Two Surprise Encounters on One Blessed Weekend
Internet at last! And a return to that oh-so-satisfying instant gratification of split-second publishing. None of this passing my entries through the filter of time. You shall have my life instantly at your fingertips.
But for now... two old posts (they're long, but enriching).
02.11.07
8:05 pm
I snap the earflaps of my fur cap under my jaw, wishing I brought my scarf. But I hadn't planned to go for a walk tonight. Besides the weather had been so pleasant earlier. The cap is a little preposterous. I look like a gold-digger just returning from an unsuccessful dig in the Yukon. Snapped under my chin adds to the absurdity. I ignore the passing giggles, at least my chin is warm.
It's 11:00 pm now. As I wander down the main street vaguely in the direction of a lake I've never seen, I wonder what everyone else is doing. Ian invited everyone out. I flaked at the last minute. For a few reasons. Not the least of which being that I've gone out every weekend since I've been here (there's always a reason to celebrate). Besides I had planned to go hiking in the morning (alone if need be). was still in my house clothes when Katrina knocked on my door, and told me we were meeting Ian downtown. I felt sick when I told her I wasn't going, but she didn't argue much.
It's still early. Can't tell you how many times I've heard that at two in the morning. Funny thing is I've even started to believe it. Not tonight though. By two a.m. I'll be sound asleep.
Saturday nights are special nights. I'm not sure why. But because they are special, you should never work or be home alone after dark. At least that's what I decided. That's why I'm heading vaguely towards the lake I've never seen.
There are people on the sidewalks, girls and boys men and women, getting in and out of cars. Paying no heed to the foreigner with the goofy hat. I light a cigarette. I don't smoke, except on special nights. I'm feeling a little hostile. I restrain the urge to cough. These smuggled Camels are much stronger than the local fare. Smoke mingles with steamy breath. I'm feeling hostile because I don't know any Koreans. I don't have a place to go. I passed Sleepless in Seattle (my favorite coffee shop, and operated by one of my favorite people I've met since I've been here), but it is brimming with housewives (discussing the shortage of decent Hogwans no doubt), so I keep walking.
I've walked a fair distance down the road, far past anything I recognize, long enough that I've tracked through over half of Sigur Ros' Takk album, when I hear over Jonsi's angelic falsetto a strange sound. A sound that sounds, oddly enough, like jazz. I'm in front of a doorway leading to stairs leading down. I can't see around the corner, but the sound seems to be coming from below. I look up. A sign reads, in English, JAZZ HOUSE, Live Music!
This is, quite frankly, unfathomable. I've been told, by multiple people, that this simply doesn't exist, especially within walking distance of our homes. I've also heard of a few "jazz" clubs, that are fronts for Korea's (until recently) most notoriously condoned vice (ie prostitution).
Feeling brave, I venture down the stairs toward the sound. It's not live, in fact it's talking about Louis Armstrong (an odd coincidence as I had just Friday assigned own of my students the homework assignment of researching the life and music of the same jazz legend). On the walls are framed pictures of other jazz musicians, Miles Davis, John Coltrane. Around the corner I see a door. The window is obscured by paper flyers advertising something in Korean. I peer around the 8.5 x 11 printouts, the place looks pretty ritzy. Black floral prints on finely upholstered couches, sitting around slick and sharp glossed wooden tables. It is almost empty, but for one far table where four aging men laugh over a pitcher of beer. I don't see any women. Wouldn't be much of a brothel without any women. But just the same, it's probably expensive, and besides I don't speak any Korean. I turn to leave, but pause. Hesitate a moment. Something pulls me back. I remove my silly hat and turn back around, exhale and push the door open.
As I sip on my Budweiser (safe choice, Korean beer is awful). Normally I wouldn't pay five dollars for a bottle of beer, particularly in Korea, but it's a special night. The man behind the bar carries himself with some importance. Probably the owner. He has long black hair pulled tight into a pony tail (unusual). A boy brings me some chips and fish with hot ketchup dipping sauce. Probably the son. They're dressed sharp. Sophisticated jazz bar. I'm sitting next to a man wearing colored shades and a golfer cap. His hair is also in a pony tail. Looks like a real cool cat. On the wall to my right, a documentary on Louis Armstrong is playing in English with Korean subtitles. And right next to it, the reason I didn't leave: two figures waiting patiently beneath warm stage lights, an upright bass and a drum kit.
The two pony tails whisper something to each other. One checks his watch and nods. I hope this means the music starts soon, though I'm enjoying the Louis Armstrong doc. I nurse my beer, hoping it will last until the show starts, I don't really care to pay for another. The chips are good, as is the ketchup (surprisingly). I find that I habitually eat bar snacks. Regardless if I'm hungry or not. I ate a whole bowl of sugar crackers once after I had just confessed minutes earlier that I was stuffed from Chinese.
The men approach the stage area, the man with the shades coddles the bass, and the other takes out a sax. Two other men appear out of nowhere and take their seats at the piano and drums.
I don't care much for recorded jazz, but man, I love to see it live. It's only real when it's being performed. For me, the sweat and tears are as much a part of the music as the bop bop bop of the bass, the rat-i-tat of the snare, and the whine and whirl of the sax. These guys were no super group, I confess. I didn't witness a Daegu jazz revolution. It wasn't that complex, it wasn't that fast, but it was the sweetest thing I've heard since I've been here. It made me smile, bob my head, tap my feet. Jazz always makes me think of On the Road. I imagine myself as Dean Morarity and I think to myself "man, I dig it." Listening to jazz in Korea, munching on dried minnows. This place has been waiting for me.
I hit the street after they finished set and the documentary ended, humming "What a Wonderful World," wanting to cry because Louis Armstrong is dead. It was cold and late so I went straight home. I still haven't seen that lake.
02.11.07
Sitting on a stone bench outside a small Buddhist temple and residential hall halfway up Daegu's most famous mountain, Paldong, I rubbed my eyes, fighting off a sudden wave of fatigue.
I had stood up my friends last night, because I wanted to climb this mountain, and if the past is any indication, they didn't get home until the sun peeked over the mountains. I got off to a much later start than I had intended. Spending the morning making a spy camera out of a Hershey's chocolate milk carton and a disposable camera. I have in my pocket if the right occasion arises.
As I stare blankly at the mud and stones before the prayer room, a few people enter and exit the room's sliding doors, removing and putting on their shoes. I'm beginning to grow hungry, it's past lunchtime, but all I brought was some tangerines, and I'm not sure if this is the place to eat them.
A woman exits the prayer room and walks past me. Then she stops and walks right up to me. She touches my shoulder and leaning down says something in Korean. Funny thing is, I was just thinking about what to say if someone tried to speak to me, I decide that it's best to be polite even if they can't understand you.
So I say, "I'm sorry, I can't speak Korean."
"Oh. Korean no?"
"No Korean."
"Um. Mountain?" She points up.
I nod. "Yes, yes mountain."
She nods and beckons me to follow her. Without hesitating a moment, I grabbed my pack and followed. Somehow it seemed right.
We crossed the monks gardens and met up with the rest of her group, her husband, who referred to himself as "the Captain", her friends (who's names I never learned), and their 12 year old daughter who's English nickname is Lillian. They proved to be jovial company. The Captain was quite a comedian and kept everyone in stitches, I was amused, and I couldn't understand anything he said.
Lillian's English was quite good so she was the intermediary between me and everyone else. Her English was good enough that we were able to hold a conversation through much of the hike.
The trail was muddy and slick and often steep. On one particularly treacherous strip, I lost my footing, both feet sliding out sideways dropping me in the heavily trodden mud. I laughed as I fell and hopped up as fast as I could, hands caked brown and blood pulsing. Falling always makes you a fool.
I silently cursed the slick eroded soles of my flat gray Reeboks that I rescued from the trash almost a year ago. And I kicked myself once more for leaving my hiking shoes in a box in a storage unit in Fort Worth.
Lillian turned around. "We want that you should eat lunch with us." I wasn't about to argue. We would eat at the top.
It was a decent hike, much more difficult than I had expected. If it weren't for the Hindu squats I do every morning, I would have had a tough time. There was still ice on the ground as we approached the Dongbong peak. The creeks were frozen over, even the mud that we walked on was frozen. I couldn't feel my thumbs anymore. I think my thumbs are too long for good circulation. I began to clench my fists to pump warm blood back into my hands. An hour later we set foot on the final stairs that lead to the Dongbong peak. The stairs were caked in muddy ice. I made sure my grip on the hand rail was firm.
There was a lot of traffic on the mountain this Sunday afternoon. And when we made it to the top we had to squeeze through the dozen or so people enjoying the view.
The Captain pointed out the the city of Daegu, visible in the distance through the shrouding clouds. I squinted my eyes and nodded, but I don't know if I was looking at the right thing. I had ridden close to an hour on the Pink 1 bus to get here, but I don't know how far that actually is.
The wind blew harshly on the flat rock face, so after we had gotten an eyeful, we headed back down the stairs to find a more suitable lunch spot. We settled on a flat rock near the helipad. Behind us rose the sharp spires of an air radar station. I wondered if it was in case North Korea attacked. They laid out a small picnic cloth and placed five seat mats on the rock. We all sat, except for the Captain who sacrificed his seat for me.
They laid out a fantastic lunch. I would have been pleased with a peanut butter sandwich, which I had, in fact, been craving for the last couple hours, but instead we ate a full Korean lunch. Kimbap, kimchi, ramen, apples, and sweet potato. They insisted that I eat an entire bowl of ramen. I tried to share, but they persisted. When the meal was over, we were all quite satisfied. For dessert, I shared my tangerines, which they gladly accepted.
The path down was much easier than up and we were all in good spirits after the meal. I told Lillian a little bit about Texas, and she told me about Daegu. She wants to live here forever, she says. She asks if I've been to Guengju.
"No, where is that?"
"It's near here. It is the old capital from many many years ago, there are many many..." (she can't think of the word. She asks her mother in Korean, but she doesn't know either. There is a general discussion, but nobody knows what to say. At last the Captain makes a phone call to an English speaking friend.)
"B-U-D-D-H-I-S-M"
"Ah! Buddhism,"I say.
"Yes, yes, Buddhism. Guengju is the city of the Buddhism."
(Ah, that's why I've heard of it before.) "Are there many temples?"
"Yes, many many."
"I really want to go there."
The path becomes a paved road after a short while. We continue in relative silence for a while. The women are talking with Lillian.
"Teacher," she accidently began calling me teacher after she learned that I taught English, "she say you look very cute, and handsome, and kind."
I smile. Koreans' blunt complements at first surprised me. Perhaps subtlety is lost in translation. "Thank you very much."
When we reach the parking lot, where their car waits, they invite me to rest and drink some coffee with them at the little stand. They order me a hazelnut coffee and some da-seong (or fish noodle). We all have a glass of rice wine except for Lillian.
"What are you doing on the 17th?" She asks.
"I'm going to China for the new years."
"Oh. When do you get back?"
"Next Tuesday."
"Would you like to go to Guengju with us?"
"Yes I would like to very much."
"Call me phone, and we'll all go to Guengju together."
"We have a bigguh lunchee," the Captain says gesturing with his hands, "a bigguh lunchee."
(We all laugh. This isn't the first time that my appetite has been commented upon in Korea.)
We say goodbye in the parking lot. I watch them get into their car and then I turn to continue my hike down to the bus stop. We came down a different way than I went up. Trails run all over the mountain. Maybe as long as I keep heading down...
As I walk, I ponder the simple and extraordinary kindness I was just shown by these strangers. I wonder if this happens in the US too. Probably does. People always tell me about the rudeness of Koreans. And the hard exterior that men put up. And the two faced complements they receive. But my first hand experience has been far from that.
There are two reasons why I like traveling alone:
1. So I don't have to listen to people complain.
2. Because that woman never would have approached me if I had been two.
I see the blue tile roof of a temple through the leafless winter trees.
The sun sits low in the sky. It's that perfect time of day when everything looks cinematic. The mountains in the distance are shades of orange and blue. It's that perfect time of day, when everything seems so momentary. Like a photo in the flames it slowly succumbs to the enveloping darkness.
I zip my jacket up higher to block out the cold wind.
Perhaps I can do some more exploring before the sun goes down...
I take my camera out of my pocket. I'll try to make this last a little longer.
(For those with the stamina to finish I wish you a happy Valentines day. May your true love not spurn you. In Korea, we celebrate Valentines day too. Except all the girls give the guys chocolate. Cool huh?)
