Yeouido Island in winter

I went for a walk today. Not my usual stroll around Jungang Park, oh no. This time I felt so swept up in the winter chill and the muted sunshine and the wiles of my current conquest (the first book of the Airborn series by Kenneth Oppel) that I just had to go all-out. I rode three subway trains and seventeen stops to Yeouido Island and the Han River Park.

This was swiped from The Trail of the Lion King, another Korean blog. I hope they don't mind.

Beautiful, ain't it? It's spectacular in summer, with its gurgling watercourses, green grass, and hordes of colorfully dressed and attractive citizens strolling up and down the sinuous paths.

But somehow it's most beautiful in winter. The grass is brown and the trees are leafless, but the Han River is its same trusty shade of blue-green, the orange sun hangs low in the southern sky, and the icy pink haze in the air makes everything look softer and more mellow.

It couldn't have been a nicer evening. The sun took ages to set. I sat on a bench, the bitter wind penetrating my hood, collar and scarf. I read until it was too cold to sit still, and then I got up and headed west down the southern bank. Even despite the weather, a plethora of people were still out and about. Tiny children swathed in puffy parkas, shepherded by indulgent mothers; teenage girls and their younger siblings on tandem bicycles; grinning, laughing young men on mountain bikes; and scores of young couples walking arm-in-arm. The watercourses were cold and dry in deference to the weather, but the coffeehouses were in full operation. Dozens of young Koreans sipped mochas and cappuccinos and watched the world go by outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Most astounding, however, were the kites. As I passed under the Mapo Bridge and emerged into the fading sunshine on the other side, I spotted several kites in the distance, on a flat grassy area about the size of a junior-league soccer pitch. There were four kites, each of them sickle-shaped like a B-2 Spirit. They moved with such precise coordination that at first I thought they must all be connected by a running line, and controlled by a single person. I was quite wrong. As I approached nearer, the formation of kites abruptly broke up. They wheeled and dove and mingled and looped like courting birds of prey. I was utterly mesmerized. I could not tear my eyes away from the spectacle, which was as riveting as the most thrilling airshow. I stumbled over uneven paving-stones, unmindful of where I placed my feet. As I finally drew within visual range, I discerned four middle-aged Korean men standing on the grassy sward, each of them with a sophisticated set of rings and control lines in their hands. These they were twisting and hurling about as though they were playing a game of Wii tennis. I wondered how many hours of practice it had taken this four-man team to achieve such a degree of surgical preciseness in their maneuvers. They were so skillful that they could manipulate their foils into perfect nose-up landings.

For some minutes I remained rooted to the spot, watching the aerial display. This area, between the Mapo and Seogang Bridges, must have been popular with kite-flyers, for the turf was cheekily populated with bona fide airport signage, delineating runways and taxiways and turn-outs. Grinning within and without, and thinking that the Owl City tunes playing on my iPod were a perfect complement to this idyllic scene, I strode back to Mapo Bridge and walked out upon it. My purpose in visiting Yeouido Island was twofold. I intended to read a book on a bench overlooking the river, and to locate Bamseom Island. This island, or rather the pair of them, were uninhabited piles of tree-lined sand in the middle of the Han River between Mapo and Yeouido. They played an integral part in my NaNoWriMo project. They were plainly visible from shore, but I got a much better view from the top of the bridge. Not only that, but there was quite clearly a sizable sandbar in the lee of the easternmost island: the very spot where, in my book, the steamship strands herself during the climax of the action. I rejoiced at the natural counterpart to my literary imagining. Grinning like a maniac, making the young Korean couples give me a second nervous glance, I strode back across the bridge and back down to the waiting subway, having accomplished both my objectives.

But there was more. Inadvertently I had accomplished a third objective. Lately I've been feeling dissatisfied with my lot. Even though I'm living in a foreign country, I've been feeling bored and left behind. It seems my friends are all off gallivanting around the world or completing their secondary education and acquiring titles and careers. As usual, I can't help comparing myself to my peers, and inevitably viewing myself in a negative light. This little trip to Han River Park changed all that. As I stood at the rail, hearing the water slop over the jagged rocks below, watching the buses chug back and forth across Mapo Bridge and feeling the icy wind brush my unprotected ears, I realized that I have a lot to be grateful for. I have a good apartment, a steady girl, a couple of completed manuscripts on my hard drive, a stable career, a decent paycheck, a half-full bottle of Cutty Sark...and most importantly, an endlessly intriguing and entertaining bailiwick. I found myself giving thanks that I was an expatriate, and that my country of residence was South Korea. However much I badmouth this place in public and private, I am truly glad to be here in East Asia, and especially the Korean peninsula. The food's great, the people are curious and open, and the scenery might seem bland but hides a million surprises.

Thanksgiving may be over, but hey...it's never too late to be grateful.

'Cause what I've got is just enough.

                                                                                                        courtesy of Wikipedia Commons