The other night I woke up and thought I heard bombs falling. If I had been almost anywhere else in the world I would have told myself I was being silly and gone back to sleep. But being here, in Seoul, South Korea, and within strike range of North Korea I listened and debated if I should wake Justin up. The sound was like fireworks, which I’ve heard from the house before, but there was no holiday and it was 4am. It sounded like thunder, but we don’t get that here, and a big dumpster truck which they also don’t have because there are no dumpsters. And that whistling sound you hear in movies when they drop a bomb from an airplane before it hits the ground. It was that last sound which had me holding my breath to try and hear better and thinking through everything we should grab if we had to evacuate quickly. I eventually decided it was a police siren and some large truck, maybe a fire engine shaking the ground. But it’s these little things that make you realize, you aren’t in American anymore.
I haven’t really talked about my view of Army life and living in South Korea before. The truth is, I’m not really crazy about it. South Korea was never even on my long list of places to visit someday, much less on my list of Places to Live for a Year (the south of France is at the top of that list, by the way). I’ll get into details in a minute.
The other half of this equation is Army life. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for my husband being assigned here. The thing is, I don’t consider myself an “Army Wife”, and I don’t really see us as a military family. When I married my husband he only had about a year and a half left in the service and would be spending that time in South Korea. I’ve never had to deal with the nightmare of having my husband deployed to a war zone. And even when we were apart, I got to talk to him every day on Skype.
The other part of this is I’m not command sponsored. This means, while the army pays for my housing where-ever I live, I don’t really have any other privileges. SO when we decided that we wanted to live together (even if it meant in South Korea) I moved here (as in bought my own plane ticket and only brought what I could carry) and changed my residency with the Army, etc and Justin did a bunch of paper work. The end result being that we get a housing allowance and some utilities paid to us each month that we have to put to housing costs. And to-da! I live in South Korea with my husband.
This also means that I’m the low man on the totem pole. If I ever wanted to fly Space A, I’d be last. If I ever wanted to go get flu shots, I’d be last, if I ever wanted to take the bus home from the airport to base, I’d be last. Funny story, while they pay my housing cost to live here, when Justin applied to get Army loaned furniture they would only give him enough for Him because he was here “unaccompanied”, so we’ve been sleeping on a full sized bed since last February, and our cat has his own (empty) room because we only have enough furniture to sparsely furnish our place.
There is also zero community, Army or otherwise. We live off base, in non military housing, so no one near us is military. (Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE our apartment), I’m not in any wives club, I don’t have kids so I’m not in any school groups, etc. There just isn’t much here in the way of community, like none. We have the good fortune to be friends with a wonderful couple (Justin works with the husband) and there is probably one other family we talk to, but that’s it.
Coupled with that is the fact that we live in Seoul, I think it’s the second largest city in the world or something like that, and because we’re not in any Korean groups, we don’t have any Korean friends. Not to mention the fact that the culture differences are pretty big and it’s a lot of work just trying to communicate with the shop owners or taxi drivers.
I sometimes feel like a second class citizen living here too, for a number of reasons.
One, I don’t talk to people on the street and they don’t talk to me.
Two, Korean people spit on the street often, sometimes suspiciously close to me as I’m walking by.
Three, I have to show my ID to get onto base, and every store on base as well.
Four, I have to walk every where- which I don’t mind, until I have something to carry like packages to mail or groceries. I then have to take a taxi which is a whole other post, but they are hit or miss on the friendly scale.
Five, Justin and I share a phone (our choice) but we can’t really get a hold of each other unless he’s at work and I’m at home.
Six, the commissary (or grocery store to you non military folks) will run out of their already small selection. For example, they ran out of redi-whip (you know, that whip cream that comes out of the spray can, not essential, but still lame), and they weren’t going to get any for another two weeks. It’s not like I could just go to another store, there is only the one store. That actually happens a lot, I went to buy a kitchen trash can from the PX and they were out of trashcans and all plastic storage things.
Errands actually take up a lot of my time, much more time than they would if I was doing comparable errands in the states.
To go buy groceries: I have to walk to the store, which isn’t too far, but it’s the farthest thing I walk to. I don’t mind walking if it’s not too hot, or raining, or too cold. Then I have to have my ID and ration card (oh yes, we have ration cards that keep track of how much of what we buy and you can’t go over in some categories), I then push my cart up and down every aisle and hope they have the thing I need (if it’s even a little obscure it’s hard to find, ie lard or molasses, forget it) and hope I like the selection of what they do have (only one kind of baking soda, no choice of aluminum free, Alton Brown). Then wait in line, pay, tip the baggers (because you have to), have them push my cart to the taxi stand and wait in line for a taxi (on a good day takes 5 minutes, on a very bad day it takes an hour or more). Load the food, tell the taxi how to get to my house and hope he speaks good enough English to understand, pay him and lug my groceries to the kitchen in several stages. (my groceries go from cart to conveyer belt, to baggers to cart, to taxi to my front gate to mudroom, to kitchen… and hope I haven’t forgotten a bag anywhere).
To pay rent: All South Koreans pay rent in cash to the bank on the first. If they do otherwise, I sure don’t know about it. To pay our rent I have to walk to base to our bank there (too much to get out of an ATM), withdraw the money and hope the exchange rate is good, carry about $3,500 in cash back to our neighborhood to the Korean bank there, take a number and wait to be called. I give the teller the money and a “rent book” which has our landlords deposit info in it. They count the money and the amount and date gets printed by computer into the rent book that I keep as a kind of running receipt. If you go at the wrong time of day the bank is full of Koreans with rent books and it takes forever.
To pay utilities: I don’t know if you Can pay bills any other way than in person. I asked our one Korean acquaintance (our realtor) what to do about our bills because we were going to be gone for a month and a half, she said that when Korean’s go on vacation, they just pay a late fee when they get home. Anyway, we get two bills delivered to our front gate/shared mail box. I only know A) they are ours because they have Justin’s name on them and B) what amount to pay because I just look for the number that is repeated the most all over the bill, as they are not in English. I can just go to an ATM near the bank to get this money, then I take the money (rounded up to the nearest won) and the bills to the Korean bank. I go in, take a number, wait to be called, give the teller my bills and money and she gives me a little change plus a receipt stapled to my bills.
Trash: I’ve talked about trash before, so I’ll just mention a few things here. But I think we have a pretty good system in place now, it’s been running smoothly for a while. So I have small trashcans lined with grocery bags in the bathroom and under the kitchen sink. When those are full, I tie them off and put them in a large trash can in the laundry room lined with the Official Trash Bag of Korea- I don’t know what it’s called, but you have to buy them from the equivalent of a 7-11 BUT in your neighborhood (so I’ve been told, I can’t read the bags), when the large bag is full I tie it up and take it across the street to lean against the wall (which is where I was told to leave trash) it gets picked up, there is no such thing as a curb trash can here (as far as I can tell). For food waste, you have smaller yellow bags (all gotten at the Korean 7-11) and we have another small trash can under the kitchen sink for the food waste. When that gets full and /or smells too much I tie it up and carry it down the street until one of my neighbors has left out their gray and orange box for these bags (this is also what I was told to do, why we don’t have our own box I don’t know, but they seen to have about one per block). Recycling, I can just put in a clear trash bag and put it next to the trash. And cardboard is taped or tied together in 13x13 bundles. I don’t know what happens to these things, but the old man with the green vest doesn’t yell at me anymore when I take things outside. He also has a broom and leaves a bill in our mail box, I just let the landlord take care of that one since I have no idea what it says.
Our oven... is probably the one thing in the apartment that is complain worthy. It’s gas, which is okay, but it’s the size of a cracker box and it doesn’t have any kind of top heating element so it doesn’t brown food At All. I’ve gotten more cookies burned because they didn’t look done on top but were black on the bottom. I’ve had to return a few pans and cookie sheets because they literally didn’t fit in the oven. Most of the pans we Do have only fit one way. And there is defiantly only one rack in there, I think you can move it, but it really wouldn’t make a difference.
If I want to talk to family or friends we can call them on Skype or just the Skype phone part, and since my parents are so busy I tend to just call them on their phone. BUT there is that pesky 17 hour time difference that makes getting a hold of people so hard.
The phone/time zone thing,
in combination with the cultural isolation from Koreans,
and the differences in Army-life,
and the difficulty of daily necessary tasks-
makes life here a little harder.
But I would not change this year for anything. You see, I haven’t been alone in all this and I’m not here for myself. I wanted to come here and be here every second because I didn’t want to leave Justin alone in all this difficulty. I met Justin when he was home on leave and I talked to him every day when he went back to Korea. I could see the effect it had on him, I could see the strain from daily living taking a toll on him. I felt so helpless being so far from him. When he came back home, on leave again, and we got married we decided that I would come to Korea. Mostly because we didn’t want to be apart for a year or more, but also because I didn’t want to leave him alone in a place as unwelcoming as this and can still be called civilized.
When we were home on vacation people asked me all the time; How do you like living in Korea? I’d say ‘Do you want the truth or the polite answer?’
Monday, December 19, 2011
If you're awkward and you know it, clap your hands!
As I’ve mentioned before, I’m not the best random conversationalist. Even when I’m with people I know, I won’t have anything interesting to say or I won’t know how to phrase what I’m thinking about. My confusion is usually because I’m so busy thinking about a dozen other things while trying to talk. So, when I DO have a “successful” conversation, i.e. my point is made clearly or I don’t feel awkward and/or make other people feel awkward, I feel rightfully proud of my self.
I have had several successful conversations recently, if I only knew what the secret was I wouldn’t be writing a blog about the few times it has happened.
The first was pretty much on accident. Justin and I were leaving the commissary right as it closed so there was a line at the taxi stand. The first thing I notice (after the line) is the cutest, tiniest, white dog I have ever seen in person. (I also happen to be obsessed with tiny white dogs currently. I would have one already but I’m not ready to have a dog in an apartment). Anyway, so I see this cute dog and am gravitationally pulled towards it. I am even reaching out to take the dog from it’s owners before I even realize that I’ll have to at least say ‘hello’ and ‘can I pet your dog’. The owners seem to be used to the effect their dog has on people because the guy holding the dog just hands it to me (it’s like 2 whole pounds. adorable). Now I have the dog snuggled in my arms and I feel obliged to talk to these people so they know I’m not going to run away with their dog, which I might have considered doing anyway. It’s a young solider who is waiting outside with his friend while he waits for his girlfriend to finish shopping. I probably talked to these two guys for like half an hour, while their tiny adorable dog falls asleep in my arms. I was coherent, pleasant, and not awkward.
The girlfriend finally came out of the store and she had a very young little brother, he was probably 4 years old. He saw I was holding their dog and assumed that he knew me. So I had a small child talking to me about... I’m not even sure what, but I’m going to count this as a win too. Until the little boy asked me about my Dad. They were waiting for their Dad to come pick them up, and he wanted to know if I was waiting for my Dad to come pick me up to. I explained that, no, I wasn’t waiting for my Dad, but that my husband and I were waiting for a taxi. I point Justin out to him (who is being so good and waiting in line while I sit down with a cute dog). The little boy then thinks that Justin is my Dad and I only try one more time to impress the word ‘husband’ on him before I give up. The taxi line wasn't moving, so Justin and I finally decide to just walk home and I have to give the dog back and we leave.
The second random successful conversation I had with people was even more unexpected. I was on my way to base to run some errands when I saw that the beauty shop I have to pass had some cute lotions back in stock that I had wanted. So I stopped in to buy them and was waiting to pay for them when I heard people speaking Spanish! There were two women and a younger girl in front of me who were speaking Spanish with each other. I was so excited. I decided to go ahead and try to speak my crappy Spanish to them. I asked the lady who was closer to me, 'donde tu eras?' which should be ‘where are you from?’ She said Columbia (which thankfully sounds like it’s English name) and which point, I was out of Spanish to speak. She asked me where I was from, I said California. She asked me something like, how long have you been here, but like I said I was all out of my speaking Spanish, and she could tell so she (graciously) switched to English for me.
The women were here because the other lady, whom I hadn't spoken to, and her daughter were here with her husband who was in the military. They had just moved to Korea and wanted to get my phone number so they could have coffee with me and get some advice about living here. I’m not sure how to explain it, maybe because I grew up listening to Spanish, but it was infinitely more refreshing to hear Them talk than to hear people speaking Korean. We are all standing outside talking when the girl, who was probably 11 years old, asked me if my Dad was in the Army too. I told them no, my husband was and I was here with him. They all said how young I looked, etc, we parted ways happily.
So, I have to wonder, do I really look *that* young? I hear adults (when I say adults I mean people my parents age, or older. I know technically my generation are adults too, but it's a habit), anyway I hear adults say how young I look ALL. THE. TIME. But I don't mind really, as long as I'm not being carded for an R rated movie (which you have to be 17 years old to see) it's kind of nice to be called young in a flattering way. But if children think I look young and could possibly be in their age range, how young do I Really look? So that's my weird story about kids asking about my "Dad" and having "successful" conversations.
I have had several successful conversations recently, if I only knew what the secret was I wouldn’t be writing a blog about the few times it has happened.
The first was pretty much on accident. Justin and I were leaving the commissary right as it closed so there was a line at the taxi stand. The first thing I notice (after the line) is the cutest, tiniest, white dog I have ever seen in person. (I also happen to be obsessed with tiny white dogs currently. I would have one already but I’m not ready to have a dog in an apartment). Anyway, so I see this cute dog and am gravitationally pulled towards it. I am even reaching out to take the dog from it’s owners before I even realize that I’ll have to at least say ‘hello’ and ‘can I pet your dog’. The owners seem to be used to the effect their dog has on people because the guy holding the dog just hands it to me (it’s like 2 whole pounds. adorable). Now I have the dog snuggled in my arms and I feel obliged to talk to these people so they know I’m not going to run away with their dog, which I might have considered doing anyway. It’s a young solider who is waiting outside with his friend while he waits for his girlfriend to finish shopping. I probably talked to these two guys for like half an hour, while their tiny adorable dog falls asleep in my arms. I was coherent, pleasant, and not awkward.
The girlfriend finally came out of the store and she had a very young little brother, he was probably 4 years old. He saw I was holding their dog and assumed that he knew me. So I had a small child talking to me about... I’m not even sure what, but I’m going to count this as a win too. Until the little boy asked me about my Dad. They were waiting for their Dad to come pick them up, and he wanted to know if I was waiting for my Dad to come pick me up to. I explained that, no, I wasn’t waiting for my Dad, but that my husband and I were waiting for a taxi. I point Justin out to him (who is being so good and waiting in line while I sit down with a cute dog). The little boy then thinks that Justin is my Dad and I only try one more time to impress the word ‘husband’ on him before I give up. The taxi line wasn't moving, so Justin and I finally decide to just walk home and I have to give the dog back and we leave.
The second random successful conversation I had with people was even more unexpected. I was on my way to base to run some errands when I saw that the beauty shop I have to pass had some cute lotions back in stock that I had wanted. So I stopped in to buy them and was waiting to pay for them when I heard people speaking Spanish! There were two women and a younger girl in front of me who were speaking Spanish with each other. I was so excited. I decided to go ahead and try to speak my crappy Spanish to them. I asked the lady who was closer to me, 'donde tu eras?' which should be ‘where are you from?’ She said Columbia (which thankfully sounds like it’s English name) and which point, I was out of Spanish to speak. She asked me where I was from, I said California. She asked me something like, how long have you been here, but like I said I was all out of my speaking Spanish, and she could tell so she (graciously) switched to English for me.
The women were here because the other lady, whom I hadn't spoken to, and her daughter were here with her husband who was in the military. They had just moved to Korea and wanted to get my phone number so they could have coffee with me and get some advice about living here. I’m not sure how to explain it, maybe because I grew up listening to Spanish, but it was infinitely more refreshing to hear Them talk than to hear people speaking Korean. We are all standing outside talking when the girl, who was probably 11 years old, asked me if my Dad was in the Army too. I told them no, my husband was and I was here with him. They all said how young I looked, etc, we parted ways happily.
So, I have to wonder, do I really look *that* young? I hear adults (when I say adults I mean people my parents age, or older. I know technically my generation are adults too, but it's a habit), anyway I hear adults say how young I look ALL. THE. TIME. But I don't mind really, as long as I'm not being carded for an R rated movie (which you have to be 17 years old to see) it's kind of nice to be called young in a flattering way. But if children think I look young and could possibly be in their age range, how young do I Really look? So that's my weird story about kids asking about my "Dad" and having "successful" conversations.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Santa, Not Christmas Yet
I found this letter re-posted a few times so I don't know where it came from originally, but it's great. I know it's only the beginning of November but I've been thinking about Christmas anyway. (and yeah, it's kinda funny that the little girl's name is Lucy too.)
************************************************************************************
A few months back, the Tooth Fairy got busted. She left a note for Alice up on her computer, and Lucy figured the whole business out. The Tooth Fairy cursed her need to write notes in elaborate fonts and tried to come up with a cover story, but it didn’t fool Lucy.
To her credit, Lucy has kept the secret from her little sister, who still hasn’t lost a tooth and deserves to wake up with money under her pillow.
But the Tooth Fairy knew it couldn’t be too long before Santa was similarly unmasked. She didn’t know when or how, but she knew the days of magic in her house, at least magic of a certain sort, were coming to an end.
And the Tooth Fairy—by which I mean myself—was pretty darned sad about the inevitable, which finally arrived last week.
Lucy and I have been exchanging notes since the school year started. We’ve talked about all sorts of things—sports, books we’d like to read, adventures we’d like to have, even stories from when I was in third grade. For the most part, though, it’s been light, casual stuff. Until last week.
I NEED TO KNOW, she wrote, using capital letters for emphasis. ARE YOU SANTA? TELL ME THE TRUTH.
What do you do when your kid asks for the truth? You tell it, of course, doing your best to figure out a way that keeps at least some of the magic intact.
Here’s what I wrote:
Dear Lucy,
Thank you for your letter. You asked a very good question: “Are you Santa?”
I know you’ve wanted the answer to this question for a long time, and I’ve had to give it careful thought to know just what to say.
The answer is no. I am not Santa. There is no one Santa.
I am the person who fills your stockings with presents, though. I also choose and wrap the presents under the tree, the same way my mom did for me, and the same way her mom did for her. (And yes, Daddy helps, too.)
I imagine you will someday do this for your children, and I know you will love seeing them run down the stairs on Christmas morning. You will love seeing them sit under the tree, their small faces lit with Christmas lights.
This won’t make you Santa, though.
Santa is bigger than any person, and his work has gone on longer than any of us have lived. What he does is simple, but it is powerful. He teaches children how to have belief in something they can’t see or touch.
It’s a big job, and it’s an important one. Throughout your life, you will need this capacity to believe: in yourself, in your friends, in your talents and in your family. You’ll also need to believe in things you can’t measure or even hold in your hand. Here, I am talking about love, that great power that will light your life from the inside out, even during its darkest, coldest moments.
Santa is a teacher, and I have been his student, and now you know the secret of how he gets down all those chimneys on Christmas Eve: he has help from all the people whose hearts he’s filled with joy.
With full hearts, people like Daddy and me take our turns helping Santa do a job that would otherwise be impossible.
So, no. I am not Santa. Santa is love and magic and hope and happiness. I’m on his team, and now you are, too.
I love you and I always will.
Mama
************************************************************************************
A few months back, the Tooth Fairy got busted. She left a note for Alice up on her computer, and Lucy figured the whole business out. The Tooth Fairy cursed her need to write notes in elaborate fonts and tried to come up with a cover story, but it didn’t fool Lucy.
To her credit, Lucy has kept the secret from her little sister, who still hasn’t lost a tooth and deserves to wake up with money under her pillow.
But the Tooth Fairy knew it couldn’t be too long before Santa was similarly unmasked. She didn’t know when or how, but she knew the days of magic in her house, at least magic of a certain sort, were coming to an end.
And the Tooth Fairy—by which I mean myself—was pretty darned sad about the inevitable, which finally arrived last week.
Lucy and I have been exchanging notes since the school year started. We’ve talked about all sorts of things—sports, books we’d like to read, adventures we’d like to have, even stories from when I was in third grade. For the most part, though, it’s been light, casual stuff. Until last week.
I NEED TO KNOW, she wrote, using capital letters for emphasis. ARE YOU SANTA? TELL ME THE TRUTH.
What do you do when your kid asks for the truth? You tell it, of course, doing your best to figure out a way that keeps at least some of the magic intact.
Here’s what I wrote:
Dear Lucy,
Thank you for your letter. You asked a very good question: “Are you Santa?”
I know you’ve wanted the answer to this question for a long time, and I’ve had to give it careful thought to know just what to say.
The answer is no. I am not Santa. There is no one Santa.
I am the person who fills your stockings with presents, though. I also choose and wrap the presents under the tree, the same way my mom did for me, and the same way her mom did for her. (And yes, Daddy helps, too.)
I imagine you will someday do this for your children, and I know you will love seeing them run down the stairs on Christmas morning. You will love seeing them sit under the tree, their small faces lit with Christmas lights.
This won’t make you Santa, though.
Santa is bigger than any person, and his work has gone on longer than any of us have lived. What he does is simple, but it is powerful. He teaches children how to have belief in something they can’t see or touch.
It’s a big job, and it’s an important one. Throughout your life, you will need this capacity to believe: in yourself, in your friends, in your talents and in your family. You’ll also need to believe in things you can’t measure or even hold in your hand. Here, I am talking about love, that great power that will light your life from the inside out, even during its darkest, coldest moments.
Santa is a teacher, and I have been his student, and now you know the secret of how he gets down all those chimneys on Christmas Eve: he has help from all the people whose hearts he’s filled with joy.
With full hearts, people like Daddy and me take our turns helping Santa do a job that would otherwise be impossible.
So, no. I am not Santa. Santa is love and magic and hope and happiness. I’m on his team, and now you are, too.
I love you and I always will.
Mama
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Window to the Soul
I’ve never hated anything about myself. Sometimes I’d wished I was better in school, or playing a musical instrument, or faster at running- but that’s not what I’m talking about. I mean the parts of yourself that are essentially you. Things you can’t change with more studying or practicing.
I’ve always liked my body, sometimes wished I was a little thinner, but who hasn’t. It isn’t something I obsess over. I fuss over my hair a LOT, I like everything about it (color, texture, temperament) but usually I have a haircut I don’t like or I’m in the middle of growing it out. (and then when I like the length, it takes too long to wash).
I suppose my one secret thing, that really keeps me up at night sometimes, are my eyes. I love my eyes, their shape, the lashes, their size, the width they are set at... and the color.
I both love in extreme the color of my eyes, and, I also wish they were something more unusual and more striking.
I have deep, dark brown eyes. They are soft and warm, they are mysterious and can’t be read. I like that about them. People often remark on my eyes about how beautiful they are. And I love them.
But, but, but... oh to have the blues eyes that are in poems and songs. To have green eyes, or gray, or violet, or the nonexistent but sounds awesome turquoise eyes. Something colorful and striking and beautiful and mesmerizing. Sometimes I wonder if the world would look different through different colored eyes. Sometimes I wonder if the world would look at me differently too.
The eyes are the window to the soul, they say. Are blue eyes more open? Are brown eyes shuttered against the world?
I hate that I wonder. I want to be happy with who I am and what I look like because it IS who I am and it can’t be changed. And I also believe it Shouldn’t be changed. I feel that it somehow is like hiding yourself if you change those things about you.
Yes, it’s fun to try new looks, different lengths of hair. Sure, different colors then too. Oh, more makeup. Maybe a little help to get into those jeans that look so good on everyone else... and maybe fill out that shirt a little more in a bountiful way. Firm up that face, and maybe pull some wrinkles straight, like a sheet.
I object to these. If I object, then why do I wonder? Who would I still be if I was taller, skinner, blonde with those glacier blue eyes? Or luminous green eyes, or those piercing yet mysterious gray that I read so much about.
It’s not the changing of the outside that bothers me, it’s what must be going on INSIDE that allows you to think that the outside must be bad and changed, like a flat tire, with no more thought than that.
Will your life be better? If you were taller, thinner, blonder, blue eyed? Maybe...
Would you be the same you? no. never.
Something inside has changed, twisted, made you feel that the most precious thing in the world wasn’t good enough. You, you are that most precious thing in the world and you are Exactly as you are meant to be.
Or so I tell myself. Doe eyes, chocolate chip, my brown eyed girl.
I’ve always liked my body, sometimes wished I was a little thinner, but who hasn’t. It isn’t something I obsess over. I fuss over my hair a LOT, I like everything about it (color, texture, temperament) but usually I have a haircut I don’t like or I’m in the middle of growing it out. (and then when I like the length, it takes too long to wash).
I suppose my one secret thing, that really keeps me up at night sometimes, are my eyes. I love my eyes, their shape, the lashes, their size, the width they are set at... and the color.
I both love in extreme the color of my eyes, and, I also wish they were something more unusual and more striking.
I have deep, dark brown eyes. They are soft and warm, they are mysterious and can’t be read. I like that about them. People often remark on my eyes about how beautiful they are. And I love them.
But, but, but... oh to have the blues eyes that are in poems and songs. To have green eyes, or gray, or violet, or the nonexistent but sounds awesome turquoise eyes. Something colorful and striking and beautiful and mesmerizing. Sometimes I wonder if the world would look different through different colored eyes. Sometimes I wonder if the world would look at me differently too.
The eyes are the window to the soul, they say. Are blue eyes more open? Are brown eyes shuttered against the world?
I hate that I wonder. I want to be happy with who I am and what I look like because it IS who I am and it can’t be changed. And I also believe it Shouldn’t be changed. I feel that it somehow is like hiding yourself if you change those things about you.
Yes, it’s fun to try new looks, different lengths of hair. Sure, different colors then too. Oh, more makeup. Maybe a little help to get into those jeans that look so good on everyone else... and maybe fill out that shirt a little more in a bountiful way. Firm up that face, and maybe pull some wrinkles straight, like a sheet.
I object to these. If I object, then why do I wonder? Who would I still be if I was taller, skinner, blonde with those glacier blue eyes? Or luminous green eyes, or those piercing yet mysterious gray that I read so much about.
It’s not the changing of the outside that bothers me, it’s what must be going on INSIDE that allows you to think that the outside must be bad and changed, like a flat tire, with no more thought than that.
Will your life be better? If you were taller, thinner, blonder, blue eyed? Maybe...
Would you be the same you? no. never.
Something inside has changed, twisted, made you feel that the most precious thing in the world wasn’t good enough. You, you are that most precious thing in the world and you are Exactly as you are meant to be.
Or so I tell myself. Doe eyes, chocolate chip, my brown eyed girl.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Hoddeok (Korean Street Food)
Since Seoul is a) a big city and b) Asian, there is a lot of street food. The most predominant street food on the street where we live is squid on a stick cooked directly on top of coals. It’s actually a smell I’ve come to appreciate.
Depending on the location and time of year there are lots of different street foods, most of them on a stick. I usually don’t eat street food, nothing about it looks sanitary and I’m a little paranoid about food borne ah.. disruptions.
But last Winter, I was invited out to see some historic temples and walk around Korea with a friend and a local Korean guide. As a treat our local guide took us to several local spots. One was a traditional Korean restaurant (I’ve had American Korean food and it was nothing like this, I didn’t even recognize anything or know if it was animal or vegetable), but I decided to be brave and try EVERYTHING on the table. And I did.
We then stopped at a street that was famous for having a ton of street food vendors. They had little tiny shop fronts (instead of carts) and there were tons of people in line at every shop, so I decided to just go for it again. I accepted the street food offered to me by our guide and was surprised because it was hot, sweet and delicious! It was Hoddeok, and brown sugar filled pancake thing.
I loved it and kept my eyes open for more the rest of the winter but none of the street food people near me were selling it. As it got warmer they stopped selling hot food and I gave up on ever having it again.
THEN I happened across a Korean woman’s blog who had a recipe for Hoddoek !!! apparently she made it for her kids all the time, and it was a common treat for house wives to make. I’ve never, let me repeat that NEVER baked from scratch like it was saying and I’ve never made dough, so it was a little intimidating. But I really wanted to see if I could make it, and I wanted to share the deliciousness with Justin so I set out and made a batch.
They were awesome. And exactly like I remembered them being. Be careful, they are hot and the liquid sugar inside is even hotter. The blog said to serve hot, but just heads up, not too hot. I re-worded the recipe, her English wasn’t the best (not the worst, but you have to be in the habit of translating), so here is the recipe. If you want to have authentic Korean street food without wondering if they washed their hands or if those car fumes can get cooked into food, here ya go!
Hoddeok
Korean street food
a flour dough pancake filled with sugar syrup
Dough:
2 TS dry yeast
1 cup warm water
1/2 TS salt
1 TBS vegetable oil
2 TBS white sugar
2 cups flour
Filling:
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 TS ground cinnamon
1) Combine
Yeast, Water, Salt, Vegetable Oil and Sugar
in a large mixing bowl, stir well
2) Add Flour and Mix to combine
3) cover bowl and let dough rise at room temperature for 1 hour
4) knead dough (flour as needed) and let rise for another 15 minutes
5) flour cutting board and knead dough again, shaping it into a log. Flatten log and cut dough into 8 equal pieces. Form balls, set aside.
6)FILLING: combine brown sugar and cinnamon in a separate small bowl
7) take one ball of dough at a time, flatten into palm size piece and fill center with approximately 1 TBS of filling, reform into a ball with filling in center, pinch to close. Flour as needed. Fill all dough balls, set aside.
8) Place nonstick pan over medium heat with a thin layer of vegetable oil in pan.
10) Place dough ball in pan cook for 30 seconds or until light golden brown on bottom
11) flip ball over and flatten with spatula (to about the size of a CD) let cook for 1 minute or until golden brown
12) flip over again and turn heat to low. Place lid on pan and let cook for 1 more minute.
Makes 8 Pancakes, keep finished pancakes covered until cooking is done, serve hot.
Depending on the location and time of year there are lots of different street foods, most of them on a stick. I usually don’t eat street food, nothing about it looks sanitary and I’m a little paranoid about food borne ah.. disruptions.
But last Winter, I was invited out to see some historic temples and walk around Korea with a friend and a local Korean guide. As a treat our local guide took us to several local spots. One was a traditional Korean restaurant (I’ve had American Korean food and it was nothing like this, I didn’t even recognize anything or know if it was animal or vegetable), but I decided to be brave and try EVERYTHING on the table. And I did.
We then stopped at a street that was famous for having a ton of street food vendors. They had little tiny shop fronts (instead of carts) and there were tons of people in line at every shop, so I decided to just go for it again. I accepted the street food offered to me by our guide and was surprised because it was hot, sweet and delicious! It was Hoddeok, and brown sugar filled pancake thing.
I loved it and kept my eyes open for more the rest of the winter but none of the street food people near me were selling it. As it got warmer they stopped selling hot food and I gave up on ever having it again.
THEN I happened across a Korean woman’s blog who had a recipe for Hoddoek !!! apparently she made it for her kids all the time, and it was a common treat for house wives to make. I’ve never, let me repeat that NEVER baked from scratch like it was saying and I’ve never made dough, so it was a little intimidating. But I really wanted to see if I could make it, and I wanted to share the deliciousness with Justin so I set out and made a batch.
They were awesome. And exactly like I remembered them being. Be careful, they are hot and the liquid sugar inside is even hotter. The blog said to serve hot, but just heads up, not too hot. I re-worded the recipe, her English wasn’t the best (not the worst, but you have to be in the habit of translating), so here is the recipe. If you want to have authentic Korean street food without wondering if they washed their hands or if those car fumes can get cooked into food, here ya go!
Hoddeok
Korean street food
a flour dough pancake filled with sugar syrup
Dough:
2 TS dry yeast
1 cup warm water
1/2 TS salt
1 TBS vegetable oil
2 TBS white sugar
2 cups flour
Filling:
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 TS ground cinnamon
1) Combine
Yeast, Water, Salt, Vegetable Oil and Sugar
in a large mixing bowl, stir well
2) Add Flour and Mix to combine
3) cover bowl and let dough rise at room temperature for 1 hour
4) knead dough (flour as needed) and let rise for another 15 minutes
5) flour cutting board and knead dough again, shaping it into a log. Flatten log and cut dough into 8 equal pieces. Form balls, set aside.
6)FILLING: combine brown sugar and cinnamon in a separate small bowl
7) take one ball of dough at a time, flatten into palm size piece and fill center with approximately 1 TBS of filling, reform into a ball with filling in center, pinch to close. Flour as needed. Fill all dough balls, set aside.
8) Place nonstick pan over medium heat with a thin layer of vegetable oil in pan.
10) Place dough ball in pan cook for 30 seconds or until light golden brown on bottom
11) flip ball over and flatten with spatula (to about the size of a CD) let cook for 1 minute or until golden brown
12) flip over again and turn heat to low. Place lid on pan and let cook for 1 more minute.
Makes 8 Pancakes, keep finished pancakes covered until cooking is done, serve hot.
Itaewon Global Village Festival
Saturday Justin and I were sitting in the living room when he asked if I heard a noise. I listened and thought it sounded like bagpipes! They weren’t, they were the Korean long horn drone thingy, but it’s in the genes to go in search of bagpipes if you hear them. So we hopped up, put on shoes and headed down to the main street where we live.
I’d forgotten there was going to be a festival. Itaewon is the “global village”, it has little brass plaques in the sidewalk every block or so with how to say 'Hello' in another language, I haven’t cataloged them all, but it seems to cover everything, even the pretty obscure languages. There are also tons of restaurants that claim to have different world foods, but it’s all cooked by Koreans so it pretty much all tastes the same. Besides the food, there are innumerable shops.
When I say shops, it’s not what Americans think of. There are several types of shops; the most obvious kind are the carts. They show up every afternoon and are reminiscent of gypsy carts, they have everything from socks and underwear to knock off purses and sunglasses. They fold up into closed rectangles that are then wheeled away (somewhere) for the night.
The second kind are the more normal shops, they have a sales floor, back storage rooms, clean window displays, etc. They are the most reminiscent of “American shops”, but half the time there are several floors of the same shop. I guess it’s cheaper to buy up.
The next kind seem to be the most naturally Korean. They are stuck in every possible corner, they are the size of large walk-in closets, there is no back room with extra stock, everything is hanging on the walls and ceiling so it looks like there are no walls, just stuff. Often the floors are not level and they usually just have a roll down metal door to close at night, but otherwise they are open on the front.
The last kind is the scariest and I don’t go into them alone. They are just normal shops, for Korea, but they are huge and maze-like with no way of telling how far they reach. They have normal shop fronts but the windows are so crowded with things that you can’t see into the store, once inside, the store keeps going back and back, or down into basements or up and up. I once went in one and came out a few streets away in the back ally. Every surface is packed with products, I’m betting they don’t have a back store room either. It’s also harder to walk away when the sales people get pushy (and they always do).
The remaining business on Iteawon are night clubs, I’ve never been out at night there, but we can hear the various clubs blasting their music every night of the week. And I pass numerous drunks still waking up the next morning having passed out from too much the night before.
There are always people out on the street too, I’ve never seen it deserted. There are two main subway stops at either end of the street, and the roadway is a popular and busy road. The people who drive scooters skip the roads and drive right on the sidewalk (which is narrowed considerably by all the gypsy carts). The main area on either side of the street has sidewalks, but if you go one block to either direction(and in all of Korea) it’s just a narrow one-way road that people drive two-ways on, drive scooters on, put their trash out on and expect people to walk on too.
ANYWAY, we heard music and went to see what it was. There were people lined up in the street like they were waiting to start a parade and the far end of the street was blocked off with a huge screen and lots of chairs. There were tons of people on the sidewalk and in the street (with only half of the traffic stopped I might add). There were at least eight policemen trying to control traffic at one intersection all blowing their whistles constantly. The people in the street were in various traditional costumes and most of them had either a drum or a gong and were (semi) rhythmically banging the shit of them. There was a huge knot of people crowed around the performance area and past them was the rest of the street with white tents set up on either side all the way down to the screen with the chairs.
I spotted a big gold dragon and we followed it trying to get a better view. It was one of those that was being held up by a dozen guys with sticks who would move their sticks and it looked like the dragon was undulating along. There were also two of the 2-man dragon dancers. I was pretty excited about the dragons, and I noticed that I could see pretty well (everyone in Asia being roughly the same height as me).
We followed the dragons past the big display area (where all the performers stopped to perform in front of one set of bleachers), and down into the tent area. Most of the tents were empty and the rest had food from the surrounding restaurants. I thought it was a little silly because the restaurants were right along the street. It was like having a BBQ in your front yard when the kitchen is just one room over, except that's a bad example because it's fun to have BBQs. Anyway, we walked along the street (this section being closed to traffic minus the occasional scooter) and looked at all the booths, most of them were Korean food booths. Odd since this was a global village festival, but those were the most popular booths.
The odd thing about the parade was that they didn't have the street blocked off with police tape or saw-horses or anything, AND the people didn't stay on the sidewalk. So the volunteers in the bright yellow vests were constantly telling people to step back so the parade could squeeze through. All in all it was a huge mass of noise and whistles, gongs and drums and an announcer on a loud speaker only speaking in Korean and people wandering around in the street that was only half blocked off from traffic while the parade of performers were trying to get through.
We saw everything there was to see that night and went home to dinner.
The next day was Sunday and we had to go to the grocery store, we were out of cat food and milk plus a bunch of other things, but those two items are my cue to go. The only problem was, the street was still blocked off by the festival. So Justin and I walked to the store, bought our groceries, packed our carefully selected food into our backpacks and started the trek home. It had been a little cold the day before but on Sunday the sun was out and it was warm and there were millions of little tiny flies out en mass. At first I thought they were ash falling from all the outdoor cooking, that's how fine they were. But soon we saw they were flies, and they were everywhere. They got into your mouth, your eyes and nose, they stuck to your skin. They were the whole length of the festival route, we cut up to a side street and there were fewer flies, but when we got home we had to shower to get them all off us. I took off my shirt and they were stuck to the skin of my stomach. Weird.
That was Halloween weekend, the Koreans don't do anything for Halloween and this was the first year that I didn't either. I did buy a candy bucket (it's a black cat face) and some candy in case we got any trick-or-treaters (or so I told myself) but we didn't get any. Oh no, I guess I'll have to eat the candy myself.
I’d forgotten there was going to be a festival. Itaewon is the “global village”, it has little brass plaques in the sidewalk every block or so with how to say 'Hello' in another language, I haven’t cataloged them all, but it seems to cover everything, even the pretty obscure languages. There are also tons of restaurants that claim to have different world foods, but it’s all cooked by Koreans so it pretty much all tastes the same. Besides the food, there are innumerable shops.
When I say shops, it’s not what Americans think of. There are several types of shops; the most obvious kind are the carts. They show up every afternoon and are reminiscent of gypsy carts, they have everything from socks and underwear to knock off purses and sunglasses. They fold up into closed rectangles that are then wheeled away (somewhere) for the night.
The second kind are the more normal shops, they have a sales floor, back storage rooms, clean window displays, etc. They are the most reminiscent of “American shops”, but half the time there are several floors of the same shop. I guess it’s cheaper to buy up.
The next kind seem to be the most naturally Korean. They are stuck in every possible corner, they are the size of large walk-in closets, there is no back room with extra stock, everything is hanging on the walls and ceiling so it looks like there are no walls, just stuff. Often the floors are not level and they usually just have a roll down metal door to close at night, but otherwise they are open on the front.
The last kind is the scariest and I don’t go into them alone. They are just normal shops, for Korea, but they are huge and maze-like with no way of telling how far they reach. They have normal shop fronts but the windows are so crowded with things that you can’t see into the store, once inside, the store keeps going back and back, or down into basements or up and up. I once went in one and came out a few streets away in the back ally. Every surface is packed with products, I’m betting they don’t have a back store room either. It’s also harder to walk away when the sales people get pushy (and they always do).
The remaining business on Iteawon are night clubs, I’ve never been out at night there, but we can hear the various clubs blasting their music every night of the week. And I pass numerous drunks still waking up the next morning having passed out from too much the night before.
There are always people out on the street too, I’ve never seen it deserted. There are two main subway stops at either end of the street, and the roadway is a popular and busy road. The people who drive scooters skip the roads and drive right on the sidewalk (which is narrowed considerably by all the gypsy carts). The main area on either side of the street has sidewalks, but if you go one block to either direction(and in all of Korea) it’s just a narrow one-way road that people drive two-ways on, drive scooters on, put their trash out on and expect people to walk on too.
ANYWAY, we heard music and went to see what it was. There were people lined up in the street like they were waiting to start a parade and the far end of the street was blocked off with a huge screen and lots of chairs. There were tons of people on the sidewalk and in the street (with only half of the traffic stopped I might add). There were at least eight policemen trying to control traffic at one intersection all blowing their whistles constantly. The people in the street were in various traditional costumes and most of them had either a drum or a gong and were (semi) rhythmically banging the shit of them. There was a huge knot of people crowed around the performance area and past them was the rest of the street with white tents set up on either side all the way down to the screen with the chairs.
I spotted a big gold dragon and we followed it trying to get a better view. It was one of those that was being held up by a dozen guys with sticks who would move their sticks and it looked like the dragon was undulating along. There were also two of the 2-man dragon dancers. I was pretty excited about the dragons, and I noticed that I could see pretty well (everyone in Asia being roughly the same height as me).
We followed the dragons past the big display area (where all the performers stopped to perform in front of one set of bleachers), and down into the tent area. Most of the tents were empty and the rest had food from the surrounding restaurants. I thought it was a little silly because the restaurants were right along the street. It was like having a BBQ in your front yard when the kitchen is just one room over, except that's a bad example because it's fun to have BBQs. Anyway, we walked along the street (this section being closed to traffic minus the occasional scooter) and looked at all the booths, most of them were Korean food booths. Odd since this was a global village festival, but those were the most popular booths.
The odd thing about the parade was that they didn't have the street blocked off with police tape or saw-horses or anything, AND the people didn't stay on the sidewalk. So the volunteers in the bright yellow vests were constantly telling people to step back so the parade could squeeze through. All in all it was a huge mass of noise and whistles, gongs and drums and an announcer on a loud speaker only speaking in Korean and people wandering around in the street that was only half blocked off from traffic while the parade of performers were trying to get through.
We saw everything there was to see that night and went home to dinner.
The next day was Sunday and we had to go to the grocery store, we were out of cat food and milk plus a bunch of other things, but those two items are my cue to go. The only problem was, the street was still blocked off by the festival. So Justin and I walked to the store, bought our groceries, packed our carefully selected food into our backpacks and started the trek home. It had been a little cold the day before but on Sunday the sun was out and it was warm and there were millions of little tiny flies out en mass. At first I thought they were ash falling from all the outdoor cooking, that's how fine they were. But soon we saw they were flies, and they were everywhere. They got into your mouth, your eyes and nose, they stuck to your skin. They were the whole length of the festival route, we cut up to a side street and there were fewer flies, but when we got home we had to shower to get them all off us. I took off my shirt and they were stuck to the skin of my stomach. Weird.
That was Halloween weekend, the Koreans don't do anything for Halloween and this was the first year that I didn't either. I did buy a candy bucket (it's a black cat face) and some candy in case we got any trick-or-treaters (or so I told myself) but we didn't get any. Oh no, I guess I'll have to eat the candy myself.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Dear Tomato
Dear Tomatoes,
I’m sorry I never liked you before. Maybe I just never had a good tomato and I was too stubborn to try a good one when it came along.
I’m sorry for all the BLT sandwiches I had (hold the “T”). I’m sorry that the first phrase I learned in French class was ‘I hate tomatoes’. I have always been a fan of tomato soup and Ketchup, but that was pretty much it.
I first started to like you on margarita pizzas, cooked Roma tomatoes are amazing. Then I had you on Greek salads, also a win. I don’t know exactly when I accepted you on anything you came on, but after that point I would stop picking you off my food.
I have even bought you in a supermarket and voluntarily put you on my food at home.
Oh my tomato, will you forgive me?
Love, Lucy
P.S. canned tuna fish and creamed corn, this letter does not apply to you. Other people can eat you and like you, just not while I’m in the same room. ew.
I’m sorry I never liked you before. Maybe I just never had a good tomato and I was too stubborn to try a good one when it came along.
I’m sorry for all the BLT sandwiches I had (hold the “T”). I’m sorry that the first phrase I learned in French class was ‘I hate tomatoes’. I have always been a fan of tomato soup and Ketchup, but that was pretty much it.
I first started to like you on margarita pizzas, cooked Roma tomatoes are amazing. Then I had you on Greek salads, also a win. I don’t know exactly when I accepted you on anything you came on, but after that point I would stop picking you off my food.
I have even bought you in a supermarket and voluntarily put you on my food at home.
Oh my tomato, will you forgive me?
Love, Lucy
P.S. canned tuna fish and creamed corn, this letter does not apply to you. Other people can eat you and like you, just not while I’m in the same room. ew.
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