy about life. 

So, I guess in the end I had an amazing time (per usual), and should recommend Mud Festival.  Or, I recommend just grabbing some good friends, bringing some soju, buying some fireworks (or maybe not), and finding a beach somewhere.

Soju-Infused Birthday

I've never really had a birthday at home since fourteen.  I was either at a dance camp, or on vacation, or in the city.  Still, I always came home eventually, and whether it was in June or August we always made cake, had a dinner, and my mom pulled out whatever crazy candles she could find and made me forty-three years old one year, fifteen the next. 

This year I wasn't turning any special age--it wasn't twenty-one and it wasn't a nice round number. I have just moved to a new country, I'm single, and was content to teach English all day and maybe grab a drink that night with whoever wanted to tag along.  It turned out to be so much better.

I walked into work and saw a package on my desk.  I look around because even though it was my birthday, my desk is on the end near the door, and it is often used as a table as people grab a drink or use the copy machine.  I looked tentatively at my friend Jamie, a Korean teacher, and I could tell by her face it was for me.  I opened it, and found two copies of "The Little Prince": one in Korean and one in English.  She explained that it was how she learned English so well and how her American boyfriend learned Korean.  Inside it was signed a dated, with a happy birthday wish.  It made me so happy to know that the teachers were noticing and apprecating my efforts to learn the language--it's really so easy not to.  I can't wait until I can say something besides, "Where is the library" and "I have a hat."

My parents and my little sister sent a video with the cake, which said proudly in wax numbers that I was turning thirty-five.  One of my best friends lives in a completely different time zone, but messaged me at exactly midnight on my birthday as it happened in Seoul.  My friend here in South Korea messaged me exactly at midnight as well, which was such a releif that yes, I am finding people who care about me among the drunken nights and wild antics.

Then four of the teachers went out with me to a Japanese restaurant, where we attempted what was still Korean sushi (not so great) and soju-infused pineapple (fantasic).  It was there that they suprised me with a blueberry ice cream cake with actual cheesecake in the middle.  It's like they've know me my entire life.  My birthday was on a Thursday, and that weekend was the Boryeong Mud Festival, and I couldn't have thought of a better way to celebrate it. 

One of the Korean teachers was suprised I still wanted to come to work early and study Korean. 

"Don't you want to do something special for your birthday?"

"Honestly," I said, "I feel like everyday is my birthday." 

It was the cheesiest, dorkiest, most honest thing I've ever said in my life.

Farming on Ganghwa Island (강화도)

I am now a farmer.  Not really, but farming--real farming--was one of those things I'd never realized I hadn't done.  Food is just something I have learned to expect, and to take for granted.  And, being a New Yorker, the word "organic" is just an expected title to bestow on slightly more expensive apples. Not a heavy, expensive, time-consuming burden.

I by no means farmed this weekend--I was on a farm, and I spent all but two hours doing manual labor.  With thirty other people, however, that really gets a lot done.  We had no one idea what we'd be doing--the group I had gone with was not the most organized--and we thought we were on our way to farm potatoes.  Turns out my friends I and were to split up: Rachel went to weed a garden and Gretchen was off to the tomato field.  I got assigned to the lotus plants.  Thinking I was going to be picking beautiful flowers all day, I only remembered that lotuses grow best in mud after coming upon an actual mud pit.  The owner of the farm was explaining how to do the work in Korean, and kicking off his shoes waded into the mud without hesitation.            

               

This was not potato farming.  We looked at eachother for just a second and began our tentative steps in the unknown.  One of the biggest guys, scared of the spiders, went into "oh hell no" mode and shrieked a lot.  One girl, trying her best to keep positive, said that the mud was like a massage for her feet, got literally joyful because of the squishing sounds between her toes, and couldn't stop telling everyone how lucky we were to have this opportunity.
 
Another person kept trying to start cheers to keep the group motivated.  A couple of us, me included, just got lost in the work, like when you're a kid and the only thing in the entire universe on your mind is the sand castle in front of you.  If my hands or back got tired I looked up into the sky, down past the mountains, into the river surrounding us, took a refreshing breath, and continued.  Eventually we formed a line, with the pickers in front passing the weeds to the volunteers to place back on solid ground.  It was so calming, so wholesome, and--despite the mud--clean.  In that moment, the universe made sense.  The people who owned the farm needed help, we were capable.  Something didn't belong and I got rid of it.  There was a problem, and it was solved.

Later, having washed down with a hose, we sat down to dinner.  The lettuce leaves had just been picked, the radishes were harvested a couple of feet away, and the potatoes finally showed up, having been picked the entire time.  A group of Koreans in traditional dance came out and performed with colorful hats, long sleeves, fans, and drums. They were an older group, performing with pure joy on their face for having been helped, having been saved a couple of days of manual labor.   Maybe they were happy to share their culture with others, or maybe they are just happiest performing in traditional Korean dance.  It was all so...clean.  Refreshing.  Pure.  Easy.

After Asia, I think I'll try to go to Europe.  I don't know when, or for how long, or with who, but that's about as specific as I can get.  For now, I'm happy to entertain the idea of exploring the simple life...even of spending a day in the mud picking weeds.  There's a program, WWOOF, where you can live on a farm in a country in exchange for room and board.  If nothing else, I know I would learn how much more I'm capable of not just physically, but in my mental strength as well being outside of a city for once, getting lost in the chore ahead of you, with nothing to distract you from learning about yourself, the only sounds being the ambient sounds of bugs buzzing, the water rushing by, and the keys of my keyboard as I struggle to compile these whistful thoughts into something that can exist on paper.

Rain and Cereal

Two things:  I am an awful gorcery shopper.  Also, it's raining.  This is why I am sitting in my living room, looking out on the city of Gwangmyeong with a bowl of cereal for dinner, thankful that because of the rain I can enjoy the cool breeze of my door being open without mosquitos flying in.

Lately I've been wondering how much longer the city will be comfortable for me.  Plans, as they tend to do, have morphed into something I don't quite recognize yet.  I've always, I think, preferred the complicated city where there's always something to do--always noise to out the noise in your head.  Now I'm a new person, open to growing, accepting of who I am in this moment. In moments like this, with the hum of my lightbulbs and the patter of the rain, I can just barely make out a faint outline of this new life that might be waiting for me.

Before I left the states, many people were curious about this suspicious year gallavanting in a faraway land and were genuinely concerned about my "life plan", something, it seems, that is really only heard in America.  In a sharp reaction to something someone said about "after Korea" I retorted that of course I'll come back to New York and persue a "real" career as soon as it's over.  After Korea.  To me and to this supposing stranger Korea seemed like magical land where time would be spent in a dream.  As if I were leaving the world to go to Korea, and afterwards I'd re-emerge in some English-speaking metropolitis, hustling for the best job, apartment, and boyfriend in search of "success". 

After two months here I find myself in what seems like some sort of drug-induced haze only because I'm writing this: I find myself questioning what it is that makes us who we are, and what we will become. Is it what we have, what we want, or what we need? I'm questioning not only who we are, but what it means to be happy.

Chungpyeong, where I realized that
slowing down was kind of nice.

I have an old, farily shitty, but full-of-character apartment in a suburb of Seoul, a job where I get to act like a kid, and a bunch of alcohol-loving friends.  I want an endless adventure that's always stimulating me physically and mentally with someone who cares about the things I do but also challenges me, and a job that allows me--no, wants me--to seek that adventure.  I need someone on the sidelines, telling me that it's all okay. 

Korea is not some black hole where one magically reappears on the 365th day of their contract headed back home on a plane with some souveneirs.  It's very, very real, and it took me two months but I have Korean classes I'm expected at, a boxing gym I belong to, a convenience store on my corner that recognizes me, but always speaks fluent Korean to me regardless as if I'll understand. A phone contract and a bank account.  An alien registration card. I'm meeting people that are coming and going in and out of my life at an alarming rate.  I'm suprising myself at just how much I'm capable of.  I'm exploring relationships, messing them up, and figuring out how to (or whether I should) piece them together.

Ten months left of this particular contract to go, and I have no answers.  There are no plans--only that faint outline that's forever morphing, depending on what angle I look at it from.  At my highest, lowest, most shallow and most introspective the shape has yet to choose a set formation.  And I'm left with only my thoughts, from the most abstract to the most mundane.  And to those wondering about this so-called "after": it's okay.  Turns out, there is no after, no fabled ending to try to arrive at, no specific dinner your supposed to have.  If you have cereal, enjoy the cereal, and tommorrow is another day to learn, grow, and evolve.

Cheongpyeong (정평)

Last weekend I stayed at a pension in Cheongpyeong.  It was a heavily wooded area, with rolling hills, with wonderfully refreshing resevoir and a lovely river running around town--and we got there by subway.  It continues to amaze me the vastness of the public transportation here. 

It might take a while, but it's less than three thousand won ($2.80-ish) so it's simply wonderful.  Most of the ride is above ground, so the view from the window passes the time as I continue to be blown away by life outside of Seoul, in the Korean countryside, just inherently more engulfed in nature than I ever saw back in the states.

The night before we had been "good", and we were on our way on the subway at 9 a.m. on a Saturday morning.  Impressive.  Because of our early start, we were in Cheongpyeong by 11:30 a.m.  In a blur of Korean I didn't understand we found ourselves at a supermarket, stocking up for the night ahead at the pension where we would set up some BBQ. Remember when you were ten years old at the supermarket?  What would your cart look like if your mom didn't take everything out to put back on the shelf?  Now: imagine that, but with a bunch of 20-somethings.  We got some watermelon, peaches, meat for the BBQ, some mushrooms to grill, some Korean seasoning, marshmallow cookies, beer, more beer, soju, more soju, chocolate... 

We soon found ourselves at the pension, climbing out the van: five adults and their goods.  We walked into our home for the night--a large, empty room equipped with one bathroom and one kitchen.  Not wanting to sound as ignorant as I was, I didn't ask where we were going to sleep.  Into another van and we were headed to the dock.

"That was nice of the pension to drive us to the lake," I said.

"This is the water company," said Jamie.

"Then who drove us to the pension?"

"The supermarket."

"The supermarket drove us?"

"Yes, because we bought things there."

I just stopped asking questions, thankful for the free rides for seemingly no reason at all.  Could you imagine that in New York City?  "I really appreciate your business.  Let me get this cab for you."  Ha.

The dock could not have been more perfect.  We ordered some fried chicken, and enoyed the view until we were brave enough to try the "Fly Fish".  That might be, as far as feeling, be one of the highlights of my life so far.  Pulled by the boat, you end up in standing position, holding on for dear life, as you become airborne for 5-10 seconds, looking out over the wake, into the mountains, over the water as it rushes beneath you.  We went on three rides throughout the day, alternating between tanning, swimming, boating, sleeping, drinking, and in general having the time of our lives. 

Because we were meeting two more of our friends at the pension, we dragged ourselves away from the water and headed back to start preparing for our BBQ.  Someone put the meat we had just bought in the freezer, so Rachel and I were in charge of melting the block with a combination of knives and microwaves.  Poor Gretchen was a victim of not being in the city, and was last to shower and use up all the water, so she was busy bathing out of a pot of water.  Eric was doing crazy things with the grill, and Jamie--the resident Korean in the group--was making sure we were doing everything correctly.  Looking around, it was nice to have these people around, making Korea a make-shift home full of happiness and laughter.  Even though we all know eachother to different degrees, we can somehow just appreciate where we are, and the wonderful opportunity we have to enjoy the moment we're in.  We set the table with the grilled, defrosted meat, the vegetables, the soybean paste, the beer, the soju and cheered. We had a great night filled with the fresh air of the mountains on our own deck looking out over this small, quaint town.  Jamie taught me the Korean motto that you pour someone as much soju as the amount you love them.  So, so much love that night.  So much.

The next morning I saw a line-up of the offenders.

We spent the next hour getting up, moving to a bench to lay for a while, over to a deck chair for a while, and back in bed, trying to get our day started.  It wasn't until we dragged ourselves back to the lake and into the water that we woke up.  Something about dumping your entire body into cold water wipes any hangover away instantly.  One more round of the Fly Fish and tanning and we were ready to head back into the busy metropolitan of Seoul, another great weekend in Korea.

Hangul (한 굴)

When I first started to see Hangul (한 굴) on a daily basis, I knew I wanted to start Korean language classes as soon as possible.  It's easy in this city to get by with only a few basic phrases but part of this decision to move to a foreign country wasn't to hide in my own little world, and I want to challenge myself to look at life from a different point of view.  As Nelson Mandela said: "If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head. If you talk to him in his language, that goes to his heart."

That being said, I've been going to Korean language classes for a month now...but unfortunately the class is 1pm on a Saturday during the summer, so amazingly awesome things keep coming up.  First I missed a class for Busan, then I went to Nami Island with Brian to see Jason Mraz, and this next weekend I will be going to a lakehouse.  The summer months are heating up, and my apartment seems to absorb heat and seems intent on containing it.  I definitely could use a weekend on the water, and I'll drink some soju with some Koreans instead of class just this one time. 

 

It's so deceivingly complicated.

There has been progress, however, and I'm slowly but surely learning  to speak backwards. The real adjustment one must make when learning Korean  is in the sentence structure itself.  Instead of asking "What is your name?" I have to think that, reverse it, and essentially say "Name what is?".  Instead of "Where are you from?" I ask "Which country person are you?".  It's fun but tricky, and answering takes a long time, but I have a friend on the same level as me, so practicing is something I look forward to.

Actually, even these "you"s and "I"s aren't said in these cases.  Subject markers will be used at some point (I think) but for what I'm learning now I don't say "I have".  I'm actually saying "Is had".  Instead of "are you" you are simpy saying "that exists".  

Oh, really? It's nice to meet you.

I'm really having fun memorizing these new words and sounds, and it helps that I'm picking them up faster than I thought possible.  For instance: see those upside-down, square-ish A's in the last word on the bottom right?  Those make the "B" sound.  In this phrase, which is the polite form of "It's nice to meet you", that symbol actually makes three different sounds the three different times its used: a "buh", then a "puh", then a "muh".  And you know what?  That is actually starting to make sense.