The Main Attraction

모슬포 (Moseulpo), South Korea. 1997.

The ground floor was indeed a bit like a Korean Traditional Museum as Mr. Kim had told me on the ferry. There was a long room decorated with some of the finished rice stalk masks and other trinkets of lore.

In addition to the decorations, there were racks and racks of clothing. Clothing dyed by Mr. Kim, designed by Mr. Kim's wife, and sewn by the Angels. They ran a branch store in Cheju city, but people also would come here and buy items right off of these racks. All of these things were dyed using either persimmon juice or other natural ingredients like red dirt or Indigo. I quickly picked up on the fact that these clothes were for the traditionally minded and/or the wealthy. A dress like the ones pictured here was going for over 500,000 Won (over US$400).

These vests were priced over 250,000 Won. Shoes? Spendy. Baggy low-crotch tie-up pants? Super spendy. The cheapest priced item I saw was a bandana-like head cover that tied in the bag. (Note to self: look around the house, I'm sure you still have it somewheres...)

A Look Around. Have You Seen It?

모슬포 (Moseulpo), South Korea. 1997.

It was quite relaxing to watch the fire burn and the batch boil. Without a care in the world, we boiled rice stalks until lunchtime. When the lunch gong sounded we went up to the house and ate more rice with the others. After lunch we had another instant coffee and I said I should be moving along back up to Seoul. Mr. Kim suggested I stay another day; there were a lot of things I had not seen yet. I agreed to stay another day.

He told 민철 to show me around the place. The building was formerly a school, abandoned, and then purchased by Mr. Kim and family. With the help of 민철 and other likeminded types, they had totally revamped the place as pictured here. They placed all the stones around the outside and built up the center piece.

The inside had been totally re-done as well. Several rooms were used only for storage like the one with all the unfinished masks. Four or five of the classrooms had been turned into huge sleeping areas (I was sharing one with 민철 and 명룡). There was only one bathroom in the whole joint, shared by both genders. It could be awkward to emerge from a stinky stall to see one of the Angels brushing her teeth. Or vice versa...

One of the classrooms had been turned into the domain of the Angels. Their room was piled high with rolls of cotton fabric that had been dyed using natural ingredients, primarily the juice of the ubiquitous Jeju persimmon. The dyeing process is executed during the fall months when the fruit ripens, and now, during the winter/early spring, the angels were busy sewing the dyed fabric into outfits. Four sewing machines whirred while 민철 told me how Mr. Kim's wife designs all the outfits and Mr. Kim and his helpers do all the dyeing. The clothing they make is referred to as 갈옷 (brown clothes) and was very common in the older days of Cheju. Only, these clothes have a bit of a modern flair. Turns out Mr. Kim's wife was in NYC for 10 years studying fashion design (more on her later).

We left the angels and went up the stairs out onto the roof. The backside of the center pillar in the photo above is a giant picture window that looks up at Halla Mountain. Inside of the pillar is a bedroom, but one would never guess that from looking at the place from the front. The view makes the bedroom the perfect spot for an afternoon tryst or nap, and I wanted to crush one out, but my tour continued back into the house. We hadn't even seen the ground floor yet...

Boiling Stalks

모슬포 (Moseulpo), South Korea. 1997.

Mr. Kim led me down to the edge of the property to a well used firepit. There was a large pile of wood and he set to lighting a fire. Once the blaze was going strong I helped him lift a big vat up onto metal legs that suspended the vat over the fire for boiling. The vat was about the size of a 50-gallon drum cut in half from top to bottom. He added water and rice stalks to the pot and stirred it slowly with a long stick. As the mixture heated up, he added more water and more stalks turning the batch into a big goopy stew.

We were both mostly silent as we watched the brew boil. He smoked the frequent cigarette and answered my occasional question. I learned that the batch we were cooking would be used to make traditional Korean paper, and some sort of traditional style Korean mask. To make the masks, the well-boiled rice stalk mash would be pressed into molds. Once dry, the mold would be removed and the mask would be painted. He told me there were several different kinds of masks they made and there were lots of them in the house. I hadn't even had a chance to look around the place yet, but when I did, here is what I found gathering dust in one of the rooms: Piles and piles of unfinished masks. At least four different varieties. In addition to the piles on the shelves, there were many gunny sacks full of miniature masks. I helped myself to a representative few. I still have them of course:

Lonely Planet said nothing about stopping off somewhere in rural Cheju Island to stir the batch that makes these little guys.

Dragons and Angels

모슬포 (Moseulpo), South Korea. 1997.

The next morning I was awakened by the loud banging of a gong. It was earlier than I would have liked to get up, but I still had a lot to learn about this place--and I didn't even know it. I went in to the dining room again and Mr. Kim was seated at the long table ready to eat rice. He asked if I slept well. I said I did.

The others I had met the night before soon joined and lent a hand in setting the table. Turns out there's a younger brother too, simply referred to as 용이, and he lurched his massive girth in and sat down, bedhead and all. He was a sophomore in high school and appeared tired from studying and lack of sleep. Next came four ladies known as the 천사 (angels). They were the only ones paid to be at the house that morning, but they joined in the meals as if they were part of the family. There were 11 of us at breakfast that morning. Mr. Kim referred to the group collectively as his 식구--all were mouths to feed, but family as well.

Mr. Kim's wife did the cooking that morning, but 민철 did the dishes. After breakfast the dining room cleared out except for Mr. Kim, his wife, and myself. They both lit cigarettes. 민철 delivered three instant coffees with sugar and Prima to us as we sat talking it over at the dining table. Mr. Kim told his wife how he and I had met. I guess I thought he would have mentioned me before; she had seen me talking to him on the ferry after all. But now he told the story of meeting me through his eyes.

He told her that when he noticed a foreigner sitting next to him, he thought I must not be American because I was sitting still and silent. He expected all Americans to be noisy and rambunctious. When he found out I was American he was very surprised. Then he told her that I was lucky he had not met me 10 years earlier. If he had met me then he would have ended me. They both laughed. I didn't know what he was referring to. The conversation stayed very light and high level because we were all still feeling each other out. But I took my cue not to be an obnoxious twit while around these folks.

Mr. Kim's wife occasionally threw in an English word and I noticed her pronunciation was very good. I didn't want to probe, but I commented on her English. She switched to English and told me she spent 10 years in New York City. It had been years since she returned to Korea and she apologized for having forgotten so much of it. Mr. Kim also knew a ton of English vocab but couldn't really construct sentences so we spoke Korean almost exclusively.

When we finished our coffees, Mr. Kim rose and told me to follow him. I silently trailed him out behind the house. The back "yard" was much more rocky and weed covered than the front of the house. There were no neighbors behind and we enjoyed an unobstructed view of Halla Mountain. But we didn't go out there just to ponder a mountain...

At the House

모슬포 (Moseulpo), South Korea. 1997.

The driver of the Korando was in his late 20's, single, and introduced himself as 민철. He asked me if I preferred Soju to drink or what. I told him beer, Soju, Makkeolli, whatever was fine by me. He asked me if I needed cigarettes or anything else from the store. As far as I knew I needed nothing. He pulled over in front of a nearby store and left the vehicle running while he ran inside. When he returned, he had a couple of bags filled with snacks, smokes, and beverages. Off we drove into the darkness of the Korean countryside.

After driving for nearly fifteen minutes we were square into the middle of noplace. It appeared to be an industrial area devoid of the common Korean residence. Finally we pulled off the main road onto a dirt driveway that led to a building unlike any I had ever seen in Korea (or anywhere else for that matter). I took this picture the next morning in the light of day:

We parked the Korando around back and took the rear entrance up to the second floor. At the top of the stairs we came into a dining area just off from an enormous kitchen. In the dining area was a long, low family style dining table. There were no chairs, of course, as one sits cross-legged on the floor while eating. The table was rough-hewn lumber, well used with celebrated knots and stains. It was long enough to seat perhaps twenty.

Seated at the table was the Mr. Kim from the Wando Ferry. He rose to welcome me, now speaking only Korean. He re-introduced the Korando driver, 민철, and another young fellow close to my age called 명룡. He proudly introduced his daughter Kimi. She was the gal who had answered the phone the second time I called. She was a "healthy" high school junior, cute, shy, dutiful. She opened the bags of snacks and drinks and started preparing to serve us manfolk.

After a while, the woman of the house returned. She came in very bubbly, perky, and full of energy and happiness. She took my existence in stride as if it were common for strangers to appear in her house. She loved to talk and everyone loved to listen. The next couple of hours were spent drinking and chatting while most of them smoked like chimneys. They were all very curious about me and I about them.

When I was too tired to continue, 명룡 showed me to a large room where I was to sleep on the floor under an electric blanket. There was no central heat and the air was quite chilly, but I slept the sleep of the dead in my clothes.

Your Korando Awaits (Korea Can Do)

모슬포 (Moseulpo), South Korea. 1997.

I was not a little bit relieved to be rid of the Church van driver. Standing now by myself in the middle of 모슬포 nowhere, I looked down at the scrap of paper in my hand. Mr. Kim’s name and local phone number stared back at me. It called to me. I put my phone card in a pay phone and dialed the number. An older woman answered, I focused on using my clearest Korean and asked for Mr. Kim by his full name as it was written. She was rather terse with me and said he was not home and she didn’t know when he would return. I hung up.

I walked around the heart of town thinking about what to do next. The center was not much larger than a single intersection and I didn’t see much that would set this place apart from any other small town in this country. Plus I had enough exploring for one day.

It was starting to get dark and I decided I better see to some food and accommodations. But first I gave Mr. Kim another dial. This time a much younger sounding voice answered. She told me he was not home. That was enough to make me give up on seeing this so called “Traditional Korean Museum” today. I paused a moment debating what, if anything, to say next. Then I just blurted out that I was the foreigner that Mr. Kim met on the ferry from Wando. She gave a slight gasp, perhaps realizing that the person at the other end of the line was speaking Korean and she never considered I was not Korean.

I had no idea who she was. I didn’t know if she was also on the ferry and had seen me talking to Mr. Kim, or if he had told her about me, or anything. She told me to call back in 15 minutes. I told her I was going to find a cheap motel for the night and would call back in the morning. She was getting more excited and told me she didn’t think I needed to do that; I should call back in 15 minutes. We agreed on that and I rang off.

Tired and hungry, but with piqued curiosity, I roamed the streets to kill another 15 minutes. I dilly-dallied and waited a full 30 minutes before I dialed back. This time my call was answered immediately on the first ring. It was a man’s voice so I asked if it was Mr. Kim. He said it was and asked if I was the foreigner from the ferry. I confirmed. He asked me where I was. I told him I was standing in front of the 모슬포 Post Office. He told me not to move and he would come pick me up in 10 minutes. I hung up and waited.

Fifteen minutes later a Korando pulled up in front of me. The driver was not Mr. Kim, but he was dressed in the same old school style, and had a long pony tail pulled tight in the back. He yelled out the window that Mr. Kim sent him and I should get in.

I got in…

The Bongo Stops Here

Cheju-do, South Korea. 1997

The Church Van driver and I left the crater and headed clockwise around Cheju Island. It certainly was much better than having to worry about catching a bus from place to place. And so far, it was much cheaper too. He wanted to stop at the Folk Village but I didn’t so we made for Seogwipo. We drove around for a bit just taking it all in and then we stopped at Jeongbang Waterfall. My driver insisted I get my picture taken in front of it. I flashed a meaningless gang sign. We left the waterfall and without telling me our next stop, he pulled over in front of a 다방. He seemed to know the place well and he greeted the owner familiarly as we entered. We sat. I ordered a drink; he did too. He got up and walked to the front and had a private conversation with the hostess. He came back. Pretty soon a cute young lady came and sat down next to me. She spoke only to my driver, asking questions about me and so forth. He asked her if she liked me (마음에 들어?). She looked over at me and kinda shrugged her shoulders. Of course they had no idea was following most of their conversation.

My driver, and erstwhile love advocate, had a perverted-looking grin on his face and asked her if she wanted to take me in the back and give me some service. She kinda shrugged her shoulders and said, “별로.” It’s not like I was dying to go get my service on with this little cutie, but it wouldn’t have killed her to fake it just a little.

My driver was progressively getting weirder the more time he spent with me. But I went with the flow and piled back in the van. We headed West. We pulled over somewhere in 중문 resort and took this picture of me. No gang sign this time.
Nobody was around and nothing seemed to be going on. Westward ho once more.

Our next stop was Sanbangsan. This giant nipple-like formation appeared as if you scraped it off the earth with a giant spatula and turned it upside down like flipping a pancake, it would make a great filler for the crater I climbed earlier in the day. We pulled into the parking lot at the same time as a group of tour buses. An endless stream of drunken and cackling old ladies teemed from the buses like ants from an anthill. Without missing a beat, my driver started asking them who wanted to buy ramen noodles from him. That lead balloon was greeted by more cackles and the occasional “Hello Hello” directed at me. More cackles and off they trundled.

I had a look around at the mountain and the scenery, a Buddhist temple. Nice. But I was getting tired, and getting tired of my driver so I didn’t linger longer. As we drove along, my driver decided he had set the hook and I was ready for his pitch. He thought it would be a great idea to head back to Cheju City where he would put me up and I could teach English to the church people who owned the van we were in. I had no intention of returning to Cheju City yet, and even less interest in living with this traveling Ramen salesman who couldn’t move any product. I told him I couldn’t really do that and he started asking me for money. I was grateful for the ride, and it was an experience I might not have had without my driver, but I wasn’t going to give him 100K Won like he asked.

At that moment we were entering a small town called 모슬포. This just happened to be the town in the address that the guy on the ferry from Wando had written down. I suddenly told my driver to stop the van. “Stop the van right here. Stop here.”

I got out in “downtown” 모슬포 and walked away from my driver forever.

Hitchin' a Ride

Cheju-do, South Korea, 1997.

I left my temporary 호떡 haven and made my way afoot for the bus terminal. I stopped to rest in front of the Post Office, near a famous landmark building in the heart of town. I must’ve looked lost and lonely. A kind foreigner came up and sat next to me and asked if she could help me with anything. I said no and we got to talking. She was a Canadian who was teaching English in Shin-Cheju. She quite liked it. I told her I taught English some 10 years before in Busan and was back to have another look around. I told her I was using my Lonely Planet as a guide and I planned to head east, circle the island clockwise, and see as many hot spots as possible. She wished me luck and we parted never to see one another again.

I grabbed a bus and headed for 성산일출봉—a volcanic crater on the eastern tip. It is famous and nearly every visitor to the island gets a look at it at least once. I must’ve missed a memo somewhere along the way because the bus dropped me off quite a long walking distance from the crater parking lot itself. Feeling like a silly foreigner I started hoofing it toward the crater. Before long a Korean man in a van pulled up alongside. The van carried the name of a church in Cheju City and the lone figure driving it asked me in poor English if I wanted a ride. I rode.

It didn’t take long to see that he didn’t have much English but I wasn’t ready to play my trump card yet and so I stuck to English. This bad habit of mine really drove JT crazy when we were together in Seoul. He couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t use the “great gift” that I had. Anyway, I always leave it to the Korean to dictate the language we use to converse. It seems like more often than not they want to use English even if it doesn’t really work. Then I would only turn to Korean out of necessity. I stuck to English with this guy, and as a bonus, it helped keep the dialog to a minimum.

We parked at성산일출봉 parking lot and I walked back to get the following establishing shot of the crater.

If you look closely at the van with the back door up, you can see my driver setting up a table and some other stuff. I had no idea what he was doing, but when I got back to the van, he had a travel cooking stove burning and he was boiling water. As people passed he called out asking if they wanted a hot bowl of Ramen noodles or a cup of instant coffee. He was trying to charge 5,000 Won for the Ramen and 1,000 for the coffee. I thought the whole thing very odd so I grabbed my backpack and headed for the path up the crater. I hoped he would be gone by the time I returned.

When I descended from the top, he had a hot bowl of ramen ready for me. I ate it. I did not give him 5K Won for it. As I ate, he put the burner and the table back in the van and readied to roll. He said he was happy to keep driving me to other popular tourist destinations on the island. Me, not wanting to see the gift horse’s teeth, I accepted…

In Cheju City

Cheju-do, South Korea. 1997.

Down a small side street off the main drag coming up from the ferry terminal was a row of cheap motels (여인숙). I picked out one at random and opened the front door. There was a bell on it that dinged loudly to announce my entry. I had come up with a strategy for easing the motel owner’s experience when trying to accommodate the foreign traveler. As soon as the bell dinged and I could hear someone inside rustling about I would yell out loud in Korean: “Hello? Do you have any rooms”? Invariably the answer would be that they did have a room, so I would yell out and ask how much per night. They would usually respond with a fair price. I would get all of this done before they had a chance to see that I was from way out of town and get all freaked out that they didn’t speak English. It worked great on this occasion too, and soon I had a room at the end of the hall on the second floor of a fine establishment.

The small room had only a TV and some blankets and a floor pad. There was a pillow filled with rice or corn or something. The bathroom was down the hall and halfway down the stairs to the first floor. Standard 여인숙 stuff. The owner was a short, jolly fellow who took extra pains to make sure I was comfy, that I had a bottle of water (probably recycled, and not in the way one might think), and that I knew how to work the hot water in the bathroom. Very nice and friendly. I decided this would make a great home base for a few days as I poked around lovely Cheju Island.
Cheju City from a hill east-ish of city center A cool shot with the KAL Hotel in the far background
After a couple days of wandering around Cheju City--the capitol of beautiful Cheju Island--I returned to my cheap motel room for the evening. I was greeted at the door by the owner who invited me into his room for dinner with the family. He had treated me to two meals already, one free nights of lodging, and even chauffeured me on a near-death drive to Dragon Head Rock. Or, Horse Head Rock as I like to call it…
He also told me not to worry about money, but to stay as long as I needed, use his motel as a home base and travel around the island and return each night. I tentatively agreed. Anyway, this night, the motel owner really opened up. He told me he was a writer, showed me notebooks full of his hand-written work, and read me parts of a story he wrote about when he was with the U.N. forces in Viet Nam and about the wound he brought home with him. He said he had had many favorable experiences with the U.S. soldiers while there and he hoped we could become close friends. We finished dinner and I went up to my room to watch a little KMTV before I fell asleep.

About 11 p.m. that night, there was a knock on my room door. I rousted myself up and opened the door to find the motel owner with two Cheju City policemen. They wore suits and were quite terse with me demanding to know my name. They were holding the registration form from the motel, the one I had thought it would be funny to put a fake name and passport number on. Name: Tony Opda. Turns out they did not find that as humorous as I. To compound my initial mistake of phonying the motel registration form, I told them I left my Passport in a locker box in the train station in Seoul. Not funny. They demanded to see any form of ID, my boat and train ticket stubs, my birthday; they grilled me. They wanted to see some proof that I had come down from Seoul, and had not snuck onto their island in some other clandestine fashion. I passed their exams, but I still got a lecture about the danger of spies, especially on this island. They reminded me of the recent news about the North Korean dictator’s ex-son-in-law who had defected to the South, had plastic surgery to change his face and was still shot in the head by a spy just days before. I thanked them and said goodnight.

Early the next morning I slipped out the front door while holding the bell so no one would wake up. I felt like a fugitive as I ran down the street in the still dark of morning. I didn't stop running until I was at the public market where I went deep into its bowels to a 호떡 stand where I burned my fingers and tongue on the melted brown sugar filling goodness.

Still on the Ferry...

South Korea, 1997. Wando --> Chejudo

The stoic Korean gentleman next to me on the bench continued to stare out of the ship's window into the darkness of the sea for quite some time. He finally broke the silence by turning to me and asking in halting English: "Are you American"? It was as if he was debating with himself whether or not to engage me at all.

"Yes," I responded. He simply nodded and turned to stare back out at the black of night. I thought it was strange but it was not annoying. Again we sat in silence for many minutes.

When he again spoke, it was to ask me where I was going. I told him I was headed to Cheju Island. He asked if I had been before, and I told him I had not. This brief exchange, again in English, was followed by more silent stillness and more staring out at sea. As the ship neared port, he tore a scrap of paper from a notebook in his beggar bag and wrote his name and address with a black charcoal drawing pencil. I had not spoken one word of Korean, nor made any indication that I could speak better Korean than he could English, but his name and address were written in Hangeul.

I treated the scrap as if it were a business card; I thanked him and held it and stared at it for a moment before putting it in my shirt pocket. He then told me that I should visit him, "My house is a traditional Korean museum," he said.

"OK," I said. I left him with a slight bow and went to retrieve my backpack/erstwhile pillow. On the way off the boat I noticed that he had been joined by a woman. She wore the same style of clothes and walked a couple of steps in front of him. They certainly were a unique-looking pair, both in apparel and hairstyle. Other Koreans stared at them too. Thinking I would never see these folks again, I waved goodbye and exited the terminal into the salty Cheju night air.

The owner of the kindergarten in Seoul where I had briefly taught had arranged for his brother to meet me at the terminal and make sure I had a good visit. Since I was the only whitey in sight, I figured I would be pretty hard to miss. But nobody approached. I made a half-hearted attempt to call him, but nobody answered. Secretly I was a bit relieved because I didn't want to be beholding to anybody. I wanted to roam freely.

Lonely Planet said there were cheap motels (여인숙) aplenty near the terminal and I soon found that to be true.

Scan of the Day

I picked up this post card in Seoul in 1997. I believe the text reads: "I am MANOC! When you have problem, Remember me. I'll always beside you. We are friend forever!"
Anyone know what MANOC is?

On the Ferry...

South Korea, 1987. From Wando to Chejudo

Somehow I managed to get a spot for me and my backpack on the green turf-covered floor where I had a reasonable 5-square feet of personal space. All around me Koreans sat in groups small and large. Some sang, most smoked, others slept, and some drank Soju. In my closest proximity was a middle-aged Korean fellow and two female travelmates. I got the distinct impression that neither was his wifely figure.

Not long into the ferry ride, he untied the knot in a plastic baggy and revealed a still-squirming, mostly alive, octopus. Another bag produced two bottles of Soju. He used a pocket knife to slice the octopus into bite-sized bits of tentacle and hood. The girls giggled and the man did most of the eating and drinking. Ahh, good times. For as much as they ignored the rest of us, they might as well have been in a private room. It really is uncanny how Koreans are able to treat others whom they know not as if they were a telephone pole or tree. I was a tree. A lone white tree planted in the corner on a field of plastic grass.

I got up to wander around and check things out. I went on deck and looked out at the ocean. Nothing looked back.

By the time I returned to my little corner, a Korean fellow was asleep using my backpack for a pillow. I didn't feel like rousting him so I went back out and used the potty. It was dark out by now and the lobby area was deserted except for a bench with one sleeping gentleman on it. I tried to sit down on the bench without waking this guy up, but the bench was rickety and even my body weight caused it to bounce one time. He opened his eyes and looked over to see who had disturbed his solemn reverie. His reaction was an emotionless pokerfaced stare for an uncomfortably long time. He drank in every detail of my face and head, and turned to stare at the darkness out the window.

I couldn't detect any stank of drunkenness and I figured that if he wanted to practice his English on me, he would have done so already so I stayed put. The two of us alone on a bench on a boat. Neither one speaking. Not moving. Trying not looking at each other. I cheated enough glimpses to notice he had shoulder length hair and a wispy mustache and goatee. He dressed in traditional looking clothes; the ankle-tie and waist-tie pants with the super low crotch, and a button-up cotton jacket. He carried a mendicant monk-style shoulder bag. I pegged him for an artist.

I was not far off...

Real Men Don't Ask for Directions

South Korea, 1997.

I wandered around Mokpo in the early hours of dawn and morning by myself without any real plans. It seemed like a nice seaside port city but I wanted to boat around some of the hundreds of islands that dot the southern coastline. Lonely Planet told me I could get a ferry around from Mokpo to Wando and that the scenery was magnificent. So I made my way to the ferry terminal.
As far as I could tell, the signage listed no scenic ferry rides to Wando, and not wanting to ask anyone, I gave it up. Instead I grabbed a city bus to the Mokpo inter-city bus station, from there a bus took me to Kwangju, another terminal and another bus finally took me to Wando. In the pouring rain I found a cheap Inn for the night. It was just a small square room with a pad and a blanket and a TV. The potty was community and had no hot water. But the owner was a sweet old lady who checked on me several times over the course of the one night I spent there.

The next day when the rain stopped, I took to walking around Wando. One can cover the whole town end-to-end in short order so I snapped a couple pictures and headed to the ferry terminal and bought one ticket for Jejudo.

Fishies drying on a rusted rack:
Boats.
Boarding the Hanil Car Ferry #1 is not done in what one might call "an orderly fashion"; everyone pushing, squawking, smoking, charging up the ramp with kids, grandparents and luggage, crates, sacks, Soju cases, boxes tied with shiny pink straps, fishing poles. I was in no hurry to get on board. Apparently everyone else knew what I would only find out later--there is only so much seating space, and all of it on the floor.

Scanned Slides of the Day

South Korea in 1987. Day trip to ...? Anyone?

Look ma, foreigners! On the hike up.

The suspension bridge. I crossed it (not without trembling). At the top. That's the suspension bridge down there.

Anyone? If memory serves, this is 대둔산.

Scan of the Day

Seoul to Mokpo 1997

An Adventure Begins...

Seoul, South Korea. 1997.

When our two other roommates returned from the states all full of their wedded bliss, my substitute teaching responsibilities were done and I had no other plans. And I certainly wasn't ready to head back home. I decided to take off on my own and see some more of the rabbit-shaped peninsula. I wasn't sure if it was a good idea to go to Pusan, but I did want to make it to Jeju Island.

I sketched out a rough itinerary in my mind to head straight south and eventually catch a ferry down to Jeju-do. Nothing concrete, just looking to see some countryside and be by myself for a while. I packed a small backpack with some clothes, my electric razor, and my Lonely Planet. Before leaving I borrowed JT's hair clippers and gave the dome a fresh buzz (my first in over a month in country because the 학원 boss man wanted me to have as much hair as possible), and I went online to get the train schedule from 서울 to 목포. I found I could get a 10:16 pm train from 영등포 station so I could sleep a bit and save the cost of lodging for one night.

The evening of my departure JT, 지수, and I went to Cyber Zone Coffee Shop near 신정네거리 to kill a few hours. The coffee was instant and the place was smoky, but the clientele was unmatched for its freshness. I knew JT was in heaven but still desperate to experience the forbidden Korean female fruits. He lit up a yummy Marlboro (he had taken up smoking again--most often when drinking, or trying to fit in, or trying to impress) and 지수 fired one up too for good measure.

The conversation turned to Pusan (지수's hometown) and 지수 gave me the phone number of her best friend. I was to call her if and when I got to Pusan, but she warned me that her friend was a very traditional, conservative girl where guys were concerned and that I shouldn't get any ideas. I told her that I didn't have any ideas, but that I thought all Korean girls were traditional and conservative in that regard. She told me I was wrong and that she had even heard of girls who sold their sex for money on a street near Youngdungpo station. She said she had never been there because she was scared. JT suggested that we go see it on the way to dropping me off for my train.

Around the corner from Youngdungpo station, we took a left down a narrow alley. Past a locksmiths and a restaurant the road widened a bit. On both sides of the street were glass-fronted shops with scantily-clad girls smoking cigarettes under an eerie red and yellow fluorescence. The overactive butterflies in my stomach became increasingly agitated as we drove slowly by, eye-shopping the spectacle as these women banged on the inside of the glass with cigarette lighters. The noise surrounded my head driving me lower in the back seat until I was just barely peeking out like some shy acne-ridden teen gazing at his first nudie magazine. I knew they weren't inviting us in for just a smoke.

These were the red-light women that Eight-Shot Dave had told me so much about. (One of whom blessed him with the phrase: "bring it here.") At the end of the street, 지수 flipped a U-turn for another look, slowed in front of one open window and asked "How much?" in Korean. It was like preparing to barter as one would at NamDaeMoon market. The young lady inside just waved her off.

I slept only fitfully, balled up on a benchseat of the nearly empty night train to Mokpo, but woke up sweating as the train pulled in at 4:30 a.m. I detrained into the chill pitchblack, grabbed an instant mini-cup of coffee from the nearest machine, pushed my way through the cabbies who were soliciting riders to god-knows where, and made for town.

Scanned Slide of the Day

Pusan, South Korea in 1987.

Keeping it cool on a hot day.

Coffee and Cigarettes

Seoul, South Korea 1997

Enough about babysitting and calling it teaching. After all, it was just an enabler for love and adventure. Let's get back to the reason for me even being in Korea in 1997: to find Korean Love for JT.

So far we had been faked by the mysterious 보연 who gave us a phony Beep Beep number. But we had managed to get the digits of the fair Young-Sook of Skylark Family Restaurant (hereafter known only as "Skylark"). However, the most promising prospect turned out to be one of JT's students. She was a college grad, working woman he taught once a week. She had a lawyer boyfriend, but JT had a crush. She was called 지수, but her real name was 용운. She changed it when she moved to Seoul from her hometown out in the boonies. Her given name, as you can see, was way too masculine and it had been a constant source of torment in her life.

I told JT he should ask her to come meet us after class one night and we could practice English and enjoy some BBQ. That worked and we had quite a nice time. Smart, cute, employed, car owner, smoker, late 20's...the major obstacle being the boyfriend. We hung out several times and JT was chomping at the bit. We came up with a plan to make some magic. We decided to meet for BBQ again, prime the pump with a little Soju, and then employ a little trick we had heard about. On the walk from our regular BBQ place to our apartment, there was a harmless-looking little 여관. The plan was to walk in that direction after dinner and Soju and then without saying anything just walk her into the motel. I would continue on home. It was supposed to work if she had any interest and she had any 눈치.

On the way home we turned down the alley to the motel and JT took a left with 지수 towards the motel. She realized where they were headed just as she got close to the entrance, and like a petulant child plopped right down on the steps of the motel. That was it. It was clear she was not interested in going inside with him. I watched from around the corner long enough to see it wasn't going to work and I went home. Moments later JT arrived. He was bummed, but we both had a good laugh about it. She wasn't angry or upset. She just kept saying she had a boyfriend. She even said she was conflicted because she liked JT.

Aw shucks. Foiled again.

We remained friends with 지수, even having more adventures together. Our hangout place with her moved from BBQ and Soju to Coffee and cigarettes, and no love ever occurred between her and JT. As far as I know.

Scanned Slide of the Day

1987. Seoul seen from the walk up to Namsan Tower. I ignored the signs that said "No Photography."

The Substitute Part 3

Seoul, South Korea. 1997

And now for some high points from my few short weeks of substitute English "teaching."

In no particular order:

1. Some of them dang rugrats was cute.

2. Getting paid cash in envelopes every hour was nice.

3. One "healthy" young student gave me his lucky pig. His name is written on the bottom, but only the surname remains. Of course, I still have it:

4. One student told me "Winter envy Spring" when the weather didn't want to turn warm. I liked that a lot. I wrote a silly poem about it where I put one word on each page of a groovy mini Korean notebook. Without quoting the whole lame thing, let me just give you a few words from it: busybodies, donnybrooking, snuff. I dare anyone to pen a decent poem with those words in it. Double dare even.

5. Monday nights. Every Monday night after classes, JT and I would meet at McDonald's near Shinjeong Naegeori. It truly felt like it was our McDonald's.

Photo of the Day

Scanned from a 20+ year-old slide back when 씨름 was still popular.

Anyone know who this big 'ol boy is?

The Substitute Part 2

1997 in Seoul, South Korea

There's not much I can say about what it's like to try to teach English to little kids that hasn't already been blogged to death. Of course the dang rug rats was cute and all. We had some laughs and some brawls. Some loved me and some hated me. So instead of scrawling out all the details of each day and each class, I'll list out some of the high points and some of the low points.

First the low:

-Riding that motorcycle around in the cold. Worse was riding it around in the rain.

-I had one stop with a brother and a sister. Ages 5 and 3. They had no English at all. They had no interest in learning it. They had no interest in me. They roused rabble and messed around the whole time. Their mom would pop into the room (their bedroom) from time to time and yell at them. She would also tell me to yell at them and discipline them into studying. Riiiiiight.

-One day on the way to one of the classes that was quite far out into the boonies from Mokdong, I was riding the motorcycle in the motorcycle lane (you know, basically in the gutter next to the curb). As I came around a corner, a huge truck was making the same turn and came wide enough so I had to slam my brakes to keep from getting rolled under the enormous front wheel. I nearly kissed it goodbye that day.

-In class at the institute one day. The kids were teasing me on account of the baldness up top. We teased back and forth while trying to learn some words to describe each other. Things degenerated when I crossed the line and told one student (strongest English speaker in the class) he needed to work on his English. He lost it. He started bawling miserably in front of the whole class. I tried saying I was only joking, but he grabbed my cheek with his little hand and squeezed and scratched as hard as he could while screaming at me. My face hurt but I felt bad the kid had taken it so hard. He calmed down some and class ended. We walked out and there was the hagwon owner. He saw the kid's tears, he saw my red scratched face, what could I say? I put my arm around the kid and told the teacher in my slowest clearest English that this kid "is the smartest in my class." Oh boy.

-I had a private class with 4 high school freshmen. On the last day of my 3 week stint with them, they pestered the whole hour to play games. I understand why they didn't want to go through another boring lesson in the book and it likely had very little to do with it being my last day. I finally gave in and broke out some card game. Mom came in and was not pleased. She got angry with me in front of the kids and told me they were high school kids and didn't need to play games. She said she wasn't paying me to play games with them. Her English was hurtfully good right then...

Scanned Slide of the Day

Pusan Harbor 1987
돌아와요.

The Substitute

February 1997 in Seoul, South Korea.

I officially started substituting for JT's brother's classes after he and his betrothed left for the States. The hagwon provided a motorcycle (like a Honda Trail 90) that I rode around to different hagwons and apartments to teach. My typical routine would be:

Put on a helmet, put my hands into the huge glove/mitten things that covered the handles and kept my hands from freezing off, ride the cycle to the hagwon, enter up the back stairs, "teach" a class, leave.

When I left I would ride to an apartment where 3-5 kids would be waiting. I would work through a textbook for 50 mins, then mom would bring in a tray of treats and/or juice. We would eat and maybe play a game for 10 minutes. Then I would leave. On the way out mom would hand me an envelope of cash. Usually 25-40K Won per hour.

Off to the next apartment. Repeat.

Initially my days were not packed with classes because the hagwon owner didn't trust me yet. But it didn't take long 'til positive feedback flowed in from the moms. I made a point of greeting them in Korean and doing a bit of small talk at each visit. After each session I would praise their kids' English skills. Pretty soon I was gold.

Once a week I would ride the #5 Purple line over an hour all the way from Omokkyo to Jamsil? where I met a young lady for 2 hours of free-talking. We drank Cokes and chatted. She was a grad student and quite smart. She was studying North Korean politics and the concept of Juche. This was right at the time Hwang Jang-yeop defected. He was one of the main "architects" of Juche and so we spent hours talking about this news and about Juche. She was quite thrilled to be allowed to study North Korean politics at such an exciting time. Definitely one of the highlights of my substitute stint. She paid me 100,000 won for the 2 hours. Maybe I should have paid her? Or at least paid for the Cokes?

Scanned Slide of the Day

In the tradition of ROK Drop and others, I post herewith my first (but not last) Photo of the Day: 1987. I know I took this picture cuz I scanned it from my slides, but I have no clue where I took it. 경북 somewhere maybe? Anyone?

Cherry Blossom Tribute Part 2

Hometown USA, Hot August 2009

Camping and a raging bout of stomach flu have forced this temporary departure from the events of 1997 in Korea. Secretly I am also s t r u g g l i n g with writing about "teaching" English to little kids. So any tangent at this point really...

Have a look back at May of this year when I posted my Cherry Blossom Tribute. Notice if you will the barenakedness of my 무궁화. How sad it was back then. Here is an update.

The indomitabilityness of the Korean Spirit in blossom form: Some said it wouldn't survive. I beg to differ.

Weather today: Sunny. 98F (36.6C).

Skylark

Seoul, South Korea. February 1997

The next night, JT, his brother, and I went and saw Jerry Maguire. On the way home we noticed that Skylark Family Restaurant was having their Grand Opening. “Wanna go in and get a bite? Let’s see if their steaks are any good. We’ll probably be their first foreign customers,” JT proposed.
“OK,” we agreed.

Skylark keeps a full staff of servers, bussers, managers, and cookers working hard until 2 a.m. Most of them have day jobs too but they all need the extra money so help is not hard to find. No sooner had we taken our seats but a smiling server in a pink dress with white apron dropped off three menus, not before honoring us with a deep bow of salutation: “Hello. How are you?” Five different girls came up to our table one at a time, bowed and said, “Excuse me. Can I take your order please?” We hadn’t even had a chance to look at the menu. Girl number six was worth waiting for. Shy, shortish, with a traditionally beautiful egg-shaped face, her nametag read "Young-Sook."
“Excuse me. May I take your order please?”
I said, “Will you be my friend?”
“OK.”
Secretly I was only acting in my role as Love Finder for JT.

I opened my Sharp electronic address book and planner and slid it over to her. She looked at it, a shy and confused grin started to creep onto her face but she quickly covered it with her hand. My planner prompted her for her name and then phone number. “Young-Sook is a popular name,” I said. In my mind I was thinking back to my first Young-Sook 10 years earlier.
“Yes it is,” she said. "Is beep-beep OK?"
"Sure, just don't fake me," I said.
She responded with a blank stare. You know the look.
“May I take your order please?” Skylark Young-Sook asked after an awkward silence.
“Give me a beefsteak with steamed rice on the side, friend.” I said it with a smile.

Beep Beep

Seoul, South Korea 1997

A heavyset Edmontonian girl at the party convinced us to share a taxi with her down to the Hong-Ik area to go dancing. We went to one of the newer of several Western-style nightclubs with a full bar and without the exorbitant table charge for beer and fruit common at other Seoul area drinking establishments. Inside, the hip-hop thumped and the part Korean, part American crowd smoked, drank, and danced. We didn't last long there before we both decided it was time to head home.

We took the Green line to the bus exchange and the bus over the bridge back to the Green line (thus circumventing the Green Line portion that collapsed into the river), all the way to the Purple transfer. The last Purple had already gone so we decided to cross over to the market area where an old woman was cooking up fried egg sandwiches. Crossing at the same time was a beautiful young Korean girl whom I caught staring at JT. She didn't flinch, didn’t giggle and cover, didn’t even stop staring. She confidently scrutinized my woman-starved friend. She stopped just across the street and started to hail a taxi. At this late hour, the taxis are all full but drivers try to pick up solo riders to pocket the extra fare. However, finding a taxi that isn't full of people that also happens to be going where you want to go is a difficult prospect.

JT and I ordered one egg sandwich each as I told him how that girl had stared at him so. The old egg sandwich woman lightly buttered both pieces of bread, toasted them next to the frying eggs, and finished the process by sprinkling liberal amounts of sugar on the eggs and coating the bread with ketchup. I ordered mine without sugar or ketchup, and, at JT's bidding, went over to spark up some conversation with the girl. I asked if she was trying to catch a taxi to her boyfriend's house. She said she didn't have a boyfriend. I pointed at JT and told her my friend thought she was cute. She looked at him and waved. He came over with two egg sandwiches and stood next to her with that cheesy tooth-filled grin of his. Through me he asked her name. "김 보연," she said. JT turned to me and told me to get her beep-beep. Young hip Koreans all have pagers because they get can in trouble when their friends of the opposite sex call them at home. With a pager they can take calls whenever and return the calls without fear of parental interference. I asked for her beep-beep and without a word she tore a page out of her planner and wrote her name followed by her pager number. JT grabbed it and looked, it was a 015 number--one of two prefixes that all pagers use. He smiled at her and said "친구." A taxi pulled up and she yelled "영등포" into the window. "Ride," the driver said. Off she went.

Next day, JT still smiling at the prospect of getting carnal, beep-beeped 보연. After dialing it twice without getting the prompt to enter a message or number, he dialed again and handed the phone to me, "Tell me what this says." A woman's voice, monotonous like a recorded operator, told me in Korean that this number had been disconnected or was no longer in service. I broke the bad news to JT. "Faked," he said sadly and took the scrap of paper with her name and number on it and placed it on his desk under the glass top with other souvenirs of his world travels.

Snookered

We followed James up the Omokkyo Station exit number One which opened up in front of a 24-hour convenience store. "Stop here for some beers," James advised. "The party's just down that sidestreet. Go in that door there by that full-sized cardboard Korean Air Flight Attendant. Up to the third floor above that billiard hall and that's it, walk right in."

Inside the 24-hour store JT and I couldn't decide between Cass, Hite, or OB Lager (the Budweiser of Korea). "Remember that time you went to Oregon and brought back that box of Weinhards for my birthday because we couldn't get it where we lived yet?" JT asked.
"Sure do."
"Let's get OB Lager," he suggested. "There's this commercial on TV for OB Lager with this funny guy. I don't know what he says or anything, but it's funny and the kids love it."
"OK," I agreed.

At the door to the party was a huge pile of shoes so big the door wouldn't shut all the way. We fought our way through it and went in. The apartment was mostly filled with Canadians with only a few Koreans. James was on the couch next to a tall Korean beauty. Both were laughing and drinking. I got close enough to hear James trying out his unstrong Korean on her. JT came up, "I'm better looking than that guy and he's got Korean Love. See he speaks Korean. That's all it takes, I know it."
"He's a geek. Maybe Korean babes dig geeks," I offered. "I know geeks, you're no geek. Besides I just heard him ask her old she was by using 연세 for age not 나이. 연세 is only for older people. His Korean is not so strong as it seems."
"She laughed," JT pointed out.
"True." She had laughed, but I wasn't sure if it was because James's blunder was cute, or because she was being polite, or if she was just drunk. Could have been a combo of all three.

Four hours and two more trips to the convenience store later, the OB Lagers gave JT the courage he needed to spark up some conversation with one of the three Korean girls at the party. JT’s cheeks always get a little flushed when he’s drinking, and he’s quite proud of the fact that he’s a lightweight. His eyelids sag and his grin shows the top row of his cosmetic teeth. I’ve seen that look a thousand times and it always makes me laugh. He thinks it’s irresistible. He really needs to get that level of self-confidence back full time. Too bad the girl he is hitting on is living in this very apartment with the Canadian guy hosting the party, who by the way, is sitting with a scowl on the other side of her from JT.

Being a Love Finder is going to be a full-time job...

The Bald and the "Strong"

Mr. K and his wife, the owners of the Mokdong Branch of the "Strong" English Institute, were anxious to come over and meet me--their new substitute teacher. I was confident and ready. I had taught English before at a 학원 in 부산 so I knew the ropes. I also taught English composition for two years at university in the States, so compared to JT and his brother I was way overqualified for this three-week stint.

Mr. K and his wife came in. Mr. K didn't say anything to me, just stared briefly, walked into JT's bedroom and shut the door behind him. A minute later he called JT in and closed the door again. JT's brother looked at me and shrugged. Mr. Kim's wife--that would be Mrs. H--smiled, giggled, and sat down at the kitchen table. She silently fidgeted with her bangs, which had been sprayed to stand almost straight up like some wall of fear.

Five minutes of hushed conversation passed in the bedroom. Mr. Kim came out, extended his hand for an unfirm shake, curtly introduced himself and left. His wife dutifully followed.

"What was that"? I asked half afraid of the answer.
"Oh, nothing really," JT said.
"Then why did he snub me like that?"
"Well, he's got this idea of what an English teacher should look like, he's really into image. I told him not to worry and go out there and be polite."
"Didn't work," I said. "If he doesn't like me he can find someone else if he thinks he can." It was a semi-bluff and I knew I didn't mean it as soon as I said it.
"It's going to be OK," JT assured me. "He was just surprised that you were a little balding up top there. That's all."
"I can't help it. You know it's not like he's flawless or something. He's short. I don't like short people. You know what else? His English sucks. I hate Korean institute owners whose English sucks. And he can help that, it's called studying. It's not like if I studied harder I'd grow more hair or something. Know what I'm saying? The punk."
"Mellow out man, a little touchy about the dome or what?"
"No, I just, how about a chance first? Ya know? I mean I can't help my genetic physicalities now can I?"

That night, a tall, fully bald-headed Australian fellow named James met us at the Omokkyo Station underpass to show us the way to the foreigner-only party.
"James, are you teaching English here in Seoul"? I asked.
"Yes," he said.
"But you're bald..."
"I know," he said with a look on his face that spoke volumes.

The Love Finder

JT shared a small two bedroom basement with his brother and his brother's fiancee. The apartment, provided by the 학원, had a small kitchen and dining area, a bathroom that functioned as toilet, sink, shower, and laundry room in one. I was to sleep on the couch in JT's room until his brother left to join his fiancee in the States. I instantly knew I would be on the floor on account of the couch was too short and too narrow, but I knew I could survive the floor for a few days.

When JT's brother came home from teaching class that night, we decided to celebrate my arrival by treating me to some Soju and delicious, spicy, marinated chicken with noodles. We walked to their favorite place, took off our shoes, and sat on the floor around a hot bed of glowing coals. As soon as the Soju was poured, JT said: "White, you have got to find me some Korean Love. These women are so beautiful, but I can't seem to get anywhere with them."

"Have you got your eye on anyone?" I asked.
"A couple different babes, but I thought you could help me meet some new blood too."
"Sure. But are you ready to put on that old blue collar, punch in on the time clock and do work? Unless times have changed drastically in the last ten years, you shouldn't have much trouble if you put in the time.

I was not entirely comfortable with the situation or his request, but JT seemed so sincere and desperate at the same time. At that point I must've faded out of the conversation because I was vaguely aware that I was no longer speaking out loud but was lost in a haze of fond reminiscence and jetlag.

JT picked up on my absent stare and changed the subject. "Anyway, there's a foreigner party this weekend over by Omok Bridge. Only foreigners are invited, but mostly it's just Canadians. I want to go check it out. And tomorrow night I want to go see Jerry Maguire. You feel up to it?"
"OK. If my jetlag is gone."

Lucky Number 5

Outside the customs checkpoint at Kimpo Airport, eager Koreans craned their necks to peer anxiously through the electric sliding doors that opened like a theatre curtain whenever someone came out. JT was lurking in the background and came forward only when he saw the solitary light-skinned traveler emerge.

"Well, if it isn't my old roommate I've got to go all the way to Korea just to see." I greeted him with a hug.
"You want to take a taxi, bus, subway, what?" JT asked.
"All roads lead to Seoul, baby."
"Subway it is."

The number five line, the purple line, was one of the newest in Seoul at the time. It runs from out west of the airport clear across the huge sprawl of Seoul. The purple line is still clean and doesn't yet smell like garlic, piss, 소주, or puke. It also runs right through the neighborhood where JT lives and works. It's almost never crowded, it’s perfectly safe, it costs less than 50 cents for a one way ticket, it's a great way to commute.

"Our stop is Omokkyo. An easy way to remember it is, this is line five, get off at Omokkyo, and take exit number five. Five is the magic number. OK?"

"OK." I didn't feel like telling JT that Omokkyo also means "Five Tree Bridge," another magic five, but I was certain I could find my way around.

It was evening in 목동when we came up on to the street from Omokkyo Station exit number five. Immediately there on the left was Skylark, an American style family restaurant still under construction. Another half block down on the left, near a video store no larger than a minivan, was a basement bar called "Green." JT was intrigued by Green because he had followed a beautiful girl down there once and was denied entrance at the door by a man who said nothing, just shook his head. In the smoky dark of Green, JT had seen TV screens with what looked like naked Korean girls on them so I promised we'd go on a fact-finding tour after I got settled.

Go

Seoul, South Korea

January 1997

As I waited for my overstuffed backpack to show up on the luggage carousel of Seoul's Kimpo International Airport (this was well before Incheon International was even a glimmer in some Korean slogan-maker’s eye), I scoped out the Customs lines where Koreans returning to their home country were getting the third degree and a complete search. I'm a little anal, and a lot protective of my personal stuffs, so I am always anxious about some scowling customs 아저씨 rifling my backpack. When my pack finally came through I put it on and, acting like I was overly exhausted, walked to the initial checkpoint, surrendered my passport, and tried to look as tired as possible. The angry-looking customs official slowly scrutinized me up and down one time, more tired than I perhaps, and simply said, "가." As if I were a child, or a dog, or a drunk. Just that one curtly uttered syllable.

"Go."

Given the circumstances of my previous sudden departure from this place, I was surprised and more than a little bit relieved. I walked out, but my ears and brain were still buzzing from what was left unsaid beneath that brief imperative. It said, "I know why you're here, you. I know you brought your poison culture to bespoil our traditions, you're probably smuggling drugs, you'll work illegally selling us your mother tongue, try to take our women away with you, give us AIDS. You are 100% bad."

가.

Courtesy Stockings Make the Man

Hometown USA 1997

A travel agent with a smoker's raspy voice booked me on Singapore Airlines from San Francisco to Seoul, non-stop. I had never heard anything about that airline before. But she assured me it was a "really nice carrier," and since it was comparably the cheapest ticket--just over $600 round trip--the decision wasn't a difficult one. We chose a departure date that would land me in the Land of the Morning Calm with a few days to de-jetlag myself before I had to start teaching. Since I also had to lock in my return date, I tentatively reserved a seat on a return flight some 87 days after that. I figured I could easily move my return up if I wanted. Oddly, the thought of doing the reverse never occurred to me.

I called JT, told him when to expect me. As for packing, all I needed was my new passport (my original one had expired and I hadn’t left the USA in 10 years since), my tourist Visa, a sleeping bag, clothes, toiletries, and my cliché but trusty Lonely Planet Guide to Korea. I crammed it all in my North Face backpack and was ready to go. Before I left, however, I heard from several friends in the same social circle as JT and me. I was charged with a serious calling.

"When you're over there, find out the scoop on JT's sexual preference. You know, I mean, see if he's gay or what. I mean, my wife wants to know, you know."

Yes I know. Your wife is still pissed JT told everybody that he could have slept with her while she was engaged to you.

Bearing that unheavy burden, I left for the airport. It didn't take but five minutes on the plane to realize that my travel agent had not lied about the quality of Singapore Airlines. The plane itself was huge; 11 seats across each 3-section row, but not 1/3 of the seats were occupied. I chose a 5-seat middle row near the back all for myself, took off my shoes and put on the purple courtesy socks provided. I figured that the courtesy socks were purple to match the interior color motif of the plane, and not due to some Donny Osmond influence, at least I hoped.

No sooner had I gotten comfy than a friendly attendant was offering me my first glass of free wine and we hadn't even begun to taxi yet. On the seat back in front of me--in front of everyone--was a personal-sized TV screen. My own headphones, my own remote control, my own viewing options. Every two hours a new movie, Seinfeld re-runs, countless music choices, Nintendo Golf and car racing, updated flight info including speed, location, ETA, weather and time at destination, all in three languages. In that plush and distracting environment, with all the free-flowing liquor, the 12 1/2 hour flight went pretty fast and soon I was touching down at Seoul's Kimpo International once again.

The Tank Ain't Empty

Hometown USA 1997

JT told me I would need a tourist Visa valid for five years, good for 90 days and renewable for the same length every time I entered the country. This kind of renewable Visa is a great way for illegal English teachers like JT and his brother to get around Korea's immigration laws. To get a legitimate work Visa you have to sign a contract with a Korean employer for at least one year. That gives the employer so much power over you that it is hard to make the kind of money illegals make, it's also hard to come and go as you please, and you have to pay taxes too.

One downside to this tourist Visa scam is really an upside for many teachers who work in Korea under the table: every three months illegals have to make a "Visa Jump" where you have to leave Korea and re-enter to get your 90 days renewed. "Visa Jumping" can be expensive, but it enables the restless traveler/teacher to go see a different country--if only briefly--every 90 days or so. It's a great excuse to get away to Hong Kong, Thailand, Guam, wherever. And Japan is only a three-hour boat ride or a short flight from some Korean ports.

At least that’s how JT sold it to me.

Personally, I really only intended to stay in Korea for the three weeks, or so, that it would take to substitute teach JT's brother's classes, but I also wanted a few free days to kick around the peninsula. Perhaps drop in on a few old haunts down in Pusan. How could I go wrong; I could scratch my itch to get out of town, see an old buddy in an exotic locale, make some straight cash, and return to Korea for the first time in 10 years.

"Oh, by the way," he asks, "you do still speak some Korean don't you?"
"Well I haven't really tried in years, but I'm sure there's enough still in the tank."
"Good. 'Cuz Korean women are the most beautiful women in the world but I can't communicate with them."

Oh, that's where I come in.

A Master of Arts Takes a Phone Call

By December of 1996 I finished my grad school course work, and I wrote and defended my Thesis. Pretty easy really. Straight A grades (except for a B in a course called "Women Writers"). Basically only took me two drafts to get the Thesis written. The only real drag about the program was the grading of freshman composition papers. Agony.

Not surprisingly, I found myself in no great rush to get a job. I was also realistic (cynical?) enough to know I couldn't make a PhD in literature work. Sure I was still living in my parents' basement and working part-time selling sporting goods, but I had very little money and even less motivation. Out of the clear blue, JT called me. Long time no hear. The last time I saw my old college drinking buddy was right after he had written a goodbye note for his wife, endorsed over his last paycheck to her, and left her--for good.

He came to visit me then, a little sad but a lot free. He told me he was heading out on the road. "OTR" he called it. I doubt he coined the term, but he loved saying it so I let him. Since then, friends had caught random tidbits of rumors that JT had "turned gay," he was living in Brazil, Mexico, the Philippines. I had heard nothing first-hand until now. Turns out JT is in Seoul, Korea, of all places, teaching English with his little brother. Life is great, the cash is good, but his brother is leaving for L.A. for three weeks to get married and he needs a substitute to teach his classes for him while he is gone. That's where I come in. No rent, low cost-of-living, plenty of income. Sounded good to me…

The End of One Detour, Start of Another

Hometown USA 1992

One of the main problems with working in the film industry was the complete absence of a social life outside of the production. In short, it afforded my girlfriend way too much time to be unfaithful to me. Long story short, it ain't nice to be cuckolded at the age of 26 and dumped over the phone after 2 years.

By the end of 1991 I was mentally done with the production lifestyle but I had no other plans. I needed a change of career path, of social circle, and environment. When the TV series I was working on was cancelled right before Christmas, I did what everyone else in the industry does and filed to collect my unemployment benefit. I was entitled to the maximum benefit (US $960/month) for a period of four months. Instead of aggressively seeking gainful employment, I intended to collect the whole amount unless presented with an opportunity I couldn't refuse.

By the Spring of 1992, no such opportunity had appeared and President Clinton signed an unemployment extension for another four months. I took advantage of that to the fullest. I spent hours and hours at the pool. I was getting tan and meeting girls. The Summer of 1992 still ranks in the top 5 all time summers of mine halcyon.

Otherwise, I spent a lot of time in my own head trying to figure out what to do next. I read a lot and thought a lot. I highly recommend such a period. In fact, if I wasn't afraid (by afraid I mean I have a home mortgage, a rental property, a car payment, a wife, and two young kids), I would love to do it again right now.

I took the GRE, nailed it, applied to grad schools, and got accepted to a Master of Arts program to study literature. I also got an assistantship to teach English Comp 101 and 102 along with a nice stipend and an office (really a closet) on campus. Come Autumn 1992, I was full on into a new chapter of my life. It was not necessarily a chapter that would lead me on a road to immediate financial independence and wealth, but it certainly was a timely escape from the limbo of the early 1990's.

The Detour Part 3

Hometown USA 1990-1992

At the risk of being called a "name dropper," I herewith list some of the actors I met during the course of my 3-year detour. Some you have heard of for sure, some you might need to look up in IMDB. Anyway, in no particular order:

Vanessa Williams
Robert Urich (not one of my faves)
Chris Noth
Dalton James
Aaron Eckhardt
Gail O'Grady (one of my faves)
Elizabeth Berkeley
Brooke Shields
Joanna Kerns
John Trudell
Wilford Brimley
Kathleen Lloyd
Ed Begley Jr
Richard Farnsworth
Dennis Franz
Pam Dawber
Bruce Altman
Gregory Harrison
Michael Apted (Director)
Marlee Shelton ("oiling and lotioning")
Louise Fletcher
Saul Rubinek
Lloyd Bridges
Beau Bridges
Gerald McRaney

You get the picture.

The Detour Part 2

Hometown USA 1990-1992

I have tons of stories from my days working in film; not all of them great. But I'm trying to fast forward to my next Korea chapter so I'll save those stories for another time and place. Well, maybe one story right now wouldn't hurt.

I was 2nd Prop Assistant (working on set) on a TV Movie of the Week. There were four of us in the Prop department. We kept a very clear line of distinction between us and the Art Department; they were responsible for set design and decoration and we were responsible for anything an actor touched. They generally worked one or two weeks ahead of us so we rarely saw each other. They were a zany bunch of kids who had worked on many shoots together. I had worked with most of them on several occasions.

They had a totem that they each carried around with them. They claimed it was their source of strength. It looked like a Bishop from Chess with a smiley face on the front. They tried to secretly place a large one somewhere on each set they decorated. Nobody watching the show would ever notice it, but it gave them a huge thrill to see their source of power on TV.

One day at the Production office, I found myself in the Art Department office while they were all away. Next to their computer was a large one of their totems. I couldn't resist messing with them. I tied a string with a mini noose around its neck and tacked the other end of the string to the ceiling so it hung down at eye level. I stepped back to admire my work. But that wasn't enough. I grabbed an art pencil and wrote on the front of the totem: "I like to f*ck." I left the defiled fellow hanging from the ceiling.

The Detour

Hometown USA 1990-1992

Short version: I worked in the film industry for three years.

Long version: From my humble beginnings making Korean props for a failed movie, I moved on to set construction for local commercials and small productions. I got a "break" from a local Prop Master I met who hired me as the Prop Buyer for a TV series (it ain't what you know, it's who you know). The Buyer role was pretty fun, and it paid a flat $150/day. I was getting paid to drive around and spend someone else's money on stuff we needed for the show. Shooting schedules on a TV series are tight so I had license to throw money at something if I thought we really needed it.

Example: We were to shoot a scene that called for homing pigeons to fly off and the actor had to hold some sort of tracking device. I made a black box with flashing red LEDs from parts I bought at Radio Shack. I also ended up hiring a Falconer for the day, including his equipment and expertise. He didn't want to do it, but I kept offering him more money until he finally agreed. The scene looked realistic, and we even put the Falconer in the shot for a brief moment. Everybody was happy.

That series got cancelled after a mere 8 episodes. From there I moved on to other productions where I worked in the Prop or Art Departments. I was 2nd Assistant Props on a 12 episode TV series, same position on a TV Movie of the Week, Assistant Set Decorator on a couple Movies of the Week, 1st Assistant Props on a low budget feature, and myriad roles on countless other commercials and productions. All those jobs paid between $150 and $225 per day. The most money I made per day was as the Greensman on a Chevy Truck commercial.

"Greensman" is a bit of an ironic title for what I did on that shoot because it was the most un-Green thing I've ever done. Al Gore is turning over in grave as we speak. The genius director wanted me to cover up 200 yards of barbed wire fence by attaching plants to it. I rented a 27-foot U-Haul truck and drove around the nearby countryside with a chainsaw just mowing down any kind of vegetation I could get my hands on. It took two days to gather and attach all the greenery I needed, one day to shoot the scene, and one day to break it down and haul it to the landfill. $1,675 dollars later and I needed a serious nap.

The film industry certainly isn't all glamour and glitz. Work days were usually 13-16 hours long with only an 8-hour turnaround guaranteed before they could require me back at work. Add it up and it equals zero social life. There was no time to spend any money so I was saving fairly well even though I was pretty much scholarshipping my mean girlfriend through college (maybe more on her later).

Thanks to Bill Clinton, I spent the majority of 1993 collecting my unemployment benefit and getting a rockin' tan. I firmly believe everyone needs an extended poolside period to get their head right. It worked for me...

Overthrowing the Dictator

Hometown USA 1990

I had a short phone call with a guy who was working on a film about the current state of democracy in South Korea. They were planning for a scene of a massive demonstration; ubiquitous in Korea at the time. They needed to make it look real and planned to outfit hundreds of extras (background actors) with banners and headbands with slogans. The pay was ridiculously high for the amount of effort I wouldn't have to put in. I agreed to do it.

One morning a few days later I found a huge pile of supplies on my porch. There was plenty of banner paper, markers, paint, and hundreds of plain white bandannas. I sat around for a few hours writing things like "독재 타도" on banners and bandannas rolled into headbands. I had a few other slogans I used too but I don't remember them anymore.

When I was done I left the whole pile out on the porch and the guy picked them up in the morning. I placed a makeshift invoice in with the "props" I made and eventually got a check for $450. Decent. Now that is putting your degree to good use eh?

Even though I hadn't met the guy who contracted me to phony up some Korean "demo" materials, we did have a mutual friend. That friend later hooked me up to do some more work for the guy. We then became friends. He worked in the film industry, generally working in props or the Art Department on whatever shoot he could get hired onto. My friend told him I needed to make some money and the next thing I knew I was pounding a hammer on the set of a mattress commercial starring Vanna White as the spokesperson. And that one small mistake started me on a miserable and dark 3 year career detour...

Re-directed

Hometown USA 1990

I was flat broke when I graduated. I had rent and some small bills to pay. I had a smallish student loan to pay back. And, thanks to an over-optimistic view of my immediate earning potential, I had a car payment on a brand new 1990 Honda. I wracked my brain but I could not come up with a way to make all those payments while I was off in Korea on a scholarshipped scholarly trip. In the end, I called my teacher and told him I was not going to be able to go with him to Korea that summer. Bummer.

I had two job interviews in Dallas that summer. Brian was living in Dallas at the time, but we hadn't spoken since his wedding. My older brother, whom I did not get along very well with, was living in Dallas with his first wife (whom I couldn't stand). I wasn't very keen on moving to Dallas.

The first interview was with a customer support company that needed a Korean speaker. I nailed the interview and the woman had all but offered me a spot on her husband's softball team (not a euphemism) when I went in and met the supervisor. He was a young-ish Chinese-American guy. He started the meeting by saying "안녕하십니까"? I responded appropriately of course, but he just stared blankly at me. After an awkward moment he asked me to say something in Korean. I realized he didn't know any Korean other than that most basic greeting so I thought for a second about what to say.

I've always thought that anybody who speaks a second language, or who has studied one, would never ask someone to just "say something." What's the point? I could say "I love silk worm larvae" in Korean and tell the guy I said he was "very handsome" and he would never know the difference. Anyway, I said something in Korean and of course he asked me what I said. Not the most productive interview technique I've ever seen, but apparently it worked to weed me out. I expected an offer and one never came. A few days later, I called and asked for an update. He told me he hired a Korean friend.

I bombed at the other interview in Dallas too. It was the same kind of job at Sprint. As my younger brother loves to say: "hindsight is 50/50." Secretly I am glad I never moved to Dallas.

Back at home I was getting desperate for some income. A friend of a friend approached me with a most random request. This guy was working in the prop department on a film about the state of democracy in South Korea. I don't think the film ever even made it to video, but it had enough of a budget to ask me for some favors...

Getting My Learn On

USA 1988-90

I progressed through the Asian Studies/Korean program without much issue, and without much challenge. I got one grade below "A" and that was in Korean History. My research paper really sucked and that brought my grade down. I was supposed to take a position on whether or not US Forces should remain in Korea and I waffled back and forth through the paper without ever really taking a side. Grade for the course: "B." That was the only chink in my GPA armour until the spring term of 1990.

In the spring of 1990 I met with the graduation counselor and all was set for me to march into commencement with my double major. There was, however, the problem of Anthropology 400-something. It was a cultural anthropology class focusing on Asia. One day per week we met in a large auditorium for lecture-style learning generally, and twice a week we broke out into smaller groups by country of interest. I was in the Korean breakout with 8 or 9 others. It was a fun group, a diverse group, and we really got into the guts of Korea. I liked it a lot. I had a solid rapport with the teacher and was tops in the Korean section.

The problem was that we had to deliver a 20-page Ethnography by the end of the term. That involved many long conversations with Koreans focusing on some aspect of culture we wanted to study. I could not bring myself to do it. Just couldn't even start it. It was not going to happen.

I came up with the genius workaround to see if the department chairman would let me count another course instead of Anthropology and still graduate on time with the double major. He looked at me like I was from outer space that day. It was not a fun meeting. He went so far as to tell me the graduation counselor had miscounted (double-counted) my credits and I was not even close to the double major I was already counting the chickens of. I could still get the Korean degree but could only get the Asian Studies minor. While that was not the news I had hoped for, it certainly made my decision much easier on what to do about the dreaded Ethnography. Correct, I bagged it entirely. If I had simply done the Ethnography, even a shitty job of one, I would have that double major today.

I continued to attend the Korea breakout twice per week, but took no tests and didn't lift a finger on the Ethnography. The instructor, thinking he was doing me a favor, offered to give me and Incomplete on it so I could finish it over the summer, but I quickly disabused him of any such notion.

I graduated in the spring of 1990 with no real plans and only a couple of job interviews where I could use my Korean. There was an opportunity that summer that intrigued me. The instructor of the Korean Anthropology breakout was leading a group to Korea for 90 days to conduct cultural anthropology research. The whole thing was paid for (funded by some Korean conglomerate heir or something) but he could only take 3 students. I applied. I applied even though I had basically failed out of his course because I refused to do an ethnography. I applied to get paid to go to Korea and do an ethnography even though I refused to do one for free in college.

Of course I was accepted and we started making plans for the trip...

Getting Settled Back Home

July 2009: I just returned from a week in New York City. While there I tried to drown my liver, managed to deprive myself of sleep, and spent far too much time talking to the 19-year old daughter of a famous tennis player. Call me slow on the uptake, but I knew it was "too much time" when she told me she named one of her breasts "Chloe" and the other "Coco." Chloe was mostly on display most of the night. Coco is a bit more shy it would seem...

Other than all that, I feel fresh enough to now resume the my Korea narrative.

1988: I eventually settled in to the ol' college routine. I decided to pursue a degree in International Relations. In addition to the required political science classes and whatnot else, the program required 2 years of a foreign language (student's choice). Not surprisingly I jumped on the Korean.

I was well ahead of the other non-Korean students and it showed in the test results. In one Korean class we studied "sound changes" for a while. Before we started on the topic, the teacher gave an assessment-like test to gauge the students' understanding of sound changes. We were to read several pages of Korean text, circle any sound changes and write in the proper pronunciation (example: if the text read "밥을 먹는데", you would circle it and write "밥을 멍는데" because that is how it's pronounced). I got the highest score in the class (even better than the one Korean girl). Sound changes are hard for most non-Koreans it seems, but I had them down. I only missed 4 out of 100 on the assessment test. (I missed "그렇다." I should have circled it and written "그러타.") See?

We then spent a week learning all the sound changes and took the test again. I got 100%. The Korean girl got 98%. The next highest score was in the 70's.

The point is, I quickly bailed on International Relations and switched to Asian Studies and Korean.