4:01:35

I don't know if you've heard (maybe you haven't), but I've been training for a marathon.

It's been a common refrain around these parts since my friend Prairie and I started training back in July. Four days a week we've gotten up (relatively) early, laced our shoes, and gone out for runs.

Training for it had dominated my life. I couldn't go out too late Friday nights because we had our long runs on Saturdays. I wouldn't go out too late Saturday nights because my legs were sore from running 10, 15, or 20 miles earlier. I would eat nearly everything in sight and then some. I hadn't eaten like that since high school when I'd come back from cross country practice, eat two bowls of cereal, and then two hours later eat a full dinner (with seconds).

Last Sunday, all our months of training, all our hard work, early mornings, and hung-over Saturday runs came to fruition. Prairie, Devon and I made our way up to Seoul for the 11^th annual JoongAng Seoul Marathon – which commemorates the marathon held at the Seoul Olympics in 1988. It was by far one of the biggest events I've ever been a part of: over 20,000 people were running in the 10k and full marathon races that weekend (with about half in each).

We arrived in Seoul Saturday night—Halloween for those of you keeping score at home. Before settling into our hotel and grabbing dinner, we went to the Olympic Stadium to find a place to meet after the race the next day. When we finally checked into our hotel, settled in, and set out to find dinner, it was after 10pm which unexpectedly was a problem.

Apparently, restaurants in Korea close promptly at 10. As we had a marathon the next day, we weren't exactly in the mood for drinking heavily, so we looked for a place that might serve us pasta. No dice. Every place was either closed, or closing. We couldn't even find a Korean fast food ramen place to get some noodles! We were hungry, tired, and cold. Then it started pouring.

Exhausted, we settled on the only place open at 10:45 at night: Burger King. Fast food didn't seem like the ideal pre-race food to me, so I got some ramen from the local corner store to supplement my fried chicken-paste sandwich, French fries and coke. We ate back at our hotel, watching a movie until after midnight, when we finally decided to get ready for bed.

Everything I've read about training for a marathon says you should do two things before race day: eat well, and get plenty of rest. I suppose French fries and a fried chicken-paste sandwich count somewhere as "well," but going to bed at 1 when you have to wake up at 6am can't be what they meant by "plenty of rest." I had dreams of myself puking as my legs gave out and I collapsed into chicken paste by the side of the road. Lovely.

Before the race - can you tell I'm really nervous?

The next morning we woke up, trudged out of our hotel, and took the subway to the stadium where the race began and finished. Forty five minutes later, Prairie and I were in the middle of a pack of 20,000 Koreans, and a couple hundred foreigners (mostly East Africans invited to try and win the race), being barked at by a Korean gentleman on a microphone.

The crowd all started stretching in unison. First the left arm, then the right arm. Now we bend left, now bend right. Then a giant massage line formed and someone behind me grabbed my shoulders and necks, and began to maul them with the expertise and dexterity of a master masseuse. In between brief spasms of pain, I could feel my muscles relaxing. I made a mental note to get a real massage after the race was over.

When the massage was over, I turned around to see who had manhandled me so expertly. "Thank you," I said to the man. "You're welcome," he said. "I hope you have a good run."

"Thank you. You too." I replied.

A few minutes later and the gun sounded, fireworks shot up from the starting line, and…nobody moved. I'd forgotten that getting a pack of 10,000+ runners take some time to get moving, so while the clock ticked on, we waited, occasionally moving forward with the current of people.

Almost four minutes later, we passed the starting line, and we were off! My first marathon had begun! My target time was to finish in under four hours, but I figured since it was my first race, I'd take it slow, and be extremely happy with 4:30 all the same.

15 kilometers in - feeling great!

I won't bore you with the details of the run (mostly because, at 42 kilometers and change, there's a lot of details, and more often than not, they involve me running). I will say that thankfully the Burger King and lack of sleep had little apparent effect on me – I felt great for most of the race.

The last 10k were…beautiful. I remember passing the sign that said there were only 10 kilometers in the race after running out and back along a dreary stretch of highway. I glanced at my watch and realized that I was running at a pretty steady pace—10 kilometers every hour or so—and that I had run the last 32k in just over 3 hours. If I kept that pace up, maybe I could finish in under four hours.

That realization was the jolt I needed. I picked up my heavy feet, and pressed on. Somewhere ahead, a band on the side of the road was playing "Superman" by Goldfinger – one of my favorite songs from high school. The rhythm of the guitars and drums carried me through the next two markers.

I'll never forget the feeling that hit me as I passed the 34^th kilometer. I was running uphill, still buoyed by adrenaline from the band a mile back, and it hit me.

A shiver went down my back. Eight kilometers was nothing – shorter than many of the easy runs Prairie and I had done in the summer! For the first time, I realized that I was actually going to finish the marathon.

From that point on, I pushed it to try and finish in under four hours. The kilometer markers passed by like road signs to Disneyland: 34km…35km. Each new marker gave me a new boost of energy. I was passing people left and right, people were cheering, eating, drinking on the side of the street. Eight kilometers left…seven left…

Then I panicked. What if I was wrong? What if a marathon was 47km, not 42? There I was kicking into my high gear, and I still had another hour left to run? I'd be exhausted. I wouldn't be able to finish. I'd be devastated. I was never that good with the metric system. I started trying to do the calculations in my head. Five kilometers is about 3 miles. A marathon is 26 miles that makes…how many kilometers?

Suddenly there were six left…a woman on the side of the road offered me a coke…no thanks I said, I'm almost done. I passed an ancient runner as he took a cup of rice wine from a buddy's hand. Not for me.

Five kilometers. Where my running career began. I had run this distance a million times in Cross country in high school. I'd run it in the swampy Connecticut summers, in the Parisian autumn rain, in frigid winter snow, and slick spring mud. Once, I ran it with a full-blown case of pneumonia. Now, there were a mere five thousand meters between me and the finish line. If I could finish in under 25 minutes, I could beat my goal.

Kilometers 38, 39, and 40 melted away like ice in a hot summer drink. Down the road, past Olympic statues, past cheering spectators, past Olympic park and around a bend: One Kilometer left – there's the stadium!

I'm sure I was moving pretty slowly, but I felt like I sprinted through the gate and up the hill. I saw Devon standing off to one side cheering me on, and felt a final surge of energy kick in. Through the gate, into Olympic Stadium and onto the track: less than 400 meters separated me from the finish.

Finishing: Can you tell I'm feeling great!

I was a bit torn – I was about to finish my first marathon in the Olympic Stadium. Do I savor these last few moments? It had been a great race, I was feeling incredible, and part of me didn't want it to end. But I had always been taught to finish a race with a kick – a full out sprint for the last 200m to push you past anyone in front of you.

In the end, the training won out: I finished with a kick (hard to believe I had anything extra in the tank), savoring every step I took around the track, and crossed the finish line with my hands held high. I looked at my watch:

4:01:35

Prairie finishing strong

Prairie finished half an hour after me, setting a new personal best by 45 minutes. Needless to say, we were both ecstatic about our times. I was so close to beating my goal I could taste it, and Prairie had crushed her previous time. Both of us left the stadium with our legs hurting so bad we could barely walk down stairs, but jubilant at what we had just accomplished.

Mother Nature Hates Me

Our second day in Tokyo began early. We had booked a bus tour to see Mt. Fuji, and the four of us were really excited to go. The tour included a bus up the mountain, a pleasure cruise on a lake at the base of the mountain, and a cable-car ride up an adjacent mountain for photo opportunities.

So at 8:30 we woke up, trudged out of our hotel and stumbled onto the subway, forgetting that it was still Friday, and still rush hour.

I don't know what kind of rush hour subway experiences you've had in the past, but I doubt they've involved being crammed into a subway car with 21,000 silent Japanese businessmen. Seriously – cans of sardines have made more noise and had more room than we did that morning. Leather hand straps dangled uselessly and silently from chrome bars, which was just as well since my arms were pinned to the suits on either side of me holding me up.

Now you might think that disembarking from such a crowded train car would be a challenge—far from it. Since we were getting off at a major transfer point, all you had to do was hold on firmly to your bag, and let the current sweep you out of the train and onto the platform like a deflating balloon. I don't even think anyone actually walked off the train—we were all just expelled from the difference in relative pressures or something.

We emerged from the subway, managed to board the bus that would take us to Mt. Fuji, and immediately hit a problem. Apparently Tokyo's super-futuristic silent highways still don't have an built-in accident prevention system, and in the morning rush, someone had an accident and blocked two lanes. Not to fear, our lovely tour guide assured us that our driver Mr. Akahira* was the best driver in all of Tokyo (that's a lot of drivers, mind you), and was taking us on a shortcut around the accident.

*(not his real name)

As our tour bus exited the city of Tokyo, our tour guide Mrs. Hiroko** regaled us with stories and legends of yore and yonder, teaching us a bit about Japanese culture all the while. For example, we learned that the Japanese believe that spirits inhabit everything around us: the rocks, rivers, trees, and fields. Particularly holy are the mountains, which due to their proximity to the gods, are much taller than regular lands (though I may have that backwards).

**(Actually her name)

Mt. Fuji, in particular is the domain of two goddesses: the beautiful flower princess (whose name escapes me at the moment and I won't even bother to try and fake) who controls the summit, and her ugly sister the rock princess, who controls the base of the mountain. Legend has it that the god of…farming was it??...saw the beautiful flower princess one day and decided to marry her. Her father, the king agreed on the condition that he marry the ugly daughter also. The god of farming agreed, but married only the flower princess anyways.

When the king heard this, he was as you can imagine, pretty annoyed. In fact, he banished the flower princess to the top of Mount Fuji and decreed that neither the god of farming nor any of his future descendants would be allowed to see her ever again.***

***Complete fabrication

Looking back, I suppose it would have been nice if Mrs. Hiroto had just told us this quaint legend upfront instead of an hour into our tour. The four of us could have asked for our money back, and everyone else on the bus would have had a nice trip. Because what my parents neglected to tell me while growing up (and what it took a trip to Mt. Fuji to figure out) was that I was some great-great-great distant grand-nephew to the farming god that so royally pissed off the flower princess' father.

Now, I don't know this for sure (though come to think of it, I have had something of a way with plants my whole life…), but it's the only logical explanation I have after what happened that day at Mt. Fuji. Never before in my life have I been so thoroughly toyed with, so maniacally manipulated, and so utterly abused by the forces of Nature.

If you haven't already heard, we didn't get to see Mt. Fuji. It rained, it was cold, it was windy, and there was fog everywhere. The entire way to the 5^th station (the highest the bus could take us), our tour guide kept saying "She is a shy mountain," as a way of explaining the fog shrouding the summit. She evidently didn't know that she had an ancestor of the Fishing god in her midst.

She's up there somewhere...

We spent maybe 30 minutes on the mountain herself huddled together to protect ourselves from the driving wind and rain. In between gusts of wind and torrents of rain, we dashed to a small temple dedicated to the Rock goddess. It was a modest affair—just a simple shrine watched over by a monk hawking religious knickknacks. We snapped a few pictures of where the summit allegedly was. I dropped a hundred yen into a little box and a fortune dropped out. I asked the man behind the counter what it meant, and he gave me the thumbs up. I took that as a sign that the weather was turning and the sun would come out.

Up the hill to the Temple

Waiting for Bad luck to blow away

Shortly after, we hurried out of the rain back onto the bus and departed for lunch. We enjoyed our meal in a hotel restaurant, and admired the greenery out back in the sunlight that was beginning to peek through the clouds. Finishing lunch, we reboarded the bus, feeling optimistic about our chances for the pleasure boat cruise. We shouldn't have.

Almost as soon as we departed for the lake, the fog rolled back. We spent the next hour or so either shrouded in mist or driving through rain as the clouds rolled over the dark green mountains next to the highway.

We arrived at the boat terminal, and ambled into the building. Across the lake, a pirate ship drifted to shore (we assumed it was another cruise ship, not a ship bent on wanton rampage and pillage) as the lush green mountains plunged into the water behind it. Fifteen minutes later, it was time to get on the boat, and the rain picked up again. At least the boat was covered, and we'd stay dry.

This is as far as we ever saw across the lake

The engines growled to life, the lines were cast and the boat disembarked. Before it had turned around to set sail across the lake, the fog rolled in, thick as whipped cream. We were on the top deck of the boat, and we couldn't even see the water below us. Hiroko told us that somewhere through the fog, the shy mountain was once again hiding her face.

Seriously Foggy

Fifteen minutes later, the boat docked, the fog cleared, and the rain started up again. We shuffled back onto the bus, where Ms. Hiroko told us that unfortunately, due to the wind, the cable cars up the mountain next to Mt. Fuji were closed, but luckily, we'd be going to a wonderful art museum instead! (She always did know how to put a positive spin on things).

The art museum was alright, I guess. There was a kaleidoscope museum attached, which was amusing for about half an hour (admittedly, it was kind of cool taking pictures as the giant kaleidoscopes twirled). But by this point, the four of us were cold, wet, tired, hungry, and cranky. We hadn't paid to see the insides of a giant kaleidoscope, we'd paid to see Mt. Fuji from seven different angles, and hadn't caught a single glimpse of her.

Imprisoned by the Fog

An hour later, we trudged back through the rain and onto the bus. Ms. Hiroko tried to cheer us up by noting how the kind people at the museum had turned the escalator on in the other direction so we wouldn't have to walk all the way down the hill in the rain.

Later that night, in an Irish pub in Ginza, the four of us sat around, nursing pints of real beer, mulling over the day that had passed. We had only just managed to dry ourselves off and warm ourselves up, and were feeling pretty down at how the day had turned out.

"Well, look at it this way" I said, doing my best to channel Ms. Hiroko's unflappable optimism. "The day could not have gotten any worse. It really was quite impressive—we didn't see a single thing we were supposed to."

"I guess," my companions sighed, not really feeling what was so impressive about that.

"It's not like the day was lacking of things to see either. Look, this tour was a bust, no arguing that. But it was such a completely, utterly, devastatingly busted tour, that you can't help but feel impressed. For that many things to go that wrong – somebody really didn't want us to see that mountain today."

That’s NOT Wasabi!

Eesh, I'm a bad blogger. I promise "weekly" updates, and it's been almost a month since my last post. Apologies are, once again in order.

The most exciting thing to happen to me since then was the Tokyo trip, which I'm guessing most of you have already seen the pictures from. But a picture's only worth a thousand words, and I could spill millions on Tokyo. It was a long trip, and I've got lots to say, so here's how we're going to recount it.

Today, I'll tell about our first day there. Over the next couple of days, I'll tell you about days two through five, presumably in order. Since our fifth day was a short one, there will also be a wrap-up discussing why Tokyo is awesome, and why you should go there. There's a lot of ground to cover, and I'd rather write five longish posts instead of one massive all-encompassing one.

So, we begin : For those of you who don't already know, Devon and I recently had five days off for the Korean Thanksgiving holiday Chuseok. We elected to fly to Tokyo with two of our friends, Sam and Stephanie.

We arrived in Tokyo at the reasonable hour of one in the afternoon on October first, but had left Gwangju at the completely unreasonable hour of 12.30 the previous morning. Why so early? Since our flight didn't leave until 11am on the 1^st, it was a combination of impatience, and fear of the Korean Chuseok traffic that compelled us to shuffle onto a red-eye bus and sleep on a cold airport bench until our flight departed.

(It should be noted that I slept for only about half of the bus ride, and none of the six hours we were in the airport. Instead, I wandered around the Incheon airport, suspiciously alone and bewildered as I waited for Burger King to open. I read a day-old Herald Tribune, and I looked for softer places to sleep. By the time I found a perfect set of big, round cushioned benches, Devon, Sam, and Steph were fast asleep on the benches. Oops)

We arrived in Tokyo's Narita airport on time, sailed through customs, and somehow found our way onto the right train to take us into the city. An hour and a half and a subway transfer later, and we emerged from underground in the part of the city that we'd be calling home for the next few days: Asakusa.

The guidebook we had said that Asakusa was the closest thing Tokyo had to an "Old" section of town, that it still retained much of the charm of "old Edo" (I guess there wasn't much left after we firebombed the living daylights out of Tokyo in WWII). On first impression, the bright lights, wide boulevards, and abundant arcades didn't seem particularly "old," but a strange quiet sat in the air.

I've been in quiet cities before – usually at three or four in the morning, when the city stills itself before the onslaught of rush hour traffic that daylight brings. When the only thing moving is the occasional taxi bringing someone home from a late night out or a jogger out for an early-morning run.

It's quiet...too quiet

At three in the afternoon, Tokyo could hardly be considered "still," but an undeniable hush hung in the air. Cars and buses drove by, but without the roar of rubber on pavement I've come to associate with almost getting run over. It was as if the Japanese had figured out how to turn the volume down on everything or, more realistically, made some sort of magical sound-absorbing pavement.

We wandered through back alleys until we miraculously stumbled on our hotel. After checking in and dropping our bags off, we headed out to grab something to eat and see some of the local sights.

It ain't much to look at, but it's comfortable

It being our first night in Japan, we naturally went for sushi. It also being Asia, pretty much anything found in the ocean was served raw. I saw things go by on that conveyor belt (yes, it was that kind of sushi place) that I thought existed only in horror movies with names like It Came from the Deep, and Bloody Tides.

I saw a bowl with some sort of spiral-shelled creatures that I'm pretty sure were still moving as they slowly shuffled past. There were these little things that looked kinda like transparent gummy fish, except they had tiny black eyes. On one plate sat nothing but a big, black, knobby shell with peach-colored flesh inside. A bowl of octopus suckers the size of nickels watched me as they slithered past. I shivered as I thought of the size of the octopus that lost those, and how angry he would be if he discovered I had them. He'd probably want them back.

I did see plenty of familiar things too. There was your standard sushi fare – thick slices of tuna, yellowtail, and salmon. Orange and red fish roe glistened in little seaweed cups.

With the full oceanic hodge-podge circling the bar in the middle of the restaurant, I was learning about all the wonderful delights of the deep. But it's only fair if I share with you the single most important piece of information I learned that night: That strange green powder in the jar in front of you is not some sort of secret Japanese purified wasabi powder. It is in fact powdered green tea, and you mix it with hot water from that little faucet in front of you, not with the soy sauce. I bet they're still laughing about that now…

At the end of the meal, they pointed a magic box at the stack of plates, and told you how much you owed. I don't know what technology they were using, but I imagine it's the same technology used in the Sorting Hat.

After dinner we wandered around Asakusa until we reached Senso-ji, a huge 1300 year old temple at the end of a long street crowded with vendors hawking Japanese souvenirs to the throngs of tourists and residents. The temple itself was under renovation, so a big grey tarp covered the whole building, but the square it sat in was peaceful and calm – perfectly suited to a night of quiet reflection and photography.

Relaxation and photography at a temple

Along the way to the temple, we discovered the single greatest technological marvel of the 21^st century: the beer and sake vending machine. Get this: for a couple of bucks, you can buy a tall can of beer or a cup of sake, like it's a can of Coke! I know in the States you can buy an ipod or some headphones from a vending machine, but nothing can compete with the feeling of cracking open an ice cold cup of sake pulled from the mouth of a soulless machine.

A crowded arcade. This is where we found the glorious beer machine.

After a while of walking, talking, taking pictures, and drinking, the four of us decided to head back to the hotel and get some rest. We had to get up early on our second day for one of the most anticipated parts of our trip: the Mt. Fuji tour.

Down an alley near Senso-ji

Tomorrow: I know she's a shy mountain, but this is ridiculous!

Weekend Update: A Week Late and Thousand Won Short

I know what you're thinking. "What happened to a post every three days or so? Huh Jake? You promised!!"

For those of you breathlessly hitting refresh all week hoping, nay expecting to see something from me, I apologize. After last weekend's Weekend Update: Saturday, I meant to write another post, logically titled Weekend Update: Sunday. Last Sunday Devon and I did almost nothing of any lasting consequence except go out for dinner for what may be the best meal eaten from a bubbling communal pot: shabu-shabu.

It didn't get written last Sunday after dinner for reasons which I hope will be clear below (hint: food coma is involved). And it didn't get written at any other point during the week because as I'm beginning to learn, I have a serious problem with procrastination. In the US, where time flows more or less normally, it wasn't really a problem. In Korea, however things are a little different.

It's a well known fact that Korean school-children work harder than just about any other school-children on the planet. They wake up at 7 to go to school. After school, while the rest of us are at cross country practice or playing video games or whatever, Korean children go to their academies.

They go to math academy, they go to Korean academy, they go to Chinese academy, they go to art academy, they go to music academy, they go to English academy (I teach at one of those). Then they go home and study until they go to bed. I've often wondered how my students have the time to go to so many academies, finish all their homework, and still play enough Starcraft to support not one, but TWO channels dedicated to nothing but matches of Starcraft.

It really was obvious: the Koreans had developed some sort of "Korean time-making-machine" to distort the space-time continuum, and give Korean school children an extra hour or two every day to study. I like to think that time is like oil: precious, greasy, and limited. The Korean time-making-machine has to get its time supply from somewhere and now I know where: foreigners living in Korea.

But there's a problem: although this machine can steal time from foreigners, it can't directly give it to Korean students. So the Koreans have hit upon an ingenious delivery vehicle: kimchi, which so far as I know is cabbage just this side of rotten. Time is vital in making kimchi, let it sit too long and it's so revolting that even Koreans won't eat it. Take it out too soon and your third grader loses valuable study time. For this reason, every Korean household has their own Korean time-making-machine.

(Suspiciously, our Korean apartment is lacking one of these machines, which is just as well because I don't think any foreigner seriously can admit to actually liking kimchi enough to eat it three meals a day, seven days a week, 52 weeks a year.)

For this reason, days go by faster and before I know it Sunday has turned into Thursday and the week is almost over. And that my dear readers is why I let a week slip by before writing this legendary Shabu-Shabu post: I haven't been eating my kimchi.

But we ordered take-out last night, and I ate a bite or two of the spicy stuff, so I find myself with the time to write the post. Sit back, relax, and pretend that everything I'm telling you now happened last night, instead of last week.

It's one of our favorite meals thus far in Korea. So good in fact, that we typically have it once a week. In a good week, we have it twice. It is: Shabu-Shabu.

It works like this. You walk into the restaurant, and the women who work there direct you to sit on the floor in front of a short table with a gas burner in the middle. They ask you something in Korean, if you understand, you hold up two fingers. If you don't, you hold up two fingers. Either way, the woman disappears and you pour some water into a stainless steel cup.

In a couple minutes, the woman returns with a big black pot filled with broth, greens and sliced mushrooms, a basket with more greens and mushrooms, a bowl of thick noodles, and a giant plate of thinly sliced and rolled raw beef. She sets the basket, bowl and plate down on the table, and the pot goes on the burner, which is turned on to high. Smaller bowls of kimchi and cucumbers in spicy red sauce are added to the table.

The Ingredients

At this point, the table is typically quite crowded, but the women who work there always find room for one or two bottles of soda that you didn't order: "service" they explain, free stuff to entice you to come back (as if the food itself isn't a good enough reason).

When the broth is hot enough, remove the lid and prepare for the spicy, savory smell as it froths from the pot: it's time for the meat. Put as many rolls of the beef into the pot as you want.

Time for the meat!

When the meat is finished cooking (2 minutes), dip your chopsticks into the pot and bring any combination of meat, greens, and mushrooms you like to the bowl strategically placed in front of you. Pour some soy sauce that has a hint of vanilla into a smaller dish over some wasabi, and then squirt a tangy spicy-red sauce into another smaller dish. These are your dipping sauces, to be used in any combination you like. Personally, I like dipping the meat and greens into the soy sauce, then into some spicy sauce.

That's the soy sauce and the red sauce on the left

The meat is tender, the greens are soft and taste a bit piney, the mushrooms are thick and buttery. The broth is savory, garlicky, and a bit spicy. All in all, it's heavenly.

When you've finished everything that's in the pot, well you're in luck because there's another basket of greens and mushrooms, and more meat left on your plate. Refresh the pot, wait for it to cook, then repeat. Put the noodles in when you're ready for some starch, and continue eating.

At some point, the women will come over and pour the still-hot broth and whatever greens, noodles, or meat that you haven't eaten yet into the (now empty) noodle bowl. She will then disappear with your pot.

When she returns, the once-empty pot will be filled with some of the most delicious fried rice you've ever had. I don't know exactly what's in it – carrots, onions, and some sort of green thing all seem to be involved. Scoop some rice from the pot into your bowl—be sure to get some of the crispy burnt rice from the edge, that's the best—add a little of the still hot broth from the bowl if you like (I do), and enjoy the perfect finish to your meal. Whoever invented dessert would have thought twice if they'd tried the post shabu-shabu fried rice.

I can't show you a picture of the rice: it's a closely guarded secret

On your way out of the restaurant, be astounded at how good it was, how much you ate, and how little it all cost: under $10 a person.

Weekend Update: Saturday

After spending Friday night out at a new bar, I was much relieved when Prairie called me at 9.30 for our morning run, asking if I'd rather wait until the rain passed before we went. Saturday is when we typically go for our long runs in preparation for the marathon that we're running in November, and running two hours after a night of drinking isn't exactly fun.

So after a delay of a couple hours Prairie and I went for our long run. We ended up running to the Gwangju airport which for those of you unfamiliar with Gwangju's geography is all the way across the city. Out and back we ran, though the out was a lot faster than the back. We've still only run about half the distance we'll be running for the marathon, but it's encouraging to see how much we're progressing from week to week.

It was a beautiful day

After the run, Devon and I went downtown for some shopping. We started at Kumho World because I was looking for some speakers for my computer. It's hard to describe exactly what Kumho World is – sort of like a mall, but instead of individual shops, the vendors each have their own floor space where they set up tables and shelves and whatever else they want.

There are six floors, each with its own theme of sorts. The first two floors are dedicated to gadgets—digital cameras, GPS systems, mp3 players, cell phones, etc. Floors 3 and 4 are mostly computers and computer-related stuff (mouses, printers, chairs, etc). On the third floor you can buy laptops and computers. On the fourth floor you can buy anything you need to make your own computer—processors, video cards, monitors, cases, memory, hard drives, etc. It was incredible, I've never seen a place where you can just buy the internal bits of a computer like that. The 5^th floor had an incongruous combination of tacky home furnishings, kitchen stuff like dishes and silverware (chopsticks), and musical instruments. The top floor was all furniture: beds, couches, tables, things like that. It was awesome. I mean where else can you pick up a saxophone AND a cell phone in the same building? America needs places like that.

After Kumho world, we did some more shopping at Art Street – so named because the street is lined with galleries, tea houses, and art supply stores. We can't seem to figure out the best time to go however, because every time we go, some 70% of the stores are closed.

Art street at night

After a brief stint at Art Street, we wandered into a large bookstore in the hopes of finding some English books (because hey, you never know). We asked the woman working at the cash register if they had English books, and she pointed down to the basement. We went downstairs where we found English books – but for people learning English. Oops.

It's Prairie's birthday on Tuesday, so to celebrate we all went out to dinner downtown at what's known as "The Outdoor Galbi" restaurant. So named because we go and eat galbi…outside. They put a pot of charcoal in a hole in your table, you cook strips of pork marinated in sweet soy sauce on top. Then you put it on a leaf of lettuce, put on some condiments (garlic, soybean paste, salad), roll it up, and eat it. It's deeeeelicious.

After dinner and a few beers, we finished the night out at Mr. Song's German Bar. Mr. Song is a Korean man who lived in Germany for some 15 years apprenticing at a brewery. When he returned to Korea, he started brewing his own beer and opened a bar that's become popular for the foreigners in Gwangju. We spent the next few hours there drinking Song's dark beer (pretty delicious), playing card games, and singing karaoke. And yes, the reality of me singing karaoke is as horrible as it sounds.

Having a good time


Singing Karaoke

Guess whose Back?

I'm baaaaack! After a period of prolonged silence, I've decided to start blogging again.

I've no real excuse for the prolonged absence other than I've just been lazy. It's much easier to put off writing by saying "Oh well, nothing worth writing about happened today" than it is to sit down and actually write it out. From now on, I promise to try to write more frequently, whether something interesting happens or not. Some of the stories may be boring, but they will almost always involve kimchi, and almost never involve evil goats (somewhat of a rarity in a developed country as I'm finding).

(Incidentally, this blog was started with the intention of telling uninteresting and pointless stories. For those of you unfamiliar with the noble mission of Butter Stories, click back to read the original Butter Story here.)

If three or more days pass by and I haven't told you what I ate for lunch at school on any particular day, feel free—no, please—hassle me until your curiosity is sated. I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing more often, and need all the peer pressure I can handle.

And with that, let us return to our regularly scheduled programming…

Last weekend, Devon and I headed up to Seoul to see something we had never seen before: an international soccer match. South Korea was playing Australia, and as Ian, one of our co-teachers, was Australian, he was keen on going. We tagged along to watch the game, do some shopping in Insadong—Seoul's artsy district—and eat some American food in Itaewon—Seoul's foreigner district.

An outdoor mall in Insadong

We hopped on a bus early Saturday morning and within 3 hours, set foot in one of Asia's busiest mega-cities. After checking into our hotel and a couple of hours of preliminary shopping, we headed to the World Cup stadium via a real Irish bar in Itaewon (you have no idea how exciting this was for us).

It says "Korea vs. Australia" I promise

Our seats were excellent. We were in the lower section, a few rows back, behind one of the goals. It was a great view. We were far enough from the action that we could see everything going on, but we were close enough that we could still identify the players' numbers and catch some detail.

Our view of the action

The game itself wasn't that great—Korea scored twice early, and the Aussies never really got in the game. The final score ended up being 3-1, Korea.

I'd heard that soccer's not that popular here, and the large number of empty seats in the stadium seemed to confirm that. But the fans there were every bit as passionate as fans at every GW basketball game I've been to.

We sat next to the Korean team's fan club. During their national anthem, they unfurled a huge Korean flag and everyone in the section held it over their heads, waving it around. I imagine it looked pretty cool.

Early in the game, an Australian player broke free and threatened to score. As he was dribbling into the penalty box, the front row of Korean fans raised some large flags and began waving them back and forth furiously trying to distract him like the students behind the hoop at a basketball game during a free throw. Flustered, the Aussie player's shot sailed over the goal and into the crowd of cheering Koreans.

Hanguken Fans and their Flags

For those of us who follow soccer as casually as I do (that is—we turn it on during the World Cup, and ignore it at all other times), there's a certain mysticism attached to the chants and songs that a team's supporters bellow drunkenly during a game. It's as though the sound of thousands of drunken voices singing in unison have a mysterious power to unite a team and help them reach down and find some primeval strength for that one last breakaway and shot that it takes to win the game. It's a power that makes our rhythmic repetition of "Aww! G-Dub!" seem childish and pathetic. At least that's how I imagine it to be.

I was therefore pretty excited when the Korean fans started singing and chanting for their team. At last! I would get to witness the awesome power of the soccer chant up close. I could observe and take notes that I could use to write a powerful song that would help GW get over the hump against Xavier or St. Joes next season! I could harness that power, and propel the team into the third round of the NCAA Championships! They'd erect a statue of me in University Yard, right next to George Washington himself!

I paid careful attention to the first chant I heard. Immediately, I realized I had a problem: I still couldn't speak Korean. As the stanzas wafted over the breeze, I saw my bronze statue deflate like a giant balloon.

Aussie Aussie Aussie!

Just as I had lost all hope, my ears picked up another chant on the breeze! Before I got too excited, I listened carefully. But wait, this was strange…It seemed I understood what the crowd was chanting. Could it be?

Eeh…a ee-go!

Was it possible? I turned my head towards the breeze.

Heeya meego!

Was the Korean crowd chanting…in Spanish?

Heey Amigo!

Was that the secret to the mystical chants then? Just shout something in Spanish? I wasn't sure, but it seemed plausible—they take their soccer seriously enough in Latin America to go to war over it. Why not harness that power and passion any way you can? I saw my bronze statue re-inflate on the Yard to the rhythm of ¡Vamos Amarillo! ¡Vamos Azul!

I wondered aloud about the possibility of the Korean soccer fans being way more international than I initially credited when the knowledgeable Australian sitting next to me corrected me.

Guess which one is the real Australian?

"Minguk, minguk. They're saying 'Minguk,' not 'amigo," he laughed.

"I thought minguk was 'American,'" I said, suddenly confused. "Why would the cheer for Americans?"

"Meeguk is America," he said with emphasis. "Minguk is another word for Korea."

"Well, I liked my interpretation better," I retorted, lamely. For the second time in a half hour, I saw my bronze statue slip out of my grasp.

I drank my beer sullenly, sulking about my failure to capture the power of the soccer chant when it happened.

Like a choir singing from on high, the familiar notes echoed through the stadium. Everyone around us stood up and joined in, and immediately I sensed a change on the pitch. The Korean team seemed a step faster, their passes a hair sharper, their defense a degree stingier.

But what was this song? I knew this song, but from where? It hit me like a penalty kick to the gut: Fourth grade piano class. The Korean fans were singing…Beethoven?

There was no doubt. It was Ode to Joy, the first and only song I learned how to play on the piano. It seemed I had been trying desperately to think of a word that rhymed with "amarillo," when all I needed to do was get the GW student body to sing a Romantic symphony. With my limited Spanish, I knew which task would be easier.

Satisfied that I had finally discovered the secret of the soccer chant, I was able to enjoy the rest of the game (though the $3 beers and snacks certainly helped). After the game, we shuffled out of the stadium. Our adopted team had lost, but we weren't really Australian, and so we were happy all the same. We ran into some friendly Korean fans who offered to swap team colors. We declined a jersey swap, and were satisfied with a flag and photo trade.

It was an International Friendly, so naturally we made some international friends

As we walked out of the stadium, I hummed the first few stanzas of "Ode to Joy" to myself, amazed at what a beautiful night it was.

The Stadium