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