Welcome back to SoKoNotes, where once a week stories of cultural confusion are spun from the colorful fabric of firsthand experience. I am getting better and better at my Hangul. I was strolling through the Gukje Market Wednesday when I happened across this old lady lounging by her wares: richly colored cloth used for making traditional Korean dresses called Hanbok (pronounced Han-bow). Her eyes went wide as I pointed to each bolt of cloth and indicated their color using only Korean.



My Hangul is improving, albeit very slowly, every week. Through my interactions with the teachers, people at the gym, the ajummas at Kimbop Joongu and In-hye, my Korean teacher, I am becoming more and more proficient with the language. I pick up several words or phrases a week and try them out whenever possible. Through my triumphs and my defeats, I am piecing together the Hangul jigsaw puzzle.

Just today I found a big piece: The Hangul word for 'do.' In order to have something 'done,' many Koreans simply add the word 'do' to the noun in question. Want to make a hotel reservation? Just say "hotel reservation do," and they'll know exactly what you mean. Armed with this new information, I scored a modest victory against the seemingly impenetrable language barrier: I picked up the telephone and had lunch delivered. Paedal Haseyo. Delivery do.

There are three major problems with learning this seemingly simple language. The first and biggest issue surrounds the grammatical differences between English and Hangul. In English it is normal to first state the subject, then insert the verb and follow with the object acted on by that verb: I eat bread. In Hangul, The subject comes first, followed by the object and the verb is found at the end of a sentence. I bread eat.

Simple? Yes and no. It's like thinking backwards, which is easier than one might think when forming sentences. The real problems creep in when I listen to someone speaking Hangul. My brain, stuck in the subject-verb-object pattern I grew up with, often confuses the object for the verb. Complicating things further is that most Koreans do not speak in simple three-word sentences. Most Koreans speak Hangul like most Americans speak English, most conversations involving many more and varied parts of speech that I have yet to study: Indirect and direct objects, adverbs, adjectives and conjunctions just to name a few.

The second problem is vocabulary. The words are so alien, so completely unlike anything my ears have ever gathered before that unless I use or encounter a word multiple times a day (such as the word for 'give me'), it simply does not stick. There are exceptions (aren't there always?). I memorized the word for mountain trail, "san-kil," without anyone's help, and it came in handy while hiking Jangsan a few weeks back.

The third stumbling block centers around the particles. Speakers of Hangul attach all sorts of maddening little sounds onto the ends of words to indicate the speaker's relationship to the person spoken to, the direction, pronoun, subject, object, topic or indirect object. Ahhhhhhhh!!! So often these little sounds snag my mind and I lose focus as my brain tries to remember if 'eso' is the direction or placement marker. Compounding this is the myriad ways in which a verb can change tense. Most of the time all I hear when someone is talking to me in Hangul are a few nouns and simple verbs. I have to pretty much guess the rest.

So you can imagine my joy when a few weeks back my Korean teacher, In-hye, suggested we go on a picnic together. I told her (in English, of course) that I had heard the city of Jin-hae was THE place to be to see the cherry trees, which would blossom in early April. We would spend the whole day together, giving me ample opportunity to exercise my wimpy Korean language skills. The date was set for April 8th. April 8th was yesterday. This is my report from Jin-hae: Cherry blossom central.

We left early in the morning. The bus was crowded with blossom-enthusiasts dressed for the warm spring weather, backpacks slung over their shoulders, cameras around their necks. They chatted excitedly as we pulled away from the station. In-hye and I had to stand in the aisle.

The concrete canyon of the city came to an abrupt end at the wide Nakdong river, the gray-and neon gauntlet of PC rooms and apparel stores replaced by the earth-toned farming villages and shaggy brown-and-green hills of the countryside. Many of the steep mountainsides were bejeweled with clusters of wild pink cherry trees in full-bloom.

The festivities were just getting started when we arrived in Jin-hae. Vendors slow-cooked slabs of bone-in pork on motorized spits while ajummas stirred massive aluminum caldrons of steaming dwinjang jiggae. Wizened Marine veterans helped direct traffic and guide tourists.



As the sun crept higher in the sky, the complexion-conscience Koreans covered their faces with whatever was on-hand.



In-hye and I caught a bus traveling to the local Naval Academy to see the Yi, Sun-shin museum. Though not his birthplace (as I reported in an earlier update), Jin-hae was the famed Admiral's post for much of his career. An extremely accurate 150-ton replica of his ironclad Geobukseon, or "Turtle Ships," is also floating on display at the academy. We couldn't pass this up.

The traffic was unreal, and the passengers in the bus baked as the bus inched its way towards the academy. "Top-da, top-da," said the rotund old woman sitting next to me over and over again as she fanned herself with the festival brochure. The slow pace allowed In-hye to catch up with her text-messaging while I stared out the window. Moored across the bay were five huge, low-slung Korean destroyers, their massive anti-shipping guns glistening in the sunlight. I had no idea the Korean navy was so modern.

The decks bristled with antiaircraft batteries and torpedo tubes. There were obvious launchers for cruise-missiles and some wicked-looking radar equipment clustered atop the mast. The ships were terrible to behold: Massive tools of war, the most modern instruments in an age-old symphony of death and diplomatic failure stretching back thousands of years. There was no mistaking the purpose of these ships: To end life, to kill people, lots of people, quickly and efficiently. It staggered my mind.

If only that much money and consideration went into preserving human life, I thought.

The bus finally arrived at its destination and my companion and I viewed the destroyer's wooden predecessor: The Geobukseon.



The line to go inside the replica was absurdly long. Still, In-hye and I tried to stick it out. While we waited, I photographed the sailors as they patrolled the concrete 'beach.'



However, after fifteen minutes the line had moved only a few feet. In-hye and I decided to forego a proper inspection of the Geobukseon's interior. Instead we settled on a more-pedestrian examination of it's exterior. According to a plaque adjacent to the dock, the ship could travel at up to six knots. It sported a fire-arrow proof iron roof and sixteen holes in the wooden hull where canon would have normally been poking out. All that poked out of the port holes now was the occasional child.



A tour through the Yi, Sun-shin museum gave me some accurate numbers on the famed Admiral. He was actually incarcerated following his demotion, and when the Joseon emperor finally broke him out and handed him what was left of the Korean Navy, he only had twelve ships. It was at that point that he turned these remaining ships into Geobuksan and trounced a Japanese force 133 warships strong.

Besides being an amazing naval commander, Sun-shin was also a poet and a scholar. This was a poem translated by the museum.

"By moonlight I sit all alone
In the tower on Hansan Isle
My sword is on my thigh
I am beside myself with care
From somewhere a shrill piping sound
Thrills and pierces my bowels"

Afterwards In-hye and I waited for a friend of hers from college to arrive with his car and pick us up so we wouldn't have to crowd onto another bus for the sweltering ride back to Jin-hae proper. I took a few shots of people hanging out by water front. The sailors from the academy were selling ice-cream. Children climbed all over the guns on-display.



In among the stationary weaponry was a 21-foot single-mast sailboat perched in a concrete cradle. "The Forerunner" was inscribed in the back and a plaque told the story of a young Korean man who sailed the tiny vessel from Los Angeles all the way across the Pacific Ocean to Busan in the 1990s. The voyage took seven months.

There were a lot of military families around, walking arm-in-arm with thei uniform-clad sons. I'm sure this family had a strong military background. Both this boy and his brother were in white officer's uniforms, presumably like their father's or grandfather's. Or maybe they're parents are just crazy. Who knows.



Other people sat under the cherry trees and waited for the bus. They took pictures of the flowers. I took pictures of them taking pictures of each other. Koreans love pictures.





The beautiful pink cherry trees lined the driveway up to the academy's main building. The soldiers directing traffic made sure departing tourists drove down the driveway on their way out.



In-hye's friend Joseph pulled up at a half-past one in his tiny teal Matiz. The incredibly small car, which is a little smaller than a Honda Civic hatchback, has been affectionately nicknamed the "puppy car" by the Korean public. Joseph, a chemical engineer working for an oil-refining company, only paid eight million won, or about 8000 U.S. dollars, for the high-mileage car, and with good reason. Gas costs nearly six U.S. dollars per gallon here.

Both Joseph and In-hye are devote Christians. They attend church every Sunday almost without fail, and Joseph is lead guitarist in his church's praise band. "I used to be into rock and roll, metal," he said later on while we drove back to Busan. He had to go to practice that night, but he wanted to hang out with us until then.

One critical difference that I find between Christians in Korea and Christians in the United States is the level of proselytizing fervor. I have never, ever been accosted by Korean Christians wanting to know if I have been saved. Periodically, Mormons will hand me literature in the Lotte Underground Mall and speak a few words about where from and when I came, but they are not as pushy as some of the diehards I encountered in Mississippi. Most of the proselytizers I see handing out literature pass me up. Maybe they figure that I'm already Christian because I'm white. Or maybe they figure I'm damned to hell for the same reason. Who knows.

In-hye knows I don't go to church, and it doesn't seem to dissuade her from interacting with me. Neither she nor Joseph pushed their beliefs on me. All of our religious conversation centered on the gospel music they both enjoyed (and played) and Joseph's pivotal role in praise band. She knows nothing of my beliefs.

I paid close attention to the questions Joseph asked me during our day together. I was curious: What information is a priority to Koreans when confronted with a stranger from a strange land? The guidebooks say that due to the heavy influence of Mahayana Buddhism and Confusionism, many Koreans' pay close attention to age and social rank. These beliefs are closely linked to the language as well. With people who are older or of a higher rank Koreans use a more formal, respectful form of Hangul. With friends, a speaker simplifies the language. The "imnidas" and "sumnikas" fall off and give way to "da" and "ka."

Joseph's conversational manners bolstered this theory. One of the first questions he asked me concerned my job. Over lunch he asked my age and referenced his own. We used the neutral, informal-yet-polite form of Hangul common to most guidebooks with which to speak to one another. My hangul sucks. His English was good. You can guess which language we used the most.

While trying to find the big festival parade, we missed it completely. In-hye was really bummed, so instead we located and attended a dance performance in a square ringed with cherry trees. Dancers of all styles and traditions took the stage and performed for the crowd. In-hye and I parked ass on the concrete in front of the stage. While we waited for the first act, I photographed some of the performers getting ready "backstage."

These girls are leaning out of their van, watching as other dancers take the stage. I love how the cherry trees are reflected in the black-tinted glass.





Like I said, there were dancers of all breeds: Korean traditionalists, dance-poets, hip-hop dancers and belly-dancers. Far and away the most compelling acts were the traditionalists. There were six women performing a host of ancient dances, all in Hanbok. The wore elaborate make-up.



Every time they took the stage the emcee would play the heart-stopping, thunderous drums and woodwinds of traditional Korean music. Even now, sitting in front of my computer, the memory of that boisterous, tumultuous music combined with the leaping, spinning, joyful movements of the dancers makes my eyes water. My heart is filled with emotion even as I write these words.

Following the traditional dancers would usually be a hip-hop act. A girl or girls, probably in their late teens, would take the stage and gyrate to Korean pop music, which on its face is really no different from American pop music. The only change is the language. The dancer's movements dripped with a sordid, soulless sexuality, the kind one finds in rap videos and live Brittany Spears performances.

Some of the traditional Korean dances were no less sexually suggestive, but there was a difference. Perhaps it was their scintillating, unwavering smile, or perhaps it was due to the careful subtlety of their gyrations, but I the dancers spoke to a deeper connection, a relationship between both sides of the human equation unexpressed by the aggressively sexual hip-hop and jazz dancers.







Following the performance, we piled into Joseph's "puppy car" in search of cherry trees. We chanced across a railroad track swarming with people, the verge by the rails lined in tall, majestic cherries. Joseph let In-hye and I out by the tracks and he parked the car as we began walking down the tracks. We balanced on the rails as the falling white petals danced in the air all around us. Children laughed as they ran with their arms outstretched, trying to catch the "spring snow."





At five o'clock we had to leave so Joseph could practice with the church praise band. We ate KFC before parting company. All in all, it was a very good day. There are no Korean Files this weekend. It has taken me five hours to put all of the above information down, and I'm finished for this week. Spring is the season for touring and festivals. Next weekend Mr. Kim is treating the whole staff to a trip from Busan all the way to the west coast of the peninsula. It will start at 6AM on Saturday and take us all the way till late Saturday night. Furthermore, next weekend is the start of the Gyeong-ju Dok and Dong Dong Ju festival. Rice cakes and booze in Korea's holy city. I promise to have a full report, including pictures, next Sunday. I hope everyone is doing really well. Peace. --Notes

The cherry trees are in blossom. It happened almost overnight. I got on the bus one morning, looked out the window and my usually clear view of the harbor was impeded by millions of tiny white flowers. Within a few days the normally nondescript trees that lined the streets of Young-do island commanded my attention with their brilliant pinkish-white blossoms.



After our mutual language lesson, In-hye and I strolled among the beautiful cherries on the way to her apartment. People were everywhere. School had just let out, and the children looked up and admired the blossoms as they walked home.



The streets looked like a final winter storm had come in the night and coated only the trees in a brilliant, pinkish snow.



In-hye and I have plans to travel to Jinhae on Saturday and see the country's largest collection of cherry trees.

Jin-hae is also the birthplace of Admiral Yi, Sun-shin. In the late 16th century, Admiral Yi repelled a massive Japanese invasion force with only a small collection of ships outfitted with thick iron armor. These "Turtle Ships," as he called them were nearly impervious to the Japanese attacks. Admiral Yi lured his foe into shallow inland waters that he and his commanders knew by heart, and ambushed them. Trapped, outgunned and outmaneuvered, only a handful of the 400-plus Japanese fleet made it back in one piece.

Admiral Yi was an admirable man in character as well as deeds. At one point, the Joseon emperor of Korea was unhappy with Admiral Yi for being cautious in a key battle against the Japanese a number of years earlier. The imbecile demoted Admiral Yi all the way to the lowest rank in the Korean navy and took away his command.

According to the report made by one of my high school students, Admiral Yi did not flinch when the emperor demoted him. He took his medicine and his place among the men he once commanded without complaint. He became accustomed to the simple life of an ordinary foot soldier and he gained respect among the rank-and-file for his humility. His wisdom and patience paid off.

Without their brilliant tactician, the Koreans began loosing hand-over-fist to the Japanese, handing over port after port to the conquerers. The emperor quickly and quietly reinstated Admiral Yi, gave him what was left of the battered Korean navy, and ordered him to do the impossible, which he did in the battle described above.

A statue of Admiral Yi stands in Yongdusan park, dutifully watching over the deep-water harbor that has been the catalyst for Busan's growth and prosperity. The Koreans celebrate his life every year in Jinhae in conjunction with the cherry blossom festival, and I look forward to learning more about this great man.

The coming of spring has allowed a few bubbles of warm air to rise up from south Asia and collide with all that remains of the bitter winter cold. Clouds darken the sky weekly and soak the streets with a driveling rain. For most of November, December and January, the dry cold winter air kept the sky a deep blue day-in and day-out. As the warm weather returns, so does the rain.

I am not a big fan of the rain, especially on the weekend when I like to ride my motorcycle around the city and explore new places. I find it to be so depressing.



Other people are not so easily deterred. Check out this family on their motorcycle. It disturbs me how frequently I see a family on a motorcycle and none of them have helmets.



Gavin and I went out to Gwangali this weekend because I had read on the internet about a raw fish festival to be held there. Turns out the website got the date wrong and all we found was gray clouds, rain and a few diehards in galoshes out for a stroll.



Sunday was better suited for exploring, the weather having cleared up over night. However, I was tired, and my exhaustion compelled me to spend a day indoors getting some down time. I worked on my website for most of the day. In the afternoon, I moseyed around Young-do, basking in the late afternoon sunlight. More people then usual were out of their house doing likewise.



I climbed a small terraced hill near Dongsamjugong and came across a long, handmade stone wall on the summit. A family joined me, laughing as they walked between the rows of produce.



Children romped around in the playground by Dongsamjugong.







I have reached the midpoint of my journey in Korea. There are six months behind me and six more ahead of me. I look back and wonder where the time went, and though I try to focus on the shoebox of accomplishments, my mind invariably wanders towards the warehouse of things left undone.

Complicating matters is a growing longing for home. Korea can be a very lonely place. The language barrier tends to reduce most conversation to little more than stock phrases from my handbook. What few people who actually can speak a little English usually do so very poorly. Even with the best English speakers I still spend a lot of time sorting through their words, trying to figure out what they are saying and then trying to craft my own sentences around a perceived level of comprehension. This can be exhausting, and I often lose my focus on the person. It is hard to build relationships this way.

Complicating matters is the Koreans' tendency to hold westerners at arms-length, so to speak. A friend of mine told me that Korean women don't like being seen walking alone with a western men because such women are perceived as prostitutes. I don't know how much of that is true, but I do know that whenever I start talking to a Korean in English in public, they get very nervous. Other Koreans stare hard at them. Whenever we go somewhere together, the Korean staff is careful not to appear too close to Gavin, Dave and I. They like us, I know they do, but it feels like they don't want anyone outside of ESS to know that.

I also miss my family. There is something to be said for having a group of people who love you no matter what, who ask nothing of you except that you exist, who will always be ready to throw their arms around you and shed some light on the darkness. I draw much of my personal strength and confidence in myself from their love for me. Without them near, I have been forced to assess myself and my life from the sobering vantage point of near-total autonomy.

One night last week I dreamed that I was in a Chili's restaurant with my mother, father and sister. We just sort of walked in and suddenly all of these smiling, busty green-eyed brunettes started bringing us food: Steak, fries, burgers, double-stuffed potatoes and bowls of soup and salad piled up on our table. My parents were hugging me and my sister was cracking jokes and laughing at the smiling waitresses as they hit on me. In the background of the dream my mind was chanting this odd sort of monosyllabic litany of western foodstuffs to a slow, trance-techno beat.

"Pizza and potatoes and burgers and fries and..."

I woke up the next morning and my mind was in darkness, the dream having only reinforced my solitude.

Having Gavin around helps a lot. He is a good friend and an excellent roommate. We bounce teaching ideas off of one another, collaborate on projects and watch each other's back. Heck, if it weren't for him, I'd still be melting brain cells with soju!

Gavin and I also share a similar question: What next? This question is a poisonous seed in my mind that has sprouted and grows larger with every day that I get closer to completing my contract and departing Korea. My original idea was to save enough money to build a freelance photography career in the States. However, over the course of six months the realities of such an endeavor have stacked up against itself. What was once a dream seems more like a wild gamble without a lot more money and time.

Some people spend a decade or more building the contacts necessary to get enough work on which to live. Also, the camera equipment I would need is professional grade (read: really, REALLY expensive). A car, laptop with wireless FTP capabilities, health insurance, car insurance, a place to live, food...The list goes on and on, the calculator in my head tallying a bigger and bigger number.

With a modest savings I would have after my time here, freelancing is still a gamble. Even if I lived at home, with my rent and food taken care of, I'd be starting from zero professionally. I would have to wait tables, shoot weddings, or assist other photographers to make ends meet while I climbed the ladder. Do I want to do all of that? Or do I want to complete another year in Korea and pile up another stack of cash? My sister might be teaching in Japan. Should I join her? The money is not as good, but 'they' say cultural experience can't be beat. Can I start a career after that?

And so goes the thinking of a man without a clear route in life. I go to bed every night wrapped up with these thoughts, and I wake up to them in the morning. They walk with me to the gym and they distract me while I teach class. Some days I think maybe the way will be made clear for me if I just let it. Just live your life, Stephen. Quit worrying. God or fate will provide. But am I so important that the Almighty even gives a damn about me? What if God has forgotten me? What if my fate is to have none at all? No one can take responsibility for my life but me, right?

No matter how I cut it, sitting on my laurels is not an option. I don't want to be like Julie: A year behind me, a little money in my pocket and no where to go but home. I need a next step. If I can't find one, I'll stay here, teach and make money. I like teaching, I like money, and both of those things will vanish in America.

Sorry about the heaviness. I guess it would be uncouth for me to wrap up SoKoNotes on such a low note. Here are a few phrases of Konglish for you to try and figure out. What were they thinking? Post your replies on my comments page.

"I give a present that cream."

"My favorite foot was cake."

I'll try and have something more to say next week. One of the problems of living in a place for six months is that it starts to lose the brilliant polished shine of its former 'newness.' Despite the language barrier, despite the low-level racism, despite the loneliness, Busan has become my home, and I view it through the narrow slits of familiarity. I can tell because my camera's memory card has no photos on it even by Thursday. I can tell because I see the same streets and buildings day-in and day-out, even when I try not to. The physical make-up of the city is now as familiar as Atlanta. I could tell you how to get from Haeundae to PNU no problem. Now all that remains to be explored is it's human side, and as I said before, the language barrier is going to make that difficult. But hey, I have six months...

--Notes

Another week in Korea has come and gone.



Which reminds me: There are fewer egregious notebook entries this week than last. Perhaps all our hard work in the classroom is paying off. Or maybe Mrs. Nam reads SoKoNotes. Let's hope not. Here are a couple stand-outs. See if you can figure out what the student was trying to say.

"I don't relief sometimes."

"They are so land at me."

Why is it that wherever I go in this city somebody offers me a shot of soju or a beer? It never fails. I cannot walk past a group of old men picnicking without a friendly offering of booze shouted in my direction. What's with this? It's like people take one look at me and say to themselves, "Yeup, that guy needs a drink."

Unless I have a lot of time to sober up or I am riding the subway home, I always decline. Driving in Busan is dangerous enough as it is. Driving drunk on a motorcycle in Busan is patently suicidal behavior in the same league as wrestling crocodiles or Russian roulette.

I put a lot of Korean asphalt under my new black Kumho tires this weekend. On Saturday afternoon I met Kristen at her apartment on the crest of Half-Moon Hill and we saddled up for a jaunt into the Korean countryside with little more than a cheesy tourist map, a bottle of water and my camera. The road snaked its way along the high shoulder of Half-Moon Hill, the gaps in the trees offering beautiful views of the wind-whipped ocean far below, and eventually deposited us onto a multi-lane county road leading towards Ulsan.

Kristen had driven this road once before with her friend and co-worker Winnie within the safe steel pillars and doors of a car. Riding on the back of a motorcycle was an entirely different way to experience the Korean countryside.

"I enjoy being a passenger," said Kristen later. "Your hair is blowing, it's much more liberating."

When she was eleven, Kristen and her father traveled from their stomping grounds in Northern Wisconsin up through Canada to Maine and then all the way home through the central midwestern states - entirely by motorcycle. It rained almost the whole trip.

"We went through two rainsuits each," she said. During the long hours of driving, Kristen's father worried about Kristen possibly falling asleep. On a similar journey a few years earlier with her sister, Kristen's father had even gone so far as to tie his daughter's hands together around his waist to prevent her from slumbering her way off of the moving vehicle.

There would be no need for any jerry-rigged safety measures on our trip down the Korean coast. It was daylight, the sun was shining and we both had helmets. Earlier I had downed two cups of Aurora coffee (imported from Atlanta courtesy of my wonderful father) and I was as wired and alert as a desert fox as I navigated the schizoid Korean traffic streaking down the highway.

At an intersection sporting a giant bowling pin Kristen and I made a right-hand turn for the coast. The poorly paved road lead us to a tiny fishing village. We parked the motorcycle and walked down to the sea. Dozens of fishermen dotted the seawall, casting their rods, drinking soju and talking. Old ajummas dried meter-long strands of seaweed called "mi-ya" on chicken-wire racks in the sunshine. The wavy, black sea vegetable tinted the cool spring air with its brackish odor.



We walked along the road until coming across two candy-striped tents by a long-abandoned military post. Through the semi-transparent plastic windows could be seen patrons drinking soju and cider, eating fresh raw seafood chopped up on a wooden block outside. I came across an ajumma carefully skining delicate sea animals alive and asked her about the creature dying in her hands. "Hangul Mal-o moy ye yo," I blurted out.

The woman, who appeared to be in her mid-forties, smiled wryly and thrust the wet, orange piece of flesh forward. Eat this, she said. Oh crap, I just wanted to know what it is, I thought in alarm. Did I say something wrong? Kristen and I faltered a second, glancing at one another as if wondering what the other person might do. Kristen took the lead. She accepted the proffered mystery meat in her hand, and I followed suit. All I was thinking as I shoved the gelatonous beast into my mouth was, "I have never, ever eaten anything this color before."

It tasted incredibly salty and the texture was akin to stiffened egg whites. I chewed, muling over disquiting thought that this mouthful of wierdness had just recently been, and might actually still be alive. I fought the urge to spit it up. Kristen had already swallowed hers, and the look in her eyes as she spied me still chewing said, "you're actually chewing that thing?"

Kristen and I decided to go for the gusto. We walked into the panjang macha and ordered some raw seafood. The young woman who ran the joint spoke a little English, and she took us for a tour of the buckets filled with imprisoned sealife where we ordered our lunch. Twenty minutes later a plate of raw So-rah (clams, I think) and Go-dong (conch) arrived on our table with a paltry side of mi-ya and fresh carrots. The shellfish was extremely tough and chewy. Kristen remarked that it felt like we were eating someone's ear.

On the way back to the bike, we stopped to pee. Kristen found some interesting Konglish and she took a photo. Just so everyone is on the same page, it's a crab breaking a cigarette while taking a crap.



After a brief stop to take a few more photographs, we left for home.



On Sunday I slept late and worked on my website. When my eyes stared to glaze over from staring at my computer screen, I decided it was time to get out of the house. A shower and a bite to eat and I was out the door, headed for Oryukdo.

Oryukdo, which translates "the five-six islands," is the "symbol of Busan," according to offical tourism literature. Busan is very proud of its large, bustling deep-water port, and every ship that enters the port passes by the line of rocky crags jutting out of the water. An operational lighthouse, originally built in 1937, perches on the furthest island. The islands got their name from the way the rising tide divides one island in two. It is a popular fishing destination and the land adjacent to Oryukdo is the location for a major housing complex called SK View.

I puttered by the massive SK View construction site on my motorcycle, marveling at its size and audacity. Past the complex, the road peaked at an overlook and then dropped steeply down to the fishing village by Oryukdo. I think the village was originally a temporary home for workers on an earlier construction project or the soldiers who once manned the coastal military posts, because almost every building was abandoned, the windows long-since stripped of their glass, the dusty rooms filled with the broken, discarded artifacts of absent human life.



Through a few windows could be seen Oryukdo itself. That must have been nice for whoever lived there.



Oryukdo itself was impressive. The islands are so perfectly aligned that it took me a few minutes to realize that I wasn't looking at two of the islands, I was looking at three.



The lighthouse jutted up from the last island, almost perfectly framed by the first and third islands.



People picnicked in the abandoned machine-gun nests, drinking soju and chatting me up.



I enjoy trying out my language skills, though the intoxication levels of my conversation partners tends to be a blessing and a curse. It's a blessing because their speech slows down. It's a curse because I think they're talking pure nonsense. All I can really discern is that they want me to sit down and get soused with them.

Closer to the sea was a staircase leading down to a raw-fish restaurant.



I walked down and photographed the people basking in the sunshine, the whole scene framed by the white-tipped ocean on one side and the abandoned, faded-pastel concrete buildings on the other.





As they dined ships of all sizes and designs slowly made their way into and out of Busan harbor. I got to watch the hydrofoil ferry race into the harbor, a massive plume of water rooster-tailing out behind it. What had been an tiny blip on the horizon when I arrived hours earlier became a huge containership marked with the word EVERGREEN and stacked high with earthtoned shipping containers. A host of tugboats intercepted it as it passed Oryukdo and entered the port.

The trees are in blossom, and the weather is warming up. With the warmer weather the motorcycle is really starting to show its worth. Now that I am not restricted to the subway and bus systems, all that I have to worry about is time. In the coming months, look for more trips into the Korean "outback" right here on SoKoNotes. So long! --Notes

I've been here for six months. I hope it is not a sign of things to come, but I don't feel like writing anything right now. Sorry. I do have a few photos to share. Gavin and I hiked up Jangsan this past weekend. At 637 meters, it is Busan's highest local peak. The summit has an abandoned military post on it. There is a path around it.







There is also a great view of the city. Notice how the entire city of Busan seems to come to a screeching halt right there at that highway in the bottom left-hand corner of the photo. That is literally the northern extent of the city. Past that highway is pure countryside. Weird. I'm used to Atlanta, a suburban monster with concrete tentacles reaching far into the sleepy Georgia sticks.



A few people shots.



On the subway poles are these advertisments encouraging women to check for breast cancer.



Korea played Japan in the World Baseball Championship this past week. They won the first (less important) game and then lost to Japan in the (much more critical) semi-finals. For both games people crowded around televisions and radios.



Well, that's just about all I have for you right now. I have officially passed the half-way mark of 13 months, and I'll write more about that next Sunday. For now, my obsessive mind is fixed on creating this website. So expect some paltry SoKoNotes updates in the coming month. Sorry. I will try and get the Korean Files up as much as possible, however. Gavin, with his amazing WordMan superpowers has updated his website, however, and you should all give it a look. Simple, elegant, easy to navigate and ba-chock full of great photos of Korea. The URL is www.gavinaverill.com, or you can just click on the link in my 'Links' section. --Notes