Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Dispatches - October 28, 2009

In a former life, I was a naive college applicant. While that existence isn't all that far removed from my current life as a naive college graduate, I like to think that my writing has much improved. There was a time when I began every piece I encountered with a quotation. Shakespeare I am not, but many of my ideas now will be penned or will perish without the aid of those that have come before me.

But in a nod to Korea and Korean tradition, I'm going to completely ignore the promise I have just made and proceed to do the exact opposite – quoting someone else. Charles Gaines, a noted fisherman, once wrote that, 'Fishing is casting a petition into the unknown.' I enjoy fishing and did quite a bit of it as a kid. But modern society and its soundbites have thoroughly trained my attention span to accept stimulation only in short increments. Unfortunately this has rendered fishing enjoyable only in limited doses.

And this past weekend I had to take my medicine. Allow me to set the scene. Weeks ago I was told by my host family to keep a particular set of dates free on my calendar. A big fishing trip was in the works and it would span the entire weekend, replete with a big boat and a journey far out to sea. So epic as this excursion that it required both Saturday and Sunday to complete. My mind got to wondering – as it is prone to do – and it took little suggestion for me to envision a return trip with a massive marlin strapped to the roof of our Kia. And after I had decided that this thought was the most-likely occurrence, it wasn't too difficult a leap to imagining a totally bad-ass stuffed beast being proudly displayed above my fireplace in law school. I'm not sure fireplaces exist in Los Angeles, but recall that this is my imagination and it knows no bounds.

An overnight trip with my host family would be a first. We have a terrific relationship thus far and the prospect of such an extended journey didn't worry me in the least. But the prospect of losing a weekend – and its coveted free time – did worry me. Taking a queue from Korean behavior and the general lack of details I have oft-noted, I gave a vague affirmation that I would check my calendar and keep that weekend free.

What proceeded was textbook traditional Korean. Between the original invitation and our actual departure, the weekend itself was changed twice. The duration was curtailed from two days to one. The ultimate possibility of the trip – understandably dependent upon the weather – was in question until the day prior. And best of all, a departure time of 6 a.m. was announced the night before. Much like a metaphor for my journey to Korea overall, this trip had very much become a 'petition to the unknown'.

While Saturday was ultimately benign, it had all the trappings of disaster. To begin with, the night before was a wine party in town. The thought did cross my mind around glass three or four that imbibing mere hours prior to leaving solid land for what was sure to be a tumultuous sea was not the best idea. By glass seven or eight, however, I was beginning to think that this wine was in fact my only hope for enduring said sea.

I returned home a few hours before I was due to wake up, drank some water, and fell asleep. I had gone to bed unconvinced that we were actually going fishing and would wake up in a similar state of mind. It wasn't until I actually heard stirring downstairs at 5:30 a.m. that I began to change my mind. Last-minute schedule changes and frequent cancellations abound in Korea and I have come to expect the opposite of what was planned. At any rate, I was somewhat disheartened to see two massive coolers prepared to attend the trip with us – a three-hour tour this was not. An actual 6:30 departure for a disclosed 6:00 goal is punctual by Korean standards and thus surprised me.

Not nearly as much as the surprise of nocturnal driving in Korea. What ensued was perhaps one of the more frightening episodes on wheels I've ever experienced. I don't sleep well on buses, planes, or in cars – I require a flat surface. Thus as we zoomed out of Cheongju, I groggily dialed up some classical on my iPod in hopes that I could trick myself into a couple more hours of shuteye. Silly me.

It took all of three miles to render me wide awake. At the first red light run by my host father, I directed a laugh laced with heavy concern at Jin (Jun – the elder host brother – had manufactured a 'school project' two days prior that conveniently needed to be done that Saturday and was thus still asleep at home. My suspicions that he knew something I did not added to my skepticism about this trip.). My host parents heard my laugh from the backseat, but judging by their reaction – themselves laughing without a trace of the alarm I had exhibited – I gathered that traffic laws were merely suggestions at night.

Perhaps – and I am permitting a very tentative perhaps – on some desolate dessert road on a crystal clear night with not another soul in site, carefully side-stepping traffic signals would be permissible. But we were sharing a six-lane highway with freight trucks in the minimal visibility of early-morning fog. At least my host father was now stopping at red lights. That would be much safer. Silly me.

At the next red light, we stopped in the middle lane. As two 18-wheel trucks doing 70 mph flanked our Kia with nary a foot off the gas pedal, I shuddered to think about the poor soul that actually had the right of way. Perhaps it was the sweet sounds of Mendelssohn's violin concertos or perhaps it was the lull of constant speed, but I was somehow able to sleep for about half of the two-hour drive.

Towards the end, we stopped at a restaurant rest area of sorts for breakfast. For those that are unfamiliar with traditional Korean breakfast, you can start by forgetting everything you know about the first meal of the day. Gone are stapes such as cereal and toast. Instead, those ready to greet the day are greeted themselves with *surprise* rice. Accompanying the obligatory bowl of rice is food that looks awfully similar to dinner and lunch fare. That's because, in all likelihood, it was your dinner or lunch fare from the previous day. As far as I can tell, Koreans do not use distinctions such as time of day when deciding what food to eat. That being said, this is one of the many reasons why I consider my homestay to be nothing short of a miraculous collection of fortunate circumstances. It's not unusual for my host mother to have Dunkin' Donuts coffee and pastries waiting. The morning of this composition she tried her hand – quite ably – at French toast and, should something ever prove a misfire, there's always a box of Post cereal waiting as backup.

But I wasn't so lucky at this rest stop. Gauging my options – ranging from some sort of clam soup to spicy cabbage – I opted for kimbab. A word on kimbab: I discovered it during orientation and it quickly became my go-to Korean food when Western alternatives were unavailable. I've noticed that – by and large – the Korean foods that I do like seem suspiciously familiar to famous dishes indigenous to other cultures. For example, Koreans are adamant that kimbab is their own, but vegetables wrapped in rice and rolled in a thin sheet of dried seaweed is sushi – a 'California Roll' – anywhere else in the world. The thin cuts of pork and cheese that I like, fried and quite tasty, are so unhealthy that they must be western. And with those two entries, the list of Korean foods that I enjoy begins and ends.

But I digress. The main point of interest at this rest stop was not the food – that I'd rather forget. What was interesting, however, was the strategy to staff a skeleton crew of two for 8:30 on a Saturday morning. I felt half-amused and half-annoyed as I watched a young man literally run between the convenience shop and the kitchen as he simultaneously juggled the roles of cashier, dishwasher, manager, and chef. I would have felt half-sorry for him too had a family of twelve not entered the restaurant literally seconds ahead of my own family. As far as I was concerned, every step of this ridiculous dance was delaying my date with a fish. And it wasn't that I was now particularly keen on fishing, but as I saw it, the faster I hauled my trophy on-deck, the faster I got home.

With a belly full of kimbab and the remnants of the wine party, I finally spotted the ocean. The sun inches off the horizon was very pretty and I was reminded at how much I enjoyed the coast. We waited at the boat launch for a twenty-food motorboat taxi. We tossed our gear aboard, I blessed myself, and we were off!

I like boats. In fact, I had procrastinated my studying Korean in the months prior to departure by finishing a model Chris-Craft (aptly-named the Bow-Tide for those who were wondering) and piloting it around the pond in my backyard. Much of my childhood was landlocked in Atlanta, but the few chances I did get to sail or motor on the water I thoroughly enjoyed. My motoring that day took all of five minutes. Rather than the hour-long cruise to a larger vessel promised by Jin, our taxi ride took five minutes and ended at what can only be described as a shanty-town on floats. A network of rotted planks and tarp coverings joined a neighborhood of shacks a few hundred yards into the bay. Fishermen sat on plastic chairs watching for movement on their lines as they drank soju (Korean rice liquor) at 10:00 in the morning. As I parked myself in front of a fishing pole, I came to the sobering reality that my marlin would most-likely not materialize, any wine that was left in my system was not going to offset the oncoming tedium, and that I did not recall seeing my family pack our own supply of soju for the sojourn.

I did, however, have my cellphone and I began sending copious amounts of text messages to friends remarking on the hilarity of my situation. In the broader sense, the ability to communicate instantly while sitting on a makeshift raft that had no business floating served as a reminder for the stark dichotomy often found in Korea. While the country is regularly listed as one of the most connected nations in the world and features notable technology firms such as Samsung and LG, there is often a sense that Korea takes two steps forward only to take one step back.

For instance, children have their temperatures taken daily before entering school to detect for swine flu, but communal eating with chopsticks at meals receives not a second thought. Korea has had nothing short of a remarkable sustained economic surge that launched it from the the brink of desolation fifty years ago to a global leader today, yet women are still considered less-able than men. The educational system consistently places its pupils at the very top of international rankings, but those very same students not only pay a price in delayed social skills thanks to enormous academic pressures, but must face overwhelming odds when attempting to enter the very few schools in Korea that afford them a full range of social mobility.

Here I have refrained from referencing observations of seemingly-contradictory practices that can clearly be attributed to tradition (although the role of women very well may qualify given the influence of Confucian tenets). Tradition in Korea is markedly prominent – and personally prominent in part for a lack of such strong heritage in my own culture and in part thanks to my own negative connotations for the institution.

But I have begun another tangent that deserves its own post. And I am sleepy. Thus I will conclude the riveting tale of The Old ETA and the Sea as well as my not-too-riveting thoughts on the negative repercussions of unquestioned allegiance to tradition in Korea *phew* all in my next installment. I don't wish to spoil the surprise, but to keep you tuned in I will reveal a single, solitary hint: the term 'fishing' for my adventure is actually a red herring.

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