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.
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