What a world we live in, where only now do I feel at one with the planet, truly connected, spiritually and technologically, for I write this now not in a PC-Bang, but the comfort of my own air-conditioned room. No one should feel this much joy and completion when they see those multicoloured letter of Google. These are surely the emotions reserved for such lofty situations of having met your soulmate, the person you are gladly going to spend the rest of your life with. Well I claim that this too is a situation of lofty bearings. The internet is someone you are going to spend the rest of your life with, yes you heard me, I'm personifying the internet. It's a relationship that requires mutual respect and understanding. I accept the power she has in providing me with knowledge and entertainment and she too accepts the complete domination I have in looking up whatever I want, following my every whim, however sick or wholesome it may be. Mostly sick.... mostly.
Its a kind of one-way relationship, but sometimes the most effective and long-standing relationships possess this uneven dynamic. I once learnt from South Park that you should "treat the internet with the respect it deserves" (Randy 12:6). And, yes, although he speaks words of truth, the internet can also be something to be abused and taken advantage of. I suppose this is where my analogous human relationship commentary comes to an abrupt end, for I in no way condone abusive relationships. The internet is so hard to treat with respect when you have it. You flirt with so many pages at once, racing through them with libertine-like abandon, a funny you-tube clip, streaming a new Family Guy, checking the ratings of your favourite album (the white one), downloading a film, emailing friends, sorting out your finances with on-line banking. There's so fucking much that we cannot possibly have time to fully appreciate it all! It just is. We have blinkers on that makes this wonder of technology seem normal, even mundane.
But when it leaves us, oh, how we crumble! We look forward to work, so you can check your emails or see if your favourite album rating has changed. We look upon the people walking and sitting with portable computer machines (laptops) with envy and longing. We even start thinking about heading west to California where there must be internet in that golden land. Or I do anyway. The lamentations are all consuming as you reminisce about the fun you had together. That time when you went to the cinema and shared a fondle in the darkness. That lazy sunshining Sunday afternoon, sitting in the park, frolicing in the grass. Caressing the screen and kissing the keypad, knowing that through these gestures of affection, you are only tickling the ego of the laptop, not the internet, but you do it anyway. For the internet is not a thing we can make love to, however much we want to. It's intangible, untouchable, an idea in the ether, and all fantasies of physical intimacy lies in the imagination only.
But now it's with me again! It's returned and more shall we share precious moments of sweet nothings that I shan't go into now, but lets just say I'm making a list now of all the albums I'm going to listen to, films to watch, and new television series to get into. It's gonna be sweeeeeet! And I have the godsend internet installer to thank for. I think they hold the same level of respect and gratitude, in the world, as doctors do. They bring life into the world, remedy faulty connections, and generally make happy the lives of others by maintaining their beloved lines. I was so glad, shaking the guys hand constantly and incessantly plying him with loads of orange juice, that he probably thought it was an important English custom. "Always offer internet installers orange juice", goddamn it, they need the strength, bearing joy to the world and all. Forgive the excess, I'm still reeling from those letters - G, O, O, G, L, E.
Thursday 24 June 2010
Saturday 19 June 2010
The Classification of Koreans (Part I)
So I've been reading about whales and their classifications lately. I first came upon it reading Moby Dick. Then there was quite a relevant BBC news article about whaling, which included a classification of whales. Then I realised that something was wanting me to know about whales. Then did some more reading online. Then I got-a-thinking I should try my own piece of half-assed classification. This one will not be about whales, despite my new found knowledge of them, no, instead it will be about the different groups of people I have found here. This will not take into account individualism, for the purpose of classification seeks to cut out such niggling inconsistencies in favour of broad sweeping generalisations that makes the reader happy with easy managable knowledge when it comes to animals, but maybe a little suspect when you transfer this upon social human groups. You will not read a fair account of how people can be different, reflecting subtle deviances from social types, no, this will be a shameless and ill researched piece on the stereotypes, that I will help perpetrate in classic fashion. Everyone does it. So here we go:
There are the Hajimas, the middle aged housewives where, when you get a chance to see underneath their sun visors, large enough to eclipse anything the sun may have to offer, you will see a shrewd face, eyes narrowed, a puckered mouth, and a general scowl that will make you think twice to ask them for help, even if you were run down by a truck with you gathering your exposed guts into a managagable pile, in order to be sown up by a doctor later. Best wait for another passer-by. They are always about, either buying onions and cabbages from street stalls or power walking with extra weights added to their wrists and ankles, bum forced to swing left and right in a shockingly hypnotic vision. I suppose they like to be outside rather than couped up inside. They're like little Carmella Soprano's I suppose, bored at home, intent on activity, and with an irrational fear of death, which explains the vegetables and exercise I suppose, oh, and their unreasonable look of suspicion at everything they see. Usually solitary creatures of habit, but when meeting a friend they can be seen in pairs talking for hours. They feed on cabbages and fear from children.
The person you would want to call for help when you are coming to terms with your own mortality, trying not to let your intestines slip out of your fingers, are the schoolkids. Mainly because they are so helpful. They'd just enjoy the opportunity to converse in English to this dying foreigner. About 80% of them wear thick black rimmed glasses, often tiltled uncomfortably on their noses, something that personally I have serious issues with. I feel like asking them why they don't just get them fixed, levelled so its not assymmetrical. There are plenty of opticians. Anyway I digress. They wear fitted white shirts that end at the waist, too short to tuck in, with blue bands on the collar, usually, depending on the school, with obligatory grey skirts/trousers. They pay no heed to their open fascination of a westerner and honestly look at me and giggle with their friends. I don't mind, whatever makes them laugh. Once I went in a traditional Korean cafe and having difficulty in explaining what I wanted to eat to the waitress, a group of four Korean schoolboys of English, dove in like the trigger-happy white boys of the American midwest, only their bullets were words of rapid assistance as they eagerly translated what I wanted. "Excellent", I thought, "now that I know the word I can come back again and request it." Yeah, you would think that. Only the next time I went in and asked the lady slowly and clearly what I wanted to eat, she just stared at me. An infuriating stare that had the audacity to imply that I was the idiot, even though her open mouth and vacant eyes claimed otherwise. Anyway you can find schoolkids in groups of three to five. Sometimes they are seen solitary, but rarely do they remain so for long, for fear of social ostricisation. Groups of six or more are also rare, as it is physically impractical to keep together in such a highly populated city. Depending upon the season they feed on fried stall snacks and ice lollies.
Another group large in numbers are the trendy types, usually teenagers and young adults. You'll find none of your disgraced fifty-year olds dressing in teen clothing that you sometimes see back in England. You'll find the usual suspects of tight trousers for girls and boys alike, the white t-shirts with a black and white print of some other fashionably dressed person, possibly an ironic comment on fashion, but I don't think so, and the necessary display of converses. Girls also wear extremely short hotpants, but not so revealing tops. Its more customary here to cover up shoulders and chest and reveal legs and bums. A different take on fashion, which I would not call modesty, for modesty never really had a home in fashion, more a reflection on the need to maintain whiter skin here. Boys can be seen with plain coloured t-shirts or ones sporting some obscure reference to a British or American.... thing, I think. On special occasions when attempts are made to court a female, they can sometimes wear a smart black vest jacket. A fashion accessory, usually seen with girls, are little white dogs. The ones that are seen in many fashionable areas of cities all over the world, in an ever increasing phenomenon. These "accessory-dogs" also have accessories of their own. Little dogs with little fucking shoes on! Red with white stripes on the side, K-Swiss probably, bought from K-Swiss Dogs, and jackets that match the colour code of the high-legged, high-heeled, high-maintenenced style of the Korean beauty that haughtily walks past you, under her fancy parasol, whimpering in the heat, like the tired sighs of neglected Sirens. It can't be easy to keep all that up. They are usually seen in pairs, due to more developed friendship connections from their school days, however their eating habits are less developed, usually seen with frappucinos or ice-creams, brand names preferable. In a world of mutual disinterestedness from others in their social group, they feed on the stares of strangers and procurement of new fashions from New York. They are creatures of both day and night.
There are more, but for now I will leave the classification of Koreans lazily half completed.
There are the Hajimas, the middle aged housewives where, when you get a chance to see underneath their sun visors, large enough to eclipse anything the sun may have to offer, you will see a shrewd face, eyes narrowed, a puckered mouth, and a general scowl that will make you think twice to ask them for help, even if you were run down by a truck with you gathering your exposed guts into a managagable pile, in order to be sown up by a doctor later. Best wait for another passer-by. They are always about, either buying onions and cabbages from street stalls or power walking with extra weights added to their wrists and ankles, bum forced to swing left and right in a shockingly hypnotic vision. I suppose they like to be outside rather than couped up inside. They're like little Carmella Soprano's I suppose, bored at home, intent on activity, and with an irrational fear of death, which explains the vegetables and exercise I suppose, oh, and their unreasonable look of suspicion at everything they see. Usually solitary creatures of habit, but when meeting a friend they can be seen in pairs talking for hours. They feed on cabbages and fear from children.
The person you would want to call for help when you are coming to terms with your own mortality, trying not to let your intestines slip out of your fingers, are the schoolkids. Mainly because they are so helpful. They'd just enjoy the opportunity to converse in English to this dying foreigner. About 80% of them wear thick black rimmed glasses, often tiltled uncomfortably on their noses, something that personally I have serious issues with. I feel like asking them why they don't just get them fixed, levelled so its not assymmetrical. There are plenty of opticians. Anyway I digress. They wear fitted white shirts that end at the waist, too short to tuck in, with blue bands on the collar, usually, depending on the school, with obligatory grey skirts/trousers. They pay no heed to their open fascination of a westerner and honestly look at me and giggle with their friends. I don't mind, whatever makes them laugh. Once I went in a traditional Korean cafe and having difficulty in explaining what I wanted to eat to the waitress, a group of four Korean schoolboys of English, dove in like the trigger-happy white boys of the American midwest, only their bullets were words of rapid assistance as they eagerly translated what I wanted. "Excellent", I thought, "now that I know the word I can come back again and request it." Yeah, you would think that. Only the next time I went in and asked the lady slowly and clearly what I wanted to eat, she just stared at me. An infuriating stare that had the audacity to imply that I was the idiot, even though her open mouth and vacant eyes claimed otherwise. Anyway you can find schoolkids in groups of three to five. Sometimes they are seen solitary, but rarely do they remain so for long, for fear of social ostricisation. Groups of six or more are also rare, as it is physically impractical to keep together in such a highly populated city. Depending upon the season they feed on fried stall snacks and ice lollies.
Another group large in numbers are the trendy types, usually teenagers and young adults. You'll find none of your disgraced fifty-year olds dressing in teen clothing that you sometimes see back in England. You'll find the usual suspects of tight trousers for girls and boys alike, the white t-shirts with a black and white print of some other fashionably dressed person, possibly an ironic comment on fashion, but I don't think so, and the necessary display of converses. Girls also wear extremely short hotpants, but not so revealing tops. Its more customary here to cover up shoulders and chest and reveal legs and bums. A different take on fashion, which I would not call modesty, for modesty never really had a home in fashion, more a reflection on the need to maintain whiter skin here. Boys can be seen with plain coloured t-shirts or ones sporting some obscure reference to a British or American.... thing, I think. On special occasions when attempts are made to court a female, they can sometimes wear a smart black vest jacket. A fashion accessory, usually seen with girls, are little white dogs. The ones that are seen in many fashionable areas of cities all over the world, in an ever increasing phenomenon. These "accessory-dogs" also have accessories of their own. Little dogs with little fucking shoes on! Red with white stripes on the side, K-Swiss probably, bought from K-Swiss Dogs, and jackets that match the colour code of the high-legged, high-heeled, high-maintenenced style of the Korean beauty that haughtily walks past you, under her fancy parasol, whimpering in the heat, like the tired sighs of neglected Sirens. It can't be easy to keep all that up. They are usually seen in pairs, due to more developed friendship connections from their school days, however their eating habits are less developed, usually seen with frappucinos or ice-creams, brand names preferable. In a world of mutual disinterestedness from others in their social group, they feed on the stares of strangers and procurement of new fashions from New York. They are creatures of both day and night.
There are more, but for now I will leave the classification of Koreans lazily half completed.
Monday 14 June 2010
Green Fields
I was in Seosan when the South Korea - Greece game was on. I was there visiting a friend from back home, Joe, along with a new bunch of friends I have made through him since I arrived. Saturday, the match day, was again initially fogged over by the Soju hangover from the night before. Already I feel like this drink could be a new habit that will only do bad things to me for a long time, after a brief spell of hilarious intoxication. It wasn't long till the buzz of the game ignited the senses to a new purpose. During the day we saw workers erecting the huge canvas, where the game would be projected, in the main square outside the cultural and health centre, where on a banner across the grey block of building the words "Healthy and Fitness Happy Seosan" was sprawled. It seemed to sum up the mood at the time.
We returned to the square at the appointed time. People in red shirts everywhere, weaved through the small streets, gathering strength in larger thoroughfares, building in mass on the main road leading to the square. Tributaries, bled red with the passion for football that flowed free towards the main reserve, collecting in a mass container frought with a desire for victory, chopping and swirling about, anxious for the excitement, that would release itself with the kick-off whistle. The noise was relentless, with cheers of "Daehamingu" (Korea) and the ceaseless banging of inflatable tubes. Red horns flickered in the dark, spots of firey contact for the eyes already strained by the barage of movement. When the first goal came, the noise was immense. The scream of victory was heard in every voice, including mine, and felt in every stomach. Fireworks kicked up, with greater flashes of red brilliance piercing the clear black night. My eyes were tranfixed upon the game, the first proper taste of the world cup I have had, the sweet drug that medicates the world with euphoria once every four years. Even the people that don't usually enjoy football were swept up with the communal joy that the games invoke.
The second goal sealed the expectation that every fan shared with more noise and lights.
Coming into Season gave me the chance to see a bit of the countryside, and even though it consisted of countless rice fields, it afforded me that glimpse of an agricultural culture foreign to me. The roads cut grand paths through stunning scenery consisting of forest mountains in the distance. Off the main roads were the fields, that took the form of steps, rising higher for irrigation purposes, aided my the rivulets and aquaducts, manmade, yet still possessing an enchanting magic of layered intrigue, green and folded with quilt like delicacy. God's steps almost, rising towards a mysterious terrain, dotted with majestic pylons holding high hung wires of pulsating communication, nestled within a blur of fiercer shades of green. Ragged lines of soft foliage revealed forests, rising higher with the greater altitude, hinting at mountainous territory that teased you with adventure. Theres nothing more inspiring than the thrust of concrete creation, forced to live with the wild nature of where you are travelling through. For the novice explorer the chance to observe the country from the confines of modern, polluting vehicles, allows a guilty pleasure, unknown to those that secretly wish for an untouched earth. I on the other hand appreciate this messy juxtaposition of man and nature. Coupled with the lulling motion of the coach, whispering to you of long lost days of sleepy school trips, an injection of comforting nostalgia made me happily displaced in this new land, where imaginations of foreign fields could realise the potential that you never thought could be matched.
World Cup fever was not dampened by the loss to Argentina, an outcome that was not received with too much shock. Hope is held in store for the later game with Nigeria, a match that will test the collective national desire to the point where breath can only be exhaled after those ninety minutes. Personally I think Korea can beat them.
I am thankful for the World Cup also for its ability to make a lonely Seoulite, with not much to do on some week nights, confident enough to enter any bar on their own just to watch the football. That's what people want to do, and that's what they should get. One doesn't feel lonely any more sitting at the bar watching the games, for through that fancy Samsung screen, where within are those perspiring players passing on a perfectly green field, the ball, the crowds, the loud commentary, you are connected with every other person watching the game, safe in the thought that your loved ones back at home, the people you've met, and the people you havent met, are all doing the same thing, banishing all notion of solitude as your imagination provides all the companionship you could want.
We returned to the square at the appointed time. People in red shirts everywhere, weaved through the small streets, gathering strength in larger thoroughfares, building in mass on the main road leading to the square. Tributaries, bled red with the passion for football that flowed free towards the main reserve, collecting in a mass container frought with a desire for victory, chopping and swirling about, anxious for the excitement, that would release itself with the kick-off whistle. The noise was relentless, with cheers of "Daehamingu" (Korea) and the ceaseless banging of inflatable tubes. Red horns flickered in the dark, spots of firey contact for the eyes already strained by the barage of movement. When the first goal came, the noise was immense. The scream of victory was heard in every voice, including mine, and felt in every stomach. Fireworks kicked up, with greater flashes of red brilliance piercing the clear black night. My eyes were tranfixed upon the game, the first proper taste of the world cup I have had, the sweet drug that medicates the world with euphoria once every four years. Even the people that don't usually enjoy football were swept up with the communal joy that the games invoke.
The second goal sealed the expectation that every fan shared with more noise and lights.
Coming into Season gave me the chance to see a bit of the countryside, and even though it consisted of countless rice fields, it afforded me that glimpse of an agricultural culture foreign to me. The roads cut grand paths through stunning scenery consisting of forest mountains in the distance. Off the main roads were the fields, that took the form of steps, rising higher for irrigation purposes, aided my the rivulets and aquaducts, manmade, yet still possessing an enchanting magic of layered intrigue, green and folded with quilt like delicacy. God's steps almost, rising towards a mysterious terrain, dotted with majestic pylons holding high hung wires of pulsating communication, nestled within a blur of fiercer shades of green. Ragged lines of soft foliage revealed forests, rising higher with the greater altitude, hinting at mountainous territory that teased you with adventure. Theres nothing more inspiring than the thrust of concrete creation, forced to live with the wild nature of where you are travelling through. For the novice explorer the chance to observe the country from the confines of modern, polluting vehicles, allows a guilty pleasure, unknown to those that secretly wish for an untouched earth. I on the other hand appreciate this messy juxtaposition of man and nature. Coupled with the lulling motion of the coach, whispering to you of long lost days of sleepy school trips, an injection of comforting nostalgia made me happily displaced in this new land, where imaginations of foreign fields could realise the potential that you never thought could be matched.
World Cup fever was not dampened by the loss to Argentina, an outcome that was not received with too much shock. Hope is held in store for the later game with Nigeria, a match that will test the collective national desire to the point where breath can only be exhaled after those ninety minutes. Personally I think Korea can beat them.
I am thankful for the World Cup also for its ability to make a lonely Seoulite, with not much to do on some week nights, confident enough to enter any bar on their own just to watch the football. That's what people want to do, and that's what they should get. One doesn't feel lonely any more sitting at the bar watching the games, for through that fancy Samsung screen, where within are those perspiring players passing on a perfectly green field, the ball, the crowds, the loud commentary, you are connected with every other person watching the game, safe in the thought that your loved ones back at home, the people you've met, and the people you havent met, are all doing the same thing, banishing all notion of solitude as your imagination provides all the companionship you could want.
Thursday 10 June 2010
Staying inside the lines
I'm so much better than the kindegarten kids at drawing and colouring in. They have no concept of perspective, they don't shade and they always go outside of the lines when they're colouring in. Every time we do arts and crafts and I'm drawing along with them, they look at my work with envy. HA! And so they should. They've got nothing on me. They're shit at drawing. And every time they look at me with wonder I think to myself "Yeah, have some of that!" You're going to have to let me have this small, pathetic, ridiculous joy. It's what helps me get through the day sometimes, when I'm completely worn down and exasperated by my efforts to make them sit still and listen to me. And if that joy comes from my artistic comparison to that of a five year old, then so be it. Don't tell me you've never felt pride out of being able to do something better than a five year old. It's only natural. Age should not come into it. Should it? Let me have it please. I don't even get a break when I am with my colleagues in the teachers room. One teacher can't even say words correctly, everything she says is a formless mass of vowels that aren't directed at all by any consanant sounds. And every time she trys to talk to me it seems like it hurts her, not emotionally, but physically, as though speaking English causes her discomfort. I should be teaching English to her, but whenever she speaks she coughs; a sharp explosive that is probably induced by a sound she can't get her mouth around. It does get frustrating.
And this heat man. It's almost unbearable. We must surely be in our 30's, but all I see are middle aged ladies covering up every surface of their skin with long white arm covers, sun-visors, and even masks. This is how it is though, as it's not cool to get a tan here. It's best to stay hot and bothered with milky white skin. I'm not complaining, please don't misconstrue me. I find it fascinating and totally accept how its done here, but don't you feel a little hotter yourself when you see someone layered up in intense heat? And when children run into you as though you were a pin in a pinball machine, grab and pull your t-shirt to shit and make fun of the way you talk, then it does take a bit of effort to maintain your composure.
I once watched a film, a very astute and insightful film, dealing with the pressures of a new job, a new home, a new life, all in a new place. How you come to terms with making new connections, putting one foot in front of another, in a Steinbeckian effort to keep going and take things little by little, as they come, regardless of they gravity of the situation at hand. Yes, Kindegarten Cop, was not the philosophical tract of a film that you hear now, but it does open up with repeated viewings and a new job as a kindegarten teacher maybe. No? Talking bollocks? Well yes of course, but when you've had the week I've had in this heat, then anything can start to have meaning. Every facial twitch of Scwarzenneger's reveals the pressures of social demands, every badly pronounced word he utters hints at the need for human contact, and every child he throws of his back underlines the basic condition of survival. "YAAARRAAAGHHH!"
And this heat man. It's almost unbearable. We must surely be in our 30's, but all I see are middle aged ladies covering up every surface of their skin with long white arm covers, sun-visors, and even masks. This is how it is though, as it's not cool to get a tan here. It's best to stay hot and bothered with milky white skin. I'm not complaining, please don't misconstrue me. I find it fascinating and totally accept how its done here, but don't you feel a little hotter yourself when you see someone layered up in intense heat? And when children run into you as though you were a pin in a pinball machine, grab and pull your t-shirt to shit and make fun of the way you talk, then it does take a bit of effort to maintain your composure.
I once watched a film, a very astute and insightful film, dealing with the pressures of a new job, a new home, a new life, all in a new place. How you come to terms with making new connections, putting one foot in front of another, in a Steinbeckian effort to keep going and take things little by little, as they come, regardless of they gravity of the situation at hand. Yes, Kindegarten Cop, was not the philosophical tract of a film that you hear now, but it does open up with repeated viewings and a new job as a kindegarten teacher maybe. No? Talking bollocks? Well yes of course, but when you've had the week I've had in this heat, then anything can start to have meaning. Every facial twitch of Scwarzenneger's reveals the pressures of social demands, every badly pronounced word he utters hints at the need for human contact, and every child he throws of his back underlines the basic condition of survival. "YAAARRAAAGHHH!"
Monday 7 June 2010
Happy Ever After in the Marketplace
As I write this a huge swell of relief is making me want to hug the next random Korean I see, although the guy next to me is far too busy killing wild boars in World of Warcraft. He would not appreciate me disrupting his stat building. I just received news that I have passed my medical test, so I will thus not be deported out of the country. Although a little part of me.... well quite a large part of me was rather interested in how I would be deported. Would I be accompanied by a government official all the way to the airport, whilst I attempted at small talk? "Your country is very nice", "I like your uniform. Is it hot to wear?" "Why aren't you smiling? I'm a nice guy really", "Do you accept bribes?"
Anyway, I had my first big weekend out, involving the usual suspects of drinking, dancing and general dumbness. Something I have been looking forward too, but had to wait until some friends came to town on Friday and Saturday. One arrived at 1am at Seoul Station on the KTX, Korea's bullet train that can span the whole country in about two hours. Needless to say, a full and detailed write-up on said train will arrive when I have rode it. That Friday night ended with a peculiarity that can work here but would not function back at home. Around Seoul and other cities there are usually 24/7 convenience stores that has a brilliant twist to the usual "buy and leave" format of corner shop experiences. Here you can buy your beer and sit down outside on the many tables that adorn the exterior. So you can just drink the night away at your local Family Mart, which we did in the extremely warm night. It's a novelty that would clearly be abused by the drinking culture back at home, but works to an endearing degree here.
Saturday usually follows, and along with it another friend, with his girlfriend. We then shared a Korean meal that day, of which not only was it tasty, but bloody cheap. About six pounds between us. Such pricing can get to your head, and so it did with mine. We all finished, and because I have always wanted to say it, I began:
"Put your money away! This one's one me."
"Really? No." Sebastian returned.
"Because I can." However reaching the paying desk, my confidence was completly jacked when we found out that such cheap prices cannot possibly exist. The meal actually cost about twenty pounds. So eating my stupid words in demure fashion, I had to back-track like the fool I ultimately set myself up to become.
"Ah..... Actually guys, could you give me some money?"
Then the night gradually does its job and led us on to stock up on booze and drink in the park, which is not the vulgar pastime you may think it is. It was in the vibrant student district of Hongdae, where the park is full of revellers, fire-poi, food stalls, clubs, restaurants, and plenty of foreigners. One happy chap was pushing around a cart full of alcohol, with a countenance of sheer and manic joy, unnatural really, yet still quite infectious. I suppose he has a reason to be happy, as his business selling drinks to wasted party-goers probably keeps his kids in college. One Korean drink of choice is something called Soju, one of those deceptive drinks that has an alcohol percentage resting in that no-mans land between wine and spirits. So one usually takes a sip of it, then a sip of orange fanta, or some other mixer. It does have a powerful effect on the senses in time, for at one point I recall telling a large American friend, who was with us, that he had "stupid fat American fingers." Not a particularly wise thing to say when you are in a new country trying to make friends. Still I hope he realises that I was in jest. As we walked about the crowds swelled and soon refuge had to be found in one of the clubs. One such club had an incomprehensible flooring system of stepping stones, designed for the specific purpose of making you trip up at every step, an inconvenient addition to my already disorientated efforts at walking. It was not the nicest clubs I've been into, however the next one was a considerable improvement, for the fact that at the height of my dissipation on came Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da and Bizarre Love Triangle. I became very aware that I was having one of those rare clubbing experiences where they played some songs that I actually liked and wanted to dance to. Later on at five in the morning when the growing dawn arrests the eyes with unexpected vigour, and all you want to do is sleep, we still made time for a kebab.
Now at the risk of sounding like an ailing man with too many health concerns; all the eating out, lack of sleep and constant spicy food is playing havoc with my IBS. So I had an uncontrollable desire last night to balance it out with exercise. But where is a man to go and do this? The answer is nowhere. The age of star-jumps to keep fit is still with us my friend, and as I wittled away the night with repeated jumps in my flat, I came-a-thinking that surely this is the way banish away thoughts of unhealthiness and delude yourself with leaps of vain activity.
Anyway, I had my first big weekend out, involving the usual suspects of drinking, dancing and general dumbness. Something I have been looking forward too, but had to wait until some friends came to town on Friday and Saturday. One arrived at 1am at Seoul Station on the KTX, Korea's bullet train that can span the whole country in about two hours. Needless to say, a full and detailed write-up on said train will arrive when I have rode it. That Friday night ended with a peculiarity that can work here but would not function back at home. Around Seoul and other cities there are usually 24/7 convenience stores that has a brilliant twist to the usual "buy and leave" format of corner shop experiences. Here you can buy your beer and sit down outside on the many tables that adorn the exterior. So you can just drink the night away at your local Family Mart, which we did in the extremely warm night. It's a novelty that would clearly be abused by the drinking culture back at home, but works to an endearing degree here.
Saturday usually follows, and along with it another friend, with his girlfriend. We then shared a Korean meal that day, of which not only was it tasty, but bloody cheap. About six pounds between us. Such pricing can get to your head, and so it did with mine. We all finished, and because I have always wanted to say it, I began:
"Put your money away! This one's one me."
"Really? No." Sebastian returned.
"Because I can." However reaching the paying desk, my confidence was completly jacked when we found out that such cheap prices cannot possibly exist. The meal actually cost about twenty pounds. So eating my stupid words in demure fashion, I had to back-track like the fool I ultimately set myself up to become.
"Ah..... Actually guys, could you give me some money?"
Then the night gradually does its job and led us on to stock up on booze and drink in the park, which is not the vulgar pastime you may think it is. It was in the vibrant student district of Hongdae, where the park is full of revellers, fire-poi, food stalls, clubs, restaurants, and plenty of foreigners. One happy chap was pushing around a cart full of alcohol, with a countenance of sheer and manic joy, unnatural really, yet still quite infectious. I suppose he has a reason to be happy, as his business selling drinks to wasted party-goers probably keeps his kids in college. One Korean drink of choice is something called Soju, one of those deceptive drinks that has an alcohol percentage resting in that no-mans land between wine and spirits. So one usually takes a sip of it, then a sip of orange fanta, or some other mixer. It does have a powerful effect on the senses in time, for at one point I recall telling a large American friend, who was with us, that he had "stupid fat American fingers." Not a particularly wise thing to say when you are in a new country trying to make friends. Still I hope he realises that I was in jest. As we walked about the crowds swelled and soon refuge had to be found in one of the clubs. One such club had an incomprehensible flooring system of stepping stones, designed for the specific purpose of making you trip up at every step, an inconvenient addition to my already disorientated efforts at walking. It was not the nicest clubs I've been into, however the next one was a considerable improvement, for the fact that at the height of my dissipation on came Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da and Bizarre Love Triangle. I became very aware that I was having one of those rare clubbing experiences where they played some songs that I actually liked and wanted to dance to. Later on at five in the morning when the growing dawn arrests the eyes with unexpected vigour, and all you want to do is sleep, we still made time for a kebab.
Now at the risk of sounding like an ailing man with too many health concerns; all the eating out, lack of sleep and constant spicy food is playing havoc with my IBS. So I had an uncontrollable desire last night to balance it out with exercise. But where is a man to go and do this? The answer is nowhere. The age of star-jumps to keep fit is still with us my friend, and as I wittled away the night with repeated jumps in my flat, I came-a-thinking that surely this is the way banish away thoughts of unhealthiness and delude yourself with leaps of vain activity.
Wednesday 2 June 2010
The Dance of the Doomed
Wednesday was a day off from work, a national holiday, because it was South Korea's day of local government elections. I'm glad I was here to see it, for in the run up, the chance to witness the election campaigns was rather special. Each party and their members took to the streets in open top trailers, emblazened in brightly coloured shell-suits, depending on their party. There were bright greens, yellows, blues and other colours which I won't get into. I'd love to see David Cameron sporting a pink shell-suit (in public that is, not in the private confines of a conservative sex party). They blasted their policies through megaphones from the early hours of the morning, shamelessly waking up all in the land with fantastical promises of better lives under their management, or so I imagine. I hardly think they were criticising the people for how shit their boroughs became, or recanted on how the current party was actually doing quite well and there would be no need to vote for them. One such rally I happened upon outside a super shiny shopping mall involved crowds of people chanting the party's name with small candles in their hands, like a vigil gone horribly wrong, where everyone was happy and dancing. Men in suits, just off work and clearly boozed up to the eyeballs, were dancing like epileptic turtles; rigid bodies and unrhythmically flayling arms, attempting a beat that constantly eluded them.
Talking of dancing, I have recently discovered that part of my job role is to dance. Yes, to dance. I have to teach these kindegarten children through a CD-ROM based English textbook that is projected upon a white screen that you can press with a magical pen, and one of the lessons is to sing a song and dance in time to it. Watching CBeebies on a regular basis I have come to despise these grown adults talking like spazoids and prancing like fairies. And now I have become one of them. "Dance for me! Dance for me!" the children mentally cry at me, amusing themselves at the downfall of what was once a proud man from England. I will get used to it though. I don't know why I didn't think I'd have to do things like crawl around on the floor and cut out picture of cats and dogs; it's a kindegarten school! The worst thing about it is having to wipe away the snot that just streams out the noses of some of the kids. I've never been a big fan of snot (who is?), so when I realised that another part of my job is to clean child goo with a ready roll of toilet tissue, I started to lament my condition. But that's just one side. I actually do enjoy it though on the whole.
The school is big, clean and colourful, and the staff are very welcoming and friendly, asking how I am and so forth. I haven't got any words out of the young female teachers though, only hysterical giggles and screened faces to disguise their blushes, as they step back into the sanctuary of their office. The children are all very sweet and shout things like "Hello!" and "Ameen teacher!" and keep on touching me as though I was famous, generally taking to me like a hippy takes to judgement. How can one not be affectionate back? I hear that back home, you can't touch children in return for fear of paedophile charges. Luckily, unlike Britain, there are no paedophiles in Korea.
One child is the exact replicant of the little boy in The Grudge. He rarely smiles, just stares, that vacant all knowing stare, penetrable and unnerving, and those of you who have seen the original film, it's just fucking scary. I sometimes expect him to open his mouth wide and crackle that inhuman groan. If he knew about it he could have so much fun with me, disrupting lessons by sending me running away in fear. It could backfire. I may decide to fight back and slay the possessed soul of a child forever doomed to live a life, in-limbo, locked in the real world of intangible reality because of his unfulfilled destiny. But you and I both know such a being cannot be killed.
Talking of dancing, I have recently discovered that part of my job role is to dance. Yes, to dance. I have to teach these kindegarten children through a CD-ROM based English textbook that is projected upon a white screen that you can press with a magical pen, and one of the lessons is to sing a song and dance in time to it. Watching CBeebies on a regular basis I have come to despise these grown adults talking like spazoids and prancing like fairies. And now I have become one of them. "Dance for me! Dance for me!" the children mentally cry at me, amusing themselves at the downfall of what was once a proud man from England. I will get used to it though. I don't know why I didn't think I'd have to do things like crawl around on the floor and cut out picture of cats and dogs; it's a kindegarten school! The worst thing about it is having to wipe away the snot that just streams out the noses of some of the kids. I've never been a big fan of snot (who is?), so when I realised that another part of my job is to clean child goo with a ready roll of toilet tissue, I started to lament my condition. But that's just one side. I actually do enjoy it though on the whole.
The school is big, clean and colourful, and the staff are very welcoming and friendly, asking how I am and so forth. I haven't got any words out of the young female teachers though, only hysterical giggles and screened faces to disguise their blushes, as they step back into the sanctuary of their office. The children are all very sweet and shout things like "Hello!" and "Ameen teacher!" and keep on touching me as though I was famous, generally taking to me like a hippy takes to judgement. How can one not be affectionate back? I hear that back home, you can't touch children in return for fear of paedophile charges. Luckily, unlike Britain, there are no paedophiles in Korea.
One child is the exact replicant of the little boy in The Grudge. He rarely smiles, just stares, that vacant all knowing stare, penetrable and unnerving, and those of you who have seen the original film, it's just fucking scary. I sometimes expect him to open his mouth wide and crackle that inhuman groan. If he knew about it he could have so much fun with me, disrupting lessons by sending me running away in fear. It could backfire. I may decide to fight back and slay the possessed soul of a child forever doomed to live a life, in-limbo, locked in the real world of intangible reality because of his unfulfilled destiny. But you and I both know such a being cannot be killed.
Tuesday 1 June 2010
Bollocks to the tube! I'm walking.
Still without the internet, but I don't mind. I rather like these PC-Bangs. They stay open till really late, no one bothers you as you listen to Aphex Twin really loud, smoking away like your life depended on it, and you can sustain your energy with pots of noodles (not to be confused with pot noodles). I've been eating out most nights, mainly because it's easy, and also because my kitchen consists of a washing machine with a stove on top and a sink to the side. It's pretty basic, as is the rest of my flat, but I like it that way. The bathroom has a toilet, as you'd expect. A basin - again another reasonable expectation, but the novelty is the shower-head thats attached to the tap; for you see, there is no shower cubicle. What we have is a sloped floor that leads to a drain, so you can shower away willy-nilly (literally) walking about in a self contained shower-bathroom. The economy of space is all very well, but when the first four showers of my stay consisted of cold water and me shivering like a complete twat in front of the large mirror, the sight does get quite humiliating. But all is quite well now. The landlady, "Grandma" as she is reverently referred too, busted into my flat last night at 12 midnight with the building manager, eager to please me, but forgoing the fact that she completely fucked up my desperate attempt to get over my jetlag. I got up to assist, but she shook her head and pointed to my bed, then pushed me down on the bed, to make more emphatic that I should go back to sleep. How the fuck I was supposed to simply go back to sleep as two loud Koreans kept chatting away then turning on the water, stopping it, then chatting again, then starting the water again, I have no idea! But she's a robust lady, thick everywhere, and rather formidable, so I decided to remain seated, forcing a smile that felt as fake as the wooden finish in my flat. But like I said, all is well now.
I finally went on one of those city explorations where you are determined to do everything on foot. I used to get so frustrated when I worked in the shop and some tourist asked me how to get from Trafalgar Square (where I was based) to Camden, and when I directed them to the nearest tube they'd say:
"No no, I walk. How I walk to Camden?"
"You can't walk, it's too far!"
"No no, is OK to walk." And at that point I'd just shrug my shoulders and point in a general northerly direction. Utterly hopeless. But now I understand! Sometimes a tourist just wants to walk. And walk I did. It nearly killed me, and I ended up eating a god-awful hotdog on a stick, surrounded by chips all enmeshed together by batter and ketchup, but it was worth it. On my journey I walked all the way up this huge boulevard with a pretty aquaduct kinda ditchy thing in the middle, with bushes and fountains and the like. But the interesting thing was that all along this road, or a great part of it anyway, was an unimaginable amount of shops dedicated to hats. It was ridiculous! Far too many hat shops, all selling the same kind of hats, one shop after another, the same hats, endless, ongoing, a barrage of caps and sun visors. Is it a seasonal thing? I'm not sure. I don't think so, but still it was like the cocaine excess seen at the end of Scarface, but in hat form. There weren't any hat junkies shoving hats on their head and sighing in ecstasy, but you get the picture.
The side streets were all neon lights and flashing side boards, millions of wires on large poles leading off in all directions into run down exteriors, only to provide world leading technology on the inside. It's an odd combination; rickety market stands and side stalls, all manned by anciently old people with their heads bent forward and their eyes squinting at some kind of screen. No wonder so many Koreans wear glasses, fashionable ones, black rimmed most of the time. The stale smell of pickled vegetables left to linger in the humid heat and dense pollution strikes the nose as dried piss, but it's somehow a nice smell due its culinary association. Then you get the proper aroma of delicous Korean cuisine. I look in and want to eat, but everyone is with someone, and I'd feel too self-concsious to be on my own. "Look at that man", they'll say, "eating with chopsticks like a fat-handed twat", or the nearest Korean equivalent.
I am already quite confident on the tube. Check me out rushing around the underground labyrinths, doing interchanges like its a thing of no importance. Although this is only along the lines from my borough to the centre of town. A slight route change on a new line and I'll be back to an ant-like pace, deciphering the meaning of a new colour-coded system that's supposed to help, though only makes me think "but that blue is only a shade lighter than the other blue." I do stand out though when I bring out my book on the tube, looking like a right wally of a westerner. Nearly everyone is watching TV on their sleek smart phones, negligent of the joyfull fact that they are speeding incredibly fast along an amazing network of underground tracks, transporting people from one destination to another. Sometimes people just don't get tubes. It bothers me.
I finally went on one of those city explorations where you are determined to do everything on foot. I used to get so frustrated when I worked in the shop and some tourist asked me how to get from Trafalgar Square (where I was based) to Camden, and when I directed them to the nearest tube they'd say:
"No no, I walk. How I walk to Camden?"
"You can't walk, it's too far!"
"No no, is OK to walk." And at that point I'd just shrug my shoulders and point in a general northerly direction. Utterly hopeless. But now I understand! Sometimes a tourist just wants to walk. And walk I did. It nearly killed me, and I ended up eating a god-awful hotdog on a stick, surrounded by chips all enmeshed together by batter and ketchup, but it was worth it. On my journey I walked all the way up this huge boulevard with a pretty aquaduct kinda ditchy thing in the middle, with bushes and fountains and the like. But the interesting thing was that all along this road, or a great part of it anyway, was an unimaginable amount of shops dedicated to hats. It was ridiculous! Far too many hat shops, all selling the same kind of hats, one shop after another, the same hats, endless, ongoing, a barrage of caps and sun visors. Is it a seasonal thing? I'm not sure. I don't think so, but still it was like the cocaine excess seen at the end of Scarface, but in hat form. There weren't any hat junkies shoving hats on their head and sighing in ecstasy, but you get the picture.
The side streets were all neon lights and flashing side boards, millions of wires on large poles leading off in all directions into run down exteriors, only to provide world leading technology on the inside. It's an odd combination; rickety market stands and side stalls, all manned by anciently old people with their heads bent forward and their eyes squinting at some kind of screen. No wonder so many Koreans wear glasses, fashionable ones, black rimmed most of the time. The stale smell of pickled vegetables left to linger in the humid heat and dense pollution strikes the nose as dried piss, but it's somehow a nice smell due its culinary association. Then you get the proper aroma of delicous Korean cuisine. I look in and want to eat, but everyone is with someone, and I'd feel too self-concsious to be on my own. "Look at that man", they'll say, "eating with chopsticks like a fat-handed twat", or the nearest Korean equivalent.
I am already quite confident on the tube. Check me out rushing around the underground labyrinths, doing interchanges like its a thing of no importance. Although this is only along the lines from my borough to the centre of town. A slight route change on a new line and I'll be back to an ant-like pace, deciphering the meaning of a new colour-coded system that's supposed to help, though only makes me think "but that blue is only a shade lighter than the other blue." I do stand out though when I bring out my book on the tube, looking like a right wally of a westerner. Nearly everyone is watching TV on their sleek smart phones, negligent of the joyfull fact that they are speeding incredibly fast along an amazing network of underground tracks, transporting people from one destination to another. Sometimes people just don't get tubes. It bothers me.
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