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.