Snugg as a bugg in a rugg

Despite the inexplicable lack of tailgating and pep rallies, it's definitely fall here. Last night, for the first time, I slept with both my windows (the one over my bed and the sliding door to the little balcony) closed, inner and outer windows both. I'm beginning to suss out how I'm going to survive the winter. I'll almost certainly put a double thickness of heavy plastic sheeting over all the windows. I'm not looking forward to that, as I hate being cut off from the outside and it will take away half of Tug's entertainment when I'm not home, the other half being flinging his little toy mousies all over the apartment. But I don't want to spend my entire salary on heating the place.

That leads to the question of how to stay warm without going broke. In Daegu, I ran the heat (underfloor heating using gas) as little as I could and had a rotating pedastal heater near me nearly constantly. I will probably do that here; it's true that my current apartment is so much smaller that it shouldn't cost so much to heat, but on the other hand, it's generally five degrees colder in Seoul than Daegu. Also, the Daegu apartment came with an electrical heater; I'd need to buy one here, for fifty to eighty bucks. I'm not sure which option is a better buy, relying on keeping the whole place toasty or carrying my heat around with me. Then again, the apartment's so small, I'd basically just have to turn it around, not move it.

Then there's the problem of the heavy wooden doors that separate the alcove (which is the home of the washing machine and the catbox and has huge sliding windows) from the living room/kitchenette... it's going to be a lot warmer if I keep them closed, but if I do, either the catbox has to come in, perilously near the kitchen, or Tug's going to have to concentrate really hard till April or so.

And then there's the idea of an electric blanket, but I don't think I'd leave it on all day for Tug, in case of fire... or a heating pad...

...and today, at Costco, just to confound me further, I was confronted, for the first time ever, with a fiendish invention I had long heard rumored but never actually seen... I came face to faceless with the abominable... Snuggie. It wants me.

Tonight we're gonna party like it's 1395

Yesterday, Zach, Chris, and I walked through the unbelievably crowded artsy street Insadong to Gyeongmokgung Palace, which was originally constructed 514 years ago (back when I was in high school). If you're a syntax stickler (which, I realize, sounds like some small exotic hedgehog) you may find "originally constructed" redundant. Au contraire, smart guy... the Japanese army burned it to the ground in 1592, and after its reconstruction in 1867, murdered the queen in 1895 and razed the buildings again in 1915. Apparently it will be another 20 years before it's completely rebuilt. But what's there now is pretty impressive.

Here, let me show you: (Click on any picture to enlarge it.)

I need cooler facial hair..

...and sartorial help from Carson Kressley...

...and a cooler pet.

Zach, Spot, and Chris.

You'd think the king would at least have a Barcalounger

That's a bed in the middle. Ow.

Would you like a Dr. Pepper with your Moon Pie?

The gazebo.

What, this old place? It's not much, but it's home.

Sign, sign, everywhere a sign

...I need some English conversation, stat!

Please don't pour flavord syrup on my menu.

"We'll do our best" ...but don't get your expectations too high.

I bit off more than I could Chuseok

Happy Chuseok, everybody! Unlike last year, when Heeduk invited me to his parents' home to share their observance, this one, today, has been solitary for me. While Koreans are feasting with their families and bowing to their ancestors' pictures, waegookin (foreigners) are left with nothing open but the 7-Eleven. Still, it's been a busy few days and a down day or two isn't such a bad thing.

As I've been whining, the school's trip to Jeju Island was canceled due to fear of that swine behind the curtain; it's been a good though hectic week nonetheless. On Wednesday, the whole school went to Nami Island, a little resort northeast of Seoul. The place, perhaps borrowing a leaf from Key West, styles itself the "Naminara Republic" and issues passports to its visitors. It's a small, leaf-shaped island in a lake, and is much beloved by Japanese tourists because it was featured on a Korean tv show that was wildly popular there.


The Naminara Republic is replete with (in case you're a nihilist who doesn't believe it really is a small world after all) a King of Pop display,

artwork (of which this...

...was my favorite), little electric Model T's, duck boats, ostriches,

restaurants, bike rentals, trails, and a big big field perfect for our school "Olympics": three-legged race, balloon toss, egg-and-spoon race, and the like, all topped off with a nifty photographic scavenger hunt. I'd like to point out, first, that the Cornpeople did not finish last (eighth of nine teams isn't bad), and also that I didn't get to draft my own team. Kinda like being a Mets fan. (For God's sake, must you keep bringing up the Mets' season?)

On Thursday, the kids had off and the faculty had an in-service day, after which Mr. Park, the director, took us all out for a massive dinner at VIPS Steakhouse. Ironically, I had one of the best meals I've ever had in Korea, as their salad bar has salad (shocking, I know), all kinds of fruit, pasta, pizza, desserts, five kinds of coffee... it was a really nice time with everyone there, darkened only slightly by the fact that when I got out of the cab as we arrived, my pack zipper came open and the bottle of Chilean cabernet Mr. Park had given me for Chuseok shattered all over the sidewalk. (When we got to the restaurant, I couldn't figure out why the floor was sticky... it seemed like a nice place and all... till it occurred to me that if you walk around in Chilean cabernet, the soles of your shoes are likely to be a bit agglutinative.) (I swear, that's the first word from a thesaurus that I've ever put on this blog.)

Afterward, a few of us went up the stairs to the street, looking for a bar, walked around, found none, and went back down to the one in the basement, where we had a pitcher of good German lager. It was nice, and demographically and linguistically balanced: Lauren, Chris, and me as the Anglo contingent, Korean-Americans Susan (who speaks Korean) and Nick (who doesn't) and our office manager Jin and secretary Michelle, both lifelong Koreans who speak wonderful English. Chris, Lauren, and I are customarily beer buddies, but we'd never been out with the others before, and it was good to see them on a more social level. Nice folks.

Yesterday (Friday), we were off for the holiday, and I was delighted to get a text from my Kiwi friend Emma, up from Daegu for the weekend. (By "Kiwi", I mean that she's a native of New Zealand... she is neither green nor fruity. Come to think of it, though, she is small and flightless.) We went to What the Book and then to lunch, both in the notorious Itaewon neighborhood, then took the subway to the Ingwangsan Shaminist Hillside Walk, as Lonely Planet calls it.

Right in the middle of the world's second-biggest metro area, we walked ten minutes up a very, very steep hill (one to rival Gunshop Hill in Ithaca, or all of the hills in Florida combined) and entered a little village carved out of the rockface, with winding, uneven stone stairs and the little homes of Buddhist monks; we wandered innocently into a yard and a monk came out to tell us, in English, that we should feel free to walk around and take photos. (The tv dish on his home and the next-door convenience store's advertising Cokes and cigarettes seemed utterly incongruous.)

The area apparently is a key, ancient Shamanist shrine, especially these rocks...

...which allegedly house many spirits, but most of the religious presence is Buddhist:

 

...and that's Emma. This is me...

One odd thing about the life we waegook sangsaengnim (foreign teachers) live is that we make friends easily, but know all the while we won't see them for long. Especially at the hagwons (private, evening academies) people come and go as if they were on a traffic circle. I hugged Emma goodbye on the subway, knowing I'd never see her again, as she'll be back in Middle Earth soon, and thinked heavy thunks about the transience of life and how I'll miss her.

Sic transit emma mundi.

Raccoon oar dog?

It's been a long day, as 16 hours ago (at 4:30 a.m.) some neighbors decided it would be a good idea to sit on the park bench 50 feet from my head (and I like to sleep with the windows open) and have a loud long conversation. When I finally drifted uneasily down into sleep again, Tug McClaw commented loudly every 20 minutes or so about how I was going to miss my ride. I think that's what he was saying; I was begging him to shut up too much to really decipher his message.

Anyway, I finally dragged my carcass out of bed (I won't say up) at 7, and at 8:30 was joining seven of my SPPA compatriots in a three-hour van trip to go... white-water rafting! We were actually north of the 38th parallel, the one-time border between the Koreas...

 

and just a few miles from the DMZ and the worst country in the world.

We had lunch, put on our life preservers and helmets, grabbed our paddles, got a quick lesson in how our guide would guide us (left one two, right one two, boce one two [that's "both"; they don't have "th"s in Korean], back one two, boat down [grab the rope and jackknife your body forward, 'cause we're all gonna die oh God oh God]) and we were off.

Tony, the head teacher, arranged the trip and I wasn't going to miss it; I've been so cautious my whole life, and it was about time to change that. I was a bit apprehensive, but actually the water was low, now, at the end of the season and the trip was pretty mild even by my standards. (If I'd known how it was going to be, I wouldn't have worried about taking my camera and I'd have some nice pictures for you.) There were white things tangled in a great many of the trees fifteen feet above us, and I was cooking up some romantic story about native customs, when the guide said, through Tony's girlfriend (our interpreter) that they were all trash bags... that line fifteen feet up is where the water rises to.

Still it was so much fun, and it did have some rapids, a lot of splashing, and a plenitude of rocks. At one point, we had to all repeatedly jump up in the raft on the count of three so our guide, in the water in his wet suit, could free us from the rocks; mostly we just had a lovely time paddling and looking up the steep cliffs, topped with impenetrable forest, on both sides. We were accompanied the whole way by a flight of dragonflies, who liked to perch on our heads and our paddles. On our break halfway down the river, we found a lot of lime-green frogs, the size of my little fingernail, in the sand. (Frog pee is actually quite cool to the touch, by the way.)

But for me, the highlight of the trip was when we saw an unusual animal staring down from far above us: it was too big to be a raccoon, which they don't have on this side of the marble anyway; it wasn't a badger or a wolverine; what the heck was it?                                                                                                          

Later research at home proved it to be a raccoon dog, which roams eastern Asia apparently unable to make up its mind what the hell it is, sort of the oriental version of Senator Arlen Specter. Actually, though it looks pretty darn coonesque, it's a member of the dog family. Different pictures of them look quite different, and ours was closer to a brownish red, so much so that I wondered if it was a red panda, but... uh, no, no bamboo 'round here, and this ain't the Himalayas. It was a raccoon dog, all right. Do you recall a couple of years ago when it was uncovered that the faux fur in Sean Combs' clothing line was in fact, faux faux, that is to say real? Well... that was raccoon dog. Fortunately, this guy still had his own coat on.

So, anyway, I'd like to go back sometime when there's a bit more water and they gots it turned up a couple notches, but we had a wonderful time, I did something I should have tried long ago, and I'm tired. Everyone at school was supposed to fly to Jeju Island tomorrow, but overblown fear of H1N1 axed that, so I guess my little bi(ologically)curious friend was all the adventure for this week. Aside from the Seoul weekend traffic, that is.

But... coming in January... maybe Japan.. maybe Thailand... stay tuned!

H1, NE1?

Jeju Island is known as Korea’s Hawaii. That sounds rather like being Alaska’s California or Denver’s San Diego, but it is supposed to be quite lovely. I’ve been hoping to go there ever since my first week over here, when Heeduk told me his father sometimes closes LIKE School and takes the faculty there for a vacation. He didn’t in my year at LIKE. Some of my friends who worked at the Samduk location got free trips there, but neither I nor anyone else at the Manchon school did.

…so you can imagine my anticipation on my first day at SPPA, when I found out that on the last couple of days of this month we’d be closing the school and everyone, faculty, kids, and all, would have a three-day trip to Jeju.

…only of course we’re not. Mr. Park, the boss, has canceled it over fears of H1N1. I don’t understand how an airplane trip and a little time on a semitropical island would be more dangerous than staying in a metro area of over 20 million people. But many Koreans have a lot of irrational fears of lethal menaces: American beef! Sleeping in a closed room with a fan running! The number four!

So our three-day trip to Jeju has become two days of classes and a day trip to a nearby island for a sports day; the island doesn’t allow its visitors to bring any balls (wouldn't want to bruise the trees, I guess), so we’re going to have a lot of Frisbee games and three-legged races and such.

That's a poor substitute, but at least I can sit at home at night, drinking my E-Mart Jeju mandarin orange juice and wiping my tears on my cat.

He’s soft and silky.

Where have all the flowers gone?

I was mildly saddened today to read of the death of Henry Gibson, who forty years ago  delivered whimsical little poems on "Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In" while holding an absurdly big flower. I always liked him and his gentle, offbeat viewpoint.

An hour or two later I was saddened to a greater degree to learn of the death of Mary Travers. Peter, Paul and Mary were special, especially to me. They were my first concert, when I was nine or so; I overheard a student at a Cornell football game say he had an extra ticket, and in a move stunningly unlike the shy, self-conscious kid I was, interrupted him, bought his ticket, and went to the show alone. Some years later, I also saw Mary in concert as she attempted to launch a solo career, though she was overshadowed by her then-unknown lead-in act, Seals and Crofts. Also, Ithaca was the birthplace of Puff; if we were there, I could point out the house where the song was written.

Mostly, though, P, P and M were good, and they were brave: they marched in Selma and sang at Dr. King's speech at the Lincoln Memorial. They brought the civil rights and antiwar movements into people's living rooms. The men had beards, Mary had long straight hair that became the model for antiwar women and hippie chicks, and they weren't afraid to be earnest about things that mattered.

The world turned more cynical, to the point where people insisted, against all evidence, that Puff was a song about marijuana. Peter, Paul and Mary never became cynical.

I'm going running later, and I'm going to listen to If I Had a Hammer on my iPod, not because Mary Travers has passed, but because it's a song I listen to. A lot.

I still believe in it.