Friday, April 29, 2011

Judo


I was repeatedly slammed during Judo practice at the Jiu-Jitsu school last night. The school is a group of grapplers, muy-thai fighters, and Judo fighters that come together to trade styles and moves and spar. Instruction comes in the form of short bursts and corrections during sessions. The school had a party on Thursday, and I was drinking with the Judo teacher—who’s a black belt and looks like an old Army sergeant with a flattop haircut and diamond cutter jaw. I told him I would try out Judo, it couldn’t be much different from wrestling.
 I flew and thumped like a sack of rocks shifting as it crashed into the mat. My partner was a twenty-one tall and lanky with arms and legs that are like long bundles of wire, he had the build and demeanor of a farm boy. After a short session of sparring in which I lunged for double leg takedowns, and ignored the use of the gi, we had a short session of throw practice. My partner grabbed my shirt sleeve and collar and hoisted me over his back like a sack of mulch and then slammed me onto the mat. He swung me like an axe and I fell in splinters with each throw.
“Brian, are you okay?” he asked after I stood up holding my ribs.
“I’m fine, fine,” I wheezed extending my arm and trying to look tough while I bit my lip and held in a short, painful puddle of tears.
 In Judo you are supposed to land in one solid, heavy motion, with proper posture: you brace yourself with one leg wrapped around the other which is planted to absorb the impact; your arm falls straight out and slaps the ground and you land along your ribs and not your back. I was bouncing, flailing, clutching the man’s gi as I flew over, still ignorant as how to fall. My ribcage quickly let me know that this was ridiculous. It surged with pain, howled, and pressed into my flesh as if it wanted a new set of organs to hold.
                I snorted and wheezed as I was pulled off the mat, the other man, smiling, still clutched my sleeve. His fingers were dug in and coiled the cloth into a fist as if he were worried I might try to escape. He kept smiling like a sadist or a torturer enjoying the practice of his craft.
                “Are you all right?” Nate, another American, called from outside the cage.
                “I don’t think I’m falling right,” I admitted. The conversations inside the school resemble the world after the fall of the tower of Babel. Korean and English are spoken over each other, and often translated by someone sitting nearby. If something needs to be explained it’s done with the hands and the legs and the twirling and pointing of the eyes.
                After ten throws, the man, twenty-one-years old and wearing glasses with the constant smile of someone who’s never had to pay rent, held out his sleeve. “Your turn,” he said.
                I grabbed the sleeve and slumped him onto my back like a load of laundry and then tumbled him over my shoulder almost falling to the ground.
                “Brian,” said the master fumbling over my name as if there were greased ball bearings in the consonants and vowels. “No,” he said strutting over with his hands locked over the knot of his black belt.
                He nodded and kept his eyes wide looking at me while he grabbed the young man’s collar and sleeve like a scolding father. The master jerked him towards him stabbing his ass into his torso and then in one, smooth graceful motion slammed him into the mat. The long limbed man fanned out above him like a peacock displaying its feathers. The young man fell in a solid, reclined position with the same expertise as the master had shown in the throw. Both were done as if part of some long practiced dance.
 He took him again, and instead of showing me the same move twice, pointed at me and said, “You…you.” He then wobbled and grabbed the sleeve wrong and pattered his feet as if he were drunk, he didn’t lock his elbow under the man’s armpit or stab his ass into his stomach or pick him up in one smooth motion. He dropped him onto the floor and then picked him up. He showed me the wrong move several more times, and then showed the correct move and walked away. Like most explanations in Korea it focused on what not to do adding in at the end, very quickly and with no explanation, what to do.
                “You go,” the master said as he walked back among the heavy bags at the head of the room.
                I fumbled through the move, working in a one, two, three and four manner trying to teach my body the correct movements. In the demonstration the throw looked simple: you ball the collar of the gi in your fist while holding their sleeve at the wrist; you then slide your right foot across your body and twist into them throwing them over your shoulder and onto the ground; at the end you remain standing while they are lying on the ground. Put together it looked like a simple wrestling throw—throws which I practiced as a child until they became rote and unconscious. But, as with most things in martial arts, there is more than just the one motion, there are the little motions that come together to make it happen.
                After a few more slow, staccato throws, where my feet patted around trying to keep balance as the man went over, my turn was done. My ribcage and back pleaded for me to sit down, but I offered my sleeve. They were throwing and slamming each other into the mat as if the floor were made of cushions. I couldn’t give up now and let them whisper and point at me behind my back, could I? I offered my sleeve and took a deep breath. As he grabbed me I saw the landing in my mind, but I was stuck at his ass because my left leg and left arm were snaked around his gi.
                “Sorry, my fault,” I said as he plunked me back on the ground confused.
                “Okay,” he said patting my shoulder. I told my body not to be rude, and that this man needed to practice just as much as me. I tried to distract my limbs and torso while he grabbed my collar and sleeve, but halfway up his back they realized they were in the air. My arm slid across his back as I crested over his shoulder, and then, coiled with force, I slammed into the mat like an axe falling on a block of wood. I bounced and bit my lip like a pro wrestler selling a slam. If the WWF has mats as hard and solid as the ones we practice Judo on, I understand why those big men hold their backs like pregnant women collecting the mail. He pulled me back, patted my shoulder, and then slammed me back onto the mat. The two Americans standing beyond the cage snickered and oohed; I could hear their cringes as I crashed again and again onto the mat.
                “Your turn,” the man finally said. I did five more throws, gaining confidence with each throw, the master even told me I was doing well. I tucked my elbow under his armpit, turned my feet and threw him over my shoulder. Besides my feet patting a little after he hit the ground, I had the fundamentals correct. Then he went five more times. I crawled up, hoping the torture was over. The rest of the group smiled and we formed a circle to finish the practice with some calisthenics. As we went through the jumping jacks I made a note to remember to show up at ten and not nine thirty on Tuesdays. My back, like a preacher bloodied and bruised, reminded me of the old cliché: Pride comes before the fall. Or in this case, pride continues the fall over and over and over and over…..

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Travel Preparations


Next weekend I’m going to go out of town. I say it each week, but I know this about myself, it takes me twice as long to do things that are not in my normal routine. My process goes like this. First, I get the idea of what I want to do. In this case, we’ll say it’s go to the port city of Busan. I ask my co-workers about it.
                “It’s a wonderful city, they have a casino where only foreigners can gamble,” one says.
                “They have a strange nightlife, and there are a ton of Americans there,” another says smiling, insinuating pleasures that are inappropriate talk at a school filled with children watching Peter Pan and discussing the merits of staying young forever.
                “They have a group of women that sell fireworks at night,” another laughs leading into a story about haggling with someone’s grandmother over the price of a Roman Candle.
                The end of the first phase is imagining going. Taking a long train ride and snapping pictures of the passing countryside, stretching at barren train stations overlooking tilled fields and lonely people waiting for a loved one on the platform, and the arrival and relaxing on the beach as I read a novel, drink a beer and watch the sun. Now, I’m certain that I will go.
                Phase two begins next a few days later. This is where I read about my destination and find out everything that could go wrong. In this case there is a large Russian community there. It seems odd that a Russian community would emerge in a country that has nothing in common with Russia. This leads me to believe there is more there than what the book is telling me and they are hinting at something. The books and websites—the few that I read—also worn of some seedy night actions. Muggings, stabbings, street attacks by roving Taekwondo masters looking for revenge—who knows what this could mean. I now have to plan for this by thinking about every scenario. Scenario one: I meet one of these local street toughs and they attack me and beat me and leave me lying beneath a crowd of disgusting onlookers as I curl around my bag and wish someone spoke English and they stopped trying to sell me fireworks, or worse that a large crowd will gather and I will become anxious and worried that this trip was some sort of rouse by Busan to humiliate me by making a fool of me somehow.  When I was seven my brother embarrassed me in front of a group of people by asking me repeatedly if I was going to urinate in my pants and then I did. Since then, large crowds have scared me, and I worry that I might pee my pants. I go through scenario until I find the two possible conclusions. First, the street toughs attack me as a show of strength. It begins when I exit the train station and they are pushing around some small child or young woman. Everyone walks past disgusted and dismayed that no one will do anything. At first I want only to walk past, but one of them yells at me. It’s at this moment I notice they’re all wearing Affliction t-shirts and other apparel with the name of the local fight school. They surround me, and using some quick footwork and objects lying around—bottles, chairs, a monk’s staff from the time of the Ming dynasty—I’m able to defeat them.
Scenario two: they only have one main fighter who challenges me to a one on one battle. He is a goliath, far larger than any Korean, his face cast in silhouette with fight and toss each other against brick walls until we fall in a respectful exhaustion and declare the match a draw. With phase two of my travel preparation complete, I move onto phase three.
                It’s here that I do no budgeting whatsoever, and tell myself that I will spend no more than a certain amount. The idea of spending all of my money could bring unwanted stress. But if I don’t know how much money is in my bank account than I won’t be certain if I have spent all of it. This part takes full commitment in not noticing at any point how much money is in my bank account. To make sure I don’t go broke I make sure to keep my credit card in my wallet. If I start a few weeks before I leave and continue keeping it there I can be certain that it will be in my wallet when I leave. This way if those local toughs do appear and cripple me I will be able to go to the hospital.
                With the planning and budgeting set, it’s now that we begin part three: Procrastination. I can’t leave on the first weekend, but I say I will. This will make people ask me about my trip. I’ll laugh and say that I woke up late, or that I meant I was going next weekend. But really this first weekend was a trial run, in that I wake up and judge how I feel before I leave. My Saturday routine involves a lot of nothing, and it is important that I keep this up. It’s also during this time that I look up how far away my destination is. I often find it is far away, and that once I get there, if I am planning a day trip, I will be forced to leave before I have really done anything. It’s at this time I change my destination.
                “But I thought you were going to Busan?” Co-workers will ask me.
                “I was but then I decided to go to Daegu, because I just want to take a day trip really,” I say. They nod. I tell them that I will leave for Daegu that Friday. On Monday, if someone asks if I went to Daegu I tell them I meant the following weekend.
                Phase four is next. This is the actual trip. The weekend has finally arrived and I’m ready to go. I go to bed early the night before and wake up before eight. I’m packed and ready to go. Before leaving though I check my bag several times to make sure everything is in order. I have my passport, camera, all forms of ID, Nyquil, Dayquil, Zantac, both cell phones, my computer is hidden in a box in the dresser and covered in clothes the back window is shut and shielded with clothes, I’m wearing my hoodie and the gas is turned off. I leave the apartment. I now re-enter the apartment to make sure the heat is off, and then I check to make sure the water in the bathroom isn’t running and the light in the washing room—the size of a closet—is off. I check to make sure the heat is still off. I check to make sure the gas on the stove is off. I check the heat again. I now check the lights by turning them on and off to make sure that I’m not seeing them as off because of the sunlight. They are off. I check the heat one last time, and then I put my wallet in my back left pocket and my key in my front right pocket. My cell phone goes in my front left pocket and I lock the door. I test the handle to make sure it is locked and tell myself everything is off. I now run to get away from the apartment before I check it again. The joys of travel are for everyone, and as soon as I reach the train station and note all possible routes of escape in case of a terrorist attack I buy my ticket. At the last second, I decide to go to Busan, then change my mind and purchase a ticket for Daegu. Once on the train I take out a book, drink a cup of coffee and stare at the passing scenery. I enjoy nothing more than seeing new things, except of course for not seeing them at all.

The Martial Arts


I’ve given up Hapkido. A cabal of children forced me out. I spend my days pinching the sides of my temples, waving a hand to stop constant complaints. I went to Hapkido to sweat and exercise and do something besides staring at the wall when the sun goes down. At first, I was intrigued by the complex art. Like most things in Korea, it seemed needlessly complicated; the first move you learn is how to get out of a wrist hold. You step forward at an angle darting out your arm and twisting your wrist and then step to the side windmilling your arm and turning your hand over as if it were a blade. Then, with your free hand, you grab the attacker’s hand pinching the knuckle above the thumb and twist like a doorknob before stepping in and dipping into the upper arm with your forearm. All of this was complicated by the way everything was explained; a lack of a common language made every attempt at instruction difficult. I learned through grunts and broken English, and was continuously patted on the shoulder and shown again and again the proper way to perform the technique. When I thought I made progress a new student joined with his father. He was seventeen, even though he looked like he was twelve and acted the same age. He wore glasses and had an eggplant haircut of fiery hair, he told me he was moving to America and I imagined him as the kid everyone tells to drink cat piss as a joke. He was obsequious to the point of caricature of his own culture—following behind everyone offering them water and shoulder rubs. One day while we waited in line to roll across the mat he tried to rub my shoulders. I turned and almost hit him. He didn’t try to touch me again.
                A friend of his joined a week later. He was pale with a weedpatch of black hair growing into a long crew cut, the seventeen year old slowly began to rebel with his new co-conspirator running around the room as if it were a daycare. He was no longer obseqiuous, the idea of independence brought by his hounddog cheeked friend had turned him into an asshole.
             There were two masters, one young a few years older than me, and the other looked like the main bad guy from Best of The Best, except he had both eyes and he was in his fifties. His name was Lee and he looked like he could chop a phone book in half with his hand. After these two began running around the room, Lee showed up less and less. The less he showed the more children appeared, coalescing into a rebel force against any attempt at training. They rolled across the mat farting and giggling, singing popular Korean jingles and holding up all instruction. They spun in attempts to kick the focus mitts and fell to the floor in convulsions of laughter. The end came when a twelve-year-old, as agile as a cat, began doing backflips while I fell over attempting to do a one handed cartwheel. I left one night, with the young master besieged by the children, he stood with balled fist and I could tell, soon, very soon, one of the kids would go missing. It was at this time, three weeks ago, I found out about a Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu school a few blocks from my work. I signed up as soon as someone showed me where it was.

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Seoul

Before going to Seoul, I thought all of Korea was like Disneyland. I was proven wrong. I also thought there were only four black people in the entire nation; I was proven wrong again.
        I missed the fast train--the KTX--because everyone in the city of Daejeon was trying to leave the city of Daejeon for the weekend. Luckily, I was traveling with a Korean I work with, and he explained everything to me. In a city with bars called Sexy bars where women in cardigans and turtlenecks with their arms crossed looking out the window do not get naked, and are paid to talk to you, I wasn't surprised so many people were trying to go somewhere that had actual fun. I was annoyed that I had to take the slow train, but it was only forty five minutes longer.
      The countryside of Korea looks like Nebraska after the corn has been harvested, and the only thing left are the broken stalks of yellow. The same highway wound around the same tilled fields and dilapidated houses. Chipped stucco blocks buckled at the seams beneath the flying buttresses of clay-tile pagodas, and the only color came in the form of a pile of metal carcasses stacked like beetle shells next to rusted oil barrels.  But despite that, there was a charm to the fields, and I'm sure that in summer they are something to see. But in the lull between winter and spring, they looked barren. Everyone slept, but me; I watched the scenery change from country to city, and was interested in the need for ticket takers to bow when they enter a car. They wear green blazers buttoned up over the abdomen, and white gloves that are creased and pressed, and they hold in their hand a modern credit card swiper in case they run into any fare jumpers. When they enter a car they smile, slap their hands to their sides, and bend at the waist pointing their eyes to the ground. At first I thought people were watching them, but the second time I realized, listening to the man behind me snoring like a lawnmower that won't start, no one was paying attention to them.
         There were a few naughty passengers on the train that jostled with a gentle gloved hand, and waved to the exit area. They woke up, rubbed their eyes, and then fell asleep between the cars.
         I reached Seoul after passing several cities that all looked the same, with the same billiard halls stacked above sexy bars, and the same spider web of catwalks and staircases coiling around the train stations. My friend sitting next to me joked that we might have never left Daejeon. For a second I was worried this was an elaborate joke, and we were, in fact still in Daejeon. But that would be ridiculous.
       After reaching Seoul, I met my friend Karl near the college part of town. The interesting thing about Seoul is they are not interested in white people or black people, or anyone foreigner. The streets are clogged with red beards, basketball shorts, football jerseys, baggy jeans, and all the other indicators of American culture. I saw five white people in the train station, and none of them smiled or waved to me. There are five white people in all of Daejeon, not counting myself.
       Seoul has more to see than Daejeon, and because of the large amount of Americans, and foreigners in general, the local residents seem jaded and indifferent. Karl and I walked around, ate, and began drinking. At night we went to Itiwon, the foreigner area of Seoul. A girl at the hostel we were staying at shook her head at our choice of neighborhood.
      "You should go try to meet Koreans? Why would you come here not to meet Koreans?" she said hunched over a mug of tea, a rope of knotted-bones bulging out of the back of her v-neck sweater like the noose she hung fun with.
      "Okay, where do we meet Koreans?" Karl asked.
       "Well, they won't talk to you. I mean, it's not that they're rude, it's just a respect thing, because they don't know you."
      Itiwon was a confusing place. It's filled with frat boys, Ethiopians, and IT nerds. The bouncers wear flak jackets, and gangs of police roam the streets dressed up like Guile from the Streetfighter video games, or a legionnaire.  Karl and I, and a Korean named Dong Juan, who we rescued from the gargoyle at the hostel, decided to drink in the first bar we found on a side street. It had a fish tank with an inaccurate map of the world--Australia was near India---and a black and white mural of New York City set against the long wall above a row of booths. The room was set in a satin light that was pierced by a square from a thirteen inch television set in the back wall. The few stools were taken by old white men telling jokes that had the Korean bartenders slapping the counter. They looked as if they had just quit their jobs as public defenders and decided to go out for the night to celebrate. They were wore leather jackets and cowboy boots, and by the way they hugged the bartenders good bye, and didn't stumble I could tell they lived in the area. After a few beers, we decided to leave. And after a search of the neighborhood I realized I had underestimated Korea. We walked by a trannie bar, where a woman with elbow cheeks and archway eyebrows tried to wave us through the door, and then, peeking into an Ethiopian pool hall, caused a man to run towards the door. I did not know either of these things existed in Korea. I do now.
       The next morning I left on the earliest train; the gargoyle talked until three in the morning about the exciting botanical gardens in some town, and how you can get the attendants to smile if you fumble through some Korean.  
Before going to Seoul, I thought all of Korea was like Disneyland. I was proven wrong. I also thought there were only four black people in the entire nation; I was proven wrong again.
        I missed the fast train--the KTX--because everyone in the City of Daejeon was trying to leave the city of Daejeon for the weekend. Luckily, I was traveling with a Korean I work with, and he explained everything to me. In a city with bars called Sexy bars where women in cardigans and turtlenecks with their arms crossed looking out the window do not get naked, and are paid to talk to you, I wasn't surprised so many people were trying to go somewhere that had actual fun. I was annoyed that I had to take the slow train, but it was only forty five minutes longer.
      The countryside of Korea looks like Nebraska after the corn has been harvested, and the only thing left are the broken stalks of yellow. The same highway wound around the same tilled fields and dilapidated houses. Chipped stucco blocks buckled at the seams beneath the flying buttresses of clay-tile pagodas, and the only color came in the form of a pile of metal carcasses stacked like beetle shells next to rusted oil barrels.  But despite that, there was a charm to the fields, and I'm sure that in summer they are something to see. But in the lull between winter and spring, they looked barren. Everyone slept, but me; I watched the scenery change from country to city, and was interested in the need for ticket takers to bow when they enter a car. They wear green blazers buttoned up over the abdomen, and white gloves that are creased and pressed, and they hold in their hand a modern credit card swiper in case they run into any fare jumpers. When they enter a car they smile, slap their hands to their sides, and bend at the waist pointing their eyes to the ground. At first I thought people were watching them, but the second time I realized, listening to the man behind me snoring like a lawnmower that won't start, no one was paying attention to them.
         There were a few naughty passengers on the train that jostled with a gentle gloved hand, and waved to the exit area. They woke up, rubbed their eyes, and then fell asleep between the cars.
         I reached Seoul after passing several cities that all looked the same, with the same billiard halls stacked above sexy bars, and the same spider web of catwalks and staircases coiling around the train stations. My friend sitting next to me joked that we might have never left Daejeon. For a second I was worried this was an elaborate joke, and we were, in fact still in Daejeon. But that would be ridiculous.
       After reaching Seoul, I met my friend Karl near the college part of town. The interesting thing about Seoul is they are not interested in white people or black people, or anyone foreigner. The streets are clogged with red beards, basketball shorts, football jerseys, baggy jeans, and all the other indicators of American culture. I saw five white people in the train station, and none of them smiled or waved to me. There are five white people in all of Daejeon, not counting myself.
       Seoul has more to see than Daejeon, and because of the large amount of Americans, and foreigners in general, the local residents seem jaded and indifferent. Karl and I walked around, ate, and began drinking. At night we went to Itiwon, the foreigner area of Seoul. A girl at the hostel we were staying at snorted at our choice of neighborhood.
      "You should go try to meet Koreans? Why would you come here not to meet Koreans?" she said hunched over a mug of tea, a rope of knotted-bones bulging out of the back of her v-neck sweater like the noose she hung fun with.
      "Okay, where do we meet Koreans?" Karl asked.
       "Well, they won't talk to you. I mean, it's not that they're rude, it's just a respect thing, because they don't know you."
      Itiwon was a confusing place. It's filled with frat boys, Ethiopians, and IT nerds. The bouncers wear flak jackets, and gangs of police roam the streets dressed up like Guile from the Streetfighter video games, or a legionnaire.  Karl and I, and a Korean named Dong Juan, who we rescued from the gargoyle at the hostel, decided to drink in the first bar we found on a side street. It had a fish tank with an inaccurate map of the world--Australia was near India---and a black and white mural of New York City set against the long wall above a row of booths. The room was set in a satin light that was pierced by a square from a thirteen inch television set in the back wall. The few stools were taken by old white men telling jokes that had the Korean bartenders slapping the counter. They looked as if they had just quit their jobs as public defenders and decided to go out for the night to celebrate. They were wore leather jackets and cowboy boots, and by the way they hugged the bartenders good bye, and didn't stumble I could tell they lived in the area. After a few beers, we decided to leave. And after a search of the neighborhood I realized I had underestimated Korea. We walked by a trannie bar, where a woman with elbow cheeks and archway eyebrows tried to wave us through the door, and then, peeking into an Ethiopian pool hall, caused a man to run towards the door. I did not know either of these things existed in Korea. I do now.
       The next morning I left on the earliest train; the gargoyle talked until three in the morning about the exciting botanical gardens in some town, and how you can get the attendants to smile if you fumble through some Korean.