The jjimjiibang

The Jjimjiibang:

A place few Westerners can imagine is that of a communal comfort in the nude. Definitely something I could not imagine before attending a jjimjiibang, and definitely something I found difficult while experiencing. Not that I wasn’t comfortable with my own nudity (as I kept their kind gesture of an exit from their cultural norm - i.e. a uniform - on at all times), it was more that I was uncomfortable with the visual imagery. For instance, as soon as I walked in I was greeted by a Korean woman in her fifties, not overweight, but not thin, and also full frontal and full side as she did her business at her locker. I didn’t stare, though I doubt that'd be unusual as they stare unashamed at everything. And I also didn’t laugh, amazing really because I’m the annoying type that laughs at every wrong moment. So in all, my actions weren’t seemingly uncomfortable for those around me. It was purely the image that was being ingrained into my mind- even at a glance. That image of twenty or so naked, sagging women all shriveling with each passing second. Their sweat glistening off their morphing belly as they walked from shower to locker and back- some I think were making unnecessary trips! It was just the scene of it all, and the wicked thought in the back of my mind that I should participate. I certainly felt the disdain in my toes, for I know that I’m open about everything but nudity- ironic really, as nudity is the truest form of humanity- it’s what reminds us that we are merely mortal and thus should treat everyone as equals, i.e. we are all doomed to the same fate so make it a party while we’re all still alive. 

Anyways, that is what I should think about, and tried to think about the whole time. Yet, some nasty little, conservative thought that is most likely ingrained in my head from hundreds of years of wearing thick layers of clothes in the freezing hills of Norway and then Wisconsin came into my head, 

“This is absolutely disgusting... It’s fricking hot as hell in here and these women are all shriveling prunes groping each other.” 

They actually wash each other, but to my mind, they’re groping because, like I said, I could see only the dirtiness of it all. 

“I’m in the cesspit of the ninth circle of hell. I wonder how many diseases I’m contracting by sitting here in God knows what, left by God knows who and by God knows where on their bodies! I cannot believe this is normal for anyone. I cannot believe I agreed to a cultural experience in which the backs of my eyelids will never allow me to forget! These sweat-ridden women will be the last thing I see before I sleep every night of my life! I am haunted!” 

On and on my mind raced with these narrow thoughts and became worse with the escalating dehydration- from the sauna and from the alcohol ingestion an hour earlier. I was honestly one of the worst travelers since Magellan got killed in the Philippines for being a dink-wad. Meaning, I could not accept their differences because I was too worried about my own past to see the beauty in their tradition, even if it was seemingly a cesspit of sweaty old boobs and cellulite. The point is I was small minded, and in a way this is my confession and my assistance to anyone who may find themselves in a similarly ‘sticky’ situation. 

1.Do not be afraid of the clammy butt parked next to you, yours is and/or can be the same. 

2.Do not shun the different, for you are quite different yourself. 

3.And lastly, do not dwell on nasty thoughts because they get you no more knowledge or power or happiness. If anything, nasty thoughts poison a situation and can truly make it a hell for you, and anyone sitting next to you. Especially in a jjimjiibang where irritation only makes more steam, thereby clamming your cheeks together like superglue to cellophane.

 It is really the importance of the experience that you’ll miss, and therefore the happiness you might have found even if only pea-sized. I left that bath-house with the greatest disdain, yet in hindsight with the utmost regret. Narrowness can only bring about regret, thus I shall dare to go back. I shall dare to be open! A traveler is not true if he/she does not try everything, so it is everything that I will try. Whether it be molten saunas or wriggling urchins or 5,000 foot mountains or a hundred men with guns and communist flags -okay maybe not that extreme, but I will openly experience whatever my travels throw at me because I’m happy to be a traveler. Furthermore, I’m happy to be weary. Weariness proves that the life quota each of us has been given is being used to the max, thus being fulfilled in some shape or form. It is another thing that reminds us that we’re alive. So I love it, and I love travel because of it. From the depths of my soul, this traveler is ever so gladly weary from missing home’s pull on her heart and from the push of the new experiences on her head. They’re a conundrum for any soul, thus I will do my very best to choose good, to choose love, and to choose happiness.  I will choose experience. I will choose the jjimjiibang!

Hwaseong Fortress

Ahhh... pictures finally!!  I'm sorry to have taken so long, but my camera is not the best. (I'm hoping to get a new one, as I finally got paid yesterday~ feels so great to be semi-grown up!) Anyways, these pictures are of Hwaseong Fortress which is a five minute walk from my apartment.  I'll give you the textbook version of what it is and its history because I really cannot remember the names of each gate and their dates. 

King Jeongjo, the 22nd king of the Joseon Dynasty, ordered the construction of Hwaseong in 1794 and it was completed in 1796. These dates are important, as they show Hwaseong as "the last and most modern of the great Joseon Dynasty fortresses."  The total length of the fortress is 5.7 km, so roughly 3.5 miles.  You can walk most of the way, but near Paldal-mun there is a short break. Why? Something about the reconstruction efforts in the 1970s and there being too much (roads, buildings and etc.) to destroy just for a small section of the huge fortress.

Its construction is amazing, as it's all made out of stone and wood placed evenly on very uneven ground. Though most of the fortress fell to ruin in the 19th and 20th centuries and therefore is not original, it is still a marvelous sight to behold. In 1997 Hwaseong was accredited the honor of becoming a UNESCO site because of its accented Korean heritage design and meaning. (The Suwonese LOVE to tell you this! They're so cute when their proud :p) And honestly, they should be proud. Even a foreigner with little concept of Korean history and culture can see and feel the deep roots of the Korean people within the high walls and beautifully decorated gates of Hwaseong. I have taken many walks along the fortress since I have arrived~already a month ago! Each time I visit I feel closer to a people I'm not sure I can ever fully know or understand. Their ways are somewhat backwards for me, their names too! So I can always feel a barrier when talking with my Korean teachers. Yet, when I walk along Hwaseong, I sometimes get a glimpse of understanding their pride, their tradition and their culture. I like that feeling of a connectedness, even if it's vague. So for now, as this is the only place I know of thus far that gives me any peace or understanding, I can undoubtedly say that this is my favorite place in all of Suwon. It really is a 'gateway' to Korean heritage.

Hwahongmun, the northern bridge command post in Spring.

This is Seojangdae. It was built in 1794 as the West command post. It is located on the top of Mt. Paldalsan and is the highest part of Hwaseong Fortress. The best view of Suwon and Hwaseong is from here.

This is of the North section of Hwaseong and is nearest to me. I like this picture because you can see how the fortress weaves over and through the land. You can also see the built in defense of the fortress: its slanted walls, small openings for archers and evenly placed command posts that can guard as much of the fortress as possible.  You can also see the two different pathways for visitors. One on the actual fortress so you can walk in the footsteps of historical Korea, and one below so you can admire the greatness of Korea's heritage. 

This is Janganmun, the north gate, a.k.a. my entrance into the Hwaseong area. It was damaged in the Korean War, but has since been restored. The slants on each side are actually stairs, HUGE stairs. Each step is almost a foot high! And as you can see, they're steep too. Kind of scary going down!

This is Hwahongmun, also known as Buksumun. It is my favorite section, and I think you can see why. It's beautiful! To the left there is a small lake with an island in its middle (below pic). To the right there is a seven arched bridge command post that is simply stunning (first picture above). I like this picture because you can see how all of these things are compiled into one marvelous piece of nature and man. 

Not the best of pictures, but you can understand how beautiful this simple area is, especially at sunset! I'd say I sat here for two hours just taking it all in. Truly beautiful.

The pulley system

So when I was first introduced to my splendidly furnished apartment three weeks ago, I was also introduced to my future lifestyle. I only realize this now because well, real is what's finally sinking in, via the people, the language, the food.  My apartment is now my refuge from all that is so strange and blaring.  I haven't really decorated, so it's very cool and 'minimalist'... yes, right, on purpose- not to mention that decor is the only thing Koreans spend major won on.   Anyways, my apartment is very Korean outside the decor.  It is a one bedroom/kitchen living space with private bathroom.  I have heat and air-conditioning, a washer, a dry-rack, a heated floor. I even have a hot/cold water dispenser- I'm going to call it the Korean Culligan. It's amazing and by far my favorite part of my apartment! I have a huge TV, which I'll be able to use when I first get reimbursed for my plane ticket, and a nice desk and computer chair, sofa, small dining table and two chairs, a microwave, special shoe bureau, bed and huge closet/drawers. It's bloody amazing! I've been treated like a queen! And because I have always had a vivid imagination (comes from excessive alone time... i.e. no siblings and a rural location) I can envision my own royal surroundings... complete with chandelier and plush rug, gold filigree and bejeweled mirrors.  It's my own little corner of the world, and it's heaven.   Well, maybe not actually heaven-heaven. Heaven on earth has a real shower, one with a separate area specifically for showering, not a shower head attached to the wall and all of five by six feet to maneuver around the stool, the sink, the shampoo, conditioner and bar of soap, all the while attempting to control the shower head, keep balance on the soap covered floor and not freeze your ass off.  As you can see, it's a very big deal to take a shower.  I prepare for it by taking everything out of the bathroom that I don't want wet, turning on the water heater, and- make a short will, just in case I don't make it through the battle. Thus far I have triumphed! Hooray! Though I am still wary, and for the record: "I love you Mom and Dad, I'm sorry if my end is at the hands of a soaped up mess of me, a toilet, a sink and an odd shower cord twisted around and through everything. I really did use caution!"   

Speaking of ends, "I'm also sorry if my end is at the hands of the damn pulley they've so kindly bestowed upon me for all lifesaving purposes." That is, either my school bought me an actual pulley and rope to fasten to the hook by my window, or it is mandatory for the landowner to buy one for me, as it will most definitely save me from being burned alive. Yes, instead I look at this archaic lever and picture myself trying to belet down seven stories while my building goes up in flames. The smoke engulfing all of my senses as I dangle over the flames and feel myself slowly roast. Yes, I look at this kind token and give a little shutter and hope I never have to try to use it. For if I do use it, I'm sure it will be my end. Either a roasted human entree hanging from a mess of screwed up pulleys and ropes, or a roasted human entree hanging from a neatly made noose, the later obviously with all hope lost and a jab at saving me from being burned alive. Point is that either way I'm screwed, and I'm actually thankful that I was given an option. I could just be toast and that be the end of it.  It's not, and that's pretty sweet.

Other than a life threatening bathroom and shoddy fire escape, my apartment is exquisite. So I'm really not complaining. It's just funny to me. These things are their way of life, even if they're backward as hell. Of course, I'm sure there are many things that I'm used to that are backward for them. Such as hand sanitizer, toilet paper in every bathroom stall, bath tubs and  exterior metal-stair fire escapes. These things would blow the minds of Koreans, so I'm going to keep them a secret for now. But maybe someday they'll be ready for living innovations. When that day comes I'm going to scream "YAY FOR T-P!" and "Thank God- I'll live through a fire!" I'll even go streaking like Will Ferrel in 'Old School'. THAT's how happy I'll be, and THAT's how unlikely that day will ever come. Very sad. So until then, I'll keep my clothes on and endure the "flame-resistant" pulley system.

A little about my life so far:

I have explained my feelings and thoughts to the max and forgot about the actual stuff that makes them. Thus far in my journey I have met many nice people, observed many cultural differences, and experienced a lot of Korean etiquette, food and tradition. All of it has been enjoyable as it all is so different from home. Yet, all of it also requires a lot of memory, as each food, place and person is extremely foreign in name. For example, if I am introduced to a person who is 'above' me, I am supposed  recall his or her name if I see him/her again. Naturally, the problem is that each name is very foreign to me; "Shin- Shi Kim", "Won-Mi Lee", "Jin-ho Jong", "Chi-ne Sang" and so forth. Do you see how the names start to blend? I start saying "Jin-ho Song", "Chin-she Nim" and "Win-he Mee", obviously embarrassing myself, except that I don't realize my mistake until my co-teacher and I are alone and she corrects me. I am pardoned for my folly because I am a foreigner. Yet, I'm wondering how many pardons I will receive until I am shunned by Head Teacher as an American idiot. So far it's been roughly five times, and like a cat, I'm sure it's around nine that I'm cut off.  Ergo, I had better learn quickly!

  As for the nice people I've met, well there have been many. Most importantly however, my co-teacher, Jin-hee Jong, and my Head Teacher, Won-Min Lee, have been my saviors. Jin-hee was the one who picked me up from the airport, showed me my apartment, picked me up on the first day of school and showed me the ropes of a Korean teacher's life. She has been most helpful with every bump in the road, and she also speaks very good English- thank you, God! My Head Teacher has been very helpful as well. She is so kind it is unbelievable! She is always so attentive to any problem I may have, and though she may talk to me like I'm an idiot, I don't think she actually knows she is doing it. I think she just has to speak English slowly, as it is her second language. I remember that fact and easily forgive her for her placation.  Instead, I end up commending her for her ability to speak a second language- honestly, what a feat!  (That is my next goal, to learn Korean! It's very difficult, yes. But, what a sweet thing to know! My first phrase outside greetings: chadongcha naputae! or, 'bad vehicle!' People drive like maniacs here, so it is surprisingly useful.) Anyways, other people I've met have been equally kind, or at least to my face, which is the only thing I can understand. It's a very odd thing to shake someone's hand and not know whether they're saying a kind hello, or telling you that you smell like ass. I go with the former, its less stress and worry.  

Well, I'm going to wrap it up for now. I'll explain some observations and experiences later, for now I'm exhausted! I love the kids and my work, but honestly, I must be getting old.  I just can't stay as energized like I used to! lol. Anyways, good night, and my best to you all- I miss you very much,

-a weary, tired, pooped traveller

The sound of silence.

Man, do I now realize how much I miss silence. By silence I mean that good, sweet, tranquil silence only the pure country or a close friend can provide. I had realized this before, when I lived in Madison. There I lived everyday over-exposed to the fast-paced business of others, via sight and sound.  I could put in my i-pod and semi-forget the stress of it all, but really, the only stress relievers involved running shoes and alcohol (not that I was an alkie, but I was in college- enough said).  Both allowed for my sight and sound to be corrupted by either uppers (endorphins, not drugs) or downers. I could mellow out for at least a couple hours, find my silence, or some form of it. But here? Man, here it's just not the same. Every corner, every street, every sidewalk (if there even is one) has some sort of commotion.  A walker, a street-seller, an old woman with a cane. Not that I mind too much the authenticity of Korea's people, I really find them charming. But to add to their incredible population, they also have extremely loud and fantastic street signs.  They blare from every corner selling God knows what in every color of the neon rainbow. Maybe I wouldn't mind them if I could actually read them. Yet, I have a feeling I would, as they remind me very much of Las Vegas- without the casinos. Funny really that I'd have a problem with finding something so simple as silence, but I think the reason why it's so hard for me here has to do with a) the annoying visual stimuli and b) the lack of a common place- i.e. people. Meaning, I need my family and friends!  I don't want to whine about how much I miss home.  Really, that's not what this is for. Personal feelings should be limited, but honestly- my diary can only take so much, and at least this way it seems like someone- anyone- may read this and therefore my words are not so blatantly echoed back at myself. Anyways, my theory is that I miss the silence of a common language- if that can even exist. Though, I think it does. I think that such a silence is most obvious between two people who really know each other- the whole in and out, good or bad, right or wrong- they know one another, understand each other, and still love the other unconditionally. Such a relationship is based solely on their ability to communicate. At the most basic form of communication is language.  A common language can be at its most basic form- English or Korean or Italian or Chinese or any language. But even more so, a common language can also be that between man and wife, brother and sister, mother and daughter, and the best of friends. With those relationships comes a bond that is so comfortable and beautiful that it is easily taken for granted. Everyday is not special, just as every conversation becomes easily forgotten.  Sad as that may be, there is beauty in their slight tragedy. For with the simple, everyday exchanges, each person grows more into their true selves, and subsequently happier.  The hum of monotony and stress of the world diminish to a slight whisper, and every so often pure silence can be found. The ability for any individual to find this peace is undoubtedly begun with a common language, then a common thought and finally a common soul- yes, the whole kindred spirits idea. Whether people realize this or not, it occurs with every quiet evening sitting on a porch, or every moonlit walk across the fields.  Those times when the only thing two people are doing is their daily chores and no words pass between them only because they already know the others thoughts, they do not have to say; it is in those times that true, blessed silence occurs. So, my theory is that I currently lack the most basic form of common language and thereby unable to attain that beautiful, comfortable silence with anyone, and I miss it. I miss my home where silence is a way of life, simplicity is just how it's done, and love is found in every new laugh line (I'd say in my parent's faces, but I know my mother would cry as I'm sure she's doing right about now.)  

And yet, though I miss everything that is familiar to me, I also enjoy every new and foreign experience. I guess that means I'm in a conundrum of sorts; a should I stay or should I go? Well, I'm still the tough son-of-a-bitch I came over as, i.e. my father's daughter, a proud Staff/Koxlien through and through.  Actually, that's probably every Norwegian- I mean look what we did to Europe before their dawn of technology and exploration, we kicked their asses with our bare hands!  If anyone has seen or read Beowulf, they'll understand- even if he is Swedish, I'm sure his cousin- Lars or Olie or Thor- could have tackled that 30 ft creature from Hell with nothing but his wits and mitts. Anyways, I like to think I still have a smidgen of that 'butt-whoopin' attitude, and when I travel- I like to think I have a lot (it's amazing what a person can accomplish with ideas of self-grandeur/false bravery! - though not really false if you actually go through with an incredible act).  So, I pretend everyday that I'm Lara Croft or Dark Angel, ready for adventure, but also in defense mode 24/7.  It's worked thus far, but I haven't had to actually kick any ass yet. Hm... I should probably stop puffing up my chest when I see sketchy people.  Oh well, point is I'm not completely flaking.. yet. I still have my wits and mitts, but my intellect and self-peace are suffering on account of the racket that surrounds me!

Note: I should thank Simon and Garfunkel. You, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones have copyrighted every great line, thank you. 

The foreigner

A few months ago I read a book for one of my college courses on political theory. The book was called "The Foreigner" by Nahid Rachid. It was about a woman who was born in Iran, travelled to the United States to study, stayed there for a career, then travelled back to Iran to visit her family who she had not seen since she left for college. The main point of the book is in her forgotten connectedness to her homeland- in it's culture, traditions, even language. She returns to Iran to find that she cannot reconnect with her country because she has cut too many ties with it. She has gone to an American university, got an American job and even married an American man who cannot understand her longing. So, she is in limbo. Without a home or place. For the class I was taking, this point concurred with another book we had been studying, Alexander de Tocqueville's "Democracy In America". For those who have not read this book (though I very much recommend it- in fact, every American should read it as a prerequisite for being a citizen), Tocqueville argues that the American people are restless because they have no connections with a history, a culture, traditions or even language in some cases. They are a melting pot with no cohesion. So, Americans are always searching for something, though they don't exactly know what. Much like this woman in "The Foreigner", they tend to find themselves in limbo, without a past to call their own. They try to make their own but never fully succeed, such as houses are easily sold and branches of families are easily cut-off and forgotten; a circumstance that is more difficult for aristocratic societies. Americans simply don't connect as other peoples do. That is what Tocqueville says, and Rachid concurs. Currently, I am discovering the same theory as I encounter a different race of people. Tradition, culture, history and language adhere the Koreans together much like their gluey rice- they may all look and taste the same, but together they make an outstanding staple to the world dish. However, as I am not a grain of rice- simple to blend and digest, I am stuck being the bit of unbaked dough I flew over as. In other words, I am simply in limbo- still- wishing I could become the grain of rice, wishing I could have something to stick to! The Americans of Tocqueville's theory, and the Iranian-American of Rachid's novel are now reflected in me as I walk down the street. I cannot assimilate because I cannot connect, I cannot blend because I am not a grain of rice, however much I wish I could be, I am not a Korean. This may seem a bit obvious for those who are surrounded by people they love and have known for years- as they are in their element, they are in some familiar form of culture, language and history to call their own. I am, however, finding it difficult to remember my own past as I hit wave after wave of the same hills of rice grains. Everyone starts to look the same, and I am overwhelmed by it. I start to think that I should be Korean, or try to. I try to find some connections- learn the language, the history, the culture, make friends- but I fail and lose a bit more of my strength. I cannot connect, because I am an outsider, a fly on the wall. I have to succumb to my outcasted status and embrace limbo, an island made up of books, a computer and my imagination.
For the past two weeks it has been fine. Delightful in fact. I love my school and fellow teachers. The kids are amazing and always bring a smile to my face as they are adorable! I even enjoy the food, and have taken to eating rice and seaweed as a staple for every meal. Yet, with all of my loves and positivity I cannot help but feel a bit of wariness as each day passes. I cannot fully explain why, but I feel it has its base in my lack of tradition and history to call my own. I could go so far as to say that I am self-conscious about it. For instance, as my co-teacher describes and dictates her countries best qualities, I have nothing to add about America except that we don't have whatever it is she is describing. I realize that we have freedom, liberty, justice, a wonderful President (finally) and great cheese; I can't retort with a fantastic history or folk tales, a different language or unique culture. Perhaps I'm blind, and don't see the greatness of American culture; but I feel as if it's always growing larger than itself. When there's a good thing, we have to one-up it. And that culture is spreading. It's spreading to this great nation, as I'm sure it's doing to others. The youth is absorbing the American obsession with individuality and trashing their history and traditions. I'll leave this problem for another blog, but I'll just say that it makes me sad. I wish I could absorb a little of the Korean history and language while they toss it along with yesterday's paper. Perhaps I'm not interpreting them correctly. Perhaps they've got a copy of Korean history stored next to their "Confessions of a Shopaholic". Perhaps I can someday explain them proper lighting. And, perhaps, I can take a bit of them home with me, and break out of my 'foreigner' status. I can learn more Korean, read more history, and get my hair dyed. Perhaps. Of course, perhaps I have no idea what I'm talking about and am full of shit on a Saturday night, drinking a glass of wine I cannot pronounce, in a place I can only describe as my personal island- it's comfy, familiar but I cannot call it home. I am, and must not forget, I am a foreigner.