Rice Field Blues (pronounced brues)

What ho, Korea?

Having spent the past several weeks with a literally non-existent course schedule, and as my most stimulating activity, katakana Microsoft Hearts, with no small amount of endless excitement did I anticipate my 5 day vacation getaway to South Korea. Yet, little did I expect to encounter there a cast of characters who, in their eccentricity and spontaneous strangeness, rival even Ueda-sensei...

Day 1.

After a piddling 2 hour flight, sandwiched between endless customs and immigration procedures, near-death experience with airline sushi, 80 minute bus ride, and brief pit-stop to exchange our yen for what appeared to us as Monopoly money, i.e. the Korean Won, we at last arrived at our hostelworld.com-booked accommodaions, Korea's finest Windroad Guesthouse.

Verdant buds that reminded me of past journeys through Europe crept over the outer walls and surrounded a charming little rustic gated courtyard. Onward we marched to the hostel's front desk. There, we expected to see a marginally English-proficient, yet competent Korean clerk who would efficiently shepherd us through check-in procedures and show us to our bunks. Instead,the sinister figure of a Caucasian, and apparently very stoned, American who somewhat resembled the balding and scraggly doppelganger of a young Ron Howard – except stripped of any wholesome appeal -- confronted us.

"Heyyy, more friends!! Welcome to the Windroad Guesthouse, friends," spoke Clay, the makeshift Kansas-born hostel desk clerk.

Several irritated-looking fellow hostel guests glared at him.

"This is one cool hostel. These folk over here just arrived too. Trying'a find them a room. Seem to have misplaced the keys. It's OK because things always work out here. Look at that guy for example," pointing to vaguely annoyed looking fellow guest watching tv in next room, "he's from France. He lost his bag yesterday."

"Umm."

"S'OK! He found it this morning!"

Needless to say, we were not terribly relieved.

"So what's your name?"
"Er, reservation for 2 under Maggie H_______."
"Do you have a reservation?"
"Yes."
"Do you have a name?"
"Yes. It's –"
"Hold on a minute there, I had my pen a minute ago."

(Clay fumbled desperately through a variety of haphazardly arranged objects that graced the hostel's front desk top.)

"Hmm, my pen seems to have gone elsewhere."
"Hmmm."
"Can't imagine where it could be."

Under the heat of our collective glare, Clay frantically opened and closed various drawers, sometimes stopping to gaze inside them.

"Sorry, it's my first day."

Shocking.

Finally, he unhinged a cabinet door and a shelf of room keys marked in Korean burst out from under the desk. Clay's expression at this point resembled how I imagine Ponce de Leon would have appeared had he ever discovered the Fountain of Youth. Encouraged by his novel shelf of treasures, Clay arbitrarily selected several keys off the rack and, with a spontaneously erect demeanor, braced himself to lead us to our rooms.

En route in the hostel corridor, Clay deemed it appropriate timing to point out his bicycle:

"This one here's mine, you can rent it from me if you want. I'll give you a cheap deal. Or you can ride it for free... if you want."

Ironically enough, Clay kept his bike under lock and key.

The ensuing room search ordeal was executed with about as much success as anyone could have expected. After spending at least 20 minutes fumbling with different keys outside of what Clay assured us was a private single (for a fellow distressed Windroad patron) – which later actually turned out to be a 6-bed dormitory room – he finally conceded defeat and suggested we try our luck elsewhere. An ensuing series of misplaced efforts worthy of Donald Rumsfeld's Iraq War strategy culminated with a surprising event: Clay managed to unlock a door.

In disbelief, we lurched inside, with all the curiosity and fear one might muster upon diving headlong into Pandora's very Box.

The room, shabby, dusty and unadorned, contained two metal frame bunk beds, atop each of which others had already piled their clothes, blankets and luggage.

Clay lunged forward with the vigor of a Stalin upon conquering Western Europe.

Clay: "Here's a room you can stay in!"

Us: "Um..."

Clay: "And look! It has four beds. One for each of you."

(There were five of us.)

Us: "Ummm."

Clay: "Hmm, I wonder why all the beds are already made up...

"And why someone left his suitcases all over the beds and floor...

"Uhoh. Woops!"

In a rush of clarity, Clay asserted his "Eureka!" with conviction that would have made Archimedes envious.

"I think this room is occupied...

"Yup, it's definitely occupied. I mean, look, I'd offer it to you. I mean, you can sleep here and everything, but someone's already left their stuff all over the bed and, well, I just don't think these beds are unoccupied. I mean, you can stay here and everything, but I think some other people have been staying here first."

I hoped that if I concentrated intently enough on my ill-wishing grimaces, Clay might implode from over-absorption of negative energy. In other words, at that moment, I pretended Clay was a Japanese rice field.

"Here, you know what? You can't stay here and all because it's someone else's room, but I'll give you the key just in case."

(??!!?!!?!!!).

Timidly, Clay extended a key – actually a different one than the one he used to open the door – in his pale, over-drugged, Kansas-bred palm.

We declined.

That Evening.

Emboldened by our survival of Clay's hostel tour, we entrusted our baggage to Windroad's giant metal luggage-storing cage behind the front desk and, the hour being well after 9pm, hit the streets in search of authentic, Korean-style victuals.

Charles, the friendly chap from France, who had been estranged from his own luggage for the duration of his first night, chose to stay behind in order to await his friends' arrival from the airport, whose plane was supposed to have landed several hours before ours – I wondered whether Clay had worked at their travel agency.

A bubbly Jesus-devotee from Singapore opted to linger behind as well, instead spending the remainder of her first Korean evening glued to the hostel computer whilst chatting with friends from home on a Christian message board:

"Bless me! I'm in Korea! Lol, totes!"

Thus, wallets firmly clutched, we strolled along the streets of Sungkyungkwan University town whilst photographing random Korean restaurant menus, natives and street signs.

Finally, mid-menu perusal, a max four foot tall, sprightly Korean woman popped through a doorway and, with a Herculean vitality, dragged the whole lot of us into her restaurant where she threw us down at a nearby table.

"You speak English?"
"Yes."
"You like fried chicken?!"
"Umm."
"OK!!" demonstrating two stoutly erect thumbs, "FRIED CHICKEN!"

No sooner had our hostess disappeared than did she return, balancing against her palm a thoroughly enormous platter of fried chicken, which she proceeded to plop down atop our table.

With two more thumbs, "OK?!"
"Ummm."
"OK!!"

And thus we dined on our first night in Seoul. In fact, I would venture to describe it ws one of the tastier meals I've ever not ordered.

Later that Night.

When we returned to our hostel, the owner had arrived home from his evening's excursion. After securing for us our luggage, and demonstrating the contents of his entire photo collection from recent romps through Africa and South East Asia – my favorite was a glimpse of him posing with war paint-bedecked North African tribal villagers – he at last escorted us to our room. Amazingly, our front door both opened when attempted to be unlocked with a key, and contained beds which were not occupied by other patrons.

Despite these modest successes, several other mildly traumatic occurrences managed to grace our existence that night:

1) An Arab Sudanese dentist-in-training from Niigata also staying at Windroad referred to his homeland, Sudan, as "politically stable."

2) Clay described to us his experiences in California where he was prevented by Mormons from making "the biggest mistake of his life."

3) Clay described to me the nuanced cultural differences between natives of Kansas and Brooklyn in terms of "mental stability."

4) I was denied a pillow case because, as the owner – who also occupied one of the 4 beds in our room - explained, "we had one for you last night, but too many guests arrived this night and took it."

5) At one o'clock in the morning, whilst everyone in my room, including myself, lounged soundly asleep, the hostel owner crept up from his bunk and proceeded to mop our bedroom floor on his hands and knees with a bucket of water and large mop.

My only regret was that he did not also see his way to vacuuming my caseless-pillow.

Day 2.

After a few minutes of focused meditation, accompanied by cursory perusal of the cramped and unsanitary atrocity that was Windroad Guesthouse's shower, we managed to deploy our Singapore-haling comrade from the computer's Christian message boards for long enough to google search and secure fresh beds at more suitable and nearby Seoul accommodations.

Reinvigorated by the marvels of coffee, clean showers and sufficiently-stocked linen pillowcases, Lonely Planet Koreas in hand, my friends – new ones and old – and I set out to make our way through Seoul's "Top Ten in Tourism."

Through Joseon dynasty palace gates we strolled,
Supped on streetside cuisine of delights untold,
Kimchi, squid pancakes, spiced-cured meats, so bold,
Our feet weary with wander whilst our wallets unrolled.

After a guided tour through the World Heritage Changdeokgung Palace, merry glavantings through Seoul's finest commercial neighborhoods, rife with exciting craft stands and endlessly delicious street vendors, we crossed the river into Namdaemun and sampled its magically diverse and spontaneous street market.

"Kimchi!"

We posed atop a bridge along the river; chatted with natives about Seoul's thriving nightlife; photographed university students jump-kicking metal street poles; purchased street charms which sported our names in Korean on glass-encased rice grains; even took in an evening's spectacle whereby elegantly-suited bride and groom sang to each other, arm in arm, in front of a giant pink 2nd story window of a building called, "The Etude House," which sandwiched itself between a Pizza Hut and a ramen noodle restaurant.

I would be remiss if I did not admit, in comparison to my local Japanese cities and rice fields, Seoul's cultural landscape struck me as uniquely satisfying. You see, in many ways Seoul does not stray far from Japan – a country that repeatedly occupied Korea, most recently and brutally from 1910 to 1946. Both are relatively clean, safe and stable spaces whose aesthetics and architecture often resemble one another.

However, as one would expect of a nation that has been repeatedly invaded and occupied by virtually every empire under the sun – e.g. Japan, China, Mongolia, Russia, the U.S., the U.N. and briefly North Korea, but with the possible exception of Ancient Macedonia – South Korean culture appeared to me as uniquely dynamic and spontaneous.

In Japan, the rules, which are embedded in centuries of continuity with tradition, are set in stone.

In Korea, however, this is not the case: rules are executed as guidelines rather than as rigid standards.

For example, when my friends and I, after stumbling into a tea museum, were lured by the scent of Jasmine and image of giant mounds of almond and condensed milk-ridden green shaved ice to settle down at a table, an initial discussion with our waitress about the number of different teas we would have to purchase in order to remain seated aroused in me a familiar sinking anxiety. Such situations in Japan always culminate in frustration, endless apologies and inevitable apotheosis of the established rules.

"No, excuse me, thank you, we are sorry, but our rules designate you must order at least two different expensive teas to warrant our service."

In Korea, however – from my albeit limited perspective – this was not the case. Within four seconds, the "rule" had been jettisoned in favor of a more flexible policy that accommodated all involved. If they did it for the Mongolians, if they did it for the Chinese, and if they did it repeatedly for their Japanese occupying colonizers, I'll be damned if they won't do it once more for the pesky North American tourists who just want to sample some tea while managing to economize!

Granted, it is thoroughly perverse to consider this cultural flexibility in the context of Korea's traumatic political history. Yet, consider the many fruits Korea's, er, multi-faceted past has produced from its tourist's perspective...

In the spontaneous and dynamic space of the Itaewon street market, I managed to bargain down an already cheaply priced scarf that I didn't really want to buy in the first place by about 50 cents. After enjoying endless goodies from the local street vendors, never did I have to search very far to find a bin for disposing of my snack wrappers. Further, upon accidentally bumping into a Korean woman in the street, she turned around and gave me a dirty look (with not so much as a single bow or "sumimasen".) Even a straggler in top hat and riding boots ventured to brush me aside with a large stick on the subway platform for no good reason at all.

Oh, joyous Seoul! The people here are rude and impatient just like me! Never before in Asia had I felt so at home.

Day 3.

Our third day involved a great deal of bonding with our new hostel's guest mates.

During our first stop of the morning, Seodamun Prison, the bleak space where thousands of Korean resistants were held captive and brutalized by their Japanese occupiers from 1910-1946, on a pleasant romp through the basement's "colonizing penality manikin reenactment chamber," we came across a fellow Seoul Backpackers' Hostel guest, David, a Swiss chap with fierce sense of wanderlust.

As the morning wore on, never one for feeling tongue-tied, David punctuated our journeys down rows of gory-dummy-ridden prison chambers with his monotone narrations of various world cities he has visited in chronological order:

"Then we went back to Kyoto, then Osaka, Nara, down to Hiroshima, down to Kyushu, back to Kyoto, back to Osaka, then back to Kyoto, on to Nagoya, over to Nagano-ken, then Tokyo, Yokohama, Niigata, Sapporo, back to Kyoto, Aomori-ken, Gifu-ken, then back to Kyoto..."

We glimpsed into the tunnel where all of the executed Korean bodies had mysteriously disappeared during the Japanese occupation.

"Have you ever traveled through America? I visited there myself. Started in Syracuse, then onto Buffalo, Albany, New York City, Long Island, back over to Westchester, up to Connecticut, Hartford, Bridgeport, New Haven, then Massachusetts, Boston, Cambridge, Greater Boston, back to Syracuse, Buffalo, Albany, greater Albany, then back to New York City..."

I photographed the interior of a cell in which an electronically-operated Japanese manikin inflicted lash wounds upon an elderly Korean woman.

"Then back to Kyoto..."

David prattled on with endless lists of global cities, each transition to a different nation narrated by, "and then back to Kyoto," until we approached another visibly interminable row of dimly lit jail cells.

"The first few days in prison are always a laugh."

What?

"Yeah, real funny stuff. Come day 4 or so, the tune changes."

Provoked by David's candor – and mortal fear that he start narrating the entirety of his Russia travels – I inquired whether David himself had ever undergone "hard time."

"Oh sure, in Switzerland it's easy. Why, they pay you a salary to stay in jail! Great benefits, delicious cuisine, good vacation time. You get your own room with cable tv."

Our next point of alarm arrived when we realized he was actually being serious.

"I got thrown in the prison in Switzerland and in the United States of America for too much alcohol in a public place. They give you five days. At first, it's like a vacation, a pretty sweet deal. By day 4 or 5, not so much fun anymore."

Perversely, I felt relieved he had never been jailed in Kyoto.

That Afternoon.

After managing to ditch Swiss David somewhere around the Korean National War Memorial, we decided to call it a day and head back to our hostel.

Ah, yes, and what could feel more pleasing after a hard day at it in the proverbial salt mines de tourisme than flinging oneself headfirst onto a bunk bed and spending the afternoon unwinding the old bean before an open volume of P.G. Wodehouse?

Now, our new hostel bedroom, a 6-bunk haven of sorts, although sanitary, adequately pillow-cased and not also occupied by the building's owner, still entailed a healthy element of complication.

Upon our return, we found our sofa and floor space had been infiltrated by no less than 50 pairs of recently laundered ankle socks – the kind with the colored patterns and snoopy cartoons sprawled out across the heel. Further, what looked like the contents of an upturned Eurotrash laundry hamper had polluted the bunkbed adjacent to ours.

Whilst we speculated as to the status of this uniquely sock-wealthy roommate, the bathroom door timidly creaked open, and out sauntered a tall, gaunt, wiry-spectacled woman with mousy brown hair, sporting several different layers of varying length-sleeved t-shirts. As fate would have it, she was also wearing ankle socks.

We greeted her, trying our best to conceal our bewilderment, and attempted to initiate conversation.

"Hallo, how are you? Where are you from? We are from America and Canada but live in Japan this year teaching English. Seoul is a very exciting city. We are happy to be here, etc."

In silence and avoiding eye contact as might have the Dear Leader during a guided tour of a North Korean Labor Camp, she leaned against a relatively low sock-density corner of sofa.

Several moments of awkward silence passed, then several more. Just as I was starting to lament the absence of Swiss David's prison and Kyoto travel narratives, she at last spoke:

"I bought new jeans today," pointing to shin, "they cost only 7,000 won."

She arose and scooped up a crumpled ball of laundry off her bed, which unrolled into another pair of jeans.

"These ones look similar, but they cost 45,000 won."

"They're very lovely," I ventured. "Did you buy these ankle socks here in Seoul as well?"

Glaring intently at own elbow with focus of woman in last stages of labor, "My name is Hanna and I am from Sweden."

Silence.

"I live in Seoul for 5 months at this hostel and I teach English for kindergarten."

More Silence.

Hanna pointed to another mass of pink, Hello Kitty-trimmed garment which also vaguely resembled jeans.

"These ones were 17,000 won."

And thus she retreated to the depths of her laundry-ridden top bunk.

Although we were able to keep ensuing relations with Swedish Hanna to a minimum for the remaining two days of our visit, we did manage to learn through the grapevine that Hanna is homophobic and was offended that a polite and mild-mannered Indian girl, another fellow roommate, had unobtrusively hung a gender-ambiguous suit from the side of her bunk bed: a presumed symbol of lesbianism.

Now, I only wonder what 50 cartooned pairs of ankle socks are presumed to signify.

(Please stay tuned for Part II of What ho, Korea?: a thorough recounting of our DMZ visit, rare glimpses of North Korean territory, culminating romps about Seoul and our eventual return to la Nihon-go.)