Day Ten: Gwangju

It's been Jeju redux time here in ol' Jeollanam-do Province. The weather stinks. I awoke to sullen overcast and drizzle, exactly the same as when I first arrived on Jeju Island. Seemed the bad weather moved up here. Anyway, regardless, I got up, dressed, phoned my parents and took off for the museums. First I dropped by a Ministop (sort of like 7-11 or Family Mart) to get some breakfast. While I was selecting some triangle gimbap, sausages, orange juice and one of those fibrous drinks the Koreans are so proud of, a Korean man standing at the counter and chatting with the clerk-ladies looked up and noticed me. He attempted (with an expression on his face I wasn't sure I liked) to ask me a few questions in Korean. I didn't understand at all. This only seemed to frustrate him, unlike the other 99% of Koreans I'd talked to who were patient and only chuckled if you didn't get it. So unaccustomed was I to being treated in such a manner that I got rather irked with the guy. I gave him a saucy wave as I left. To add insult to injury, the gimbap wasn't even that good, reminiscent of that awful ersatz meat pie I had yesterday. Danged if I ever go into a Ministop again. There wasn't much going on at the Gwangju National Museum. The main exhibition hall was closed for renovations or something, which left only the gardens and the "education center" (whatever that was). The stupa, grinding wheels, and headless sitting Buddha figure on the lawns were unimpressive, but the five-story pagoda wasn't too bad, even despite extensive weathering. Be that as it may, I didn't deign to take any pictures. I'll say this, too: some relics don't look like relics. You know what I mean? Those crowns and jewelry that I saw at Gyeongju didn't really look old. They'd been too perfectly restored. They were too shiny, too well-preserved. The weight of ages didn't press down upon them; the wonder of the ancients didn't radiate from them appreciably. But on the grounds of the Gwangju National Museum, there was an old celadon kiln that lay half-excavated and covered by a pavilion. That gave me the shivers. It just looked old, and ruined, and ancient, and forgotten. There it was, broken pottery scattered all about, the roof half-collapsed (or perhaps cut away to allow interior viewing)...it was like gazing upon that shipwreck at the bottom of the East China Sea off Seogwipo Harbor. The kiln was monstrously old and ruined, appreciably so. Just one look invoked visions of the kiln as it once was, whole, in use by creative artisans, churning out beautiful sea-green pottery, perhaps for the dining tables of the Joseon kings. I wondered how those artisans would feel about their tool in its present state, gazed upon by the unimaginable inhabitants of some future age. About five minutes after I'd entered, I left the National Museum and walked under the Honam Expressway to the Folk Museum. That was much more worthwhile. It was 500 won to get in (500 more than the National Museum had been), but it was more than worth it. The museum had lots of amazing artifacts dating from the Goryeo period through Joseon. There were hand-made hemp and straw sandals, octopus fishhooks, huge wooden scoops (for digging irrigation ditches), wedding clothes, children's toys, even earwax removers (resembling really tiny spoons). There was a diagram of the wall of some popular antiquarian Korean women's hairstyles. Most fascinating was the collection of ancient printed novels. Korea had block printing hundreds of years before Gutenberg, and printed novels, though not as common as today, were still made and distributed. To see a book, with an intricately carved wooden cover and pages covered with printed Chinese symbols, dating from nearly a thousand years ago...well, it was humbling, to say the least. I left the Folk Museum, leaped into a pedestrian tunnel to avoid a cloudburst, and then sauntered jauntily on to the Art Museum, showcasing works from Korean, Japanese and Chinese artists (with one or two Westerners thrown in). It was a 500-won "blah." I could take it or leave it. The modern art section, as has been true for every single modern art section of a museum I've ever been to, was a complete waste of time. A piano painted entirely white. Sunflowers made of computer CD drives and disc trays. A space capsule made out of luggage. A desk caught in the act of flying to pieces. Whoop-de-doo. The sculpture and painting galleries were much better. I was pleased with one piece in particular, called A Hidden Stream. It was a cave made of bronze, with a trickle of silvery stainless steel pouring out of a concealed cleft. The effect was pleasant, especially the way the stainless steel had been made to "overflow" the sculpture proper and run down the pedestal it was sitting on. In the paintings gallery, I was flabbergasted at the beautiful simplicity of one painting, entitled 8 Strokes. It was simply that: two strokes of a brown brush (at right angles) and six strokes of a white brush, on an olive-green canvas. Unremarkable, you say? The result looked remarkably like three strips of white linen hung over a wooden frame outdoors. It was uncanny. The simplicity of it was stunning...and beautiful, as I said. And that was basically it. I walked out, got a cab back to the station, grabbed some milk, water, and a Snickers bar at Family Mart (I'd been nursing a slight headache for a couple of hours, and figured some fluids and a sugar rush couldn't hurt) and returned to my hotel for a few hours. After resting up, I sallied forth once again. Thus I got a cab to Chungjang Shopping District. This proved to be similar to the Gukje Market in Busan. It's a wide area of narrow streets, jam-packed with shops stacked on top of and smushed in next to each other. It's the closest thing to Diagon Alley, I'm sure, that you'll find anywhere. The atmosphere of the place is charming: closet-sized yet chic clothing shops galore; restaurants and bars aplenty; pop music blaring from every speaker; vendors selling delicious twigim (fried food); and bushels of young and trendy people everywhere. It's quite overwhelming for a country boy like me. My first stop was 25, a hip and famous record store. Lo and behold, true to the guide book's description, there were CDs from all over the Western world there, at good prices too. They had classical music and Korean traditional favorites as well, plus a bucket load of K-Pop and Asian pop music. After deliberating for a bit, I up and bought Viva la Vida by Coldplay, The Battle of Los Angeles by Rage Against the Machine, and Gold (the best of James Brown). Hey, I'm expanding my musical tastes here a little, give me a break. The bill came to 48,000 won, and I walked out of there a contented man. (Something along the lines of "Oh boy, this should see me through the eleven-hour flight to Los Angeles!" was running through my head.) After that I wandered about a little and even got lost a couple of times. It's a big place, far bigger, I suspect, than Gukje Market and Jagalchi combined. Then I spotted dinner. I was quite hungry by this point, despite consuming some triangle gimbap and some meat-on-a-stick after leaving the hotel, and had been subconsciously searching for a restaurant. And there you had it: Mujinju, a three-storied and classy restaurant near the western edge of the shopping district, specializing in bossam. Bossam is basically slices of rather fatty pork, which like most Korean meat is wrapped in a leaf with some vegetables and sauce and eaten. I ordered the kimchi bossam (meaning I wrapped the kimchi up with the meat) and very delicious it was. They don't serve portions for fewer than two people at Mujinju, however. So I had to eat quite a bit. And the meat, as I may have mentioned, is very fatty. Half fat, I'd say. When I ordered, the waitress dutifully jotted it down, hesitated, then looked at me and said in English, "Do you like fat?" With a grin and a nonchalant swish of my head, I said "I do." I didn't like the kimchi very much...it was a tad too sweet for some reason. But the bossam itself was delicious. It was served with two sauces (brown and mustard), as well as ssamjang, garlic slices, and pickled onions, and some cabbage soup for afters. Also, when I'd finished eating, the staff brought me some absolutely delightful cold cinnamon tea to sip on. That stuff is amazing. I hope I can get it back in the States, because I've never tasted any tea so flavorful or sweet. Mujinju itself is quite well-appointed as well. The interior is mostly wood, stained tastefully dark. Some charming lithographs of Chinese characters and pastoral scenes complete the decor. The place is architecturally challenging: M.C. Escher-like, almost. The three floors of the restaurant are stacked haphazardly atop one another, as though by some careless child. But the service is grand, the staff well-dressed and friendly with at least a working knowledge of English, the food delectable, and the cost not too steep. For a two-person helping of kimchi bossam I paid ₩21,000. That's about $16.50 or so. Not half bad considering the state of the world economy, eh? After dinner I went next door to the Joybox Arcade. It was small, but there was plenty of choice. Arranged around the southern and western walls was a bevy of small, violently purple compartments that looked like photo booths, but on closer inspection proved to be miniature noraebang. (Noraebang means "singing room" in Korean, remember? Korean karaoke.) Two people could squeeze inside one and have their pick of songs to sing, with a TV screen and microphones. I didn't see how much they cost (sorry). I do know that I blew about ₩2,000 on Time Crisis II (300 won per game/respawn). As I was walking into the arcade, a small group of young men outside caught my attention. They were busy challenging the punch machine. You know, you pop in a coin, pull the punching bag down, and then lay into it for all you're worth. I was challenged by one of the most vocal of these young men (a skinny fellow with glasses and a blue button-down, who spoke English quite well) to see who had the strongest punch. Not one to pass up a martial challenge, I handed him my bag of CDs, and let fly. I scored somewhere in the 8300 range. "That's lowest score," my challenger said, grinning. "We are stronger than you." Yes they were, I admitted. "One more time?" the challenger asked. I said yes, blew on my knuckles, wound up, and tried harder. 8787. "Wow! Good score." Then it was my challenger's turn...or rather, my challenger's champion's. Another guy in a white T-shirt and shorts cleared some space, then kicked the punching bag with a swinging right leg. His score was well into the 9000 range. Even though he technically hadn't punched the thing, we'd never agreed beforehand on the terms of the contest. We'd just set out to see who was stronger. I figured the sportsmanlike thing to do was pay up, so I gave the winner a thousand-won note, shook hands with these fellows ("You are a good man," they said) and went inside the arcade. After the second boss kicked my butt on Time Crisis II, I took to wandering again, but I didn't really see anything I wanted. I don't really do shopping, unless it's books, music, or guns. Or manly outerwear. I nonchalantly went into a shoe store, looking to replace my old Kamik trail shoes or even my Columbia work boots, but no such luck. I've never been much of a Converse fan. Then I spotted the Baskin Robbins. Now, to be honest, I'd just consumed two helpings of fat back at Mujinju. I hesitated at the parlor doors, gazing at the familiar, comforting blues and purples inside. What the hell, I thought. You're only young once. I went inside. I eschewed my usual Jamocha Almond Fudge for a big helping of Cherry Jubilee (King Cone, baby...three thousand won). Aw man, it was awesome. Cherry ice cream definitely deserves to be honored foremost amongst humankind's greatest inventions, right up there with umbrella hats. As I was sitting in the upstairs room, slurping my ice cream happily, I noticed a pair of rather giggly Korean schoolgirls sitting at the table next to me. They kept looking over their shoulders at me, then putting their heads together and speaking softly and quickly. I caught snatches of English phrases, and deduced that they were figuring out how to speak to me. And then it happened. "Hi. How are you?" I absolutely love this about Korea. Coming from a land where most foreigners are looked upon with suspicion, if not outright hostility, it's refreshing to be in a foreign land oneself and be treated unerringly with curiosity and friendliness. Okay, yeah, sure, they might've just been practicing their English on me, but hey...they could've hurled some racial epithets at me and flounced out, too. But they didn't. "I'm fine, thanks," I said (my standard reply). "How are you?" There followed a halting conversation. At my every reply the speaker would put her head together with her reference book (her friend) and then figure out what I'd said, and formulate a reply. This worked so well that eventually we wound up taking pictures together. It was kind of funny: as I handed her my camera so she could take our picture, the speaker brushed herself down and made what I deduced to be some self-deprecating comment about her appearance. "Gwaenchanayo," I said. "Yeppun yeoja imnida." It's okay. You're a pretty woman. The girl threw her hands over her face and went into a fit of embarrassed giggles. Then we took pictures, said very cordial and amiable goodbyes, and then they left. It was just five seconds after this that a couple of Baskin Robbins staff members walked up to my table, presented me with plastic shot glass filled with purple ice cream, and bade me drink it for free. "This drink is called 'Purple Berry Blast,'" one of them explained. It was service (see Day Eight: Jeju). I drank it slowly. It was delicious. Dang, I am going to miss this country. In fact, this little three-hour pilgrimage I made to the Chungjang Shopping District in Gwangju underscored everything I'm going to miss about Korea: gigantic open markets, talkative people, delicious food, music in the air, atmosphere, culture (Oriental and Occidental)...and Korea itself, really. I wandered around a little more, but I'd just about seen everything. The sky was beginning to drip a little, and I was anxious to get back to my room and (a) test out my new CDs and (b) hit the sack early. (I need to catch the bus out of here pretty soon tomorrow; I reckon it's going to take me up to seven hours or so to reach Gohyeon.) So I caught yet another cab (Gwangju is filled with them), had a short ride back to the train station (during which the driver and I admired the legs of a rather gorgeous woman in a short skirt and pumps riding sidesaddle on the back of a scooter), a balmy stroll back to the Koreana Tourist Hotel, was greeted by that same spooky stuffed tiger, and... ...well, here I am.

Day Nine: Jeju to Gwangju

Okay, I made it. I caught the ferry without a hitch, even though I arrived overzealously early, before they'd even started ticketing. I bought a ticket in economy class on the Canary Rainbow for ₩25,800. I was given some serious pause when the bus from the terminal took us out to the quay: the Canary Rainbow was an actual ship, not like those little stubby ferries I'd been riding to and from Busan. It must've been 300 feet long and 100 feet tall, replete with radar masts, a bridge, a pointed bow, multiple decks, and other nautical fixings. It was a daunting sight for a city boy like me. I should explain here that economy class seating aboard a Korean ferry is...not what you and I are used to, most likely. No seats, for starters. It's the ubiquitous linoleum floor, laid down in a big wide room and broken here and there by aisles. You kick off your shoes in these aisles and relax at will upon the floor. Some folk immediately stuck their luggage under their heads and went to sleep. Others just sat around, read books, or talked quietly. Well, they did talk quietly until the college students came in. Then they had to shout. We were just about to pull away from the dock when a veritable army of young and energetic students from the Daejeon Health and Science College (as proclaimed by their purple-and-maroon T-shirts) came trooping in and occupied the entire port side of the room. Then they got to gabbing in earnest, so loudly that a few of the would-be serene elder folk on the starboard side (with me) had to yell at 'em to pipe down. They weren't such a bad lot, though. (Later on, as I lay on my stomach updating my journal, a couple of the guys sat down near me and shared their bread and orange soda; we had a little chat.) After about half an hour or so they'd mostly fallen asleep like the rest of us. We all cat-napped for about an hour or so; the older folks slept all the way through. But us young 'uns got up and started wandering around. First I discovered the snack bar, which was right next to the arcade. That's right, they had not only food but video games on the Canary Rainbow. I even managed to dig enough 100-won coins out of my pocket to make a go of 1945 Strikers, which didn't last long, because I suck. Anyway, then I went out on deck. It was windy and rainy, but the view was excellent: we were out of sight of land frequently, but just as frequently we passed rocky, wooded islands in droves. (Greece has got nothing on Korea; Odysseus could just have easily have had his odyssey here.) I snapped a few shots off the port side, but mostly just stood and breathed and watched. Then I climbed up two levels to the top deck (up the Korean version of the Grand Staircase). There was an awesome space-age viewing compartment there, with wall-height windows looking out upon the rear half of the ship. There was also a door which led out onto a bigger deck with benches, similar to the way things were set up on the car ferries out of Nongso on Geoje-do. I went out, but the wind was fierce. It had to be blowing at forty miles per hour at times, easy. We were in open water now, the Jeju Strait, eighty-five kilometers of ocean separating Jeju Island from the Korean peninsula. The wind was howling out of the southeast, blowing tons of clouds with it, and whipping the ocean into a rolling fun house. On top of that, the engines made a horrendous noise; they roared constantly as they battled the sea. The photos I snapped from this top deck aren't very good; the ship was rolling and pitching about a bit. Don't get me wrong: we were never in any danger. Seriously, it was neat. It was the first time I'd ever been on a boat that big which was rocking so drastically...probably about 30 degrees or so. I was thrilled. Plus, I knew the ship would have had to be listing about three times as far to be in any danger of capsizing. Most people probably would've found it spooky, though. A steady, stable journey engenders confidence in human beings. Any deviation from that, no matter how slight, inspires apprehension (and occasionally nausea). I went inside and lurched down the grand central staircase (one level above our huge passenger compartment, one level below the top deck) and staggered down the companionway to the forward lounge. Here there were a few sofas, a few small tables (bolted to the deck) and some comfy chairs, looking out through slit-like windows on the bow of the Canary Rainbow and the waters ahead. The view wasn't that great (rainwater kept mucking up the visibility) but after five hours of trying to sleep, buying snacks, sucking at video games, and wandering around the ship, it was an ideal refuge. Soon we pulled into calmer water, and before long the foggy coast of Jeollanam Province hove into sight on the starboard side. In another hour or so, I determined that we were pulling into Mokpo Harbor, and raced back down to the passenger compartment to grab my stuff. I waited patiently until all the college students had collected their things and moved out (leaving their orange soda cans and bread wrappers everywhere), then hefted my ridiculously heavy duffel bag over my shoulder and disembarked. I got a quick cab to the train station, bought a ticket on the next mugunghwa (the plain, inexpensive train which stops at most small towns but still doesn't take too long to go where it needs to) for 4,000 won, boarded, and was out of Mokpo by 1:40. The ride reaffirmed everything I love about trains: the smoothness of the ride, the quiet, the cheap cost, and the direct route. The ride took only one hour, and during it a young Korean woman from across the aisle got up and bought me some snacks and a bottle of water, and we made some small talk. Man, Koreans were being friendly to me today, especially in regards to food. First that college student on the Canary Rainbow and now this girl on the train to Gwangju! I was honored and humbled...I'll have to treat them if I ever see them again. Outside the secondary Gwangju train station (the ganiyeok), I found a cab with careless ease, rode a surprisingly long way through traffic and greater Gwangju (fare was about ten grand), and checked into the Koreana Tourist Hotel. (Nice: for ₩30,000 you get a spacious, clean room with a TV, a double bed, an excellent city view, and a computer, which I'm writing this entry on.) I briefly sauntered back out again into the drizzle to check train times and procure dinner; I found out there really aren't any trains that suit my needs for Thursday. Looks like I'm taking the intercity bus to get back to Gohyeon (dang). Then I went to the Hyundai Department Store. The food court, specifically. Apocryphally named "The Snack," it's a collection of food outlets arranged side-by-side, as in a typical food court in America. However, you decide what you want, buy it first (from a single counter in front), then take your receipt to the appropriate counter (the one that makes the food you want, as printed over the counter in question) and they whip it up for you there and serve it to you on a tray. When you finish, you give the tray back to them. I had the tangsuyuk, the Korean take on Chinese sweet-and-sour chicken, for ₩7,000. It was simple and pretty tasty. Then I walked out, satiated. Having spotted a Paris Baguette on the way in to the department store, I thought I'd stop by there on the way back to the Koreana and grab some dessert. At this I failed, in a most epic fashion. I grabbed what I thought was a cruller (a frosted, sugary one) and something that looked like a jolly tasty croissant, only with a bit of chocolate on top and cream in the middle. It was called a "conch pastry," after the seashell whose shape it resembled. Blah. They were both terrible. Once you'd eaten the cream and the chocolate, the conch just tasted like salty pastry. And the cruller wasn't even sweet. There was some kind of meat in the middle. A (literally) half-baked meat pie was all it was. I could barely stomach it. The milk I'd purchased to go with these "delights" didn't go down too well. So I stopped off at 7-11 near my hotel and got a couple bottles of water and (more importantly) some ice cream, and sucked on that as compensation. And then I got back to my room and wrote this. Tomorrow I plan to see some of the parks and museums that Gwangju has to offer...and then Thursday I must leave. Bummer, dude. I'd really hoped to have more time to see this gigantic city in this interesting, totally unknown province. But it looks like I'll have to save it for next time.

departure plans for Seward's icebox

Time's running down on my Korean sojourn. Soon the final curtain will fall, and I'll be off to Alaska to meet my destiny.

Preparations are already underway; Jacob has already reserved my flight (China Airlines all the way, ugh) and given me my itinerary; I've sent off two mammoth packages' worth of stuff to my folks so I won't have to cart it around manually; and I'm finishing up my travel plans for the two weeks' furlough I'll have after my last day at work. My visa extension paperwork checked out, and I'm now legally allowed to stay in the country two more weeks, until July 8th.

What am I going to do with those extra weeks?

Well, I'm enthralled that you inquired (glad you asked; the Meticulous Grammarshal loves synonyms).

First, I plan to grab a flight from Busan to Jeju-do, the aforementioned holiday island, the largest island in South Korea and a magnet for vacationers and beach-goers all over Asia. It's quite famous, apparently, and attracts more than just Korean visitors. Why, Erica told me a story today in the teacher's room about a Russian immigrant who journeyed to Jeju as a tourist and was so enraptured with the place that he stayed on as a guide. He really threw himself into it. He now speaks better Korean than some Koreans do, and knows more about the island than some people who live there! He's popular with tourists, as I'm given to understand, because he, in Erica's words, "sees it with foreigner's eyes."

Jeju does have many unique sights. There's the largest lava tube in the world, for example. There's also Hallasan, a mountain in the middle of the island, a scenic hike and a great view from the top; there's also miles and miles of beaches, where one can rent truck-tire inner tubes and bounce around in the waves. Scooters are also dirt cheap to rent, Charles tells me. So that's how I'll be getting around, buzzing from one palatinate to another aboard one of the mopeds whose morning ignitions throw me into such fits in the early morning around here.

Beyond that, I haven't done much more planning. I haven't taken the time to consider every nit-noid detail. I'm just going to land in Jeju City, get transportation to Seogwipo (the town on the southern shores of the island, where the cheaper accommodation is to be found according to fellow expatriate Chris Forte), grab a motel room and then play it by ear.

Following my six days in Jeju (less if I see everything or it's too expensive to stay, but no more), I'll advance directly to...I'm not sure. I'm vacillating, you see. My original plan detailed a four-day stay in Daejeon, the city halfway between Busan and Seoul, and of some size. It's known as the "science city," where all the research labs and scientific institutes are, Korea's R&D department if you will. It's unremarkable apart from that: no distinguishing cultural characteristics, but for an art museum, Expo Park (the remains of Korea's great science exposition some years ago, still retaining a few curiosities) and some assorted balloon and airplane rides. That is looking less and less attractive with each passing day.

I think I might really go bold and go to Gwangju instead. That city (not to be confused with Gyeongju, in Gyeongsangbuk-do) is the largest city in the province of Jeollanam-do, directly west of Gyeongsangnam-do, and its mortal enemy, or at least arch-rival. There has been some traditional, deep-seated resentment between the two provinces due to some political strife a few decades ago, and perhaps even longer, when Gyeongsangnam was Silla and Jeollanam was Baekje (see Korean History 101).

I don't know much about Gwangju other than that it's massive, has some interesting temples, an open-air night market, and a thriving downtown area. Gwangju really isn't the point of going to Jeollanam-do, though. It's just got an airport and is conveniently close to several other interesting sights, like Damyang. I was put onto that one by Erica. It's apparently a real Korean traditional village, not a tourist trap like Gyeongju or Andong. Here the customs are preserved for the sake of their preservation, not moon-eyed vacationers'. The whole place, small as it is, is tucked away in some valley somewhere just waiting to be discovered, or so I gathered from Erica. I might check it out. There's also a tea-brewing village somewhere southeast of Gwangju, too.

Mokpo, another city of some size, is one of Jeollanam's western ports (from which there's a ferry service to Jeju and back again...hmmmmm), and might also be worth seeing. I don't know what I'll do and what I won't. I'll have plenty of time to plan in my motel in Jeju. I just want to go to Jeollanam-do, pretty much. I avoided the place like the plague all the time I was here because I'd heard there were malaria mosquitoes all over the place in the hotter months due to the wider profusion of rice paddies. Charles dispelled that notion, saying that Korea didn't have a problem with malaria, period. To you, sitting in front of your computer, that might seem like a prejudiced or even propagandist answer, but I would trust Charles with my life. If this works out and I hit the Jeolla Provinces, then I'll have been to pretty much every Korean province except the far northeastern one, whichever one that is. Then I'll feel a little better about my time spent here.

Following Gwangju (or Daejeon, or whatever) there's a couple days in Seoul. For only having three days, I think I got to "see" Seoul pretty thoroughly last time. (Look up my article in the late summer edition of Real Travel Adventures to learn what I mean by "see.") But still, I wouldn't mind going back again, especially in the summer months, and see what's crackin'. I also plan to light out of the city for maybe half a day or however long it takes and get a good look at the DMZ...that's if they let me. I don't know if you're keeping up with the news but things are hotter than usual between North Korea and South Korea, Japan, the U.S., China, Russia, and, well, hell...the rest of the world. North Korea's been blustering a lot more aggressively lately and firing a lot of test missiles and whatnot in quick succession, so people are all caught up in a flurry of speculation about their intentions. As far as I know there hasn't been any increase in personnel along the demilitarized zone as of yet (not on the American side, anyway), but joint military operations between the R.O.K. and the U.S.A. are still in effect. Coincidentally, though, one of my good buddies from college, who's in the army, is getting posted to the DMZ now that he's finished basic. He should be here in a few months, unfortunately well after I leave, but soon enough that I'll be able to give him some good restaurant recommendations in Seoul.

Right, that's enough long sentences. I'll do some short ones. That ought to break up the flow a little. I read somewhere in some book that you're supposed to variegate your sentence structure by interspersing long sentences with short sentences, and every time I muster the presence of mind to keep track I notice that all the writers whose skills I admire do that very thing. (Whoops, that was a tad long.) So I'm going to try a little harder to do it myself.

That concludes my grand scheme. Serendipitously I will be in Seoul at the termination of my two weeks' furlough, so I can just slide sideways to Incheon right next door and hop my flight to Anchorage, and whatever lies in store for me there, good or ill. The only flaw in my plan is this: since I will be essentially rootless during this time, my apartment moved out of and my contact expired, I will have to be toting whatever amount of luggage I may have (and my gut tells me it will be considerable) around with me wherever I go. Certainly, I can dump it off in a motel room whenever I arrive at my particular stopping point, but in the meantime, I'll be schlepping it: in taxicabs, buses, up side streets, down back alleys...whatever. That discourages me, and unnerves me more than a little. I'll keep everything I can't afford to lose on my person at all times, of course; but if I "lose" anything else, I'll be in a slight pickle upon arriving in Anchorage. Oh well, no use in worrying about something that's not even happened yet. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Those are the plans, and them's the breaks. What do you think?

Speaking of breaks, and just so the title of this post winds up being more accurate than it first appears, I'll tell you about my official departure plans for Alaska...and by that I mean the ones on printed paper. Oddly, I'm flying from Incheon to Taipei, Taiwan. After a two-hour layover I'm headed directly to Anchorage, Alaska, U.S.A. Nothing about this flight seems desirable. The Taipei-Anchorage hop is eleven hours, exactly the same as the excruciating Minneapolis-Tokyo leg one year ago. Darn, I was hoping I wouldn't be eating my knees for one calendar day this time around. To add insult to injury, I'm not even flying Korean Air, a definitely more desirable airline than Northwest, by all accounts. No, I'm flying China Airlines, a definitely less desirable airline than Northwest. And I'm flying it both legs of the trip. You should've seen how Byeong-Jun, the rich son of a Samsung bigwig and one of my students, laughed when he heard. Why should he care? His father buys him a business-class ticket wherever he goes, the lucky bugger. Meanwhile I get stuck in sardine-style accommodation on an airline that's got the same safety record as a cross-eyed bumblebee four feet above I-80.

Deep down in my heart of hearts, I truly cannot blame Jacob, my director, for booking me this flight. The man's a small business owner, and he's got to look out for number one; he's just trying to save a little dough, and in the strictest definition of the phrase, that flight will get me where I'm going. But jeez...let's hope the omelettes aren't reheated this time, all right?

NOTE: A few days after this writing, plans changed. I think, to simplify matters (and to save money) I think I'll fly directly to Los Angeles, grab my stuff from my folks' place (and perhaps even a car, and do some more job hunting) and THEN head up to Alaska. I'm going to speak with Jacob and have him change my flight plans.