This last weekend was a 24 hour excursion to the East all over again. Our Gumi group went out for Japanese fish fry, light on the Soju and Max, then some Baskin Robbins on Friday night. We had to keep it calm; big day planned saturday.
We met the next morning at Dunkin Donuts by the Gumi Yuk (train station, usual place). Time for some coffee, water, munchkins, tickets. 8 of us, plus Portia and Jackie, all made our way into our various seats on the 9am train to Daegu.
I am sitting next to Jack, when a glowing westerner diagonally behind me compliments the dreads--she always wanted them, I'm all-too-excited to share, leaning across the aisle to talk. Strike one. Attendant comes up, leans over us, moving both hands down-wards, telling us to lower our voices. Ok, wasn't so sure I was being loud. I move back to the empty seat next to her, offer to share some munchkins, to which she delivers the fantastic news she is a practicing vegan--living RIGHT near Gumi. How refreshing to have some insight to an even more hard-core veg lifestyle.
Warm feelings are abounding as we share a hippied-out conversation about our grappling with the culture, the gender imbalances, the double standards. Then, strike two: the male conductor comes up to us. Tells us, we 'women' need to be quiet. No speaking. Ha, go figure. The irony of him handing us our examples of the very issues we are discussing. Well, our shared grasping for understanding, our shared excitement for this connection, only became heightened when she told me she was on her way to a Nonviolence seminar in Daegu. Oh, the positive reinforcement and direction that brief, timely seat assignment gave me. As we parted ways, me to a touristy bull-fight festival (oddly unashamed by this) and her to a community of soul-searchers I plan to connect to, we have the surity of a facebook connection, two names written on small papers. The next day, we were "friends"--isn't technology wonderful?
Well, thirty minutes later, we rush to find the #18 Banwoldang station exit. There is none, and rushing, we follow other westerners into the too-warm-so-much-for-the-rainboots weather of Daegu. There are some hundred+ westerners, milling about, waiting next to the buses of the Deagu friendship tour we joined up with. Tourism it is today. And, like all large tours, it began with a lot of waiting. We sat on the buses, were fed sandwiches (delicious sandwiches with real mayo and real bread) before we even left. But finally, we rolled out. Watched the colorfully dingy Korean country-side roll by, listening to various representatives we had grouped togetther: from the quite and respectful to the outright drunk and belligerent. By the time stopped at small area of Cheongdo, the group was filing up a dusty path towards a giant wine bottle in front of a tunnel, and like everything else in Korea, not too sure what we were doing, but just following. Following following following.
The wine tunnel, a converted old train tunnel, specialized in sweet persimmon wine (not a fan). They filed is down the dark corridor into rows of tables, where the random Korean travelers took video on their phones of all the white people eating saltines and american slices and wishing for more wine. But we walked down the dripping dark, past giant lit-up casks of wine, past a bottle-mid-pour made entirely of lights. All the way to the blue glowing end, gated off, where you could peer in at all the barrels. Turn around, walk back. Mingle with other westerners, say "hello" everytime some little Korean child got excited and waved. Not sure what was more of the attraction for them: the wine or us. Us. Hands down.
Filed into the bus again, rode for a while into steeper cuts of the mountains, looking very similar to the woods of Appalachia. And then we hit the line of traffic--cars and cars, Korean versions of tailgating? Stalls for selling, parking, etc. And the buses travel past the stadium, where banners of two raging bulls, backed by red or green, and the festival is booming. Our driver wheels us into some treacherous, traffic-stopping 5-point turns, passers-by getting out to help and all, until we finally just get out and walk the rest of the way through the carts and cars of Koreans, into the stadium. Street food accents every few steps--whole chickens, brown-sugar pancakes, roasted chestnuts, rice, silkworms. Dust. People. Soju. Gas. Rain. Despite the mill of noise, the chaos of color and Hangul and cartoon mascot security guards, the nose is the most overwhelmed.
Once we get into the stadium, our group splits a bit. Jack, Matt, Sean, Kevin and I go in search of beer. We find Max and Soju in a side-stall hof just inside the stadium (not inside the actual arena). We quickly order soju to share from dixie cups and Max, yo-gi-o to the waitress, who quickly becomes our friends. They bring us food, potato-leek cakes, kimchi, soup, radish. Even extra toats--on the house. Wee-ha-yeos (sp?) all around. Gum-bae's with photos. Kids from a table away come for pictures, to give us gifts.
After feeling like we'd made the insiders-club at the races, we work our buzzing bodies through the crowd of festivities, past paper-mache horns and drag-queens on stage, into arena to find the bulls, horns locked at the bottom, two handlers giving them periodic whips to rile them into action. There is no action. Apparently we have come in time for the standstill of the bulls, and despite the announcer's prompting applause from the many Koreans in the room, I actually doze off a bit. Waking up in time to find the bulls still locked. How anyone watches this all day, two bulls just pushing at each other, is beyond me. But eventually one breaks and runs away, the territory and title claimed by the stouter.
Enough of that, we go back to the hof. More soju, more Max, even more salad, kimchi, soup, smiles. It is a grand escape from the rains and wind that have finally hit Cheongdo (I knew my wellies were going to come in handy at SOME point).
The day's events over, we head back to the bus, street food replaced by plastic, dampness setting in over our buzz. Bus ride to Daegu, plans for the evening, but we still lose 4 of our group once we make it to Daegu, where it is already dark, and appears to be misty (though later, we find the truth). Portia, with the best idea yet, leads us on a hunt for a sauna before a night out.
After following the red neon SA-OO-Nuh, we find the jjimjilbang, the bath house. Downstairs, pay 4,000won, get a handsized towel. Men through one door, women the other. See you in an hour. Portia and I walk in, put shoes in a locker. Get a key for another. Strip down all the way. I am surprised at how nonchalant I am feeling towards all this--maybe six various aged, various shaped, Korean women are walking around the locker area in various states of dress. Portia and I, entering the sauna, are the only white women, I the only with ink. Some stares, but few. And it is quite. We shower, then sit in a hot tub for a while. We connect, share, chat in the most basic, laid-back way. I can't handle the heat. Move to the warm, still pool. After a bit, on to a round pink-watered one. There are women scrubbing themselves with gloves; Koreans have an obsession with exfoliation, proven by the many infomercials. Others sit and shave, or just simply soak--like us--turning into jelly. Portia and I move into a hot-stone room, scrub ourselves with salt and commense detoxing. Back out for a rinse, one more hop in. Shower off, then back to the common room to freshen up.
By the time we meet the boys back outside, we are all feeling a bit like wet noodles, starved as hell, with Indian food and nothing else on the brain. As the streets of Daegu begin to fill up, all the Koreans that pass have their mouths covered, either by masks, or with fingers and sleeves. Can't be us, we just bathed, right? First real clue to the dust.
We find our Welcome India, second floor, veils and tapestries and low lights. Stuff ourselves on curry and naan for a good price, and feeling the drag of pure relaxation, try to rally ourselves for the night.
First stop: Billybowl. Billiards-bowling, drinking, fun. No fun for me, or Kevin. Too stuffed for anything. Give it a bit of time. There are too-young-looking westerners, obvious army rats, a few daeguers we recognize from the bus. Finally, we move out. Onto the streets, where the fog is thicker, the wind is stronger, and we are finally admitting that this must be the ominous yellow dust we had heard rumors of. Didn't think that'd be coming until later.
Wind down the streets to GoGo. Have a vinyl coctail (a beautiful invention, like a giant capri-sun for grown ups) and dance to a terrible dj while the boys play pool. The place is full of westerners, poorly-phrased english signs, and too much britney spears. We move on. It is at this point that Jack, Sean and Matt puss out, head for the train, and Portia, Kevin and I are left in the dust.
The next stop, a blessing, is the Lonely Heart's Commune Club. A chill waegook bar, downstairs, lined with vinyls (records this time), my first taste of some good music (Dylan, Phoenix, Avett Bros, to name a few), my first night of healthy pours of Jameson. Quiet, slightly seedy, indie-enough to appreciate without feeling too cliche. Good break from the kpop. It is here, where we have a nice, quite, meaningful chat.
Here where I realize the dust has stolen my voice, and between pushing it out and slipping into whispers, and just plain listening, I have the second best reminder of who I am. Kevin, in an unexpected shift from excitement for life and party, shares the worry that he does not want to be stagnant. ME EITHER! In all of this miraculous, fun-loving, drama-free experience--all of this shared culture, we cannot let ourselves forget what it means to grow, to share, to learn, to touch. We cannot forget to process all of this, and give back through it. Kevin's direction of the conversation, and meeting Lina on the train that morning, were such refreshing reminders, and materializations of the same worries I myself had been having. We will support and remind ourselves not to get lazy in mind and spirit.
After some good, quiet escape into our minds, the three of us head out to lose them again at Where's Bob, for a failed 80s night, where we are the only ones dancing and the music is never loud enough, and an ambulance is brought for a true drunken bastard who couldn't even stay in his stool. Duck out of that one as well.
Final stop: Club Frog. Fitting, since, after walking through all the yellow, I sound like one myself. We stand in line for a minute, pay a small cover, stuff our bags in a locker and break into the sweaty dark surging mass of Koreans that is the dance floor. BEATS. beats. real beats, not kpop. A constant flow never letting you catch your breath and we rage and dance through black and blue lights, packed like rice cakes, smashed up against each other. Occasionally we find the room to show off some steps, occasionally we find a bit of air to breath, but mostly, it's just beats, sweat and bodies. Glorious.
We have to duck out to catch the 4am train back to Gumi. As soon as we leave, soaked, red, sore, all the charge leaves us. We become zombies, dying for water, trudging to the train. Once in a while, exhaling a "man that was awesome," but never getting much more than that. Sink into the car, force ourselves to stay awake for another half an hour, then crash crash crash till Monday comes.
The craziest, most hectic 24 hours since I have been to Korea. We started out as tourists, and somehow transitioned all the way through to dust-hardened, train riding residents, stumbling back to our apartments like we've done this for years. We are here in Korea. We are learning it and living it. Inhaling the dust, breathing out battered syllables; ingesting it and making it our own.
