Sunday basketball

There was a moment just now—a moment when I glanced out of my apartment window, into the wet night, and saw hundreds of likewise-lit windows swimming eerily at me through the rain and mist. It was though the air outside was really murky seawater, and this city sat at the bottom of the ocean, and miniature submarines scurried back and forth between airlocks, and at any moment a shark or a whale might swim by my window. In that moment, I stepped back and wondered "Am I really doing this?"

I don't know which has surprised me more: the fact that I'm back in Korea or the fact that I've slipped into the routine so smoothly and easily.

It was a rocky start, as you well know. There were delays. Hang-ups. Mess-ups. Hiccups. But they evened themselves out. No matter what this job has thrown at me, I've rallied and risen. In fact, I've gotten so comfortable lately that I'd dare to say it's a routine. It's not just the weekdays, either. Even my weekends have acquired a regimen. On Saturdays I usually go into Seoul, or shop or something. I venture forth from my cave, my manhole, and obtain the requisite supplies for the upcoming week. Revel in the freedom a weekend affords. Strike out independently. Explore a new corner of the city. Do something fun, you know.

Sundays are a bit more laid-back. Generally, around noon, I wander 300 yards down Gilju Road to a little park hidden among some stubby evergreens. There, my fellow expatriates and I test each other's skills on the basketball court. I'm grateful to report that I've gone from "Grade-A Suckage" to "Certifiable Acolyte" in the span of three weeks. I'm not making baskets reliably yet, and I can get hold of rebounds but not sink them; still, I'm steadily improving. There's four or five of us who usually come: Peter, Jon, Andy, Martin, and most recently Stephanie. We warm up for half an hour shooting hoops or playing horse. Then we shoot for teams. This last Sunday we had enough people for three-on-three. Team captains picked their players (I will brag a bit here and say that I was one of those captains, by virtue of making the first basket). Then the game began in earnest. Half-court. Take-backs (if the ball hit the rim). Play to eleven. It was a fierce contest. We ducked, dove, dodged, hollered, sweated and slid, passing and dribbling and shooting. Goals were scored, desperate, jubilant, soul-affirming jump shots and layups. Everybody got a piece of the action. The humid air glowed with hot-blooded exultation, burning spirit and competitive fire—and a goodly dose of old-fashioned camaraderie.

Following basketball, the rest of my Sunday usually consists of reading, writing, laundry, cleaning, and other domestic pursuits, both leisurely and productive. Oh, and of course, a big dinner. I look forward to my Sunday dinners. I usually pull all the stops out and have multiple courses. And by that, I mean that I actually have side dishes with whatever entrée I've prepared. A couple of weeks ago it was bulgogi with fried garlic, kimchi and marinated spring onions; the next week it was mushroom soup; and last Sunday, it was supposed to have been chicken fettucine alfredo, but it wound up being just chicken fried in oil with garlic, kimchi and spring onions (noticing a theme here?).

On Friday night I'm hosting a cooking class of sorts. The octopus I routinely buy at E-Mart has sparked several wild hypotheses among my coworkers. People have asked me what exactly I do with the octopus to prepare it. Dissatisfied with my own answer ("Take it home, boil it and eat it whole") I decided to paint myself in a more civilized light and prepare some proper octopi. And while I was at it, I thought I'd invite some of my coworkers to my apartment so they could watch, and sample the results. The recipe I've picked is called nakji bokkeum: stir-fried octopus with vegetables. It's a common dish, available in any halfway decent restaurant. There's even a TV-dinner version. The dish is spicy (a liberal amount of gochujang—pepper paste—goes into it) but full of vegetable and seafood flavors. With some artful preparation, I hope my coworkers and I will cook quickly, eat slowly, and have a lovely sip of something afterward. I'll let you know how it goes.

Apart from that, what more is there to tell? That I'm slowly carving my way through Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness? That I'm opening a second bank account on Thursday to wire money home more inexpensively? That Martin, Andy, Jon, Peter, Stephanie and I gathered at the pub late Sunday night to watch Manchester United trump Queen's Park on the telly? That Miss H is still anxiously awaiting her paperwork, and I am still anxiously awaiting her?

All those things would be true. Years from now I shall write a little book about Korea. Its joys, its sorrows, its gifts, its privations. Only my comrades-in-arms shall understand it.