What follows, is a collection of completely unrelated thoughts which were jotted down spontaneously throughout the last few weeks. They zipped one, two, three via synaptic cleft.
How did I ever find myself in this taxi cab? I had just spent ten minutes freezing myself to death on a street corner in the ritzy Apkugeong neighborhood after a lovely dinner at a cute little wine bar and bistro. I sipped on Spanish Rioja in an attempt to warm myself inside and out as I slipped, one by one, crab and shrimp stuffed ravioli covered in lemon cream sauce into my mouth. Fully satiated, my grape juice induced warmth was vanishing onto the ice filled sidewalk. I finally hailed a cab and jumped into the back seat.
“You Christian?” the driver asked.
“Sure,” I responded.
“Carol of Christmas we sing,” he chirped into the rear view mirror.
For the next twenty five minutes I zoomed across the city, speeding over the Hangang River which twinkled with Christmas lights. The driver and I both sang our hearts out as loudly as possible. We belted out Silent Night, Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer and Amazing Grace. I could not help but hysterically laugh in the back seat as I drowned out my operetta voice and allowed the driver to transform into the Madonna of the stage. Suddenly everything got awkward as he continued to smile and stare at my through the rear view mirror as I laughed into my wooly mittens.
I spent one Saturday running around the city trying to flush myself into the local crowd in order to not appear to the masses like a tourist. I spent the morning in Hongdae, home of Hongkuk University, the cities most established Art and Design School. The area is known for its plethora of dance clubs which are jam packed on weekends until the early morning hours. During the day one can stroll through the streets and chat with local art students. I found two young artists who introduced themselves as, Sun and Mun. We walked along the many side streets and I snapped as many pictures as I could of the graffiti adorned building exteriors. I popped into a craft and stationary shop which specialized in Panda paraphernalia. Korean’s are obsessed with Panda’s. The image of this endangered bear can be found on sweaters, backpacks, tote bags and notebooks. Children even wear winter hats which resemble Panda heads. I assume, that they assume, wearing Panda merchandise will somehow increase this cute little black and white bear’s dwindling population.
During the spring and summer bohemian art students huddle in the central park of the neighborhood and sell their wacky, unique and colourful clothing, paintings, sculptures and nick nacks. The longest street in the Hongdae is a fashion mecca for the twenty to thirty year old age group. These shops used to be residences with small garage doors at street level and balconies overlooking the street. One can find the most up to date Asian styles here. The prices are a steal but don’t expect to be able to try anything on. Change rooms are non existent. One has to make a wish, take a chance and cross their fingers. Each shop offers an entirely different pleasure. I walked into one shop that specializes in men’s leather shoes and trench coats. A few stores down, a poet lovers boutique sold hand made journals and paper dolls. I walked into a tiny little closet of a store which shockingly sold $400 Burberry cashmere V-necks. One can find just about anything in Hongdae but you must be willing to hunt down your Diamond in the Ruff.
I finished my stroll in Hongdae at a quintessential Korean Omurice restaurant. Omurice is a Korean fusion cuisine which allows for endless possibilities and flavor combinations. Basic Omurice consists of a thin omelet (which almost resembles a thin crepe) stuffed with vegetable fried rice. The secret is in the sauce as they say. I sat shivering over my menu as I glared at over fifty Omurice varieties: curry, tomato sauce, sausage, shrimp and bacon corn and cream. I ordered the latter and stared at my lovely gleaming yellow package of rice and egg goodness which sat before me. As always, the plate was dressed up as if an art piece. Swirls of mustard, white béchamel sauce and a sprinkle of this and that.
I sped across the river clutching onto the elbows and shoulders of the passengers standing beside me on the subway. I walked up the exit stairs and stared out onto the fields of river side Hangang Park. During the warm months of the year this park buzzes with people. In the winter it was quiet, calm and really a lovely place to take a solo stroll. Steam billowed out of my nose and mouth as I walked down the parks huge staircase to the river side walkway. I walked south along the park and saw several running groups marching silently. I walked across a field of lightly snow coated grass and sat by a bench overlooking the river. The river is covered in hundreds of bridges it seems. Connecting the suburban and downtown core of Seoul. I sat up in disbelief as I saw two men in wet suits jetting across the river on Jet Ski’s. I have discovered Koreans can be crazier than Canadians during the frigid months of winter. Canadians and their idiotic Polar Bear Swims, Koreans and their ridiculous January water skiing. I can imagine the park would be a great place to read during the warm spring and summer months. Playing Frisbee with a group of friends, dinning on river boat restaurants and paddling along the river in Swan shaped boats for two. The river has become famous because of the incredibly successful Korean film, The Host, hich premiered a Cannes Film Festival a few years ago. The film is the story of the squid like mutant monster which starts to capture native Koreans as they stroll by the rivers edge.
At the end of the park one will find the countries tallest building which shimmers like gold at mid day. The 63 Building is the tallest building in Korea and has become somewhat of a tourist attraction for locals and foreigners a like. The building reminded me of Putting on the Ritz as I was welcomed into the entrance by a well dressed doorman. I stopped at a perfectly outfitted French Café and Bakery. Nibbling on Blueberry and Cream Cheese Strudel as I sipped on hot espresso. The main floor of the building features a hall way which slowly fades into every colour of the rainbow. Standing at one end it looks like a magical tunnel out of some sort of druggy dream. Changing from bright red to light indigo and smooth violet.
I bought a combined ticket with Shareen which allowed us to enter the aquarium, IMAX theater and Sky Deck. The aquarium was rather ill and required a bit of a facelift. The IMAX show was a rather old school, corny film about a Native American tribe in Arizona. I took a moment to think how odd it is that Koreans find this landscape and Native culture so foreign. One realizes Natives don’t really exist in every country. Well at least not the Natives which I envision in my head wearing feathered head dress and holding bow and arrow.
We walked to the center of the building and took a rather magnificent elevator ride up to the 63rd floor of the building. It was around 8pm in the evening and the entire city sparkled for miles and miles in the distance 360 degrees around us. We strolled around the square platform turning at abrupt 90 degree angles as we reached each corner. The city is truly magnificent. When staring down from 63 floors I actually thought the city looked like a well constructed model. As if I could pick up each and every little bridge and put it in my pocket. Row upon row of towering apartment buildings which reminded me of a line of dominos. At the center of the platform I sipped on a Bailey’s on the Rocks and pretended I was in a 21st Century Asian Romance film where I would surely bump into my soul mate. I walked over to the window overlooking the downtown core and cupped my hands over my mouth and steamed my breath onto the cold glass. I quickly wrote with my clammy fingers “I love you,” onto the fogged window patch. I walked back into the elevator ready to head home and hoped with an Amelie style whimsical smile that someone would find my message. I am charming.
Paying bills on the other hand is not so charming. They all started to flood into my mailbox. I had chalked up a nasty $90 gas bill which shocked the owner of my school as most people spend around $50 dollars a month on gas. Apparently I need to be more thrifty with my heated floors. On a positive note I only had to pay $5 for water, $7 for electricity and $25 for internet. I grabbed all of my bills and headed to my local bank. I was greeted by the bank manager. I pointed at my bank card and my fist full of bills. He waved me over to a special bank machine solely used for paying bills. He silently showed me how to scan my bills and pay them. It is astonishingly easy. Each bill has a barcode stub which can be torn off. I added each stub into the machine and when finished inserted my bank card and the grand total of all bills incurred was paid. Presto!
For weeks I had been in denial. I finally stared at myself in the mirror one morning and realized that I did indeed require a hair cut. My hair was rough, flaccid and overrun. I spent many days at work leading up to the “the cut,” talking to my coworkers about potential hair ideas. I dared not let a Korean barber touch my head. I have been cutting my hair for five years now and get an adrenaline rush every time I do a bit of organized follicle creation. I had to have a rather conservative cut for wok. It couldn’t be overtly liberal (I didn’t want to be labeled a communist). I didn’t want it to be corny and decided if worse comes to worse I can just shave the botched job off and rock a buzz cut. Last resort, throw on a Burkah.
I have almost hit the two month mark. I can’t believe it has been two months since that rather arduous training session ordeal. I am now a full fledged teacher who can be entirely humorous and as snappy and strict as Professor Snape (when required). I have a ball with the elementary kids but the middle school teens are always a problem. If only I could squeeze the “awkward puberty” out of them we would be fine. I devised and hatched a plan which has worked. I make an entire fool of myself in front of them which in turn relaxes them and allows them to feel as though they are in a comfortable non threatening learning environment. Now when we read anything from our books we have to read with “enthusiasm, passion and zeal.” This translates into screaming, jumping, prancing, flailing of arms, lunging and intense facial expressions. My co workers who teach on either side of my classroom now laugh when I teach as they can hear me screaming on the other side of the wall. One of these teachers, Dale, told me that several of his students were complaining that they could hear my entire lesson through the wall as they tried to do their homework. He responded, “this is amazing, now you get two English lessons for the price of one.” We would spend the next several weeks screaming excitedly about early irrigation systems along the Nile River and the magnificent art works of the Byzantine Empire.
I couldn’t help but laugh during one lesson when I had to explain to my students what a “free loader” is. I started by saying, “its when a person goes to university and comes home and eats a lot of kimchi and ramen noodles while playing Warcraft. They never get a job they just sit all day eating and playing games. Their parents take them to movies on weekends and pay for all their food.” I had to hold my tongue when I found myself about to say “they are mostly potheads.” Every child’s eyes twinkled in the room as they dreamed of being a free loading teen without any homework. Sitting all day playing video games and eating junk food seemed to be their dream. I apparently didn’t get my intended point across. You know, that free loading is a negative connotation.
My favorite most recent lessons have been about food. Shocking I know. The first was a short story about a restaurant that needed someone to edit its menu (the desserts were at the beginning and the appetizers were at the end). I felt the need to take a thirty minute tangent to explain how European Gastronomic tradition has defined European and North American eating habits. In Korea the entire meal is placed at the table at once. A table setting full of little side dishes. I wrote the longest possible menu based on what one may find served at an Italian Wedding. Antipasto, Soup, Salad, Pasta, Seafood, Sorbet, Meat, Dessert and Cheese Assortment. After I got half way through my menu all of the kids were gasping and making noises such as “oh my goodness I feel sick already.” They can’t imagine eating this much food. No wonder they are all skinny with healthy hearts. Bless them, just not their kimchi.
I asked the class how often their families serve dessert. Most of them agreed they eat dessert once a week. I asked what sweet delights they were served at the dinner table and they all answered, “fruit.” I snapped back that fruit is not a proper dessert in Canada. Fruit belongs as a work snack, sprinkled in yoghurt and perhaps baked in a pie. I hesitated and then told them with the utmost seriousness that, “in Canada if you are ever asked to bring a dessert to a potluck, most certainly do not bring a fruit bowl. You will be skinned alive.” The only real Korean desserts I have seen (other than Mother Nature’s fruit) are sweetened rice cakes and fritters filled with sweet red bean paste. I will simply say that rice and beans do not belong on a dessert menu. They belong on a plate with fried plantain and fried chicken.
I got a bit carried away with the next lesson. We read a short article on the National Dish of Scotland. All of my students heaved and made puking noises as they read about what exactly goes into the making of Haggis. I shared with them my first Haggis breakfast which I enjoyed at the base of Edinburgh Castle last summer and they all looked at me as if I was crazy. Mind you, I felt like telling them, “you know you Korean’s eat live octopus and squid that slithers on your tongue so don’t judge the Scots!” I went on a monumental tangent discussing the ecstasy of the Deep Fried Mars Bar. With a few moments left in class I told the kids to get in groups and write a menu that they would serve me if they had me over at their house. I insisted it be as weird as possible. The following are my hand picked favorites (notice how imaginatively morbid my students are!):
Beverages: Vomity Juice and Humans Blood at Nose
Main Course: Steak of Human Hand (this if five fingers on the dish) with cockroaches which are in Teacher’s house.
Dessert: Cat Meat and Kimchi Ice Cream
My life has been following a rather lovely ebb and flow. Swimming, nibbling on nuts, drinking copious amounts of water and gobbling up imaginative curry dishes. I always have two books on the go and have read three in the last two weeks. I polished off Anthony Bordain’s, “The Nasty Bits,” an entertaining mish mash of his culinary essays. I have M.K. Fisher’s Bible sized, “The Art of Eating,” which I keep at home and read every night before bed. I found myself reading one of her essays entitled, “Consider the Oyster.” I hate oysters. To me, they look like bugers sitting on rocks. Several times I debated flipping past these chapters but constantly reminded myself that I may miss a fun food fact that may just prove to be essential at my next dinner party. One hundred pages later, indeed I know a lot about the damned Oyster.
My favorite read to date has been Julia Child’s brilliant, “My Life in France.” Ms. Child, (who I think of as somewhat of a Saint) wrote this book with her Grand Nephew in her last two years. It tells the story of her move from Californiato Paris after World War II. She knew nothing of how to cook and enrolled in the most prestigious cooking school in France. I found myself sitting in Seoul dreaming of living in France. Nibbling on Brie, swishing a crisp Burgundy in my mouth before bed. It all seemed so romantic. I literally fell in love with her. Over the next few days I sped through the book and she sort of became my best friend. I felt as though I was right there as she tirelessly wrote her brilliant, “Mastering the Art of French Cooking.” I read the last few chapters during my breaks at school. As I scanned the last page I raced and skipped over words carelessly. I found myself sitting at my desk, eyes full of tears. The book ends as she is packing all of her pots, pans and cooking paraphernalia. She is finally leaving her home in Paris and permanently moving back to Boston to film her TV show, “The French Chef” fulltime. Oddly enough I could feel her disconnect. My veins were pumping 100% joy as I read her final words, “Bon Appetite.” C’est fini.
I closed the book and patted the cover and I rubbed the tears from my eyes. One of my coworkers swung by the door to chit chat and when she saw that I had been crying she asked what was wrong. I passionately responded, “Julia just packed all of her knives and pots into boxes and she’s heading back to the States and she won’t be having any more lovely dinners in Provence, or Martini parties in Paris. I’m going to miss her.” She looked at me with a blank face until her lips curled up to her cheekbones and she said rather curtly, “You do realize you just cried over a cookbook!”
