a shindig in Hongdae

On Friday night, after having successfully taught my first classes and survived the first truncated week at my hagwon, my fellow foreigners and I decided to go out on the town.

Hongdae, that is.

This isn't my picture. Obviously I went to Hongdae in February, so everybody should be bundled up and running very fast to get out of the cold. But you get the idea. Lots of people, lots of neon.

Hongdae is an area of western Seoul known for the massive Hongik University. (The name "Hongdae" is actually an abbreviation of Hongik Daehakgyo (홍익대학교), the institution's Korean name.  The surrounding suburb contains a plethora of bars and nightclubs, and a modest indie music scene. Being only 20 minutes away by bus and subway, Hongdae is a natural choice for anybody in Bucheon looking to get their party on.

That very feature, however, makes it an extremely popular place on weekends.

It was madness from the get-go. The multitude which tried to exit the subway station at Hongdae were funneled into a tiny stairwell no wider than two people abreast, causing something of a traffic jam. I felt like I'd stepped into Diagon Alley when I emerged from this cattle chute: the narrow, uneven, tilted streets ran in every conceivable direction, lorded over by untidy piles of buildings plastered with more neon signs than a righteous god should've allowed.

Andy and I ducked, dodged and slid through the throng until we reached the comparative sanity of a second-floor coffeehouse, where we met Joe. Our fellow co-teacher was sipping peppermint tea and crooning over the secondhand guitar he'd purchased that afternoon. Andy ordered an espresso and the three of us laid plans. We were expecting some more people to show up, so we decided to go someplace visible. Across the street and up a rickety metal staircase was the Bar Rising, a bottled-beer sort of joint with black floors and walls and ceilings and tables and chairs, and enormous windows looking out on the chaotic street below. The cheapest beers were 4,000 won a pop, so we decided to have only one and then adjourn somewhere more reasonable. In the meantime, another third of our entourage showed up: Kim (Andy's girlfriend), Mel (another English teacher who lives in our same building), and Jay, an institutional sort of expatriate who's been here for several years.

We socialized for a spell and then headed out. The next stop was Vent, a tiny basement bar a few hundred yards up the street. Down a twisted staircase lay a lopsided room with a short bar (dozens of bills of foreign currency pasted on the walls behind it), a miniscule DJ's pulpit walled off by cinder blocks, a large fridge of beer bottles along one wall, and stools and tables stuck haphazardly wherever they fit. The main attraction of this bar was the Manchester United/Liverpool game being broadcast on the widescreen TV. We crammed ourselves into a nook and began our evening, laughing, joking, watching the game, and getting buzzed on cheap highballs. I was in high spirits. I was rapidly becoming readjusted to Korean nightlife, and it was good to unwind after a stressful first week in a new land.

We left Vent a few hours later. It was bitterly cold. Eastern Seoul isn't that far from the coast, and a chill wind was blowing off the Yellow Sea (pardon, I mean the West Sea). Blasts of moist, frigid air went rattling down the streets of Hongdae, seeping down coat collars and sending cute Korean couples in their chic designer clothes scurrying for the nearest coffeehouse.

Not us, though. We were intrepid foreigners and on the lookout for a good time. So we forged a path deeper into the interior of Hongdae, searching for a half-mythical pub which Jay had been to once and really liked. Shamrock and Roll, it was called: an Irish pub concealed in the folds and back alleys of Hongdae's sinful heart. After a few blind alleys and several false alarms (during which Liverpool had time to score a goal on Manchester, upping the ante) we found it.

How shall I describe to you the weirdness of living for a week in a city populated (mostly) by Koreans, and then suddenly stepping into a noisy, smoky, crowded bar filled with nothing but foreigners?

It was the height of oddity. My brain took an hour to adjust to it, though this may be attributable to the soporific effects of alcohol. There was hardly a Korean face in the crowd. I saw English folks, Canadians, Americans. The men were tall, or short, or muscular, or rotund, or bearded, or hairless. Some women were willowy, some petite; some with long hair, some with short. Eyes and skin tones ran up and down the spectrum. Foreignness aside, the mere heterogeneity of the room astounded me.

By some miracle the booth in the back corner was unoccupied. We claimed it in the name of Avalon and got straight to drinkin'. After some time, the remainder of our entourage finally fought their way through the crowd to join us: Jeff (my old Canadian buddy) and his girlfriend, Jennifer. We had quite a caucus going in that back corner. Joe and I switched from beer to whiskey, Andy and Jay smoked and laughed at the Liverpool offense, and the ladies sparkled and scintillated amid the piles of coats on the bench.

Full to bursting with drink and camaraderie, we waddled out of Shamrock and Roll at almost one o'clock. The street vendors were still in business and going like gangbusters, even despite the cold. We made a consensual pit stop and bought steaming hot kebab and Pad Thai, capping our night with savory munchies. After a bit of friendly banter with the vendors we made our way to the main street and hailed a taxicab.

The jet lag finally caught up to me in the backseat. My head lolled and I began to snore.