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.
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