Despite flying into a city of 12 million people where neither of us speak the language, Amy and I arrived at the Ana Hotel in Tokyo within about five minutes of each other. It was Christmas Day (at least that's what our itineraries said) and there was a children's choir singing English-language carols in the hotel lobby. Amy had discovered it was extremely easy to ride a bus from the international airport into Tokyo proper for about $30. I had a slightly harder time navigating the train systems from the domestic airport, but at every turn a stranger who spoke nearly perfect English stopped to help me buy tickets and plan my route.
The hospitality never ended during the next three days. On our way to the airport at the end of our stay, we hailed a taxi whose Japanese driver spoke English, Russian, German and was learning Chinese and Spanish. He thought English was easier because the accent was nearly always on the "penultimate" syllable, and he had never visited any of the countries whose languages he studied because he had "acrophobia." We sat in the back seat not so much stunned at his vocabulary but more or less in acceptance that Tokyo is perhaps the best city in the world in which to be illiterate, and that America, in general, and in many ways specific, just sucks.
We stayed at a small U.S. military base in the Ropponghi neighborhood of Tokyo, where I can get us a room for $40 a night. It's the same place I stayed during my first week at Stripes, and we actually got the same room. Amy was relieved, I think, to see our suite was some combination of Best Western meets freshman dorm, sans bunk beds. The heated toilet that played music when flushed was also a plus, we decided.
Our first night we went to a shot bar called Geronimo's that is popular with English speakers. It was probably an odd introduction of Tokyo to Amy, but I've quickly adopted the theory that when in doubt about what to do in a new place, stop and have a drink and plan other options. The plan worked fine, especially considering it was happy hour and drinks were just $5 each, a bargain. We rested, talked -- I learned that Amy generously carried six pounds of Pete's coffee from San Francisco to Tokyo for me -- and then went across the street for sushi and sake. We just pointed, ordered, and smiled. We were thrilled when we found out that our bill was only $26. I know much of Tokyo is expensive, but we found the food incredibly cheap and good.
Most of the next two days we spent wandering and shopping. We luckily stumbled into a second sushi restaurant a couple of days later that was even cheaper and far better. The sashimi just melted in our mouths, and the entire meal cost less than $13, for both of us. As we explored the city, I realized I'm a much more competent tourist in Tokyo, even though I only know three Japanese words. It's not just that the subways have better English signs. It's that nearly every restaurant has an English language menu, and nearly every store has someone who speaks English. And there's more to see in Tokyo, I'm afraid to admit to the people who want to come to Seoul. The palaces, temples and even neighborhoods are much more interesting, more like London, New York or even New Orleans. Poor Seoul, with its 18 million people, is more like a struggling rust belt town trying to convince itself it can compete with the more prosperous cities of the world.
It's also freezing in Seoul, with highs in the mid to upper 20s once we got back to my apartment. But there are good things about my new home. For instance, we've managed to go out each day and eat delicious food. In fact, outside of sushi and other raw things, I think I like the food in Korea better, much to the detriment of the pants (and their shrinking waistbands) that I brought with me from the states. Here's a sampling of our fare in Seoul:
Indian food at a place down the street from me, complete with crazy beads, purple walls and Bollywood blaring in the background. We ordered a couple of dishes "medium" and were impressed to know that those were relatively spicy and completely delicious. (Mark and Hema, can you remind me of the proper Indian ways to order spice levels, so I can further impress the owner and his family?)
Korean dumpling soup, called something like Doo Man Guk, which Amy ate twice and I eat twice nearly every week. It's a pepperly, light beef broth with fist-sized pork dumplings floating in the bowl surrounded by sliced rice cakes, a dough that cooks up like pasta. Every time I take a first bite, I want to dive in head-first, suck down the contents and fall asleep in the remnents of the last dumpling and its juices.
Galbi, or Kalbi, depending on which restaurant you walk into. It's the Korean barbecue that is in almost every traditional Korean place. You order the meat (beef, beef, beef and mushrooms, or beef) and the waitress brings it and cooks it for you at your table. They serve about half a dozen condiments and soup, and Americans always order rice. In the end, you take a lettuce leaf and wrap it burrito-style around the meat, rice, a little Korean cole slaw and a couple of sauces and stuff it in your mouth. It's fun and messy and, in a compliment to people who live through these winters with haphazard heating, incredibly smart to have a coal-burning pit at each table.
There's also a decent Thai place a couple of blocks from my place. By decent, I mean I've been there four times in the last six weeks. A couple of times I went by myself, and they treated me royally, bringing me an English-language newspaper and paying careful attention to me. As Amy says, a restaurant should always be judged on how it treats single diners, so we went there one night. We ordered a couple of new dishes (new to me), including a dish of mussels slathered with spicy tomato curry. They actually have a wine list, too. Needless to say, we left happy and went straight to bed.
Most of our days in Korea were like that: laze around the house, venture out in time for lunch, shop or meander until it seemed plausible to come back home, fix a drink, and plan dinner. It was a great vacation for both of us. Amy's been working two jobs, seven days a week, since this fall, and I've been overwhelmed getting used to a new job and a new lifestyle. It was nice to read, watch old movies and make new CD mixes.
Amy left Monday, and now I'm enjoying the Christmas presents everyone sent. My Wyatt Waters calendar is hung, a CD mix from Kim is playing, my new glittery purse is awaiting a new glittery party invitation, and I've got many new Christmas ornaments and cards to add to my collection. For the last two to three weeks, a new shipment has arrived almost daily from friends and family. It's wonderful to get real mail, and it's wonderful to feel so missed and loved. I have a few more Christmas presents to distribute, which I bashfully have renamed Valentine's Day gifts. But I'm excited to keep shopping for everyone back home and I'm excited to wonder what little card might come my way next.
Thanks so much for thinking of me. It makes me feel special and at home, even though I'm a world away. I wish I could return the favor with a big bowl of dumpling soup.
P.S. Please send bigger pants.
Friday, December 31, 2004
Thursday, December 23, 2004
"You look damn good for your age,"
said the man whose birthday present to me was a gun. All I have to say is you know it's a good party when you wake up the next day to find your door is wide open.
Actually, both weapon and words came from Ethan, a 19-year-old guy from my language class who is a complete pacifist. The gun is a BB gun, complete with the brand-name Colt and pellets. He said it's for when I go to Iraq.
Later in the night, he said (again, I might add), "You look damn good for your age." I told him the next time he says that to a woman, he should stop at good and he agreed. In a few minutes I tapped him on the shoulder. "I'm almost twice as old as you." "I know," he said, at which point he followed my orders to open another bottle of wine.
So my birthday was great fun, at least as fun as it can be with a group of strangers in a new place. Everyone was kind, bringing presents (and wine), and compliments on my apartment. "Who came in and queer-eyed up the place?" was my favorite line, and I'm little impressed with myself that all my crappy stuff looks quite sophisticated in this airy place.
My actual bithday I spent feeling pretty sick. I had expected to be hungover for most of the day, and in retrospect wish that were true. But it seems I slept with one of my balcony doors open. After everyone left the party a little after midnight, I got on the phone and called people in Syracuse (sorry, again, Michelle and Nancy). Apparantly while I was cleaning up and talking, I wanted a little fresh air so I cracked the door. I woke up the next day with the worst sore throat I've had since I was a little kid. I actually completely lost my voice on Monday.
But I'm fine now, and realize this blog entry is awfully boring so I'll put us all out of our misery. I feel damn good for my age, in spite of my cold, but wish more of you were here to help me celebrate. While unpacking, I found a picture frame ready-made for four 4x6 snapshots. I have three pictures of a few of us from Syracuse dancing (or pretending to dance) on a bar. I put three of the series in, but need a fourth to complete the masterpiece. So here's to bars in Italy, Germany, Seoul, Toyko, Thailand, Vietnam, New York City, New Orleans, or wherever else we happen to be the next time we scramble up for attention. I wish we could do it tonight.
Actually, both weapon and words came from Ethan, a 19-year-old guy from my language class who is a complete pacifist. The gun is a BB gun, complete with the brand-name Colt and pellets. He said it's for when I go to Iraq.
Later in the night, he said (again, I might add), "You look damn good for your age." I told him the next time he says that to a woman, he should stop at good and he agreed. In a few minutes I tapped him on the shoulder. "I'm almost twice as old as you." "I know," he said, at which point he followed my orders to open another bottle of wine.
So my birthday was great fun, at least as fun as it can be with a group of strangers in a new place. Everyone was kind, bringing presents (and wine), and compliments on my apartment. "Who came in and queer-eyed up the place?" was my favorite line, and I'm little impressed with myself that all my crappy stuff looks quite sophisticated in this airy place.
My actual bithday I spent feeling pretty sick. I had expected to be hungover for most of the day, and in retrospect wish that were true. But it seems I slept with one of my balcony doors open. After everyone left the party a little after midnight, I got on the phone and called people in Syracuse (sorry, again, Michelle and Nancy). Apparantly while I was cleaning up and talking, I wanted a little fresh air so I cracked the door. I woke up the next day with the worst sore throat I've had since I was a little kid. I actually completely lost my voice on Monday.
But I'm fine now, and realize this blog entry is awfully boring so I'll put us all out of our misery. I feel damn good for my age, in spite of my cold, but wish more of you were here to help me celebrate. While unpacking, I found a picture frame ready-made for four 4x6 snapshots. I have three pictures of a few of us from Syracuse dancing (or pretending to dance) on a bar. I put three of the series in, but need a fourth to complete the masterpiece. So here's to bars in Italy, Germany, Seoul, Toyko, Thailand, Vietnam, New York City, New Orleans, or wherever else we happen to be the next time we scramble up for attention. I wish we could do it tonight.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
A little more about work
I've gotten a few e-mails asking what work is really like. So here's a diary entry. Sorry, it's a little self-absorbed and boring. Nothing new, I suppose.
Dec. 3., a Friday. It was a big day. I met Mary Eisenhower, granddaughter of the former general and president, and Simon Hong, a Seoul city hall employee who, I would later find out, was dazzled by my eyes. That was in between writing about a soldier killed in Iraq and going to a bar in Seoul dedicated only to 70s music. By Seoul musicians. With Americans who subtly argued about which Korean rock band was singing while trying not to show off their knowledge. Their ability to name bands and release dates was impressive, startling, and, I admit, more than slightly amusing. I'd love to do it all again.
The day started at 7 a.m. with me checking e-mail and finding another soldier formerly stationed in Korea who had died. I think 29 have died since a battalion from here was deployed in late summer.
It's significant, and not just because of each loss. In the military, assignment to Korea is, well, less thrilling than being hit on by Mr. Hong. The country isn't as pretty or as glamorous as some of the islands nearby. The weather sucks and not a lot happens in Seoul. Worse, most of the soldiers live at least an hour from Seoul, and it's really like being at summer camp, without the summer or the camp. Housing is limited throughout the peninsula. Out of the 35,000 troops here, very few have the privilege of bringing families. So far, I think I've interviewed at least half a dozen soldiers who could tell me, to the day, when their one-year tour is up.
So the Army has tried for the past few years to promote Korea as an assignment of choice. Come here, and you'll do your duty and not have to go anywhere scary, like Afghanistan or Iraq, for instance. In fact, if you extend your duty here, we'll pay you an extra $300 a month. (And many, many have.) Now tell all that to the 3,400 soldiers in Korea who got orders this summer to go to Iraq. Tell that to the 29 who have died.
So we're keeping track, trying to write a story about each one who dies. The stories are rewrites of the Pentagon press releases and hometown obits, if we're lucky. But every few weeks we do a bigger local story about who's died from here.
I got to work about 10 a.m. and wrote up the obit and a few news briefs. A little after 11 a.m., I got into a cab with Hae-rym and went to the Korea House, a conference center built to look like Korean palacial grounds of old. It was quite beautiful. The planted maple trees were bright red-orange and the buildings on the ground were simple and beautiful, with rice paper screens and heavy wood beams framing most rooms. A buddist chant echoed through speakers throughout the grounds.
We were there to meet Mary Eisenhower, who heads a cultural exchange group called People-to-People. The news conference was actually a very nice luncheon for Ms. Eisenhower and press, and I wasn't about to stay for the free dumplings. At least she took questions for about an hour first.
Her group, started by her grandfather, sponsors things like summer camps for children throughout the world, works to remove land mines from Asian countries, helps coordinate college exchange programs. The interview was interesting, but then they started serving lunch. Hae-rym didn't understand when I said we had to leave at 1 p.m., because she knew my next appointment wasn't for another hour. After we awkwardly scooted out the door (Hae-rym managed to enjoy a few dumplings) I gently explained to her my reason for leaving early, how reporters shouldn't really take a meal or entertainment in exchange for the story. She understood, but was still disappointed I didn't get to eat good, traditional Korean food. Well, me too, but I have to have some dignity here.
Which brings me to city hall. I wanted to cover an afternoon town hall meeting that invited foreigners to come in and complain about Seoul. This is the fifth year the city has had the meeting, and it has produced helpful results in the past. Last year, complaints about health care service prompted a 24-hour English-language hotline for people with questions about illnesses, hospitals, pharmacies and the like.
Of course, the American troops were invited to this meeting, about three miles from Yongsan Garrison. Of course, none came. But it was still a good excuse for me to go to city hall and get experience covering a story there. I met a couple of very helpful and friendly English-speaking reporters. And I got the faithful reminder that all government meetings are boring, and it's only the people in the audience who matter. I bolted after two hours with some helpful business cards and enough for a 12-inch story. I followed up with e-mails to my new collection of business cards, asking them to remember Stripes for any story ideas they had.
One of those e-mails, apparantly, went to poor Mr. Hong. He responded to me later about my story request and my eyes. I'm never sure exactly sure what the appropriate response is to odd comments from Koreans. They generally are more frank than Americans about feelings and appearances, and they don't always mean them in a suggestive way. (An American man in my language class said a player in his badmitton league recently told him, I love you. He said, dude, no you don't. Hae-rym this week blurted out, Joe is beautiful. When I looked at her slyly, she said incredulously, Well, he is.) I suppose any attempt at offense relies on, at the very least, a passive defense, which translates into a quick deletion of Mr. Hong's e-mail.
I finished work Friday about 7 p.m., dutifully skipping language class. It was lucky for me, cause I got a call from the new AP bureau chief who said a happy hour for the international press club was about to start. With one quick conversation with Joe, in Germany, for directions to the gathering, I was set.
Everyone there was fun and interested to know why I picked Seoul. It was a fun group who only left when the hospitality room forced us out at 10 p.m. That's when I decided to ditch my friends who were going out in my own neighborhood for the new and thrilling prospect of going to a neighborhood so new to me that I can't now recall the name. It was fun, and the Korean liquor they ordered was the best I've had yet. It was just around midnight when I realized the bathrooms had no toilet paper (a common predicament in Korea) and I dediced to head back for the American side of town.
I found my friends back on my own turf, and they served me dinner and a good game of darts. I got home about 3 a.m., and set my alarm for 8:30 a.m. because I had to take pictures of the Army/Navy flag football game that started at 10 a.m. Saturday. (I made it with time to spare, just in case you have your doubts.)
So that sums up a fun, but typical day, at least when it comes to work. This week, on Wednesday for instance, I spent half the day trying to figure out the structure of the Korean National Assembly and helping Hae-rym figure out who to call to track a particular bill. Today, Thursday, I spent half an hour at a round table with a source talking about the North Korean nuclear program. Then I spent half the day doing research to make sure my story won't prompt an international incident, or, more importantly for me, a correction.
It's stressful cause I'm on my own, especially with Joe gone. But it's fun, cause I can decide every day what I want to do. The editors in Toyko give me plenty of guidance, but I get the sense they are also wanting me to make some of these decisions on my own. I'm thankful to have the flexibility and their confidence.
Now it's 9:30 at night, and I'll probably check the wires one more time before seeing what's on Korean cable. Last night it was Clueless and Friends. Not a bad line up really, especially after a day struggling to understand the last 50 years of Korean society.
Dec. 3., a Friday. It was a big day. I met Mary Eisenhower, granddaughter of the former general and president, and Simon Hong, a Seoul city hall employee who, I would later find out, was dazzled by my eyes. That was in between writing about a soldier killed in Iraq and going to a bar in Seoul dedicated only to 70s music. By Seoul musicians. With Americans who subtly argued about which Korean rock band was singing while trying not to show off their knowledge. Their ability to name bands and release dates was impressive, startling, and, I admit, more than slightly amusing. I'd love to do it all again.
The day started at 7 a.m. with me checking e-mail and finding another soldier formerly stationed in Korea who had died. I think 29 have died since a battalion from here was deployed in late summer.
It's significant, and not just because of each loss. In the military, assignment to Korea is, well, less thrilling than being hit on by Mr. Hong. The country isn't as pretty or as glamorous as some of the islands nearby. The weather sucks and not a lot happens in Seoul. Worse, most of the soldiers live at least an hour from Seoul, and it's really like being at summer camp, without the summer or the camp. Housing is limited throughout the peninsula. Out of the 35,000 troops here, very few have the privilege of bringing families. So far, I think I've interviewed at least half a dozen soldiers who could tell me, to the day, when their one-year tour is up.
So the Army has tried for the past few years to promote Korea as an assignment of choice. Come here, and you'll do your duty and not have to go anywhere scary, like Afghanistan or Iraq, for instance. In fact, if you extend your duty here, we'll pay you an extra $300 a month. (And many, many have.) Now tell all that to the 3,400 soldiers in Korea who got orders this summer to go to Iraq. Tell that to the 29 who have died.
So we're keeping track, trying to write a story about each one who dies. The stories are rewrites of the Pentagon press releases and hometown obits, if we're lucky. But every few weeks we do a bigger local story about who's died from here.
I got to work about 10 a.m. and wrote up the obit and a few news briefs. A little after 11 a.m., I got into a cab with Hae-rym and went to the Korea House, a conference center built to look like Korean palacial grounds of old. It was quite beautiful. The planted maple trees were bright red-orange and the buildings on the ground were simple and beautiful, with rice paper screens and heavy wood beams framing most rooms. A buddist chant echoed through speakers throughout the grounds.
We were there to meet Mary Eisenhower, who heads a cultural exchange group called People-to-People. The news conference was actually a very nice luncheon for Ms. Eisenhower and press, and I wasn't about to stay for the free dumplings. At least she took questions for about an hour first.
Her group, started by her grandfather, sponsors things like summer camps for children throughout the world, works to remove land mines from Asian countries, helps coordinate college exchange programs. The interview was interesting, but then they started serving lunch. Hae-rym didn't understand when I said we had to leave at 1 p.m., because she knew my next appointment wasn't for another hour. After we awkwardly scooted out the door (Hae-rym managed to enjoy a few dumplings) I gently explained to her my reason for leaving early, how reporters shouldn't really take a meal or entertainment in exchange for the story. She understood, but was still disappointed I didn't get to eat good, traditional Korean food. Well, me too, but I have to have some dignity here.
Which brings me to city hall. I wanted to cover an afternoon town hall meeting that invited foreigners to come in and complain about Seoul. This is the fifth year the city has had the meeting, and it has produced helpful results in the past. Last year, complaints about health care service prompted a 24-hour English-language hotline for people with questions about illnesses, hospitals, pharmacies and the like.
Of course, the American troops were invited to this meeting, about three miles from Yongsan Garrison. Of course, none came. But it was still a good excuse for me to go to city hall and get experience covering a story there. I met a couple of very helpful and friendly English-speaking reporters. And I got the faithful reminder that all government meetings are boring, and it's only the people in the audience who matter. I bolted after two hours with some helpful business cards and enough for a 12-inch story. I followed up with e-mails to my new collection of business cards, asking them to remember Stripes for any story ideas they had.
One of those e-mails, apparantly, went to poor Mr. Hong. He responded to me later about my story request and my eyes. I'm never sure exactly sure what the appropriate response is to odd comments from Koreans. They generally are more frank than Americans about feelings and appearances, and they don't always mean them in a suggestive way. (An American man in my language class said a player in his badmitton league recently told him, I love you. He said, dude, no you don't. Hae-rym this week blurted out, Joe is beautiful. When I looked at her slyly, she said incredulously, Well, he is.) I suppose any attempt at offense relies on, at the very least, a passive defense, which translates into a quick deletion of Mr. Hong's e-mail.
I finished work Friday about 7 p.m., dutifully skipping language class. It was lucky for me, cause I got a call from the new AP bureau chief who said a happy hour for the international press club was about to start. With one quick conversation with Joe, in Germany, for directions to the gathering, I was set.
Everyone there was fun and interested to know why I picked Seoul. It was a fun group who only left when the hospitality room forced us out at 10 p.m. That's when I decided to ditch my friends who were going out in my own neighborhood for the new and thrilling prospect of going to a neighborhood so new to me that I can't now recall the name. It was fun, and the Korean liquor they ordered was the best I've had yet. It was just around midnight when I realized the bathrooms had no toilet paper (a common predicament in Korea) and I dediced to head back for the American side of town.
I found my friends back on my own turf, and they served me dinner and a good game of darts. I got home about 3 a.m., and set my alarm for 8:30 a.m. because I had to take pictures of the Army/Navy flag football game that started at 10 a.m. Saturday. (I made it with time to spare, just in case you have your doubts.)
So that sums up a fun, but typical day, at least when it comes to work. This week, on Wednesday for instance, I spent half the day trying to figure out the structure of the Korean National Assembly and helping Hae-rym figure out who to call to track a particular bill. Today, Thursday, I spent half an hour at a round table with a source talking about the North Korean nuclear program. Then I spent half the day doing research to make sure my story won't prompt an international incident, or, more importantly for me, a correction.
It's stressful cause I'm on my own, especially with Joe gone. But it's fun, cause I can decide every day what I want to do. The editors in Toyko give me plenty of guidance, but I get the sense they are also wanting me to make some of these decisions on my own. I'm thankful to have the flexibility and their confidence.
Now it's 9:30 at night, and I'll probably check the wires one more time before seeing what's on Korean cable. Last night it was Clueless and Friends. Not a bad line up really, especially after a day struggling to understand the last 50 years of Korean society.
Thursday, November 25, 2004
Thanksgiving with black beans and rice
It's Thanksgiving in Korea, and I'm drinking a glass of red wine and waiting for my black bean soup to simmer. Don't feel sorry for me. I've been waiting for this night for a long time.
I worked today, a surprisingly relaxing and productive day. In the morning I wrote a story at home about Amerasian children, kids whose moms are Korean and dads are unknown American soldiers. Most of the moms are poor, illiterate, and former prostitutes. The kids are racially stigmitized and don't stand much of a chance in a place where public middle and high schools require tuition, bus and administrative fees, and uniforms.
A couple of weeks ago, I went to the home of one of the kids, a teen-ager who would have much rather been text messaging his friends than talking to me. Hae-rym went too, along with Mr. Yi, a man who works with the kids in Korea. This teen lives with his grandmother. The mother left when the boy was a month old, and no one knows if she's alive. The grandmother supports the family by collecting cans and cleaning houses. Most of their furniture and clothes have been donated by neighbors or the man, Mr. Yi. I could go on, but you can look for the story if you want; it's supposed to run Sunday.
Later, I asked Hae-rym if there were any non-Korean kids in her classes growing up. She said there was only one, a girl who was half Korean and half German. The girl was smart and a teacher's pet, and no one liked her. It's funny. I think of Korea as this foreign, unique place. But really, it's very homogenous. On the military bases and in the neighborhoods that cater to Americans, there's a mix of races and nationalities. The army is obviously full of black, white, Latino and Asian faces. Outside of those places, there are only Koreans. In Dongdaemun, where I work, I'm the only white face I see when I go off base.
And that brings me back to today. I finally ventured into a Korean restaurant on my own with the goal of ordering my favorite food here: pimpibab. It means stirred rice and comes in all forms, but basically it's vegetables, lettuce, egg, sometimes meat, spicy sauce and rice that you mix together in a big bowl and eat. I've learned enough Korean to recognize pimpibab on the outside menu, so I went into the Authentic Korean Pub. Yes, that was the restaurant's name.
When I order, it turns out there are several kinds of pimpibab. I ask for no meat, and the waiter understands, then he points back to the list. I can't make out anything else, so I motion for him to pick. He gives an impressed look and leaves.
Then he brings me a cold version of the dish, with a fried egg on top. (In other versions, the hot rice and vegies are all in the same bowl with a raw egg on top. When you mix it together, it cooks the egg, sort of like Korean carbonara.) I mixed in the warm rice and got a wonderful rice salad. And it was only 5,000 won, less than $5. He picked the cheapest one for me. I'm going back.
My lunch was much better than the one dished out for soldiers and workers at a mess hall on Yongsan, my Thanksgiving story assignment. Those guys might think different, but the slabs of turkey, steaks, lobster and other things floating in "butter" sauce made my stomach turn. The soldiers and officers were nice, though, and not really sad about being away from home on Thanksgiving. For the most part, they felt like me, that it's another Thursday that happens to be a holiday; or they want to go home today just as much as they do any other day.
I feel like I am home. I finally got to cook, my house smells like cumin, and I've discovered the commissary sells avocados and cilantro, things I thought I'd have to do without for a while. Now I'm eating my soup and feeling very content. (Although, I did have to resort to orange cheese. The commissary really is about middle and southern American, and, Paige, I am feeling your pain.) I was invited to someone's house tonight to eat leftovers, but I just wanted to be home. So I am.
And aside from wondering why anyone would think orange cheese is a good thing, I'm fine. I'm also in a good mood because at work today, by myself, I reread the finale Post-Standard page that Don, Michelle, Nancy and everyone else put together for me. There's nothing like laughing out loud by yourself at the memory of a college student taking a bite out of a stripper's crotch. That really was a good news day.
So Happy Thanksgiving. I wish I was with you, but mostly, I hope you get to eat the food you're most craving and have a wonderful time in your own home.
I worked today, a surprisingly relaxing and productive day. In the morning I wrote a story at home about Amerasian children, kids whose moms are Korean and dads are unknown American soldiers. Most of the moms are poor, illiterate, and former prostitutes. The kids are racially stigmitized and don't stand much of a chance in a place where public middle and high schools require tuition, bus and administrative fees, and uniforms.
A couple of weeks ago, I went to the home of one of the kids, a teen-ager who would have much rather been text messaging his friends than talking to me. Hae-rym went too, along with Mr. Yi, a man who works with the kids in Korea. This teen lives with his grandmother. The mother left when the boy was a month old, and no one knows if she's alive. The grandmother supports the family by collecting cans and cleaning houses. Most of their furniture and clothes have been donated by neighbors or the man, Mr. Yi. I could go on, but you can look for the story if you want; it's supposed to run Sunday.
Later, I asked Hae-rym if there were any non-Korean kids in her classes growing up. She said there was only one, a girl who was half Korean and half German. The girl was smart and a teacher's pet, and no one liked her. It's funny. I think of Korea as this foreign, unique place. But really, it's very homogenous. On the military bases and in the neighborhoods that cater to Americans, there's a mix of races and nationalities. The army is obviously full of black, white, Latino and Asian faces. Outside of those places, there are only Koreans. In Dongdaemun, where I work, I'm the only white face I see when I go off base.
And that brings me back to today. I finally ventured into a Korean restaurant on my own with the goal of ordering my favorite food here: pimpibab. It means stirred rice and comes in all forms, but basically it's vegetables, lettuce, egg, sometimes meat, spicy sauce and rice that you mix together in a big bowl and eat. I've learned enough Korean to recognize pimpibab on the outside menu, so I went into the Authentic Korean Pub. Yes, that was the restaurant's name.
When I order, it turns out there are several kinds of pimpibab. I ask for no meat, and the waiter understands, then he points back to the list. I can't make out anything else, so I motion for him to pick. He gives an impressed look and leaves.
Then he brings me a cold version of the dish, with a fried egg on top. (In other versions, the hot rice and vegies are all in the same bowl with a raw egg on top. When you mix it together, it cooks the egg, sort of like Korean carbonara.) I mixed in the warm rice and got a wonderful rice salad. And it was only 5,000 won, less than $5. He picked the cheapest one for me. I'm going back.
My lunch was much better than the one dished out for soldiers and workers at a mess hall on Yongsan, my Thanksgiving story assignment. Those guys might think different, but the slabs of turkey, steaks, lobster and other things floating in "butter" sauce made my stomach turn. The soldiers and officers were nice, though, and not really sad about being away from home on Thanksgiving. For the most part, they felt like me, that it's another Thursday that happens to be a holiday; or they want to go home today just as much as they do any other day.
I feel like I am home. I finally got to cook, my house smells like cumin, and I've discovered the commissary sells avocados and cilantro, things I thought I'd have to do without for a while. Now I'm eating my soup and feeling very content. (Although, I did have to resort to orange cheese. The commissary really is about middle and southern American, and, Paige, I am feeling your pain.) I was invited to someone's house tonight to eat leftovers, but I just wanted to be home. So I am.
And aside from wondering why anyone would think orange cheese is a good thing, I'm fine. I'm also in a good mood because at work today, by myself, I reread the finale Post-Standard page that Don, Michelle, Nancy and everyone else put together for me. There's nothing like laughing out loud by yourself at the memory of a college student taking a bite out of a stripper's crotch. That really was a good news day.
So Happy Thanksgiving. I wish I was with you, but mostly, I hope you get to eat the food you're most craving and have a wonderful time in your own home.
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Eleven hours in the car to eat $140 worth of raw fish
I took my first road trip in Korea last weekend. Seth, another reporter at Stripes, invited me and a couple of other people to go to Seoraksan National Forest to hike and see the ocean. The park is near the seaside town Sokcho, and both are a destination for Koreans in the fall. The park offers short hikes and amazing views of a mountain range and the fall colors. Sokcho offers fresh seafood killed, gutted and, if you insist, cooked before your very eyes.
The trip from Seoul is less than 150 miles, but it took us five hours to get there and six to return the next day in our rented van. The roads for about two hours outside of Seoul are conjested, and there's no real highway system. (Outside of the shorter highways in Seoul, the only expressway in the entire country runs north/south. It's called Highway 1.) Instead, most of the roads are two- and four-land boulevards with stoplights. Once we were about 40 miles outside of Seoul, the spaces between the towns and stoplights increased, but the roads began wending up and down mountains. The switchbacks were much like those along California's Highway 1, except that instead of the Pacific Ocean, we had alternating views of mountain sides and box canyons.
Outside of Seoul, the countryside was rural and depressed. The small towns that popped up along the way were little more than crossroads, and the buildings and homes were worn down. Sometimes we'd drive for a couple of hours before seeing a gas station. Other times, farmers would cross the two lane highway without looking for oncoming traffic. Trash dumps were beside gardens. Dogs wandered around. A few houses had chickens in the front yard.
Seoraksan (I think it means Snowy Crags Mountain) was the busiest outdoor park I've ever been in. Thousands and thousands of people were there, and very few were dressed for hiking. Most were families and older couple, or women in lipstick, loafers and members only jackets who were marching up steps and rock at an impressive rate. The trails we went on were as crowded as a shopping mall. About every half-kilometer, a restaurant would appear complete with outdoor dining, beer, wine and snacks. It sounds convenient, but the cafes didn't seem that clean, and few Koreans were eating there. Maybe the prices are too high.
Throughout the park were people who were hawking homemade food -- stuffed, doughy dumplings, roasted ginko nuts, thick honey on a stick and some ubiquitous larve stew that shows up on a lot of Korean street corners. It's one of the few things I don't think I'll ever be able to eat. The smell alone is enough to turn my stomach. Another guy on the trip said he tried one; a young Korean woman had convinced him it would be a good idea. She ate handfuls, but he tried one and swore off them (and I think her, too) for life.
Which brings me to the story of our dinner. We had left Seoul at 8 a.m., and stopped along the way at a Korean diner. I had half a bowl of soba noodles, and we had a few snacks in the car, but we really hadn't eaten anything all day. So after changing at our seaside motel (cost: $30 a night, beds not included), we went to the wharf to have dinner.
The boardwalk was filled with seafood vendors on one side and seafood restaurants on the other. In front of every vendor were plastic tubs full of swimming fish. Woman standing beside them would occassionally stick a net into a tub, pull out a fish and begin gutting it. Then they'd cook it up for people sitting behind the vendors in makeshift restaurants under tents. It looks like they mostly made stews, although some of the women were frying up shrimp and zucchini, tempura-style.
On the restaurant side, there were actual restaurants with menus, tables and, most importantly, beer. One of the people with us, Jennifer, is half-Korean and speaks both Korean and English fluently. We went into the restaurant our motel-owner recommended, and then Jennifer stopped. "You realize it's all raw," she told us. We said we didn't care as long as she kept ordering more bottles of Cass, the malty yellow beer that's at every restaurant in Korea.
Jennifer ordered, and she wasn't mistaken. For 140,000 won (about $140), she had ordered a platter full of raw fish. It included about six white fish, one tuna-like fillet, some squid, mussles and a few other things I couldn't identify. When the waitress first brought it, all of the creatures' heads were on the plate. She came back and removed them before we started eating, and I noticed she did the same for other diners. I think it's to prove that the fish parts are fresh and all came from the same owner.
We had rice, wasabi, soy sauce and an assortment of kimchi, so I decided to make sushi. For the most part, it was really good. They also provided lettuce leaves that you could use to roll up an assortment of fish and flavors to eat like a little burrito. After we finished most of the fish, the waitress set a burner on our table with a soup pot on top. It contained the bones from the fish we had just eaten, along with a few noodles, cabbage and arugula. In a few minutes, we had fish-flavored soup.
The next day we went back to Seoraksan to ride a cable car to the tallest peak. After the $7 ride, we climbed about another 300 meters to the very top. It was an amazing few all the way the coast and all of Sokcho, about 10 miles away. Scrambling up and down the peak was a little harrowing, however, because of the crowds. It was like being on a subway escalator at rush hour, except you had to be careful that no one stepped on your hand as you found your next hold.
We left about 1 p.m. and got back to Yongsan Garrison, the army base in Seoul, at about 7:30 p.m. It was a long two days, but worth it. I'll have to drive throughout Korea eventually, so it was good to watch someone else navigate the Korean roads and maps. It was also nice to be outdoors on bright, crisp fall days, even if there were 10,000 other people there too.
The trip from Seoul is less than 150 miles, but it took us five hours to get there and six to return the next day in our rented van. The roads for about two hours outside of Seoul are conjested, and there's no real highway system. (Outside of the shorter highways in Seoul, the only expressway in the entire country runs north/south. It's called Highway 1.) Instead, most of the roads are two- and four-land boulevards with stoplights. Once we were about 40 miles outside of Seoul, the spaces between the towns and stoplights increased, but the roads began wending up and down mountains. The switchbacks were much like those along California's Highway 1, except that instead of the Pacific Ocean, we had alternating views of mountain sides and box canyons.
Outside of Seoul, the countryside was rural and depressed. The small towns that popped up along the way were little more than crossroads, and the buildings and homes were worn down. Sometimes we'd drive for a couple of hours before seeing a gas station. Other times, farmers would cross the two lane highway without looking for oncoming traffic. Trash dumps were beside gardens. Dogs wandered around. A few houses had chickens in the front yard.
Seoraksan (I think it means Snowy Crags Mountain) was the busiest outdoor park I've ever been in. Thousands and thousands of people were there, and very few were dressed for hiking. Most were families and older couple, or women in lipstick, loafers and members only jackets who were marching up steps and rock at an impressive rate. The trails we went on were as crowded as a shopping mall. About every half-kilometer, a restaurant would appear complete with outdoor dining, beer, wine and snacks. It sounds convenient, but the cafes didn't seem that clean, and few Koreans were eating there. Maybe the prices are too high.
Throughout the park were people who were hawking homemade food -- stuffed, doughy dumplings, roasted ginko nuts, thick honey on a stick and some ubiquitous larve stew that shows up on a lot of Korean street corners. It's one of the few things I don't think I'll ever be able to eat. The smell alone is enough to turn my stomach. Another guy on the trip said he tried one; a young Korean woman had convinced him it would be a good idea. She ate handfuls, but he tried one and swore off them (and I think her, too) for life.
Which brings me to the story of our dinner. We had left Seoul at 8 a.m., and stopped along the way at a Korean diner. I had half a bowl of soba noodles, and we had a few snacks in the car, but we really hadn't eaten anything all day. So after changing at our seaside motel (cost: $30 a night, beds not included), we went to the wharf to have dinner.
The boardwalk was filled with seafood vendors on one side and seafood restaurants on the other. In front of every vendor were plastic tubs full of swimming fish. Woman standing beside them would occassionally stick a net into a tub, pull out a fish and begin gutting it. Then they'd cook it up for people sitting behind the vendors in makeshift restaurants under tents. It looks like they mostly made stews, although some of the women were frying up shrimp and zucchini, tempura-style.
On the restaurant side, there were actual restaurants with menus, tables and, most importantly, beer. One of the people with us, Jennifer, is half-Korean and speaks both Korean and English fluently. We went into the restaurant our motel-owner recommended, and then Jennifer stopped. "You realize it's all raw," she told us. We said we didn't care as long as she kept ordering more bottles of Cass, the malty yellow beer that's at every restaurant in Korea.
Jennifer ordered, and she wasn't mistaken. For 140,000 won (about $140), she had ordered a platter full of raw fish. It included about six white fish, one tuna-like fillet, some squid, mussles and a few other things I couldn't identify. When the waitress first brought it, all of the creatures' heads were on the plate. She came back and removed them before we started eating, and I noticed she did the same for other diners. I think it's to prove that the fish parts are fresh and all came from the same owner.
We had rice, wasabi, soy sauce and an assortment of kimchi, so I decided to make sushi. For the most part, it was really good. They also provided lettuce leaves that you could use to roll up an assortment of fish and flavors to eat like a little burrito. After we finished most of the fish, the waitress set a burner on our table with a soup pot on top. It contained the bones from the fish we had just eaten, along with a few noodles, cabbage and arugula. In a few minutes, we had fish-flavored soup.
The next day we went back to Seoraksan to ride a cable car to the tallest peak. After the $7 ride, we climbed about another 300 meters to the very top. It was an amazing few all the way the coast and all of Sokcho, about 10 miles away. Scrambling up and down the peak was a little harrowing, however, because of the crowds. It was like being on a subway escalator at rush hour, except you had to be careful that no one stepped on your hand as you found your next hold.
We left about 1 p.m. and got back to Yongsan Garrison, the army base in Seoul, at about 7:30 p.m. It was a long two days, but worth it. I'll have to drive throughout Korea eventually, so it was good to watch someone else navigate the Korean roads and maps. It was also nice to be outdoors on bright, crisp fall days, even if there were 10,000 other people there too.
Thursday, November 04, 2004
It's pretty up there at the DMZ
Thursday was the day when South met North, so to speak.
At about 8:15 a.m., Hae-rym and I crawled into a passenger van with public affairs staff from the U.S. Forces Korea staff and headed toward the Demilitarized Zone. It was nice, this time, to be on the interstate system in Seoul and have a different perspective than my trip in from the airport. I had a few more barings and could understand the city better. On the way out, we glimpsed the World Cup soccer stadium and Parliment, a giant building on the banks of the Han River.
Freedom Road takes you to Panmunjom. It's a four-lane highway that shadows the Han River northward, a straight shot less than 40 miles from a place where they draw the Simpsons to a country where people are typically much shorter and smaller because of the poverty. As we left Seoul, Hae-rym pointed out the new cities that are popping up north of Seoul. From the highway you can only see the high-rise apartment clusters. She pointed to one and said it's only 10 years old. It has more buildings than Syracuse and Jackson combined.
The suburbs end about halfway to DMZ and the barbed wire begins, though I'm not exactly sure where. I was looking east at the apartments in the distance and the sunflowers right beside the road. When I looked west, there was a chain-linked fence with spools of barbed wire separating Freedom Road and the riverbanks. Back on the right were farmed fields, round hay bales and autumn colors. On the left was an observatory for tourists to peer into North Korea. (There was also, less than 10 miles from the border, a ship marooned on a mountain hill. I asked about it, and the public affairs guy said it was a newly built coffee shop. I'm not making this up.)
Hae-rym was much more excited than me about the visit. She'd been to the border before, but never to Panmunjon, the village in the midst of the DMZ where United Nations, Korean and North Korean officials meet. The conference table in the main meeting room straddles both Koreas, and guards have rules about who can stand where. It was Hae-rym (prounounced hey reem) who first noticed during our ride that the North Korean hills had no trees, while the South Korean ones do.
At the edge of the DMZ is a military camp, Camp Bonifas, that Korean and U.S. military occupy. All of the troops there are hand-picked; the U.S. soldiers serve 26 days on, four off. They do that for a year. The Koreans serve two years and most have black belts in Tae Kwon Doe. We got to Camp Bonifas and went directly into a small building with two conference rooms with theater-style chairs. The building is used for the tours, and we sat in the smaller briefing room filled with about two dozen huge leather chairs. After a power point and a short question and answer, we got on a bus headed for the Joint Security Area.
The JSA is where all the business of the DMZ happens. North and South both have huge (empty, but huge) buildings on either size for guests and for prestiege. They look like museums. But when you descend from these entrances into the JSA, you move to an area that's more like a small dirt field that contains five buildings slightly bigger than double-wide trailers. The trailers are lined up, five in a row. Two are the property of South Korea, two belong to the North. And in the middle is the conference room where, depending on what side of the table you're on, you change countries.
I stood in North Korea for about five minutes, mainly to get pictures of the Republic of Korea military guard standing at the head of the table. Outside, one North Korean official stood far back on the steps of his entrance building. He didn't seem very interested in our small group. Every Wednesday the USFK runs a media tour, but that day, it was only me, Hae-rym and an Argentinian journalist who didn't even have a notebook.
We drove around Camp Bonifas a little and stopped at a watchtower that is surrounded on three sides by North Korea. With the lens on my camera, I could look across into the "village" built on the North Korean side. It has a flagpole looming in the middle of the buildings, and the flag is two to three stories long. It was flapping in the wind while we were these, a rarity considering its weight. The Americans think the village is deserted, just a bunch of buildings made to look prosperous. Until this summer, the North Koreans would broadcast messages through a loud speaker from noon to about 10 p.m. everyday. The Americans call the village Propaganda Village.
The broadcasts were for the benefit of the 225 people who live in Panmunjom. These Korean families (south Koreans) have grown rice and lived in this no-man's land since the war. The South Korean government subsidizes their income, so they make about $80,000 a year (a great income here). They pay no taxes, and the men are exempt from the required two years of military service mandatory for all males in the country. When the farmers go into their paddies, American or ROK guards must protect them. So nearly every day, trained American soldiers are protecting rice farmers.
The farmers and their families must be inside by dark, with the windows and doors pulled shut. They have lights out at midnight. And they have to be inside the village at night for 260 nights a year. Military checks also monitor this. Men can look for brides outside of the village, but a woman born there must marry a man from the village.
Everything about the DMZ is a contradiction. It's dangerous and peaceful, with soldiers standing at intense attention guarding an empty landscape. The fences are surrounded by land mines and huge berns meant to stop tank attacks. Inside the chain-linked fences, soldiers have stuck thousands of hand-picked, hand-painted rocks. If one of the rocks falls, the soldiers know the fence has been tampered with.
Hae-rym seemed really moved by the whole thing, but I have to admit I wasn't impressed in the same way. It was really hard to believe there's a dangerous army of 1 million North Koreans just over the hill when the place just seems so peaceful. The most stunning thing for me was how close the North and South Korean guards are every day even though they are forbidden to speak to each other. I suppose there's no room for curiosity in a place filled with land mines.
At about 8:15 a.m., Hae-rym and I crawled into a passenger van with public affairs staff from the U.S. Forces Korea staff and headed toward the Demilitarized Zone. It was nice, this time, to be on the interstate system in Seoul and have a different perspective than my trip in from the airport. I had a few more barings and could understand the city better. On the way out, we glimpsed the World Cup soccer stadium and Parliment, a giant building on the banks of the Han River.
Freedom Road takes you to Panmunjom. It's a four-lane highway that shadows the Han River northward, a straight shot less than 40 miles from a place where they draw the Simpsons to a country where people are typically much shorter and smaller because of the poverty. As we left Seoul, Hae-rym pointed out the new cities that are popping up north of Seoul. From the highway you can only see the high-rise apartment clusters. She pointed to one and said it's only 10 years old. It has more buildings than Syracuse and Jackson combined.
The suburbs end about halfway to DMZ and the barbed wire begins, though I'm not exactly sure where. I was looking east at the apartments in the distance and the sunflowers right beside the road. When I looked west, there was a chain-linked fence with spools of barbed wire separating Freedom Road and the riverbanks. Back on the right were farmed fields, round hay bales and autumn colors. On the left was an observatory for tourists to peer into North Korea. (There was also, less than 10 miles from the border, a ship marooned on a mountain hill. I asked about it, and the public affairs guy said it was a newly built coffee shop. I'm not making this up.)
Hae-rym was much more excited than me about the visit. She'd been to the border before, but never to Panmunjon, the village in the midst of the DMZ where United Nations, Korean and North Korean officials meet. The conference table in the main meeting room straddles both Koreas, and guards have rules about who can stand where. It was Hae-rym (prounounced hey reem) who first noticed during our ride that the North Korean hills had no trees, while the South Korean ones do.
At the edge of the DMZ is a military camp, Camp Bonifas, that Korean and U.S. military occupy. All of the troops there are hand-picked; the U.S. soldiers serve 26 days on, four off. They do that for a year. The Koreans serve two years and most have black belts in Tae Kwon Doe. We got to Camp Bonifas and went directly into a small building with two conference rooms with theater-style chairs. The building is used for the tours, and we sat in the smaller briefing room filled with about two dozen huge leather chairs. After a power point and a short question and answer, we got on a bus headed for the Joint Security Area.
The JSA is where all the business of the DMZ happens. North and South both have huge (empty, but huge) buildings on either size for guests and for prestiege. They look like museums. But when you descend from these entrances into the JSA, you move to an area that's more like a small dirt field that contains five buildings slightly bigger than double-wide trailers. The trailers are lined up, five in a row. Two are the property of South Korea, two belong to the North. And in the middle is the conference room where, depending on what side of the table you're on, you change countries.
I stood in North Korea for about five minutes, mainly to get pictures of the Republic of Korea military guard standing at the head of the table. Outside, one North Korean official stood far back on the steps of his entrance building. He didn't seem very interested in our small group. Every Wednesday the USFK runs a media tour, but that day, it was only me, Hae-rym and an Argentinian journalist who didn't even have a notebook.
We drove around Camp Bonifas a little and stopped at a watchtower that is surrounded on three sides by North Korea. With the lens on my camera, I could look across into the "village" built on the North Korean side. It has a flagpole looming in the middle of the buildings, and the flag is two to three stories long. It was flapping in the wind while we were these, a rarity considering its weight. The Americans think the village is deserted, just a bunch of buildings made to look prosperous. Until this summer, the North Koreans would broadcast messages through a loud speaker from noon to about 10 p.m. everyday. The Americans call the village Propaganda Village.
The broadcasts were for the benefit of the 225 people who live in Panmunjom. These Korean families (south Koreans) have grown rice and lived in this no-man's land since the war. The South Korean government subsidizes their income, so they make about $80,000 a year (a great income here). They pay no taxes, and the men are exempt from the required two years of military service mandatory for all males in the country. When the farmers go into their paddies, American or ROK guards must protect them. So nearly every day, trained American soldiers are protecting rice farmers.
The farmers and their families must be inside by dark, with the windows and doors pulled shut. They have lights out at midnight. And they have to be inside the village at night for 260 nights a year. Military checks also monitor this. Men can look for brides outside of the village, but a woman born there must marry a man from the village.
Everything about the DMZ is a contradiction. It's dangerous and peaceful, with soldiers standing at intense attention guarding an empty landscape. The fences are surrounded by land mines and huge berns meant to stop tank attacks. Inside the chain-linked fences, soldiers have stuck thousands of hand-picked, hand-painted rocks. If one of the rocks falls, the soldiers know the fence has been tampered with.
Hae-rym seemed really moved by the whole thing, but I have to admit I wasn't impressed in the same way. It was really hard to believe there's a dangerous army of 1 million North Koreans just over the hill when the place just seems so peaceful. The most stunning thing for me was how close the North and South Korean guards are every day even though they are forbidden to speak to each other. I suppose there's no room for curiosity in a place filled with land mines.
Sunday, October 31, 2004
3br, w w/d, 2bath, balcony & 2kitchens
I spent Thursday passing my driver's test, watching a video warning of the perils of Korean roads and looking for apartments.
The driver's test consisted of 55 questions about road signs, cell phone use and speed limits that asked about conversions from miles-per-hour to kilometers. Thank god I've run enough to know that 5k equals 3.1 miles. Otherwise, I'd be like many of the young soldiers who left the testing room and had to tell their sergeant how they just barely flunked.
On Thursday afternoon, I looked at eight apartments. They went from nice to ridiculously nice. There are two main neighborhoods where Americans live, and therefore, where Korean apartment owners cater to Americans' inflated rent allowance. The first, Itaewon, is the "older, and run-down" section of town set on a hill filled with houses and steep cobblestone driveways that require switchbacks to descend. In that slum, $3,000 a month will get you a three-bedroom, two full-bath with a working fireplace and wonderful view of the city. The more fashionable neighborhood, Hannam, is beyond the Itaewon hill and offers a slightly flatter landscape and substantially nicer houses. The last place I looked at is a couple of blocks away from the lot where the CEO of Samsung is building a new compound, complete with his own police station.
The apartments are so nice that I immediatly began wishing for more. I wish the two-bedroom that overlooks a beautiful church and tree on a quiet street also had an extra bedroom and a rooftop-view. I wish the two-bedroom in Itaewon with 15-foot high ceilings and skylight had a more subtle wallpaper scheme. The craziest place I saw, however, was really over the top and left me thinking this really is a waste of money. It's brand-new, never been lived in, and is bigger than most three-bedroom houses. It has three huge bedrooms, including a master with a walk-in closet, shower and jacuzzi tub. There's also a small refridgerator for the bedroom, just in case. The kitchen comes with a television, radio and security camera. I could really only fill two rooms; it would be like living in a museum.
And to top it off, there's the roof. The roof is a landscaped patio complete with picnic tables, a spectacular view and another kitchen, in case you want to eat al fresco. Joe wants to move there, but I'm not convinced. I think I need something a little more realistic. I'll go look again this week to see what other crazy options there are for my (your) American money hard at work.
Friday night we all went out again, first for Kalbi then for cheap Korean beer, darts and pool. Kalbi is Korean barbeque, where the dining table comes complete with a grill and the waitresses cook your beef, ribs, whatever, right in front of you. I've eaten it three times so far. Then we went out for drinks at a bar. Some of my friends ended up playing pool with a Taiwanese guy who's in charge of the Simpsons in Korea. (All the Fox cartoon shows are animated here.) I ended up talking to a guy who worked for the Asian Wall Street Journal. Just another night out in Seoul.
It's Sunday morning here, about 60 and sunny. I'm going for a run, then meeting some people for lunch. I hope I can spend the day outside. The trees are turning, and there are hundreds of ginko trees with bright yellow flowers. My language class starts Monday, 7 to 9 p.m. three days a week. By this time next weekend I'm sure I'll be exhausted.
Oh yeah. Tim won another $400. I'm thinking of turning over my expense checks to him.
The driver's test consisted of 55 questions about road signs, cell phone use and speed limits that asked about conversions from miles-per-hour to kilometers. Thank god I've run enough to know that 5k equals 3.1 miles. Otherwise, I'd be like many of the young soldiers who left the testing room and had to tell their sergeant how they just barely flunked.
On Thursday afternoon, I looked at eight apartments. They went from nice to ridiculously nice. There are two main neighborhoods where Americans live, and therefore, where Korean apartment owners cater to Americans' inflated rent allowance. The first, Itaewon, is the "older, and run-down" section of town set on a hill filled with houses and steep cobblestone driveways that require switchbacks to descend. In that slum, $3,000 a month will get you a three-bedroom, two full-bath with a working fireplace and wonderful view of the city. The more fashionable neighborhood, Hannam, is beyond the Itaewon hill and offers a slightly flatter landscape and substantially nicer houses. The last place I looked at is a couple of blocks away from the lot where the CEO of Samsung is building a new compound, complete with his own police station.
The apartments are so nice that I immediatly began wishing for more. I wish the two-bedroom that overlooks a beautiful church and tree on a quiet street also had an extra bedroom and a rooftop-view. I wish the two-bedroom in Itaewon with 15-foot high ceilings and skylight had a more subtle wallpaper scheme. The craziest place I saw, however, was really over the top and left me thinking this really is a waste of money. It's brand-new, never been lived in, and is bigger than most three-bedroom houses. It has three huge bedrooms, including a master with a walk-in closet, shower and jacuzzi tub. There's also a small refridgerator for the bedroom, just in case. The kitchen comes with a television, radio and security camera. I could really only fill two rooms; it would be like living in a museum.
And to top it off, there's the roof. The roof is a landscaped patio complete with picnic tables, a spectacular view and another kitchen, in case you want to eat al fresco. Joe wants to move there, but I'm not convinced. I think I need something a little more realistic. I'll go look again this week to see what other crazy options there are for my (your) American money hard at work.
Friday night we all went out again, first for Kalbi then for cheap Korean beer, darts and pool. Kalbi is Korean barbeque, where the dining table comes complete with a grill and the waitresses cook your beef, ribs, whatever, right in front of you. I've eaten it three times so far. Then we went out for drinks at a bar. Some of my friends ended up playing pool with a Taiwanese guy who's in charge of the Simpsons in Korea. (All the Fox cartoon shows are animated here.) I ended up talking to a guy who worked for the Asian Wall Street Journal. Just another night out in Seoul.
It's Sunday morning here, about 60 and sunny. I'm going for a run, then meeting some people for lunch. I hope I can spend the day outside. The trees are turning, and there are hundreds of ginko trees with bright yellow flowers. My language class starts Monday, 7 to 9 p.m. three days a week. By this time next weekend I'm sure I'll be exhausted.
Oh yeah. Tim won another $400. I'm thinking of turning over my expense checks to him.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
My second story
My first story for Stripes was about a Japanese air force official getting a medal from the Americans.
My second was covering a press conference with Colin Powell with about 250 other reporters, cameramen and photographers all crammed into one press room. The men took smoking breaks in a side room while waiting for Powell and the Korean foreign minister, Ban Ki-moon, to show. I went to the press conference without a press pass, but our translater, Hae-rym, got us in. She helped by holding my tape recorder (which proved virtually useless later) while I struggled with my camera. Needless to say, my first picture for Stripes was a grainy mug of Powell in mid-word. My only solace is that I can only get better.
I didn't get to go to the DMZ Wednesday. I was supposed to go as part of a tour, and Hae-rym and I went to the public information office on Yongsan at 7:30 a.m. Because she lives near Incheon, that means she left her house at 6 a.m. to start her trek on public transportation. But the man who was supposed to take us forgot, and he left at 7:15. We'll go next week.
Instead I learned about another story. The military officials decided to raise the on-base drinking age from 20 to 21. Most military bases around the world try to set the drinking age at the same age as the local community. In Korea, you can drink when you're 20. But there's a new push to bring the drinking age limit back in line with the states. So starting Monday, soldiers can't drink until their 21.They can still go off-base, but risk getting in trouble if military police catch them. We were at a bar last night and twice MPs came in to check. So it's big news here.
Today (Thursday) I took my drivers test and passed. Now I'm off to look for apartments with Tim, the head editor for the Pacific office who is visiting from Tokyo to help me in my first few days. It's so nice to have so much help. Last night (over great Indian food), Tim and Joe (my editor) both recalled their first few days in Seoul. No one met Tim at the airport, no one offered to go to dinner with Joe for the first three nights. They are really taking care of me.
Did I happen to mention there are slot machines across the hall from my office? Yes, and a bar.
The Stripes office is on a small base near Seoul's soccer stadium. It's also near the garment district, where thousands of spools of thread and piles of carpet and fabric bolts line the sidewalks. It's fun to work so close to city streets rather than at the campus of Yongsan. That said, the base is pretty run down. It desparately needs a new coat of ugly Army beige paint.
But like at most bases, there's a bar and a slot machine room. The one on our base happens to be just across the hall. It's really dumpy and depressing, not a place I'd likely drink. Tim, however, went over yesterday afternoon to play slots while he was waiting for me to file my story. He swears he has a system that involves the super 8 game and bells.
He won $375.
Hope he has the same luck finding a sweet place to live.
My second was covering a press conference with Colin Powell with about 250 other reporters, cameramen and photographers all crammed into one press room. The men took smoking breaks in a side room while waiting for Powell and the Korean foreign minister, Ban Ki-moon, to show. I went to the press conference without a press pass, but our translater, Hae-rym, got us in. She helped by holding my tape recorder (which proved virtually useless later) while I struggled with my camera. Needless to say, my first picture for Stripes was a grainy mug of Powell in mid-word. My only solace is that I can only get better.
I didn't get to go to the DMZ Wednesday. I was supposed to go as part of a tour, and Hae-rym and I went to the public information office on Yongsan at 7:30 a.m. Because she lives near Incheon, that means she left her house at 6 a.m. to start her trek on public transportation. But the man who was supposed to take us forgot, and he left at 7:15. We'll go next week.
Instead I learned about another story. The military officials decided to raise the on-base drinking age from 20 to 21. Most military bases around the world try to set the drinking age at the same age as the local community. In Korea, you can drink when you're 20. But there's a new push to bring the drinking age limit back in line with the states. So starting Monday, soldiers can't drink until their 21.They can still go off-base, but risk getting in trouble if military police catch them. We were at a bar last night and twice MPs came in to check. So it's big news here.
Today (Thursday) I took my drivers test and passed. Now I'm off to look for apartments with Tim, the head editor for the Pacific office who is visiting from Tokyo to help me in my first few days. It's so nice to have so much help. Last night (over great Indian food), Tim and Joe (my editor) both recalled their first few days in Seoul. No one met Tim at the airport, no one offered to go to dinner with Joe for the first three nights. They are really taking care of me.
Did I happen to mention there are slot machines across the hall from my office? Yes, and a bar.
The Stripes office is on a small base near Seoul's soccer stadium. It's also near the garment district, where thousands of spools of thread and piles of carpet and fabric bolts line the sidewalks. It's fun to work so close to city streets rather than at the campus of Yongsan. That said, the base is pretty run down. It desparately needs a new coat of ugly Army beige paint.
But like at most bases, there's a bar and a slot machine room. The one on our base happens to be just across the hall. It's really dumpy and depressing, not a place I'd likely drink. Tim, however, went over yesterday afternoon to play slots while he was waiting for me to file my story. He swears he has a system that involves the super 8 game and bells.
He won $375.
Hope he has the same luck finding a sweet place to live.
Sunday, October 24, 2004
I made it
During the past four weeks, I've been at the top of the Adirondacks, in the basements of Tokyo department stores and twice to a bar in Indianapolis where I managed to follow all the owner's self-imposed rules, including refraining from bird-dogging. It was all so fun. The only bad part happened during the flight from Tokyo to Seoul. My computer battery died so my only recourse was to listen to Korean Air Lines music. This all explains why I descended into my new home listening to every single word and note of "Stairway to Heaven."
It's a very long song and it was a very long journey. So it's hard to say what about Korea made the biggest first impression on me: The ruralness of the country near the airport, the way the interstate looked just like one in the states, the moment when my new boss, Joe, pointed over his shoulder and said, "The DMZ is about 20 miles that way."
Driving into Seoul was stunning. From the highway the city looks industrial and bleak. Apartment high-rises litter the Han River's banks and the palette of the city looks white and beige, like a primer coat that never got its final color. I didn't like the looks of it, and it was a scary moment for me.
That changed almost immediately when I saw the city's streets. The bigger ones are lined with trees and shops. The smaller ones track up steep hills and dead end into a maze of three- and four-story apartment buildings and houses. It's dirty and busy, and sometimes there's an unexpected whiff of the sewage system in the air. But the women still look more fashionable than I do and it's rare to see someone walking down the street who isn't talking to friends.
In the past two days in Seoul I've seen active construction on new apartment buildings, department stores and museums; insect-cocoon stew being dished out at a flea market; and Korean riot police standing around looking bored. The subway stations are clean and crowded, and most people who drive do so without regarding traffic signals or lane designations. Men drive mopeds through every conceivable crevice in the traffic, hauling pizzas, yarn, socks, computer equipment, produce, and anything else someone might like to buy.
My first meal in Seoul was at a high-end Italian restaurant. It had the best calamari, fried perfectly with a sprinkling of chopped jalapenos. The men at the dinner party brought their own beer: caned six-packs of Miller Genuine Draft and Budweiser. Some wonderful soul ordered a few bottles of red wine, and I really felt quite at home. Since then, I've eaten Korean dumplings and pibimbap, a mixture of steamed rice, vegetables and egg. I've only found one Starbucks so far (at least off base) and am taking that as a good sign.
And, of course, there's work. My first couple of days involved a continuation of paperwork and orientation, similar to my first few hours in Tokyo. I got a Nikon 100 that I don't know how to use. I also picked up a study guide for an international driver's license. I'm supposed to go to the DMZ on Wednesday, and I think I'm expected to drive myself, write a story and take photos. It's the photography that has me most worried by far.
The Stripes office in Seoul is old and pretty run-down, so run-down that the bar across the hallway complete with slot machines is little consolation. The office is on a base in the middle of the city's garment district, about 15 minutes from Yongsan. The main Army base in Seoul, Yongsan Garrison, looks more like a college campus than a fighting machine. The hotel, Dragon Hill, is like a Hilton and has a bank and ATM that dispenses won and dollars, a tailor who makes shirts and suits from bolts of silk and wool, a Subway and Burger King, Starbucks coffee and a florist who let me borrow a vase and filled it with snapdragons and astors for only $3. Outside stand Korean police in case any protesters show up. They do from time to time, one of the many things I'll get to cover here.
The nearest neighborhood serves as the off-campus shopping, eating and drinking district for most Americans and other foreigners here. It's probably where I'll live, and when I was walking around I saw sweatshirts from both Dartmouth and Mississippi State. The merchants and street vendors all look Korean, and they know enough English to talk about size, color, and durability of their leather goods. One woman who wanted to sell me a shirt knew only a few broken English phrases. But after I put it on, she said very confidently, "It's cute." I didn't agree.
My Korean, so far, is awful. It seemed easier in Tokyo because more restaurants and signs had English subtitles. That's true less here, and the phrase for thank you is much longer and harder. I'm considering taking an 8-week language course at one of the local colleges. It's only $300 and I think a good way to get further away from Yongsan and meet other foreigners living here.
I keep discovering new aspects every few minutes, and I'm still trying to soak it all in. I hope this diary helps me sort through it in the coming months. I also hope it's entertaining for all of us. Most of all, I want it to serve another way to stay in touch with everyone at home.
One of my favorite stories is about stone soup. I'm sure there are dozens of versions from dozens of cultures, but this is the way I heard it -- A soldier wanders into a small village in the winter. He knocks on a couple of doors for dinner, but the people tell him they are too poor and hungry to feed a stranger. The next day, he builds a fire in the village square, puts a caldron full of water on it, gets a spoon and begins to stir. When curious villagers ask what he's making, he tells them stone soup. He brags about the concoction, then laments he doesn't have an onion to improve the flavor. One villager runs home to collect a hidden onion, and slowly the soldier and the villagers build a stew based on contributions from once-locked pantries.
It's a story that's sweet and trite, but it's how I feel. So this is my stone soup. I hope it tastes good in the end.
It's a very long song and it was a very long journey. So it's hard to say what about Korea made the biggest first impression on me: The ruralness of the country near the airport, the way the interstate looked just like one in the states, the moment when my new boss, Joe, pointed over his shoulder and said, "The DMZ is about 20 miles that way."
Driving into Seoul was stunning. From the highway the city looks industrial and bleak. Apartment high-rises litter the Han River's banks and the palette of the city looks white and beige, like a primer coat that never got its final color. I didn't like the looks of it, and it was a scary moment for me.
That changed almost immediately when I saw the city's streets. The bigger ones are lined with trees and shops. The smaller ones track up steep hills and dead end into a maze of three- and four-story apartment buildings and houses. It's dirty and busy, and sometimes there's an unexpected whiff of the sewage system in the air. But the women still look more fashionable than I do and it's rare to see someone walking down the street who isn't talking to friends.
In the past two days in Seoul I've seen active construction on new apartment buildings, department stores and museums; insect-cocoon stew being dished out at a flea market; and Korean riot police standing around looking bored. The subway stations are clean and crowded, and most people who drive do so without regarding traffic signals or lane designations. Men drive mopeds through every conceivable crevice in the traffic, hauling pizzas, yarn, socks, computer equipment, produce, and anything else someone might like to buy.
My first meal in Seoul was at a high-end Italian restaurant. It had the best calamari, fried perfectly with a sprinkling of chopped jalapenos. The men at the dinner party brought their own beer: caned six-packs of Miller Genuine Draft and Budweiser. Some wonderful soul ordered a few bottles of red wine, and I really felt quite at home. Since then, I've eaten Korean dumplings and pibimbap, a mixture of steamed rice, vegetables and egg. I've only found one Starbucks so far (at least off base) and am taking that as a good sign.
And, of course, there's work. My first couple of days involved a continuation of paperwork and orientation, similar to my first few hours in Tokyo. I got a Nikon 100 that I don't know how to use. I also picked up a study guide for an international driver's license. I'm supposed to go to the DMZ on Wednesday, and I think I'm expected to drive myself, write a story and take photos. It's the photography that has me most worried by far.
The Stripes office in Seoul is old and pretty run-down, so run-down that the bar across the hallway complete with slot machines is little consolation. The office is on a base in the middle of the city's garment district, about 15 minutes from Yongsan. The main Army base in Seoul, Yongsan Garrison, looks more like a college campus than a fighting machine. The hotel, Dragon Hill, is like a Hilton and has a bank and ATM that dispenses won and dollars, a tailor who makes shirts and suits from bolts of silk and wool, a Subway and Burger King, Starbucks coffee and a florist who let me borrow a vase and filled it with snapdragons and astors for only $3. Outside stand Korean police in case any protesters show up. They do from time to time, one of the many things I'll get to cover here.
The nearest neighborhood serves as the off-campus shopping, eating and drinking district for most Americans and other foreigners here. It's probably where I'll live, and when I was walking around I saw sweatshirts from both Dartmouth and Mississippi State. The merchants and street vendors all look Korean, and they know enough English to talk about size, color, and durability of their leather goods. One woman who wanted to sell me a shirt knew only a few broken English phrases. But after I put it on, she said very confidently, "It's cute." I didn't agree.
My Korean, so far, is awful. It seemed easier in Tokyo because more restaurants and signs had English subtitles. That's true less here, and the phrase for thank you is much longer and harder. I'm considering taking an 8-week language course at one of the local colleges. It's only $300 and I think a good way to get further away from Yongsan and meet other foreigners living here.
I keep discovering new aspects every few minutes, and I'm still trying to soak it all in. I hope this diary helps me sort through it in the coming months. I also hope it's entertaining for all of us. Most of all, I want it to serve another way to stay in touch with everyone at home.
One of my favorite stories is about stone soup. I'm sure there are dozens of versions from dozens of cultures, but this is the way I heard it -- A soldier wanders into a small village in the winter. He knocks on a couple of doors for dinner, but the people tell him they are too poor and hungry to feed a stranger. The next day, he builds a fire in the village square, puts a caldron full of water on it, gets a spoon and begins to stir. When curious villagers ask what he's making, he tells them stone soup. He brags about the concoction, then laments he doesn't have an onion to improve the flavor. One villager runs home to collect a hidden onion, and slowly the soldier and the villagers build a stew based on contributions from once-locked pantries.
It's a story that's sweet and trite, but it's how I feel. So this is my stone soup. I hope it tastes good in the end.
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