Old in Seoul Part 1: There was so much left to do

I leave South Korea in 5 days. I can’t believe how much I’ll miss the amazing people, food, and culture. While my job here was difficult at times, I still learned a great deal about myself and the kind of work I want to do. Who would have guessed six months ago that I’d fall in love with Seoul and its wacky lifestyle? I certainly regret leaving so soon, but I know new adventures await me around the corner.

That’s what I wish I could say (maybe without the conceit). I wish these past months had been unequivocally adventurous, undoubtedly enlightening, but, frankly, my relationship with Seoul has been less straight forward than that. Without question, I’ve forged great friendships and experienced things most will never have the opportunity to. The good memories – watching the sun set while trapped on an island at high-tide, barbecuing burgers on the rooftop, learning a North Korean card game from a defector – are ones I’ll cherish. The bad memories – sickly shivering under three layers of jackets with no heating, wasting countless hours in a defunct non-profit organization, getting endlessly pushed around by old Koreans that just don’t give a shit – are also vivid. Life is rarely as binary. I don’t want to dwell too much on the negative, but I also want to give an accurate reflection of my past six months, triumphs and regrets included.

January and February were two of the most difficult months of my life. I arrived in South Korea with unrealistic expectations about my job and the country as a whole. Those expectations were quickly shattered, giving way to a feeling of escalating dread and the notion that the future was going to slowly chip away at my mental health. I had come to Seoul to improve the lives of North Korean defectors in any capacity I could. That was not the case when I arrived at my job. Within the first week, I was already without much work in a dark, windowless basement. By the end of my second week, I understood that the organization was bringing about almost no good, if any at all. After the first month, the friends I had made started leaving, initiating the never-ending cycle of interns coming and going. February ended on an especially low note, as one of the ex-interns, a colleague of mine who I respected, published an 8000-word diatribe against the organization. The blog was vengeful, scurrilous, and largely true. Regardless of my opinion of the writer or his work, any environment that would produce such intense criticism from one of its own is obviously toxic. From that day forward, I considered my work an outright obligation rather than a positive opportunity.

Outside the professional world, I was cold. Cold in the office, at home, and on the subway. It was inescapable. My landlord didn’t want us to run the floor heating (in Korea, most heating radiates from under the floorboards) because it was too expensive. Under that unrelenting chill and the “exotic” germs of Korea, I became sick as a dog, and not for the last time. At the grocery store, I was lost. Everything I would normally cook was either grossly costly (I still shutter at the price of ground beef) or simply unavailable. Although I love Korean food, I could barely speak a word of Korean or determine what I was even buying. Socially, the friends I had made at work were on their way out the door and my supposed share-house apartment was empty, save for my ever-present landlord who had set up his 24/7 work station right outside my bedroom door. I felt I had been duped, lied to by my boss, my landlord, South Korea, and myself. It's a feeling I never was able to shake. Thankfully, March eventually rolled around, and with it came friends, a bit of cultural acceptance, a better attitude, and warmth, blessed warmth.  

No matter how brave, charismatic, or well-traveled you may be, navigating life in a different country is infinitely easier with people around you. As the university semester neared, Seoul, and my apartment, started to gain some life. The house began to fill at the end of February, and by mid-March we were a solid eight in the apartment. South Korea, as part of its communal culture, is meant to be experienced as a group, and I was grateful to have some company. My roommates would ultimately become my best friends in Korea. We’ve spent nearly every day with each other without biting each other’s heads off (quite a feat, if you ask me). Together, we’ve done everything Seoul has to offer and bonded in the metaphorical foxhole of being foreigners in a strange place. Although my life at work never turned around, I found a comfortable place with the people and city around me.   

With better weather came the opportunity to explore Seoul. Picnics sprouted up in the park, hikers covered the mountains, and Hongdae was ablaze 4 nights a week; the city was livelier in the Spring, or at least more live-able. After the initial hump, I settled into Korean life, learning how to order food without making a fool of myself and adopting mannerism like the respectful gesture for handing over money. Looking back now, it’s humorous how daunting the bright, Hangul riddled street of Seoul seemed when I first arrived. I’d walk around thinking the city to be an alien planet. Now, the buildings and smells and fashions feel natural. It was also around this time that I was presented an opportunity to leave Seoul. Tensions with North Korea were coming to a head as headlines teased the possibility of conflict. Naturally, my parents were, to say the least, interested in relocating me at the earliest convenience, and Northeastern was allowing students in Korea to end their internships early. Despite the unsatisfactory work and the looming threat of nuclear Armageddon, I didn't want to leave. I'd just settled in. I'd found a life in Seoul. Leaving would have meant all that hardship at the beginning was for nothing, and I simply couldn't accept that. In retrospect, I'm proud and appreciative of the decision I made; there was so much left to do.

Seoul's Public Breakups

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A Log of Things - Seoul's Public Breakups

They stood just beside the main thoroughfare of Hongdae station, Seoul’s student capital. She was crying, head hanging down like a wilting flower. He appeared ready to have the whole ordeal over with. Together, they were dressed for an afternoon of shopping and selfies. There was no yelling or a kiss goodbye, only solemn acceptance. He had the tact to give back the gimbap she had made for him that morning. A final token of their relationship. Then it was over.

The first time I saw a couple breaking up publicly in Korea, I was amused. The fifth time, I was curious. Each breakup followed a distinct pattern: a couple apparently primed to spend an afternoon together, a public space like a subway station or teeming street, a seeming indifference for their location, a dejected and crying girl, and an apathetic looking guy. This scene has replayed itself enough that we’ve created a game out of spotting it. Back, on your right, we’ve got a crier. It sounds awful, laughing at people going through a heartbreaking moment, but there’s an element to these breakups that feels like a stage play. An all too common and melodramatic stage play at that. I wanted to know why a soon-to-be-single student would choose the most public place imaginable to end a relationship and why they each conjure a sense of déjà vu?

Economics is the first culprit behind the rash of busker breakups. Renting an apartment in Korea is a monumental task, often requiring an initial deposit in the tens of thousands of dollars. That barrier to entry is simply too much for recent graduates. Considering Korean college graduates face a rigidly competitive job market, only the best and brightest (those with the highest test scores) get career jobs out of school. The rest, they live with their parents, maybe into their 30s. 60% of graduates in their 20s still live with their folks, almost double the rate in the USA.

With no place to co-habitate, Koreans take to the streets, cafes, motels, and DVD rooms to spend alone time with their significant others. Couples sip Caffe Bene coffee at 3 A.M. or sing karaoke at a norehbang until the sun comes up, avoiding the responsibilities and demands of living at home. So, you’re young, dissatisfied with your relationship, and have nowhere “safe” to break it off, what do you do? Rent a private DVD room? Well that’s a waste of 10,000 won. Go to a quiet park? That’s far too discreet. In the eyes of a romance-addled twenty-something, there’s only one option: on a busy path, right between H&M and that decent Vietnamese restaurant.

As a location, public grounds are a curious but understandable selection, but what about the theatrics? The splitting lovers make no effort to hide the situation by going into the nearest alley. In fact, they seem to revel in the spectacle. My theory, and it is only a theory, is twofold. First, K-Dramas, as a form of media, have pierced into the zeitgeist, creating the common emulation of what is seen on screen. Second, Korean culture is obsessed with outward perception: how things look rather than how they are. The two are related, reinforcing one another’s importance to Koreans at large.

The typical Korean Drama TV show is discernible by a few recurring trends. They are typically around 20 episodes long at an hour per episode. They feature sagas of youthful love between attractive leads. They end in hyper-emotional scenes that seem laughable when translated into English. These K-Dramas create unrealistic expectations about relationships and single-handedly drive the culture of dating. Restaurants and parks can become famous overnight if seen in a popular series. Ramen, coffee, and electronics brands are also blatantly product placed. K-Dramas are essentially a brochure for what young Koreans want to be eating and drinking and who they want to be dating. Obviously, this phenomenon is not unique to Korea, but it is valuable to understand that K-Dramas permeate through the culture.

The soon-to-be former couple that is awkwardly having a serious, emotional experience, then, is subconsciously influenced by the media content they consume. Given their general idolization of the Korean media landscape – K-pop singers are referred to as idols, so the use of “idolization” seems appropriate in this instance – and that their favorite drama star recently had a breakup, it doesn’t seem too far a stretch that an impressionable couple would choose to be emulative in their separation. Whether we like it or not, we are all affected by what we watch and read; it just so happens that Koreans gravitate toward the dramatic.

For better or worse, appearance is important in South Korea. The beauty industry is the most common example, where cosmetic shops are a dime a dozen and rejuvenating facemasks are a dozen a dime. However, the beauty culture is more than just makeup and lotions. South Koreans undergo more plastic surgery – primarily double eyelid and nose-job procedures – than anyone else in the world. Roughly one-third to one-fifth of Korean women have had at least one procedure done. The country largely prescribes to one idea of beauty, and so young, aspirational Koreans are willing to go to any length to meet that idea.

The workplace is also subject to this appearance oriented atmosphere. Employees are encouraged, if not outright mandated, to work excessive hours of overtime. From a Korean boss’ perspective, working more is equivalent to being a better employee, regardless of efficiency. To stay late and spend the whole day messaging friends is valued more than completing work in a timely manner and clocking out. In 2015, South Koreans managed to work almost 400 more hours than the OECD average in 2015 (2,114 to 1,749) while earning 15 fewer dollars of GDP per hour worked ($31.8 to 46.8). The data fits the narrative: work more, do less.

The Samsung salary-man who spent 80 hours behind his computer this week, the high-school-aged student who got a double eyelid surgery as her gradation present, the newly ex-girlfriend quietly sobbing as thousands pass her by; these people are interconnected. They are indicative of the greater culture of showmanship in South Korea. The couple on the street, unintentionally and through no fault of their own, is engaged in some sort of voyeuristic display to the world of a “bona fide” breakup. They want to know that other people know of their grief. It begs the question: If no one is around to see your breakup, did it actually even happen?

South Korea is a country of its own devices, remaining fairly insulated, both ethnically and behaviorally, for going-on a thousand years. There are some things, living here, that I can't just rationalize, but I don't want to indict Koreans. There's nothing wrong with breaking up in the subway or getting plastic surgery. However, I do find these breakups to be symptomatic of the culture's peculiarities and, perhaps, negative traits. Beauty, honesty, privacy, and narrow-mindedness are all concepts I have battled with in Korea, and the veneer of the roadside breakup is simply another vehicle through which discuss these topics. Take what you will from this post, but please, next time you decide to end a relationship, do it where you won't block traffic.   

A Not-So-Comprehensive Review of Gimbap Varieties

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A Log of Things - Gimbap Varieties

As you may know, kimchi is the life-blood of Korea. It’s eaten at almost every meal; breakfast, lunch, or dinner, it doesn’t matter. Koreans live and die by kimchi. But, there’s a second, equally important type of food that is too often overlooked: the delicious, discounted delicacy that is gimbap.

Gimbap is Korea's version of sushi, whether they'll admit it or not. In its most basic form, gimbap is an assortment of vegetables (carrots, burdock roots, radishes, etc.), meats (spam, imitation crab, tuna), and other ingredients (egg and cheese) wrapped in sticky rice, wrapped in roasted seaweed. Specialty gimbap can include kimchi and various meats, spices, and sauces. It’s delicious, nutritious(?), and extraordinarily affordable at any convenience store or restaurant. A full sized gimbap is enough for a filling lunch and costs, at maximum, $2.00.

I’d say I eat gimbap four, maybe five times a week. At this point, I consider myself an expert on the dish, a connoisseur, if you will. The smells, the tastes, the performance of the different wooden chopsticks, I know it all. To pass on some of this vast knowledge, I’ve taken it upon myself to review a variety of gimbap flavors and styles. This short review series is not complete and certainly not comprehensive. To fully understand the intricacies of convenience store gimbap takes time and focus. Still, take this as an opportunity to learn about an exotic culture's cuisine.

First, a few definitions

• Bulgogi: Marinated beef strips
• Chamchi: Tuna
• Kimchi: Salted and fermented vegetables, usually cabbage. Staple of Korean cuisine.
• Konbini: Convivence stores
• Tonkatsu: Fried pork cutlet
• 7-11: Same as the 7-11 in the U.S. of A. My personal favorite chain of konbinis because they’re cheap, clean, and the guy working at the one down the street is always nice to me.
• CVS for U: Widely known as just CU, this is CVS’ foray into the Korean convenience store market. They are newer and have a unique selection of gimbap.
• GS25: The third konbini of the “big three” chains. I’d consider GS to be the ugly stepchild of konbinis. 

Tonkatsu Gimbap (CU)

• Has a sweet, flavorful sauce akin to the Big Mac sauce at McDonalds. Vegetables play second-fiddle to the pork
• Tonkatsu adds a much-needed texture, great for mouth feel
• 2500 Won (~$2.00) is on the expensive side, but it’s probably worth the premium cost

      Verdict: A solid 7/10

Chamchi Gimbap (Gimbap Chong-guk)

• Has a different taste than the convenience store gimbaps, but that’s not necessarily to its benefit
• The vegetables are noticeably fresher
• The rice is as dry as West Texas
• No wow factor whatsoever

      Verdict: 4/10

Chamchi Gimbap from (7-11)

• As vanilla as they come but still the old standby of Korean gimbap
• Calories per won, it simply cannot be beat
• Arguably, these are flavorless hunks of rice, tuna, and seaweed

      Verdict: Perfectly average, 5/10

Bulgogi Gimbap (GS25)

• GS25 gimbaps have a superior seaweed wrap
• Bulgogi, as a protein, is not the best introduction to gimbap. It’s flavor does not meld well with the vegetables.
• The rice left room to be desired. A lot of room
• I added some kimchi on top, excellent idea on my part

      Verdict: Boring 4/10

      With added kimchi: 7/10

      Brilliance of adding kimchi: 11/10

Original Gimbap (CU)

• Nothing is added for flavor or texture. Perfect if you love the taste of rice.
• Essentially just calories at this point
• Waste of a good gimbap opportunity

      Verdict: calories/10

Spicy Pork Gimbap (CU)

• Brings the perfect amount of spiciness. It’ll leave you sweating but not yet regretting your decision to eat more gimbap.
• It’s common knowledge that pork is far superior than beef in gimbap
• Everything a konbini gimbap should be: tasty, spicy, and full of calories

      Verdict: 8/10

Original Sesame (Noodle place downstairs that is never open when you want it to be)

• Sesame adds a welcome sweetness
• As with other non-konbini gimbaps, has an undeniable fresh taste. Like eating your first strawberry after a month of only Jacked 3D Jalapeño Pepper Jack Doritos^TM
• Kimchi would be an excellent addition

      Verdict: 7/10

Hot pepper gimbap (CU)

• Hot pepper adds a unique, mushy consistency to gimbap
• The pepper has a good burn. The burn helps you ignore the fact that you’ve eaten gimbap for 12 days straight and your body is starting to hate you.
• Something solid or a protein would go a long way with this one

      Desperation level: Tom Hanks in Cast Away

Bonus: Tonkatsu Burger (CU)

• 90% bun
• With more meat, sauce, and lettuce, it might actually be edible
• Perfect dessert after a delicious gimbap

      Verdict: 4/10

      Korean-ness: 10/10

For better writing than my own

At this point, it would be a charade to consider this a travel blog. Instead of walking you through the five different types of kimbap I ate this week (which I am most certainly doing next week!), I'd rather share the things I enjoy reading. The internet houses a million and one articles to read, most of which are written by angsty college students like myself to show what great writers they are. Not so, with the list before you!

Long-form journalism is, in my opinion, an underappreciated form of writing. For the uninitiated, long-form writing is generally exceeds 1,000 words but wouldn't fill a full novel. Journalists spend months or years working on single stories, crafting countless hours of research into a commute's read. While not as instantly shareable as headline articles or as thorough as complete books, they provide a digestible medium for the world’s most fascinating topics. Your favorite documentary or “based on a true story” movie probably has a long-form writer to thank for originally reporting the story. Organizations like The New Yorker or Atavist are treasure-troves of engrossing and informative writing that deserve more attention. In case you are dubious of my claims, I’ve compiled a list of some of journalism's best pieces from a variety of sources. It’s a mix of exposés, tragic tales, and unbelievable people. My hope is that you’ll find something that piques your interest and dive right in. If you don’t see anything you like or are interested in more, I’d highly recommend checking out sites like Longform.org or Longreads.com for massive collections of stories sort-able by genre. Check 'em out and let me know what you think, links are below the titles.

The Interpreter by John Colapinto

The New Yorker

Unequivocally, The Interpreter is the most thought-provoking piece of journalism I’ve ever read. It follows the life and work of linguist Dan Everett as he combats long-standing beliefs about language. The article primarily focuses on the Pirahã, a remote Amazonian tribe that, among other things, does not use numbers, colors, or the past tense in their language. To them, people and things simply leave existence when not visible, like a toddler without object permanence. The Pirahã have proven to be a contentious point of discussion between academic linguists who are mystified by facets of the Amazonian people's language. By the end, John Colapinto has you doubting the idea of the color blue while simultaneously reinforcing a certain level of universal humanity. 

Everett himself, having lived with the Pirahã for over 25 years, becomes a central character in the story. Originally being sent to the Amazon as a missionary, he begins to question the structures of academia, the concept of perception, and even his own faith. Everett fights his whole life against established institutions, cutting through the B.S. with logic and an unwavering commitment to truth. He's the academic we all want to be: a modern India Jones without the rolling boulders or cannibals. I’d recommend The Interpreter to anyone and everyone, if for no other reason than as a conversation piece – I know I talk about the Pirahã at every chance I get. 

Sunk by Mitch Moxley

Atavist

This multi-media article describes the harrowing production of a 140-million-dollar Chinese blockbuster that never was. Driven by the insanity of a Chinese real-estate billionaire, Empires of the Deep was supposed to be China’s first foray into the Hollywood-style epic, complete with ambitious underwater battle scenes and top of the line CGI. Instead, the 10-year production (it still hasn’t been released) was plagued with financial problems, a revolving door of writers and directors, and constant cultural clashes between the Chinese crew and Western actors. The saga even includes a daring escape by the film’s lead actress, fleeing from set by sneaking out her window and wading across a river. 

As someone living in Asia, I couldn’t help but relate with many of the people who worked on Empires. My favorite part of the story involves the director joking telling the crew to build a wall to cover up some unsightly hotels, only to arrive on set the next to a massive partition. More than anything, Sunk displays the cultural and communicative differences that continue to seperate East and West. Even without the cultural overtones, though, Sunk is still an excellent and hilarious dive (pun intended) into how not to make a movie. Check it out if you want a few laughs and/or cringes.

Inside the Hunt for the World’s Most Notorious Hacker by Garrett M. Graff

Wired

Evgeniy Bogachev, AKA Slavik in the cyber community, was a hacker of unprecedented power that, up until his capture, enjoyed complete anonymity. Inside the Hunt tracks the continent-crossing investigation into Slavik’s widespread network of hackers. The read often feels like a cat and mouse Hollywood flick, with the world’s best cyber-specialists battling it out on both sides of the law. FBI forces spend months planning advanced sting operations on Slavik’s system of “zombie” computers, only to be thwarted time and time again by layers of unexpected defenses. The hacker was, in fact, the founder of the industry leading encryption software, making him and extraordinarily cunning target. Eventually a specialized team is formed to uncover Slavik's secrets end his reign of terror. Although the article is highly technical, the story behind the chase is more than enough reason to pick this one up, and as a bonus for anyone curious about the recent global cyber-security attack, it also explains in detail how ransomware attacks operate. 

Confessions of an Ivy League Frat Boy: Inside Dartmouth’s Hazing Abuses by Janet Reitman

Rolling Stone

Long-form writing isn’t always as glamorous as a grand hunt for a world-renowned hacker. No, sometimes writers like Janet Reitman tackle issues a lot closer to home. Confessions of an Ivy League Frat Boy is not a fun read. It chronicles the woes of fraternity life through the eyes of a participatory student. Andrew Lohse was a fairly typical frat-boy at Dartmouth, one of the most prestigious and selective universities in the U.S. Dartmouth is known for two things: producing captains of industry and facilitating an extensive Greek life. The article states that half of all students at the New Jersey university are in fraternities and sororities. 

At Dartmouth, Lohse is dragged through a nearly diabolical initiation into one of the school’s fraternities. The “pledges” are forced to drink inordinate amounts of alcohol, preform menial tasks for the “brothers”, and, at one point, are told to swim in a pool of human feces and vomit. Lohse, after being kicked-out of the fraternity, takes it upon himself to expose the system for what it is: a breeding ground for intolerant alcoholics that will one day run the country. However, not all is what it seems. As the story unfolds, it becomes apparent that Lohse is not quite the good-guy he portrays himself. Confessions is a disgusting and revealing read about modern American higher education, check it out.

Scaling the World’s Most Lethal Mountain in the Dead of Winter by Michael Powell

TheNew York Times

In Scaling the World’s Most Lethal Mountain, we get to step into the world of competitive high-altitude climbing, and if there’s one thing I gleaned from Michael Powell’s story, it’s that Poles are crazy, crazy people. Prepping for the first ever winter climb of K2, the world’s second tallest and most dangerous mountain, Polish expert climber Krzysztof Wielicki is establishing his crack team of professionals. On average, someone dies during every climb of K2, and no one has ever made a summit during winter months. The feat remains the last true challenge in the world of extreme climbing. The article goes beyond just the singular climb, though, by examining the greater culture of climbing in Poland. Poles have been at the forefront of the climbing community since its inception with no real reason beyond extraordinary commitment. In fact, many of the climbers in the story are normal people, bakers and mechanics. What drives them is nothing more than an intense love of climbing and the never-ending fear of death.  

The Friend: Love is Not a Big Enough Word by Matthew Teague

Esquire

"Before this is over," she said, "you will long for it to end.

Never, I said.

The Friend: Love is Not a Big Enough Word is about a man watching his wife die and the friend who came to his side during the worst of it. I don't know what to say beyond: this is a hard read. This isn't The Fault in our Stars kind of sickness; this is real, slow, painful, disgusting death. Matthew Teague  

recounts the hardest events of his life with the clarity and honesty of a confessional. His reactions to his wife's deterioration are at times harsh, but by the end of the read, you've got nothing but sympathy for him, his kids, and Dane, the Friend. 

Long-form writing is all about telling stories. Most of the time, they are exciting investigations or wacky adventures. Matthew Teague's story is anything but that; it's excruciating. There's no agenda in his writing and maybe even no lesson to be learned besides one of friendship. However, it should be read. It's more truly human than anything than you've watched or read in years.   

The Mastermind by Evan Ratliff

Atavist

Alright, buckle in for this one; it’s a seven-part, multi-media article of novel length. The Mastermind follows a variety of stories, from the murder of a Filipino real-estate agent to the foundation of the gold-standard encryption tool, to tell the saga of Paul Le Roux, the most powerful criminal kingpin you’ve never heard of. I don’t want to spoil too much of this one; the intrigue lies in the unbelievable twists and turns and unforgettable characters. The article (not even if can still be called that) is more akin to a podcast like Serial than a traditional piece of journalism. Evan Ratliff talks through the events of his research even as he receives new information, resulting in an on-the-fly feel that leaves you hungry for more. 

The Mastermind is everything investigative journalism should be. It's a story of massive size and scope, obviously the result of thousands of hours of investigation, boiled down into bite sized chunks of excellent writing. If you have a few hours to kill or just want to read some damn-fine reporting, Atavist’sThe Mastermind is perfect for you.

French Indo-Korea

I have to issue an apology to anyone who has been waiting for a blog post for a solid two weeks now. A mixture of illness, lack of interesting content, and good old fashioned laziness have kept me from away from the keyboard. I've been rationalizing the tardiness by saying it’s better not to post than to post lackluster writing. Whether that's true, I'm not too sure. If anyone would like me to write about a specific topic or aspect of my life, please let me know. I'm always open to suggestions. 

The girls. Left to Right: Neama, Lola, Ibtihal, Bérénice, Capucine

Perhaps more than anything else, my time in South Korea has been defined by the people I live with. Capucine, Neama, Ibti, Bere, Lola, Andre, and Dongryeong. All accounted for, there are three Frenchies, two Moroccans, one German, one Korean, and, of course, one American. As I’ve mentioned before, the Moroccan girls grew up in French speaking schools and attend French universities, so for simplicity’s sake, they are French-Moroccan. I only emphasize their Frenchness to fully portray the completeness with which France has invaded my daily life. 

It’s a funny thing, moving all the way to Asia only to have French culture dominate what I hear, see, and taste. I haven’t decided whether that's regrettable, typical for foreign students, or a lucky happenstance. My time in Seoul has been far less "Korean" that I originally imagined. Does that mean I didn't fully experience Korea or that I wasted my time here? I certainly don't think so, but I can already imagine the conversations when I return, where my stories of Korea will be curiously laden with baguettes and bad French pop music. But, that's the way it goes, so instead of reflecting on my Korean life, I thought it would be more authentic to reflect on my French one.

Our polaroid wall

Buddha's Birthday

The most obvious point of assault is language. French voices account for the majority of what I hear on a daily basis. “Ça va?” is much more common in our apartment than “How are you?”.  At this point, I vacillate between a great respect and an inordinate disdain for the French language. It truly is beautiful at times, with a rich history and fascinating usage. However, I don’t speak French and, accordingly, can't share in its benefits. As punishment, I am forced to regularly sit in rooms full of nasally laughter without having the slightest clue of what’s going on. Andre and I, in efforts to avoid this cluelessness, often have our own conversations across tables or rooms. The frustration goes both ways, though. The plethora of French speakers often have to speak my mother tongue, despite being in the large majority.

Food, as is the French way, is the next infestation. I believe the girls only made it a week before hosting a crêpe night. The Frenchies take great pride in their food, and I have thoroughly enjoyed the benefits of that pride. My diet has become a hodgepodge of American, Korean, and French foods. Thanks to visits from Capucine and Lola’s parents, our fridge is stocked with odorous cheeses, champagne from Champagne, and the spreadable meat/fat concoctions that are pâté, rillettes, and terrine (I still don’t know the difference but, apparently, all terrine are pâté but not all pâté are terrine). Writing this, I am reminded of the potent smell that seems to accompany everything the French eat. Also, I would like to shout out saucisson for being the best cured meat product I've had since my dad's famous "deer sticks".

Enjoying Spring in Seoul

I thought I had escaped the madness that is political elections after I left the U.S. 4 months ago. Two years of grueling elections had left America, me included, absolutely exhausted. Little did I know that France – and Korea for that matter – was in the middle of its own presidential election. Although not as vitriolic as our own, the French election brought its own brand of fascinating politics, with international implications and scandals galore. The names of candidates – Macron, Le Pen, Melenchon, Lassalle – were commonplace enough in my apartment that I might possibly be able to correctly pronounce Emmanuel Macron’s name. Possibly. Each week, I'd bother the girls for recent news or their opinions of the candidates. I have to say, sitting on the outside as a witness makes politics remarkably more enjoyable. With no skin in the game, there's no reason to live in perpetual fear. Now that the dust has settled, I am once again without polls to check incessantly or headlines to read. I’m not sure how I’ll survive...

One thing I’ve come to realize over the past few years is how completely separate media consumption is between cultures. Obviously, French people watch French T.V. and movies, but it’s always a strange to me when they don’t know Stevie Ray Vaughn or have never seen Saturday Night Live. The lack of overlap means I am in a constant state of astonishment. I can't tell you the number of times I've said, "Wait, you haven't seen that?!?" after I make a reference to The Office or something similar. For every important American figure or piece of media they don’t know, there’s two French equivalents I would never have heard of otherwise. For every Jon Stewart there’s a Yann Barthès, and for every Breakfast Club there’s a Qu'est-ce qu'on a fait au Bon Dieu? We all live in these little bubbles of entertainment that shape our collective conscious, and now my bubble, for better or worse, has grown to include French reality T.V., racist comedies, and cult classics from the 90’s. In my limited experience, I think this entertainment gap accounts for just a much cultural diversity as language or cuisine. It's the nitty-gritty of who we are, or in other words, the stories, music, and art that define how we think and feel. Learning about the intricacies of these cultural identities is probably my favorite aspect of living abroad. It's exciting to know that there's this abundance of unknown things to read, watch, and listen to. 

Regardless of how much time I spend idly listening to French conversations or complaining about silly French idiosyncrasies, I want to express my gratitude towards my French companions in Seoul. Thanks for taking the time to explain the entirety of French politics to me, thanks for feeding me your most prized French delicacies, thanks for translating jokes ten minutes after they were funny. Most of all, Lola, Bérénice, Neama,  Ibtihal, and Capucine, I'd like to thank y'all for welcoming me into your culture. 

As always, thanks for reading. I promise I'll try to keep it more Korean next time! 

-JCP

The inevitable lazy post

I won't keep you long. I've been under the weather the past few days despite the gorgeous weather we've been having here. Unable to get the creative juices flowing - not to mention lucid thought - I don't have a complete post to share. Instead, I'm just going to share some pictures from around Seoul. Thanks for sticking around; we'll return to our regularly scheduled programming next week.

-JCP

Baseball dreams

The boy captain of Seoul

The lady of the fake lake

The butcher

The yin and yang

I only had to wait half an hour for this photo

Sunday vibes

"Don't press the button all the way down yet"

Because Capu messed up the first one

The monochrome of Seoul

Just a man, his beers, and his birds

Tokyo Travels (part two)

Rather than try to make a cohesive story out of my week in Japan, the next two(?) blogs are going to be broken up into smaller pieces. I’m going to devote a section to each of the areas of the city I liked most.

Akihabara:

If you were to conjure up an image of Tokyo in your head, you’d be envisaging Akihabara’s Electric Town. The gigantic towers of neon play host to Japan’s largest arcades and smallest boutique anime shops. You’ll find the capsule-toy dispensing vending machines known as gachapons lining the streets and images of scantily clad anime characters covering the walls and a dizzying number of tiny eight-seat eateries and electronics markets of impossible variety and a slew of women dressed as servants ushering you into the closest maid café and endless arcades blasting what I could only describe as “noise” at ear-shattering volumes. It’s overwhelming, to say the least.

An arcade in Akihabara

I wouldn’t say I did all that much in Akihabara. Simply being there is enough to exhaust the most energized travel. I enjoyed most of my time as a spectator, soaking up the bizarre at every turn. I spent a whole 20 minutes listening in on a collector’s phone call as he made bids for the rare Star Wars figurines he found in a random store’s fourth floor basement. For another half hour, I watched kids in the arcade play these circle rhythm games, something akin to music conducting, with specially designed gloves. It’s the easiest place in the world to get lost, but you’ll marvel at every minute.

Akihabara is the mecca of one corner of Japanese culture. It’s the result of combining every fringe aspect of society in a pot, adding a good helping of pachinko machines, turning the burner to eleven, and then letting the pot overflow. I was no more than a bewildered onlooker, but I want to stress that Electric Town does not define the whole of Tokyo. The city of 13 million is diverse beyond belief, and to consider Akihabara as the capital of culture would be a great disservice.  

Yasukuni Shrine:

Ever wanted to support a far-right Japanese political party that does not acknowledge WWII war crimes? Well come on down to Yasukuni Shrine and museum, located just northeast of Ichigaya station! Yasukuni was constructed during the Meiji restoration of the mid-19^th century to commemorate the lives of fallen soldiers, but after World War Two, the shrine fell into controversy after the Shinto priests interned convicted war criminals. Since then, the site has become a point of contention for the Korean and Chinese governments. They claim that the shrine defends the Japanese militaristic aggression and colonization of the 20^th century. Regardless, the gorgeous building and gardens draw thousands of tourists and locals every day.

While I obviously don’t want to make oversimplified statements about a political situation I have limited familiarity with, the museum at Yasukuni presents the most biased, dangerous, and above all, shocking account of the second world war I have ever seen. Before I go any further, though, I want to make it clear that what I saw in the museum is not a reflection of the Japanese population at large, only the ideas of a small, radical, and nationalistic subset.

A plaque outside the museum described the peculiar sentiment that is echoed inside. It’s dedicated to the Justice who defended the Japanese war criminals after the war. The Indian judge has gained a certain celebrity in Japan for his unwavering commitment to “justice”. The inside is just as astonishing as the exterior. What starts as a jaunt through old samurai armor and historical weapons quickly turns into a revisionist nightmare. The exhibits paint Japanese hostility as a necessary inevitability, where the massacre of the Chinese city Nanjing is disregarded simply as the “China incident” and the bombing of pearl harbor is described as a victim’s retaliation. The tour is also filled with letters from kamikaze pilots and widowed mothers exalting the patriotic bravery of soldiers.  

Yasukuni Gardens

The entire facility is a bit eerie yet simultaneously fascinatig, an illustration of national pride run amuck. I’d highly recommend forking over the three dollars for admission, even if it means helping fascists stock their gift shop with Japanese imperial flags. Gotta give and take, right?

Odaiba:

Without a doubt, visiting an onsen was the best part of my trip. For those of you who are unaware, onsen are traditional hot spring baths that serve as the Japanese equivalent of a spa. The particular onsen I chose, however, was some amalgam of spa, theme park, restaurant, and tea house. As you would imagine, it was a fantasy-land of Japanese culture specifically designed for my enjoyment (well, at least for the enjoyment of people like me).

Some festival prizes

The Tea Room

I walked into the massive complex that is Odaiba Onsen around 9:30 on a Wednesday morning –not the most happening time at the bathhouse. Naturally, everyone is required to take off their shoes first thing. So before even being able to speak with an employee, I put my sneakers in a locker and grabbed the key which was wrapped around one of those coiled shoelace bracelets. Key #1. From there, I was directly given a second locker key with an attached plastic barcode and a yukata, a light, cotton kimono worn at onsen. Key #2.

Men and women split ways after the lobby, so I headed on into the men’s room to change. I was a bit nervous at this point that the onsen would disappoint. The main entrance looked like a defunct hotel from the 1990’s and the changing room could have been plucked from any Texas high school’s football locker-room. However, I had just been given a badass, Samurai-Champloo-esk outfit, so I stashed all my stuff, fumbled around with my yukata for 20 minutes not knowing how to tie it, and stepped into the onsen proper.

Whether it was a gimmick or not, the ancient festival scenery blew me away. The building was designed to mimic a lantern-lit carnival in the Edo period of Japan. Games, food stands, performances, and peddlers lined the “streets” in an odd hodgepodge of artificiality and authenticity. Here, families, couples, and lonely white tourists could eat, drink, and take in the sights. In the center stood a lantern-draped tower and a performance stage crowded with cardboard anime figures. The juxtaposition was off-putting but also charming: only in Japan could anime posters be situated in front an historical backdrop feel appropriate.

The Onsen Tower, sorry it's so dark

Through another set of locker-rooms stood the actual, sex-divided hot springs. I was given two towels and another locker for my yukata before heading in. Key #3. Like most traditional saunas or hot springs, onsen typically don’t allow clothing in the baths, so I ditched my skivvies before following a group of elderly gentlemen inside. The springs, again, surprised me. Walking in, on the left were 30 or so seated shower stations where guests first wash up. Around the room were eight or so large, jacuzzi type baths of varying temperature. Along the far wall were private massage rooms (at an extra cost) and a sauna. There was also an outdoor area with an additional set of sun-drenched baths. I was especially partial to the Micro Nano Bath, whatever that is supposed to mean.

Besides the baths, I spent the rest of my Treat-Yo-Self morning eating Katsudon, drinking tea, playing festival games, and generally grinning like an idiot. It was great: a mini vacation in the middle of my vacation. However, at around 1:00 in the afternoon, I had to hang up my hat – in this case return the assortment of key-bracelets I’d been given –  and convince myself to leave.

More to follow in part 3

-JCP