Back in Busan

After a sleepless flight back from Bangkok, and the usual angst that accompanies the avoidance of looking at an inevitable sunrise, I sat in the Kimhae airport (Busan) smoking lounge...trying to breathe.
The BF brought me coffee and left me to the fumes as I stared at a grey morning and thought "I can do this; Korea's not a bad place." It was the yanking around by my director that had tainted my view of the country (the BF likes to yank my hair, and I don't mind, but he's the only one allowed).

I'm cheered today by my bright red hooded top with a hammer and sickle embroidered on it, bought at a Marxist stall in Bangkok's weekend market, for around $2.50US.

Phuket evening...

..curried rock lobster for around $5US, and tropical air enlarges the pores.
Ah, vanity only seems to increase with the years, as it becomes a more unwelcome and high-maintenance companion.
After some Singha (Thai beer) and serenades by karaoke singers, Mom and I are ready for an early night. Again. Well, no third or fourth winds. Time to give in. For once. Perhaps we will finish the cognac tonight.

It's been great to spend more travelling-time with her. The third time this year.
Oh, speaking of serenades, we had an incredible taxi driver today. Without the least hint of transvestite-potentiality, he sang a traditional Thai song--several times, sometimes glancing down at his lyrics, while driving. He loved my red sunglasses, and was the most flamboyant--sober--taxi driver I've ever had. There was a curliqueued Thai motif painted on the fabric of the cab's interior roof.

Much more I suppose, but it's all unwritten and, therefore, forgotten.
The BF arrives tomorrow. Silent cheering: the waterfall-watchers don't seem to want a distraction.

C., I'm very sorry to hear about the tramp in gold underwear. It doesn't stay gold for very long...

Bangkok with my mom...

....has so far involved lots of strolling and occasional cab rides. She's sleeping at our hotel at the moment, and I've just escaped the American consulate with some additional passport pages. The entire process took around five minutes, in an air-conditioned room for American naturals. There were around a hundred Thais in the next room, waiting for hours to submit their visa paperwork.

Many French voices here, due to tourist-friendly Thailand's proximity to their lost Inochine. I've found it intriguing how defeated colonists still have an affinity for those places that won their independence from them.

We leave tomorrow afternoon for Phuket. I'm about to head into the "they're right when they say it'll choke you" traffic, in search of some bookstores around Siam Square. More soon.

Whew....

....This has been my day to shuck off the past month or so of Korean....um...instability.?!
Last night at the Shamrock pub, I chatted with a Scottish guy who's travelled in SE Asia and Pacific for the past 12 months, studied Tae Kwan Do for 5 years before travelling, and is about to surprise his family for Christmas.
Tanned, early 20s western girls got raucous at the Shamrock, especially when compared to their Thai brethren, who moved in the pale crowd with grace, looking for the buyer of their next drink. It pays to be subtle when asking for anything at all.

At the Chart there were plenty of--um, oil?--stains on the wall, but I didn't see anything scuttling on the floor whenever I turned on the lights. There was a hole in the drywall from the door handle. I blocked it with a burgundy velvet purse just in case anything decided to crawl through.
The BF said (he was very nice about it) that the Hill Top was the dodgiest place he's stayed yet. Well, I thought, there are more to follow, if travelling with me. Not like the Chart guesthouse, but I'm no five-star girl. I've worked in them, know what shams they are, and there's no way I'd have gone to 22 countries in the past six years (with little chance of slowing down) by staying in posh places.

Woke in pale early morning in the midst of dreams of exquisite gold-tipped architecture--inspired no doubt by what I'd seen through taxi windows--to some of the strangest sounds I've ever heard.
Someone was dry-heaving, from too many of the cheap local drinks or street food: excruciatingly painful, high-pitched retching. It didn't seem human, male or female, but simian. I'd dreamed of monkeys just before waking. Seemed to go on for ages.

Rinsed this morning under cold water; my eyes scanned virulent anti-American graffitti, much of it in broken English, some of it accompanied by graphic cartoons. Sighed. At least we're not innocuous, I thought. We seem to inspire envy and disgust in equal measure.

Read a Hindu text today where women compare European men to "village"--um, roosters--because they ignore certain important arts and practices.

After a month of incredulity and uncertainty and the relatively cold of air of Korea, it's been such a relief to experience somewhere with gorgeous colors and architecture. I didn't feel like exploring Bangkok today--I'll do it in the next few days with my Mom. For now, I'm content watching people, drinking several afternoon beers, listening to bootlegged music from stalls on Khao San Road, feeling sporadic sunshine, reading used books, smelling the complexities of my faviorite Asian cuisine, smoking the last of my slender Korean cigarettes, and letting fear and tension fall away like the brittle things they are.
What a relief it was to pack away sweaters, gloves and scarves.

I love forgotten words--just read "simulacra" on my bootlegged Miles Davis CD.

Haven't felt this relaxed--on my own--since Montreal's Jazz fest in July. Even then, the crowds had an energy that always infects me. Today, I keep having to tell myself that I could, I had to, slow down: in used bookstores, reading a worm-eaten paperback originally bought in India; while wandering the small, jam-packed street that is the confines of my day; all the while I preuse my new music, as I drink Thai beer in the shade of a tropical tree with waxy leaves and flowers longer than my features.

A hip Thai couple use their handphones and digital cameras--their novels are in Thai--that's the only way to be certain if one doesn't know the language. She smiles over at me several times. An Indian man and his Thai wife tote their two kids. My Moby B-sides competes with an Edith Piaf cover by Pink Martini. It is much cooler than it was in September.
New arrivals to Thailand (including me) can be spotted by their pallor.

The garlic here is sweet, as it is in Italy. Many parallels between the two cultures (I try not to call Italy a "country", because no Italian feels him/herself a part of "Italy", but only of a particular region) that I won't go on about here. But those of you familiar at all with either will understand. It's been so refreshing...

I love hybrids: musically, culturally, and especially those between tradition and technology. I also despise the word "creole", a colonial word used to describe the superficial melding between would-be conquerors and those they thought they conquered.

A whiff of heavy incense, sap of trees and expensive shrubs.

Before I'd relearned the technique of chopsticks, Thailand appealed to me, as they don't use them here traditionally--it's all about the metal fork and spoon.

For dinner, I had Pad Thai with the biggest prawns I've seen since Boston, eggs, sesame, fried tofu, noodles, bean sprouts, fresh cilantro, a dash of lime, fresh cabbage and peanuts for crunch. To my friends in the States: at a scenic cafe, it's around $2. On the streets, $1.
A young man with gorgeous broad cheekbones, warm skin, and wide eyes to match sniffs pale flowers growing on a nearby tree. Smiles over at me.
Now who'll dare say that the high-priced ticket [from NAmerica] isn't worth it?

The Thais have been able to accommodate diverse kinds of tourism. It is the sex industry that has kept western and Japanese men (the most affluent and stressed-out of us all, the poor dears) flocking here, but there is much for the rest of us to enjoy, as well.
Thailand is, culturally, a very accommodating country on the surface...They've become accustomed to topless tourists on many beaches, and the massage industry is the backbone of the tourist economy, but one isn't allowed into sacred or royal sites with shorts, or without sleeves, however steamy the weather. There are some values that will not be corrupted by commercialism.

Thai is a vowel-filled language, like Khmer and Vietnamese (heard lots of the latter growing up), and I WANT to like them, as I'm intrigued by the cultures, but they all make my ears queasy. It's as simple as that. German does it in a different way; Arabic and Hebrew do that in others.
That was the best food I've eaten in months....

What is it about Latin American countries that draws me? Perhaps it's the assumption that dancing will make everything else all right.

"It's all over," I thought.

A shiver of relief in Busan's Gimhae airport as I realized it. I'll miss some of the kids, but it's always easiest to miss others when you're leaving them.
An hour-long taxi ride through evening traffic to get to the airport, though the fare was about the same as the Saturday morning ride en route to Cambodia several months ago.

Recently the simplistic spheres and perpendicular lines of hangeul (Korean writing) have begun to irritate my eye. Perhaps symptomatic of my attitude towards the country and its culture, which has disintegrated without my realizing it till today. It's temporary--I'll make certain it is. There are things to appreciate about every culture.

It's well after 4am--I arrived at one. Cooled by 75F breezes and a strong pina colata.
Took a cab (all the airport express buses had stopped running at midnight) to Khao San Road, the backpacker's ghetto.
Chose a place arbitrarily, the Chart Guesthouse--it looked relatively clean, and I knew prices here are all comparable.
An impossibly slender transvestite checked me into the place, where single rooms run around $5US/night. Above her was a sign: "No Thai prostitutes or transvestites allowed in rooms. We are not responsible for objects lost this way."

Mid-night wind carries scents of smoked chicken and beef, sweet onions, cilantro, garlic, and coconut curry. Massage parlor lights blink, occasionally even tastefully. English chatter in a dozen different accents.

Note to R: Thais, too, drive on the wrong side of the road. That'd be the left side.

Chicken shack....

....with my roommate--my treat, though he drunkenly tried to pay for it (face-saving gesture?) The auspicious occasion was that he paid the entire electric bill, so this made up for my portion. Perhaps our farewell dinner, as well, as my last day at school is Friday, and I will be moving out completely tomorrow night.
I should've known better.
YAAAAARRRGHHHHHH!!!!!
I'd forgotten how tiresome and negative and cut-his-companion-down he is. He tries so hard to inspire paranoia and self-loathing in others (and, frankly, it often works on me for a moment or two).

And then there are other things to remember and read, like a blog named after a certain Bunuel film, that has recently had me in fascinated stitches, whether it is really her life or not. And Greene's Heart of the Matter, a lesson in how not to treat your loved ones.

Time to get packing, and do laundry for two.

Monks and Western Women

The title sounds more salacious than this post deserves.

We walked down the pedestrian street of Insa-dong in Seoul, and I spotted a contemporary gallery with frosted glass windows. Anything half-hidden inspires intrigue. We opened its heavy doors.

Warm-colored paintings highlit with gold and bronze, splashed with cool greens and vivid blues. Freedom of delineation attained only after years of practice with ink brushes, followed by years more of coaxing intuition. Deities, offerings, mortals, and--"Look, isn't that Paris?" I asked.
We couldn't read the text, but the silhouettes were distinctive.
"Yes it it," a monk smiled at us.

We asked him if he was the painter, and he shook his head--no, but she was a friend of his. Many of her images had been inspired by her travels in India, and she'd also studied in Paris. [That reminds me: One of the pillowcases at the Hill Top Motel had "FLANCE" embroidered on its surface, a great slice of Konglish for you.]

Eventually our conversation turned, as it often does, to the fast pace of change in Korea. The monk smiled, showing lovely teeth, as he spoke of the tragic replacement of traditional clothing with western--"American," he nodded to himself, then repeated for emphasis: "Koreans wear only American clothes now."
I nodded in return, understanding of and used to criticism of the States--as long as I feel I'm not a target for others' dislike of the country where I happen to have been born.

Then I looked down at our feet.
Beneath the traditional grey quilted cotton clothing, he sported a pair of brilliant-white, unmistakably American running shoes.


A number of western men have said, their tones conveying more than a hint of patroniz-ation, "It's hard to be a woman in Korea--or anywhere, for that matter."

There's a vast difference between being a western and Korean woman here. We exist outside this Confucian society, though we interact with it constantly. We don't feel the breath of distaste telling us we're of a lower status than our sons. We are the other: objects of curiosity or fascination, dislike or resentment, depending on the history or political bent of the viewer.

Western men are coddled and humored and admired for their mere presence--though much of that is experienced by well-dressed western women, too.

Weekend in Seoul

Finally took the train to Seoul on Saturday morning, accompanied by my acquiescent boyfriend who knows the city better than I do...though neither of us had a subway map, and so spent hours poring over signs and pointing with raised eyebrows.

We stayed at the infamous Hill Top Motel, atop Itaewon's "Hooker Hill".

"The area seemed pretty tame to me," the BF said. Well, if I'd been one of the Russian/Chinese/Thai/Filipina/Korean girls in sliced sequined miniskirts, I'd have stayed inside too as the temperature hovered around freezing. Occasionally we'd see a head and satined torso appear from a creaky wooden door: "Hey, you! Come over here!"
You've got to admire their persistence.

Had my first Middle Eastern meal since the spread I'd prepared for friends last spring, and went to a salsa bar, "Club Caliente," right as it was closing--at 1am?! That's incredibly early for Korea, where clubs are typically full on weekends till 5am. We kept them open for a half-hour longer. I watched the few drunken lazy-hipped dancers who remained and Puerto Rican puppets on a big screen as the BF fell asleep on my shoulder and I sipped my "Rosa"--a tart pink concoction that brought on a taste of summer.

Interviewed for a job that would've involved an indefinite amount of time in Seoul before a transfer back to Busan. The program is great, as is the salary (though it wouldn't go as far in Seoul), but I don't want to leave those I've discovered here.

So the search continues. I've narrowed it to teaching adults, which involves horrendous hours--"split shifts"--but free time during the day for painting or playing catch-up with sleep. Adult teaching positions are more competitive, but I'm in an ideal position to get one....

The BF is great with the motivational speeches: "You've got the American accent--you're an actual American [he's English, and the market is for N. American accents in Korea]--you're female ["we've got all Western male and female Korean teachers--that could be the story of Korea," I was told by my frank interviewer]--and you're gorgeous."
He knows just what to say.
You've got to appreciate a guy who'll text you with a quote from Pangloss [Candide] when you've had a wrenching, life-changing shock: "Everything is for the best in this best of all possible worlds."

"Teacher!" 4-year-old Harry laughed and stroked my hand. I'd written the word "toothpaste" on it, to remind me of a package of sundries and flowers I planned to leave on the BF's doorstep that night.
"Toothpaste" was probably the longest english word the pre-schoolers had ever seen, and that it was written on their crazy teacher's hand made it even funnier.
So first Harry, then all the others, copied the word from my hand into their coloring books.