One year already?

The first real "Korean" image I have is from our first bus ride to Gwangju from the airport.  We were sitting in huge pleather-covered chairs, trying to sleep in the blue light from the HD TV at the front of the aisle.  I gazed out of the window at the night rolling past, hoping to catch a glimpse of the country I had moved to.  For a long time I just watched the highway fly by, orange concrete surrounded by black.  But then we drove by a city.

Endless rows of buildings towered over skinny roads, tall and narrow and long.  Electric signs crowded the buildings, neon red and green and yellow flashing like a mini Times Square on every block.  "This is so cool," I thought as the neon swirled past in the night.

* * *

One year later and I still find myself thinking that.  Sitting on top of a mountain at midnight, gazing out at Gwangju's orange and purple lights that twinkle in the haze while friends chitchat in the shelter behind me.  Launching roman candles in the middle of a bustling traffic circle with children and grandfathers into the night sky, the cacophony of a festival mixing with the smell of gunpowder and horses.  Watching fishing boats chug around the blue waters of the South Sea from a sleepy beach town as an ajumma picks onions across the road behind me, I think  "This is so cool."

I'm lucky, in a way, that living in Korea still retains enough of the "exotic" to provide fodder for stories that friends back home will find interesting.  But it's not when I'm eating soup made from congealed pig's blood or dressing up in a hanbok at my boss's request that I really feel satisfied.

For a long time - since at least high school - I knew that I wanted to go abroad.  I didn't just want to travel, I wanted to live and work in a different country.  It's why I studied International Affairs, and it's why I went to GW.

When I stand on top of the mountain, and think about where I am and what I'm doing and how much I simply love my life right now, I'm awestruck.

To be two years out of college, and in the exact position you hoped to be is a strange feeling.  There's a sense of "Mission Accomplished" sure, but I'm also acutely aware of how lucky I am to be here.  For so many people here, and for so many friends back home, the job is a stepping stone, a temporary stop on the way to fulfilling their career or life goals.  Maybe I'm generalizing a bit too much, so I may get into trouble, but it seems that while most people my age are where they hope to be at this point in life, they're not where they hope to be in life--not yet.

Standing on top of that mountain, I realize that this is it.  This is where I want to be--in life.  Period.  I spent the better part of the last seven years trying to get here, and I love it more than I ever thought possible.


It's incredible to have reached a goal.  It's thrilling to have been so right in setting that goal. But it's also a little scary.  What if this is it, and it's all downhill from here?  What if I've peaked too early and I have to spend the rest of my life working some dreary job chained to a desk as my friends trot around the globe and live glamorous expat lives abroad? (not that desks are all bad, I have many fond memories of desks)

But then some shopping center's lights will be shut off, or a car screech will jolt me back to reality and I'll notice the lights from the farms twinkling off in the distance and I'll think to myself, "This is so cool."

Don't worry, we're OK

Hello,

Devon and I are coming up on finishing our first year here, and I was in the middle of writing a post looking back when I got a bunch of messages from friends and family back home all asking essentially the same thing: "Are you alive?"  So I figured I'd deal with those first.


This whole incident started back at the end of March when a SK warship the Cheonan broke in two and sank after an explosion near the Northern Limit Line (the maritime border between the two countries-disputed by the North since it was unilaterally drawn by the Americans after the Korean War), killing 46 South Korean sailors.  Reportedly, it was highest number of South Koreans killed in military action since the end of the Korean War.


After a lengthy investigation, the South formally accused the North of sinking the ship (not that the outcome was ever in doubt, a ship blows up in disputed waters along the most militarized border on the planet, and you'd be forgiven for jumping to conclusions).  Reaction was swift: propaganda speakers were erected (threats were made to blow them up), economic ties were cut (except for a multi-million dollar joint venture industrial park at Kaesong), and the US Secretary of State planned a visit to Seoul.  All very serious stuff.

So I stand on the front lines of one of the more recent international crises in history, and I have to wonder - should I be scared?  I decided to ask some people who had more experience dealing with an unstable tyrant - my Korean partner teachers.

"Do not worry," said Alex, the director of my school.  "It is just Lee Myung-bak (the President of Korea) trying to scare the old people into voting for his party."  I remembered that Korean provincial elections are June 2nd, and immediately had flashbacks to 2004 and the constantly changing terrorist threat level.

"It is not something to think about," said Luna at lunch.  "I think about when will I get married?  When to have a baby.  What the weather will be like."  (At first I thought she meant for the weekend, but later I realized she meant global warming).

"This always happens," said Mickey.  "We are used to it.  Every three or four years, something happens.  And it never leads to war.  Only arguing."

"It is the same thing always," Ellie reiterated.  "Every time there is an election, the politicians exploit it to scare the people into voting."

Jay just laughed at me and started making plans for the weekend.

I looked out the window and realized that I hadn't heard the squadron of fighter jets fly over Gwangju any more than was normal.  Seoul was still bustling, and the local mega mart hadn't yet sold out of duck tape.  For now, I feel fine.

Gwangju News - Blossoms to Bottle Rockets: Jinhae’s Cherry Blossom Festival

This is the second of two pieces I wrote for the Gwangju News, a magazine for the international community in our city.  Since the pieces haven't been published on their website yet, I'm posting them here for everyone to read.  If you want to see the piece as it appears in the magazine (including pictures), let me know and I'll give you the .pdf.  Enjoy! 

* * *

We arrived on a crowded city bus from Masan, rambling down a hill covered in fluffy white trees. The driver stopped at a wide traffic circle, and we were swept off with the rush of passengers onto the sidewalk.

My girlfriend and I had come to Jinhae to welcome spring, continuing a tradition begun as students in Washington, DC, where we would walk hand-in-hand in the shade of freshly-blossomed cherry trees, jostling with hundreds of other bumbling tourists for the same prized view of the Jefferson Memorial across the Tidal Basin framed by that one perfect blossom-covered branch. 

Though the Jefferson Memorial was some 7,000 miles away, we were determined to carry on our tradition as best we could – which meant jostling with hundreds of other tourists for the same prized view from the top of Jehwangsan at Jinhae's Cherry Blossom Festival.

Held annually in the smallish port city just outside of Busan, the festival commemorates the beginning of spring, and the life of Admiral Lee Sun-shin who defeated several Japanese invasion attempts in the area. Various cultural events are held throughout the two-weeks of the festival, though the main event is the streets and hills of Jinhae which explode in pink and white for only a couple of weeks.

The festival conjures up mental images of an idyllic walk along the picturesque Yeojwacheon stream, your companion's face dappled by the shadows of cherry blossoms as you munch on snacks purchased from a truck. Or maybe you dream of climbing Jehwangsan's 365 steps (one for each day of the year) to take in the sweeping view of the city from the top of Jinhae Tower, stopping to snap a few artistic shots of lovers feeding each other kimbap on a bench under a branch of white flowers. Don't feel like all those stairs? That's okay, there's a rail car that shuttles up the elderly, infirm, and out of shape, though you'll miss the fortune tellers and palm readers that ply the shady steps to the top.

As we wandered through the streets, shaded by the ubiquitous cherry trees, we soon became distracted by the carnival-like atmosphere going on around us. There was food everywhere. Men spun cotton candy like Rumpelstiltskin and ajummas flipped pa-jeon loaded with peppers, scallions and squid as giant cauldrons of soup bubbled next to them. Men pulled fish and shrimp, octopus and squid, sea cucumbers and those weird red pinecones from boxy blue tanks and served them under a tent with a bowl of maekgoli. Entire sides of pigs roasted over open charcoal next to a tent that may or may not have served whale and roasted baby chicks (I didn't ask).

But not everything resembled an exotic foods show on cable, on every street corner stood a cart peddling familiar snacks. Dried cuttlefish hung from hooks, awaiting the jaws of a shredder. Vats of bundigie (silk worm larvae) bubbled infernally next to roasting corn, and skewers of mysterious meat rotated delectably over electric burners.

We washed down our lunch with a couple of beers in the center of Jungwon Rotary, watching the people enjoy the afternoon. Young lovers took photos of themselves, oblivious to the teenagers playing soccer with an empty coconut next to them. Children frolicked, playing with balloons, bubbles, and their newest carny prizes while making faces at the foreigners.

Our beers finished, we ventured into the tent-city once more, hoping to win one of those helicopters the kids were playing with at one of the carny games. The weighted cans seemed to magically repel the baseballs we threw at them, the basketball hoop seemed too small for the ball, the BB gun didn't shoot straight, and the eel we dropped into the water swam into the wrong divider.

At night, we settled back on the lawn in the rotary to watch the final night of the festival. The smell of roman candles mingled with the traffic cop's whistles and the whinnying from the speakers of the horse-drawn carriages. A small child, barely old enough to venture out of his stroller, waved around a roman candle that had only seconds earlier been launching sparkling white bursts into the sky. We ducked. An ajossi glared at us for an uncomfortably long time, then offered us some of his smoked cuttlefish.

The morning after, we woke up early. The streets were quiet and mostly empty from the night before – as if the whole city had stayed up too late playing with fireworks. Even the cherry trees showed signs of hangover – many of them had lost their petals, and so the sidewalks looked like they were covered with snow in spots. Roving bands of youths threw them at each other – a springtime snowball fight.

I bent down to throw some at my girlfriend when a cloud of white and pink exploded around me. I ran down the street after her, already plotting how I'd get her back next year. 

To get to Jinhae, get on city bus #760 at the stop across the street from the Masan Express Bus Terminal. After 20 minutes, get off at the big traffic circle. The Cherry Blossom Festival is held every year for two weeks at the end of March to the beginning of April.

Gwangju News - Miracle on the Mountain:Haeinsa, Temple of Dharma

This is the first of two pieces I wrote for the Gwangju News, a magazine for the international community in our city.  Since the pieces haven't been published on their website yet, I'm posting them here for everyone to read.  If you want to see the piece as it appears in the magazine (including pictures), let me know and I'll give you the .pdf.  Enjoy! 

* * * 

We left the city limits and soon we were driving through freshly-plowed fields still shrouded in early-morning mist. It always surprised me how suddenly Korean cities ended without any of that suburban sprawl that I was used to back home. The towering futuristic apartment blocks gave way to old farmland so abruptly, it was as if they had been dropped in from space, squashing some poor farmer planting rice and seriously ruining his day.

The bus continued onwards through the idyllic countryside. A couple of ajussis in front of us chattered like schoolboys, pointing out the window at unknown sights as the bus drove on. Muddy brown rice fields spilled down the side of the mountains before settling into valleys. A girl in a pink sweatshirt watched us indifferently as we passed through her small farming town: a cluster of houses and sheds, a mini-mart, a school, a salon and a norae-bang. The two-story buildings were dusty and faded, and I was reminded of a drive through the town in the Shenandoah Mountains in western Virginia where my Mom grew up.

After an hour or so, we arrived at a bustling tourist village nestled in between two large mountains. A short hike through the woods brought us to the entrance to Haein-sa, one of the Three Jewels of Korean Buddhism. Haein-sa, the 1200-year old temple of Dharma represents the teachings of Buddha. It is home to the Tripitaka Koreana, the oldest and most complete collection of Buddhist scriptures carved onto 81,258 wood blocks sometime during the 13^th century.

Tourists and the faithful shuffled through the gate and up the steep stone steps to the entrance. An elderly woman stopped at the top to bow before entering the temple courtyard that was bathed in sunlight.
Administrative offices, an information center and two separate gift shops occupied the buildings surrounding the courtyard. In the center, a large maze-like design was made from stones set into the ground. Parents walked through the labyrinth slowly and quietly, with their hands together while their children scampered around the twists and turns, peals of laughter ringing through the courtyard.

The woodblocks are kept in four 700-year old storage halls at the top of the temple complex. Inside, tall racks of woodblocks stretched down the long halls loaded with hundreds of woodblocks. Official-looking people walked around, warning us to put our cameras away; there would be no pictures of the woodblocks. A man hawked prints in the courtyard.

Though the halls' varying shades of brown were aesthetically simple by Korean temple standards, the methods to construct them and preserve the woodblocks are surprisingly complex.

Large windows were spaced at even intervals around the buildings, and when I peered into the darkness for a better look at the woodblocks, a soft cool breeze blew through thick wooden bars that obscured my view—strange because the air outside was perfectly calm.

Our guidebook noted these methods and others, and with some awe pointed out that they have yet to be matched by modern science. An attempt was made in the 1970s, but was abandoned after test blocks began to mildew.

That I was peering through the windows at these blocks in the first place struck me as the greater miracle. These blocks had survived 700-some years of Korean history: the fires that had destroyed the temple time and again, but left the storage halls untouched, foreign invasions that sought to wipe out Korean culture but ignored the woodblocks, and a civil war that bombed and shelled the country into rubble but spared Haein-sa because of an insightful, observant Korean pilot who remembered what treasures it held.

It's easy to forget the length of Korean history when most buildings I see were built in the last 60 years, when ancient temples still smell of fresh paint, and when Gyeongju seems more modern resort than historical capital.

Peering through the bars at these woodblocks however, I saw tangible evidence of that history. Just as the Gutenberg Bible is remembered not only as the first printed copy of the West's Holy book, but as the beginnings of a printed revolution that would culminate in the Enlightenment, the Tripitaka Koreana seems significant not as a complete, errorless copy of Buddhist scripture, but as proof of an ancient history, cultural relics to remind Koreans of their past.

To get to Haein-sa, take a bus from Daegu's Seobu Bus Terminal (1.5 hours) to Haein-sa. When you arrive, walk back down the road, then follow the signs up the path to the temple. Admission is free. Temple stay programs are available, call (055)934-3105 for information.

Discovering the Korean Spirit: Jiri Mountain

They say that the spirit of the Korean people flows from here at Changwongbong, the summit of Jirisan, the highest mountain on the South Korean peninsula.  It was easy to see why.  Even in the haze of the mid-afternoon sun, we could see for miles, the mountains stretching beyond in fading shades of blue until they disappeared.  From where I stood, 1915 meters above sea level, I was not only privy to one of the most spectacular views in the country, I was also the tallest person this side of the DMZ.

It was an arduous journey to the top, made harder still by the bottle of soju and six rolls of kimbap weighing my pack down (three each chicken and tuna), but for once in my short mountain-climbing career, I didn't feel completely out of my league.  Looking back, I suppose the fact that my chest was heaving like a toy boat in a tempest and my legs were cramping from the strain of the first hour of hiking should have told me that I was in fact, out of my league.  But the the ajummas I passed on my way up the 60-degree trail looked like they were having a harder time of it than I (nevermind that they were 40 years my senior), and so my confidence was buoyed.  Usually, they're passing me as I huff and puff up an endless flight of stairs.  Score one for youthful exuberance.

We camped at the Rotary Shelter, described in promotional materials as little more than a hut with no toilets or running water, perched precariously on the side of a mountain.  In reality, it was a log cabin with stinky toilets perched precariously below Bopgyesa, one of the highest temples in Korea.  The only water source at the shelter was a spring bubbling from a rock a mere 30-meters uphill, at the entrance to the temple, making a midnight drink impractical, but for those with enough foresight to fill up their bottles before embarking on the two kilometer journey to the summit, it was a heavenly gift.

Rules at the shelter were rigidly enforced: lights out at 8pm, no eating or drinking inside the bunks, and boys and girls sleep separately.  At first the early bedtime sounded ridiculous (were we at summer camp again?), but the effort of hauling myself 1600 meters up the side of a mountain made me too tired to complain and most of us were fast asleep on the hard wooden floors of the shelter when the lights went out.

Early to bed, early to rise, and the next morning we awoke to watch the sun rise from a specially-built balcony at Bopgyesa.  I had to forgo my usual morning coffee due to a lack of hot water (powdered latte doesn't dissolve as well in cold water), but the rich reds of the temple against the pale blue mountains was enough stimulation to wake me.

An early-morning hike to the summit found me for the second time in as many days scrambling up a trail more suited to goats than reckless twenty-somethings.  Someone recounted a legend about a group of North Korean soldiers hiding on the mountain after the Korean War.  It took the southern government something like four years to find the communists in the rugged terrain.  I believed it.

Just before the summit, the trail devolved into something resembling a rockslide more than the well-traveled path that it was.  We scrambled up the rocks with the help of one heavy-duty rope, dragged ourselves up one final flight of stairs, hauled our aching bodies to the top of a small rocky outcropping, and gazed down at the morning mist hanging in the pale blue valleys below.  We followed the lead of those around us and kissed the stone marking the top, the Korean spirit filling our tired bones.

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If you haven't seen my pictures from this weekend, go look at them now!