1 Beer, 1 Pub, 1 Story

So, I had the concept of 1 beer, 1 pub and 1 story and was on my way. 1 beer down and 1 story written (see below), I moved onto the other side of Blue Note--the rock and roll side. I started writing in my notebook when a group of rowdy Koreans started playing drinking games. I was interupped and became part of their game, maybe a truth or dare style, and then was asked to join them. I closed my notebook, changed my seat and joined the boys for some good laughs and interesting conversation on culture.

INTO

INTO the heart of the city, but still on the finge where the drunk army boys prowl and first dates stroll, lies a quaint sanctuary in the form of an Italian restaurant. It is no bigger than a studio apartment that hosts 4 tables and a maximum of 12 people at one time.

The menu here is short and never constant as the entree and soup changes once a week. If you have a craving for lasagna, you better find another place or find out which week of the year when lasagna is served. The owner--a Korean who studied in both Italy and France--brought his culinary expertise to the palates of Daegu to compete with the hovels that serve up Kimchi anyway you can dream.

The food is simple, but made with utmost care on the two-element stove. Washed down with a glass of house red or white is a delicious repreive from spicy everything and waterdowned ale.

So I had an idea the other day to eliviate my boredom and become focused on doing more writing. The concept was 1 bar, 1 beer, 1 story. So my first stop was Old Blue on the jazz side of the bar. I sat down, opened a beer and began to write and allow random thoughts escape onto my paper:

With my nails barely dry from the cheap manicure, I managed to find my way back to Old Blue. Just a few weeks ago, I was escorted here by Daniel, a foreigner living in Daegu whose boss is one of my students. And so I have returned. It is still quiet and earthy and serves the Leffe beer from Belgium. I look on the label of the beer and to my amusement it reads; "Brewed in Br. Abbaye." If only the typist didn't stutter with the B.

The atmostphere is dull, and the bartender isn't very friendly--perhaps it is the language barrier that is scaring her off. Who knows, but once the beer is done, it is off to another pub or as they say here Hoff.

IDEA...

So they call pubs/drink holes here Hoffs. I am not sure why, maybe it is a germanic adoption into Korean, but oh, how one English speaker could have loads of fun. Open a bar and call it "Fuck Hoff" or "Screw Hoff". What about "Buzz Hoff" or "Hoff the Cuff." But then you can't forget "Sod Hoff" or even "Jack Hoff."

Oh my oh my. One could definately have fun with the language, especially where you and a group of other non-Korean speaking individuals would be privy to the amusement.

One beer down, one pub down, and one page full.

Chilli Peppers

View from my rooftop

Clean Pork???

Let me guess...this must be a pork restaurant. I am just glad to know that the pork they serve is clean.

Well, the 6-week program is over, and congrats to my students. It was these people that made my time here in Daegu tolerable. They all took care of me in some way.

From left to right...

Subong--who made a phone call and hooked me up with a foreign staff member from his school, who then took me on the town to show me the sights and ease my boredom.

Yoon--who always asked and made sure if I needed anything. Who brought me a bottle of liquid tide so I could wash my clothes, who always had smokes when I didn't and always told great tales.

Jae--the old lady of the group, who continuously invited me to Busan, who always brought snacks and ordered at our lunchtimes for me.

Jinny--who always double checked my meaning so she could accurately translate into Korean, who showed me the subtle ways of Korean habits and is a strong, independent female, pushing the standards on singledom in Korea.

Yong Suk--who had a twisted sense of humour, but always kept us laughing. His offbeat ideas and inability to follow the train of my thought.

And there they are...a great group of people who have become dear to me.

Sun Burst

Walking down the street, lost in my own thoughts, I looked up to see this. I would have to say that it was the most beautiful sky I have seen since my time in Korea.

Usually the sky here is a soupy grey, a permanent overcast where the sun struggles to break through and usually fails, but this day was different. The sun won the battle.

Cock

Well, go figure, but they do serve Korean food. I am not even sure if they serve chicken.

I went to Gwangju to visit Robb and his lady, and of course they had to introduce me to the most famous site for foreigners in their fair city. I wonder how many other white folk have burst into hysterics or taken a similar photo.

Fat Buddha's Smile

As my distended belly ached and I rubbed it to soothe the pain, I began to think about the two distinct images of Buddha; the chubby jubilant one, and the thin stoic one. I wondered why there were two separate images of this being and why some countries preferred one to the other. I thought about different offshoots of the religion, I questioned the symbolism with its people, but then it hit me almost as hard as the next spasm in my own gut.

It is all about the food, specifically the rice. While travelling in Thailand and parts of Malaysia(both countries that prefer the thin stoic image of Buddha), I recalled the beautiful dishes of rice; fluffy, soft, light rice. Rice cooked with coconut cream or saffron. Rice served with beautiful-looking and tasting curries.

As for the fat buddha, well he seems to reside in the countries that serve sticky rice. Sticky rice dumplings, adhesive rice wrapped in seaweed, gluey rice made into bread, globby rice with some BBQ meat or kimchi on top. Either way it is served, it is sticky and clumpy. Hell, some people have been known to choke and die on a variety of the sticky rice dishes which has prompted governments to send out public warnings to its citizens.

The fat buddha isn't fat because of his gluttonous consumption of rice, but rather his consumption of glutinous rice. His belly isn't round with fat, but is distended, like mine, as I look down and see the havoc rice is playing with my tummy. Inside, rice is adhering to every inch of Buddha's intestines and every centimetre of his bowels. Nothing else is being digested and nothing else can pass through the globs of cemented rice. With no way down, his belly expands outward; my belly expands outward.

But the question is why is Buddha smiling? I am bloody miserable that some simple grain has barricaded and bunged up my gut. I groan with the discomfort and cringe when a flash of cramps invades. Why the smile?

After 4 days of pushing on my gut, massaging it, using a hot water bottle, drinking over 4 litres of water a day with at least 1 more in juice, twisting and turning my body into some acts of contortion that I read on the internet, I had had just about enough and I was prepared for battle. Prunes were on the agenda, but of course, this is a country where prunes aren't available...perhaps pickled or soaked in kimchi, but nothing in its natural state. I marched up and down the aisles, swearing under my breath. My blockage was aggitating me but the inability to ask for what I needed infuriated me even more. I scoured the shelves, eye squinting to focus on the task at hand and not get distracted by the pushy housewives in their own pursuits.

I needed an accomplice. I couldn't do this mission solo. And after babbling like a fool in English to a collection of employees, I was passed off to the English-speaking manager. Together, we paraded down the aisles into the fruit section and before us appeared 500g tubs of dried fruit--apricots, raisins, blueberries and any other fruit that could be dried. I grabbed my fruit and dragged the manager to the cereal aisle. I wanted the highest fibre cereal possible. We found the box. With 2 thumbs up and a punch into the air, we succeeded.

I bee-lined it home, tore open the package of apricots and within minutes they were gone. I drank a litre of water to wash them down and then another litre more for good measure. I waited. I wanted my bloated Buddha belly gone. I dare not leave the apartment. Within minutes of consuming the fruit my tummy gurgled and sprang to life--war erupted in my gut and the apricots were kicking ass with the rice. I waited a bit more and after a quick sprint to the the loo, I learned why the fat Buddha smiles.

Bored in Daegu

I have been in Daegu for 2 weeks now and boredom is setting in. I work long days on Saturdays and Sundays, but have my weeks free. I can only do so much prep work for my classes so that leaves Monday to Friday free. Rainy season kept me inside to avoid the drenched streets, but the typhoons and grey skies have given way to the sweltering August temperatures. The humidity squeezes my lungs and creates a film of sweat on every inch of skin. I duck into my air conditioned room and the cool air of various establishments to escape the oppressive heat, but my four walls are monotonous while “eye shopping” is now nothing more than tediously painful.

I needed to somehow escape the heat, while avoiding the guts of concrete buildings. The beach is only an hour away by fast train and I considered this option. I haven’t had a pay cheque since the 15th of July, and don’t want to spend the minimal cash I have on me. I figure I will hit the beach after pay day. Then an idea hit me—an old technique I used in Indonesia. While I was staying in the dodgy hotels and wanted to avoid the beach, I would scout out nicer hotels with a pool, make my way in, chat with the bartender and with the promise of buying a few insanely cheap cocktails, the chlorine water and plastic lounge was mine.

I grabbed my Lonely Planet, flipped through the pages on Daegu and found the Top End accommodations—Inter Burgo Hotel. I still had no idea if they had a pool or not, but figured that if they didn’t, it could be a worthwhile adventure. I grabbed my beach bag stuffed with a book, a towel and some cash, hailed a cab and ten minutes later the mammoth hotel was in front of me. I walked in and talked the receptionist, who then flagged a bell hop to escort me to the pool. Sweet! This was easy. No negotiations like Indonesia, and no promise of buying drinks.

The bell hop led me through the hotel, down a corridor, past the pool and out the building. Ha. They are kicking me out? I was confused. Perhaps I had celebrated the ease too soon, however, the bell hop told me to walk around the corner to the entrance. I did and found booth with a sign; Adult 6000 won (about $7). I smiled. Korea has a bit more structure than Indonesia. Instead of buying my way in with drinks, I just needed to buy a ticket. I did and walked through the maze of lockers with Astroturf tickling under my feet. I entered and exited through the showers and then the indoor portion of the pool. And the final maze was to the glass door leading to the outdoor pool.

Korean pop music blasted through the speakers that made the occasional incomprehensible announcements while the cicadas that lived in the outlaying trees screamed to the beat. I found a spot in the “sunbathing” area to lay out my sarong to claim my stake. I flopped down and took in the scene.

The lifeguards pranced around and blew their whistles at everything they could—kids running, kids going too deep, kids without bathing caps…they whistled at everything. So much so that no one seemed to listen. I was thankful that the cicadas were louder than the whistle happy boys.

I looked around and realized that there were more inflatable balls, tubes and rings than I have ever seen. Every kid had a tube. They bobbed happily into and over each other in their sea of plastic. The music playing on the speakers faded and a ring of sorts scratched its way through followed by an announcement. The bobbers and floaters made their way out of the pool and lined up along the sides. I couldn’t figure out if it was some organized shift work for the swimmers or if there was an emergency. But people were too calm. After ten minutes, the swimmers were permitted to enter again. Maybe a kid shit in the pool. I had no idea, but I did know that I wasn’t going to enter the pool—the idea of poop and the concept of plastic didn’t appeal. I returned to my observations.

Every male was cloaked in a speedo. I am not sure if they took their cue from the lifeguards who squeezed their way into their tiny swim wear, but all the men were stuffed into these skimpy items of horrendous beach wear. I questioned if I was an uninvited guest at a bad Chip & Dale family performance minus the bowties. If I were a woman who loved this garment, I think I would have been in heaven, but I felt ill. I closed my eyes and tried to erase all images of the flat assed men parading around. Slowly I fell into a form of relaxation until the storm clouds thickened the sky. I felt droplets of rain begin to fall. I packed up my things and walked away from a tiny piece of refuge I found—a refuge from the heat, a refuge from my room, and a refuge from my own boredom.

Whitening Sauce

For ten months in Colombia, I didn’t have a television and now that I am here in Korea, my only entertainment is the tube. I am impressed with the variety of English programming, but it is the commercials that intrigue me.

The music choice is fantastic. I am not sure what the North American restrictions are on using songs or getting the copyright, but it seems that Koreans are free to use whatever music they want—hip hop, Moby, Frank Sinatra, classical to classic jazz.

So there I was when a 15-second ad came on for some unknown product. It wasn’t the music that caught my attention because this ad was silent; unusually silent. The shot opens with two middle-age women on a train. The décor was completely white along with their wardrobes. The only colour was the scene going by on the train and it was so muted that it could have been shot through white gauze. The women begin conversing, with the camera panning to the lady on the left. She lifts her hands to her face, smiles at the camera then says something directly to the viewer. A voiceover says in perfect English, “Whitening Sauce,” followed by more Korean.

It cracked me up. I know about the skin bleaches, and yes there is irony in that, but just the fact the product is called a “sauce” caused giggles loud enough that my neighbours were sure to question what I found so funny.

A moment of kindness

Just when I started to feel the chill of Korean Streets, I was shaken out of it with the simplicity of kindness.

For two days now, I have been trying to make an international direct call from a phone booth. I bought a phone card and followed the directions on the inside of the phone booth, but nothing was working. I thought perhaps it was the type of phone booth, so I was on the mission of testing out EVERY booth that I walked by. Still, nothing. I would get 5 digits into the process and the operator would come on. For all I know she could have been saying, “Hang up the phone you idiot and try your call again.” I really had no clue and the more phone booths I tried, the more frustrated I became.

Finally tonight, on my way home from the 7-11 (pronounced seben eleben) I saw another phone booth and tried my luck yet again—of course I had none. I noticed a man standing outside of his shop and flagged him over. Just as I put my hand down, I realized I had no idea what I was about to say. So I pointed to the instructions on how to make an international call and he told me “Gong gong il.” Translation: “zero-zero-one.” Our conversation, if you can even call it that, consisted of me speaking English with a lot of pointing and gestures while the man spoke a lot of Korean with demure undistinguishable gestures.

Suddenly his wife came by to join us for silent support as her husband dialed gong-gong-il and then I punched in the rest of the digits. I guess he got the same message I was getting and said, “Canada number no.” The next thing I knew was the tiny yet pushy wife grabbed her husband’s arm and pulled him out of the booth and she made her way in. She grabbed a coin out of my hand and dialed a few digits. She was speaking Korean and suddenly motioned for a pen. I didn’t have one, so I mimicked the gesture to the husband who then quickly disappeared and returned with a pad of paper and pen. The wife snatched the pen, did a lot of bows to the invisible operator, said thanks, wrote down the number and hung up. She then grabbed more coins from my palm and dialed the number from the pad of paper. Soon enough she was talking Korean and then the phone was stuffed into my hand. She motioned to me to talk.

Dumfounded and unsure what was happening I hesitated for a moment when finally I said, “Uh, do you speak English?” The operator replied that she could and so I began to explain the situation. Basically it came down to the fact I had the wrong phone card. I was dialing the right digits and using the right phone booths, but it just came down to the card. Voila! Problem solved.

I hung up the phone and turned to my Korean phone guides. I placed my hand on my heart, said thank you in the best Korean I could muster and did a bow. The husband and wife team bowed back. I waved and smiled and they mimicked my gesture.

I must admit the timing was perfect. The concrete sprawl and neon of Daegu is less than impressive, but those two strangers and their random act of kindness jolted me out of the negative hole that seemed to be swallowing me up.