Korea Reflection

17 January 2009 | 2 comments
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As I scrunch my feet up inside my woolen socks, I can still feel grains of sand from a Korean beach rubbing and scratching the spaces between my toes.  I’m going back to Beijing.  Having only just left Korean soil ten minutes before, I glance outside at the blue day.  My eyes wander towards the papers that my seatmate is studying.  She is a pretty girl, my age (one month older than me, to be precise), who is traveling to Hong Kong for work.  We cannot communicate much, as I only have ten days of Korean language under my belt, and her English is not so good.  Still, she has kind eyes, the kind a stranger can trust.  These eyes saw first-hand the faces of Ethiopian boys and girls in hospitals as her missionary work led her to the far away African country for one year of her life.  We do the madatory airplane chitchat for some minutes, and then it occurs to me that it’s 2009.  I want to ask her about her New Year’s resolutions. 

“I want marriage,” she says with a sly smile.

My resolutions are too many.  It seems with each year, I think of more and more challenges for myself.  Most of the challenges I make are not so monumental.  I can usually see my New Year’s resoultions come to light.  Why make a challenge for myself, if it is impossible to achieve?  Marriage is not on the list of my challenges at the moment.  In 2008 I pledged not to eat at McDonald’s or KFC for a year.  This task was simple enough to accomplish.  For 2009 I decide to give up eating chocolate, drinking coke and sprite, and eating “jian bing,” a kind of Chinese pancake that I love but has absolutely no nutritional value.  I also want to improve my Chinese and Korean language skills.  And last, but not least, for a physical challenge, I’d like to have a six-pack.  I know once one hits 30 it gets harder and harder to tone those stomach muscles, so I want to go against the inertia of my slightly aging body. 

When there’s no more left to say to the airplane missionary, a silence comes between us, and I feel the sleep creeping behind my eyes, along with the sand between my toes.

The Pen is Mightier than the Sword

Flashback 4 years ago to Tokyo, Japan…

I sit on the Narita ExpressW high speed train going from Tokyo station to Narita aiport.  Today my girlfriend from Portland, Oregon is coming to Japan for the second time and I should meet her at the airport.  The trees pass by the window in a blur.  Neon lights give way to a quieter landscape, the kind of of no soul life that surround airport vicinities.  A girl sits beside me, and I decide to strike up a conversation with her. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Japanese,” she says to me.  It turns out that she, Kyung Hui, is from Korea.  She has only been in Japan for a few days on business.  I’m not sure exactly what it is she does, but I know it has something to do with bakeries, restaurant chains, marketing, etc.  She mentions “Baskin Robbins,” “Dunkin Donuts.”  These companies are associated with her job in some way or another.  We talk for a bit about our interests, signficant others, etc.  She is looking forward to getting back to her country.  As we exit the train, she gives me a pen as a gift.  I look at the pen and notice that it’s not just any ordinary pen.  It has a light at the end of the pen.  When I twist the end to the right, the light turns on, illuminating the words on my paper.  I’ve never seen a pen like this before.  I thank her and think to myself, “I have to visit Korea someday.”  This pen is the seed that sprouts the oak.

Today…Kyung-Hui

Before arriving in Korea I contacted selected Korean friends that I have met throughout my life’s various journeys.  One of the friends I contacted was Kyung Hui.  As soon as I arrive at my youth hostel that I booked before coming to Korea I give her a call and ask her out for dinner.  She meets me at the nearest metro station.  As we greet each other, I reach in my bag and pull out a gift that I prepared specifically for her.  It’s a special pen that has ten or so different colored inks to choose from.  Should the writer press down on the back of the pen, the ink changes color.  I give her my gift, and she laughs as the circle is complete.  We head to a Korean barbecue restaurant for dinner.  After some minutes, it comes to my attention that our waitress is from China.  After we take this fact in, the dinner conversation switches back and forth between three languages–Korean, Chinese, and English.  I’m at home again.

Chinatown Korea

Besides Kyung Hui, all of my other Korean friends I know from my time spent in China.  In an odd coincidence, they are all girls.  It’s not something that I planned.  It’s just that I know most of them from studying Chinese, and a disproportionate amount of my classmates were females.  These friends are the reason I came to Korea.  Chinese have an old saying that roughly translates to, “one more friend, one more road,” and I believe it.  What better reason to travel than to see a friend from afar?  There’s Yang Yang, Piao Si Qi, and Sunny, three classmates of mine I know from the one semester of Chinese I took at Beijing Language and Culture UniversityW this last Spring.  During that term while on a class excursion to the Great Wall I met another girl studying at BLCU, the lovely Kim Min Zhi (English nickname is “Pebble”).   A year and a half ago I also took a 6 week Chinese course at BLCU where I met another classmate named Kim Se Jin.  I will see all of these friends during this trip.  

In one of the many odd stories of frequent coincidences that grace my life from time to time, I met Somi.  It was a year and a half ago and my former boss from Jiangxi asked me to return to NanchangW to receive the LushanW Award for excellence in teaching.  At the time I was living in NanjingW where I was teaching in a private training college called “Ewings College.”  The award ceremony was to be on a weekend, so I left on a Thursday to make it an extended trip.  When I arrived at the awards banquet, I learned that I was one of many teachers from around Jiangxi Province who would be receiving an award.  At the table where I was sitting were some students from South Korea who had been invited as special guests.  One of these students was Somi.  We talked for some minutes in English and Chinese.  I can’t remember what we talked about, but I do know she was excited to be in Jiangxi.  The night went on, the words flew by, I received my award, I went back to Nanjing.  We exchanged e-mail addresses, and I told her to contact me if she ever came to YichunW.  I never truly expected we would meet again.  But life throws me surprises all the time.  Some weeks later I visited Shanghai for a weekend.  In the evening I was walking back to my hotel when I noticed that there, in front of another hotel, was Somi.  She was standing in front of the door staring at me with a smile of surprise on her face.  It was as if she had been waiting for and expecting me the entire time.  Neither of us knew the other would be coming to Shanghai, and yet there we both were.    She was there on a weekend with friends.  I joined her and her friends for dinner that evening and promised that if I ever went to Korea I would be sure to call her.  A year and a half later, I fulfill the promise.

 

The Reason

A classmate, a first impression on the Great Wall, a chance encounter in a city of more than 20 million, a pen with a light…these are the reasons I travel.  These are the reasons I go places.  I don’t want to get away from people who float by.  I want to find them…to find the face in the crowd and the story behind the face.  I want to speak her language.  I want to know his family.  I want to see where her father works.  I want to give back the gift that was given to me.  What’s it like to live in their skins and be a part of their worlds, even if only for a day?  There’s something inside of me that wants to explore people as much as places when I  travel.  That’s why, when I look back on my stay in Korea, it seems more to me that I did not visit a country on a sightseeing trip, but rather visited a family of friends for a reunion.  Even when I meet strangers who cannot speak the same language as I do, I try to do my best to make a connection.  There was the old man in front of Gyeonbok PalaceW who I took a picture with. Brushing beards with wisdom in front of Gyeonbok Palace in Seoul. I quickly exhausted my Korean vocabulary and resorted to speaking the only language we both knew…a smile and a pat on the back.  He responded by giving me a piece of his Korean art and calligraphy witha message that roughly translates to, “I’ll do my best today because it’s a good day.  I’m happy with who I’m with.”  Well said, bearded old man.  Well said.

Everyday I spent in Korea I was able to share my time with friends (new and old), seeing their country through their eyes.  I stayed with Sunny’s family for one night in DaeguW and Pebble’s family for 5 nights in BusanW.  Pebble and her family in a seafood restaurant in Busan.When someone asks me my first impression of Korea, I just say, ”it’s  like family there.”  In my experience, this is how the world can be when one travels…like one big family.  It all depends on point of view. 

While sites of historic interest do hold some fascination for me, I cannot get around the fact that places are only places, and history was made by people.  I don’t need to go to a beautiful place to have a wonderful time, and I don’t need to see beautiful scenery in order for me to be satisfied.  For me, it’s more about the company I keep, the conversations I have, and the memories I make with the company of conversations.   A magical moment can happen anytime, anywhere.   Be it at a fish market in Busan, a temple in Daegu, or at a restaurant in Seoul, magical moments are waiting behind every corner.  It’s up to me to open me eyes and find these in the faces of the stranger who is a potential friend.

Sand

Bing!

The captain turns on the seatbelt sign and I open my eyes.  With only a few more minutes left before we land I put my seat in its upright and full position, as requested.  I turn my head again to the nurse sitting by my side and inform her that next time we meet I hope she can introduce me to her husband.  She laughs.  When it’s time to exit the aircraft, she simply says, “good luck,” and I think to myself, yes, my luck certainly is good.

As I exit the plane and pass smoothly through customs without interruption, I have one destination in mind:  the diaboloW grounds in the park.  I don’t even want to go home.  I don’t want to waste a moment of my time.  Korea will stay with me, but I’m back and China now, and it’s only 2:00pm.  If I hurry, I can get to the park before my old friends leave.  I board Beijing’s high speed airport transit system and book it back to the city, changing to metro line 10 and getting off at the exit nearest to my favorite park.  Surrounded by Beijingers again, the only sound I can hear in my head is the buzzing and whirring of the diabolo.

Whhhrrrrr…zzzzzzzz….whrrrrr…zzzzzzzz.

I exit the metro and trot at a brisk pace to the diabolo grounds.  Under the bright New Year’s Sun, the cast of characters are all there:  The Smooth Scholar, The Entertainer, Marlborough Man, many others.  They yell at me and greet me for a grand homecoming.  I reach into my bag to pull out some sweets that I bought for them while in Korea.

“Hao!  You’re back!”  The Entertainer yells.  We embrace.

They surround me for some minutes, asking me questions about Korea and Pebble (she used to accompany me to the diabolo grounds).  They are curious for some information about Korea, this country that is not so far, but ”oh so far” away.  After a while, they start to wander off with their diabolo’s.  The Smooth Scholar has pulled out a Rubik’s cube.  Back in Beijing, the Smooth Scholar is close to figuring it all out.I pick up a spare diabolo that The Entertainer lends to me.  It spins in front of my eyes and I once again scrunch up my feet inside of my shoes, this time for warmth.  The sand still in between my toes, my toes inside my my socks, my socks encased by my shoes, my shoes on top of the dusty diabolo grounds, and me surrounded by my friends.  I think about the Korean sand in my shoes so close in proximity to the particles of Beijing earth and dust beneath my feet.  With the whirring and buzzing and laughing around my head, I know that it all fits together.  Everything is in its place.  The Earth is my home and my home has no walls.

 

 

Dinner at Local Beijing Restaurant

13 January 2009 | Comment
16 January 2009
06:30to10:00

For those of you who want to test your stomach by eating stomach, join us for a meal of lu zhu huo shao 卤煮火烧 (a dish consisting of wheaten cake, pork intestine, pork lung/heart, all mixed together in a broth) .  This is a chance to try some local Beijing delicacies that your taste buds may have never had the pleasure of gracing before.  We’ll go to a small, classic Beijing restaurant near Andingmen for dinner.  Afterwards we’ll go out for drinks.  So if you’re wondering what to do Friday night, and you want to test your stomach of iron, come out with Chinareflection.

LOCATION: Andingmen metro station (line 2), Exit A.  From there it’s about a 10 to 15 walk to the restaurant.

Circus at the Center of the World

10 January 2009 | 1 comment
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“Zzzzzrrrrrr…..whhhhhhrrrrrr….zzzzzzrrrrrr….whrrrrrrrrrrrrr…..” If I close my eyes and listen to the sound, I might think that I’m listening to a classroom full of hornets having a noisy conversation before the queen bee arrives to give a lecture. My eyes are not closed. They’re open and aware of everything around me. The buzzing and whirring sound comes from a diaboloW, many diabolos in fact. There are about 10 elderly men and women practicing their diabolo techniques in Yuan Da Du Park, one of my favorite places in Beijing. They come here everyday at about 3 to 3:30 to practice and chat with one another. They come year round, riding their bicycles filled with diabolos, gadgets and toys that they play with to enjoy their afternoons of retirement together. Today I am the first one to arrive, waiting for the cast of characters to make their entrance.

The diabolo is a kind of juggling prop that has evolved from the Chinese yo-yo. I have seen diabolos in America, but if someone were to ask me, “do you know where I can get a diabolo?” I would reply with only a blank stare. We just don’t go around saying the word, “diabolo,” very often. A diabolo is quite simple in design, consisting of two sticks connected by a long string at the end. The player uses these sticks and string to spin and balance a kind of spool. There are a variety of tricks one can do with a diabolo, most of them too complex for my brain to have a clear concept of how they work. The basics are easy enough; mastering the diabolo can take some time, however. The whirring sound comes from the diabolo spinning, causing air to rush through it.The first time I saw the diabolo I knew I wanted to learn it, and I wanted to know the people who played it. They just looked so smooth and natural out there. All of these old folks in the park “playing” with each other like schoolchildren. It seemed so healthy and harmonious. I wanted to join them. They looked like they were good people to know. I thoroughly enjoy taking time to talk with senior citizens in China. China has a mandatory retirement age, 60 years old for men and 55 years old for women (sometimes 50 years old). Most of the people I see on the diabolo grounds still have the ability to work, maybe even the desire to work. However, they cannot work legally in China based on the policy. As with most rules and laws in China, there must certainly be exceptions and places where it is bent to those in power. For the most part, however, most people must cease working in order to make room for the vast numbers of youthful job applicants. When I talk with old folks in China I feel at ease. These guys aren’t after anything. They don’t have any ulterior motives. They aren’t after my money. They’ve had their day, and now they just want to enjoy their golden years. Spending time with the elderly is like a breath of fresh air to me. Sometimes life in China can seem rushed and hectic amidst the hordes of humanity and the honking automobiles, the markets teaming with their odors and shouts. Having a conversation joking around with an old man or woman can give me the same sense of relaxation that getting away from the city to climb a mountain can give me. I gain an entirely new perspective from these old friends. Life slows down and everything seems so simple to me. My worries disappear.

Curtain Up:

The Entertainer

The Entertainer likes playing to a crowd. As with most Chinese, the color of his eyes is brown. But when I see him smile and hear him sing I swear the only color I see is twinkling blue. When he is deep in thought his cheeks hang down from his face like a bulldog’s jowls, but when he smiles and sings he prances around like a schoolboy taunting his peers. His diabolo technique is not the most advanced of the group, but he definitely has some special tricks up his sleeves. He usually starts out the day with a durable plastic diabolo that he likes to toss as high into the air as possible with his sticks. He almost always catches it on its suicide descent back down to the earth. He has attached a small apparatus on the bottom of one of his sticks to which he can balance the spinning diabolo on. For this trick he uses a heavy-duty diabolo. He brings out the big guns. Tossing the diabolo into the air, he catches it, and balances it with perfection on his stick. After it’s securely balanced and spinning, he walks one lap around the perimeter of the diabolo grounds, singing a children’s song. Then he turns to me and gives me a curtain call bow. I applaud his performance. On some days he brings along his bullwhip which he has made himself. Swinging the whip over his head, he cracks it “WH-CRACK!”, making heads turn and birds fly. Our conversations are usually lighthearted. He asked me once, “in America, hugs are common, right?” I told him they were. Then I promised that every time we meet I would start by embracing him. Now I hug him every time I see him. Despite his 71 years, he seems eager to learn and ask questions. He talks about how “we all love peace,” and I can see that he enjoys reaching out to me, even if it is through his bullwhip.

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Marlborough Man

Marlborough Man is a man’s man. As the name suggests, Marlborough Man likes his cigarettes. I rarely see him spinning the diabolo or cracking his whip (he has one, too) without a cigarette in his mouth. Not of big stature, his always baggy jeans are constantly on the verge of falling off of his wiry legs. His voice is gruff, and it booms in kind of a drunken slur whenever he talks, his cigarette defying the laws of gravity by somehow staying in his mouth. His smile is infectious and reminds me somehow of the gigantic tortoise that is a living island in “The Never Ending Story.” There’s a sinister, devilish, and playful quality about his face all at the same time. Something about his teaching methods for learning the diabolo always cracks me up. I can’t quite put my finger on it. He just seems so frustrated whenever he tries to teach me a new move, calling me names and threatening to hit my hand or ass should I make a mistake. “You’re still not doing it right!” “You’re cheating!” “I’m going to whack you in the ass!” Sometimes I bring my Korean friend, Min Zhi, to join me. She likes learning how to use the diabolo as well. Once, when she made a mistake, I joked that he should hit her. He just laughed and replied, “she’s only a girl now, we have to wait until she’s a woman…then we can hit her.” I know for a fact that he was joking. It’s the kind of joke you’d never hear back in the States. I once saw Marlborough Man use 5 diabolos at the same time.

The Marlborough Man

The Smooth Scholar

When the Smooth Scholar arrives he doesn’t immediately rush to the diabolo grounds. He brings with him a large writing tool that he uses to exercise his calligraphy. The object is about 3 or 4 feet in length and looks like a gigantic brush. At one end there is a sponge. In the middle of the writing tool there is a plastic bottle that can be filled with water. If he presses the sponge to the pavement, it squeezes out water for him to “write” on the sidewalk with; thus making the tool seem like one large pen. He practices his writing strokes in this manner. I have seen these types of writing tools for purchase in other parks. It’s an environmentally safe way to practice one’s penmanship. After about 30 minutes of sidewalk calligraphy, the Smooth Scholar comes over and joins in with the diabolo. He is an excellent teacher, slowing down every motion for me to watch carefully. He gives me just the right amount of encouragement: “great job,” “great improvement.” He has a very different technique than Marlborough Man’s high blood pressure pace. His is all about being smooth, natural, and with finesse-like spreading the frosting on a cake. Every movement he makes is done with such ease. He writes an essay with each turn of the diabolo.

These are only three of the many cast of characters in the Diabolo Grounds Variety Show. I could go on at length to describe the many others who have made an impression on me. Each one of them delights me in a different way, and I always come away from every session with juicy bits of new knowledge, Chinese jokes, and a greater sense of myself as a lucky youth surrounded by wisdom. It’s not a very big area, but it holds a space deep in my heart. I love the feeling when I am out there, joking with them, trying to balance my diabolo and Chinese. I bring along my notebook and have them jot down new expressions that I think are interesting or useful. We talk about all sorts of things-politics, religion, friends, love-no topic is off limits. We may have different opinions, but we’re all friends here. No one is going to judge anyone; no one wants anything; no one is asking for any favors. We just come here to take some time to enjoy life together. The diabolo is an excuse. When we run out of things to say, we go back to spinning them. I look down at mine and try to get it going. It wobbles back and forth, looking for its own rhythm, unbalanced. These things need to spin with some speed in order to emit the buzzing noise. Slowly, it starts to smooth itself out, finding a rhythm, almost phasing itself into another state of being. It has a mind of its own. I feel entranced, almost hypnotized by the sound that comes out. I am at the center of the universe, inside of its buzzing hum, the walls of reality slowly starting to peel away. Everything around me disappears and I hear only the buzz of the diabolo. I can’t even remember where I am. I don’t think about anything else.

” Zzzzzrrrrrr…..whhhhhhrrrrrr….zzzzzzrrrrrr….whrrrrrrrrrrrrr….

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