Korea Tales

YOU MOVE LIKE A LIMOUSINE: TALES OF KOREA

I'm eight hours into a flight across the Pacific on a Korean airliner.
We, meaning myself and the approximately 400 other souls on this 747,
are headed for Seoul, South Korea, and while I don't know what they'll
be doing, I'll be teaching statistics and risk management to some bank
employees. The phrase 'risk management' means different things to
different people, especially in education and health care, but in my
world it means minimizing credit losses from just about any kind of
loan you can imagine. Ever wonder how credit card companies choose the
interest rates and credit limits they do? That's what I'm going to
teach. I wrote a long document for self-study, but these people speak
English well enough to need an interpreter. That will slow us down to
aerobic speed, which may be painful since my discourse and the
associated cheesy topping tends to go at an anaerobic clip when I get
going. Still, I'm excited about the prospect of going to a new place
and doing a new thing for a little while. In the meanwhile, I'll jot
down some thoughts and impressions.

It feels as though it's time to turn in, as I got on the plane at two
in the afternoon and it is approximately ten o'clock so far as my
modest little body is concerned. I've noticed that the airliner isn't
exactly a rookie when it comes to flying people across the dateline, as
all the shades have been drawn and the lights are off. The idea is to
simulate darkness, and permit the bodies on PST to fall asleep, and if
the lights didn't do it, that meal would. I sleep in slivers and
chunks. I listen to my CD player. I read my books. I watch movie after
movie, all first-run Hollywood fare with an English or Korean language
option. I watch Traffic in Korean, trying to pick up vocal nuance, but
Korean is an amazingly phonetic language, and besides, I think the
Korean voiceover guys are trying to ape Benicio Del Toro's Mexican
accent. I would kill for another glass of water. The service on this
airline is impeccable but sporadic; they ply you with course after
course of delightful food, but when the feast is over, the flight
attendants disappear, not to be seen unless they are summoned, to which
they respond with slightly weary but attentive eyes.

These flight attendants are without question the most diaphanously
pretty and well-matched women I have ever seen in my life. They are
Korean, and they look precisely alike. Their movements are coordinated
and precise, their vocal elocutions perfect in pitch and intent even
when I have no idea what they're saying, and their eyes lock on yours
with doe-like sincerity whenever you ask the simplest of questions.
They are wearing makeup, I'm guessing, in layers, because it's awfully
thick. Their absolute, unquestioned prettiness alongside their warmth
and gentle providence, together with the fact that their coordinated
movements would put synchronized swimmers to shame, puts me in mind of
a fully updated, Korean version of the Stepford Wives. These women
collectively hold the plane aloft: nothing that pretty dies via a
1400MPH vertical trip to the ocean surface. I've decided that they were
baked and decorated as opposed to conceived and born.

None of this is to imply that I was or am attracted to the flight
attendants; they were strictly ornamental and accretive to the comfort
and enjoyment of my flight. They were there to work, to provide a
service, and to ogle is to dishonor and distract them. I was just taken
aback by the fact of them, by the example they set. In the world of air
travel it is more or less expected that flight attendants will be
comely, attractive people, but seldom do such shiny people act in such
an efficient manner. This is something that one must deal with upon
arrival in Korea. There is no other way to say it: Korean women in
service positions, when large sums of money change hands, are amazingly
attractive in ways that are simultaneously vague and stunning. Add to
it that their English is generally good, spoken in the singingest
dulcet tones you'll ever hear, and you have the creepy idea that these
girls are somehow manufactured (see Stepford Wives). I saw American men
in the hotel try to pick up these women, who could not have been placed
in a more precarious position by bigger clods. When it comes to
completely spoiling something virtuous, guileless, and completely
earnest, there is nothing on this planet quite like an American man.
Golf-playing, too-long-tie wearing, loud-talking, haircut-needing,
wallet-slinging, baggy-faced Jack-and-Coke-slurping American man. I'm
often ashamed to be one of them.

I've listened to every Korean audio channel the plane has to offer, and
I think I have a pretty good grasp of what Korean music is all about,
including their version of American-style 12-bar blues. These are
soulful people, certainly more soulful than the mostly wooden Japanese
and way hipper than the crusty Chinese. I did not know this before
getting on the plane. They copy every style of American music, and
after a while it gets so that you have to listen carefully to tell if
they're singing in Korean or English. I watched the tapes of Korean
current events programs and news broadcasts, where at the end the
newsreaders simultaneously bow deeply from their sitting positions as
the studio lights quickly dim. I've decided that I like this bowing
business very much; the flight attendants did it for everyone,
including me, and it seems like it's in between a handshake and a hug
in terms of sentimental greetings. I resolve to bow more in the
presence of other people, except maybe at Target and WalMart. I'll
probably have a lot more to say about bowing throughout this document,
since it comes up a lot in Korean society and I happen to like
it.

The fact of the matter is that this airliner is not owned or operated
by Americans, which caused some initial concerns, what with the general
willingness of many foreign airlines to permit things like pipe bombs
and live chickens on board. Then there is the growing tendency (two
suspected cases so far) for foreign pilots to decide that suicide is
the only way out when they're on the job. Despite my fears and
suspicions, this particular airline was clean, efficient, and even
elegant in its presentation and execution. To underscore the whole
stranger in a strange land bit, the language of choice on the plane was
Korean, not English, and the flight attendants barely spoke my language
beyond 'finished?' and 'water.' The pilot came on and spoke Korean
first, which was sort of a nice reprieve from the American pilots, who
all sound exactly alike: bored in the cockpit, all too anxious to get
the bird in the air so they can bullshit with the other pilots about
hunting and golf. Even so, the pilot did do his speech in extremely
broken English, with many words clearly pronounced from memory. The
flight was smooth and quiet, and I managed to slip in and out of
slumber until the last meal, which was among the better seafood dishes
I've had in my life. I think the strangest thing about flying on a
foreign airline is that once you step on the plane, you are effectively
in that country, among its sons and daughters.

The airline food was actually very good. The first, more formal meal
consisted of a round of canap?s that contained actual foie gras, then a
beef-and-vegetable stuffed tomato with a baby greens salad, then a
filet with lovely vegetables. Fruit and cheese courses were served,
along with dessert. As with all business class meals, it was crystal
and sterling silver and china, along with linen napkins and other
accoutrements that, come on, no one ever really enjoys on a regular
basis. The second meal was smaller, but elegant still. We had the
option of what I just mentioned, or the more traditional bi bim bap,
which is soup, rice, and meat and vegetables presented separately and
then mixed with different relishes. The number of ingredients can be
quite large. I said no freaking way to bi bim bap, but we shall see
that I changed my mind once I was in-country.

A funny thing on the plane was this video they showed near the end; it
featured a sportily-clad, hopelessly fresh-looking Korean man and
woman. They were encouraging the passengers to do perky little
stretches that get the blood flowing and the muscles stretched. The
movements were set to piped-in music and were, by Western standards,
sort of silly-looking. The Koreans, however, followed along
enthusiastically. I was told that Koreans generally do what's suggested
by authoritative folk, which along with this stretching video makes
them my number one seed for any sort of World Cup of Hokey Pokey that
might come along.

The Incheon Seoul airport is new, open for something like a month when
I arrived. The floors were spotless and glossy, and it was easy to find
my way around. The first task in a foreign country is to have your
passport studied and stamped, and in this case the (gorgeous) attendant
didn't even look at me as she stamped and waved me through. So much for
a hassle at immigration. After I collected my bags, the guy at customs
was about as concerned as the immigration girl, and just like that I
was injected into Korea. At this writing my hair is shorter than it's
been in a very long time, to a degree that would permit me to pass as
military. Sure enough, some soldiers from a US base were at the gate,
and they seemed to insist that I belonged with them. After all, I had
short hair, just like them. After a couple of moments of uncertainty
about the location of my ride, I saw my name in enormous block letters
on a card fastened to a metal stand. There is nothing quite like your
name on a card when landing in a foreign place; I highly recommend it.
My driver bowed deeply, took my briefcase and bags, and we fast-stepped
out to the car, suspended in a full-on mass of humidity the likes of
which I have not experienced since about 1994. I was wearing my glasses
as a concession to the 12-hour flight, and they fogged up right away. I
chuckled and settled into the back seat, the door having been opened
and closed by my still-bowing driver. Having your door opened and
closed is another activity I highly recommend that one experience at
least once. Having a driver is yet another. Having an obsequious
door-opening driver waiting under your name in block letters is pretty
much the limit. I went from Fred Mertz to Fred Astaire in about thirty
seconds.

There is one horrible thing I could not help but notice almost
immediately. In our country, we are accustomed to the assumption of
certain appearances: racial/ethnic/age groups tend to gravitate toward
certain positions in the workplace. For better or worse, in the US one
does not see heartstoppingly beautiful young girls working at cashier
booths at parking lots. In Korea, one does. It happens that my
admiration for the carriage and composition of a Korean flight
attendant carries over directly to the hotel maid; this is simply not
so in the US. This is horrible not because it's an injustice (because
it isn't), but because it is a thing about society to be noticed and
considered. It's closely related to the observation that service in
Korea is astoundingly good, if not beautiful. The word 'beautiful' in
this context requires some explanation: in the US, it is possible to
receive excellent service, but the counterexamples probably prevail.
Moreover, a good chunk of excellent service in the states is meted
under a thick cloud of self-aware condescension: the server knows their
efforts are good, and the idea is that you must agree wholeheartedly
before the transaction can end. In Korea, it appears as though good
service is a given. It's endemic. A bellhop came to my hotel door and
accepted my laundry quickly, with a smile and a bow rather than the
in-your-face saccharine sweetness you get here, especially in the
South. Korea, I imagine, neither has nor needs consulting companies
that preach customer service like the US has, where slick-looking
specialists try to plow down the American uber-individualism that
prevents a service worker from thinking his/her job is beneath them. If
you think I'm being hard on Americans, think about the percentage of
product marketing that revolves solely around customer service: "Have
it Your Way," "We Won't Waste Your Time," "We Love to Fly, and it
Shows." I didn't really notice it until I got here, myself. Korean
service is beautiful because it's unobtrusive and absolute.

I don't mean to bash Americans and America excessively; Seoul, on
balance, is still a silly and confusing place. There is a general lack
of street signage, and a total lack of roadway coherence. Freeway
supports rest in the middle of the roads below. Immense apartment
communities have painted on them equally immense ads for Korean
products. Buildings are haphazardly placed in impressive proximity,
leaving absolutely no room for parking. The major streets (meaning the
wider ones) are lined with small shops run by crap-peddlers of every
stripe; I would place the ratio of detrital-to-new sale merchandise at
about ten to one. Shops are dank and depressing-looking, which helps
explain why a healthy portion of the crap is displayed outdoors, on the
sidewalks. Streams of disaffected-looking Seoulers (Seoulites?
Seouleans? Seoul Brothers?) pad down the same sidewalks, wilted by the
heat, headed to heaven-knows-where with bags and infants in tow. I
can't yet read Korean, but I suspect that ninety percent of the
crap-peddlers are named Fred or Lamont Sanford. Sprinkled in amongst
the collage of junk dealers are impromptu produce shops, bakeries, and
filthy clusters of bars known as hofs. Groups of truant kids clotted
the sidewalks at random intervals, which in their setting resembled
something like Fat Jong and the Soon-Park Kids. I could almost hear
their junkyard bands playing.

In the United States we associate certain brand names with low quality
and/or reliability. Daewoo, Kia, and Hyundai, three Korean automakers,
are among those names, so if you want your world totally upset (or at
least the part that frets over Korean autos), go to Seoul. Both Daewoo
and Hyndai make huge luxury cars, models that have never been seen on
American streets, and the streets of Seoul are crawling with them.
Daewoo's luxury car is the Chairman, and Hyundai's is called the Equus.
The Chairman has the characteristic look of the mid-90's Mercedes
S-class, owing to the fact that 40 or so German engineers helped Daewoo
put the project together. The Equus looks a little like a top-end
Lexus. I made it clear that I really wanted a Chairman, and would do
anything to get one, because while it may be a beautiful car, in the
states it would go over about as well as a fake Rolex, and that would
be a scream. Bear in mind that the typical executive transportation
arrangement for Seoul executives is to have a car - a Chairman, an
Equus, or a lesser model from each maker - and a driver. This was
actually how I got around, borrowing drivers from banks. That was a lot
of fun because they each spoke a little bit of English, which for me is
carte blanche to run wild with questions and observations and general
peccadillic whimsy. I taught each driver the word 'psycho,' which does
little to fully characterize the wholly pell-mell organization of Seoul
traffic. For such diligent, obedient folk, they drive like mad. Red
lights seem to inform that a stop is merely upcoming, and even then
it's just a suggestion. The company drivers have to maintain a rigid
sense of decorum, since they're on the job, so I played the part of the
sympathetic sideman, offering suggestions as offenses accrued: "Why
don't you give him the finger?" "Rear-end that guy, we can take him."
"Maybe I can get that punk fired for you" Great fun.

Serious business, though: bowing is huge in Seoul. When the driver
pulls into the bank parking lot, there are attendants whose purpose
seems to be to direct traffic (tough job; there's only one way) and to
bow. This was dramatic, for some reason, maybe because it's a warm and
nice thing after the mayhem on the streets. I also got the bow
treatment whenever I entered the hotel, went to breakfast, or when I
bought something. These weren't flimsy little afterthought bows,
either; they were deep, arms-at-sides, eyes-down bows. I like it; I
like it fine.

The hofs are interesting for several reasons. First of all, for places
where you're supposed to go have a drink, they are generally filthy and
dark. They have precious signs, reading things like, "Coffee Drink,"
and your guess is as good as mine as to whether 'drink' is a noun or a
verb there. Most Americans would not order something like "Coffee
Drink" on the grounds (hah, grounds, ring the pun bell for me) that
Coffee Drink sounds like something has been added to the coffee itself
to make the Coffee Drink, or maybe even the Coffee Drink is to coffee
what Tang is to orange juice. No matter, though, because the bulk of
these places wouldn't be allowed to STORE coffee in the United States.
They're very popular in Seoul, though. To wit: many of the hofs have
groups of men sitting out front, New York social club-style, and they
all seem to be having a splendid time. Problem: none of these men (who,
tangentially, look like the extras from that cool Bruce Lee movie Enter
The Dragon) were sipping or holding any of the Coffee Drink.

This was not a trip designed for eating. I had two lunches in the
employee training center cafeteria, which I did as a sign of solidarity
with my students. On the first day we did have bi bim bap, which was
not altogether hideous, and on the second day we had rice, fish, and
pickled vegetables, which was. Hideous, I mean. One thing about
homogeneous cultures is that their norms tend not to yield very much.
In Korea, food is not readily accessible, and does not exist in the
variety we enjoy here. Example: the cafeteria at the training center
serves a lot of people at once, but it isn't an American cafeteria.
Instead, everyone eats the same things in more or less the same
portions. You got in line, waited, and filled your tray. The rub is
that everyone took some of everything and put each item in the same
tray space as everyone else. Amazing. I was actually corrected when I
put my rice on the circular tray indentation. Apparently the meals have
pretty rigorous definitions and compositions, and lack of one
ingredient or a surplus of another was verboten. Water was taken in
metal cups after the meal. Dessert was fruit slices. I declined lunch
on the final two days, due to large hotel breakfasts and a Snickers
packed in my bag. I didn't want to insult these people, but I also
didn't want to choke down food I didn't want.

As I hinted, there are American brands here - Snickers, Burger King,
Pringles, and M&;M's seem popular - and of course there is Coke and
Diet Coke. I was especially interested in the Diet Coke, since my body
uses it in place of plasma and lymph, and indeed I managed to drink a
small lake of it. First of all, Koreans call it 'Coca-Cola Light,' for
reasons that were never clear. The cans are tall and thin relative to
our 12oz. ones; they held 200ml of soda. Save your slide rule; that's
about eight ounces of Diet Coke to the can, which is even more commonly
known (to me) as a sip. The taste is more robust than our own Diet
Coke, and in fact it took me a day to realize that what the Koreans
call Coca-Cola Light, we call Tab. I was in love. Tab is the precursor
to Diet Coke, and it has a heavy cola taste, powerful carbonation, and
a huge, rimey aftertaste characteristic of its saccharin sweetener. Tab
is actually Diet Battery Acid. Despite the current 70's-kitsch craze,
Tab is still sort of the ugly stepsister to other diet colas. I
actually love it, and would drink more of it were it not for the goofy
pink cans. Anyway, the hotel had a good supply of the 'tubes' of Diet
Coke, but no one seemed to have the hugely satisfying 1.5 liter
bottles. You ask for Diet Coke by saying "Diet Co-koo," which I don't
quite understand, but which I did. Often.

Dinners were indifferent. My host took the entire class to dinner one
night, to a traditional restaurant, which meant no shoes and a table
short enough to make my knees beg for mercy. Hot coals were placed in a
grill in the middle of the table, and a waitress in colorful socks
chatted with us while she put beef, mushrooms, garlic, and onions on
the grill. Otherwise, the table was loaded with salads, chili paste,
tiny fish pieces, and a reddish soup so nondescript that it was called
just that - red soup. Soju, a traditional Korean whiskey, was served.
Soju tastes precisely like (hang onto your hats, traditionalists) that
annoyingly marketed drink called Zima, only without carbonation. It's
hard to be reverent about Korea's national drink when you want to punch
them for reminding you of those commercials where the idiot in that
idiotic hat pronounced all his 'S' words with a 'Z.' I think the jetlag
got to me at night, because I spent most evenings groggy and
preoccupied. All in all I was frustrated by the lack of eating
opportunities and the lack of food that could be eaten quickly, without
ceremony.

English is something of an unofficial business language in Seoul. It is
used to market items, identify certain buildings, and denote brands. It
is also used in conjunction with Korean, and that's when the usage gets
sort of precious and funny. On the way to the center, we would pass a
chicken restaurant that had a sign which read: "I like Chicken. It's
Mine." The stairwell in the hotel was called a Vertical Escape Chute.
There are cookies, not unlike tiny Moon Pies, called Crown Vic. The air
conditioner had an imprint that read, DESIGNER'S FEELING. I was
encouraged to keep the hotel window shut to 'prevent the Insect's
entrance.' A motorcycle in traffic had a 'high-class bumper.' I
expected to see all of this, because Asians seem to love English, but
each example is still funny and transparent insofar as intentions.
Someone could make a lot of money consulting for Koreans wanting to use
English.

I should point out that while certain American men were stupid and
embarrassing, it isn't as though Korean men are a bunch of new age Alan
Aldas. Korea is a patriarchal society, which means the man is king and
chivalry is for roundeyes. I saw men stomp by women at doors and
elevators, assume the right-of-way on sidewalks, and so on. Add to this
the notoriously gracious, and family-focused virtue of Korean women,
and you get a society that seems to extend a firm middle finger to
those who bear children and buy makeup. Since mine is not to question
scores of generations of tradition (except the Soju thing?give me a
break), and since who knows what goes on behind the marital door,
anyway, I don't think the many millions of Toms and Dicks and Williams
need to travel to Seoul to get a crush on the poor womenfolk.

I am powerless to convey the size and density of Seoul, except to say a
good measure of these notes are being written in the back of a
(sometimes moving) car. The training site is interminably far from the
hotel, and by 'interminably far,' I mean a really big number in terms
of miles, like maybe ten billion. Businesses are small and packed
together, or they extend high into air in thin buildings. Residences
are even more tightly packed behind the streetfront businesses, and
they rise high and confusedly on rolling hills. Enormous tenements and
apartments are everywhere, without logic, blotting out the sky. There
appears to be no zoning, and all that density makes for a city of
walkers, bus riders and taxi hailers. But mainly a city of extremely
tired-looking, torpid sidewalk roamers. I mean, these people walk
everywhere, generally between bus stops or subway stations, and the
hidden nature of the non-tenement housing makes one wonder where
they're headed and where they've been. For the vast majority of them,
it certainly isn't to buy clothes that match. Anyway, willy-nilly
development is perfectly consistent with the heavy hand of government,
and Korea's is certainly that. The degree of government involvement in
everyday life is considerable, enough for us to refer to Korea as
'socialist,' which doesn't have exactly nasty connotations (think
Europe), but still. Government owns major shares of certain businesses,
and plans to own more due to purchase of long term debt and such. The
other major impediment to the economy (which is already large) are the
labor unions. There were constant, incessant demonstrations complaining
against management, but I never got the complete story. I do know that
corporate underlings are paid, relative to the cost of living,
something between diddly- and jack-squat, so that may explain some of
the demonstrations. I don't know.

Korea can claim one modest compensation for its bewildering urban
fabric: absolutely the smallest cell phones packed with the most
gadgets that I have ever seen. Everyone, read everyone, has them. By
and large they are white (the cell phones, I mean), with tiny LCD
screens that display cartoon figures dancing about, banging gongs,
feeding animals, announcing calls and events. Truly amazing. They fold
and fit in the palm of the hand, and most everyone attaches some small
talisman to the phone, either to bring good luck or ward off bad luck.
A lot of women wear their cell phones on a string around their neck.
One thing you don't see in Seoul is the new and vexing American custom
of wearing a headset attached to a cell phone, as though the wearer is
filling catalog orders for L.L. Bean, instead of walking around a mall
looking like an idiot. Instead, Koreans fairly holler into their cell
phones, half because of their custom of screaming just about
everything, half just to be heard. I know now that their cell phones
are tiny because of the standard they employ, which is analogous to the
difference between our old television broadcasting standard and the
high definition broadcasting one. I suspect that Americans would still
prefer their larger cell phones, though, just so they can be
conspicuous about their presence. Look how many rednecks still wear
their phones and their beepers on their belts, and compare the ibid.
that people here walk and drive with cell phone headsets. It's
difficult to shove the fact of your belongings up someone else's behind
if your belongings could already fit there without much of a
fuss.

Despite the availability of Korean music in the hotel room, I was glad
I brought my tiny CD player. Music keeps me centered, and in my case,
it creates a legato (not quite a pun, but ring the bell anyway) feeling
of connectedness to home and my milieu therein. I had some cool Miles
Davis/Gil Evans, some greasy Harold Vick soul jazz, some Bobby
Hutcherson (Joe Chambers is nasty), and my prized Stan Getz What the
World Needs Now CD, where he lays down all the essential
Bacharach/David numbers with a full orchestra. In the evening I threw
back the curtains, took in the Seoul cityscape, and listened along in a
hotel robe and slippers. Groovy. Drowsy. Comfy. Whiskey. This was the
casual elegance they talk about in the hotel brochures, and I was
living it, backed up by Frank DeVol and his boys, club sandwiches and
Diet Cok-oo redassed up the elevator by the same cat who collected my
laundry. Diligent, yes, but he also had this
guess-what-we-gave-it-a-shot-and-get-this-two-of-us-fit-in-your-pants
smirk about him that I really liked. I wonder how freaked he'd have
been if I invited him and his buddies up for a few bottles of Soju and
a Korean-inflected bull session, but I suppose it would have gotten him
in wicked trouble. So I was alone in my room to contemplate the span of
buildings with the large, funny symbols on the tops against an
impressive mountain range. Far from feeling lonely, I felt as charged
as jetlag permits, and eager to learn more about what it must be like
to be Korean. Of course, the way one learns about other cultures is to
go out into it, as opposed to padding around an expensive hotel room in
underclothes, but scotch and Korean soap operas are a potent
soporific.

Shopping in Seoul was an exciting experience. When the idea of shopping
was floated to me, my first response was trepidation, not only at my
lack of use for a broken-down air conditioner, but also at the trouble
I might have in slipping several huge chunks of used green plastic
through Customs. Oh no, the interpreter assured me, we won't be
visiting the crap-sellers. Claro. Actual shopping in Seoul is
stratified into shop, bazaar, and department store segments. The shops
are small and quaint. The bazaars are huge, confounding, and bountiful.
The department stores are larger and more elegant than the best the US
has to offer. I'll take each in turn:

BAZAARS

Holy cats, what a lot of stuff. These are immense above- and
below-ground areas with small booths devoted to everything from
sunglasses to T-shirts to neckties to things that don't really
translate that well in this country (ankle-length pantyhose, girls?).
Clothing seems to be the commodity of choice - one area is a
claustrophobic catacomb of never-ending men's, women's, and children's
fashions manned by bored-looking folks who didn't give a damn whether I
bought or not. It would later dawn on me (like, just now) that they may
have been indifferent to me because I'm far too big for anything they
might sell. At any rate, the children's stuff was odd and precisely
what you'd expect from a sales culture bent on having Roman letters on
anything. Tiny t-shirts advertised a fruit drink long since gone from
the US market. Other things were nice but were very sheer; they looked
perversely like negligees for the preschool set. For the women, it was
basically total crap against some things that looked shoplifted from
department stores. Larger women need not apply. The fabric of choice
was linen, followed by silk, and colors were mostly creamy pastels that
reminded me of the part of JC Penney and Sears they set aside for old
men. I did see a buying opportunity for myself that was simply
heartbreaking. Several booths sold golf wear for men, which in Korea
means things no American (except me) would be caught dead wearing:
tightly checked trousers of tan, black, and white; wonderful gray
plaids, and solids that anyone would like. Alas, they didn't carry my
size (not even close), but there were scores of tailors who would put
something together for me for about $50 a pair. That's custom-fit,
silk-lined-to-the-knee, groovy vintage trousers for $50. Clothes horse
that I am, I'll be going back to get fitted. I wasn't so enamored of
the shirts, and besides I was the broadest-shouldered person I saw in
the entire country.

The above-ground markets had lots of booths that sold food, and one
smell that's truly universal is the State Fair-ish one of meats and
starches frying in lard. When you're not quite sure what the fried
matter is, however, it all looks cartoonish and strange. There were
things that looked like corn dogs, but may not have been. There were
clusters of french fries on sticks (such cavemen, we Americans?hasn't
yet occurred to us to put our fries on a stick), odd-looking prefab
hamburgers, kabobs of all sorts, and the obligatory Korean stuff that
would have looked pretty good had it not been sitting in the sun for a
while. Fruit slices on a stick were sold, some from coolers. Trash bins
were full of coconuts with straws protruding. Someone was selling
waffles, to buy and eat dry. Ice cream was sold, as were grilled
sausages. Food-wise, it looked pretty much like what you'd get at the
swap meet, with the notable, advanced exception of the
fries-on-a-stick. In the shopping areas that seemed to cater to locals,
the foodstuffs were more interesting. Old women shooed flies away from
baskets filled with dried squid, which looked like shredded newspaper.
There were stacks of fruits that seemed unfamiliar to me, and thick
slabs of yellowish cake-like matter that was somehow made of rice.
Impressive varieties of breads were available, some studded with nuts,
some shiny with egg wash. You won't find much meat or fish on display
in the markets, probably because it's difficult to stock and
carry.

SHOPS

Nearer the hotel were underground shops, hundreds of them. They sold
watches, clothes, jewelry, and tiny pieces of art for the home. There
were also tailors and shops that appeared to sell cigarettes, but on
closer inspection, they were vitamin shops. The Koreans, they believe
devoutly in pharmaceuticals, and they love royal jelly and ginseng the
best of all. It was explained to me that certain brands are widely
believed to assist men in the virility department, and I don't mean in
the way that helps them resist the pastel-colored linen shirts. There
were watch vendors, and anyone who knows me well at all knows that I
dig a new watch as much as anyone, so I stopped for a look every chance
I got. They don't like when you don't buy. That's the problem with the
shops; they don't really care that you're from 6500 miles away. They
just want you to come in, buy something, and hit the road. I bought
three porcelain turtles to start my own little glass menagerie, and I
left. In the interest of completeness, the main shopping area is called
Itaewon.

DEPARTMENT STORES

Much more exciting than the shops were the department stores. Huge,
sprawling, spotless department stores, with absolutely top-flight
brands sold at very high prices. No bargains were to be found in the
department stores. Still, they were beautiful and elegant places to be.
One of the more surprising things was that the lower floor of the most
exclusive-looking store was devoted to food, some prepared, some not.
That part of the store was brightly lit, aromatic, and bustling with
concentrated activity and people. It was here that my presence turned
heads; why, I don't know. No one else thought much of a Westerner all
week. I walked around and noted the attractiveness of the place -
fruits were bright, ripe, and could be bought pre-sliced and peeled;
seafood dishes were ornate and massive; cheeses and meats were piled
high in coolers, and dry goods were well-displayed. Any sort of bread
was fresh and on sale. Candies from everyplace that makes good candy
were displayed. Wines, some from California, were in the corner. It was
very much a high-end grocery experience, bounds above a US grocer.
There are other examples of department stores that sell food (Harrod's,
to name one), but for sheer breadth, this one was beyond belief. It was
here that someone finally approached me as I minded my own business.
She looked at me with a perfectly innocent face and said, "You move
like a limousine." I still don't know what it meant, but I liked
it.

Department store personnel were the cream of the Korean crop,
looks-wise, placing ahead of even the airline attendants. Outside the
store, beautiful female attendants dressed in shorts and hats directed
traffic with tiny microphones attached to their chins. They bowed at
every car that entered. Inside, I was lucky enough to arrive before the
store opened, and I got to watch the employees receive a pep talk from
the store manager. They did calisthenics in unison, with broad smiles.
It looked a lot like the video they showed on the plane. After a few
minutes the personnel fanned out across the store, and the doors were
opened to a huge rush of people. My guess is that the whole department
store experience is sort of a scaled-up version of what American
department stores used to be like. I know that in times (recently) past
you could go to a department store, shop, deal with knowledgeable
salespeople, have a meal, get your hair done, and more or less have no
reason to leave. I would like to see that come back sometime. It seems
like a gracious way to spend a few hours.

Seoul, being a mammoth city trying to fit into a slightly smaller
space, has its share of odors and aromas, and unlike New York City,
absolutely none of them are good. On the rare occasions that I joined
the walkers, I was periodically subjected to blasts of abject stink,
aromas so foul that, this being Korea, had to be food-related. While
waiting (actually pleading) for a break in the traffic, I was almost
doubled over by a smell that rendered my clothes forever unwearable,
and in my misery I saw a sign in Korean that simply had to translate
into: "You are standing in the middle of the world's largest repository
of kimchee, and, by the way, that building next door is a rendering
plant." The Koreans around me, who blurred in and out of sight as
though I'd dropped acid, were nonplussed, which put me in mind of a new
game show: "What Smells Bad to a Korean?" In actuality, the food smells
were hit and miss; the acrid aromas wore on me, and the savory ones
were inviting. I hate to seem mean and dismissive, but the plain fact
is that Seoul stinks in a profound and shocking way, and this situation
can't possibly be expected to improve, not ever.

Apropos nothing, here are some scattershot comments about the
trip:

&;#61623; There was cologne in the airplane bathrooms (lavatories?),
and a full assortment of dental aids. It was all set up in a tiny bin
near the sink. To this point, the only place I'd ever seen
for-general-use toiletries was at country clubs and in higher-quality
bars. Business class is pretty nice.
&;#61623; There was toothpaste for general use in the training
facility men's room, along with a single toothbrush. These people know
how to share.
&;#61623; I don't know how to speak Korean, but I'm learning, all
for the express purpose of learning several key phrases:
1. Why do you put fried egg on a club sandwich?
2. I'd like to arrange for a Diet Coke to be delivered every
hour.
3. When are you going to paint stripes on the road, to indicate driving
lanes?

&;#61623; It costs about $12 to leave the country from Incheon
Seoul; it's an exit tax. I had no money and was forced to use a credit
card. No one told me about this tax until I was headed to the terminal.
What a surprise. I waited in line to pay the tax along with a man and a
woman who were chaperoning American kids on a Tae Kwon Do journey, and
doing a fair amount of public bickering in the process. Listening to
strangers bicker in public is, to me, the best argument against
bickering with one's own spouse in public.
&;#61623; The Korean alphabet is the only one in the world that was
actually commissioned, which means that at some point a very smart
person stopped a meeting and said, "You know, someone should be writing
this down," and the smartass that pointed out the lack of an alphabet
was probably the one commissioned to create it. The Korean alphabet,
a/k/a han'gun, translates into syllables, and of course the
combinations form words. To learn Korean, you have to learn the
alphabet, then the syllables, then the vocabulary. Not trivial.
&;#61623; Everything is an alleged aphrodisiac in the Far East. This
is quite odd, since Korean society is outwardly strait-laced, with
heavily edited media (it was a scandal that a popular male singer
appeared shirtless in public). Ginseng is fine and dandy, because it's
just a plant, but I understand that parts of certain animals are
imported and sold on black markets as well. Sea lions were recently
found mutilated in Ecuador, with body parts removed that will be resold
in places like Korea. Inexcusable. On the more pedestrian front, I did
see insects and things for sale that had to be aphrodisiacs; I suppose
that's fine. Still, you would figure that in the interest of several
innocent species, they'd get a damn porn channel or something.
&;#61623; Everyone smokes, but no one smells like smoke. I can't
figure this one out. Once, when I was 12 or so, I snuck one of my dad's
old butts, and I can still smell it. I don't know how those people
manage.

I will close this memoir by noting that on the return flight, there
were several members of the USO. The USO, for anyone without a memory
or a taste for history, is the group that entertains our fighting men
abroad. The thing that makes the USO bit so wicked ironic is that of
all entertainers who could conceivably have gone to amuse our boys,
from N'Sync to the pathetic accordion players grinding outside the Las
Vegas Riviera, Mickey Rooney went. I think that if the Chinese knew
that our fighting men were old or feeble enough to be compelled by the
presence of Mickey Rooney, we would be at war within hours. I won't try
to explicitly create an analogy between the presence of Mickey Rooney
and my experience in Korea, save to say that once I did recognize him
(I was tipped off when he bellowed, 'I'M MICKEY ROONEY!' as we waited
to board the plane), I sort of shrugged and took it in stride. The trip
was neither first-rate nor terrible, but somewhere in between, and my
feelings about Korea are therefore rather ambivalent. The presence of
Mickey Rooney merely added to the ambivalence. I hope attendance at the
USO show was voluntary.