Seoul

That one's for you, Ana.

I love domestic flights. If all of my travel experiences were like my domestic flight from Jeju to Seoul, I wouldn't have such a hate on for airports. I woke up at 5:30, arrived at the airport at 6:00, and by 6:20, I was at my gate waiting to board. Piece of cake.

We landed in Seoul at 8:00, and the first thing I did was head over to the Gangnam Express Bus Terminal to make damn sure that I had a bus ticket home that night. Once I bought my ticket, I had a solid 9 hours of exploring ahead of me. I was excited, because it was my first venture into Seoul in the time I've been here. I really didn't know what to expect, and I only had a vague idea of what I wanted to do that day.

I knew I wanted to check out the Cheonggye Plaza and the peaceful little stream that flows from it, so I made my way there first. Aside from that and the Museum of Art, I didn't really have anything planned out for the day.

These greeted me when I came out of the subway station.

During the Josean Dynasty (1392-1910), the river was a central site for daily life; housewives would gather by the stream to do laundry, while their children played together. Then from 1900 until after the Korean War, those who left their homes to find jobs and a better life in the city built homes for themselves along the river until the area became a shantytown. For two decades, starting in 1958, work was done to cover the stream with concrete in an attempt to improve the aesthetic appeal of the area. An elevated highway was eventually built over it in 1976.

A few decades later, there was once again concern about the ugly look of the city. Bringing together the goals of improving aesthetic appeal, improving safety, and caring for the environment, work was started to restore the peaceful stream. Restoration was completed in 2005. 

May those young souls rest in peace.

This seemed to be some sort of art project in which children were given cameras and told to capture the world through their eyes. At least I think that's what it was.

I love that this is what a stroll through the city looks like.

In 1795, King Jeongjo visited his father's tomb with his mother to commemmorate his father's 60th birthday. Once he returned to Seoul, the King ordered the completion of a collection of sketches commemorating his progress to Suwon with all 1, 779 of his peeps and 779 of his horses. I would've hated to come across these guys in traffic if they were trying to cross the road.

There's more...

and more...

and there's bossman himself.

A woodblock map of Seoul in 1825.

D'awww.....

What a view...

Is that a boobie on the left?

I couldn't take my eyes off of this thing for a good minute and a half. I still have no words.

Outside of Texas Bar.

Looks like Elvis burned his hand too.

The stream starts right at the foot of the cone.

Although my plans were wide open, I did know that somewhere near the plaza, or somewhere along the stream, there was a Wall of Hope, which is some sort of wall that consists of pictures from people who hope to one day see South and North Korea come together so that they can be reunited with their loved ones. Unfortunately, I wasn't sure how long the stream went for, and so after a while, I finally gave up; I was afraid I'd end up walking along this thing all day and find myself on the other side of the city. While I did see some nice sites along the way, I eventually turned back and headed towards the plaza.

When I arrived back at the main street, I noticed a big gate down in the distance; it seemed like an important landmark, so I made my way over. I asked a nearby police officer, and he said it was Gyeongbokgung.

Gyeongbokgung! Of course! I thought to myself. We read about the damn thing in the textbook!

There went any hopes of visiting the museum. There's always next time, Seoul.

(Sidenote: There were a ridiculous amount of police officers around. There didn't seem to be a special occasion of any sort going on that day, so I can only assume that that's the norm for any given day in that part of the city. Maybe it's just because of the proximity to Gyeongbokgung, a national landmark, and it's cultural significance, but man, it was like they were preparing for riots or something. And they weren't even standing on guard or anything; they were just standing around, talking and laughing, scratching their balls--typical police officer stuff.)

As I made my way towards the gate, I let my eyes get distracted by whatever shiny or pretty little thing I came across:

Meet King Sejong. He did some pretty cool stuff in his time, liiiiike....

 1) He decreed that if a poor man cannot afford to wed his wife, his family will help him pay for the wedding. If that is not an option, then the local government was responsible for making the "I do's" happen.
2) When his royal secretariat advised him that seniors of low birth should be banned from banquets for the "cooler" seniors, he told that douchebag to respect the authoritah of his elders and decreed that all seniors were welcome.
3) He decreed that Bondwomen (slaves) who were pregnant and belonged to government agencies were to be given the month prior to their delivery date off, as well as 100 days of maternity leave following their child's birth. Four years later, men were also given a one-month paternity leave following their child's birth.
4) The guy invented a form of musical notation so that traditional Korean songs could be written down and handed down through generations.

Eventually, I made my way to the gate's entrance, and this fellow was waiting there to greet me.

He looks pretty friendly...

I'd like to see who could stand still longer...one of these guys, or a member of the British Royal Guard.

Or maybe a staring contest.

Or a thumb war.

Welcome to Gyeongbokgung!

The ceiling on the first gate.

Old timey toys.

Korean version of a dreidel, I guess. You have to whip it...whip it good! to keep it spinning.

Just managed to catch the tail end of the changing of the guard routine.

Several hours later, I found myself walking down the street that stretched alongside the Palace, and I stumbled upon a slew of museums. Within three blocks, there were five or six art museums/galleries! Let's do this, I thought to myself.

There was one painting at the Museum of Modern Contemporary Art that I could have stared at all day. It was done in a comic book style, and it was of a scene on a crowded subway riding through a poor neighbourhood in the city. There was so much detail in every little square of inch of the painting that I found myself staring at it as I once stared at several Where's Waldo books.

There they were, all these characters that we've all met time and time again while riding the subway home on a sweaty Tuesday afternoon. There's the guy with a completely glazed over look on his face; the guy grooving to some tunes; the crazy guy standing in the middle of the subway and screaming out at nobody in particular about the end of the world; the cranky lady who unfortunately chose the wrong seat and is stabbing the crazy guy multiple times with her eyes; the guy who just let one rip, and the girl with the overly sensitive nose; the overly exhausted woman who just wants to get home so she can remember who she is again after suffering through another long shift at her thankless customer service job.

Every face, every wrinkle, every crinkle, every goddamn hair out of place told a life story. Just outside of the subway, there are nothing but slums for as far as the eye can see. These people are nobodies, living on the fringe of society. Yet on that subway, those nameless, faceless people are works of art; they're stories begging to be told. They are poetry in motion.

Another highlight was the gallery consisting of the works of exiled Iranian filmmaker Shirin Neshat. Her work explores the political and social conditions of Iranian and Muslim culture through themes of gender, power, and displacement. Ultimately, her work leads viewers to question their own definition of identity and humanity by looking at the compatibility of Islamic tradition and Western ideals of individuality and liberty.

One such video featured two screens facing each other. The video was about the ban on female singers onstage--a ban, mind you, that has been lifted several times over the years by incoming new governments, only to be reapplied once power changed hands yet again. On one screen, there was a crowded room listening to a man singing a beautiful traditional hymn; on the other, stood a woman with her back to the camera, standing in front of an empty room. Once the man finished his performance, the woman started singing a wordless hymn of her own. The man onstage, along with everybody else in the room, stared at the woman in the opposing screen completely speechless. It was hard to tell if they were in shock out of disgust at her audacity or awe at her divine voice.

Other favourites looked at the significance of death--one of the few things that binds us all together as human beings--and the passionate and almost animalistic pursuit of happiness and belonging that drives our every action.

The final surprise at the MMCA was the Art of Nonfiction series. This was a string of documentaries that the museum had been showcasing for almost two months. I just happened to catch the very last screening of the very last documentary before the series closed down. The documentary in question was called The Ghosts in Our Machine by director Liz Marshall. It follows photographer Jo-Anne MacArthur in her attempt to bring animal cruelty to the forefront of society; she grabs your head and forces you to look at the crimes we willfully turn a blind eye to on a daily basis. She shows the farms where foxes are kept in captivity in tiny cages in Cambodia before being shipped off to Laos or Vietnam, and eventually purchased by China for use as test subjects in labs. They go mad in their cages, and some are missing ears or look close to death. She shows the tiny cage that can barely fit an expecting mother pig carrying sixteen little piglets inside her, who was needlessly beaten and stunned repeatedly with a cattle prod before she passed out and half of her babies died inside of her. While the foxes aren't as lucky, the sow is at least rescued and taken to a sanctuary.

But this is just the tip of the iceberg. Throughout the doc, you meet several other beautiful creatures, from a rescued beagle that looked so damn much like little Sammy back home that I almost had to turn away from the screen, to an injured cow that was almost put down. You learn that cows used for dairy production are put down after only four years "in service," if you will, because they are then deemed useless. You learn the truth about organic farms. And in the end, you're left feeling like a piece of shit, because you realize "animals are hidden int he shadows of our mechanized world." You realize you're a part of the problem; you buy the medicine the animals are tested on, you visit the zoos and aquariums, you eat the meat and consume the dairy. We enable all of this cruelty to happen. We allow it to happen.

The element of the documentary that really brought the message home was the protagonist herself. Her warm personality and her ardent love for all sentient beings and desire for them to have their rights recognized is so contagious. She even says that after all of her years of traveling and capturing pictures of animals in terrible condition, she had developed PTSD and had significant trouble sleeping every night. She loves animals with all of her heart, and only wishes the rest of the world could understand why. The documentary helps her with that; I mean, the way she digs her face into a cow's side as she embraces her dirty and smelly friend, or lovingly pets an even smellier and dirtier pig like it's a newborn puppy, it all makes you love those creatures more, simply by association. Through Jo-Anne, you see the personalities of these creatures, you see their capability to love, and you grow to love them in return.

The documentary reminded me of this video a friend had recently posted on Facebook. As I left that auditorium, I can honestly say that it was the first time I've ever genuinely considered going vegan--not just for the sake of the animals, but for my own health as well. It definitely won't happen in Korea, but I might give it a try down the road once I'm back home for good. (Allysia and Mike, if you're reading this, I'll be looking to you guys for some major help.)

(Sidenote: Did you know that when McDonalds says their burgers "are made with 100% beef," what they actually mean is that the company they get their beef from is called "100% beef"?! They're actually just 40% beef!)

The other galleries I visited were just small galleries consisting of a couple rooms, but they all had some interesting items to share. For starters, the artist showcased at Gallery O was into some kinky circus stuff. There was the ballerina balancing on three stacked pigs; the victorious boxer, with his arm lifted in the air, and his porn star breasts smiling at the world; and perhaps my favourite, the pair of acrobats wearing Mickey and Minny Mouse masks as they flub tossing a baby between them in mid air. I feel like that last one is a metaphor for most of our childhoods.

Next stop was the first of two Gallery Hyundai buildings. This one was exhibiting works by a French artist named Bernar Venet, who I feel was inspired by his 7-month old niece or nephew. His entire series was literally nothing but scribbles. Seriously, Google this guy right now. I'll wait.

See!

This is the bullshit the pamphlet tried to pitch me: "The current exhibition consists of Bernar Venet's scultpural reliefs, drawings, and paintings through which you can glimpse into his distinctive "self-referential vocabulary that manifests his entire oeuvre."

What?! It's scribbles, man! If I'd written the pamphlet, I would've written this: "Venet sculpted 8-foot scribbles out of wood; they look awesome. They shine a light on the beauty of the spontaneity that comes with childhood innocence. In other words, he just stole his nephew's drawings and used them as his own."

Upstairs, there were also framed scribbles drawn in charcoal. There were kind of cool because the edges were smudged on purpose, almost making the scribbles look like they were pulsating.

The second Hyundai gallery showcased works by Jung Jae-ho, a Korean painter who, through his work, was recalling the period of vast cultural modernization in Korea from the 1960's-80's. The exhibit was called "Days of Dust" because looking at the paintings, you feel like you're in a museum rather than an art gallery. There's the typewriter with a burning piece of paper set in it; the pair of rotary phones that look like they're hugging, because the receivers are switched; the trio of casually dressed gentlemen standing on the moon wearing space helmets, one of the guys scratching his ass; the old bus and yard of streetcars. Everything is painted in a delectably vintage tone as well.

The fifth art gallery, which focused on African art, was unfortunately closed, so with that, I started to make my way back to the subway station. Along the way, though, I came across the elegant architectural beauty known as the Ilmin Museum of Art, which was running some sort of video exhibition titled "Total Recall." I bit at the name and wandered in.

Knowing I didn't have much time, I sat down in front of a random video and hoped for the best. It turned out to be a fascinating two-man performance, starring two guys seated in an empty room, save for a table and their chairs. The man on the right was a drama instructor/actor, while the man on the left was on trial for some sort of crime. (I came in part-way through.) Essentially, the actor was trying to teach the accused that his best defence was to take on a character's role and believe with all of his being that he was innocent. The conversation was completely fluid, weaving from discussion of body language, motivation, and intent in our communication to sexual frustration.

I had to leave before it was finished, but I enjoyed what I saw. I suppose the video was commenting on how we all wear masks of some sort or put on a performance in our everyday lives...maybe?...I dunno.

All in all, I felt pretty f*@#ing cultured by the end of the day. The Gwanghwamun district is itself a work of art. It's where sleek modernity, revered history, serenity, and culture come together for one hell of a sexy party.

Not sure what exactly was going on here. The lady with the shades seemed to be her agent or representative or something, and the only thing I could guess is that this chick was some sort of fortune teller...she had a Facebook ID, but when I looked her up, nothing came up. I guess I'll never know...

Maybe she's just a really big Packers fan, and that's her attempt at making a Cheesehead hat.

A final thought: Toronto, this is what a subway map for an international city should look like. It's amazingly simple to navigate, and the helpful exit signs tell you which exit to use when leaving the station. There are also sliding doors dividing the edge of the platform from the tracks, which I would imagine keep people from jumping. The doors only slide open once the train has come to a complete stop.

I'll be back, Seoul.

Jeju

This past weekend was a three-day long weekend. Early last week it dawned on me that this would likely be my last chance of making it out to Jeju Island, so on Tuesday I bought a ticket on a whim. My flight would leave from Gimpo Airport in Seoul at 7:30 pm and arrive an hour later, while my return flight would leave for Seoul at 6:55 am. Basically, I'd have all of Saturday to see as much of Jeju as I could.

Thankfully, there was only one thing I needed to see: Hallasan (Halla Mountain). I think the reason I wanted to climb Halla so badly was because of the fact that it's on a mountain. The last time I hiked on an island was Maderas Volcano on Ometepe Island in Nicaragua, and it was one of the most rewarding, beautiful sights and experiences of my life. I dunno, maybe the fact that it's on an island makes it feel a bit more otherworldly. One thing was for sure, though: If all I got to do on Jeju was see its peak--the highest peak in all of Korea, mind you, standing at 1, 900 metres--then I'd be happy.

I arrived at B & B Pan Guesthouse at around quarter past 9. It was a quaint little place; I was really happy with my choice--particularly because Martin, the owner, played nothing but delicious jazz in the main room. That was the only reason I booked the place.

Martin showed me to my room, where I met Seng. He was on vacation from Singapore; although he didn't look like he was having much of a vacation; he looked exhausted. It turns out he had hiked Hallasan that day and it completely wiped him out.

I unloaded my stuff and went out in search of a beer or two to tide me over after five hour bus ride to Seoul, 40 minute subway ride to Gimpo Airport, and an hour-long flight to Jeju. Not quite plane, train, and automobile, but pretty damn close. The beers hit the spot, and I headed off to bed, ready to tackle Hallasan in the morning.

Breakfast was eggs and toast. I asked Martin afterwards for directions to Gwanseoram, the most challenging trail up the mountain, but he insisted I take Seongpanak. It's the one easier trail that goes to the top. He said it's a gradual ascent, and the entire hike typically takes 8 hours--four hours up, four hours down.

I asked him what he suggested I do or see after my hike and he scoffed at my question. He scoffed! The guy sitting across from me said he hiked the mountain two days earlier, and he passed out at 7:30. So maybe Hallasan would suffice, then...

After a surprisingly long bus ride, I arrived at the entrance to the trail at exactly 9:00. I was informed at the front desk that I had to be at the checkpoint, which was about two thirds up the mountain, by 1:00 if I wanted to climb all the way to the top. They also made people start making their way down from the peak at 2:30. Suddenly I was on a schedule. Fortunately, I didn't see it taking me five and a half hours to get to the top.

I stocked up with three water bottles and a couple water bottles and started on my way.

The entrance was heavily forested, and I immediately felt the humidity. Martin was definitely right about the  incline, though; it was practically non-existent. Martin was right; the incline was practically non-existent. 

Now before the day even started, I had made up my mind that I would make My Head is an Animal by Of Monsters and Men the official soundtrack to my hike. I could not have made a better choice. The entire day, I kept feeding off of the energy of the music. I felt it right off the bat. I found myself blazing past people, skipping and dancing along the rocks to the heavy beating of the drums and the loud chants of "Hey Hey!" on "From Finner." You know how how it's easier to go running with other people, or while listening to music? It was kind of like that; I wanted to keep pace with the song.

Then I came to this beautiful wide part of the trail. It was tranquil, complete with a wood planked path. This was the perfect time for "Yellow Light," with its light lullaby marching beat sound, like you're walking off into the light, towards your sweetest of sweet dreams. I couldn't help but press my hand against every tree that I passed, as if in a warm greeting.

I soon found that I had a new companion, though I didn't know his name. The kid was probably 7 or 8, and no matter how quick I moved, or how many people I passed, he'd eventually run to get ahead of me until I caught up with him yet again. Part of me hoped that he'd keep this up the whole way, but part of me also wondered where the hell his parents were. To his credit, though, he kept up with me for a while--that is, until he had a bit of a fall. He stopped after that. I was kinda bummed, but oh well.

According to Martin, it should've taken me two hours to get halfway up the mountain, so I was a half hour ahead of schedule. I figured I could afford to take the detour to the observatory. Unfortunately, the detour led up a long, long, loooooong flight of stairs...and I hate stairs. I climbed up those steps foolishly fast, and it was here that I finally started to feel some pain in my legs. I had to stop halfway up to catch my breath. I was bent over the railing, breathing heavily, and my calves were burning. A guy coming down even asked if I was okay.

I pushed through the pain when I saw the top of the stairs, and man, was it worth it. The song title says it all: "Love, Love, Love." I thought to myself, "Yes, this is where love comes from." It was palpable.

I couldn't take my eyes off the water; it was so damn still. It was like the whole scene was frozen in time, in that moment you always wish you could go back to, just before everything fell apart.

I continued on along the bridge to the beat of "Dirty Paws," and the lake put me in such a good mood that I found myself clapping along to the beat. I even high fived a woman walking in the opposite direction. She didn't know what hit her.

Even the stairs that met me at the end of the bridge couldn't dampen my spirits, because I knew what was waiting at the top of those stairs: a gorgeous panoramic view. Now although the view was obstructed my clouds, it was actually pretty cool to be standing in the clouds.

After enjoying the moment, I headed back to the main trail and continued on my way up the mountain.

It was around this time that I first realized the signs that marked your progress along the trail also indicated when the trail started to reach the "medium" difficulty, which was about halfway, and then "hard" difficulty, which was about the third or quarter of the way up. Martin wasn't kidding when he said the climb was gradual. I decided to take a break at a resting stop halfway up a seriously steep set of stone steps. I might need my energy later on.

The difficulty certainly did pick up from there. It also got harder to pass people. By then, I had mastered the art of passing. My strategy was a combination of the stealthy ninja with a bit of the quick thinking of racing thrown in; I had to pick just the right time to make my move.

The difficulty of the trail didn't stop this daddy from making the hike, though!

Then around the 1, 600-1, 700 metre mark, a mist came in out of nowhere! It was as if I had suddenly poked my head right into a cloud. The thick haze came so quick that it caught me off guard; I didn't think how this could affect my hike later. At the time, I just thought it was neat.

Now just before the 1, 800 mark, it started getting really cool, and a light misty rain started coming down. I could handle the chill and the rain, though; it was the stairs that killed me. So many stairs! My calves were screaming, begging me to stop!

I took a break at a resting area and pulled out and opened my last bottle of water. I also ate the two chocolate bars I'd bought, which I had been saving for the top. I donned my hoodie, relaxed for a good five minutes, and continued on.

In the last 100 metres, I stopped five times, not including quick stop and go's. My calves didn't just ache anymore; I was certain I tweaked something in my left leg. Every step sent a bit of a shock up my leg.

During one of my stops, I drank the last of my water. Well, sort of...I didn't realize when I'd bought it that this particular bottle was half ice. I had drank all of the water, but there was still a huge chunk of ice. I smashed the bottle against a rock in hopes of crushing it into little pieces, but just then, a Korean fellow pulled out his water bottle and poured almost all of the last of his water into my bottle. Love them Koreans.

Three hours after staring out (excluding the half hour to and from the observatory), I found myself at the mountain's peak, and it was a full blown party! It honestly looked like people mingling at a social soiree...at the top of a mountain. Only problem was you couldn't see shit! Ad the mist had gotten bad enough that I felt like I was at Niagara Falls.

A rare selfie atop Hallasan. "What a beautiful view!...maybe..."

Unwilling to let the weather detract from my moment, I found a flat spot to lay down, covered my face with my hands, and floated away into the clouds on the sounds of "Yellow Light."

As soon as the song ended, though, I realized just how much my back was aching. That, combined with my rubber legs, surely meant a long and difficult climb down the mountain. I walked down the first flight of stairs, and dread seized me, as I realized I was 3 to 4 hours from flat surface. Throw in the mist, slippery and wet jagged rocks, and mud to muck up any remaining grip on my shoes, and nothing good could possible come of this.

Sure enough, 40 minutes into my descent, my right foot slipped on a rock, propelling me forward. Everything moved in slow motion, which gave me enough time to think fast about where to plant my feet on the next set of rocks below me. My eyes found a flat surface, but my momentum and that son of a bitch gravity kept me from stopping, and so down I went again. This time, though, I couldn't find a flat surface to plant my feet, and I found myself saying, "Allons-y!"

My feet landed on uneven rocks and I couldn't maintain my balance; my right leg crumpled, and I fell on my right side. Oddly enough, upon making impact with the ground, I let out a laugh. I didn't know what else to do. I figured it could've been a million times worse; I could've been impaled by a much sharper rock, or cracked my head like a walnut. I've realized over time that I am very lucky in my unlucky ways. It's kinda like my crappy super power.

I got up, inspected the damage (tiny scrapes on my right hand and minor bleeding on my right knee) and I continued on my way. Now both legs were aching, though, and there was a slight twinge with every step. Fantastic.

I had a couple of close calls after that, but no more falls. I couldn't tell what I dreaded more--the pain from climbing down a never-ending number of stairs, or the fear of the craggly rocks just waiting to knock me out. I think it was the damn rocks, though; they were like crocodiles at the bottom of a pit in an old Bugs Bunny cartoon.

I will say, though, there is one thing I hated more than going down stairs: going up them.

Nifty bridge

Thankfully, once I got to the bottom third of the mountain, things got significantly easier again, and I even got the skip back in my step.

Pretty view of rocks I didn't have to traverse.

Crossing a dry river bed

In no time, I was at the exit, where I spotted a 7-11 and rewarded myself with water, Snickers, and beef jerky. I hailed a cab to the bus terminal and proceeded to pass out.

Kilometres hiked: 18.3

Elevation reached: 1, 900 m

Elapsed time: 6 hours

Shoes destroyed: 2 (I knew Hallasan would be their swan song. They served me well.)

Moountains conquered: 1

Once back in the neighbourhood of my hostel, I rewarded myself yet again; this time, with pizza.

After a much-needed shower, I asked Martin where he could recommend I spend my only Saturday night on Jeju. I was putting a bandaid on my knee as we spoke, and as I went to apply the first one, Martin's four-month old Tabby cat jumped on my lap. With my Band-aid stuck to one of my fingers, I had no choice but to pet Peng with my other hand. After a solid eight minutes of quality petting action, I gently put Peng down. The little guy gave me just enough time to apply the first Band-aid before pouncing back on me. I was in love.

Eventually, I put the little guy down and insisted he stay down. Once I was free of Peng, Martin directed me to a bar called Space Marley. I took a half hour power nap and made my way there. The place was as amazing as the name is stupid: very.

1: They had Moosehead.

2: This is what the inside looked like.

3: The owner has a collection of over 3, 000 vinyl records and who knows who many CD's lined up along the wall behind the bar, and customers are able to request any song or artist of their choosing. If there was a place like this in Toronto, I would be there every week.

The sounds of Buena Vista Social Club welcomed me as I climbed the stairs to the place. I loved it already. There were only 3 customers and one server in the entire place, and I didn't have the energy to be social; I just wanted to drink in peace and listen to some good tunes. Unfortunately for me, Choo wasn't having any of that.

I sat down at a booth, ordered a Moosehead, and requested some Bob Dylan. I was in heaven. After "Mr. Tambourine Man," some 80's pop song came on, and this huge guy at the bar was singing along rather comically. I exchanged glances with the bartender and we both laughed. The guy saw me and apologized for his singing, but I couldn't help but laugh and tell him that he sang like an angel. And with that, my new friend from Busan invited me over to the bar. I couldn't say no.

For the next couple of hours, after Choo's wife and her friend went home early, he and I were a party of two. He even had me dancing to Jamiroquai (anybody remember Jamiroquai?) and Earth, Wind, and Fire. Agne, the sweet bartender from Lithuania humoured us the whole night.

Despite Choo's insistence and the offer of yet another beer, I eventually had to call it a night when 11:00 hit; I had to be at the airport at 6:00, and I didn't want to sleep through my alarm. I went back to the hostel and slept like a baby.

Chuck and Cheryl de la Cruz

First off, sorry Cheryl, but I think it flows better with Chuck's name in front. That's just me.

Ashley came and picked me up from my mom's and drove us to the hotel downtown. We went to the Imperial Pub across the street from the hotel to wait for the bride and groom. While we waited, we ordered  a couple of Mooseheads. Now Moosehead isn't even my favourite Canadian beer--that honour falls to Keith's; but Moosehead is probably a close second. I am not exaggerating when I say that the moment that liquid gold touched my lips, my legs turned to rubber and my body collapsed on the table. My body had gone into shock at the taste of real beer. I forgot how heavenly Canadian beer tastes after months of nothing but Cass and Hite.

Chuck and Cheryl arrived shortly. It felt damn good to be seated in the company of those three amazing people again. It was also great to see the bride and groom to be writing their thank you speeches in a pub the night before their wedding. (At least it wasn't their wedding vows.)

Since Saturday was kind of a big deal, we didn't stay at the Imperial very long, and we quickly headed up to our hotel rooms. I was anxious to try on my suit, as I'd given Cheryl my measurements to give to the tailor, and I was nervous that the suit wouldn't fit. The pants were a bit tight, but otherwise, it was fine. Success!

And with that (and a couple of Keith's), it was off to bed. And what a bed it was! After months of sleeping on my jagged bed cushions in Korea, this bed took my breath away. It was the best night of sleep I'd had in ages, and it had nothing to do with the 30 hours of commuting.

The day of the wedding was, as with most wedding days, not short on stress. On the groom's side, we had to go to Hard Rock Cafe and put up the decorations. There was nothing particularly onerous with the exception of those bloody stars. Cheryl had bought several stars and drowned them in gold sparkles. (Several months later, and surviving gold sparkles can still be found in their apartment, like glitzy cockroaches that just won't die.)

The challenge with the stars lay in hooking them onto long fishing lines and hanging them along the windows in alternating lines of four and five.  After several botched strategies, I could tell Chuck was about to lose it with those godforsaken stars. When the fishing line snapped, I could tell it took all of his energy to keep his head from exploding. Finally, we came to the simple conclusion of just taping the damn things to the windows. We laughed at how comically simple the solution was the entire time.

Now on the bride's side, the stress lay in getting everybody dolled up and getting their hair did on time. The stylists were on a tight schedule, and Ashley still had to pick up the cupcakes.

Long story short, everybody was behind schedule. It was okay, though; it just meant lunch was taken out of the day's schedule. Who needs to eat anyway? Certainly not the bride and groom on their wedding day.

Thankfully, the ceremony started on time at St. Michael's, and everything went off without a hitch.

Once the photo shoot was out of the way, it was off to Hard Rock.

The reception was an absolute blast. Chuck and Cheryl went all out. The guestbook was a photo booth session, complete with props and masks; there were crafts and board games (one of my highlights of the night was watching Cheryl's mom and aunt playing Connect Four); tear-jerking speeches (even one of the bartenders got caught up in the feelies during Ashley's speech); a jumpin' dance floor; and an open bar!

The dancing got off to a booming start with the boys of Drunken Lullabies; the feet were a-thumpin'! There was no turning back from there. At one point, I left Ashley in the middle of a conversation to jump onstage and jump into an impromptu performance of "You Give Love A Bad Name" with Chuck as my trusty backup vocals. I was on such a euphoric high that jet lag couldn't touch me. (I'm sure the Jack and Cokes helped with that as well.)

There are few people in this world I would fly over 11, 000 km for, but Chuck and Cheryl are certainly two of those people.

The only downside to the entire weekend was having to say goodbye. I didn't realize until that weekend just how much I missed home. See you in a couple months, Toronto. I love you.

Homecoming

Stop me if you've heard this one...So I just flew in from Korea...and boy are my arms tired!...Cuz the entire plane ride, I kept flapping my arms and screaming, "Look ma, I'm flying! I'm flying!" until one of the stewards had to tie me up in a comfy white jacket that made me look like I was hugging myself. But boy, are army arms tired.

Almost two weeks ago, I flew home to Toronto for a quick weekend trip. The weekend couldn't come fast enough; not only was I excited and honoured to be a party of the wedding party for two of my favourite people in Chuck and Cheryl, but I was thrilled to see the family. I wouldn't shut up about it, as I'm sure anybody here in Ulsan could attest. When I said goodbye to my sister ten months ago, I hadn't bawled like that since Bruce Willis saved all of humanity in Armageddon. God bless you, Bruce Willis, you bald, beautiful son of a bitch. I still recall walking towards my check-in counter, two bags of luggage, a backpack, and my laptop all in tow, as I sniffled uncontrollably. I'm sure it was a sight to see. The people around me were politely avoiding eye contact, and I appreciated it. So to say that I was excited to visit home would be a severe understatement.

The initial plan was to hopefully get Thursday, Friday, and Monday off so that I could land early Thursday evening, go out for some drinks with my buddy, Perry, and then get home late at night and surprise the fam. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to get Thursday off, and so I had to tell my mom about my plans to visit Toronto, because otherwise she'd be at work when I got home. At least I'd be able to surprise Doris, though.

During Skype chats in the weeks leading up to the big day, though, my mom would take the iPad away from Doris and walk away to the kitchen, where  she would ask me questions in Spanish without even lowering her voice, despite the fact that, no matter how much she pretends she doesn't know, Doris understands plenty of Spanish. I figured there was no way Doris didn't know. Even worse was when mom would say things like, "So when you come home (long dramatic pause) in August" as she winked into the screen and spoke in a voice so loud that it was just a little too loud. Facepalm.

Nonetheless, surprise or no surprise, I wanted to see my crazy family. And so, I left my apartment at 10 pm on Thursday, May 29. I made my way to the bus terminal to catch the 12:30 overnight bus to Incheon Airport. I left my place two and a half hours early just to be sure that I'd get a ticket. I got to the bus terminal, and there were three bodies in the entire building. Three! Yet somehow, this lady at the ticket booth was trying to sell me this story about tickets being sold out. There were three people there! What, was there a party of 50 monks coming in at midnight heading for the airport or something?!

I had to get to the airport, one way or another; my flight left at 10 am on Friday morning. The next bus to Incheon was at 5:30, and somehow that one was also sold out! Really, lady?! Part of me just wanted to wait around all night, hiding somewhere behind the corner, until 12:30 rolled around, just so I could jump out of the shadows and yell, "BULLSHIT!"  The 5:30 bus wouldn't have made a difference either, because the drive itself is five hours.

My first thought was to go to the bus terminal across the street and try to catch a bus to Seoul in hopes of transferring to Incheon. Along the way, I called my buddy Sangook to see if he'd be willing to drive me all the way--just in case the bus to Seoul didn't work out either. Of course, the guy didn't pick up. It was a weekday, so he was probably wasted somewhere.

I got to the bus terminal, and wouldn't you know it, the Seoul bus was also sold out. Now keep in mind, this was a Thursday; it wasn't even a Friday! Nor was it a holiday. Who the hell were all these people heading to Seoul tonight?! I'd taken the overnight to Incheon once before, and it was practically dead! I honestly didn't believe this lady. I figured she must not have understood what I was asking.

I went to sit down and called the 1330 traveler hotline, which has saved my ass countless times in the past ten months. I asked the person on the other end, my guardian angel, if there was any way of getting to Incheon that night. Guess what she told me...she said there was a bus from that went to Seoul and that I could transfer to another bus that went directly to Incheon! I knew it!

I walked back to the counter and handed the woman my phone, and within minutes, I had my bus ticket in hand. I was heading home!

Four hours later, I arrived in Seoul at the Gangnam Express Bus Terminal and started looking around for where exactly I was supposed to catch my next bus. The woman on the phone said I was just supposed to go across the street and wait there, but I wasn't sure which direction I was supposed to cross. I guessed and crossed to a bus stop island halfway across the street. There was a sign that said to wait for the 6020 bus heading to Incheon, but there wasn't a sign that said "Airport Limousine Bus" like the woman on the phone had said there would be. I was very uncertain, and I don't like feeling uncertain.

I asked the first dude I saw, and he just shook his head and said, "No English" without so much as looking me in the eye. I don't like people like him. I asked a woman who was waiting at the bus stop as well, and she said I was in the right spot, but she didn't seem certain. The time was approaching when the bus was supposed to be arriving, and finally, a third person came passing by. I approached him and asked, and though he didn't know, he at least was honest and said he wasn't sure. I liked the cut of his jib. We then started chatting about this and that, and as we were talking, my bus went right past us. I was not, in fact, at the right spot. The guy saw it at the same time as I did, and he took off running, seeing full well that I was kinda weighed down with my luggage. He literally bolted mid-sentence. I love Korea.

The bus stopped at the bus where I was supposed to be waiting and the guy stalled the driver long enough for me to get there. Now I was heading home. There was nothing else that could go wrong. Right?

By the time I arrived at Incheon Airport at 5:30 am, my journey had already lasted seven hours, and I hadn't even left Korea yet. I checked in, got to my gate, had a Subway sandwich for breakfast, and got to lesson planning for my return on Tuesday morning.

The flight to Tokyo went fine. Hell, it was more than fine! Not only did the beautiful people of Korean Air give me a meal for my short two and a half hour flight, but I got a free beer to boot! Sure, it was Bud, but it was free Bud!

Then I landed in Tokyo...

Bit of a short backstory here: I burned my hand last month. It was pretty stupid. Thankfully, the nurse at school took great care of me, and it's now healed perfectly fine. At the time of my flight, though, I was still applying Aloe gel on it fairly regularly; hourly, in fact.

Now as you know, gels are frowned upon when traveling on a plane. Thankfully, Korean Awesome Air was cool with it after I explained my situation, but the dicks in Tokyo decided to be rather dick-like and insisted I go through customs and immigration and check in all over again for some inexplicable reason. I think the person's logic was that I could check it in with my luggage, but that would be useless, as I wouldn't be able to use it at that point.

In any case, I figured I might as well go, as it was the only chance I had of convincing somebody that I wasn't planning on hijacking the plane with a quarter of a bottle of Aloe. Thankfully, I had five hours before my flight, but I had really been looking forward to some quality nap time during that time.

As I went through customs, immigration, and even the check-in counter, everybody looked at me with the same look of pity. They all felt sorry for me; they all wanted to pet me and comfort me; they all wanted to buy me a beer. They understood; why didn't that bitch in security understand?

If you think that I'm being a whiny little bitch about all of this, just know that I hate airports. With a passion. The only thing that even comes close to matching my level of hatred are those Swedish sadists over at Ikea. (I'll tell you where you can shove that allen key, you evil bastards.) Maybe it's just that I hate how much authority airports have over people. I mean, they can just change your flight on you on a whim, which they did to me on my way back to Korea. Oh, and did I mention they wanted to charge me $200 to load a painting as a second piece of luggage?! Plus, I generally feel a sense of anxiety around people of authority to begin with; it's like I always feel guilty about something, even when I haven't done a damn thing. That's why I hate customs and immigration. Then there are the "random" security checks. If you recall in one of my very first posts, I got selected twice at Pearson. Basically, those places just really rub me the wrong way.

When I finally got to check-in, the woman at the counter suggested I tell security that the gel was medicine. It sounded like a decent idea, so I gave it a shot, and it worked! Two hours after landing in Tokyo, I was finally at my gate, miserable as hell. At this point, my journey had already clocked in at over 14 hours. Now I just had to fly to the other side of the world.

Amazingly enough, this was the easiest part of my trip. For one thing, I finally got to watch Anchorman 2 and World War Z. (The latter was just to see how much I would hate it. The answer: a lot. I think the highlight of the movie was seeing Peter Capaldi and thinking to myself, "It's the Doctor!") I also watched a pretty cool documentary about just how much the Internet and social media are warping the inner workings of the teenage brain--not in terms of making them stupid, but more in terms of altering their motives, thought processes, ambitions, and to an extent, their humanity. The Internet's a hell of a drug.

In between all of this, I went in and out of sleep. If only the rest of the trip had been like that.

I left my apartment at 10 pm on Thursday, May 29. By the time I landed in Toronto, it was 4 am on Saturday morning in Korea. But the moment I saw them, every single second of the past 30 hours had been worth it. Doris' face was one of shock. I burst out laughing. Somehow, Doris never saw through my mom's sad little lies. She was convinced she was accompanying mom to pick up an old family friend from Nicaragua. (Seriously, Doe, you bought that?!)

Doris came charging at me with such speed that I was genuinely convinced she was going to bulldoze me and knock me back over my luggage. She hugged me and didn't let go or speak a word for a good couple of minutes. Then my mom and Salvador gathered around. Nothing beats family. It almost felt like I had never left the airport; like the last ten months had just disappeared and time shifted over.

Then the wedding party had ambushed me! Cheryl had apparently been spying on my family from behind the shadows, like a friggin ninja, waiting until she caught a reaction from them to signal that I'd arrived. It was the perfect homecoming.

After hugs were shared, it was off to the parking lot. Doris kept taking pictures to prove to her friend (and I think to herself as well) that I was in fact in Canada. On the way to the car, I heard my cousin whisper something to my mom, asking if I knew about...something...and she said no; I'd find out when we got to the car. I kept my mouth shut, as I didn't want to ruin the surprise. My first thought was that my mom had bought a new car. But sure enough, the 13-year old Cavalier was still intact and waiting for us.

I opened the backdoor to put one of my suitcases, and there they were: my nacatamales. Nacas are my favourite Nicaraguan dish; they include rice, pork, tomatoes, potatoes, masa, and various optional ingredients, such as olives, raisins, and onions. Making them is a huge ordeal and usually takes an entire weekend. I'm not just saying this because she's my mom, but nobody makes nacas like my mom; when she feels like cooking them, she gets requests from the entire family and ends up making a batch of at least 70.

The thought had occurred to me just as the plane was landing that my mom might make them, but because I was landing on a Thursday, I just didn't see how she could've had time to make them. Silly me; I forgot she's Super Mom. Now it was the perfect homecoming.

We packed everything and everybody into the car and headed off to grandma's house. It was Mother's Day in Nicaragua, so it was the perfect day to surprise her with a visit. (Hopefully I didn't surprise her too much, if you know what I mean.) She was certainly surprised.

Unfortunately, we could only afford a short trip, as traffic was a bitch, and I had to be downtown that night, as wedding preparations started early Saturday morning. We got to my mom's house in Pickering, where I was greeted by little Sammy. It was especially great to see her, considering that just a couple weeks ago, the family thought they were going to have to put her down, since the medication the vet was giving her didn't seem to be working. I thought I'd never see her again.

Then, of course, there was Art, relaxing on the couch and watching his evening shows. It's good to know some things never change.

As I scarfed down my naca, my mom said, "Guess what's for dessert!" beaming with excitement. I couldn't believe it; she'd gone all out. Tres leches is a mouth-watering Nicaraguan cake that is absolutely soaked in rum. She makes it maybe once a year.

I felt loved, and so did my stomach. I would fly another 30 hours just to experience this day all over again.

Sangook

A couple of weeks ago, I was walking home from work, and as I was punching in the code for the front door of my building, I felt eyes on me. I turned to my left, and sure enough, there was a guy trying to catch my attention from his car. I took my ear buds out and walked over to see what he wanted.

The guy spoke English and introduced himself as Sangook. He owns the shop right next to my building. How it took ten months for me to meet this guy, I have no idea. We quickly exchanged numbers and promised we'd hang out some time.

Sure enough, a couple days later, he invited me out to dinner with him and his buddy at a Korean restaurant in old downtown. It was a delicious and surprisingly filling soup. During dinner, Sangook told me about his dream of moving to the Philippines. See, his wife lives over there, but unfortunately, he feels weighed down in Korea by the responsibility of having to take care of his mother and by his three businesses. Plus, he's concerned that it'd be hard for a foreigner to start a business in the Philippines. In short, he doesn't see a way how he could possibly move over there, and instead, he has to take solace in splitting his time between both countries. The way he talked, I could tell Sangook was miserable. He wanted to be with his wife so badly; it was written all over his face. I even got to talk to his wife on the phone for a bit, and she sounded like a beautiful person.

It broke my heart to see the guy so sad, so I told him about my own dream of traveling the world and my dream of becoming a writer and how I've chosen to actively pursue my dream because I realized that if I don't take responsibility for my own happiness, nobody else will. I reminded him that he only has one life to live, and he owes it to himself to make sure it's a happy one. I think my words struck a chord with him, because the soju and beer started flowing from there, and Sangook kept telling me I was a great guy the whole night.

The following week, I followed through on my promise to take Sangook out for traditional Margherita pizza at Bella de Notte. Once again, the conversation moved to the Philippines; and once again, I insisted, he pursued his dreams.

To my surprise, after our delicious pizzas, Sangook said he was still hungry, so he took me to a Korean restaurant across the street from Bella. Once seated, he ordered a platter of something or other. Our food came shortly after, but no amount of soju could have prepared me for what I saw. Our food was still moving! Sangook had ordered us a platter of raw beef and "fresh" (his word) octopus. The damn thing had just been cut up! I felt like I was trapped in a corner. What was I going to do? I couldn't say no. And yet, this was one thing I had promised myself I would never eat in Korea.

Eventually, I figured I just needed a couple shots of soju to calm my nerves.

The protocol for eating this ungodly concoction is to wrap some beef and octopus in a seaweed leaf, down a shot of soju, and dig in. The reason for the soju, Sangook explained, is that soju represents the strength, the beauty, and the struggle of life; it's meant to give you strength to take on tomorrow.

Ironically (or rather, not ironically at all, I suppose), the soju did not at all give me the strength to take on tomorrow, on account of tomorrow was Wednesday and I had to work. If anything, it sapped all of my strength. Five bottles of soju will do that to you. It was certainly a memorable night, though.

Then last week, I was on my way to work, and I saw Sangook outside of his shop. He stopped me and smiled at me with a huge look of excitement. "I want to talk to you," he said. Unfortunately, I was running late, but I could tell it was important, so I listened to what he had to say.

It turns out, he's taking my advice and jumping ship to the Philippines. No wonder he looked so happy. He'll be jumping back and forth between here and there for a while as he settles matters with his family, his properties, and his businesses, which he sold to his brother, but eventually, he'll be able to call the Philippines home.

I love Sangook dearly, and I really hope everything works out for him. I can tell by some of the things he told me about his past that he's the kind of guy that wears his emotions on his sleeves, which can be pretty nerve wracking and exhausting in this world; but anybody who has the courage to take that sort of plunge in mad pursuit of their own happiness deserves nothing but good things as far as I'm concerned. He has all of respect for doing what he's doing.

The week of May 19-23

I had my open class on Tuesday with my Grade 3 co-teacher. This is when parents are invited to observe a lesson and give feedback. Last term, there were around 6 or 7 parents present; this time, there were twenty! (Interestingly enough, only 2 of them were fathers.) They all sat in the back and watched intently. I didn't pay them any attention, though; I just did my thing at the front of the class.

I noticed, though, that I acted differently because I knew they were there. Back home, kids regularly tell me that not only do I look like Carlos from YTV's the Zone (I don't see the resemblance), but I also act like him. In other words, I'm very animated; I exaggerate everything, as if I'm on some sort of invisible stage. It really is a performance. I don't know where it comes from, but if you throw me in front of a bunch of kids with a piece of chalk or a picture book in my hand, that's what happens. Anyway, having the parents there to watch made me amp up my stage persona even more. 

Not even close...

The result: I had moms full out singing along with our chant. Success!

My co-teacher was really happy that the class went off without a hitch; she had been very nervous about the class for several weeks. It's her first year teaching English in over ten years, and she's self-conscious of her English skills. Thankfully, she did a fine job, as I knew she would, and we were able to put the day behind us.

As a reward, I offered to treat Anne to some Canadian cuisine. My friend, Steph, showed me a restaurant downtown where they make a pretty damn good poutine. When I showed Anne a picture, she said her mouth was watering. I mean, sure, it's not fresh from Quebec, but it's definitely much better than the crap you'd get at a Burger King back home. Plus, it's a huge serving! It was so big she couldn't even finish the whole thing. I probably ate about a third of her bowl. 

Afterwards, Anne treated me a mountain of patbingsu, which is a shaved ice dessert topped with a sweet red bean paste. It was a nice little cultural exchange we had.

The next day, Anne and I had another bunch of Grade 3's to teach. Our current unit is "How many (insert animal here)?" The activity Anne was leading involved students listening to a piece of audio and placing the correct amount of animal stickers on to their text book. One kid was bored out of his skull, as he knows his stuff, and so he made this lovely piece of art with his remaining stickers. It was close to lunch, so I couldn't blame the guy.

He got up to show his artwork to his buddy, but I immediately sat him down and flipped the picture over, lest my co-teacher caught sight of it. I knew she wouldn't have appreciated his artistic vision, and likely would've torn him a new one instead.

In that same class, one boy got really worked up about being eliminated from the game Anne was leading. He stormed to his desk and threw his textbooks on the floor, bursting into a full blown hissy fit. Anne was busy leading the game, and I wasn't doing anything particularly productive, so I went over to help a brother out.

When I sat down, I was inspired to draw a quick Cartman sketch for some reason. As my hand moved and the picture slowly began to take shape, the kid simmered down, his curiosity fully peaked. He kept tilting his head this way and that, trying to figure out what the hell I was drawing. The rest of the class was shouting "Let it Go" as a part of the game, so I added the little speech bubble. 

When I was finished, he took the piece of paper ever so delicately, as if I had just handed him a baby bird or something. He just looked at it. Two minutes earlier, he was ready to start flipping desks. The funny part is this is the second time I've done this, and both times, it's gotten pretty much the exact same reaction. I have no idea what that means...

Comic Expo

Last year I went to my first Fan Expo in Toronto, and I had a ball, so I was really excited to hear that there was a Comic Expo taking place in Busan this past weekend. I was certain it was going to be mainly Korean comics, but I figured it might be cool to learn about Korean comics. And who knows, maybe they'd have some North American comic stuff, or a funky Korean interpretation of North American comics--like an anime version of the Avengers or something.

After two and a half hours of travel time on the bus and subway, KyoungHwa and I finally arrived at the Bexco Convention Centre in Busan at around 3:00. There were people in costumes walking around the main plaza area outside the main entrance, posing for pictures for anybody who asked. I was disappointed to not see any familiar characters, but they still had some funky get ups.

The dude in Burgundy is the king of Korea. They are bowing to their king. They are not worthy.

The creature with the red cape has brought shame upon his family, his king, and his country.

Great shame.

Once inside, my heart sank down to my feet; this "expo" was just four short aisles of comic artists selling nothing but comics, banners, key chains, and not much else in terms of merchandise. And three quarters of the comics looked like some sort of variation of Sailor Moon.

There was one North American vendor in the bunch, though--a fellow from Halifax--so I bought a comic from him to support a fellow Canadian.

It turns out that this expo was just a small show that happens once every two months; the real expo happens later this year. Hopefully I'll be able to check that one out as well.

Although the expo turned out to be a bust, I did manage to score a couple of treats, so it wasn't completely a waste; and I was more than happy to spend the day with KyoungHwa, who apparently has seen more of Canada than I have. She plans on going back yet again in February to visit friends in Regina and Edmonton. She's a friendly soul and great company to have when you're spending close to three hours in transit.

After the two of us parted ways, I decided to take advantage of being in Busan on a beautiful Saturday, and I called up Nate and Kirsten to see if they'd be down for some Mexican at Fuzzy Navel. Instead, they invited me down to the beach to hang out with them, Scott, and Hye. I'm ever so envious that Haeundae Beach is right at their doorstep.

One of the many reasons I love Nate and Kirsten is that they're the type of people to bring supplies to make your own mojitos to the beach. It was a perfectly gorgeous day for drinking on the beach.  Thank God the warm weather has arrived.