Kicking the Bucket

"Jennifer, can I talk to for a minute?" my new director Jackie asked me towards the end of last week. When I followed her out to the foyer and the receptionists's chair, she continued. "We need to talk about your last day, so we can renew your contract and submit it to the immigration office to extend your visa."

I was taken aback for a moment, surprised at the suddenness of my director's request. Her first official day on the job had been just three days prior--and already she was aggressively tackling a legal issue I had been waiting to resolve for three weeks. "Let's discuss that a moment," I paused. It wasn't that I was hesitant to leave Korea, just that I was amazed that the time had finally come.

The moment I started to ask, Teacher Chloe deftly pulled a calendar from her desk and we began pouring over it. I knew I'd be leaving for a friend's party in the States come the middle of August, but I didn't want to start a new month and a new semester just to have to leave one week later. The three of us studied the graphic a moment before settling on a date: July 31, 2011. At just over four months away, that wouldn't give me much time.

Since I'm unsure if I'll ever have a chance to come back to the Land of the Morning Calm, I've compiled a Korean Bucket List--what I call my ADHBF: Adventures to Have Before Flying Off. My goal is to spend what's left of spring and all of summer exploring. If I devote two weekends a month to the project until I leave, I just might accomplish it all!

***

Moham 모험: Adventure

Korean Bucket List

Attend one of Matt's bi-monthly game nights in Chungju.

Eat dog. At least once.

Experience a cat cafe (where they let you pet them, not EAT them).

Fly or ferry to one of Korea's subtropical islands for the weekend.

Have a conversation in Korean with someone other than in the market or a taxi.

Hike Bukhansan Mountain.

Step foot onto Dokdo, Korea's hotly contested island shard in the East Sea (Sea of Japan).

Take the Chungju Ferry to Danyang.

Tour the DMZ.

Watch the sunrise from Korea's East Coast.

Visit another of Korea's national parks.

Egg Droop Soup

For some time now I have quietly marveled at the profusion of eggs in this country: routinely sold by the three dozen in industrial-sized square blocks with egg-shaped plastic coverings and twine tying it all up like a present, for ease of carriage. Not only are they so abundant on grocery store shelves, they are just as numberless in Korean cuisine. They appear in anything from the topping on bokumpap, to a hard-boiled side dish for famous Korean noodles. You even find them resting on the side of the road to be used for a street stand's frying batter.

Sometimes the eggs you are served come with runny yolks, as is regularly the case with bibimpap. The agassi brings out your steel bowl filled with slices of carrots and cucumber, crumbles of meat and kim, and usually a heaping pile of steamed bean sprouts, all strategically balanced atop a generous helping of piping hot rice. And there in the middle of the vegetation is a freshly fried egg, smiling sunny-side-up just for you. Sometimes they come as a side dish to your som-gup-sal--a half-scrambled, half poached watery quiche that you devour as you wait for your barbecued pork to finish crisping. Yet despite their various forms of stage presence in the Land of the Morning Calm, I have never seen eggs served raw. That is, until yesterday.

Since graduating our last class of kindergarten students two weeks ago, Teacher Grace and I have become accustomed to going out to lunch; yesterday we decided on a restaurant on the first floor that our cook had recommended for its excellent bean-sprout-and-rice soup. "Kongnamul-guk-pap dugae chuseyo," Grace asked the waitress as we sat down. I noticed the Korean news was on, blaring from a T.V. mounted on the far wall just past Grace's head, and we chatted about recent international events until our food arrived.

The waitress came back minutes later and set two stone bowls of steaming rice stew in front of us, along with four small plates of side dishes, a stay-fresh glass container of dried kim, and two small steel bowls that held one egg each. The pudgy, yellow yolks still swam unbroken in their protein juice, uncooked but for the thin opaque layer delicately coating the bottom of the dish. I wondered if she had simply cracked the eggs into the bowls while the bowls were still hot.

In an overflow of Korean, the waitress began to explain her method: spoon some steamy broth into the egg-bowl while adding generous helpings of kim shreds, stir, and jjajan! You now have egg soup. She proceeded to stir mine herself while Grace copied her lead, certain that I wouldn't know what I should do when served such a bowl of viscous creatine. I watched, partly awed and partly mortified, as the guk magically transformed the soupy substance into creamy flakes of egg-white.

By no means was it fully cooked, however. As I tentatively stuck my spoon into the concoction to sample its effects, I noticed unattractive, droopy chunks of sticky, still-raw protein swimming in the yellowy pool. The mixture tasted good: rich and creamy from the runny yolks, salty-tangy from the seaweed. Yet I couldn't help but note the reason for its being called soup in the first place--the liquefied state of an egg just cracked. The imagery was too much for me; I set the metal bowl aside to concentrate on my gukpap.

"She said to eat the egg first and then the soup," Grace commented as I returned to my main dish. "But I'm gonna put it in here." My co-worker then proceeded to pour the substance into her still-hot stone bowl, thereby cooking any remaining raw protein. Though it would have solved my egg dilemma, I myself couldn't follow her lead because the act would have violated my private food-law of never mixing dishes together. Instead, I happily savored my gukpap and left the colorfully-invented "egg droop soup" to await the dishwater alone.

Three's a Crowd

Sunday, January 16, my friend Young Sook (far left) brought me to her small church for a time of prayer, fellowship, and worship, Korean style. The coldest day of the year at -17 degrees Celcius (1.4 degrees F), we huddled warmly on the ondol floor in an apartment at the back of the sanctuary. It was in this tiny space, presumably the pastor and his wife's parsonage, that I met Jimin (center) and Jihyun (right), sisters five and seven years my junior, respectively.

As we prepared for a second service in the afternoon, Jimin started the list of polite questions that I've come to expect from Koreans: Where are you from? How old are you? and the like. Then I asked her one. "What kind of American food do you like?"

"Cream suh-pah-get-ty," she told me, beaming. "I love cream spaghetti."

I remembered the ample supply of spaghetti noodles in my pantry that I had inherited from a friend who had recently emigrated back to the States. "Would you like to come over for dinner this week? Tuesday?"

As soon as she heard my offer, Young Sook instantly wanted to come along. This also meant Jihyun would like an invitation, too. I briefly pictured my postage-stamp apartment in my head and shuddered to think how extra people might fit. "But I only have room for one other, maybe two other people," I protested.

My friend stood up in mock defiance and held up her hand as if she were pledging loyalties. "I'll stand!" she proclaimed.

"But what about Frankie?" I asked her, knowing how much she disliked him. She hadn't come over during the holidays just for that reason.

"Oh," Young Sook said sadly. "Fooh-rank-y."

"It's okay. I can put him away in the laundry room. He'll be fine." After a few more minutes to work out the details, everything was set: a dinner party at 7:30 P.M., Tuesday, the 18th for a place setting of four; the menu, cream spaghetti, spinach salad, and pan-fried hobak (호박)--a soft, neon green, zuccini-like squash that Koreans call "sweet pumpkin." It would be the first time so many people had come to visit my apartment in Korea.

I had just enough plates and bowls for each of us, if you counted the one oddly shaped, ivory-colored plate amid its porcelain white companions, and my collection of mismatched bowls. But I only had two pair of chopsticks, one knife, and two forks and spoons each. I also lacked sufficient glassware, possessing just two cups and three mugs. Making the entree and side dishes for four would be easy enough; however, my lack of adequate tableware posed a bit of a problem. As I served tea later that night, my three guests were given the mugs, while I happily sipped from my last clean bowl.

The night of the 18 arrived, expectation scenting the air of my apartment as I entered. After putting away my things from school and petting Frankie, I quickly dusted my cubby-hole bookshelf, cleared away the electronics from the T.V. stand that served as my dresser, and positioned my computer atop my short refrigerator. I then moved the stand to the middle of the room and arranged my four "chairs" around it--the corner of my bed, a small living room armchair, a gray and black folding chair, and my plastic red stool used for reaching the bar in my closet. A small space about a two feet wide was left open to the right of my huddled furniture, what could be used to squeeze in and out of. Provided that no one wanted to get up during the meal, we might have just enough room.

Once my guests arrived, Young Sook claimed the the corner of the bed; Jihyun, the folding chair across from me. Jimin sank into the armchair across from Young Sook and I took the remaining seat, my red stool. Situated as I was, I had only to twist to my right and take two steps to be in the kitchen stirring the food. If I twisted left, I could conveniently stack used plates and bowls on a portion of my bookshelf. If I needed something from the refrigerator across the room, I had only to ask Jihyun to find it. My apartment could fit a party of four, it seemed--though just barely.

L to R: Young Sook, Jimin, and me.

I knew how much Koreans savored tasty food, particularly how highly they valued the Western variety. This in mind, I had done my best to present an elegant, American-style dinner to my guests that evening, complete with homemade honey mustard dressing for the salad and store-bought flan (incorrectly labeled "pudding" on the package) as dessert's finishing touch.

Of my three friends, Jihyun was the most vocal in her reaction. "Mashisoyo!" she declared as we began the meal. It's so delicious! "Oh-tooh-keh?" What should I do? She was so impressed with the salad dressing that she asked which bottle it came from. When I confessed it had none, at Young Sook's sugestion she searched my refrigerator and cabinet for the deli mustard and sweet honey I had used, to take pictures of them for future reference. I hadn't the heart to tell her that the mustard had actually come from the States.

L to R: Jimin and Jihyun

Though I enjoyed the whole evening and its pleasant conversation, the thing I found most delicious was what came with our tea after dessert: lavender-colored blueberry roll cake from Paris Baughette, one of the foremost bakery's of the country. Its texture was spoungey-soft, with bits of blueberry in the batter and a light purple cream between the layers to hold it all together. Its flavor was tangy-sweet, berry-like yet buttery and fluffy. It felt as if I were eating my favorite color. Amazed at the delicacy in front of me, I declared, "It tastes like purple!"

I was happy the girls had brought the cake as a house-gift, yet much more happy to have them as guests in my home. If the adage is that "two's company [but] three's a crowd," four must double the camaraderie. I will gladly welcome their fellowship again, whatever spacial issues may come.

Jim-jil Balm

After leaving Thomas on the dance floor the night of my friend Isabel's birthday in December, Rebekah and I headed for the frigid temperatures on the streets of Itaewon-dong, eventually to rest our eyes and relax our bodies in the smooth luxuries of the nearest jim-jil-bang: Korea's purported paradise get-away, the public bath house. We ascended the three flights of stairs to the entrance of "Itaewon Land," intimately secluded just a block further from the main strip of the district's expensive establishments, and stepped indoors.

Once securely inside, Rebekah and I paid our 8,000 won, stored our shoes in tiny footlockers resembling campus mailboxes at TLU, and collected our pajamas for the night--a matching set of over-sized pink lounge-wear resembing a fraying pair of my mother's old shorts. Attendants then handed us two grey handtowels each, and neon yellow, curly rubber keychains with numbers on them to coordinate with our first-floor shoe slots and lockers upstairs. The numbers were shaped like keys and a magnetized circle of metal formed the blunt end that fit into the keyhole. "If you need anything," Rebekah tutored as we walked up the stairs carrying our bags and newly-rented luxury goods, "swipe your key and you can pay for it downstairs." Just like an old Western bar tab.

We ascended the stairs to the left of the check-in desk, only to descend a different case of them from the upstairs common area to the downstairs women-only showers. It was there that the two of us found our lockers and changed into our less-than-becoming sleepwear. As I had nothing else to don for church in the morning, I carefully folded or hung my clothing to keep it somewhat presentable.

After shedding our winter attire and collecting spare necessities like cell phones, which we might find useful as alarm clocks, we took a tour of the jim-jil-bang's other floors: the second, with its round-the-clock restaurant and loud communal room, suitable for families and late-night watchers of T.V.; the third, populated with expensive private baths; and the top floor, equipped with an all-night PC bang and a large room with shelf-like bunks for individuals. As none of the others had accomodations suitable for our quiet, single-women needs, the last floor was our stop for the night. Rebekah found me an unoccupied sleeping mat and a rectangular pillow, rare items indeed for a busy Saturday night, and we firmly installed ourselves on two of the top shelves.

It was like stepping into a memory of Alamo City's World Shakers youth camps or remembering Jubilee Ranch's three-tiered bunk beds, this fourth-floor salon: Sleeping spaces were built-in to each wall, with a large space in the middle for gathering. The room itself must have been thirty beds long and three bunks tall, with bed-space only as high as the second bunk. Each bed consisted of a box-shaped space with room enough to toss and turn, but not to stand up effectively. Inside that space was a miniature ondol floor, the traditional method Koreans use to heat their houses, only this one was a granite slab that, if turned on, stayed warm in the winter or cool in the summer.

Though my companion contested otherwise, I didn't need the added heat of the ondol, because throughout the night--despite the lack of such creature comforts as a warm blanket or soft pillow--I was hot. She had warned me to take my scarf as added warmth while I slept because "it gets cold up there," but I hardly needed the thing. It must have been 95 degrees just like the attic in my childhood home, I thought as I lay there fitfully for several minutes. Though Rebekah had fallen asleep right away, I couldn't. I finally roused myself to trudge downstairs to my locker and my five-hundred page book on world language history; perhaps reading a section of that might ease the heat and allow a few hours of sleep to come.

In the morning, just shy of six hours' sleep, the fun began: visiting the public bath. Rebekah had scooted off her perch minutes before me, so we blissfully missed each other in the communal shower room. She had already warned me about how the system worked, though--fully undress at your locker, place your postage-stamp towel anywhere strategic, and waddle with your bath necessities the hundred yards to the door of the cave-like room.

As I gingerly stepped foot into the dark-grey, cavernous public bath house, naked but for my pile of meager belongings clutched to my front side, an ajuma stooped with age crossed directly in front of me. I kept my eyes focused on the bright yellow elastic keychain she wore on her right ankle, lest my gaze float to a place other than her eyes. "Is this your first time?" she chirped in perfect English.

"Yes," I said hesitantly.

"You need these--" She stopped in front of neatly piled bath-house supplies and picked out a set for me: one small bowl, one larger one, and one stepping stool used for crouching on. She then proceeded to walk me to one of two partitions toward the back of the room, where older women stooped at a wall-full of mirrors and knee-high sinks to scrub each other clean.

Intimidated by the wet, sultry scene in front of me, I squeaked to myself, "Can't I just take a shower?" Quickly I found myself a vacant nook next to the stone wall separating the partitions and piled my bathing supplies atop its glassless window ledge.

The eye-level mirror I stood in front of was plastered with a colorful, water-resistant sign in hangul, an alphabet system I have by now managed to sound out, yet still find difficult to comprehend if not displaying a recognizably English word or cognate. If the sign read, "This is how you make the hot water HOT," I was unable to decipher it--and therefore stood for an agonizing ten minutes in a stream of ice-cold droplets.

In the mirror past the sign, I could see myself reflected from shoulderblade to head, but mercifully nothing else. I stared at my still-made-up face, trying not to notice another woman also populating the reflection. It was the first time I remember consciously not looking at myself as I bathed: Having to do something so private in front of strangers was bad enough; better not reinforce the fact that while I accomplished it, I was clothes-less.

As I stood there self-consciously in my corner, I saw another ajuma near me, this time stopping to use the shower next to mine; it was from her that I learned what my twin bowls were for. From the corner of my eye as I took care of my own business, I watched her stop her shower to fill a bowl with water. She then used that same bowl and a wash cloth to scrub some other part of her body, perhaps her hair. Her actions were strangely reminiscent of the scenes I had witnessed in Chungju of older women soaking produce in large vats of water. "Koreans wash themselves like they wash vegetables," I couldn't help but noting.

It was during my execution of the whole process, from locker to public bath, that I realized the front desk never bothered to give us robes. I spied Rebekah as my stitchless body left the shower room, herself fully clothed and sitting on the last step leading to the lockers, obliviously absorbed in a book. I was never so thankful that no one I knew looked up just then to say hello.

Yet in some respects, a robe would have been all but useless to the eastern methods playing themselves out downstairs. What I discovered throughout the unsettling morning was a strange lack of modesty among the Koreans. If they didn't notice me naked, they didn't notice themselves either. I could only liken the visit to the recurring dream that plagues everyone from time to time: You stand in the middle of your office or school, not a stitch of clothes on, and everyone else goes about their buisness as if all is as usual. And the only one who embibes something different is you.