I am awake at around noon today – as usual.  It’s hard living the life of a full-time teacher.  I take a long shower, and I’m off to the big city, just for the hell of it. 

As I walk to the bus station just down the street from my house, I pass by shop after shop and stand after stand of anything I might imagine I am in the mood for that morning.  This day, I’m not in the mood for anything really, so I decide to play one of my favorite games: I look at each shop-owner as I pass, just to see what they might do in return.  Almost all of their eyes brighten with curiosity when they meet mine and most of their lips move into a pleasant smile – reiterating the phrase they repeat to me incessantly, “Welcome to Korea.”  At the bottom of the hill, I pass through a cute little park, which, on a day like today is full of the sound of happy children.  Behind a small bush on the left, I see a group of four toothless old men with smiles on their faces, not a hint of maliciousness in their eyes, and around 6 empty of bottles of soju lying beside them.  Each step I take has more of a skip in it in the last, and I feel my book gently rubbing against my knee in the pocket of my cargo pants. 

Across the park I stop at the main road to wait for the light to change green, one of the few places that I pay much attention to the lights.  As I look around, the crispness of the fall air makes all the colors seem brighter, and I pause to admire the rolling hills beyond the park and the rows of Sim-City apartments before them – the contrast is striking: sometimes an object of disgust, sometimes a pleasant reminder of the industriousness of these people.  The light is green; the skip in my step gradually returns as I make my way across.  I stop at the window to order a ticket in my chopped Korean: “Busan – Sasang.  Hanna juseyo”.  With a smile on her face the adjumma holds the ticket up to show me the price that I know well, and would understand even if she had simply said it by this point, but I still find it sweet how they do what they can to help me understand what’s going on. 

On the bus, I sit near the back and cuddle in with my book now out of my pocket.  Before I realize it, I’m exiting the bus and crossing past stands of clothing and jewelry, past the McDonald’s, and into the open air, polluted as it may be, of the big city.  Just before the subway entrance, I see a man with a monkey – a strange sight, and I think an uncommon one in Korea.  My curiosity is piqued, and I join the small crowd watching to see what he might do.  The monkey is sitting on a small monkey chair on a table next to the man, hands resting on his knees and a pleasant look on his face.  Most of it is just the man talking and waving around a big stick.  Occasionally he hits part of the table and the monkey jumps up from his seat in an attempt to do what he’s supposed to do.  The man jerks mercilessly on the monkey’s chain. 

“Dance, monkey, dance!”  I can’t feel your pain…  I love being a monkey, hairy arms and all.  I love it when the cute little 15 year old school-girls in my class say, “teacher – monkey!” followed by the usual giggle.  I just reply, “ok, me monkey, yes,” while rubbing the hair on my arms, following which I push in my nose and say, “you monkey, too.”  We all get a kick out of it.  I feel sad for this monkey; he can’t reply, “you monkey, too.”  I walk away thinking I’ll have to tell my friends I’ve seen an actual dancing monkey in Korea; we’re not the only entertainment.  I stop by LG 25 to get a bottle of “orange juice-uh,” and by the time I finish it, I’ve forgotten the monkey and made my way onto the platform to wait for the train.  While I wait, a group of cute little school-girls (maybe 12, maybe 21) walk up the stairs in their knee socks and unusually short skirts for Korea.  I look their way and they smile innocently back at me and walk away giggling.  The train comes, and as I get on, still playing my favorite game, three or four attractive women glance at me with a shy smile, and a few schoolboys stare blatantly at me.  The old people in the corner all give me huge smiles when I look their direction.  Soon, my book is out again, and I am vaguely aware of a girl to my left watching me out of the corner of her eyes, occasionally pausing to catch myself as the subway seems to slow forever but still come to an abrupt halt at each stop.  I make the switch in Seomyeon and back to my book. 

When I get off the train, I find myself directly at an underground shopping area, and I enter it with my mission of the day in mind: to find some pipe tobacco somewhere in Korea.  I notice the small shop at the left where the subway station melds into a shopping area; a few weeks ago, the owner had graciously stuck a curved spike through my long-closed earring holes to reinsert a set of captured-ball loops that I had bought from him (almost got fired for that one…something about people thinking I’m gay or something).  The dull pain in my earlobes from reinserting the loops at home this morning comes back to the forefront for a moment.  Soon, however, I’m lost in Rob Zombie calling me the scum of the Earth and telling me to “come on” through my new IRiver MP3 player, as I embark on my journey through the Kolon of Korea’s “second metropolitan city,” feeling as far from the scum of the Earth as possible.  I revel in the sweet cool air that escapes from each stairwell as I pass, but don’t linger for fear that it’ll stop being sweet and simply be cold if I do. 

I make it to the end of “Kolon underground shopping” without anything resembling pipe tobacco in sight, so I decide to exit into the open air and try my luck there.  I walk in zigzags through the different streets full of all kinds of shops.  My mind is torn between two thoughts: “with all these shops, they must have a tobacconist somewhere,” and, “what kind of idiot believes he’ll actually stumble across a tobacconist in this craziness when he’s trying to.”  Of course, one always runs into what one wants when one isn’t looking; Murphy must have visited Korea at some point.  Eventually, I give up the search (partially hoping that if I give up, I might find it) and decide to head back to the subway. 

On my way, I pass a seemingly busy building, so I stop to see what it is; I have seen this building once before but only from behind and never with so many people hustling through it, and like a foreign raindrop joining a puddle, I walk in to peruse the countless books in every direction.  A few books leap out to me in that the letters are not only distinguishable but also readable (English as opposed to Korean), and even an obnoxious photo of Hilary Clinton stares out at me.  Following a cute girl like an old brainless dog follows an insect on the wall, I find myself upstairs, and when I look around, I have a flash impression that I’m visiting an unfamiliar Barnes and Noble.  I’m once again torn between desire to get a cup of way-overpriced Starbucks coffee in hopes that if I sit around I might meet someone interesting and disgust at the arrogance of people who do things like sit at Barnes and Noble and pay a price for one coffee what would feed a Haitian child for a month and smoke pipes and other arrogant things like that (wait – that’s not Starbucks…hmmm…).  I look around with passing interest and, having in my reverie lost sight of the cute girl, return downstairs in the direction of the front door.  I see the usual case of YBM red books, a few I might read if I’m desperate, but on the back of a small bookcase, I see a new set: these blue and just slightly too large to fit in my pocket.  Despite this drawback, I glance through them and see the name Hermann Hesse.  Never heard of this one – I must get it.  When I pay, I’m almost surprised to get only a bag marked “Nampo Book Café” with my book in it: at the shop in my town, they always throw in an alarm clock or something when I buy a book.  Korea’s spoiling me.  I return to the subway and gaze blankly at the tourist map on the wall before deciding to cross town once again.

I stop at the usual spots near PNU for a bit, read for a while at Crossroads, and otherwise pass a normal evening in Busan.  Eventually, around 3am by now, I walk alone toward Oncheonjang and see what I’m looking for – a large sign that reads Chim Chil Bang.  I find my way into the alley where the entrance is and enter.  I ask the lady how much it is, and she says the usual 5000 won.  I hand her a note, take a key, shorts, t-shirt, and towel, and make my way to the third floor.  I consider walking into the women’s bathing area on the second floor claiming ignorance of what the sign meant, but decide I’d be very ashamed of myself for being so rude to people that are always so nice to me.  They’d probably enjoy it though. 

Walking into the locker room, I quietly pass the men sleeping on the floor and benches and quickly undress.  I’m the only one in the showers aside from an old man doing exercises in a sauna in the corner, so I take an unusually long time enjoying the hot shower and scrubbing myself thoroughly.  I sit in the hot-tub for a while, now only warm since it has been out of use for a few hours, and then towel off, put on the shorts and t-shirt they gave me, and walk upstairs to the sleeping area.  When I enter, there’s a man sprawled out at the top of the stairs that I quietly walk past, my locker key clinking on my ankle with each step.  I enter a large room with a TV with four doors leading to saunas, but through the window, I can see that all but the cold sauna are full of people sleeping, so I walk to the back of the room.  I pause to watch a couple in their thirties sleeping with their legs wrapped around each other and their infant daughter wriggling in a nightmare between them.  The mother turns over in her sleep to consolingly rub the child’s hair, and after a few minutes, they both fall back into a deep sleep.  I find it an honor to see a young family like this pleasantly sleeping together, in seemingly perfect happiness.  This is a moment that poems are made of, and it is unfortunate that I have no paper with me.  I find an open spot in the back away from the TV and lights, just behind the happy family, and grab a wooden block for a pillow – at least here the block has a concave side for your head to rest in.  As I lay down, I realize that I am surrounded by a wall, a happy family, and two cute young ladies.  I watch the TV for a while and then pass into a deep pleasant sleep. 

With no knowledge that I have even fallen asleep yet, I awake to see a teenage girl walking into the room past the TV.  I chuckle a little bit at how pretty she looks and how awkward the teenage boy that follows her in appears.  I admire how the outline of her youthful breasts stand almost motionlessly as she walks, obviously held aloft with their own strength.  They sit in the middle of the room and he begins to teach her a few exercises.  I watch with amusement as they throw their legs in the air and do all kinds of contortions with their bodies.  A passing pang of loneliness creeps in for a moment, but before I notice anything else, I awake again to feel the warmth of the sun resting on my body through the window.  I slowly open my eyes to see the room slightly less full and a man walking through picking up trash off the floor.  There is a group of young women near the TV laying with each other, watching TV and laughing like little girls.  I sit for nearly an hour, watching TV from my corner in the back along with them, and then eventually arise, shower again, and walk out into the sunny autumn day.

I find myself in Oncheonjang and as I had heard of a nice park with a cable-car there, I begin to walk uphill.  Near the top, I notice that I am surrounded by cute couples of adjummas and adjushies walking together up the hill with me.  Once again in my basic Korean, I ask a man seemingly alone, “cable-car, odieyeyo?”  He points to the left and around the corner and babbles on for a while, so I say, “ok” and begin to walk to the left.  At the top of the hill, I see what seems like a park entrance, so I walk to the ticket booth and ask the lady, “igot, cable-car?” 

            “Blah blah imnida…anio….blah blah yeyo”

            “Igot…..cable-car anio?”

            “Blah blah imnida,” she points inside the park, “blah blah imnika?”

            “Chogo?” I point into the park.

            “Ye – blah blah blah imnida”

            “Ok…uh…olmayeyo?”

            “Yuk-baek won”

            I hand her six hundred-won pieces and pass into the park.  The first thing I notice is that I’m surrounded by adjumma stands on every side, and since I haven’t eaten yet today, my stomach pays attention to what they’re selling, but the only thing that catches my eye are snacks and cup-ramyun, so I keep walking.  Soon I hear the sound of what could only be some kind of traditional music, so I follow my ears.  I enter a small stadium from the corner, turn off the MP3 player, and take a seat on the step-like benches.  Before me is a crowd of close to 50 Koreans, men and women, playing all sorts of percussion instruments.  Some of the important-looking men are banging what looks like a brass pot with sticks and making a rhythmic clang, and soon after, the rest of the crowd joins in on their particular drum playing either bass rhythms or quick moving beats.  There is some sort of a clarinet-like instrument being played into a microphone that reminds me of a high-pitched woman’s moan.  The beat fluctuates so rapidly that I wonder how they manage to dance to it, but they seem to be having a great time, performing for no one in particular; the stands are nearly empty.  Soon, they pause and the lady who has stopped in front of me motions for me to clap.  I do, and soon after the rest of the small audience does the same.  The brass pots clang once again, the woman smiles at me with warm appreciation, the drums she’s playing join back into the rhythm and they all make their way out the corner of the stadium, with only the clarinet player still rambunctiously making all kinds of interesting moans, and then fade into a rumbling silence of chatting voices.

With the performance over, I decide to once again see if I can find the cable-car into the mountains that I’ve heard rumors of.  Somehow, simply the idea of a cable-car reminds me of my family’s homeland, Switzerland, and if for no other reason, I want to ride it for that.  I wonder if it’s Swiss-made?  I continue down the path, past a number of carnival rides obviously imported from the States, and see a cable disappearing into the trees above me – aha!  I pile in behind a crowd of parents, grandparents, and children obviously just leaving church – not a soul my age in sight.  The view from the cable-car isn’t even comparable to the Alps, but there is a quaintness to it that strikes me.  Below me, I can see the paths moving into the mountains covered with people and the occasional food-stand.  To my left, I can see the World Cup stadium standing out unmistakably against the slightly less Sim-City-like skyline of Busan.  In the distance I can see the sea, and I think I can even make out a few fishing boats against the horizon.

When we reach the top, I quietly slide through the crowd.  My stomach is once again calling to me, and I hesitate to see what the adjumma nearby is selling; she notices me pause and waves me in, but I am not inspired, so I continue into the forest.  As I walk, I remember the puked up remains of ramyun that I had seen on the sidewalk, and, crazy as it may seem, I get a craving for some myself.  I smell the unmistakable scent from a stand off in the forest to my left and ask the lady “ramyun iseyo?”, a fairly stupid question seeing as though I’m in Korea, and it’s available nearly everywhere.  She motions me to a seat with a smile as a mother preparing a table for her son who has returned late from his college classes and has missed dinner with the rest of the family.  I sit peacefully reading my book again for a while until she places before me a large bowl of ramyun, some of the best cabbage kim-chi I’ve had yet, and another bowl of vinegar flavored radish kim-chi.  I hungrily but slowly eat every bite of food before me remembering my friend telling me the words of Thich Nhat Han that one should chew each bite 20 times before swallowing.  I wasn’t so extreme, but I certainly appreciated the food, and I hoped that the adjumma could see the pleasure on my face as I enjoyed my meal. 

When I was finished, I paid her the measly sum of 2000 won and walked up to a picnic area on the side of the mountain.  There were large groups of friends sitting together having lunch and families wandering about.  I met eyes with a few children and their eyes brightened up with even more happiness.  I smiled down to one and said, “Anyung-ha-seyo,” not sure whether that was appropriate to say to a child or not.  His mother smiled and looked at him telling him to say hello back to me.  He just stood and stared in wonder as though he were enraptured in a kairos moment of life.  I walked up a few rocks and sat on one overlooking the city and the sea in the distance.  I pulled my book out of my pocket with the intention of reading, but it didn’t seem right yet, so I just rested it on my lap.  I looked out in the distance and said to myself, “I love this country!”  A thoughtful smile slowly came to my face, and I began to read once more.

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