On the train back to Seoul

I’m off to Seoul for a week, and I have to admit, I’m a bit anxious. I’ve been living at my sister’s place in Busan the last two weeks, so I can hardly say I’ve been backpacking in the post-collegiate-European-jaunt sense of the word. But today I headed out with my monster backpack stuffed with clothes and toiletries yes, but also a towel and sheet — two essential items for the erstwhile traveler who plans to go low-budget on house to be able to splurge on local customs. I haven’t done this for over a decade, so I remind myself that was just fine as a single gal backpacking through Paris, Rome and Florence, so I’ll be just fine now, when I’m 10 years wiser.

I *think* I’ve reserved tickets for a pansori, a traditional Korean stage performance that apparently is the anchor of the “Korean Wave” — which is what the South Koreans use to describe international interest in their traditional performance art. I say I think I’ve reserved a ticket because the Chongdong Theater is closed on Monday, so I only sent a “reservation request” through the English-language version of the Web site. No actual payment for a ticket, and no reservation confirmation number. I plan to call the theater when I arrive in Seoul, but a mangled-English phone conversation isn’t likely to provide that much insight. They go something like this:

“An nyung ha say o”
“Hello. Do you speak English?”
“On no. Please wait minute.”
“Yes”
click…silence for 60 seconds
“An nyung ha say o”
“Hello. Do you speak English?”
“Little eengli-she”
“I would like to reserve one ticket please”
“Wa persa?”
“Yes. One person.”
“Wa persa. Day?”
“Thursday.”
“Tuesday?”
“No. Eleven December.”
“Oh. Eeleben Deesehm.”
“Yes.”
“You name?”
We spend about 2 minutes going back and forth while I spell my name in English, they repeat the spelling they heard, I invariably correct them, then they repeat the new spelling, until I decide it’s close enough and they probably won’t have any other foreigners showing up claiming to be me. They also ask for my email address to send a confirmation email; luck me, my email address is my full first and full last name, so I get to spell everything all over again, then read it back to me, I correct, and so on.

Now repeat this process another four times to make lodging accommodations and reservations for a few other cultural activities. You can see how this took upwards of an hour to complete. Following these stellar exchanges, I promptly located the email address for each business and sent a confirmation message to hope someone could match it with the conversation that just occurred. So far, that worked for the two places I reserved for my accommodations.

Naked Cocoon

South Korea apparently has the groundsprings of mineral water that are great for hot springs throughout the country. My Frommer’s guidebook sprinkled several of them throughout the options of things and places to visit during a Korean holiday, so I included one on my list of things to do and see while I’m in Pusan. In addition to being able to sit in the hot springs, there are opportunities for full-body exfoliation and massage treatments and sitting in saunas. For a relaxing vacation, a trip to the hot springs spa soundsedperfect, especially since the dollar is so much stronger than the Korean won. The only hitch: The norm here is to go naked. Hmmm….Well, when in Rome, right?

I got to the spa, which was about 45 minutes away from the apartment by subway, and checked in at the counter. Once I got to the locker room, I stripped down, hit the pre-hot spring cleansing showers, and joined 50 or so of my newest, closest friendly strangers to sit and enjoy the relaxing effects of the mineral waters.

As I stepped into the first pool, which was set to a balmy 33C (91.4F), I casually glanced around to get a sense of who was there. Most of the women were grandmother-age – maybe late 60s, early 70s, although there were some middle-aged women with children, and a few women who appeared to be in their 20s. They were all sitting comfortably in the waters around this huge room (there was a large pool in the middle of the room that was divided into three sections; that was surrounded by about 6 smaller pools throughout the rest of the room). Some were chatting with each other; some appeared to be sleeping. Everyone was naked.

It was at this point that I thought to myself (because I sure as hell couldn’t say this to anyone there, and I really wouldn’t want to talk to a naked stranger while I, too, was naked — even if we did speak the same language) that if there were facilities like this in America, there may be less of an obsession over weight and body image – because women of all shapes and sizes come to this spa. There were slim young women; older women with sagging breasts who had had children and had the stretch marks to prove it; women with large breasts and no bums; women with no breasts and large bums; women with thick thighs; women who were losing their hair; women who were so old they appear to be just skin and bones. Being surrounded by all these women without clothes, without makeup, without their hair styled, was both humbling and empowering. There was absolutely no way to be self-conscious in this environment, because everyone was operating on the same level: real woman, not idealized woman. I felt like I was in my very own Dove “real beauty” commercial.

OK, enough with the philosophizing. I was there to veg out, so I scoured the facility for the promised massage area. I stumbled upon an area on the upper level for mud baths and massages, and found three women, sitting and chatting, naked, by the massage tables. After gesturing at the menu of services, I was directed to hop onto one of the massage tables, and this skin-and-bones woman of 55 or so came up to me and started massaging my face and applying cucumber pulp. This, I thought, would be great – all natural ingredients, moisturizing cucumber mask, let the relaxing massage time be…wait, what’s that scratchy thing? Oh yeah, I’m getting the exfoliating massage – which I’ve never had before and I learn is done by using mittens that have the texture of sand paper, which are then rubbed up and down the body with some gritty exfoliating scrub. OK, I can handle this. I can definitely handle the warm-water rinse that’s tossed on me; jarring at first, but definitely pleasant.

What I couldn’t handle was the massage technique. This was no Swedish massage. This wasn’t even a deep tissue massage. This was a manipulate-the-foreigner’s-body-into-a-pretzel-and-beat-the-toxins-out-of-the-system massage. If you’ve never had one…I don’t recommend remedying that fact. There were times when this woman twisted my legs at angles that I swear would have popped knees and ankles out of joint had I attempted this on my own. There were times when this woman’s elbows/knuckles/heels/knees were dug so deeply into my back/shoulder/stomach that I thought I might just pass out from the pain. There were times when I found myself clutching at the sides of the table to relieve some of the tension in my body as I contracted muscles in reaction to the deep-tissue pounding my body was taking. At one point, I realized I was clutching the table because I was so slicked up with lotion I almost slipped off while flipping from stomach-to-back-to-stomach again; in fact, I was so lotioned-up that the woman was able to move my entire body by putting her forearm across my neck and tugging upward. This massage was anything but relaxing.

After being pummeled by a woman who could have been my grandmother, I headed back down to the hot springs and promptly hopped into the 45C (113F) pool, which felt like heaven. I spent the next 30 minutes trying out the different hot-spring pools, going from the salt bath to the grape bath to the jasmine bath to the outdoor air bath and ending up in the oak-wood sauna. Overall, despite the bruising massage, I fully enjoyed my afternoon at the hot springs spa.

Jarod asked if I have a movie for this trip. I told him Cocoon: sitting in those pools with all those older women reminded me of the scenes in Cocoon when the old people living in the retirement centers flocked to the pod-infested pools because of their rejuvenative effects. This was when I was reminded of the age gap, as both Jen and Jarod looked at me with blank expressions and asked, “What’s Cocoon?” *Sigh*

When John Candy Meets Chevy Chase

I told my sister and her bf that I’d started a movie theme with my vacation blogs, given the Lost in Translation and Perfect references in the previous two posts, so they’ve been asking me what movies describe my other experiences so far. I’ve been thinking for a while on the movie that’s most apt to describe Thanksgiving dinner, and the best I can come up with is a cross between The Great Outdoors with John Candy and any National Lampoon holiday/vacation movie.

This was my introduction not only to attempts to cater to foreigners living in Korea, but to the English-teaching ex-pat experience. I met people from South Africa, Canada and all parts of America. I learned about the quirky routines people established here to make Korea feel less foreign and more like home, since these people are living and working here – not just having an extended vacation jaunt.

Jen, Jarod, and I were three of the 10 or so English-speaking people in our group that booked a traditional Thanksgiving dinner at this bar that caters to foreigners; I think our group was one of 4 that were there that night. Since our group was so large, we merited two home-cooked turkeys, which were delivered in their tin foil roasting pans, all wrapped in foil. They were accompanied by a few paper plates that held the plastic utensils and butter knives, as well as a very large bowl full of lettuce…which we were told we needed to eat immediately as our pre-dinner salad so that bowl could be used for the mashed potatoes. Dinner wouldn’t be complete without the obligatory cranberry sauce, which we received – can-rings and all! – as well as dinner rolls, stuffing, gravy and the aforementioned mashed potatoes. At each end of the table, the guys carved the two birds using the butter knives we received, and we all dug in like it was the Last Supper. We capped our meal with apple and pumpkin pie, both of which were carefully divvied up for everyone to enjoy. And all of this food was provided by the beanie-wearing waiter/bartender who may or may not have owned or worked at the bar, because I really don’t understand Korean laws regarding foreigners working in the country and/or owning businesses in the country.

In all, it was a really nice way to spend Day 3 in Korea, especially after we made it back to the apartment without incident in the taxi, despite the taxi driver nearly running over a pedestrian because of his indecision over whether to stop at an intersection (the taxi driver, not the pedestrian).

Day 1: I Am Bill Murray

I feel like Bill Murray in Lost in Translation: I just muted the TV in my hotel room because there’s something deeply jarring about watching the New York Jets take on the Tennessee Titans and having the play-by-play broadcast in what I can only presume is Japanese. I wouldn’t know for sure because I can neither speak nor understand the language. And so concludes Day 1 of my five-week vacation in South Korea. Only I’m not in South Korea. I’m in Tokyo…or Narita, which may or may not be a district in or a suburb of Tokyo because I don’t have a map.

After the 10- to 13-hour flight from Los Angeles to Tokyo, where I was supposed to hop on a connecting flight to Seoul to crash for the night before training down to Busan, I learned my connecting flight had been “delayed” for…wait for it…14 hours! BTW: I’m not really sure how long my trans-Pacific flight was because I didn’t pay attention to the itinerary, and flying over the International Date Line completely confused all calculations I tried to make. I just know it was pretty cool flying north along the west coast, then hugging the Alaskan coastline as it extends toward Russia. I imagine we stayed just outside of Russian airspace over the Pacific Ocean as we then flew southward to Japan. Huh; wonder if I’m qualified to be vice president now?

But I digress. I think United used the term “delayed” to describe the change in flight plans because it could cause mayhem to announce to hundreds of people who’ve been cooped up on a trans-oceanic flight that their connecting flight has been cancelled. Because really – a flight that leaves 14 hours after its originally scheduled departure is only “delayed?” In my book, a 14-hour “delay” that results in a departure the following day seems like a cancellation to me.

Regardless, there’s really nothing to be gained by regressing into juvenile histrionics or, perhaps more accurately, switching into the “annoyed bitch” persona who usually emerges only when I’m starving with no food in sight. I’m one of 200+ people who have the same problem, and it’s not like I can just take my business elsewhere at this point without incurring major expenses and, in lieu of spoken dialogue in comprehensible English or Japanese, using hand gestures that I hope are universal – but not universally offensive. So I choose the path of least resistance and accept the hotel voucher and trust that I’m understanding the disjointed English spoken by the United customer service woman, from whom I learn (fingers crossed!) that my boarding pass will suffice for the 8:00 a.m. flight tomorrow, that I don’t need to claim my checked baggage because it will just get loaded automatically onto the plane to Seoul, and I can spend up to $15 in food and 3 minutes on international calls at the hotel. So I roll with it – literally, as I step up onto the bus full of travel-weary souls, some of whom have flown from Chicago through Los Angeles with the expectation of a third leg to their journey before landing in Bangkok, or if they’re really lucky, a fourth leg into Laos. As the bus leaves the terminal, the automated voice details our route in English and who knows what other language(s), but I’m struck by the chipper-yet-innocuously delivered message that the bus will pass the hotel and then double back – for security reasons. Wh, wha- what?!? What exactly is going on that security precautions are needed to shuttle around stranded foreigners at the nearest hotel?

After checking into my hotel room, I begin the process of settling, unpacking my carry-on bag, getting the lay of the room, using the restr… um, wait a minute, there’s a button that says “shower” on the toilet. It’s right next to the “bidet” button and the “temperature” button. What is this? I’ve heard of a bidet, but an automated butt-shower? I opt not to shower my bum, but I do appreciate the heated seat Sadly, this settling-in period is when I realize my oh-so-brilliant packing plan, where I thoughtfully put a change of clothes, fresh socks and underwear at the top of my monster-sized backpack so when I did arrive in Seoul at night, it would be extremely easy to shower and change…ummm, not so brilliant since that bag is still in the possession of United Airlines at the Tokyo Narita airport. *sigh* Back to washing my clothes in the sink, a la the collegiate European backpacking trip I took a decade ago.

It’s at this point I realize my boss was right: When I had mentioned that I felt like I had forgotten how to travel abroad because it has been years since I had done so, she reassured me that it would all come back to me once I got “in-country.” Nothing like not having a change of clothes, not speaking a word of the local language, not having any local currency for essential items, not knowing if my luggage really would be waiting for me in Seoul, and not knowing if I really was guaranteed a seat on the “delayed” flight rather than just wait-listed on the next regularly scheduled flight, to force you to figure out how to… just roll with it. Because really, what else could I do?