jimjilbang

Jimjilbang

Lying on my back I feel the salt crystal rocks settle below me. It is like being on the beach, the way sand will embrace your body no matter what your body is like. I feel the bottom of my back scream with elation at the support that it desperately desires being answered. My hand are sweating, I pick up a crystal or two and roll them around between my thumb and fingers slowly. It brings me back to the beach again. And why not? It I shot in here, real hot. Maybe hooter than any beach I ever laid my body on. Dry heat. The kind that forces all unwanted or unneeded thoughts and toxins out of the body. I can feel every body open, free to breath. I breath, deeply. I ask for Reiki to flow through my body and wait for it to begin its flow, or maybe it was already flowing and I was just now acknowledging it. Breath, slowly and full. I allow the salt air to fill my lungs and belly. Cleaning. I feel the cleansing inside and I and people like me need plenty of cleansing. It could be a full time job. In fact, there was a time it was my full-time job. But these days I have an external full-time job so the need for cleanser is greater, much greater. I enjoy the sensation of the sweat dripping down the sides of my face and it is proof of the cleansing. Evidence. I tend to make thing up in my head so evidence it always helpful. The cleansing continues. There is a handful of other sin the slat crystal room, all enjoying their own version of the same process. We are together but doing it singularly, but I am conscious of their presence, of community. Salt, heat and sweat go way back, back before we had words like salt, heat and sweat. I like experiencing this kind of community in silence.

Once when participating in a retreat at the Abbey Gethsemane where Thomas Merton lived and wrote, I remember reading a little folded white standing card:
“silence is spoken here”. Is there a greater way to experience community than in silence?

Time is bending and I get up after about twenty minutes or maybe three or fifty, and make my way out. My face is red; I can feel its redness. It is clean; I can feel its cleanness. My body is soft, I can feel its comfort as my arms dangle as I open the door and leave. I am brought back to the fact that I am in a public place with hundreds of people at the local Jimjilbang, a Korean bathhouse. I love these places! Jimjilbang and bowing are my two favorite aspects of Korean life. I have been to a couple of Jimjilbang and each time my experience has risen above the previous. I feel at home here dripping with sweat amongst people I do not know and cannot orally communicate with. There are families, couples and friends resting, talking, reading and sleeping in the large main room. It is warm in here but not like the Korean versions of a sauna. The salt crystal rock rooms are one of my favorites. They are always my first stop. If for no other reason, I stop there first to seat ad to mold my body to the crystals and rest till I separate myself from the me that is not me that I walk around pretending to be all day, every day. I am simple here, very simple. Heat, sweat, silence, breath and water.

While walking around the main area to allow my body to regulate a little, I decide it is time to venture to my other favorite room. I do not actually know what it is called. It is a room shaped like a dome with part of the walls pine, which I live the smell of, and part id bamboo think. We lie on the floor or lean against wooden plank to prop yourself against the wall. If lying down, we lie on a sack made of canvas or burlap or something like that. It is comfortable but not as much as the crystals nestled in the back in butt. I start on my back for a short period. This room is always significantly hotter, much like the heat of a cranked up sweat lodge in the middle of summer. A specific one comes to mind near Charlottesville, Virginia, USA this past summer where I had an incredibly forceful experience with a bunch of recent college graduates I just met and camped, ate, sweat and did Reiki together. Sweat lodges are typically naked, Jimjilbang every body is given cotton shorts and t-shorts that are strong and comfortable. Five minutes later I sit up, legs crossed and do some basic meditation leaning against the wooden plank. I notice others are seated differently but I continue being different because I an doing what I need to be doing for right now. I breathe heavy an deep. I pray for those in the room with me and thank them for being here. I feel our connection with my eyes closed and glasses hanging for the collar of my shirt. I sweat more and more. Peace. Love. Sharing. Two young ladies enter together. There is only one wooden plank to lean against which is directly to my left. They sit, one on the plan and one in front of her sitting crossed legged. It tales a minute for me to respond but I motion for her to take my spot and I slide over slowly to an open space against the wall. I am again reminded of that sweat in Virginia. I decide in need to write stefin and graham and tell them I miss them, love them and am grateful our paths crossed for a short but profound four days. Love can do that to us, at least me. More softness while totally grounded and present. I soak it in and feel my breathing start tot strain from the heat. No reason to stay to stroke my ego. I exit through the door that looks just like and oven door from the outside. The water fountain is right next to the door outside in the main room again. I allow a woman with her head wrapped in a towel go ahead of me, she is sweating profusely and looks as if she needs it more than me. She does not smile. I drink my water and walk towards door number three, no numbers do not label them. They have writing outside in Hangeul, which I cannot understand, yet.

It is the room that I think is referred to as the “kiln”. It is not as hot as the other but I have been to another Jimjilbang that has three:”kilns” with varying degrees of heat. I do not remember much about the room except it is a semi-dome with little sacks full of herbs hanging above your head. The strength of the herbs that enters my nose and throat make me a tad dizzy but still grounded. I stay just a few minutes, done with heat for tonight. I leave and reflect on what to do next; stay and reads in the main room, spend a few minutes in the ice room, shower, leave for home, take a nap or head to the gender-segregated Korean communal hot bathtubs. I decide to brave it and go to the ice room. I enter the double sliding glass door and see this one is not like some of the others that have more than a foot of ice on the walls and ceiling. It is just cold, real cold for bare feet and shorts. It feels like such a relief and balance from the heat. A little girl comes in to sit next to “the foreigner”. She smiles sweetly and somehow lets me know she likes me being there. I try to do the same for her. Our exchange is complete in two minutes and she leaves to join her little brother outside to watch “the foreigner”. When cooled enough, I leave and head down towards the men’s area still not sure what is next of the list above.

I go for it and join the naked Korean men and boys in the baths. They are all smooth-skinned and bare of nay body hair except their head and pubic. I am a bear. I have more hair the city of Cheonan. I slide into the mini pool and observe a young boy startled as he looks at me. I am self-conscious for a brief moment but choose to stay present on my experience. It is nice but not thrilling for me right now. I get out and enter the room that is similar to a steam room with little cement mounted “stools” to sit on. There is one man in there already completely absorbed in his experience. I do the same. A few minutes and done. Ready for a shower and to walk home. This all costed the equivalent of $8.00. I walk home totally satisfied, renewed and breathing in the winter night air. It is near midnight on Saturday night and I am happy. I feel alive and part of the world. I exist and I count. This is why I go to the Jimjilbang. Maybe I will sleep there next time. And there will be a next time, and another after that.

A Local Korean Hospital

It was a Saturday afternoon, the weather in Korea is definitely cooling but it was bright and sunny. I hated it. I felt miserable and wanted to go out and play. I have feet, a bike, mountains and sidewalks waiting for me but not today. I have the common cold. I had it last month as well, two colds in one year a record of sorts for me. I am in a new land and my body is reacting to changes. Last month I chose acupuncture and herbal medicine prepared by the herbalist at the Oriental Medical Center a few blocks away. It worked out great. This time I chose to go and get an injection at the local small hospital a block from the oriental medical clinic. I want to feel well quickly, I have some things I need to do, besides, and I wanted to have the experience.

I walk into a large lobby with about fifty people of all ages sitting on cushioned red benches with a big screen TV set mounted on the wall to the left with some sit com that folks seemed to enjoy. I see at the far end an information desk, I walk there slowly and cautiously not knowing the protocol and knowing that the language barrier is about to express itself again. I feel sick and do not feel up to it, too bad. I approach the desk and we exchange the simplest of English conversation including me pretending to cough, pointing and exaggerating my throat inflammation and showing my sinuses dripping. I have become a method actor here in Korea as matter of circumstance. They take my alien registration card; type some stuff in the computer and point for me to sit down while speaking in Korean as a matter of habit. I sit at the other end by the door; it feels like I can hide better there. Fifteen minutes later I get waved into a doctor’s office, he speaks minimal English and I repeat my Broadway performance of a sick man about to die from something awful. He smiles. He tells me after a brief examination, “You have the common cold.” I reply without reaction, “I know.”

“We give you injection ----- ---- ---- and three days. OK?”

“Yes, OK.” Assuming that he meant I would either get some medicine for three days or come back in three days. I do not know what he said in between injection and three days even after he repeated it twice. I respected him and his time, it is not his fault I do not speak Korean. A nurse shuffles me to another room and tells me, “Take your pants down for injection.” It then occurs to me the injection will be in my butt and not my arm. I have not had an injection in my butt in probably thirty-five years. I panic briefly but then pull them down behind a red and white striped curtain. Why the curtain if she is going to see my butt naked anyway? She re-enters the little space and rubs something wet and cold I assume to be alcohol on my butt and then rubs around for a second. Somewhere during that, she injected me. I did not feel it or even know she was dong it yet. Magic. I go out to pay and find it costs the equivalent of $7.00! I am shocked. I pay and leave not believing I went to a hospital, was diagnosed, injected and left in less than thirty minutes and it cost about $7.00. I picked up some groceries- oranges, tangerines, lemons, ginger root and other goodies to support my system and head home. Fruit cost more than the hospital visit. I feel better about an hour later.

It is now Tuesday night. I am still sick, maybe worse. It lasted shortly and I have a clogged up nose, coughing and yuckiness. I decide after dinner I will return and see if I was supposed to come back after three days or not. I walk in and nobody is in the whole waiting area. I approach the desk again as I did the other day but now there are different folks and need to do the Hollywood thing again. They are not amused. They bring another woman out, a nurse who speaks English. She is kind and helpful. After they figure out the intake nurse the other day decided to cut my last name in half, she brings me to the doctor’s office and joins us to help with language issues. She does great. We figure out that I was supposed to be taking medicine for the last three days and they gave me a prescription. I tell them, “I did not know if I was given a prescription or not and asked at the desk if I was done. And they said ‘Yes’, so I left. I am sorry. “No. We are sorry. They should have told you”, the doctor says with the nurse nodding her head yes. You can get another injection and we give you prescription for three days. If you still sick, please come back see me. OK?”

This time I understand totally. “Yes OK. Thank you very much.”

I am ushered to the other room and again pull my pants down to get the injection in my butt but she turns me around to do the other side. She says while smiling, “Now you have balance.” I laugh and before I know it she is done. “Pull up your pants and I take you to get prescription filled.”

“No I can do it myself. Thank you.”

“There is nobody here. I can help you.”

I let her lead me to the desk to pay before we leave. This time it is only $5.10. I think they gave me a discount because of confusion over prescription. She then leads me out the door to the little pharmacy around the corner. We enter and she hands the prescription to the young lady and says something to her. They bow. She turns back to me, “I work from 8:00-midnight if you ever need anything.”

“Thank you very much. Hopefully I will not see you again.” She says, “Good-bye” bows and leaves. I return the bow. My prescription was filled about two minutes later. The pharmacist said “Take after meals three times day.”

“OK. How much?” I make gesture of money exchanging hands. It was the equivalent of $3.10 for tablets and syrup for three days. I leave to go home smiling with my little pharmacy bag.

Things sure are different here. The presidential election has started in America. I already voted absentee.

Sirens

I am baffled, completely. I have been here in Cheonan, South Korea for three and half months and I have only heard three sirens during that period. I live about three hundred yards from the local police station. You would think I would hear them fancy sirens they have go off just to test them, like they do with fire trucks in the USA.

Siren #1: In August, no September, no it was August I was taking a bus to Incheon-Seoul Airport for a flight to Japan, while trying to fall asleep from boredom and exhaustion of going to bed after midnight and waking at 4:445a.m. to meditate, catch two buses and make it to the airport on time; I heard my first Korean siren. It caught me off guard due to my groggy state and the never before heard sound of a Korean ambulance. It passed us in a hurry on Highway 1 in a buzz and flash. I fell asleep a moment later.

Siren #2: A September evening walk through Ssang-yongdong on an atypically warm night but still cool enough to enjoy the occasional breeze and fresh air without sweat to get in the way. I crossed Ssang-yongdong 2 towards the park I have a thing for, especially at night. It is an open area with pretty red, green, yellow and burnt orange tiled floor and benches along the perimeter in two semi-circles and a circular bench-like place to rest and enjoy the trees, grass and seafood restaurant across the skinny street. I can see the stars and clouds anytime I go there. I have painted there on Sunday afternoons to enjoy sun, air and well, painting. This night I was still passing Highvill apartments across from the better Paris Baguette in my neighborhood when I heard my first Korean police siren. It startled me. The sound was foreign and piercing. Almost nightly I walk past the police station twice on my way out and in from a walk wondering what a police siren sounds like here. The first time caught me by surprise somehow. I must be the inner anticipation of sitting on the circular bench-like thing staring at stars and nothing. I stopped when I heard it moving closer, quickly and forcefully. And there it was, a police car with blue and red lights and a siren. I gawked at it like I do the first time I see a barely covered young woman in a bikini every spring like I have never seen a woman before. I forgot where I was going when I was done gawking and the police car was out of my visual proximity. Bikinis, yum!

Siren #3: I was walking home from school and had just passed the police station. The police car went less than a block before finding whatever it was looking for. I saw no urgency or criminals or anything. Just a siren and a cop car driving a half block and the two tall thin male officers dressed in tan uniforms leaving the vehicle and standing by the patrol car looking at something. Nothing happened that I can see but they stayed there for a at least the two minutes I watched from the corner where the silly looking blown up sign in front of the cell phone store is across the street. I hate those blow-up signs I see around here at cell phone places. Sometimes I feel like popping them when I walk by. A product of growing up as a boy in America, the deep need to destroy thing because I can. They don’t do that here for some reason. I left to get home and take my nightly 15-20 minute Reiki nap on the floor before dinner.

I am baffled. Why does a city with a half million people all living so close together not need police sirens for crimes or crisis situations? How are there no fires? Doesn’t anybody ever need to go to the hospital with an emergency? I do not get it. How is this possible? I live two blocks from the police station and work across the street from it with my classroom staring directly at its front door with my windows open every day. Where are the emergencies and crisis? Baffled, simply baffled.

Returning to Well

After about a week of feeling stuffed, exhausted and drained from taking an anti-biotic for the first time since the mid-nineties, it was time to get well again. My co-worker insisted I get an injection before I get worse. Out of lack of energy to argue, I agreed. We called our manager and she said my insurance can be used anywhere and that I should definitely get an injection. My inner resistance to THAT kind of treatment was suppressed due to not knowing how or what to do otherwise here in Cheonan. I don’t speak the language and nobody I really know is involved in the kinds of treatment I would naturally choose. I would go before work the next morning; I was about to enter the world of western medicine that I left behind more than fifteen years ago in the middle of South Korea.

I went to bed late, my typical method of resistance that extends the day to avoid tomorrow. I slept later than was helpful, which reduced morning meditation and Reiki. Certainly more evidence of inner resistance when I need to support my system greater. It was beautiful outside and I started heading in the direction my co-worker who lives across the street from me said I could find a hospital for my injection. When I arrived at the corner I was directed to, I looked for the hospital and only saw a children’s hospital. I searched the area around the corner and saw a sign written in both HanGul and English: Oriental Medical Clinic. I smirked and walked in the building trying to figure out which floor to go to since I could not read the information on the elevator. I walked back outside and looked up at the green and white sign and counted the floors- one, two, three. It is on the third floor. I made a point of memorizing the name in HanGul to find it once I made it to the second floor. I can read HanGul; I just don’t know what anything means yet. I entered the elevator with a handful of other people. There were two young schoolgirls dressed in uniforms that giggled and put their hands over their mouth at seeing a foreigner on the elevator. How do they think we made it to the top floor of the World Trade Center without elevators?

The elevator doors opened, I turned left, no, I turned right and there was the same kind of white and green sign with the same words and an arrow. I followed the arrow and when I turned the corner, I could smell the sweet and pungent fragrance of ginseng, schizandra and a host of other Asian herbal remedies filling my clogged nostrils with an aroma that woke up my whole system. This I understand.

I opened the two glass doors with a twisted wooden branch as door handle and made note that like homes, restaurants and schools: medical clinic are also shoeless. A pleasing sight to add to the aroma that welcomed me to the clinic. I approached the desk cautiously knowing the hard part was about to arise, speaking to the receptionists who probably speak no English. I was correct, they both froze when I spoke and looked away as if they were hoping I would magically disappear or become fluent in HanGul when they turned their heads back. I didn’t. I pointed, my latest skill, to my throat and made a coughing sound, they acknowledged somewhat and pointed for me to sit down in the waiting area. A few nurses walked by and covered their mouths while they giggled at the foreigner trying to receive treatment without communication. I immediately felt shame and compassion for all the Latinos I dismissed as customers due to language in the mid-eighties when working for Radio Shack as a Retail Sales Manager. Karma has a good memory; it lasts from lifetime to lifetime and certainly remembers 1985.

About fifteen minutes later I was guided by a nurse dressed in pink by my shirt sleeve towards the back area to a gold curtain which the nurse pointed for me to get up on the small carpeted table and lie down, I did. When I wasn’t doing it properly, instead of returning to the pointing method, she just moved me to where she wanted me the way that nurses do. A few minutes later, a woman, I assumed the clinician of whatever form of treatment they do, entered the little curtained off area and said, “Hello”.

English!

She asked me several question about my symptoms including typical Asian treatment concerns like, “How are your bowel movements?” “Are you sleeping OK?” “Have you had an diarrhea?” Have you been eating well?” This conversation was taking place while she was pressing her hands into various points around my digestive system. Each time I made a face or sound, she pressed again deeper and asked, “Which hurts more this or this?” She then asked, “Have you ever had acupuncture before?

“Yes. Chinese acupuncture in America.”

“Have you ever taken any herbal (with the “h” pronounced) remedies?”

“Yes, many including ginseng.”

“Do you like ginseng? Does it make your stronger?”

“I do like ginseng. It gives me more energy but sometimes I get shaky from it.”

“Are you allergic to anything” She pointed to her arms and makes motion to illustrate hives, “Hives?”

“I cannot take alcohol, and my mother, father and brother are allergic to penicillin.” It did not seem necessary to say they were allergic to penicillin since they are not alive anymore. “I have never had any, since they told me I would be allergic too.”

“Korean acupuncture is more painful than Chinese. This point on the bottom of your foot will hurt, please take a deep breathe.” I did but it still sent a sharp pain through my right foot and ankle, which lasted only five seconds. “I give you three day supply of herbs for you to take, come back at 6:00p.m. since it takes three hours to make. You come back Thursday see me. OK?”

“Yes, I get off work at 6:00. I can do that.”

“OK. Twenty minute, needles. Just rest. OK?”

“Yes.” And she was gone. It was only a matter of minutes before I could feel the little twitches and pulsing of the energy shifting and moving throughout my system. It felt good to be placing my well being in the hands of someone like her doing something like this. After a week of anti-biotic (anti-life) and cough medicine, it felt good to be treated in a familiar manner again.

That was Tuesday morning, it is now Friday night and I feel the best I have since the day I stepped off the plane in Incheon-Seoul Airport on July 15th. My body feels healthy again and my cough and sinus congestion are almost completely gone. It took sickness for me to notice my body was not operating optimally. As usual, when looking for the hospital to take an injection I did not want, I wandered blindly till I found what I really needed, as usual, in spite of myself. The Universe sure is efficient!

sarcasm enters stage left and right

Like the South Beach Diet for those who think “thin is in”, the low-casm diet, sarcasm that is, has stripped off pounds of negativity so quickly I forgot what I looked like with the extra weight. But like all fad diets, the low-casm diet imploded when faced with a free crème Berlet or Coffee Heath Bar Crunch ice cream from Michael’s Frozen Custard in Wisconsin. In this case, the desert of choice was keeping company with those who value sarcasm above all other forms of communication- English-speaking white people.

This weekend I was visiting a friend in Busan, South Korea during the national holiday Chusak. It is the Korean version of Thanksgiving that includes visiting and honoring ancestors passed. This weekend, I certainly honored ghosts of sarcasm passed when giving the opportunity. I was amazed at just how effortlessly it flowed out of mouth like waffles and vanilla ice cream dripping out the corners on an eighty-degree night in Seaside Heights, New Jersey. Yes, sarcasm is back.

I had no idea how foolish I was in believing the progress in letting go of the darkest form of humor had nothing to do with me or any miraculous leap in spiritual development. It was simply a case of not having accessible anyone who speaks enough English to understand sarcasm if I chose to express it. No growth, no step up in commitment, no crossing of the Threshold- just no vehicle to harness the hidden and suppressed hate, anger and resentment in disguise known as sarcasm. If you are trying to shed sarcasm from your daily diet; I can offer the quickest low-casm diet on the market- move to a country where no one speaks your language and it will fall away like The Atkins Diet with the same results until the source of the problem returns; then every inch of unnecessary cellulite regrows itself and looks less appealing than it did when it was part of your natural disposition. I now know what I look like without sarcasm; warm, soft, gentle, open; and putting on the same old tattered coat will never feel as comfortable or acceptable again.

It is time to let go of these extra pounds of weight that I no longer need to survive or navigate my way through the world. Goodbye sarcasm, I bid you farewell. I am sure when I am not paying attention, I will embrace you like an old friend who still owes me the six hundred dollars he borrowed from in 1989 when his father died and I helped pay his family’s mortgage so they would not have to find a new home.

Hello warmth and vulnerability. I want to introduce myself; my name is Michael and I have looked forward to meeting you for many years. I hope we become close friends.

Finding My Path

I have walked these streets of Cheonan for more than six weeks now. Originally through only Young Am dong, since that is where there are so many stores and restaurants in my section of the city. I ventured further towards the Lotte Mart in my second week, finding clothes to wear to work, mops, cleaning supplies, neat pillows to sleep and meditate on (www.jayeonsum.com) that smell like a mix of sandalwood and cardamom with an orange/ochre cover and finally the immense food section with guys on loud microphones yelling about specials in Korean that just echo through my brain while sifting through Kimchi, bean curd, seeded dark red grapes, mandarin oranges, frozen Mondu (steamed dumpling with either Kimchi or meat) and mini shrimp that cost less than the equivalent of $2.00 for one serving. Ironic for a guy who promotes the refusal to support major chain likes Wal-mart, k-mart or any other damn mart.

After my trip to Seoson, I returned committed to finding a real place to walk, a path with real live trees and grass and dirt. Living in an urban environment that is fully developed with concrete everywhere was beginning to take its toll on me. I ventured out into Ssang-yongdong and its massive white concrete apartment buildings with sidewalks of yellow, mauve and green with a middle row raised for those who cannot see to stay on the path forward.

My evening walks have been a Blessing for me in their sense of feeling part of a community amongst the families, couples and folks walking, talking and relaxing on these beautiful summer nights here in Korea. I found a really cool park with moms playing badminton with their kids. Teens shooting hoops on a Saturday night and laughing about something and nothing. The exercise equipment made for outdoor strengthening and stretching filled with families and kids playing and doing their thing. Folks walking slowly riverside enjoying life, love and the steady stream flowing through life and Cheonan. I enjoyed this walk so much I did it three nights in a row and one resulted in a fun conversation with a man who spoke good English and invited me to his home to hang out near midnight. We ate garlic potato chips and he asked me if I wanted to watch Korean XXX movies. It took a minute for my brain to filter through his Korean accent of English learned in Australia to realize he was talking about porn, when my face flushed and turned red before saying, “No thank you” shyly.

But still, no path of nature.

Until tonight. I ate a massively delicious meal at this local place that folks sit on the floor on little gold or olive green pads stacked under the table. I have eaten here twice before with my coworker and the lady promised she would remember what I liked so when I came in myself she could serve it to me. She did, along with five side dishes including excellent Kimchi, sweetened onions, mung beans, pickled green beans with sesame seeds and roasted eggplant; these were just the free side dishes. The meal itself was a stew with lots of black pepper, sesame leaves, chili paste and pork bones over white rice. Heaven for 5,000 won, or five bucks in the U.S. While eating my meal as were the three men across from me, the owner/cook/cashier/server turned into delivery driver on motorcycle and left the restaurant to deliver a meal with four customers comfortably enjoying their meals with no fear of theft or anything else. She returned moments later smiling and laughing like she always does.

I left and ran into one of my favorite kids that I teach English to with her younger brother and mom. She loves playing with me almost as much as I do with her. Her mom was nice, genuine and spoke good English. I left them and headed in another direction for further exploration of Ssang-yongdong. I weaved through the winding roads of one of the apartment complexes to find a nice walkway with a sign pointing towards something that I could read the letters and pronounce but was clueless of the meaning. I followed the arrows like a good little boy who eats his vegetables. And there it was, a dirt path- real dirt complete with dirt. I was so excited I almost trampled on an elderly man passing by as I entered the trail to somewhere. There were grass, trees, bushes and dirt- old friends I have dearly missed; maybe more than friends and family back home. I could smell the dirt and greenness of nature, smiling and smiling, maybe even giggling. It being after 10:00 at night, it was dark hiking up the hill on the dirt path in my four-dollar brown sandals from CVS. No problem, even for a guy like me with a light deficiency in both eyes. Koreans line these paths with lights that are triggered by motion. As I climbed the hill, every fifty feet or so another series of lights magically lead the way for me. More giggles, one leading me to thanking God for me finally finding a place to walk, hide, reflect, write and feel Real whenever I need it, day or night just a few blocks from my home. I walked for about a mile without reaching the apex. More smiling at the thought that tomorrow I can do this with camera in backpack when light and bright and see Cheonan from above.

I have found my path. I needed this. As usual, I found it while wandering through life and Ssang-yongdong aimlessly in spite of myself. Grace is a beautiful thing.

August Nights In Cheonan

It is a cool night for August in Cheonan. The humidity is still present, I can tell by the moisture in my apartment from the shirts, socks, underwear and slacks hanging to dry. We have not had many nights like this in the five weeks I have been here. I take advantage of the break in the heat and venture out for an evening walk with a stomach full of tofu, potatoes and carrots sautéed over green cabbage and a large fresh vegetables salad with sunflower seeds on top. The oil and vinegar dressing I made reminds of home, my mother.

I walk out the front door of the Darae House where I live across the stone and cement walkway to the street cattycornered from the Blue Café still trying to seduce me in its doors unsuccessfully. I pass the Cozy Café again peering in and wondering if it is really a café, or is it another code word for bar. Everything else on Ssang-yongdong gil is restaurants with Korean names I cannot yet understand but can read without any comprehension. I turn right up the slight incline to the main street in the Ssang-yongdong neighborhood before I get to the Police station with policemen always outside smoking cigarettes, since they seem to have little else to do. I have been here five weeks and have not seen or heard anything producing evidence of crime in this mid-sized city of a half million people. Next to the station is a lighted park with some cement seats and a basketball court with teenage boys shooting hoops. A boy of about 6’2” is playing against two boys and beating them badly, he has skills and knows it. I cross the street and see many families and young people playing soccer, basketball, badminton and just hanging around the dirt and gravel lot of Cheonanyoungam elementary school where I am a teacher. I smile knowing that fun, family and community continue there long after I go home. I like this school and the family-based feeling it manifests. I continue around the corner to an area of the neighborhood I have not ventured to yet except by #14 bus to downtown Cheonan.

They have nice wide sidewalks made for comfortable walking for families and relaxation. Koreans love to enjoy a casual walk after dinner till late at night. They are out most nights as individuals with iPods, couples holding hands, teens walking home from English academies and families being families. I notice the soft, gentle pace of all the walkers, none have on designated walking outfits, none are with equipment to lose weight, and none are running in tight Lycra displaying their bodies. They are walking for walking sake. They look happy with smiles on their faces evidencing the simplicity of an activity of peace, community and health. It is refreshing walking on these rose, yellow and green tiled cement walkways without observing people jogging in complete misery desperate to lose another three pounds. No misery walking in Korea. Walking is for health, not appearance.

After a mile or so, I mean about fifteen hundred kilometers, (I couldn’t resist); I walk up an incline to little park with benchs and a center resting area. I sit and stare at the clouds hovering above; they are white, soft and mostly still. The gentle breeze is not enough to get them moving, so I can see and take time to watch. A young girl of about eight or nine runs up the hill excited, quickly looks at me and sits across from me to look at the foreigner. She is careful to not be rude- her glances are brief and non-direct. Since she is young, I know she can speak some English, I assume that is why she is here in the first place. Young kids love to practice their limited English on foreigners.

I say, “Hello”.
She smiles, containing her excitement and replies, “Hi!” She looks away to not seem eager or disrespectful to an adult, especially a foreigner. A moment later, she gets up, says, “Good-bye”, glances at me briefly and runs down the hill and across the thin side street. She is back a few minutes later while I am still staring and appreciating the clouds and the trees. I say, “Hello” again to make her feel welcome. Kids here cannot wait to say “Hello” to anyone who will let them. I am a willing participant at any opportunity I can get. Who would not want to be the focus of these beautiful, excited smiles?
I get up to leave, and say “Good-bye” again.
She says, “Bye Bye”.
I ask, “How are you?”
“I am fine” she responds in perfect English as if she has done so every day of her life.
“Nice to meet you” I say knowing they are all taught to say this.
“Nice to meet you too.” She bows, as do I. I walk away smiling from ear to ear, she is beaming next to her little brother.

The walk back to my space is full of breathing in the night air, noticing young kids out walking, talking and riding bikes after ten at night and feeling Blessed to be here in Korea. I reflect for a moment on how I will ever be able to return to a land without bowing, casual walking, friendliness, cops too bored to do anything but smoke cigarettes and families enjoying the night without regard for the hour embracing now and this moment. I have a flinch of shame over how many nights I have been too lazy or distracted to make my evening walk here in Cheonan to remember life and why it is so special. I stop at Tous les Jous and buy their last baguette for the night for the equivalent of $1.50. I walk with it in my right hand past folks sitting on the floor of the restaurant on my right just before I turn towards my street. Again, I peer in the windows of the Cozy Café without discerning any more than the other ten times I have tried and failed. This was a great walk. I walk up the steps to the second floor, entering my apartment and clothes hanging on my hand made indoor clothesline. It is good to be home and actually have a home.

Korean Cafeteria Food for Kids

My first day at the elementary school I was about to become an English teacher for the next year, was quite overwhelming. I arrived at my new room a little after midnight after leaving Newark, NJ, USA at 9:28a.m. the day before. The cabdriver they had pick me up at the airport brought me directly to my room from Incheon International Airport. The ride took about 80 minutes which I think I fell asleep briefly from the excitement twice. He could not find my room when we got here but eventually he was able to find it. A well-dressed, attractive young woman employee from the nightclub down street helped him. I thought it was interesting that my initiation to Korea was founded on a nightclub girl who looked at me slyly like she already had dibs on me. So far, I have not stepped foot in that club to hunt her down.

As I opened the door to my room to walk in, the taxi driver who spoke minimal English immediately stopped me and pointed to my shoes and the lowered space by the door for me to take them off before entering. I forgot! There was a hand written note informing me that my manger will be by at 11:00a.m. to take me to school. By the time I showered, shaved and unpacked a few things, it was near 3:00a.m. My small studio apartment has a main room with a metal sink, and counter next to the double gas burners across from the half-sized fridge. There is a desk for me to work at and a tiny mounted table to eat at with two chairs with yellow metal backs and soft cushions for my butt. The bathroom has everything necessary but no actual tub or separate area for the shower. It is just another part of the bathroom in general.

After just a few hours of sleep, I woke due to the heat and noise of the city. I crawled out of bed, exhausted but even hungrier than tired. I wandered around the neighborhood full of small shops, private English schools and many places to eat until I gave up trying to figure out what anything is before ordering. I purchased a nice little portion of greens in a red chili sauce from a take-out place with a mother in daughter inside preparing the food and quickly went home to eat before meeting my new manager that the note stated I should not be late. The food was hot, spicy and delicious and forecasted what kind of foods I would be eating accurately.

She showed up on time, smiled half-heartedly and asked, “Are you ready to go?’ as if I had a choice.

I said quickly and professionally, “Yes, just let me get my stuff. How far do we have to go?”

“Just a few blocks, the school is very close”. Four and a half blocks to be exact, directly across from the police department and a small park with a basketball court. Upon arriving at the school, my manger directed me to a series of “Cubby-holes” and lifted the third one from the right on the top row and said, “You can take your shoes off and use the visitor slippers for today.” I put on a pair of soft, comfortable brown slippers with Korean writing on the outside. Like she did at my room, she hurried me along to meet my co-worker in the after-school homework program. Which I did, along with the principle, vice-principle and the school’s English teacher. I did not recall any of their names or anything else. Fortunately, I was saved by my favorite words in life spoken from my new manger, “Are you hungry?” Those magic words that solve everything in life for me.

The school cafeteria was full of bustling kids grabbing trays with little metal dividers built-in and large canisters stuffed with metal chopsticks and soupspoons. I watched and followed what everybody else was doing. When we got to the front of the line, my tray was filled with large quantities of Kim chi, white rice, a yellow fruit sliced thinly and a seafood soup and a compartment with a pile of spaghetti. My first real meal in Korea included spaghetti with a tomato sauce, pretty funny for an Italian guy from New Jersey, USA. Everything was delicious, even the Korean-Italian spaghetti.

I have eaten at our school cafeteria since then. Every meal consists of rice, Kim chi, a vegetable or fruit, fresh soup and something else. It is interesting to me that these elementary school children eat a more balanced and healthy meal then almost the entirety of American adults, forget about the kids. They make the food fresh every morning with the clanging if huge pts and pans with the women in the kitchen hurriedly preparing actual real food for these kids every day. There are no other choices except the one meal like there is in America, they all finish their meals and smile while eating, laughing and talking with their friends. There is no fighting, casing trouble or anything else. They are too busy enjoying their meal. Outside of the amazed stares at “the foreigner”, they eat, laugh and talk. What a great recipe for children learning and growing mentally, physically and spiritually.

Let’s do a quick nutrition analysis of Korean versus American school cafeteria food:
Frozen generic seafood sticks ------- fresh squid, crab and clam soup
Frozen fried chicken -------------------fresh chicken soup with a chicken leg in every bowl
White iceberg lettuce with a few slivers of carrot and a pale tomato------ Fresh Kim chi
Minute-made rice--------- actual rice
Canned and processed Campbell’s soups----------fresh sop complete with vegetables and chicken, pork or seafood made daily

It is hard for me to imagine why American schools feed children the food they do. Who came up with theory that kids will only eat food bad for them that is completely de-natured? What are we doing to our children?