Reporting in from Seoul, South Korea. I've flown here for the weekend--Halloween weekend--to visit my high school friend, Andrew Brenfoerder, who lives here now, and who has graciously lent me the floor of his 6x12 foot bedroom for a few days. Floors are almost always heated in Korea, though, I discovered, and so with some down comforters it makes for a cozy arrangement.
Tonight I'm on my own while Andrew is on a date. I decided to venture out from the Hongdae district where he lives--a yuppie, university neighborhood full of hip shops, cafes, knit scarves and skinny jeans that reminds me of Portland, Oregon--and try to find my way back to the Hong River, where we went for a run this afternoon. Specifically, I wanted to stop and see the shrine of some Korean martyrs set up there.
I got lost. The route takes you through a darker, less populated part of Seoul, and I couldn't find the open path through the maze of apartment complexes and convenience stores to the riverfront. Fortunately, I found a couple of coffee shops where I could stop to ask for directions. The first barista I tried spoke only one word of English: "Sorry." The second place I stopped, a brightly decorated spot that's reminiscent of a childhood nursery, the barista spoke only a few words more. But she tried her best. We scratched out some words on a pad of paper. A lightbulb went on. She took me outside and pointed down the street, making an arm-pumping walking motion: "you long (legged, I assumed). Maybe five minutes?" Then she bent her wrist to the left. "Left turn?" I asked. She nodded. "Hill," she said. "Church on the hill?" I asked. She nodded happily.
On my walk back from the shrine, my ankle started to hurt. I remembered turning it during my run earlier, and supposed that this was just delayed payoff. I decided to stop back at the nursery-land cafe for a rest.
That's where I am now, surveying the remains of a good cappuccino, and a "sweet pumpkin tart," which the barista worked very hard to be able to pronounce in English when I asked her about food.
It's chilly outside, but warm in here. I've got a whimsical, wonderful novel, The Once and Future King, with me. I'm lonely, but also happy. This weekend is All Hallows' Eve, one of my favorite times, a time to glut on ghosts and black cats and spells and skeletons and all things dark and macabre and spooky. Then to know that all these vanish as the sun rises on November 1, because we are not left alone.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Boulders to Sand
Transportation in the Philippines is like a jar of rocks. To fill every space, you start with boulders (if your jar is the aquarium at Sea World) or at least some decent stones, like David might have slung at Goliath. Call the boulders "airplanes" and the stones "buses." There are a couple of national discount airlines that hop around among the various domestic islands; or, if you want to take the ultra-cheap route, you can stick out your thumb for overnight bus trips.
Once you've got your boulders and stones in place, and once you've arrive at your city, you need something more targeted. You need some pebbles. Depending upon whether you want to pay for the shiny, tumble-polished variety, or just pick from among roadside debris, you'll either hail a taxi, or hop inside a Filipino innovation known as the "jeepney." A jeepney looks like a smallish 1950s single-wide chrome diner on wheels. You can find hives of them under highway bridges, or just wave at one on the street if it seems to be going in your general direction. Climb in through the open back and inside you'll find vinyl-upholstered benches lining the length of the vehicle on both sides. It's best to grab a seat near the rear if possible, because once thirty more people squeeze in with you, you'll find that exhaust fumes are better to breathe than nothing at all. Most jeepneys have names: for example, "Miranda," "Roadrunner," and "Jesus Christ."
After adding the pebbles and reached your area of town, it's time to really fill in the cracks. You need something small, something fine-tuned, something that really knows the neighborhood. You need sand; which is to say, you need a tricycle. In the Philippines, a trike (as they're usually called) is not a red peddle-pusher for kids. It's a small motorbike--decade-old Hondas and Kawasakis are most popular--with an enclosed sidecar attached. Riding in one of these is similar to being dragged down the street in a tin lunch box. Though their top speed is only about 30 mph, the only padding between your rump and the road is the single bike wheel to your right, and the soldered iron shell around you. That said, because the trikes can only run locally, the drivers know their neighborhoods backwards and forwards, and if you remember to negotiate a price before climbing in, they won't even be able to extort you.
So there you've got your jar of rocks: boulders, stones, pebbles, and sand. Its a haphazard blend, but strangely beautiful the way it all comes together.
Once you've got your boulders and stones in place, and once you've arrive at your city, you need something more targeted. You need some pebbles. Depending upon whether you want to pay for the shiny, tumble-polished variety, or just pick from among roadside debris, you'll either hail a taxi, or hop inside a Filipino innovation known as the "jeepney." A jeepney looks like a smallish 1950s single-wide chrome diner on wheels. You can find hives of them under highway bridges, or just wave at one on the street if it seems to be going in your general direction. Climb in through the open back and inside you'll find vinyl-upholstered benches lining the length of the vehicle on both sides. It's best to grab a seat near the rear if possible, because once thirty more people squeeze in with you, you'll find that exhaust fumes are better to breathe than nothing at all. Most jeepneys have names: for example, "Miranda," "Roadrunner," and "Jesus Christ."
After adding the pebbles and reached your area of town, it's time to really fill in the cracks. You need something small, something fine-tuned, something that really knows the neighborhood. You need sand; which is to say, you need a tricycle. In the Philippines, a trike (as they're usually called) is not a red peddle-pusher for kids. It's a small motorbike--decade-old Hondas and Kawasakis are most popular--with an enclosed sidecar attached. Riding in one of these is similar to being dragged down the street in a tin lunch box. Though their top speed is only about 30 mph, the only padding between your rump and the road is the single bike wheel to your right, and the soldered iron shell around you. That said, because the trikes can only run locally, the drivers know their neighborhoods backwards and forwards, and if you remember to negotiate a price before climbing in, they won't even be able to extort you.
So there you've got your jar of rocks: boulders, stones, pebbles, and sand. Its a haphazard blend, but strangely beautiful the way it all comes together.
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