a day in George Town

Not pictured: knee-biting lunacy.

A little historical context first:

George Town is the capital of the state of Penang, one of the smallest provinces in Malaysia, which not only incorporates Penang Island but also a decent wodge of the mainland, including Butterworth. It was named after King George III. That's right, folks—Crazy George, the mad king of Britain and Ireland during the American Revolutionary War. 

The island was originally part of the Sultanate of Kedah, until one day in August 1786 when an enterprising young sea captain named Francis Light of the British East India Trading Company landed there. He wound up marrying the sultan's daughter and Penang Island was ceded to the British Crown as part of her wedding dowry. Captain Light promptly established George Town, Britain's first permanent colony in Southeast Asia. It initially had only four streets and a couple of jetties. A fort was built in the northeast corner of the municipality, commanding a 270-degree view of the sea. The Netherlands Trading Society, the Hongkong and Shanghai Banking Company (known today as HSBC), the Chartered Bank (now called Standard Chartered), Boustead & Co., and a dozen others all set up shop here, and the town and the swampy island it sits on were the center of British trade and shipping in the area for quite a few years. There was a nasty problem with malaria in the early years of the colony, earning it the unfortunate nickname "White Man's Grave." 

There were geopolitical speed bumps as well. Captain Light had promised the Sultan of Kedah that the East India Company would offer him military protection in exchange for the island. In so promising he had acted without his superiors' approval. When the Siamese attacked the sultanate a few years later, no British help was forthcoming. The enraged sultan tried to take the island back by force in 1790. In this he failed, and was not only forced to give up the island permanently but also to pay the Crown a sum of 6,000 Spanish dollars per annum. This was later upped to 10,000 Spanish dollars when Province Wellesley (now modern-day Pulau Penang) was incorporated in 1800. Even to this day the Malaysian government pays an annual honorarium of 10,000 ringgit (around $3050 American) to the state of Kedah. 

In 1826, Penang (along with Malacca and Singapore) became part of the Straits Settlements under the British administration in India, and came under direct colonial rule in 1867. In 1946, it was absorbed into the Malayan Union and in 1948 was designated a state of the Federation of Malaya. This federation gained independence from Britain in 1957 and became modern-day Malaysia in 1963. The island was a free port until 1969, and even after losing its free port status became one of the world's foremost centers of electronics production in the '70s and '80s. In 2008, George Town was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and has seen an influx of tourists ever since. 

It was one of the most multicultural places I visited in Southeast Asia, despite having a population of only 720,000 and being rather off to the left compared to more popular tourist destinations like Kuala Lumpur or Langkawi. There were bearded, robed Arabs walking around; chattering Tamils with pearly white teeth; quiet, dignified Chinese; agile, jolly, skinny Thais; bald, pale, T-shirted English expatriates; and grubby foreigners like me from America, Canada, Spain, France, Germany, Brazil, Australia, and everywhere in between. 

I spent most of the morning of Tuesday, July 29 nursing my katzenjammer. (Seven beers at the Hong Kong Bar the night before, remember?) The Red Inn Court had a free breakfast of noodles in black sauce, toast and jam, coffee, and fruit. That helped a lot, as did the warm shower I took. I'd intended to sally forth and tour George Town promptly, but a thundering rain came pouring down between ten and twelve o'clock, the heaviest monsoon cloudburst I'd yet seen on this trip. The Matrix Revolutions has got nothing on Mother Nature. It kept sprinkling well past one o'clock, by which point I couldn't wait any longer, so with a poncho stuffed in my pocket I sauntered out and commenced my walking tour.   

It wasn't just the Muslims who were having a holiday (Hari Raya Puasa, the end of Ramadan). For the Chinese Buddhists, there was some festival related to Guanyin, the goddess of mercy, who has one of the largest and grandest temples in George Town dedicated to her. Crowds of elderly men and women swarmed the temple forecourt, barely visible through the thick, broiling fumes of incense. Prayers flew thick and fast and I couldn't get a show, so I walked on. 

Unfortunately, despite being a UNESCO site, there just wasn't that much to do or see in George Town. I saw the fort; Khoo Kongs, one of the oldest and most famous clanhouses; the jetties; a couple of temples...and, well, that was about it. 

All in all, I was so disappointed by the place (my debauch the previous night notwithstanding) that I ended up taking just six pictures during my whole 48-hour stay, including that one you saw in the previous post. Disappointing, to say the least. 

Lebuh Chulia, where a lot of the bars and noodle joints are.

The fertility cannon at Fort Cornwallis. The largest gun with the widest range, it will also cure barrenness in women, or so the local legend goes. You just need to place some flowers on it. 

After my little walking tour of the town, I got into a cab and tried to send postcards home to the States, only to be gently reminded by the Indian driver that today was a holiday—several, actually—and the post office was shut. I sighed, thanked him, got out of the cab, went back to the hostel, and napped until 6:30. 

Awaking hungrier than a horse, I strode toward what looked like the food-and-drink sector of town, determined to find me a burger and a beer. I was sixteen days into my trip and I had been a very good boy, eating local the whole way. Now I was fed up with rice and noodles and chicken and wanted nothing more than to get a thick, juicy beef patty between my teeth. I stopped off at the SoHo Free House, noting burgers on their menu and cheap beer. Seemed like a winning combo.

Well, it wasn't. That was the worst burger I've ever had in my life. What was supposed to be a rare patty turned out squishy, lumpy, and poorly seasoned; the bun was stale and soggy; the vegetables far from fresh; and the fries limp and cold. The best part about that meal was the mad specials they were having on—you guessed it—Tiger beer. Even so I could only bring myself to drink one. I laid my money down and sped out of there.

Night fell. I wandered, unwilling to give up George Town so easily. I thought vaguely of finding a historic hotel and having a cocktail, but again I felt worried by potential dress code violations, and the proliferation of foreign phonies that were sure to be in the hotel bar, boozing it up. I strode longingly past the Eastern & Oriental Hotel, trying to peer through the big casement windows and catch a glimpse of all the idiots partying inside, but my reconnaissance was for naught; I couldn't make out a thing. 

Not my photo.

I walked home, a bit miffed at the double holiday that prevented me from mailing postcards or exchanging ringgit for Singapore dollars. Testily I went to sleep, ready to rise at 5:45 a.m. on Wednesday morning to catch the long-haul bus at Butterworth Station. 

Ho Chi Minh City, day three

By prior agreement, nobody in our little clique stirred before noon. We recuperated separately at our respective rooms and convened at 12:30 to revisit the Hungry Pig for some more of their cracking bacon sandwiches. They weren't chintzy with the HP Sauce this time around, either. I went the whole hog, so to speak, and got a fried egg on mine this time. 

Then we split up for the day. Jeff went off with Adam for a foodie crawl across Saigon's underbelly while Jenn and I caught a cab to Notre Dame. 

I also managed to sneak into the big colonial post office and send off some postcards to friends and family. 

I was in a bad way. My cheap Airwalk flip-flops were already three months old by the time I took them on this trip, and all the tread had been worn off the soles. This left me with zero traction on the rain-slicked Saigon sidewalks. I was slipping and sliding all over the place. I came damn near to breaking a leg (or a neck) half a dozen times. It was as if every inch of the ubiquitous square-cut cement tiles with which sidewalks in Southeast Asia are paved was covered with black ice. I prayed to Our Lady of Surface Tension to save my hide as Jenn and I marched to the national history museum, shabby but informative. 

We had a nice nap and then met with Jeff and Adam at 5:30. Jeff clung to the back of Adam's sleek black scooter like a terrified limpet. We caught a cab to the Bitexco Financial Tower, rode an express elevator to the 52nd floor, and drank Manhattans and Long Island iced teas for 290,000 VND apiece (fifteen U.S. dollars!).

The invisible sun sank down behind the murky overcast and Uncle Ho's damp, water-stained namesake city grew dark. The high-rises and spiderweb streets lit up and Saigon was suddenly indistinguishable from any other 21st-century metropolis. Jeff, Jenn, and Adam schmoozed about how fun the place was, but as I sat there with them and stared out the rain-streaked window, I felt nothing but disgust. I was fed up with the garbage piles in the streets, the homicidal scooter drivers, the persistent hawkers, the mawkish artificiality of modernized Asian culture, the pervading sense of cultural smugness about the outcome of an old war, and a thousand other things. I wasn't ready to part company with my pals just yet, but I was eager to get on with my trip and get out of this benighted country. 

I did get a consolation prize that evening, though. Stacey showed up with a friend, Danielle, and we all got a cab to May, a very upscale restaurant in Ward Dakao, District 1. We walked through a dark alley for a few dozen meters until the imposing facade of a restored colonial villa emerged seductively from behind a veil of arica palms like a forgotten but welcoming mistress. Smiling, skinny waiters in light cotton shirts ushered us inside, past the steamy kitchen with its enormous glass windows and up a narrow mahogany staircase to a parlor-like dining room decorated in the vintage French style. Billing itself as one of the healthiest and tastiest restaurants in Ho Chi Minh City ("NO MSG!" screamed the mission statement on the menu's first page), May employs top-shelf ingredients and French-trained chefs to craft a staggering array of delectable fusion dishes. I had the chicken soup, the stuffed squid, the prawns in tamarind sauce, and even a dollop of choco-coffee ice cream. The portion sizes were generous and yet my end of the bill came to just 260,000 dong, not quite $15—the price of a single cocktail on the 52nd floor of the Bitexco Financial Tower. 

After that scrumptious meal (in fine company) there was nothing to do but go back to Green Suites and pack up my things. I'd be leaving on the bus for Phnom Penh the next day at eight o'clock sharp. During our Skype chat that evening, Miss H and I came to a rather momentous decision—one whose repercussions I feel even as I sit here typing this post. We agreed that she would quit her job at Gangnam SLP and return home to the Mojave, while I would stay in Korea only as long as it would take to finish up the fall semester at Sejong University. My thoughts that night were full of the task ahead. As I noted in my journal, "I need to find a place to live..."

Ha-ha. Wait until I tell you about how all that fell out. But it'll have to wait until this travel tale is done. Next up: the first Cambodia post. 

bog bodies

Breakfast on the morning of June 17 was a somewhat muted affair. It occurred rather late in the morning, and only after large amounts of water had been drunk and hot showers had been taken.

Jeff and I, despite our fuzzy heads, still weren't finished with Dublin. There were some things we figured we had to see before we left, and had no excuse not to, since our flight out didn't leave until the afternoon.

That pretty much left the National Museum. It actually wasn't too far away from us, over on Kildare Street. We didn't know it going in, but the Museum actually has four branches, all in different places. We were walking into the archaeology branch.

...which happened to be right next to the houses of Irish Parliament. There was a big ol' protest going on outside its gates as we approached. Camera crews were busy filming it, policemen were busy guarding it and spectators were busy gawking at it. A bunch of elderly folks were walking up and down the sidewalk, hoisting signs that said PRESERVE THE SANCTITY OF MARRIAGE and SAME-SEX MARRIAGE IS A SIN.

Some things apparently don't change too much between continents.

We entered the museum through a metal gate and walked up the steps into the domed lobby. Outside there were a bunch of school kids (crisply uniformed) all hanging about, either waiting to start a tour or just having finished.

Nothing makes your day like hearing a little Irish girl singing a Taylor Swift song, let me tell you.

So, we walked in. Admission was free. The museum was rather small (at least this particular branch). Nonetheless we saw some cool stuff. There was a whole Viking longboat found somewhere over near Galway or something that had been almost perfectly preserved. Or maybe it wasn't even Viking, maybe it was just a big effing wooden canoe that the early Irishmen had built. I don't remember, I was hung over.

They had a nice little section on ancient Egypt on the upstairs floor with a bunch of articles, artifacts, artistry, artisanship, and all those other words that start with "arti."

(I wish I could give you more details, but as has previously been mentioned, I was hung over. And it's Wednesday afternoon as I'm writing this and I just woke up from a three-hour nap and there's a thunder cloud hanging over my house that's making a whole lotta noise and I'm trying to finish this entry before it starts crackling and pouring and frying my motherboard.)

The pinnacle of the museum's collection was its exhibit on "bog bodies." These were the mummified, mutilated remains of Irish kings, slaughtered by their political foes and dumped into bogs. The peaty composition of the Irish bogs meant that the decomposition process was slowed or even halted, resulting in some of the best-preserved bodies you'll find anywhere in the world. Indeed, some of these guys (except for the fact that their skins looked exactly like leather, and they were, as has previously been mentioned, mutilated) looked almost...well, alive.

It was creepy, dude.

I highly recommend the exhibit if you happen to be in Dublin. It's not going anywhere. It's by far the most exciting thing ever to have come out of an Irish bog (except when they pulled Old Patty Flynn stone-drunk out of the Ardee bog last year; that was a hoot).

So we left the museum about eleven and headed back to the hostel. We made a brief stop in Waterstone's (a bookstore chain found all over the Isles) to check the price of a copy of Ulysses...

...saw this thing maneuvering around streetcars...

 ...zipped back to that souvenir shop on O'Connell Street so I could finally get my Ireland T-shirt...

(Feel privileged, this is the most recent photo of me. Like, ever. I just took it five minutes ago.)

Then we our hostel a fond farewell, had one last tributary pint of Guinness in Doyle's (as Argentina slaughtered South Korea up on the TV), and headed for the airport.

And so we departed Dublin the same way we'd come in: tired and hung over.

We were sitting behind some little Geordie kids on the way back. I tell you what, I like hearing English, Scottish and Irish accents in general, but hearing them from kids...well, that's an extra kick. Makes the little tykes seem extra cute, you know. It was two little boys and a girl, and they were all talking about what makes airplanes stay up. They were pointing out the window and watching the Boeing's flaps go up and down. It kind of took the hangover away for a while.

Ryanair, being one of those cheapo airlines, doesn't give out free drinks and snacks. You have to buy them. And they cost a lot of euro. If you're a smoker, though, and you don't think you can go the 45 minutes between Dublin and Newcastle without a puff, they sell smokeless cigarettes. Yes, on an airplane. They were sellin' cigs. Wow. Neat.

We got back to Newcastle, hopped at cab back to Tynemouth, and were home and dry in Adam's mum's house before the sun set.

But as you already know, that ain't sayin' much up there in the northern latitudes.

Next up: I try to host an American barbecue for my gracious hosts...with British charcoal and a British grill. Witness the disaster next time on British barbecue blues. Don't miss it.

have katzenjammer, will travel

It seemed poetically just that we should enter the city of Dublin with a hangover.

Remember how I said we made a jolly night of it on the evening of the 14th? The Cumberland Arms? Every beer and cider on tap?

Well, we sure did a number on ourselves. For A & E it wasn't such a big deal, but for Jeff and I, well...we had to get up early, heft some luggage into a cab, endure the swift, swerving ride to Newcastle Airport, and board a plane for a flight across the sea.

As previously mentioned, we were hung over.

I've traveled hung over before—by land, sea, and air—and it ain't pretty.

The morning of June 15th was calm, cool, moist, and blessedly sunny. As harmful as sunlight is to bloodshot eyes, I welcome the sun on the morning after a bender. The last thing I need after staying out all night, lapsing into a chemically-induced coma, and waking up feeling like hammered shit is gray skies and drizzle outside my window. Then I'll never snap out of it. I'll spend the whole day stumbling about the house like a reanimated corpse, head pounding, mouth cottony, body resisting the bacon, eggs, beans, toast, ibuprofen, and six gallons of cold water I've poured into myself.

The sun didn't help much that morning, though. We groggily paid the cabbie and stumped across the parking lot. Not much was said between us. Our appearance was undoubtedly ghastly. George Romero would've run screaming. Somehow Jeff had the presence of mind to remember to get our boarding passes stamped by Ryanair authorities, 'cause we were foreign nationals. I love being a foreigner. Everyone's suspicious of you, and for good reason. To justify the transportation officials' worst fears I should take to wearing an eyepatch and a wooden leg and growling at fellow passengers, "Arrr! Have ye seen a hand grenade lyin' around anywhere? I have the pin in me pocket."

Then we had to sit around the terminal for about 30 minutes to find out what gate we'd board at. Apparently the cheapo airlines like Ryanair and EasyJet are so low down on the totem pole that they don't even have appointed gates for their arrivals and departures; they have to sneak in like thieves in the night. Gates aren't announced until moments before boarding begins. And if you miss the last boarding call, you're SOL. We were assiduous in listening to the PA system, rest assured.

We boarded and the plane took off on schedule. Jeff promptly passed out. I had the window seat, and felt somehow obligated to look out the window, even in spite of my condition. When would I get a chance to see England, Ireland and the Irish Sea again? And it was quite a good view, even despite that monstrous engine.
 


We touched down and got off the plane, feeling, if possible, even worse than when we left. Air travel does little to improve physical maladies. Solid ground and fresh air helped a great deal, however. The first thing we noticed were the signs, and the unpronounceable words (festooned with accent marks) which covered them.

It was a long, long, long walk to Irish customs. The bloody concourse seemed to go on forever. When we finally did pass (and got our passports stamped—in green) it was already afternoon. We boarded the bus to Dublin proper and were soon debarking at Westmoreland Street, just south of the River Liffey. 

Now, don't laugh, but it took Jeff and me a little while to find our hostel...400 feet from the bus stop. All we had to do was go south down Westmoreland, hang a left on College Street, and walk a few paces down the curving sidewalks ('scuse me, pavement), stopping just before Doyle's Pub.

What we wound up doing was going south down Westmoreland, passing College Street, and wandering aimlessly around down Grafton and Nassau Streets south of Trinity College.

I shouldn't attempt to cast blame on anyone but ourselves. We were, after all, attempting to navigate our way through a city we'd never been to with some piece-of-shit souvenir map we couldn't read—while zombified and squinting in the bright sunlight. And I certainly don't wish to express displeasure with anything Irish, either. There can't be much wrong with a country that came up with Jameson whiskey, Maureen O'Hara, Irish whistles, Connemara ponies, and (in an indirect sort of way) Bill O'Reilly. Not to mention an airline that sounds like some kind of perverted-but-awesome sexual practice. 

But all that aside, the roadsigns in Dublin (and in most cities in England and Scotland, too) are DANGED hard to find, let alone see.

After a half hour or so, Jeff and I finally located the College Street sign at the corner of College and Westmoreland (how were we to tell, coming from the Liffey like that, standing outside the Bank of Ireland, which street was which? We could only see the sign approaching from the south, on the Trinity College side) and found our hostel without further delay.

We were rather hot and bothered by our long stroll through crowded streets. The weather was quite clement: high 70s, with a brilliant sun and slightly muggy air. I wasn't complaining at all. Dublin was chock full of pretty girls. Everywhere you looked there were stunners, jaw-droppers, lookers, eye-candy, babes, hotties, goddesses, all of the most delightedly Celtic persuasion. I mean, like, everywhere. Herds of them, all decked out in their summer clothes: short skirts, charming shoes and even a long, slinky dress or two.  

I began to be somewhat enthused about the 48 hours we'd be in town.

Any notions that I had about learning Irish culture (as in "meeting Irish chicks") in Dublin began to dissolve as soon as I stepped over the threshold of our hostel, however.

The concierge was an Australian girl.

So was our roommate. Well, he wasn't a girl, but he was Australian, I mean. We met him upon getting our room keys and heading up to the fourth floor. Harry, he called himself. Our rooms, by the way, were immaculate:

So was Harry. Well, he wasn't a room, but he was immaculate. Pressed shirt, waistcoat, dress pants, black socks, the works. If he'd put his leather shoes back on and grabbed a bowtie and some rimless spectacles, he could've passed for a college don on his day off. He had a bit of black stubble on his cheeks, a tanned complexion, and a sort of refined Australian accent. He said he was a backpacker.

For a moment Jeff and I attempted to picture Harry hacking his way through the Brazilian jungle with a machete, sweat pouring down his face and neck, his pressed shirt and waistcoat slowly turning to sodden rags, and then gave up. We couldn't do it. We let ourselves toy with the idea that he was so dandily dressed just because he was back in civilization. That seemed to work better. Our rough-and-ready North American minds would not coutenance the notion of an "urban backpacker." This dapper lad didn't fit into our backpacking paradigm, so to speak. And so we assumed he must merely be taking a few days' furlough before hitting the trail again. Neither of us even considered that he might just be traveling through Europe with stuff in a backpack, and calling it "backpacking." That was impossible.

Whatever his occupation or his motives, Harry was an apt roommate. He was quiet, mostly working on his computer (yes, he called it "work"). That left Jeff and I to our own devices. We threw down our heavy loads gratefully (why had I bothered to bring my computer? Why? The hostel didn't even have wi-fi), showered, and changed clothes. Then it was time to head out and see what we could see of Dublin before we lost the light—which, at this latitude, wasn't going to be an issue for a good few hours yet.

I'll tell you about that later, though.

Don't miss the next installment, where've all the Irish gone? a.k.a. "THE FIRST EVENING IN DUBLIN," coming up soon on the Sententious Vaunter!

they call me "Sugar Doll"

That's right, sucker. I'm a sugar doll. You know how I know? Says so on this award here. A thousand congratulations to Jon Paul from Where Sky Meets Ground on receiving this award himself, and a thousand thanks for bestowing it upon me. Like him, I would've questioned whether or not I was a "sugar doll" but seeing as how Entrepreneur Chick (bless her heart) has called me a "dollbaby" before, I think I'm not too far out of bounds in accepting this. I hope I'm not. I'm tickled pink to have gotten this accolade. The rules are simple: list ten facts about yourself and pass the award on to four deserving bloggers. However, since this award was given to me by a man's man (who also got it from a man's man), I shall delight you with the most masculine facts I can dish up. It's time to man up, people. Ready? Let us begin!

1. The worst hangover I ever had was the second morning of the Korean New Year, Seoul, late January 2009. My expatriate friends and I had been out on a bender the whole night previous: pub crawling, karaoke, the works. I must've drank my weight in soju. My head was literally fit to split. I couldn't even move for the first hour. The second hour I inched my hand across the tousled bedspread and somehow managed turn on the TV. The third hour I groggily watched The Matrix and thought about trying to sit up. Eventually I dragged myself into a scalding hot shower and went out for a long constitutional in the freezing winter breeze. It worked.
2. I'm not technically "scared" of anything: spiders, snakes, murky water, the dark, or whatever. But I do not like centipedes. They're not the comeliest of beasts. And they move too fast.
3. I think millipedes (and tarantulas, and slugs, and eels) are cute, though.
4. I have this Microsoft computer game called Impossible Creatures. It's a strategy game, where you are the commander of an army and have to fight other people's armies. The cool thing about it is that you make your own units. You combine different animals together to make super-powerful hybrids: amphibious whales, winged lions, gorillas with wolves' heads, elephants with hornets' stingers, bulls with porcupine spines, you name it. Anything you can imagine, you can make. The best animal I ever created was a "rhinorpion": a rhinoceros with a gigantic scorpion's tail, and pincers coming out of its shoulders. It had horns, claws, and a poisonous tail; and it was a bruiser in close combat. It couldn't stand up to my brother's lobster-shark, though.
5. I have many different ideas about what I want to do when I get old and retire, most of which fit into some stereotypical mold or other. Sometimes I want to sit in a rocking chair on the porch and dispense unsolicited pearls of wisdom; sometimes I hope to go driving my Bentley through people's flowerbeds; sometimes I wish to wear a floppy straw hat and ride around on a donkey on hot afternoons, drunk as a fiddler. I think I'll just settle for owning a corner bar and listening to people's problems, though.
6. When we lived in Tennessee, there was an enormous grassy hill right next to the long gravel driveway we shared with our neighbors. With their permission, my brother Harlan and I would sled on it in winter. In summer, we'd get our trusty little red wagon (a genuine Radio Flyer), hop in and go rolling down that hill à la Calvin and Hobbes.
7. I like the name "Azerbaijan." It just rolls off the tongue, don't it?
8. I have six scars: one on my left index finger (soap-carving accident); one on the top of my left foot (a dropped plate); three chicken-pox blemishes on my torso; and one on my right forearm (a brush with a wine rack).
9. I love Star Wars. I hate Star Trek.
10. Okay, let's see...is this list masculine enough? I've talked about drunkenness, scary animals, combat, retirement-era hell-raising, boyish pursuits, exotic places, scars, and my discerning tastes in science fiction. Looks good to me, so let's finish off with the ultimate manly pursuit: speculating about the fate of the planet. If given the chance to gain immortality, I'd pass it up. I don't want to live forever. I just wish I could live long enough to see (a) the ocean floor explored completely; (b) contact made and diplomatic relations opened with sentient beings from another planet; and (c) what manner of fantastic beasts will evolve on Earth millions of years from now.

And now for the lucky four, in no particular order:

• Gently Said: Jerry, a 65-year-old man who works in a tall building in Houston, muses on the little everyday things that make life so strange and wonderful. One man's calming thoughts on dogs, dancing, word definitions, music, family, with a bit of short fiction thrown in. Help me out here, ladies. He is most certainly a sugar doll, right?
• It Was Dark, Stormy and I Lost My Serial Comma: Here is a doting father, great storyteller, lover of Fruity Pebbles, trafficker in dirty blog titles, all around funny guy, with a warm and entertaining blog. Spells "sugar doll" to me.
• Fortune Cookies and Men: Chloe C is hip. She's a native New Yorker. She's Chinese-American, a former Serial Monogamist, self-sufficient, independent, brassy and refreshingly straightforward. What more could you want in a sugar doll?
• Jane Jones: She still believes in summer days. She knows the secret nooks and crannies of the heart and soul. She's traveled to hidden places. She likes to cook for the fun of it. She's a not-so-apologetic country music fan. But most importantly, her writing is ethereally beautiful. Familiar, somehow; like a doll for the soul. Sweet in its truth, like sugar for the mind.

Congratulations to one and all! You've earned it. And now it's time for the six o'clock news. You don't have to read all of this if you don't want to. It's rather long. Just pick and choose the headlines that look interesting, like I do when I read a newspaper. AREA MOTHER PURCHASES NEW DOG You remember the new collie we got a few months back, Maggie? We had to euthanize her. She had a herniated esophagus or something. Couldn't stop hacking up bile. We had to put her down; it was either that or let her suffer. Not wanting my dog Harriet to be lonesome, Mom and Dad stopped by the Apple Valley animal shelter a couple of weeks ago, perused the selection and picked out a seven-month-old German shepherd. They signed the paperwork and a few days later (after he was "fixed") brought him home. We dubbed him Dash, and he's an absolute champ. Things were a bit rocky at first; he whined a lot until he got used to his surroundings, and we had to set some boundaries for him. (No climbing on the furniture, unless it's the old futon in the front room, and the kitchen is strictly verboten.) He still doesn't walk on a leash very well, and can't sit on command, but he knows his name and is learning to fetch the squeaky tennis balls he loves so much. At seven months, he's not fully grown; his feet, ears and tail are awkward and oversize. He'll grow into them, though. He's going to be a truly massive dog, 120 pounds, the vets reckoned. That's more than twice what Mom's old Belgian sheepdog Molly weighed full-grown! GARBAGE TRUCK GETS STUCK IN QUICKSAND The tremendous rains we had a little while ago washed the roads out something terrible. We had huge gouts and ruts and swathes carved out of neighborhood streets. We're so far out in the sticks that the roads aren't maintained by the county, so we have to shift for ourselves. The local water board got out its heavy equipment and began bulldozing the roads flat again, filling in the ruts. In this case, that created a problem. The ruts were filled, but they were filled with loose sand and smoothed over. I went out walking shortly after the work was finished, and when I stepped on this smooth and deceptively firm sand, my foot sank in up to the ankle. It wasn't quicksand, but it was the next best thing. I was out painting the eaves last week when I heard a peculiar banging sound in the distance. I looked around, but couldn't see where it was coming from. A short while later, I heard it again. Bang bang bang bang bang. I turned around. Behind the house, just up the block at the corner of Corto and Horizon, I saw one of the big maroon-and-white Avco Disposal garbage trucks. It was just sitting there, cocked across the intersection at an odd angle. As I looked, I heard the engine rev up. Dust began to fly. The truck started to shake, so violently that it began to make the metallic banging sound I'd heard earlier. Then it stopped, and sat quietly again. I'd been stuck in loose sand too many times not to realize what was happening. I saw a couple other people gathering about the truck, so I didn't just jump off the ladder, snatch up a shovel, and go and help. I kept painting, figuring that if the truck was still stuck by the time I finished the south side of the house, then I'd go and help. I was almost done with the southwest corner at the time. I finished, and the truck was still stuck. So I put everything away, opened the shed, grabbed a shovel, slung it jauntily over my shoulder, and strolled the hundred yards up the dusty road to the site of the disturbance. I must've looked a sight: work boots, cargo shorts, a Chargers cap (on backwards), sunglasses, and a red T-shirt reading THE PARTY HAS ARRIVED. Plus the shovel on my shoulder. Superdude to the rescue. The garbage truck, trying to turn around at the intersection, had run straight into the sand loosely packed into a former culvert, and had gotten stuck. I actually didn't wind up doing much. I shoveled some loose sand out of the way of the truck's tires, and tamped down some more behind them, but Kert (the driver) still couldn't get out. Another garbage truck came and tried to pull Kert's truck out of the sand with a chain, but then he started slipping. Finally, a semi with a winch was dispatched to the site and managed to yank 'er out. While we waited, I had a lovely chat with Kert, the woman who owned the house in front of which he'd gotten stuck (Jeanette, and her articulate, autistic, adopted son, Elijah), and a couple other neighbors I'd never spoken to before. It was a lovely day and rather nice to talk to new people. Elijah and I had an erudite discussion on why stop-motion and other old-fashioned cinematic effects were superior to computer graphics. ASPIRING BARTENDER POLISHES OFF MOST DIFFICULT LESSON That's right. On Monday I went down to Riverside and, after a grueling three hours and 40 minutes, passed both parts of the wickedly tricky Lesson 7, concerning shots. It wasn't hard, per se, but there were so many ingredients to remember and so many different mixing methods that I came close to forgetting myself. I just barely made the six-minute time limit on both parts of the test, even despite the rather raunchy mnemonic devices I'd learned. A strawberry cheesecake shot, for example (vanilla vodka, cranberry juice, and cream) has to be mixed, shaken, and poured. B-52s (Kahlúa, Bailey's, and Grand Marnier) need merely be layered. But Scooby Snacks (Midori, crème de bananes, Malibu coconut rum, pineapple juice, and cream) have to be shaken with the tin and then cracked like an egg into an old-fashioned glass. Like I said, tricky. But I passed it. Now I just have Lesson 5 (blended drinks) left, and then the final, and then a bit of POS training and job placement, and then...I'm a bartender! And in brief... I've resumed flying after taking a six-week hiatus (due to money issues which have been resolved thanks to Mom and Dad). I'm doing instrument work, where they strap a hood over your eyes so you can only see your instruments and gauges and not what's going on outside the plane. Then they tell you to do stuff. I think I'll put that in a separate post. Dad had some coworkers from Lake Tahoe down for dinner last night. I was the designated bartender. I only made one drink (a vodka martini), but I made it well. I was also introduced to a new libation I'd never heard of before, even at bartender's school: something called an "astronaut." I'll have to ask Wade about that one... Finally, the weather's been lovely. Sixties and seventies, sunny, breezy, hardly a cloud in the sky. Spring's already sprung in the desert, and once again I'm sweating on my 4.6-mile walks. Just wait'll it's still 90 degrees out at sunset. Sigh...I miss winter already. Not.

cocktail review no. 16 - Zombie

My folks and I have a sort of deal going now where we go out on the town every month or so and try a new drink. We're hitting all the restaurants with bars and, while our table is prepared, we sit down and suck on a new cocktail that we don't have the materials for at home. This first month, we selected Red Lobster (my brother had sent me a $25 gift card, knowing how I adore seafood) and zombies. So, without further ado, here is the recipe for a zombie. As I am rapidly coming to know, there are as many different versions of drink recipes as there are days in a year, but according to the taste of the Red Lobster Zombie, I believe this might be the most correct.

• ½ ounce 151-proof rum
• 1 ounce dark rum
• 2 ounces light rum
• 1 ounce pineapple juice
• 1 ounce orange juice
• ½ ounce apricot brandy
• 1 teaspoon sugar
• 1 ounce lime juice
• 1 pineapple slice

These ingredients, as far as I could see, were simply mixed in a highball glass. The pineapple slice was stuck on the rim of the glass as a garnish, obviously. Impressive, eh? There are a couple of oddball ingredients in there that we didn't feel like purchasing a whole bottle of just to make one drink. (I blew way too much bread doing stuff like that in Korea.) Ahem...now, on to the review. I mentally composed it in my head as I sipped this drink. It sounds a bit too much like the shallow, twittering copy you'd find on a menu or a brochure, but I nonetheless think it would sound better if I reproduced it verbatim, so:

"If you think every tropical drink is all fruit and no booze, try this one! This drink actually has (no pun intended) some bite to it. The rum lurches up out of the pineapple juice like an undead flesh-eater thrashing its way out of the grave, with just as much murderous intent."

Okay, I did just make up that last sentence on the spot here. But it keeps the whole undead extended metaphor going, don't it?

XXIII

September 25 was my 23rd birthday. Seeing as how I am back in Apple Valley, where I once lived for seven years and attended high school (among other things), I was in a unique position. Many of my old high school chums were back in town, either living with their parents, too, or working, or attending Victor Valley College. Not only that, but September 25 fell on a Friday. Not only that, but my parents would also be out of town that weekend, in Wyoming, signing over the Cheyenne house to the buyers. So, naturally, I decided to throw a party. I put the word out on Facebook, a dozen people signed up to come, and before you knew it the 25th had rolled around. And it was a fun party. No, more fun than that... Okay, now we're getting there... Perfect. I'd been dismissed on Thursday (see a small dose of the real world). Nevertheless I had set my teeth and created a master to-do list that evening, including the comestibles I needed to buy, the cleaning I had to do, the unrelated errands I had to run, and so forth. Let's take a look at the liquor-and-snack page: BOOZE

1. One liter gold tequila
2. Two 750-ml bottles of sparkling wine
3. Four 750-ml bottles of Sauternes
4. Two 24-packs of beer

COMESTIBLES

1. One bottle of lemon juice
2. Two or three 12-packs of soda
3. Three bottles of assorted fruit juice
4. Several different bags of chips
5. Several bags of Chex mix
6. Some jars of peanuts
7. One honeydew melon
8. Broccoli florets
9. Carrot sticks
10. Cherry tomatoes
11. Celery
12. Ranch dip [I meant to write "dressing"]
13. Tortillas
14. Microwaveable chicken fingers or cheese sticks
15. Pizza Rolls
16. Three cans of dog food
17. One block of ice
18. Paper cups

Impressive, isn't it? Just to clear the air, the dog food was, indeed, for the dogs. We were running low, so I thought I'd just grab some while I was out. With the exception of the beer, all the of the booze (and the honeydew melon) was intended for the punch I was going to make: Frank Davis punch, as borrowed from The Bartender's Bible. And so I sallied forth boldly on Friday morning, shaking off whatever self-esteem issues were still lingering about after Thursday's events, to buy up these materials. It took two and a half hours. True, I had to stop and buy some hoses for my car (see how to register a car in Southern California), but that was still the longest food-shopping trip I've been on in a while. I managed to procure all the ingredients at WinCo except for the block of ice. I was originally going to buy a head of broccoli and make the florets myself, but I saw an inexpensive bag of pre-cut ones already on the shelf in the produce section. I had to double back once because I forgot the honeydew melon, but apart from that my progress through the store was chronological and orderly. I shouldn't have gotten paper cups (or plates, or napkins) because we'd just had a rather large get-together at our house (see Swedish farriers and so on) and there was a stockpile of artificial dinnerware heaped in our pantry already. WinCo didn't have Sauternes in the strictest sense of the word, so I substituted white zinfandel instead. The beer was a monstrous success. I got three twelve-packs of Widmer's Drifter Pale Ale, Newcastle Brown Ale, and St. Pauli Girl, respectively. I couldn't find a block of ice to save my soul, not even at Rite-Aid. Oh well. For better of for worse, I acquired the ingredients, completed my errands, and got home without losing anything (either my groceries or my marbles). Then came the cleaning. I managed to avoid tying a handkerchief around my head, but it was a close thing. I vacuumed the whole house, hard floors and everything; swept the front and back porches, and the garage; cleaned the bathroom (yuck); spot-mopped things like the kitchen counter and the bathroom scale; cleared all the zombies out of the attic (just joking); and picked up all the dog poop in the backyard. Then I sat myself down and waited. I decided I wasn't going to set out a whole bunch of snacks before the party began; I wasn't expecting an enormous influx of guests right off the bat. Whoever came first would come first and then I'd start preparing munchies (and punch...uh, punchies). I turned on the Yankees/Red Sox game and settled in for the guests to arrive. About 5:00 I got a call from Chris, class of '06 (two behind me); I'd asked him an hour earlier to bring me a bag of ice. He called up and said he had, so would it be okay if he could come out an hour early? I said fine, I was just sitting around. A ridiculously short time later, Chris pulled up. (He has a tomato-red 2004 Ford Mustang, and drives it as such; he told me he was doing 40 mph up the dirt roads to my house.) We secured the ice in the freezer, poured some into the cooler to chill the faux-Sauternes and the bubbly, and then Chris suddenly gave me my presents. And what presents! I'd dropped a little hint on Facebook earlier in the week, suggesting that I was low on particular varieties of liquor. Little did I guess how zealously my guests would take it to heart. Chris had brought me not one, but two bottles: Stolichnaya and some 15-year-old Glenfiddich. Real Russian vodka and some single-malt Scotch which I'd always wanted to sample. Needless to say, I grabbed his head and gave the man a big ol' kiss right on the forehead. And then I went ahead and made us both some kamikazes. Two ounces of Stolichnaya and a little sweetened lime juice, drunk in one go. It was tricky (Stolichnaya's got a little bite to it) but fun. Then I poured Chris a beer and we chatted for a while. I set out the grapes, some chips, and some Chex mix. Before long, Crystal called in and said she was on her way, and which road should she turn down again? I filled her in, and she showed up quickly. From her small white car, she unloaded her baby son, Andrew; a backpack filled with toys and diapers; some oranges that had been injected with tequila; and half a bottle of Jose Cuervo Black Medallion. This was going to be good. Andrew was a marvelous little chap, and was so throughout the whole party. Our rambunctious talk didn't faze him. He didn't cry, he just looked around at us all with an adorable, bemused expression on his face. Crystal kept a close and loving eye on him, and didn't drink hardly a drop. (All of our designated drivers, Crystal, John and Amanda, did splendid work and demonstrated exemplary restraint: all were stone-sober when they arrived, stone-sober while they partied, and stone-sober when they left.) Little Andrew conked out about midnight and slept right through our Apples to Apples game, except when I was stupid and loud. The tequila-laced oranges were good; I couldn't really taste the booze in them but there might have been a hint of it lurking just underneath the citrus flavor. I haven't sampled the Jose Cuervo yet. That comes tomorrow. After Crystal arrived, I set out some peanuts and some watermelon. I was working off the theory of graduated snack increase. Crystal, Chris and I stood around and chatted for another hour and half until about 7:20, when the rest of the party began to trickle in. John and Basel were first, and after I greeted them at the door, beer in hand, they unloaded their generosity upon me: bottles of Grey Goose vodka and Speyburn 10-year-old Scotch, plus a couple of cigars, Cohiba and Ashton respectively. The words "yippee" and "Jumpin' Jehoshaphat YEEHAW" were running through my head at this point. John and Basel got settled in, and I washed the veggies, sliced some celery and set out the vegetable platter (with ranch dip). I also toasted up some Pizza Rolls. The five of us stood around and gabbed about things like deadly weaponry, the state of our alma mater, and politics while we drank beer. It was about this point that I switched off the baseball game (which had since ended, and turned into Spider-man) and put on the music, a nice little selection ranging from AC/DC to James Brown. People seemed to enjoy it. And then the girls arrived. Beth, Amanda and Virginia pulled up to the front of the house. It was dark by this time, so as soon as John and Basel spotted headlights on the road they leaped out of the front door and into the shadowy recesses of the shrubs. Crystal edged left, out of the harsh yellow glare thrown by the porch light. Chris and I were left to stand on the stoop, already half-drunk, and wonder innocently where the rest of the guests had got to, speculating loudly on the identities of the three girls who had just arrived. Amanda, Beth and Virginia were escorted inside, Basel and John and Crystal monitoring their every move like hungry tigers, and then the party really began. We made the punch (a messy process indeed, especially without a melon baller), I mixed up cocktails for everybody, refilled the Pizza Roll dish almost constantly, and kept up what intelligible conversation I could under the hectic circumstances. Virginia presented me with a giant two-liter bottle of Smirnoff, while Beth and Amanda had chipped in for some Admiral Nelson's Spiced Rum and Wild Turkey, respectively. That's not to mention the wonderfully thoughtful cards that they got me, which lent to my heart that abnormally pleasant fuzzy feeling. Jeez, could this birthday possibly get any better? It did. Once we'd all had a few drinks of the punch (and some cocktails: screwdriver, Mozart, tiger juice, etc.), we sat down to play Apples to Apples. For those poor suckers out there in the audience who don't know what that is, here's the skinny. There are several varieties, but the one played most often goes like this: you put a "green apple card" down in the middle of the table (floor, car hood, stripper's stomach, as the case may be). Each player is dealt seven "red apple cards." Each of the green cards has an adjective on it. It could be anything: cute, dangerous, frustrating, pretty, fuzzy, morbid, exemplary, extraordinary...while each of the red cards has a noun or a noun phrase on it. Rolling the car, elephants, Liberace, guns, hippies, the 1970s, Richard M. Nixon, Indiana Jones, all of those and more. Each player puts down the red card (face-down) that they think matches the green card best. Say, if the green card was "adventurous" then a player might put down "Indiana Jones." Another player might put down "the 1960s," and so on. The dealer judges these cards, saying them aloud and laying them down on the table for extra hilarity. (For even more hilarity, players can put down the card they think least approximates the meaning of the adjective; i.e. the proper noun "Richard M. Nixon" being matched with the adjective "trustworthy.") Whoever put down the red card which the dealer selects as the best match gets to keep the matching green card, and scores a point. First person to a certain number of points wins. Man, this game is always fun, and always hilarious. Seeing the words people put down to match up with certain adjectives (particularly when they don't have a very good hand) is a gut-busting experience. And so we played until late into the night, Andrew curled up on the couch, all of us sitting around the coffee table (in the armchairs I had huffed and puffed to get out of the back bedrooms into the living room), laughing and joking and insulting one another, occasionally getting up to go to the bathroom or make another cocktail. All too soon, at about 1:30, John, Basel, Amanda, Beth and Virginia headed home, either because they had work in the morning or had to get back down the hill. I thanked them again profusely and saw them out, mentally praying that the horrendously bumpy dirt roads wouldn't defeat them on their way out. Chris, Crystal and I lingered a little longer, but soon Crystal was packing up the baby things and departing with much cheer (not before she masterfully and selflessly cleaned up the kitchen and front room; I hardly had to do anything the next morning). Chris and I were rather soused, so I insisted Chris stay the night and prepared a bed for him. We both fell asleep almost immediately and snored until about 9 a.m. the next morning. We rolled out of bed, popped a couple of ibuprofen, drank some fruit juice, and ate some fried eggs and ham. Then Chris climbed into his hot rod and headed off into the hot morning sunshine. And the party was over. (Only in a nice way, not like in The Shining.) Echoing George Harrison, I would just like to say "Thanks for the pepperoni": pepperoni here meaning booze, thoughtful birthday cards, booze, cigars, booze, good times, booze, kind words, booze, and more booze. Thanks, guys. You made my century.

last day at Reading Town

I woke up the morning of Friday the twenty-sixth of June with a slight hangover. The previous night we'd taken Kevin out to the sogogi restaurant. Andrea and Melissa, two other foreign teachers, came too, as well as Jeff. So there we all were, partying hearty at our favorite restaurant until closing time. Then we bought some more booze and went back to Adam and Elaine's and kept it up until four o'clock. It was a blast, but tiring. I woke up at eight, looked at my watch, mumbled something negative under by breath and went back to sleep until nine, when I saw fit to get up. I had errands to run. First I received a visit from Jacob (to determine what needed fixing around the apartment; I'd told him that the light was out in the laundry room and the panel had fallen off the switchboard). Then I went down to the bank, paid some final bills (the ones from last month; this month's were subtracted from my paycheck), and put together a fruit basket for Jacob and Lily down at Homeplus. That having been done, I went into work. Picture this: the teacher's room, with Kevin sitting at my desk correcting papers, the once-gigantic stash of candy on the top shelf dwindled to almost nothing, and kids clamoring at the door like usual. That was pretty much my last day, organized chaos. First, let me say that I think Kevin is and will be a much better teacher than I. He has prior experience, and he's game. He was stepping up to the plate even as early as yesterday and starting to teach, and his methods are tried and true. The kids, having difficulty pronouncing the word "wave," were immediately corrected when he taught them the v sound and then taught them to ignore the e (writing it on the board as "wav" helped). I see now that I was never really creative or imaginative (or strict) during my tenure at Reading Town. I think Kevin's going to be a breath of fresh air for Jacob and the parents. I think the kids will still miss me, though. Remember how I said they were clamoring at the door? The ones who weren't doing it for candy were repeating this: "Teacher! Miguke gaji maseyo!" That literally translates to "You can't go back to the U.S.!" They were asking me to stay. Little Eileen, who's always looked at me as if I'm some kind of zoological curiosity, was hollering the loudest. Classes were pretty chaotic, too. Aside from their usual demands for water and use of the bathroom, the little kids kept asking me if it was my last day. Their eyes widened and their mouths opened when they saw me nod or heard me say "yes." I think Bad Arthur finally repented. He slipped me a voucher on his way out of the door. Leslie demanded twice the usual number of "one-two-thlees." Mary, in AP1-5, desperately wanted to play rock-paper-scissors (kawi bawi bo). She plays for keeps, too: losses are punished with two fingers to the forearm, usually moistened with one's breath and delivered at high speed. My arm's bruising up nicely. But everybody wanted my phone number or e-mail. I felt like a movie star as I scribbled on countless Post-It notes and scraps of paper. (Just this morning I got an e-mail from Helia, a precious little girl in AP-1, who asked me how I was doing.) I can't describe to you the feeling I had when I was filling these bits of paper out. I've said goodbyes en masse before. I survived the final yearbook-signing frenzy in high school. But this was different: these were kids, and I was an adult. I'd spent a year with them, teaching them, playing with them, tickling them, laughing with them, yelling and screaming at them, whacking a few of them over the head with textbooks and dispensing more than a few noogies. And furthermore at the terminus of my time in Korea we'd be separated my 5,000 miles and an entire ocean. There was something intangibly different, more emotionally charged and bittersweet about our parting. The very fact that they wanted to remember and keep in contact with me, a teacher, a foreigner...well, it touched me to the very soul. And that's not even mentioning some of the letters and gifts I got. Christy shyly came by the teacher's room and gave me a wrapped gift (with the words "bye bye teacher" written on it in marker). It turned out to be a build-it-yourself music box shaped like a church which plays "Silent Night" when you turn a crank. The letters are no less precious to me. I finally did crack up (like I was predicting I would) that final evening after work, when I opened young William's letter and read it. I got as far as "I will miss you" and almost broke down right there. Even now, writing it, I'm feeling the tears welling up...it doesn't help that I'm such a sentimental ham. Classes were a bit more subdued than usual (they were a bit shy around Kevin) but for the most part they were still their old selves. Little John kept playing with paper instead of listening when we were reviewing for the test (when Kevin was reviewing; that class I just sat back and let him do his thing). As a result his scores were quite bad. That boy's never going to get his head out of the clouds at this rate. But the rest went along just fine. Kevin and I did a joint review and then administered the tests, and (helping me out marvelously) he corrected some tests as well. TRP2-1 was a bit of a trick, since nobody had done their homework (as usual), but Kevin stepped up once again and put the fear of God into 'em. In a very authoritative way, totally unlike my usual thrashing and comically indignant manner, he informed them that starting next week homework would be done, and done well. Incomplete homework was unacceptable, he stated quite clearly. The message got through. Even Ken, a rather surly reprobate at most times, sat up and said "Yes, teacher." XT2 was fun, as the two of us coached Albert though creative sentence construction (compound-complex sentences, no less). Debate class was a shambles, as nearly everyone was out studying for school tests and only Sarah, Albert, Catherine and Lisa showed up. But we still split them up into teams to marshal their arguments for the great debate. The topic that night was "Is it better to spend the money you earn or save it for a later date?" Not too hard, right? Uh-huh. The actual debate itself was unstructured and desultory. Everyone sort of stood up, gave a few disjointed statements, then sat back down again and goofed around. It was fun, though. All in all it was rather a confused sort of day, not without its rays of hope for the future and a glut of poignant moments. The goodbyes were the most difficult. It was even harder after the last bell rang, when I gathered all my belongings, took one last look around the teacher's room and the lobby, and walked out. It was perhaps fortunate that I wouldn't be spending the evening alone. I was slated to meet Brian at the Local at 10:30. I invited Adam, Elaine and Jeff along, and Julia and Gaia came too. I called up Tonya (the new South African girl) and she promised to come as well. YES! I'd sworn to introduce Brian to an eligible young foreigner and now I finally managed to come through. We all had a splendid party at the Local, talking and laughing and even having a rock-paper-scissors tournament (same stakes as Mary's game, in fact). Then we went to WaBar for a bit, but that's where the exhaustion kicked in, and in the end I had to call it. I fell back into bed and slept until ten, when I awoke and began writing this. And now I'm just sitting here, waiting to move my stuff out of my little studio apartment to Adam and Elaine's (who have kindly offered to look after it for me while I'm roaming around Korea), thinking to myself... Did I really do all that? Yes. Was that real? I hope so. Will I ever see any of those kids again? Of course. I have to come back and buy more snacks for Bella. 나는 모든 나의 좋은 학생을 사랑해요.

Busan: the last shout

I wrote some time ago about the grand send-off we gave to Andy Smith in Busan. We elected to do the same with me. Our master plan was to go to Busan for the weekend, as we'd done several times before, and spend a couple days raising hell. We had quite a grand scheme as far as that was concerned, what's more. We were determined to go shooting, a rarity in Korea, a country that outlaws private gun ownership. Jeff had located a gun club in central Busan, however...conveniently located right next door to the all-you-can-drink bar. They had an evening special, six to eleven on Saturdays, where you could have as many beers as you wanted for ₩12,000 per person. After that we didn't know what we'd do. Go dancing, mayhap.

 After meeting up outside the shady chicken place (which re-fries its chicken I don't know how many times; it's run by a leather-faced lady who's openly suspicious of foreigners) at 7:00, we hailed a cab, waltzed into the bus station, secured tickets for the Busan Express, and then spent the next two and a half hours stuffed into a cramped, airless, hot, lurching sardine can. The bus ride was only ₩13,000 and that STILL wasn't worth it. I resolved, stepping out of that torture chamber, never to set foot on another intercity bus as long as I lived, at least one without the benefit of opening windows. We stopped off at McDonald's (I was too queasy to get anything), then headed into the subway. We resolved not to waste time traveling across the city and back to Haeundae to get our rooms immediately; we'd explore a little, dump our stuff off, and then go shooting and drinking around dinnertime.

For the early afternoon, however, we elected to hit up Jagalchi, the massive Busan fish market spread over half the harbor. I was elated; it was on my to-do list but I thought I'd never get the time to see it over all the other stuff I wanted to get done. Now was our chance, and we took full advantage of it. The market was a bit gloomy under the overcast skies and the air was admittedly odoriferous, but the profusion of sea life was intoxicating nonetheless. Jagged rows of stalls and booths, overhung with shabby tarps and gaudy-colored umbrellas, sprawled in every direction. Everywhere we looked, there were vendors frying unidentifiable foods; enormous fish laid out on trays of ice, white underbellies gleaming invitingly; squid and octopus draped over crates and planks, tentacles dangling; and utterly amorphous chunks of sliced seafood and entrails stacked in heaps. One fellow we passed was shaving rinds from one such block (it was shark, we discovered) and handing them out as free samples to the crowd, inviting them to sit down and try a full dish for only man won (₩10,000).

Off the streets the sights and scents didn't diminish. If anything, they increased. We passed into one of the gigantic warehouse-esque buildings that thrust itself out of the center of the open-air market; it was likewise filled with vendors, immaculate in yellow and pink rubber aprons and gloves, surrounded by glass and plastic tanks of their wares, oxygen bubbles concealing their slimy, piscine contents. Unable to restrain myself at the sight of a live octopus the size of my head, squirming its way around its submerged colander (and the insistent urgings of its owner) I caved and ordered sannakji once again. In five minutes (and ten thousand won) a majestically writhing pile of tentacles, seasoned with sesame oil and sliced onions, was brought to our table. I partook with gusto, having regained the appetite I lost on the lurching bus journey. Even Adam and Jeff pitched in a bit. This was real sannakji; I could feel it sucking on to my cheeks, tongue, teeth and gums, its suckers like little tiny hooks. I devoured the plate, thanked the proprietor and moved on.

Two warehouses down I was overcome with a burst of gluttony once again; I ordered a couple of strings of giant abalone for fifteen thousand (about twelve bucks), and munched them raw as we sauntered out of the fish market and into the souvenir market and tourist mall beyond. It would have been better with ssamjang, but I was content to slurp the shellfish down as they were. I had to leave the last two, though; I got full. I felt bad, forking over money only to waste it and some fisherman's hard work. I couldn't have saved them, though...they were already beginning to turn in the hot sun. I'll know better next time.

 I washed my hands in yet another McDonald's (Adam, Elaine and Jeff hit that place at least five times in three days), and then we headed out into the souvenir market. We wandered here and there, looking in the shops, the clothing stalls, the tiny seamstresses' cubbyholes, the western clothing chains, the fast food joints, and the actual souvenir boutiques themselves. We stopped at one (real tourist trap) and I purchased a Korean fan for my mother and an emblazoned business card box for my father. It may have been a tourist-trap shop, but I think Mum 'n' Dad will appreciate the gifts nonetheless. We also stopped off at Krispy Kreme Doughnuts and polished off a box of a dozen between the four of us. They were nice, but blander than I recall (I haven't had a doughnut in a year, remember). It would have been better with some milk. If I hadn't been so fixated on getting some chocolate in my system, I might have had the courage to try one of the oddball Korean doughnuts with green tea icing.

Done with Jagalchi and the markets, we headed back to the subway, rode thirty minutes to Haeundae, checked into our usual love motel (wonderfully inexpensive at ₩35,000 per night, or about $28), relaxed at the beach for a bit, and...well, it was at the beach that the real surprise of the whole weekend came, one that totally made my month. Adam and Jeff slid off to get drinks (non-alcoholic; we weren't going to drink before shooting, no way). I should've known they were up to something, 'cause it took them a long time...long enough to be lost. Elaine went on the cell phone and directed them to our location on the boardwalk. The first I knew that they had, all three of them, tricked me, was when the Papa John's large pepperoni pizza with a side order of cheese sticks plopped down on the grass behind me. It was a plot. Adam and Jeff had sneaked away on a prearranged scheme, and Elaine had stealthily covered for them over the phone, like a seasoned black ops pro. I had not the slightest inkling of their intentions. I was struck speechless. For a moment my mind would not even comprehend what I was seeing, as my brain tried to force my body and face into expressions of nonchalance. It didn't work. Soon as my teeth sank into that first cheese stick, I was gone. I poured out disjointed words of gratitude, not nearly enough, while I chewed and swallowed. I will never be able to thank those three enough for ending my deprivation. Having stood my complaints about the lack of Papa John's in Korea all year, my three friends had graciously, thoughtfully, generously, wonderfully concocted this covert operation and carried it off without a hitch. That alone made it the best send-off ever. I am truly blessed with true companions (and pizza, munch munch munch).

 Anyway, we carried the leftovers (what little there were) back to the hotel, showered, changed, and then boarded the subway for Seomyeon and the center of town. We wandered around a little, taking in the sights and smells of this new corner of the city (only Jeff had ever been here before). The streets were narrower, the buildings somewhat dingier, but the streets were lively and full of all sorts of people, and the sidewalks were jammed with tiny shops and food vendors giving off delicious odors.

We wandered about for a time until Jeff's nose kicked in and we discovered the Seomyeon Gun Club, tucked away on the second floor of a glass-fronted building at a small three-way intersection. We ascended the steep, dark staircase and received an effusive greeting from a young, thickset Korean fellow in glasses.

"Shooting?" he asked. "Come this way!"

The waiting room resembled my family doctor's, only with more toy guns. It was sparsely decorated, but the couches were soft and the small coffee tables arranged pleasantly. There was a long, L-shaped counter at one side of the room, on which a pleasant-looking, skinny woman leaned and smiled at us. There were some empty water-cooler bottles lying about. The targets of previous shooters, pocked with bullet holes, were hung on the walls. A few copies of American gun magazines were on the tables and couches. One entire wall of the room, however, was taken up with an enormous color poster with photographs of the available firearms, their names, and for the most part their calibers as well. The jovial, thickset proprietor directed our attention to this and then stood by eagerly with a notepad and pen.

Elaine and Jeff were a little nervous (it was their first time shooting real guns), but I did my best to put their minds at ease. I selected weapons and calibers that I thought would be best suited to their tastes, which our host jotted down on his notepad. Selections completed, he ushered us through a door and into the actual range itself, which resembled any indoor range in the States: booths with targets set up on lines. From a gun cabinet at the rear the man produced our weapons and ammunition. I was first. The proprietor had me demonstrate checking the gun for cartridges, and then had me dry-fire. Satisfied, he let me go ahead. I originally opted for the Desert Eagle; but they didn't have it. I was going to go for a .44 Magnum next...but they didn't have that, either. So I went with the .357 Mag. That was a fun little number, and made quite a bang.

In the next booth, the man was attempting to explain to Jeff how to use the sights and so forth, but his English was not up to the task. So after I was finished, the man brought me over and asked me to explain. I told Jeff the rudiments of using handgun sights, and then Jeff went ahead with shooting, steady as a rock. We had ear protection but not eye protection, which turned out to be a bit hard on Jeff, because he was in the last booth down and the shell casings ejected from his nine-millimeter Beretta kept bouncing off the wall and came close to hitting him. One actually did smack him on the tip of his nose. Jeff finished all of his rounds, however, and scored 74%, which I can assure you is excellent for a first-timer. (Most people can't even hit the target at all.)

Elaine and Adam were next. Elaine was using a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver. The proprietor asked me to show her how to cock it. I did, and Elaine just took over from there. She was phenomenal. Her aim was steady, her form was flawless and her scores reflected it: 82 percent. She even got two rounds through the same hole, Robin Hood style. She said herself that after the initial shock of the first round going off, she settled right down and got into it. I think she had fun, to say the least.

 Poor Adam was in a bit of difficulty, which was all my fault. I'd picked a .45 Colt for him, but the stupid thing kept jamming, so the Korean proprietor had swapped it out for a different forty-five semiauto. It fired better, but still kept jamming. Also, the kickback gave Adam some problems...forty-five slugs are heavy buggers. Nonetheless Adam's hand was steady. He jerked the trigger a bit at the outset but once he started squeezing his aim improved considerably, and he scored 75%. He enjoyed it, he said...he even grabbed two of the Magnum revolvers and posed for a picture with them, reminiscent of Clint Eastwood on the movie poster for The Outlaw Josey Wales. Matter of fact, we all grabbed a gun (Elaine with a .44 Mag, Jeff with a Walther, and myself with my trusty nine-millimeter Beretta) and posed for a gunslinger-style shot.

The proprietor tallied up our scores, rolled up our precious targets with holes rendered by our own hands, and bowed us out of the shop. My .44 cost ₩50,000 to shoot; Elaine's revolver and Jeff's automatic, ₩40,000 apiece; and Adam's .45 was another fifty grand, I'm reasonably certain, total cost therefore being ₩180,000. Expensive though it may be, nothing replaces the thrill of shooting, particularly since I'd been separated from it for so long. Adam enjoyed it, Jeff is coming around and Elaine, I think, is hooked. I'll have to open up the gun cabinets for all of 'em when they come visit me in the States...

Then we went drinking. The place still had the sign over the door reading Dojima; but it's since been changed, if Lonely Planet is to be believed, to the Barony Brauhaus. (German-themed drinking establishments are quite popular in Korea; there's a couple on this island, even.) We opted for the all-you-can-drink option, knowing we were in it for the long haul, and then sat through the next four hours sipping beer. I say "sipping" because the glasses that we were given didn't really lend themselves to chugging. They were much smaller than even the standard beer mugs we get at the Local in Gohyeon. Skinnier, too. Now that I think back on it, such tableware is probably insurance. They know people can and will go hog-wild with this liquid buffet, so they serve it up piecemeal, in very small increments. We arrogantly thought, as the dutiful waiter shuffled back and forth to our table every five minutes, that we'd tire him out with our pace and force him into granting us more capacious drinking vessels...but no such luck.

The atmosphere in Dojima (or whatever) is fine; recessed lighting, dark wood furnishings, and a decent view of the city streets out one wall of windows. The establishment also boasts something known as "the Beerzooka," a plastic tube about six feet high and graduated with measurement markings; large parties can order "one foot" or "two feet" or the whole "six feet" of beer and spend the rest of the evening slowly lowering the levels from a tap at the contraptions base. It was more economical for us to take the option we did, but had we been pressed for time or not so hard up for cash we probably would've tried it. "Beerzooka," indeed...the name still makes me chuckle. Who thinks up this stuff anyway?

Well, we were in fine shape when we departed. I'm afraid I don't remember what the bill was but it must have been just, for no fights broke out over it. (We've had our fill of fights over drinking bills; did I tell you about the street fight we got into yet?) We caught the subway over to Sinchon, the swingin' university district. We danced our shoes off at a couple of clubs, most notably Vinyl Underground, famous throughout Korea. The staff was fluent in English, there was no cover charge, drinks were plentiful and the music wasn't half bad. I was up on the stage quite a bit, too. (Insert embarrassed grin here.) After this, we got some Turkish food at a stall outside, then got a cab back to Haeundae. I was dead beat. I opted out of Adam and Elaine's plans to sit on the beach awhile with some more beer and snacks, and collapsed into bed.

There remains yet little to tell. I woke up with a pretty decent hangover, but a couple of ibuprofen tablets, a liter of water and an hour in a dark room got me out of it cleanly. We recovered, freshened up, paid the bill and went out and sat on the beach. It was a gray, overcast sort of day, as it unfortunately always is whenever we go to Haeundae Beach to swim. Meteorological racism, that's what it is. Those darn Korean clouds won't let any sunshine fall on non-Koreans at the beach. After a brief splodge (Geordie lingo for "wade"), we discoursed about our plans. A, E, and J were all for sticking around in Busan to go see Terminator: Salvation. I wasn't too keen on it; I was still a bit beat, and wanted to have a bit of time at home to relax...plus I didn't want to take the bus back, no matter if my good friends were on it. I'd beaten my hangover but there was no sense in tempting fate. So we split up on the subway at Seomyeon; I rode to the coastal ferry terminal and caught the Pegasus for Gohyeon (₩21,500), while my three cohorts rode on and saw the movie. I spent the rest of that Sunday on my bed, chillaxin'.

And that was the last weekend in Busan.