Hongqiao Pearl Market

Wait, we're not done!

I mean Thursday, September 19 wasn't done. The sun had just about vanished in to the layers of perma-smog hovering 15 degrees above Beijing's western horizon. The sky, the streets, the buildings and our skins were all the same shade of diseased pink. Exhaust clogged our nostrils and weariness our veins. But there was one thing we had to do before we hopped the subway back to Chongwenmen Station and our hotel.

I am speaking, of course, of Hongqiao Pearl Market.

It's not just pearls, actually. The first floor's all souvenirs: kitschy stuff similar to Donghuamen Alley or Insadong-gil. The next few floors are all fake jewelry, mother-of-pearl and cubic zirconia. The real stuff's on the upper floors.

Unless you count this.

Miss H, Miss J and I didn't spare much thought for souvenirs as we stepped off the elevator on the 5th floor. We didn't spare much thought for pearls, either. But then we got to lookin' and, well, things just sort of happened.

The pearls—the real ones—were ridiculously cheap. I won't say much about what we got or what it cost, 'cause some of it's going to be early Christmas gifts. I will say, however, that Heather got all of her wedding jewelry—earrings, pendant, bracelet—for practically nil. The lady helping us (she went by the name "Mindy") ran a tight shop with a center island, shelves on both walls, and a small back room. At the workshop table, in plain sight, was a rather tight-lipped assistant, and (presumably) Mindy's little six-year-old daughter colored while listening to an audiobook in the center of the island. Charming scene, really.

We watched as the assistant threaded a pearl necklace and Mindy put together a bracelet for Miss J's big-wristed friend.

We had another one of those "sophisticated" moments. World travelers in the audience know what I'm talking about. They hit you when you're sitting on a beach in Thailand with a sweating zombie in your fist, or looking out over the green hills of Africa from your open-air bungalow and wondering what combination of taupe and khaki to wear on that day's safari. You feel cool and competent and contented and thoroughly pleased with yourself. You're a jet-setting, straight-shooting, street-smart globe-trotter and you know it. And it hits you, just smacks you in the face. That's the kind of moment I mean. The three of us shared one as we sat in the massive Hongqiao Pearl Market in Beijing and had some pieces done up for us. 

Mindy was very good to us. She cut us some sweet deals, attended to our every need, and made us as comfortable as possible. In all seriousness: if you're anywhere near Beijing and you feel the need for some freshwater pearls, look Mindy up. Fifth floor of the Hongqiao Pearl Market. Second shop on your left. Can't miss it.

There, now I've vaunted for the day. I feel better.

We made only one other stop on the way back to our hotel rooms: the convenience store on the first floor of the Novotel Xin Qiao, where we stocked up on snacks for THE GREAT WALL AT MUTIANYU the following morning. I think I blew something like ¥300 ($50) on this little lot. The stuff in the bag is bread (assorted buns and rolls) from the Sapporo Bakery next door to the hotel. And before you ask, yes, the whisky was absolutely necessary.

Stay tuned...

Insadong gets me every time

It's July 1, and the day after tomorrow I'm boarding an airplane and flying back home. Not permanently, oh no. There's a family reunion in Iowa that I'll attend for five days, for to see all the aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents. Then it'll be three weeks in the desert.

As so often happens, a multitude of emotions war within me. I feel excited by the thought of seeing my long-lost relations again (I haven't seen some of them in three years or more). I'm dreading the transcontinental flight (always a killer, that). I'm psyched for spending five days at a lakeside resort and the inevitable water sports that will ensue. I eagerly anticipate seeing that pack of reprobates (um, I mean my old pals) from the desert once more. Though flying is out of the question (I'm not current anymore and haven't the time or money to spend on a biennial flight review), I'd sure love to go shooting. I'm a tad forlorn at the thought of leaving Miss H here all alone while I'm gone, and doing without her for nearly a month. (Okay, I'm positively heartbroken.) But I'm pumped at the thought of seeing Japan (and possibly Mongolia, I haven't decided). Think about it: I'll finally be living like I've been meaning to live since I graduated high school. Footloose travel and all it entails. That warm, sunny, bubbly feeling of a dream being fulfilled—like sun tea brewing on a hot day—is welling up inside me.

But chief amongst those feelings warring for primacy in my innermost soul is...well, sheepishness.

Let me explain.

There's a particular street in a particular part of Seoul called Insadong. Insadong-gil, this street is called. Gil, as I understand it, means "lane" or "alley" (though some Korean alleys bear closer resemblance to the Snickelways of York).

Now, I'm not stupid.

Well, okay. Yes I am.

But I'm not a blithering idiot.

I can tell when someone's trying to fleece me.

But the merchants of Insadong-gil get me every time.

Here's the thing: Insadong is a tourist trap. It's a little neighborhood stuck somewhere east of Gwanghwamun (the main and largest gate of Gyeongbokgung Palace) and the Cheonggyecheon (a lovely low-lying landscaped stream that runs east-to-west through the downtown area) in the Jongno ward of Seoul. This street is filled with everything that is innately Korean—or rather, everything that foreigners think is innately Korean, and everything that savvy Koreans know that foreigners think is innately Korean. Catch my drift?

The winding lane is less than a quarter-mile long, but it's packed to bursting with quaint little tea houses filled with wood trim and farming equipment; one-room Korean restaurants tucked under latticed awnings or hidden in bamboo groves; and coffee shops and cafés that were probably avant-garde fifteen years ago. The lane's main feature, however, are the stores and street vendors peddling their multifarious wares: "traditional Korean snacks," jade necklaces and silver rings, handmade wooden puzzles (and other wood crafts like spoons, combs, toys, and statuettes), celadon pottery, metal works (such as bells, wind chimes and assorted sculptures), and oodles upon oodles of folding fans, pincushions, compacts, bookmarks, purses, clutches, handbags, letter openers, ballpoint pens, jewelry boxes, and figurines. Every item is decorated with customary and venerated Korean motifs: cranes, tigers, kings, cattails, women washing, scholars in their crenellated hats, children playing in hanbok, soldiers marching, misty mountains, red-gold suns and redoubtable warships.

                                                                                                       Not my photo, but a dang good one.

A lot of it's junk and I know it. It's touristy stuff. You'd never find it anywhere but here. No self-respecting Korean has a little pewter figure of Admiral Yi on his bookshelf. The stuff looks pretty, and it was probably made by hand, and it would look jolly good in a cupboard or on a mantlepiece. There are exceptions, of course. Some of the merchandise is drop-dead gorgeous, delicately made, and encapsulates Korean culture to a beguiling extent.

But is it worth the money they're asking? Noooooooooooooo.

Do tourists pay the money they're asking? Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees.

Do I know better than that? Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees.

Do I know how to bargain? Noooooooooooooooo.

Do the vendors know that I don't know how to haggle? Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees.

Has that ever stopped me from buying something pretty for myself? Nooooooooooooooo.

The merchants probably know me on sight by now. I'll heave into view, marching around the corner from the subway station, and they'll exchange a look and make the habitual remarks.

"Look, here comes that saphead."

"Hey, the palooka in the blue T-shirt is back."

"Whaddya know, it's that pigeon who always drops a boatload of cash!"

"Bust out the compacts and the jewelry-boxes, Marge! Our favorite schnook's comin' down the street!"

Honestly, I might as well just get the word "SUCKER" tattooed on my forehead. I was wearing a blue T-shirt today with the words Beginner in Korean, please speak slowly splashed across the front in Hangul. All the vendors loved it. They saw it, read it aloud, and burst into laughter. I knew why they were really laughing. They weren't charmed by my earnest attempt to learn their language and fit into their culture. They just knew they'd be able to snow me in two languages instead of just one.

If I was a bit better at Korean and knew how to haggle, I muttered to myself, things would be different, mark my words.

I mean, seriously: two thousand for a tarnished old Chinese coin the size of a silver dollar? Give me a break!

I shall cease my invective here. I'm sure you came here for other things, like my mouthwatering descriptions of food or the salaciously lovely photographs I put up. Tune in for more of that next time on...

THE (SWINDLED) VAUNTER

turmoil

Yes, you guessed it, folks: we woke up early again. This time, the morning of the 12/17, we had to get down to the airport for Allison's flight. Her introductory ride in N42126, I mean. I was going to usher Allison into the world of aviation, and Harold and Apple Valley Aviation were going to help me do it. We drove down to the airport, met Harold, and soon enough he and Allison were preflighting the plane. I helped as best I could, explaining things as I went, a tad over-zealously perhaps. Alli was bold as brass. She got in, strapped in, and watched attentively while Harold went through the motions of starting the plane. Once we were on the taxiway, he let her take over. She got the hang of taxiing real fast. Impressive. Most impressive. We pulled off at the end of runway 18, did our run-up, and then cruised onto the runway. This was the moment of truth. Allison had the controls for the long run down the tarmac. She kept us straight and true, and lifted us off the ground with hardly any dips or bumps. Soon, we were at 5,500 feet, floating contentedly along above Apple Valley. Harold put Alli through some basic maneuvers, being his usual cheery, helpful self. She remained cool and collected, like she'd been flying all her life. She didn't cackle like an idiot, nor panic. She said, calmly, that it wasn't as hard as she thought it'd be. We did some turns, and then flew around to see what we could see. We flew over the golf course, Interstate 15, Southern California Logistics Airport, Bell Mountain, and finally circled back to the airport and landed. Alli gave me one of her signature grins as we unbuckled our seat belts and climbed out of the plane. I'd love to show you some of the incredible pictures I got, but I can't, because I didn't get any. I forgot my stupid camera, both for this flight and for the duration of our time in Las Vegas. More's the pity. I took some incredible shots with Allison's camera, however. If she ever starts a blog, and she uses those photos, you'll know who took 'em. In deference to the amount of sleep we'd been getting (or rather, not getting), we elected not to head straight off to Vegas after the flight, like we'd planned. Instead, we came back to the house and sacked out again for a couple of hours. Well, we tried to, anyway. Alli curled up on the futon in the front room with the TV and dozed for a time; I did my best, but I just wasn't sleepy. That's just the way I am. Once I get up, I'm up. I can't get up, do something for an hour or so, and then go back to sleep. I showered and then began planning our route in Vegas. That meant I got no extra sleep that morning of the 17th. It would come back to haunt me later. But by and by, we hit the road. About noon or so we finally got everything of Allison's out of the house and into the Jeep. We also exchanged Christmas gifts: I gave her some dominoes and a fun card game called Quiddler (where the cards have letters instead of numbers and you have to make words); she gave me another fun word game, mentioned earlier, called Bananagrams. Mom got Alli some notions from Bath & Body Works, which she appreciated (they smelled like vanilla). Then we climbed in and headed out. I don't think I'll ever forget that sunlit ride back to Vegas. It was bittersweet, I can tell you that much. There we were, Alli's iPod plugged into my car radio, Alli sitting beside me and knitting socks for her sisters for Christmas, singing softly and beautifully along with her favorite tunes, me joining in with my broken yowl whenever one I knew came up. And all the while, the fact that our time together was almost over kept looming. It would be goodness-knew-how-long before I'd see her again. Harmonious yet strange is the marriage of rapture and despair! And, underneath the deep-seated affection I had for her as a friend, was another feeling, more desperate, more insistent, more infuriating. It coalesced as a wordless interrogative, and nagged at me unmercifully those last few hours. It had been nagging at me ever since I knew she'd be coming. Do I make a move on her or not? I didn't have an answer to that question. My rational mind and frivolous heart were at war, endlessly attempting to formulate one. The resultant turmoil wreaked havoc in my brain and gut. I felt, during some periods, as if I was sitting on an anthill, as if my spirit were slowly being eaten alive by venomous, mindless Myrmidons. I couldn't sit still, nor think rationally. My Cro-Magnon mind was gone. There was a blind, mute, unspeakable monster loose in the halls, demanding action at any price, no matter the risk. Go for it, the monster bellowed. I can't. She's not interested in me that way. It's impossible. I'm too scared. What if she's unwilling? I couldn't handle it! my weaselly ego whined. Thou craven! the monster screamed. What hast thou to fear? This could be the start of something beautiful! This is your second chance! Don't blow it! But what if she says no? the weasel almost sobbed. Damn it, man! Show some backbone! howled the monster. Are you going to let one potential moment of embarrassment get in the way of a potential lifetime of happiness? No, but what if— And so on, and so on, and so on. You all have been here before. This is high school stuff. You don't need me to spell out the rest of the conversation. It leads right back to the place it began, an endless litany of vacillation, exhortation, courage and cowardice. It's a funny thing: no matter how much you think you've matured in life, when it comes to such a simple thing as asking a girl whom you think you might go places with to take the next step in step with you, you can't do it. Because deep down inside, we're all third-graders. We know we like that boy or that girl, but love is such a big huge mysterious unknown THING, and we're all so worried about opening our hearts to others and possibly getting burned, that we don't act. Instead, we deflect, dodge, run, hide. We project. We drop hints. We hedge. We hem and haw. We stammer. We try to look cool. We pose. We posture. We challenge. We pretend. I'm sure, somewhere in the universe, there must be some planet, somewhere, where, when Male Inhabitant A discovers that he loves Female Inhabitant B, he simply walks up to her, unafraid, and says, "I love you. Let's spend the rest of our lives together." If Female Inhabitant B doesn't love Male Inhabitant A, she says, "I'm sorry. I don't love you." To which Male Inhabitant A, completely free of embarrassment, mortification, self-doubt or angst, replies, "Well, thank you for hearing my proposal. Good day." And then Male Inhabitant A strolls off into the sunset, on the lookout for Female Inhabitant C. If Female Inhabitant B does love Male Inhabitant A, she simply says, "I love you too. Let's get married and move in together." And the two of them live happily ever after. Not as much fun as Earth, you might say. It's a helluva lot more straightforward and honest and open, though, you've got to admit. I'm actually glad I didn't put Allison on the spot during that car ride, or any time after. I needed some time to think. After I'd considered things properly, I figured that I'd done the right thing. Alli and I probably weren't meant to be. Our lives are going different directions, and there are some glaring incompatibilities between us that probably would be insurmountable obstacles in a marriage. (She considers modern art to actually be art, for Pete's sake.) So it's good that I didn't do anything stupid or hasty. But there was a considerable amount of turmoil going on inside me during that car ride, and our time in Vegas. Speaking of which, let's get back to it! We made it to Vegas fine, just after the sun had set and the strip was beginning to light up. Once again, I had to take a few runs at the parking lot. Having missed the turnoff a time or two, I finally managed to swoop in, pay $3, and find a good parking space. Whew. We were in. Now we could waltz about with impunity. First stop? Caesar's Palace. We were going Swatch-hunting. Don't know what a Swatch is? Well, neither did I. And I haven't been living under a rock for 23 years, either. Swatches are something you just hear about, I guess. They're Swiss watches (hence the name), which come in all sizes, designs, styles, and colors. Alli's Swatch (gaudily hued with brown, blue and green stripes) was winding down, and she wanted to replace it. The only Swatch store she'd ever seen had been in Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. Alli had been to Sin City before, visiting with her family, and had bought it then. That in mind, we elected to head to Caesar's Palace first, get her a Swatch, and figure out the rest. Oh, and we had tickets for the ten o'clock Blue Man Group show, but we had a few hours to kill before that (and after). So, after strolling down Las Vegas Boulevard for a half-hour, going over bridges, through construction tunnels, past people of all sorts and varieties, past the old man in the cowboy hat playing Christmas tunes on the accordion, past the two ladies in platforms on the street corner (one dressed like a devil, the other like an angel), past the Aria and the Bellagio and the Monte Carlo, we came to Caesar's Palace. Now, I've been to Vegas before. Driven past it many a time. Driven through it on occasion. Been into one casino (the Aladdin) a few years back. This was the first time in a long time, however, that I'd been on the Strip and inside one of the most famous casinos in the world. It was fantastic. I can't even begin to do it justice. I'm no stranger to glorified surroundings and I was still floored. Picture vast promenades, dotted with high-end shops on either side, a faux blue sky overhead, magnificent statuary and fountains every few hundred yards. The whole pantheon of Greek gods, their hair adorned with olive wreaths; nymphs, satyrs and hippocampi, surrounded by rushing water; and aquariums filled with the most exotic and colorful fish. Bars, restaurants, rare bookshops, jewelry and designer clothing outlets...it was almost too much to take in at once. I felt as if I was in the middle of a fabulous dream. It was a maze, a labyrinth, a spider's web of opulence and lavishness and sinful excess, seemingly brought down from Mount Olympus for all the world to see. It may all have been a sham, sure, but the illusion was compelling enough. That's one of the things I love about Las Vegas. It's all artifice, sure. But it's fun artifice, convincing artifice, cinematic, glitzy artifice. I'll take it. We located the Swatch shop, and spent a few minutes rooting around. The attendants informed us that, beginning at 6:00, a massive sale would begin. So we elected to find somewhere to eat and then come back after the sale had started. A quick consultation of the directory gave us a prime candidate: the Cheesecake Factory. Allison went all ga-ga when she saw that little name stamped on the directory board. But then again, she'd sampled the Factory's delights before. I hadn't. Boy, was I ever in for an eye-opener. Or rather, as it proved to be, a mouth-opener. We had to walk the entire length of the Palace's promenade once again to get there, but I didn't mind. It gave us a chance to peruse the stores, the fountains, and the faux opulence once again. We descried the restaurant at the end of a cul-de-sac, just past the giant aquarium. I didn't know where to point my eyeballs: at this aquarium or the impressive façade of the Cheesecake Factory. (Why am I using so many French words?) It was staggering. It arched two stories up (and this was indoors, mind), built to resemble an ancient Roman structure, as most of the storefronts in the casino were. Just standing in front of the reception desk, I could see a bar, tables with spotless white tablecloths, huge (faux) pillars, mood lighting, and quite a few people who looked more than happily fed. This was going to be good. And it was. We were ushered to our table, right on the edge of a balustrade overlooking nearly the whole restaurant, with a clear view up to the gallery-like ceiling and the second floor. It was like eating in a Roman palace, with pillars and rich tiling and soft yellow light all around. Like I said, fun artifice. I was truly starting to have fun. That turmoil had abated a little. What the hell, I said to myself. Just roll with it. Whatever will happen will happen and whatever won't, won't. Our server, John, a thirtysomething blond-haired man with short sticky-up hair and a cheery smile, came over, gave us our menus, and made some very genuine small talk. I took an immediate liking to him. He seemed somehow different from 98% of the other servers and waiters I'd met in my lifetime, who were friendly and helpful without being honest about it. Their demeanor, like the statues of in the Palace promenade, was artificial. John seemed truly pleased to see us and glad to be working where he was. That manifested in his conduct. He wasn't sappy or superficial, but warm and jocular. I appreciated that. After warning us that the portion sizes were enormous, John let us have some time to decide what we wanted. We could already tell it'd be a tough choice. I've never seen such a huge menu. It was like a book, as John had pointed out. There were pages and pages and pages of pastas, soups, salads, sandwiches, and other entrées. And that's not even including the cheesecake, which I will get to later. It deserves a blog entry of its own, I can tell you that much. We decided to have a drink while we pored over the expansive menu. Mojitos seemed like a good idea. We informed John, and before we knew it, a pair of tall glasses filled with ice, rum, sugar, lime juice, club soda and mint sprigs was set in front of us. And brother, believe me when I say the Cheesecake Factory makes a fine mojito. I hope they pay their bartenders well, 'cause that was the best dang mojito I ever had in my life. I could detect the rum, beautifully supplemented by the lime and sugar, underscored by the carbonation and perfectly tinctured with copious mint. Heck, I don't even like mint all that much, and I liked this mojito. I began to have very high hopes for the dinner to come. In the end, we decided on the spicy chicken chipotle pasta. We ordered one plate for the two of us, which was a good thing, because the portion sizes were indeed massive. A huge heaping bowl of penne, peas, asparagus, and a just-spicy-enough chipotle sauce was laid steaming before us, and we dug in with relish. It was gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous. Conversation practically died as we satiated ourselves, all the while continuing to admire our surroundings, trying to guess what language the Mediterranean couple beside us was speaking. (We had no luck.) But wait, I haven't gotten to the best part yet. This restaurant was named "The Cheesecake Factory" after all. It's famous for its cheesecake, ever since the founding couple got the business started in California some decades ago. The menu's cheesecake pages alone would've sufficed for an entire menu at a lesser confectioner's shop. There was so much to choose from. We'd gotten a tantalizing glimpse from the reception desk: there had been a glass case filled to the brim with dripping, gleaming, glistening slices of cheesecake of all shapes, sizes, hues and patterns. And that was only scratching the surface. We pored over the gigantic master cheesecake list, calling out whatever sounded good to each other. I thought the Chocolate Turtle, Dulce de Leche and Kahlúa Cocoa Coffee all sounded delectable. You can guess which one I chose in the end. Come on, I'm a mixologist. I like Kahlúa anyway. Getting to sample some in cake was an idea I just couldn't pass up. The description in the menu said that my choice was "chocolate brownie, Kahlúa cheesecake, and chocolate mousse" all overlaid. Come on now. Try and pass that up, even after a full bowl of chipotle pasta. Alli was vacillating as well. She had been on a pumpkin kick lately (she had tried to get the pumpkin pancakes at IHOP two days earlier, but they'd been out). However, she was also a lifelong fan of strawberry cheesecake. Both options were represented on that menu. What to do? In the end, her decision was made for her. When John returned and asked us what we'd like, he had to inform Alli that, unfortunately, the Cheesecake Factory was also out of pumpkin. So Alli went with strawberry, not without a hint of reluctance, and that was that. In seemingly no time at all, two humongous wedges of cheesy goodness were set upon our table. Both of us just sort of stared at them for a bit. It seemed almost a shame to eat them, they were so beautiful. My slice was sitting pertly on its plate, a dollop of whipped cream on top, another one right in front of the wedge, as if the cake slice was a ship crashing into a creamy iceberg. The slice itself was excitingly tinted, dark brownie underneath, lightening to muddy brown above for the cocoa and the cheesecake itself, covered with dark frosting cross-hashed with wavy light-brown stripes of mousse. Aw, man. Of all the times to forget the camera. After a moment, and an encouraging look from Alli, I picked up my fork and tenderly excised the first bite. I opened my mouth and bit down respectfully. Now, I don't claim to be a religious man, but whatever happened in my mouth right then was something like an epiphany. I could almost hear the heavenly bells ringing, the voices of the angels lifted in a hallelujah. It. Was. GORGEOUS. I've had cheesecake before, many times. I've just had your regular, straightforward cheesecake, no special flavoring or additives, though. I've also had a lot of cheesecake at (for lack of a better term) half-baked shops and restaurants who don't really put a lot of artistry into their creations. The preceding facts became readily apparent as I took that first bite. It was amazing. The Kahlúa wasn't overpowering, but lent a special coffee overtone to the overall chocolate flavor, which itself was explosive. The cheesecake and frosting melted in my mouth almost immediately, while the brownie remained solid for a good while longer, providing an intoxicating textural blend. Alli was no less absorbed. Her eyes were closed and she was emitting the occasional sigh. John came back to the table while as we devoured our cheesecake in a fugue. "Horrible stuff, isn't it?" he asked, with a mock-serious expression. "Terrible," Alli agreed. "Venomous," I concurred. "I'm sure," John replied. "I know you're just eating it to be polite. I can't stand it myself." All three of us grinned. "You guys need anything else?" "Could I have a glass of milk?" I asked, around a mouthful of brownie. John got one for me, and then gave us the bill. I made a point to comment to the lady at the front desk just what a genuine, helpful, diligent guy John was. My conscience wouldn't permit me to do anything else. He was really the cherry on top of the ice cream sundae (or slice of cheesecake) regarding that whole experience. Suitably satiated, we set off once again into Caesar's Palace. My benighted mind had now been opened to heretofore unsuspected horizons of cheesecake, and I was ready for anything. We stopped briefly at a large toy store so Alli could do some Christmas shopping. Her sister was an ardent fan of Uglydolls (you know, those stuffed toys that look like horrible little monsters), so Allison got her an Uglydolls all-purpose bag. I got me a tequila-flavored lollipop with a meal worm in it, and then we left. Now for a Swatch. We ducked back down the curved escalators, down through the three-story gallery filled with enormous plaster statues of half-naked women ("We're surrounded by boobs," I told Alli), and reentered the Swatch shop. Alli had previously narrowed her choices down to three finalists: white band with hippos; turquoise band made of interlocking ovoid stones; or plain brown. She elected to go with the turquoise band. It had to be taken in a little to suit her wrist. While we waited, I browsed a bit myself. I saw one particular Swatch that I liked: plain, no frills, a simple black band and a white analog face, with a small window for telling the date and day of the week. If I'd had $55 I wasn't using I would've probably dropped it right then and there. Suitably Swatched, we exited the shop and plotted our next move. Both of us figured we'd better mosey on over to the Venetian. It was two hours to show time. We could check out what shopping the Venetian had to offer and then walk for a few minutes and be ready when the theater doors opened. I was about ready for a drink, too. We'd been walking past bar after bar after bar, all of which looked exciting and fun and interesting to sit in (and fully stocked). Those mojitos we had at the Cheesecake Factory were good, but they'd worn off. I was getting thirsty, and no mere glass of water could mollify me. So we walked out of Caesar's Palace, turned left, and headed north up Las Vegas Boulevard until the Venetian peeked out from behind Harrah's. We went in, found the Blue Man Group theater, procured our tickets, and then just began to browse. As impressive as places like Caesar's Palace and the Bellagio had been on the inside, the Venetian gave them all a run for their money. They've got a canal inside the casino. A real, full-blown canal, about the same size as the ones in Venice actually are! And they've got men and women in straw hats and striped shirts—gondoliers—punting gondolas with happy couples up and down this canal, just like in Venice! And some of them even sing, too! "When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that's amore..." How awesome is that?? So we took to wandering. We peeked in a few stores, and a few art galleries showcasing caricatures of well-known actors and musicians, and also a fair bit of Snoopy-related artwork (Vegas, Vegas, Vegas). We walked under arches, past strange forms of Christmas decoration (a giant, serpent-like sculpture of evergreen branches tied up with red ribbons and Christmas lights, writhing over a cranberry pool by the waterfall). We strolled along the canal, peeking through windows, me drooling over every bar we passed. Noticing my stares, Alli suggested we stop in to Davidoff, a fine cigar shoppe right by the side of the canal. They had a walk-in humidor. I'd never seen one of those before. The glass walls were lined with expensive, fancy cigars of every stamp and vintage. The quality and prices were both outrageous. In the end, however, I folded. I got myself an Opus X, supposedly one of the most full-bodied and "peppery" cigars offered (according to the pretty attendant), for $31.50. Heh heh, I chuckled to myself as I shelled out the money, I can't wait to get home and wave this under John and Chris's noses. I haven't smoked that cigar yet, but I'll let you know when I do, and how green the boys turn. We stopped at a directory to see if we'd missed any interesting shops. As we looked, a bald, uniformed guard in white gloves walked up to us and asked if we needed help finding anything. On a whim, I asked, "Do you have any bookstores here?" The man thought for a moment, and then said, "The only bookstore we have would be Bauman's Rare Books. Head straight that way," he pointed down the hall the way we'd come, "past the escalators, make a right and a quick left. Bauman's will be on the right." He had me at "rare books." Alli noticed the sinister gleam that came into my eye as he said it. The guard began to tell us about a general store on another floor that sold magazines, but Alli cut him off. "I think we'll take the rare books," she said, looking at me with amusement. Bauman's Rare Books was a tiny shop set into the side of a long, low, carpeted hallway on the second level of the Venetian. I could immediately tell we were in for a treat. They had a first-edition copy of Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss in the bulletproof glass case out front. Mentally, I rubbed my hands together in anticipation. Books, books, BOOKS. They were all in excellent condition, if a little worn and old-looking, and their sheer antiquity (and price) boggled the imagination. I saw 26 rare editions of Edgar Rice Burroughs's original Tarzan stories; a note penned by Walt Whitman himself to his publisher; first-edition copies of everything from Cool Hand Luke to Watership Down; and even goodies like early printings of Charles Darwin's Origin of Species. All right there, right then! In the store! In Las Vegas! We couldn't browse enough. We walked up and down, staring up at the high wooden shelves, wondering at their miraculous contents. The proprietor (probably not Bauman himself, being young, sprightly, bearded, and bespectacled, but quite helpful and amiable) opened up whatever case we chose and let us look at whatever we wanted. He also exchanged book reviews with us; I'd name a title and he'd give me his two cents on it. It was great fun. I handled those books like they were glass. No, like they were nitroglycerin. I must be a hardcore bibliophile, because that store was like a treasure trove to me. How I would've loved to keep coming back, day after day, and peruse all of the volumes in the collection. Alas, we had no time. We thanked the proprietor and moved on. I caught a last titillating glimpse of a signed copy of Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms in the armored window, and then the store vanished from our sight. It was right about here that I figured I was long due for a whiskey sour. We settled on Samba Sushi, a low-lit and chic sushi bar a few yards down the hall, bellied up to the bar, laid down our burdens and sat down on the stools. There was a frizzy-haired man in a gray suit a few stools down from us, reading a newspaper, a champagne flute and a glass of ice water in front of him. By the looks of things, he'd been there a while. He ordered up another drink as we sat there (it looked like something creamy). Must've been a stock market crash or something... Anyway, to our own drinks. I knew what I wanted. The whiskey selection was rather bad, so I decided to have a Jameson sour. Bad idea. Here again I showed my true ignorance of the ways of John Barleycorn. You never make a whiskey sour with anything other than bourbon or Canadian whisky. Doesn't taste right. Has to be the right stuff, Jim Beam or Wild Turkey or Black Velvet or Crown Royal, maybe. Anyway, I dealt with that mishap as best I could while Allison had a look at the menu. She finally settled on Samba Juice, a house special, consisting of rum and a whole lot of fruit juices. I tasted it; it wasn't bad, if you like that sort of thing. She loved it, that's the important thing. We had a quiet drink as we whiled away the last few minutes before the show started. When we got to the theater the line had already formed, but fortunately it wasn't too long. (Good thing we were there on a weekday!) We got in line, and got in fairly quickly. I hadn't quite realized just how close we'd be to the stage. I'd intentionally chosen seats that were just outside the splash zone (the first six rows or so, where everybody was sure to get hit by some splatter or other). On the digital seating chart, however, it had looked as if there was a substantial gap between rows E and F. There wasn't. Row F was right behind row E, the last row in the danger zone. So you may imagine that Alli and I felt a little nervous as we took our seats directly behind folks who had already donned their protective clear plastic ponchos. Our fears proved to be unfounded. We didn't get splattered. I won't say much about the show, out of respect for the performers' livelihood, but I will say this: go see it. If you've never seen Blue Man Group, you need to. As so many others before me have raved, their performance is what all other live shows aspire to be. It was hilarious, visually stunning, interactive, fun, engaging, astounding and captivating all in one. It was a festival of sight and sound I can't even begin to describe properly, so I won't try. Needless to say, those were two hours of our lives well spent. We laughed, jumped, clapped, and gaped all through it. It was brilliant, to say the least. The show got out just about midnight. So, therefore, here ends my narrative for December 17th, 2009. I shall resume at this point in the next entry. I apologize that this was so long; it's just that we did a lot of stuff, and I'm naturally garrulous. You have my permission to read this in parts if you have to. If you do read it all in one go, kindly time yourself and report back to me how long it took you. If you do, you get a cookie.

a wedding in Masan

Charles and Anne tied the knot this weekend in Masan, just north of the island of Geoje, on the mainland, west of Busan, in a beautiful ceremony on the fifth floor of a wedding plaza which overlooks the spacious, sparkling harbor. To clarify, Charles is the head teacher at my hagwon, and a close personal friend and mentor. He invited Adam, Elaine, Jeff, and myself up to his wedding to his girlfriend Anne, whom I have also had the pleasure of meeting, and who is a very lovely young woman. They've been engaged for a while; I'm just glad the wedding occurred before my contract expired, and I was able to attend. We'd planned in advance to get the bus to Masan on Saturday (the wedding was at 11:00 a.m. on Sunday morning), shop around for some gifts and see whatever sights there were, and then clean up in the morning and don our spiffy duds. Here's what happened. We rode the bus up (a very equable ride compared to the last one, and for only ₩9,000; they kept the A/C on the whole time, at least), and managed to find a cheap motel with a little creative wandering. It was the Nox Motel, and the price was similar to our usual base of operations in Busan: ₩35,000 per night. The only difference was, this place was nice compared with what we were used to. It was still, technically, a love motel. There were tissues by the bed, condoms in the top drawer of the nightstand and porn on the TV, but the sleaze ended there. The bathroom was up to scale with anything seen in Motel 6 or Super 8, back in the States, if not better; the bed and room were both clean, bright, spacious, and tastefully outfitted. There wasn't much to speak of in the mini-bar, but hey. So we checked in and immediately sallied forth into downtown Masan to go wedding-present shopping. It was a bit embarrassing: we got into a cab and said we wanted to go to E-Mart. After approximately sixty seconds, we went around a corner and arrived. The cab driver must've been laughing his head off inside as we handed him the fare. Must've been the easiest 2,200 won he'd ever earned. We had more than a little trouble navigating once we were inside the store, even. It was a five-story building, but get this: the main level was just a convenience store. You know, the quick stuff: cleaning supplies, snacks, batteries, all the things that people want to get in and get out with quick. That makes sense to have that on the first floor. But the parking lots were above this level, and the main store (food section, home supply) was below it. Look me in the eye and tell me that's a logical way to run a railroad. I dare you. After our tour of the parking lots, we finally wound up where we needed to be (subterranean) and got straight to shopping. E-Mart is like Homeplus, but generally has more departments, more selection, and is larger in size overall. We didn't meet with much success. As far as useful, tastefully appointed wedding gifts go, E-Mart was skint. The best chance we had was the hoidy-toidy home furnishings section on the second floor, but there wasn't much choice. Adam and Elaine picked up a nice set of chopsticks and soup spoons in a velvet-covered case, and they were set. I got meat on a stick. We then headed to Lotte Mart, with higher hopes. After some similar difficulty locating the main store, which we suffered for a second time despite the eye-opening E-Mart experience, we emerged onto the main shopping floors and had a look-see. Lotte Mart was much bigger than even E-Mart. There was much more selection: sporting goods, electronics, liquor, a grocery store that looked like any major Western supermarket chain we'd ever been in (to the point of inducing nostalgia)...but no hoidy-toidy home furnishings section. We had a look around the proletarian home furnishings section and located some promising potential: a cutlery rack/holder/board (or whatever you call it; one of them wooden things with slots for holding your knives). There were also some wine glasses. We resolved to take note of these discoveries and go nosing around town for anything that might turn up. In the meantime, we looked to our own needs. As you're probably aware, I am (or was) in dire need of a camera since I lost my previous one (a Fujifilm S8000, purchased for three-hundred and twenty-eight thousand won, or about $220, at Homeplus a few months before) on Jirisan. That problem was solved when I spotted a Canon on sale for ₩169,000. It had a whopping ten megapixels instead of the previous eight, and most of the (important) features of its predecessor. It was also light and infinitely more portable. I was fortunate that it came with a similar package that the Fujifilm did: case, two-gigabyte memory card, recharger, instruction booklets and CDs...all included in the list price. The case, most attractively, is tight and closes securely with Velcro, meaning that I stand a better chance of not "losing" this one... We were getting hungry by this time. We waltzed out of Lotte Mart (pausing to retrieve Adam's backpack from a locker; E-Mart allows you to carry personal bags and packs onto its premises but Lotte Mart is more stringent, and demands that you rent a locker for a hundred won) and into the hazy late afternoon. It was inevitable that we should happen upon a McDonald's. I finally got a chance to try the Shanghai Spicy Chicken Burger, and was not as let down as I thought I'd be. I don't know whether that had anything to do with the quality of the preparation, or whether McDonald's was actually giving a crap about the food it served now, or what. (I will say that I believe Korea is really on the ball as far as fast food goes. Domino's Pizza tastes much better over here than in the U.S., I firmly believe. It makes sense that McDonald's would as well.) Suitably fortified, and having discussed our options thoroughly over greasy fries, Jeff and I elected to return to Lotte Mart and snag the aforementioned gifts we'd noted earlier. That done, we returned to the Nox, dumped our treasures off, and met up with Charles and Anne, who'd arrived in the city before us and completed their wedding preparations. They were anxious to meet up and say hello. They were also tired, run-down, depressed, and physically sick. Their respective employers had worked them to death for the preceding two weeks in light of their impending vacation (bosses are merciless like that over here), and they were so exhausted that their immune systems had packed up and boogied, leaving them diseased and wretched. Poor Anne got to the motel and collapsed (in the room she and Charles rented; they were without accommodation, so we politely informed them about the competitive rates at our place). Charles stuck around with us and drank a little beer. Then we all went out for samgyeopsal in the thriving "new" downtown area, replete with bright causeways, well-lit shops, and respectable-looking food vendors. Charles and Anne ate, then left (at our urging), citing exhaustion and the need for a full night's sleep before tomorrow's festivities. A, E, J, and I hung around for a bit, checking out the sights, and the market. Masan was Charles's hometown; he told us that, 30 years ago, the market we were walking through that evening would have been wall-to-wall with people. You'd have had to shoulder your way through the crowd nonstop from one end of the place to the other. Now it was nearly a ghost town. Those same gigantic superstores we'd passed through earlier that day, E-Mart and Lotte Mart, had snatched away the custom from these small-time merchants in the open air bazaar and relegated them to a sort of shadowy, tourist-trap existence. It was really quite pathetic ("pathetic" here having the meaning of "emotionally provocative," not "pitiful"; well, okay, it was a bit pitiful too). Then we all sat down and had a quiet drink. Or tried to. The first place we went, Billy Western Bar, was way overpriced, despite having enough atmosphere to put Cheers to shame. We went across the street to Beer Mart, and that was better. Shaped and colored like an adobe hacienda on the inside, with faux stucco walls, domed ceilings and exposed rafters, the place had charm. More than that, its imbibing protocol was unique, too: instead of ordering glasses of beer, you went up to the counter, picked out the bottles you wanted (everything from Tiger to Hoegaarden), paid up, took 'em back your table, cracked 'em and drank 'em. It was a rather intimate experience, to be sitting at a comfy table in a comfy seat with a view out the window at the narrow crooked street, sipping comfy cheap beer. We stuck around there for a couple of hours, went and grabbed some mandu (dumplings, remember?) at a stall on the way back, then went back to the hotel to Adam and Elaine's room and sat around and talked. Adam was testing out his new iPod-compatible ghetto blaster (whatever it's called; iSound or something); so we had Kanye West, Curtis Mayfield, Lynyrd Skynyrd and Groove Armada to keep us company as we talked and laughed. We hit the sack at midnight, mindful of an early start the next morning. The next morning proceeded without a hitch. We woke, prepared and were at the wedding plaza, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (as Adam would've said) at a quarter to eleven or so. I should stop here and explain exactly what a wedding plaza is. Apparently there's no such thing as a "single" wedding in Korea. All of 'em are doubles, or group weddings. They are perhaps not simultaneous, but you can bet there'll be another party moving into the wedding hall after you move out of it, within minutes or seconds. Heck, there was another bride fully dolled out in her gown wandering around besides Anne, that's for dang sure, as well as another set of relatives hanging around the darkened wedding hall across the lobby from ours. Upon spotting Charles, who was cutting a dash in a rather fetching white tuxedo and gloves (and obviously sweating in the sticky heat of springtime Masan and a building that wasn't exactly climate-controlled), we made our way over. We shook hands, congratulated him, and then he promptly thrust the camcorder into my hands. Oh, didn't I tell you? I'd agreed to be the cameraman. I was fairly sweating myself by this time. Agreeing to do the camera work at somebody's wedding is one thing a month or two in advance over beers in that somebody's apartment, but once you actually step into the chapel and take the camera from their hands, the full import of your choice hits you. If I screw this up, I thought to myself, I'll have ruined one of their most precious memories, the start of their life together...or something like that. Nonetheless, I accepted the camcorder and went to work. I got some footage of Charles with his mother, and Anne's rather staid and dignified parents. I also got a lot of footage of Anne, who was sitting in her gorgeous wedding gown in a small room off the main lobby, on display, as it were. Seriously, that's how it was. It was just this closet-sized room, tastefully wallpapered and decorated, in which the bride sat in review and people came up to greet and congratulate her, while the groom ran around attending to all the last-minute crises, an attendant following him around and dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. That's Korean custom, apparently. I shot some film of her and her friends, and just got some obscure statements from her about how she was feeling and so on, like I was some kind of half-baked amateur reporter or something. That having been done, the real nerve-wracking stuff began: the ceremony proper. Instead of entering on foot, both bride and groom rode into the hall on a sort of raised trolley-like affair, in appearance almost like a bower, wreathed with flowers and a gate supposedly made to resemble old-fashioned wrought iron (in the European style). It had a smoke machine on it, which was going full blast as bombastic music played on the speakers. Charles and Anne stood straight and solemn as this contraption bore them into the room, traversing one entire wall (tastefully and skilfully painted with some Renaissance-style landscape), bowing occasionally. They then exited (with the help of formally dressed yet feverish attendants who unlatched the faux wrought-iron gates and gathered up Anne's train frantically) and arranged themselves at the end of the aisle. Charles walked down first, bowed first to his mother, then Anne's mother (both of whom were wearing hanbok, traditional Korean formal clothing, and seated on either side of aisle at the very front), then the chaplain, and then waited. Anne and her father then proceeded down the aisle, to the accompaniment of music and applause (similar to Charles's progress), and did a similar amount of bowing. Anne's father joined his wife and Anne joined Charles, and the ceremony proceeded. It was short and sweet. The whole "I now pronounce you man and wife" bit was, needless to say, indiscernible, even despite my five months of Korean lessons. After that, there was applause, Charles and Anne cut the cake, drank wine, and regally exited the hall. ...during all of which I was running around desperately trying to capture it. It was no picnic dashing from one end of the room to the other to maximize my chances at getting the best shots of Charles and Anne as they rode in the trolley, walked up (and down) the aisle, and cut the cake. Matters were complicated (by default) by the official wedding photographer, who was likewise walking about and getting shots; he kept getting in the way of mine. Given the aforementioned gravity of the situation, I also had some difficulty holding my hands steady. I think I did pretty well, though, except for a bit of camera shake and perhaps accidentally deleting the part with the trolley and the first procession down the aisle when I tried to zoom in and instead switched photography modes. (Whoops!) Drenched with sweat, I handed the camera back to Charles and gratefully went with Adam, Elaine and Jeff to snag some eats. The food was delicious, and who ever had ordered the catering had spared no expense. There was tender boiled octopus; real, actual ham; and gimbap and kimchi in plenty, of course, as well as several other delicious dishes I couldn't even identify, both Korean and Chinese in origin. I held myself down to one plate of food. We'd resolved to hit up Meat Home (since renamed Meat Rak), one of our regular haunts, a meat buffet restaurant in Gohyeon, that evening for the last time before my departure from Korea. In the meantime, instead of getting to rest from their incessant labors, Charles and Anne had (per Korean tradition) changed into hanbok of their own and were now meeting and greeting the guests at the dining tables. Charles spared us a few moments to say hello (to our relief, both Charles and Anne looked better, and said as much). When we'd finished eating, we congratulated them once more and left. Within two hours they'd be on the plane to Bali. Maybe there they'll finally get their rest. I hope so. We hit McDonald's once more on the way to the bus stop, of course. (Elaine's not too keen on Meat Home and needed something for herself.) But we did board the bus and survived the ride back (which was even more equable than the ride up, unbelievably; perhaps I've been too hasty in my judgment of buses here). We changed out of our things at our respective apartments. Jeff came over to my place briefly so he could show me the ropes of Hostel World, a nice website devoted to the location and reservation of cheap hostels worldwide; and I gave him a super-compressed 20-minute crash course in Korean. His brain was porridge by the end of it, but I think we made some definite progress. Then Adam, Jeff and I hit up Meat Home and took our best shot at making a Bacon Bomb. (I'm too tired to explain to you what that is; look it up on YouTube.) We were marginally successful, despite a deplorable lack of proper equipment. After two hours of feasting, we parted, eminently satisfied with the weekend's proceedings. It hit me, as Jeff and I walked to Meat Home in the cool, moist evening air, the soft reddish glow of the sun rebounding from the low-hanging cottony clouds, that the curtain was truly closing on my Korean sojourn. I felt regret, be certain of that. But I also felt that I was doing the right thing by getting while the getting was good. I couldn't shake the feeling that re-upping my contract (which I'd seriously considered at one point, and still lightly entertained) would be a mistake. Things would begin to pall for me soon enough. I might as well go before I get tired of it. Still, I got the unshakable feeling that I'd be homesick for this place after I left. That would be a complete turnaround, but I suspect its truth regardless. I'm going to miss going out to Meat Home and having a protein hangover in the morning, or getting invited to weddings in Masan, or having elementary-school kids greeting me at the door of Reading Town with ear-to-ear grins and punches in the gut. It's been magical, to say the least. Still is.