Have you ever been in the position of not knowing, or not being able to decide, where to go on vacation?
That's what the title stands for: Vacation Destination Quandary. It's never happened to me before. This is all new to me. And not entirely unpleasant, let me assure you.
A dilemma has leapt from the bushes of circumstance and rent me in the gobberwarts. I can't make up my mind where I want to go for my two-month winter break in January and February. I have so many items on my bucket list and my master to-do list (see the bottom right of this page, or the link above). Now that I actually have a stable source of income and money to blow on frivolities like globe-trotting, I can't make a decision to save my soul. Where should I go?
Australia? Japan? Mongolia? Malaysia? Each has its allure.
I've never been to Australia, and I yearn to tread its rugged interior—and sample a few beach cocktails in Brisbane or the Gold Coast. It'll be summer down there when it's butt-cold up in Seoul, you see. That's definitely a mark in the country's favor. And then there's the numerous long-haul railway lines that run around the country's edges and occasionally shoot through its interior. My butt's itching to plant itself on the Ghan or the Indian Pacific and while away three days in style.
Yeah, I know. I've already been to Japan. But I didn't see half of what I wanted to. Or rather, I saw exactly half: the southern half of the country 'twixt Tokyo and Kumamoto. Winter would be the perfect time to get up to the third Japanese home island, Hokkaido, and peruse the wintry scenes there. They have a killer snow-sculpting festival up in Sapporo, I hear. And I wouldn't mind seeing the birthplace of Sapporo beer, either. Or catching a glimpse of Russia from Hokkaido's northernmost city. Or trying my hand at snowboarding for the first time.
Mongolia! Heck yeah, Mongolia! How many people do you know who've been to Mongolia? That's what I thought. Well, buster, you could sure stand to know someone. I'll get that taken care of for ya. I wanna get a load of the Khangai and Altai mountain ranges, see the Genghis Khan Equestrian Statue, and breathe in some of that fresh steppe air. (My secret ambition is to see/climb some of the world's little-known mountain ranges, remember?) I wouldn't mind having tea in a yurt with a yak-herder, either. 'Course, winter might not be the best time of year to head to Mongolia, but that's probably why I should do it: it won't be crowded. Wouldn't hurt to know my way around the Ulaanbaatar railway station, either, for when I go through there on the Trans-Mongolian Express.
Malaysia? Come on. The beaches, man. The beaches. (I hear the grub's to die for, too...I want to try some nasi lemak.) I promised myself that if I ever lived anywhere near Asia I'd find myself in a shack somewhere on a beach with a sweating beer in my hand and fresh seafood boiling on the stove and a wannabe Rastafarian playing acoustic guitar within earshot.
So...you've seen the pictures and heard my spiel for each country.
Look: I'm a Californian. There are certain rules Californians abide by. One of them is to never end a sentence with a preposition.
I'm joking. I just broke that rule. Rule-breaking is what we do in California. Drug laws are optional, speed limits are just conservative suggestions, and contravening societal norms is the official state pastime.
But seriously: all kidding aside, the first rule of being a sane Californian is this: avoid crowds.
Crowds are everywhere in California, and much like hurricanes, they are capricious and pervasive during certain times of the year, but can be anticipated and predicted with a degree of scientific accuracy. So over the decades, we've developed certain strategies for avoiding the other 38 million ass-hats that live in our lovely state and circumventing crowd-related calamities.
For example:
Purchasing a year-long pass to Disneyland so you can take a day off and go there on Wednesday instead of having to fight your way through the weekend throngs and ticket lines.
Getting the hell out of Dodge (i.e., the L.A. Basin) before 3:30 p.m. on a weekday, or else you'll be stuck in bumper to bumper traffic on Interstate 15 as the commuters head home to the High Desert. On weekends, you get out even sooner (or don't go at all), as everybody and their mother with a boat or a hole in their pocket will be leaving at noon for Lake Mead or Las Vegas.
Making a reservation at Cheesecake Factory or Joe's Crab Shack or Red Lobster or even the goddamn hot dog stand on the corner, 'cause you're SOL if you don't, buster. (Or rather, SIL—standing in line, something the average Californian has about 20,000 hours of experience doing.)
Picking the tiniest, dumpiest, lousiest backwater on the map and going to that town's DMV office, 'cause you'll have to camp out overnight in front of the one in your town and wait in a line around the building otherwise.
Get the picture?
Unfortunately, there's no escaping some crowds. If you're planning on a day in Santa Monica, Malibu, Venice, Long Beach, or any of the other coastal suburbs (or their fabulous beaches), you're going to get stuck in traffic. Just accept it. You'll have to fight your way in and fight your way out.
If you're anywhere near Grauman's Chinese Theatre on a premiere night, you'll be weaving through packs of sozzled socialites and dodging homicidal Lamborghinis. Might as well get used to the idea.
And unfortunately for me, there seems to be no getting around the crowd (literally) anywhere in the vicinity of Tiananamen Square on a holiday weekend, rain or no rain. The place was packed with tourists, both Chinese and foreign. Miss H, Miss J and I had elbowed our way through the square and taken a breather in Zhongshan Garden, but now it was time for the main event: the Forbidden City.
Miss H, Miss J and I joined the inchoate mass of people funneling into the palace at the main gate. I marveled at the great honking picture of Mao Zedong which adorned this structure. It seems that the Chinese people can't get enough of the Great Architect. His mug's everywhere: on the Forbidden City gates, in private homes and businesses, on postcards and stamps and posters, and on every single bill of every denomination of the yuan. (Yikes.) This one, however, took the cake: tall as a house and glowering over Tiananmen Square as though still ticked off at those student protesters from 1989.
We passed under the enormous, intimidating archway and found ourselves in a broad courtyard flooded with human beings:
I was annoyed and dismayed by the crowd. My imagination wanted to run away with me, but the roiling stew of people foiled it at every turn. I marveled that I stood on a patch of ground which Chinese peasants had been forbidden to look upon for five centuries. I wondered what kind of defensive fire the palace guards could call down upon the invaders or rebels who somehow surmounted the main gate and entered this vast yard. But the people shouldering me aside and tripping over my feet rather distracted me from these delicious ideas.
We passed the next great archway (whose doors were studded with great metal knobs, presumably for defense) and found ourselves in...um, another courtyard. Rather similar to the first, I might add.
We were rapidly tiring of this game. The only difference between this yard and the last one was that this new one had a ticket office in it. In the mist-shrouded distance lay the most impressive gate yet. It possessed great, majestic wings which branched out from the central structure as though to lock visitors in its mighty embrace.
...and which were also coated with ugly scaffolding.
The whole thing was being restored and renovated, it looked like. Just our luck. Tokyo Tower was being renovated when I was there in August; Mao's Mausoleum had scaffolding all over it; and now this. It was just about enough for the three of us. The crowds, the drizzle, the long walk, and the castrated look of the palace under construction combined to dampen our enthusiasm. With scarcely a word between us, we three turned about and walked away from the Forbidden City. We neither penetrated its unknown depths nor paid a single yuan in admission fees. We were tired, footsore, cranky, and ready for a nap. So we returned to the Novotel Xin Qiao and had one, a sinfully good one.
When we awoke in the middle of the afternoon, we were ready for our final conquest: THE TEMPLE OF HEAVEN.
It was down to ripping off a Bogart flick or a Bugs Bunny cartoon. Speaking for myself, I know which one of the two I'd like coming after me with a lawsuit. Or a sledgehammer.
Since the pseudo-typhoon blew over, the weather in Bucheon—and greater Korea—has been nothing short of delightful. The days have been down in the seventies; no more of this nineties crap. To say that I've been enjoying the change would be an understatement. For starters, I've commenced my workout program (150 minutes of physical activity every week, plus pull-ups and push-ups). My stamina has already improved, and I'm looking forward to the day when I can do more than one stinking pull-up. Sleeping has been easier, too. Last week I actually spent a night without my industrial-sized fan blowing on my torso from three inches away.
A new semester has begun at my school, and my class schedule is exactly the same as before. I have five classes on Monday, seven on Tuesday, six on Wednesday, eight on Thursday and four on Friday, though in different distributions. My Friday classes are in one long block instead of being broken up throughout the day; but my Wednesday classes, instead of being one miserable slog, are now punctuated by 45-minute breaks. All in all, I'd say the new schedule is an improvement.
The weekend before last (the first weekend of September), Miss H and I took a trip down to Busan to see my buddies Adam and Jeff, whom I'd worked with on Geoje Island. It'd been a few months since we'd seen each other. Moreover a weekend spent lying on Haeundae Beach, sipping beer and dunking our toes, was just what the doctor ordered. Frustratingly, we couldn't leave Bucheon until after 3:30 p.m. We had missed classes on Tuesday (the 28th of August) due to Typhoon Bolaven, and had to make the classes up on Saturday the 1st. So we did that. The students hated it and so did we. But our precious freedom was gained at half past three, and I hurried home, packed, grabbed Miss H's hand, and rushed off to the bus terminal.
...only to learn that we had missed the outbound bus to the Haeundae neighborhood of Busan by ten lousy minutes.
So we sat around for two hours, reading books in a coffeehouse in the upscale NewCore shopping center. Miss H perused The Help while I delved into Around the World in Eighty Days. At the appointed time (5:50 p.m.) we packed up our books and went through the glass doors to the bus platform.
There we waited a further 15 minutes until the bus and its frazzled driver screeched to a halt in front of us, bid us board, and then hauled ass away from the terminal.
The ride was miserable. Both of us were bone-tired. The lurching and jarring of the vehicle, driven by a dilatory madman and jouncing through lanes of traffic and across uneven ground, precluded any effort to sleep or read. The best we could manage was a sort of tenuous doze, aided by soothing music from our iPods and each other's presence. The ride was a beastly five and a half hours. Cramped, sweaty, bleary-eyed and annoyed, Miss H and I stumbled off the bus at Haeundae Beach and set out to find a hotel. After an abortive attempt at a 40,000-won love motel, whose rooms included a mini-bar, a microwave, and a cockroach on the ceiling, we were finally installed in a much cleaner and nicer joint for ₩70,000. Miss H collapsed into unconsciousness while I hunted up Adam, Jeff, Jeff's girlfriend Jenn and their friends. We partied first at a noisy club on the 14th floor of a beach-side skyscraper, watching the waves wash ashore far below us; then we adjourned to a convenience store for beer and Roman candles. We walked down to the sand and planted our tushes on the beach itself, drinking until the wee hours of the morning, launching fireworks over the surf, watching them fizzle into nothingness as they struck the water. It was just like old times; Adam, Jeff and I had practiced this very ritual many a night in Busan in 2008 and 2009.
After the walk down Memory Lane had concluded, it was time to stagger home. Arriving, as I had, at eleven o'clock, I hadn't even managed to catch up to everybody. The most I'd achieved was a sort of pleasant buzz. I wasn't even weaving. I made a short stop at a seafood restaurant to inquire about the price of king crab stew; upon being informed that it was fifty grand (for four people), I politely took my leave. I woke up Miss H to let me in, as this motel did not give out more than one key card, and went to sleep.
I awoke the next morning with an attenuated hangover. Miss H and I leisurely arranged our things and checked out precisely at noon. Then we went to meet Adam, Jeff, and Jenn and have some breakfast. We dined in style at the Wolfhound, an Irish pub just off Gunam Street. I had shepherd's pie for breakfast (don't judge), and Adam helped himself to a tremendous king-size breakfast of eggs, sausage, bacon and beans. Then it was down to the beach have a splodge. We waded and swam in the chilly water (September is quite advanced in Haeundae's beach season); sufficiently awake, we pulled up a chair and an umbrella at a bar called Gecko's and ordered calamari and daiquiris. Here we sat for some time, whiling away the golden afternoon, chatting and laughing. It was absolute magic. I felt the stress of seven months melting away in the sunshine. Seven months I had been penned up in the Seoul metropolitan area, getting honked at by cars, standing in stuffy subway trains, holding on for dear life in careening buses. Now I was free. I was gazing over the bluish-grey waters of the East China Sea, listening to the seagulls cry, watching cargo ships scudding over the waves as they departed the ports. A sweating lime daiquiri was in my hand, greasy calamari in my teeth, and dear friends smiling at me from across the table. Things couldn't have been much better.
Adam, Miss H, and me...geombae!
All too soon, it was time to part. Miss H and I, shepherded by Adam, got on the subway and headed for Busan Station. We had had enough of buses; expense or no expense, we were taking the KTX home. The Korean bullet train, of which I've written before, would whisk us back to Seoul in only two hours, at the blinding speed of 300 kilometers. Adam bid us farewell on the subway car: he was continuing on for a few stops. I was feeling more sozzled than I had the night before. I had drunk the leftover beer in the fridge that morning; at breakfast I had downed several bottles of Strongbow cider with Adam; and after two daiquiris at Gecko's, I was feeling mighty fine. I weaved my way off the subway train and up to the ticket counter with Miss H. Our luck did not hold; the special weekend rates and the foreigner's discount were not in effect. We paid ₩90,000apiece for our tickets. Incensed, but glad we would be getting home in short order (for it was already past four o'clock), we adjourned to the station platform and seated ourselves inside Car No. 6, painted a sleek grey-and-blue. The KTX pulled away from the platform and soon we were zooming north and homeward. The ride was divine. I had my darling by my side, a good book in my lap, a bottle of water to help me sober up (for I was still rather tipsy) and a gorgeous pink-and-blue sunset outside the windows. The green hills of Korea flashed by, slow enough to take in but fast enough not to bore the eye. After two quick halts at Daegu and Daejeon, we were pulling into Seoul Station, barely two hours after departing Busan. Two hundred miles down, just like that.
And now, just to leave you with some cheerful news (for I'm now back at work and into the grind, and can't wait to get back to Busan again), I HAVE FINISHED MY NOVEL. The tremendous rewrite which I embarked upon all those long months ago has concluded. The second draft has been completed. The manuscript stands at 118,838 words and 598 double-spaced pages. I'm feeling confident enough about this second version to actually want other people to read it. First, however, I'm doing the Stephen King thing and letting the monster sit inert for a few weeks. This'll give me time to pull away from it, mentally and physically, recharge the creative batteries, and be able to approach the thing in a new light when rewriting time comes. For the nonce, however, I am on-track for publication by the end of 2012.
Unless you're a native Latin speaker or a biology professor, you probably haven't.
It's also known as a "moon jelly":
And I can honestly say that I know what they feel like to touch. I indulged in some heavy petting with a moon jelly down in Long Beach last Wednesday.
My folks took Miss H and I down to the Aquarium of the Pacific as a sort of farewell thing. (We're not leaving until February, but we were originally leaving in September, and then paperwork delays pushed that back to December, and the roof fell in, so...here we are. Best to get it done before anything else happens.)
We had a ball. The aquarium was smaller than I remembered, but still chock-full of some mind-blasting exhibits. A giant sea bass the size of an armchair swam back and forth in the main gallery; sea otters broke chunks of ice into small pieces and ate them with relish; the bat rays flopped out of the water for a pat on their slimy noggins; and the moray eels poked their evil heads from their holes, like old men glaring at noisy children on the sidewalk.
And then it happened.
In the middle of the Polar Seas display room was a rectangular basin of water, about the depth of a goldfish tank, but as long as a horse trough. In this tank, pulsating to and fro, was a gaggle of pale, bulbous, semi-translucent creatures resembling nothing so much as ragged, waterlogged pieces of tissue paper. They floated about, drifting with the gentle current, expanding and contracting their mantles lazily.
As soon as I saw the aquarium staff member standing behind the tank and the Purell dispensers on the wall, I understood what was going on.
A rare opportunity had thrown itself my way. I was going to pet a jellyfish. So I rolled up the sleeve of my jacket, took my place in line, stuck out two fingers, and dove in with a relish.
My rubric for stroking aquatic creatures is not extensive. In my youth, I had handled live goldfish, and I had petted the bat rays 40 minutes earlier. This was the limit of my experience. Thus far, I had observed several commonalities between species: the firmness of the flesh, the coldness of the skin and a general pervading sliminess. The moon jelly, surprisingly, possessed all three. In touching the mantle with the first two fingers of my right hand, I expected a yielding, gelatinous substance, as tenuous as it was transparent. Though undoubtedly soft, the jellyfish was relatively rigid to the touch; I felt as though I would have to poke it much harder to make an impression in the flesh. Fortunately, I had the good sense and the biological politeness not to test this hypothesis. Keeping my hand well away from the tentacles of the onrushing herd of the moon jelly's fellows, I withdrew my hand and sanitized it.
I had second thoughts about reviewing this. The piña colada is a pretty common drink. Moreover there are as many recipes for it as there are grains of sand on a beach, and sifting through them to find best one seemed like a tall order.
But hey, I've gone out on a limb many times in my reviews (Swirling to the Beat of the Haggis Wings, anyone?). I figured that, every so often, my readers will appreciate me sticking with something simple and familiar.
...so long as I put a new spin on it, anyway.
I purchased my first bottle of coconut cream not long ago, anyway, and I have to find some use for it.
So here you go:
2 ounces light rum
5 ounces pineapple juice
1½ ounces coconut cream
1 cup crushed ice
1 maraschino cherry
1 pineapple slice
In a blender, combine the rum, pineapple juice, coconut cream and crushed ice. Blend well and pour into a collins glass. Garnish with the cherry and pineapple slice.
If you're really feeling festive, double the recipe and pour into a hurricane glass. Now it's a party.
I'm not going to tell you what it tastes like. You ought to know by now, if you're human. Besides, tropical drinks aren't really meant to be dissected; the flavors are supposed to meld into one big stress-relieving bundle of joy.
I'll simply state that this recipe, in my opinion, makes the best piña colada around.
Or you could try this one. Whatever.
It's a tropical drink. Mix it however you want. Go with the flow, man.
P.S. Piña colada is Spanish for "strained pineapple." Betcha didn't know that, Dr. Bamboo.
The Maldives, otherwise known as the Maldive Islands or the Republic of Maldives, lies about 430 miles southwest of the island of Sri Lanka, in the Laccadive Sea. The Maldives themselves are, according to good ol' Wikipedia, a double chain of twenty-six atolls running north-to-south over an area of about 90,000 square kilometers. There are over twelve hundred separate islands or islets, of which only about 200 are inhabited.
There's a lively debate on where the name "Maldives" came from. Some say that it's the anglicized form of the Dutch name Maldivische Eilanden, which itself may have originated in Sanskrit. Others insist that the name comes from a passage in an ancient Sri Lankan text, the Mahawamsa, which refers to an obscure island called Mahalidiva, "The Island of Women." The Arabs used to call the place Mahal Dibiyat, the word mahal meaning "palace."
It holds the unsurprising distinction of being the lowest country in the world, hovering at an average of four feet eleven inches above sea level. The highest point on the entire island chain is 7'7" above the water. Let's hope the tsunamis around there never get higher than six feet or so, eh?
Okay, enough with the bloody factoids. Let's get to the rat-killer.
You wanna know why I've featured the Maldives so prevalently on this blog (after such a long absence from these random travel destinations)? Why I want to go there so desperately, when I'm rather leery about the area (those Somali pirates operate not too far west of there, y'know)?
Three reasons.
First, the sunsets.
Second, they've got themselves an underwater grub joint. You can dine 16 feet under at the Ithaa Undersea Restaurant, at the Conrad Hotel and Resort on Rangali Island.
Tell me that ain't cool. Go on, just try.
Finally, and this one's the kicker...
Maldivian Air Taxi is the country's biggest air carrier, and one of the most prolific seaplane operators in the world. Close to 500 flights a week during tourist season. I hear their pilots wear Hawaiian shirts and fly barefoot.
And if they hired me, my office would look like this:
Turquoise water, white sand, tropical sunsets, plentiful seafood, and a de Havilland Twin Otter to fly: what could be finer?
For a writer-cum-pilot with itchy feet (like yours truly), that's darn close to heaven.
June 14. Newcastle-upon-Tyne, England. There were three of us, A, J, and yours truly. Ms. K had said her goodbyes and was on her way back to the airport to fly back to London.
There was one thing we had to do before moving away from the seafront and ducking down to the Newcastle Quayside. We had to duel the North Sea.
Now, I'm not one of your hippy-dippy gung-ho mountain-climber types. I don't have to "challenge Mother Nature" to feel good about myself. I don't go whitewater rafting and then say I've defeated the river. I don't go bouldering in random canyons and call myself a rock-god. I don't meditate on the burning sands of the Sahel and claim I've communed with the Great Spirit. I don't climb Mount Everest and think it's an unusual feat. Nature freaks and outdoorsy types generally make me sick.
But I've got this thing about oceans. They tick me off. They're high on themselves, for one thing. They think they're effing fabulous just 'cause they're composed of enormous volumes of saline water. They're all swept up in their own magnificence just 'cause they're self-contained transcontinental biospheres which support a vast majority of the planet's wildlife. Oceans and seas cover 75 percent of the world's surface, and due to that meager factoid these oversize aquatic masses think they own the place. Arrogant pricks. They're just big puddles. Tides, weather systems, storms, and a half-dozen unique and independent ecosystems Do Not Necessarily a Renowned Body of Water Make.
So I challenge the seas wherever I go. I throw down. I stand on the beaches, pound my chest like King Kong in his prime, and dare 'em to come on. I kick off my shoes and socks, stomp those bastards' tides right in, wade into them like the effing Colossus of Rhodes, and frickin' punch them right in the rollers. No major component of the hydrosphere messes with me and gets away with it. I learned the East China Sea real good last year in Haeundae, South Korea. That chickenshit excuse for a body of water won't be coming back for a second helping anytime soon. So there I was, fresh out of the Newcastle Priory and feelin' mean. And then bam, what do I see? The frickin' North Sea, sitting there all blue and green and grumpy-looking under that fresh blue sky, looking like it had a chip on its shoulder. Putz thought he was hot shit just 'cause he was sitting pretty at nine degrees Celsius. So I turned to my posse (A and J) and said, "Hey, fellas, we're not going to let this creep get away with that kind of attitude, are we? Let's show him who's boss." So we went down to the beach. King Edward's Beach, known by the locals as "King Eddie's Beach." Here, look:
Fine, fine sand. Velvety stuff, effervescent in sunlight, extraordinarily silky underfoot—the kind of stuff sandbox manufacturers would kill for. We selected our base of operations carefully: a rock outcrop at the southern end of the beach.
There we doffed all unnecessary articles of clothing and took the North Sea head-on.
...successfully, I might add. All we did was head-butt it right in the breakers and it went weeping home to Mommy.
Then (shivering slightly) we dried off, changed clothes and had a celebratory cider in the Turks Head.
One of the perks of driving from Los Angeles to San Diego on the night of the 15th was that we got to sleep in the morning after. I awoke about 8:00 or so, having slept passably well on a soft bed in an unfamiliar room with airplanes flying over all night. Honestly, it reminded me of our old townhouse back in Alexandria, Virginia. We were practically within spitting distance of Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. Every three minutes or so, a jet plane would take off and climb into the sky with a dull, faint roar. They did that around the clock, every day of the week, morning, noon and night. I used to stretch out on my bed in my second-story room, facing west, watching these planes as they clambered into the black and starry night, lights winking merrily, their soft thunder muted by the glass windows, the distant rumble strangely comforting.
Ten years later, in San Diego, these airplanes didn't wake me up. But they might have kept me from sleeping as deeply as I should have.
To summarize, I didn't feel particularly rested on the morning of the sixteenth.
The free continental breakfast at the HoJo closed down at nine, so Alli and I got ready and headed down there about 8:37 or so. We broke our fast on cold cereal, toast and almost-ripe fruit. We took the opportunity to pull out the map of San Diego we'd picked up at the front desk and study it.
We'd chosen hotels wisely. We weren't but a few miles from SeaWorld. So, after we'd finished breakfast and checked out, we loaded up the Jeep, got on the road, made a few hectic right turns, stumped up for parking, and were walking through the park gates in the warm sunshine in less than a half-hour.
I'd been to San Diego a few times before. I used to have a great uncle living down there. Uncle Joe, we called him, but his real name was Alvin. He had a two-story, bungalow-esque sort of place about 15 minutes' walk from Ocean Beach Pier. His wife, Dee, passed away some years before he did, leaving him alone in that big old house in the palm-coated hills. It was a bit sad. At least he never had to deal with any hard winters. No matter what time of year we visited him, the temperature was always a uniform 80 degrees. Sometimes it got up to 82, but that was a heat wave, Joe would say. Of course, Allison and I visited S.D. in mid-December. The temperature had plummeted to something like, I don't know, 75 degrees, with plenty of warm sunshine and a sweet, cool sea breeze.
I claim to hate California, but I lovelovelove San Diego. It's one of only two places in my home state I'd actually consider living in for longer than two seconds.
We paid up, ducked back to the car to deposit a few contraband items (the lady at the gate was checking bags most assiduously), and entered SeaWorld San Diego.
Ahhhh, what a glorious day. See above.
The place was every bit as nice as I'd remembered, if not more nicer. There were Christmas decorations strung up everywhere, as there had been at Universal Studios. The 400-foot Skytower had been hung with gigantic strands of lights and capped with a huge star, dolling it up like an enormous Christmas tree. Hymns and carols issued softly from the park's speakers, and that wonderful sea breeze kept blowing, mingling with the happy laughter of children and the sounds of rushing water.
Maybe commercial entertainment ain't so bad after all.
Allison and I wandered about in semi-logical fashion, doing and seeing just about everything the park had to offer. We visited the sea turtles, petted the dolphins, chuckled at the sea lions, made a fuss of the penguins, touched the sea stars, fondled the stingrays, winced at the eels, and ate all the barbecued meat and fries we could get our hands on. It was a good, good day. Shamu was in fine form, too. The last show we saw before leaving the park was the big ol' killer whale extravaganza at 2:30. It was everything I'd remembered: some jumps, some big splashes, a whole lot of oohs and aahs, and quite a few fish.
Every time I go to a zoo or an aquarium, it's as if I'm seeing it for the first time. I never remember just how much is inside. We went to see the sea lion show (hence the chuckling), and whaddya know! It was abjectly different from the other one I saw before, with new gimmicks and new actors, human and pinniped alike. I'd completely forgotten about the freshwater aquarium, with its humongous bullfrogs and piranha swarms and see-through guppies. I got to pet the stingrays last time; this was the first time I'd ever petted a dolphin. THAT was COOL. They were friendly as all get-out, and swam right up to us, clicking and squeaking. They even seemed to enjoy a good pat on the head. Touching a dolphin was, somehow, even weirder than fondling a stingray. They were wet, of course, and extremely tough and rubbery, but not slimy as the rays had been. It was a fantastic experience. We happened to be standing near a zookeeper in a wetsuit, who was busy brushing away at the edges of the enclosure. He noticed what fun we were having, and introduced us personally to the dolphins who swam up (Captain and Bugs). He was friendly and knew his stuff. He even helped us call them over.
It was one of the most marvelous things I've ever experienced, that's for dang sure.
Another reason that we chuckled at the sea lions was this: sea lions, in fact, possess similar gender discrepancies to humans.
Let me explain. We walked over to the sea lion exhibit after the show. The sea lions were separated according to sex: males in one pen and females in another. (Are female sea lions called sea lionesses? They ought to be.)
Picture this: the females are getting along swimmingly. They're sleeping in heaps, perfectly free and easy with each other.
Swing your head a few degrees to the left and look into the males' enclosure. You will observe the largest boy sea lion launch himself from the water and unceremoniously slap the smallest sea lion off a rock with his flipper. The smallest sea lion falls into the drink and sullenly swims off in search of a less coveted rock to lie on.
Yep. That's boys and girls for you, folks.
Alli and I both enjoyed ourselves immensely, but there was a tiny worry tinging my peace of mind. Allison was pretty quiet. She seemed, in fact, a little distant. I was agonizing insecurely over this perceived coolness. I honestly couldn't tell if she was just tired from all the sleep we'd missed thus far, or whether she'd soured on me in the wake of yesterday's car accident. And it was killing me.
I know, I know. 'Twas stupid of me to worry. She's a good friend, after all, and had told me that she didn't hold it against me. I should've just taken her word for it. But I guess I must be more fragile inside than I like to admit. I was convinced that her opinion of me had slipped a few notches, and I was, shall we say...concerned.
Next up on our to-do list: Ocean Beach. Allison had expressed a keen desire to walk on a beach, seeing as it was -16 degrees and snowing at her house. I figured Ocean Beach, with its fine sand, tidal pools, copious piles of flotsam, and huge pier (the longest on the West Coast) would suit just fine. The trick was getting there. We had to get on I-8 again for a bit, and that proved to be problematic from SeaWorld Drive. For me, anyway. As has already been proven, I'm a boneheaded driver. Despite Alli's best navigational efforts, I missed the exit, and had to come back and take another run at it. We made it the second time around, and found ourselves on Sunset Cliffs Boulevard, searching for Niagara Avenue, which lead to (and, in fact, turned into) Ocean Beach Pier. We cruised through suburban San Diego in so doing. Alli commented that, "minus the palm trees," it looked rather like her aunt's neighborhood back home.
We reached Niagara and hauled right. By some amazing quirk of fate, we found a parking space. Some guy in a pickup was just pulling out as we came back down Niagara after a fruitless first run up. We parked. I paused for a moment to make a call to my insurance company; I'd meant to do it earlier, but hadn't. They'd actually been attempting to call me. The woman I'd hit had apparently already contacted her insurance company, who had gotten in touch with mine,pronto. I managed to get a hold of a living body and set up a time to get everything hashed out. Alli, decorous as ever, stepped out of the car to preserve my precious ego. I was nonetheless red-faced as I climbed out of the car to join her on the sidewalk. At this point, any reminder of the screw-up I'd committed was bound to bring my desire to turn into a pile of sludge bubbling back again.
I shook it off as best I could and the two of us moseyed up the gently sloping avenue to the pier.
The Pacific Ocean blossomed before us, lit by the westering sun.
Shame and concern were instantly swept away in that sacred glow. The clement sea air swirled gently about us like waves on the nearby sea, washing us free of travel grime, scrubbing out souls as it passed. The palm trees swayed in that magnificent breeze. The sky was an amalgam of purple and orange, feathered with the most delicate traces of cirrus clouds. Surfers in wetsuits wobbled on boards a few hundred yards offshore; the waves clamored merrily upon the sand; young men kicked soccer balls across the beach, while an electric guitar's tinny chords filtered out a boom box; hippies and freaks of every size and description wandered up and down the sidewalks, toting guitar cases or backpacks or dreadlocks or joints, gathering here and there in groups; joggers huffed steadily along the pier; and windburned fishermen looked to their lines, standing here and there by the rails. Everywhere were young couples strolling hand-in-hand. Sailboats scudded along the horizon.
I haven't been treated to a scene that beautiful in a long time.
Alli and I joined this menagerie of human life, walking slowly along the pier, past the fishermen and joggers, past the restaurant, out onto the very end of the pier. There we stood, and took in the ocean and all it had to say. Seagulls and pelicans soared over the waters, and that sky kept getting more beautiful by the minute. There was hardly any need to speak.
We stood there for a time, drinking it all in, wandering back and forth, snapping pictures and making comments. I remembered just how much I loved coming to this pier, even though poor old Uncle Joe had passed on. I had to admit, though, it was a million times better coming here with someone than just by myself, even if that someone had witnessed me backing into someone and then almost doing a runner.
The light was dying as we walked back down the pier, down the steps, and onto the beach...but not before we'd encountered this fellow.
He was nakedly interested in some of the fishermen's dividends. He was flapping from one side of the pier to the other, rail to rail, and darting furtive glances all about him, like an old man heading for the cookie jar.
Our prior visit to SeaWorld had gotten us both in the mood for a little beachcombing. So we strolled across the sand, past moldering piles of kelp, to the tide pools. We hopped among them, rather like the macaroni penguins we'd seen earlier, and peered into every puddle. We didn't turn up much. We found one large, mysterious, pulsating mass half-hidden inside a conch shell, and a tiny hermit crab. We didn't mind. It was something just being down there, twilight beginning to gather, the waves resounding with the incoming tide, sailboats wending their way out upon the open sea, the sky deepening its hues with the oncoming night, and the music from that boom box drifting idly across the beach.
If there's such a thing as heaven, I hope it's similar to what I've described above: serene and beautiful, with a few boom boxes thrown in.
We finally packed it in, walked slowly back up the stairs, down Niagara Avenue, and back to Roger. After a brief stop for fuel, we were back on Sunset Cliffs Boulevard, looking for I-8. We found it easily...or rather, its terminus. That's right, I actually got to get on Interstate 8 right where it actually begins, just a few hundred yards from Ocean Beach, San Diego. How cool is that? I mean, people travel on interstate highways all the time, don't they? But how many of them actually get to the end?
We weren't on the 8 for long. It began to get choked up, so Allison suggested we dodge north on CA-163 instead of waiting. That sounded like a good suggestion to me, so we did. Unfortunately, when we actually merged onto the 15, I missed the carpool lane. So I had to sit there in traffic for an extra 20 minutes before things finally thinned out and we got back up to speed again.
(For those of you who may be unfamiliar with carpool lanes...they're these really neat highway lanes open to any vehicle with two or more passengers. They're meant to thin out traffic during rush hour, and encourage carpooling. Since I had Allison with me, I could legally use the carpool lane...only, for some reason, I kept forgetting to, which meant that I spent a LOT more time stuck in bloody traffic jams than I should have. Oh well.)
Darkness fell completely by the time we made it to Corona, where we'd promised to meet Allison's cousin, TJ, for dinner. By an amazing coincidence, Allison has a cousin who works with Young Americans (a song and dance troupe) and works in Corona. (But he lives in Long Beach. Ugh, I wouldn't fancy that commute. He said he had to get up at 3:30 a.m. to make it to work by 5:30. Eee-yuck.) So she called him, and, after a lengthy discussion of our plans, finally managed to make a date with him. We had a little difficulty locating the right exit, particularly in the dark, but after a few missed approaches and wrong turns, we were sitting in the Corona T.G.I. Friday's and ready for some wholesale meeting-up.
Presently, TJ and his Canadian girlfriend, Tara, came in. We rose to meet them, and spent the next two hours chatting and scintillating. We even called up Alli and TJ's aunt, Toots, who was having a birthday, and sang to her over the phone. It was one of the most interesting times I've had with a couple of complete strangers.
TJ picked up the tab, too. Great guy. Must be, if he's related to Alli.
And so, wearied from our two-day odyssey in La-La Land, Alli and I said our goodbyes, climbed back inside Roger once again, and headed for the open road. Traffic by this time was light. We reached home base in good stead, before the parents had retired to bed, and sacked out forthwith.
My concerns about what Alli thought of me were far from fading completely. But, as I lay on my cot in the solacing dark of the family room, I thought they'd faded at least a little.
That was good. I'd need all my concentration to survive what would come next...an all-nighter in the world capital of sin, vice, and dreams brought to life...
...Las Vegas, Nevada.
Once again, first let me tell you about what happened last night (after I blogged for the day).
I regrouped a little in my room, then changed out of my sweaty clothes (into less sweaty clothes; I really need to do laundry here) and walked out on the street. My quest: food. None of this buying-an-armload-of-unhealthy-junk-food-at-Family-Mart business like I'd done too many nights already. I was going to get something real, something unique to Jeju, some Korean food.
So I went to Homeplus. Hey, quit looking at me like that. Before I forayed into the unknown bowels of Seogwipo in a potentially fruitless search for sustenance, I wanted to make sure I had all my bases covered. So I went to Homeplus (which, for those of you who just came in, is rather like a Wal-Mart Supercenter...groceries and home goods and crap). I found absolutely nothing edible there, except for a bit of dry cheesecake (that tasted mostly like cheese) and a pint of milk. Okay, dessert was out of the way (burp). Now it was time to seek out the main course.
I'd spotted it on my way up the street: Cheonsu, a little tiny one-room family-run place, one of perhaps thousands like it all across Korea. Half the room was devoted to traditional Korean seating (a raised linoleum platform with low tables) and the other half to Western seating (tables and chairs of normal height, resting on the floor proper). It was a nice little place, with some excellent decor (plants, an aquarium, a beautiful hand-painted calendar depicting what looked like the peaks of Seoraksan National Park). The family unit was having a nice lazy evening. The mother was bustling about somewhere, the son had just gotten back from taekwondo and was still in his uniform, and the father and the little daughter were sitting around the main room watching this extremely odd game show (which I'll get into later). I sat down, gazed at the five-item menu, and randomly ordered up a helpin' of bomalsujebi (4,500 won). I had no idea what it was or what I'd be getting, but I was quite sanguine as I tucked into the side dishes and the beer that the proprietor brought me. And I watched the game show. It was, as I may have mentioned before, exceedingly odd. It seemed to revolve around these four guys dressed in prison garb (stripes) who were running/sneaking/driving around Seoul trying to evade the clutches of these other two well-dressed gents who seemed to be out to get them. To complicate matters, the four escaped prisoners (as I assumed them to be) were on a sort of scavenger hunt, and had to keep rendezvousing at these random locations to meet up with these fat bald guys in Hawaiian shirts and receive their next objective. There were some thrilling chase scenes, separations, rallies, reunions, and comic running-down-the-street-screaming-please-don't-leave-me-behind-stop-the-cab-and-wait action. All of this was complemented by rather goofy sound effects, and silent commentary (appearing on the screen in speech bubbles).
I loved it.
So then my bomalsujebi came, and it proved to be a brothy seaweed soup with lumps of some unidentifiable gray substance in it. I tried to ask what they were (in Korean) but obviously since I lack vocabulary I didn't understand the answer. I have been unable to find any reference to this dish on the web, so I'm afraid I have no credible answer for you as to the nature of this gray matter. It was tasty, though. I ate this soup (and it was a whopping great bowl of it), nibbled my banchan, and giggled along with the little girl at the antics of those escaped prisoners. Then I paid up and went home, mission accomplished. I wish that little family well, whatever happens in the future.
I was planning on calling it a night, but in the Hiking Inn's computer room I ran into a Tibetan-American fellow (whose name I can't pronounce, let alone spell) from New York, who was vacationing here as part of an Asian travel package. We wound up going out drinking together. We had some beer and some delicious chicken snacks at Milano, a tiny and shabby yet tasteful little bar overlooking Seogwipo Harbor. There's red upholstery and pretty barren whitewashed walls, but outside there's a little porch with some lights and computer speakers lashed to tree trunks, with golden oldies and Motown pouring out of them nonstop. It's a marvelous little place for a beer or three and an intimate chat. (Incidentally, the beers were four grand apiece, and the smoked chicken pieces were 15,000.) We talked of this and that; we found out we like all the same bands, so there was at least some common ground between us...
Alrightie, now on to July 3, 2009. I woke up in the morning (early) with every intention of going to climb Hallsan. Admittedly I was going to do the short trail (to Witseoreum, a crater near the summit), but still, I needed to get on the ball early. I had a rather roundabout route ahead of me even before I got to the trailhead. First, I had to go to Jungmun (the resort town about twenty-five minutes west of Seogwipo, where all the snazzy hotels are). According to my guide book, that's where I'd catch the bus to the head of the Eorimok Trail, northwest of the mountain, about a four-and-a-half hour leg (the way down was one-and-a-half hours, so we're talking six hours at the very least; another reason to get on the ball early). I was worried about finding the bus in Jungmun, though. I'd been through there several times and never once approached anything even remotely resembling a bus stop labeled "Eorimok, Hallasan."
I was out on the streets by nine. I caught the bus to Jungmun, got off at the Suites Hotel, and asked a nearby cab driver where the bus to Hallasan was.
"Seogwipo," he said.
A little part of me died inside.
I'd just come from there, dang it. My guide book says the bus starts out in Jungmun, dang it. Don't tell me I got out of bed this early and came all this way here when in reality the bus I needed was right in my backyard in Seogwipo, dang it!
I went into the Suites to get a second opinion. The young lady at the tourist information booth spoke no English, so I didn't understand a word of what she said or gestured to on the map of Jeju in front of her. I caught the word "taxi" several times, though. Discouraging sign.
With a heavy heart I caught the city bus back to New Seogwipo and, after inquiring halfheartedly about bus tickets to Hallasan at the counter (to which I received the answer I expected: no), I bought a ticket on the express to Jeju City for three grand. The ride was short and sweet. I was sprinting in to the Jeju City terminal before noon. (I was sprinting because I had to go really bad; I'd consumed two breakfast rolls, some meat-on-a-stick, a banana, three cookies, a pint of milk, and a little bottle of orange juice while waiting for my bus at the New Seogwipo station.) Despite the alacrity of the intercity bus, I took a look at my watch and the schedule board and then deep-sixed Hallasan for the day. There simply wasn't time; even if the bus to Eorimok flew like the wind I'd still be pushing sunset by the time I made it down, and that's if I hurried. I didn't want a repeat of the Jirisan debacle, where we were stumbling down in the twilight and just barely made it off the trail before dark.
But, hope springs eternal. Seeing as how I was already in Jeju City, I moved Manjanggul up the queue a bit.
Manjanggul is the longest lava tube on the island of Jeju, and (if I remember correctly) the entire world. It's over seven kilometers, gigantic, bored through the rock millennia ago by jets of high-velocity magma. Realizing that it had been more than 15 years since I was last in a cave, and recognizing my chance to see one of Jeju's most impressive and famous sights, I caught the next bus for Seongsan. A cab rolled up right as I got off at the Manjanggul stop an hour or so later, and before you knew it I was at the entrance. Even the admission was free, thanks to it being the anniversary of UNESCO adding Manjanggul to their World Heritage List Thingy or something.
I knew I was in for an interesting time as soon as I reached the top of the staircase.
It descended quite steeply down into a black chasm, ringed by sun-dappled trees and bushes, real jungle stuff.
About five steps down the air became noticeably cooler, and by the time I'd reached the bottom the temperature must've been lowered by about 30 degrees. (According to my Lonely Planet Guide, the temperature inside the lava tube stays a consistent 10 degrees Celsius; and it was nearly 80 degrees outside on Jeju that day according to MSN, so a 30-degree temperature discrepancy isn't out of the ballpark.) It...was...marvelous in there. It was cool, it was dark, it was wet, and it was big.
There were only a few fluorescent lights; the place was kept mostly dark to protect the native species, like cave spiders (I didn't see any of those, unfortunately). The ceiling dripped constantly; there were puddles everywhere on the rocky, ridged floor (itself the surface of a long-dried lava flow), and the echoes of drops falling into puddles and landing on rocks sounded softly and peacefully throughout my sojourn in the tube. And it was big.
Nothing compared to Mammoth Cave, mind you, but like I said, it's been awhile since I was in a cave, and any ceiling higher than 10 feet was impressive in that chilled, dank vault. It was marvelous. I trudged the kilometer to the lava pillar in a sort of somber glee (if there is such a thing). I was grinning inside, but outside I was rather down. For the millionth time I wished I wasn't by myself. Traveling alone has its benefits but experiences are ninety billion percent better when they're shared, in my opinion.
The lava pillar (a type of lava tube formation that occurs when part of the ceiling caves in and magma pours into the tube from above, then hardens, forming a gigantic stalactite of sorts), at seven meters, is the largest in the world. In the religious twilight of that subterranean gallery, it was a majestic and awe-inspiring sight. I won't soon forget the hike I took in that place, icy droplets whacking the brim of my hat (or better yet, skidding down my back), jumping over puddles and sliding from rock to rock, my eyes turned upward to admire the dimly lit ceiling or eldritch piles of rock and lava rafts.
It was the highlight of my trip to Jeju so far, and that's saying something.
The way out seemed too short. It was certainly less blurry, as I'd learned to prop my camera on a rock when snapping photos to avoid low-light, long-shutter, wobble-induced smudges.
And so, finally, I reached the cyclopean, jungle-clad opening of the well once more.
Well, I wasn't quite sure what to do after I got out of Manjanggul. I had a quick look around the expansive souvenir shop, but the proprietress was distastefully pushy. I wanted to see Seong-eup Folk Village (consisting of mud huts with thatched roofs such as have been used on Jeju for time immemorial), but that was a ways off and there were no direct bus routes that I knew of. So I thought I'd walk a ways down the road and ask Mr. Dunstin, the expat who runs the Gimnyeong Hedge Maze.
(My guide book states that he's "always up for a good yarn.")
Unfortunately, he wasn't in. There were only Korean employees bustling about the souvenir shop. That was all well and good, for here I was finally able to make my move. I pounced on a set of galot, the traditional clothing of Jeju farmers, very light and breathable and dyed to a burnt orange with persimmons. It was 65,000 won, which may have been a bit steep by Korean standards but I consider to be a steal. Now I've got my very own set of light clothes, similar to the baggy linens that apprentice Buddhist monks wear, which should keep me cool on a few hot days in my future. Take that, Travelsmith.
Well, I figured my best chance at the folk village was to head south to Pyoseon (140 degrees around the coast from Manjanggul, on the southeast side of the island, and directly connected to Seong-eup by road) and catch a bus inland from there. So I did. I got off in Pyoseon and lo and behold! I saw a sign that said Jeju Folk Village Museum, 500 meters! By hecky thump, that'll do. It was right there, in Pyoseon, within easy reach of an intercity bus stop. Furthermore, it was a museum, not just a collection of restored buildings. I figured I'd lighted well. This would be more worthwhile than trying to seek out a folk village without the benefit of plaques, markers, exhibits, explanations, notes, or information, particularly given that it was now 3:30 in the afternoon. So I went in, paying the six-grand admission fee.
That was a good museum.
The day was clear, the breeze was cool, the sun was shining, and I wandered through thsi quiet little place, peering reverently into the beautifully restored huts with thatched straw roofs, getting a much better idea of how life used to be conducted on this island.
The huts were arranged in groups; first there were the basic one-family compounds, then two-family, rich-family, fisherman's villages, the head family's house (with four buildings instead of the usual three; one was a meeting room)...and there were also craftsmens' huts.
The Jeju Koreans were master craftsmen: woodcarving, wood-etching, horsehair work (for hats), bamboo...it was amazing. No two huts or workshops were exactly alike, and the interiors had been rendered as closely as possible to their true counterparts elsewhere on the island. The furniture was arranged as though the family had just stepped out (perhaps leaving one or two gateposts up). There were even real cows and Jeju's trademark black pigs in the barns and sties.
It was about as true-to-life as you could want, and very immersive viewing.
There were also flower gardens...
...a hill of pampas grass...
...exhibition halls...
...an aviary with native Jeju birds (golden pheasants and mandarin ducks)...
...and even (this was a bit random) an ostrich farm.
I pissed off the alpha male something fierce. He must've taken an intense disliking to me on sight because as soon as I hove around the corner to come see him he strode right up to the fence, prancing about and eyeing me belligerently. I took the hint and buggered off.
I will also say, as my last word on the subject, that the crafts in that museum were done by true masters. There was a man in every single one of the workshops, practicing his trade. In the wood-carver's, there were dozens upon dozens of little figurines, fierce-looking protection-givers (like fanged moais), grinning Buddhas, stately ducks and horses...in the wood-etcher's, there were all manner of placards and signboards all intricately cut with inscriptions and characters (some saying things like "If you have a dream, you will achieve your goal" and "Clouds need wind to move; life needs love to live"). I highly recommend it.
On the way out I stopped at the souvenir shop. It was big, and I reasoned that I could delay no longer: I had to buy Adam and Elaine's gift. I won't say what it was (in case they're reading this) but they'll love it, for sure. The two proprietors (an elderly woman and a more energetic younger one in galot with short hair) were quite friendly, and chatted to me amiably in Korean as I stumbled to follow them. They even gave me a free cup of delicious, ice-cold fruit tea as thanks for my purchase.
I also decided I couldn't wait any longer to go to the beach, so I walked a few hundred yards east after exiting the museum to Pyoseon Beach.
This beach would be perfect for people learning to swim or anybody who just wants to lay back in the water and relax completely. It's as calm as a millpond. It's in a shallow bay, protected from pounding surf by a breakwater and the natural arms of the land. It's so shallow, in fact, that you can wade a hundred yards out and still only be barely waist-deep.
I thought the sand at Jungmun was velvety; this defined velvet. It was finer than the dunes at Stovepipe Wells in Death Valley. It was deliciously warm and crystal-clear. I waded and splodged for a time, then said the hell with it, doffed my shirt, tied my shorts in place with my bandanna (so I wouldn't get my leather belt wet) and then collapsed into the water. It was so shallow that I couldn't do anything but the deadman's float, but what the heck, it was water and it was a gorgeous afternoon. I had a nice little dip, then packed up and caught the bus back to Seogwipo. Pyoseon Beach is wide, shallow, warm, clean and beautiful. It's not as energetic or lively as Jungmun, but that's a good thing, in my opinion.
I showered upon my return to Seogwipo, then boldly stroke to the nearest pork house to sample some of Jeju's famous black pig meat for myself. Heukdwaeji, it's called. Dwaeji is Korean for "pig," and I imagine that heuk must mean "black." I had the heukdwaeji bulgogi at this little restaurant on the main drag (the Jungangro) called Aldeuleu. I believe that's what it was called, anyway. The font was a little difficult, like Korean cursive or something. Anyway, it was absolutely marvelous. I really needed some meat, and this stuff was tender and flavorful. I couldn't tell the difference between it and regular ol' run-of-the-mill pink pig, but hey, I'm sure Koreans can. I dipped the tender, grilled chunks of pork in ssamjang, put them on a leaf of lettuce with fried kimchi and garlic and some onions marinated in soy sauce, and bolted the lot. Absolutely fabulous, just the perfect end to a long day of walking around.
Tomorrow (July 4th) I'm planning on doing Hallasan for sure. After that I'll come back, shower, then hit the bars and see what kind of nightlife Seogwipo has to offer. Then Sunday we'll see about souvenir shopping and submarine rides. And at some point I must do laundry...
