recovery room

It should be said that I do tend to grow weary of being in the same place for too long. To further support this, I feel my body tensing up, my sleep patterns become irregular, jealousy for those with more freedom becomes acute, and the urge to complain is ever present.

This weekend my friend Briana and I left the bustling, condensed metropolis of Seoul for a calmer, slower pace with more fresh air. We took the subway south to Anyang, which I read an article about in an English magazine.

Upon our arrival, we immediately scanned the area searching for differences between this place and the place we'd just escaped. Sadly, there were few. Among them, far less traffic, which was nice, especially for a Saturday morning when it seems everybody has endless time and resources for joyriding. We meandered down some roads with a vague intention to eat lunch and a pressing need to find a restroom (or more likely, an available hole in the floor that flushes).

We found ourselves at a nice little traditional-style restaurant where you take off your shoes in the doorway and tuck them into a cubby so you can sit down on the heated (ondol) floor at a low table. It's totally commonplace. At first, we sat down near these two guys smoking and drinking soju (before noon), and I chose to move because I really don't need to smell or smell like burnt tobacco. It turns out that this gave me a great seat for the upcoming theatrics.

They were probably both completely slammed, but one guy was belligerent and extremely loud, bellowing at the ajumma (waitress restaurant owner lady). She wasn't scared of him, even when he got up and yelled in her face! She just called someone on her phone, and another guy showed up to help solve the problem diplomatically. To no avail. This drunk man was feeling really bold and got up and took another soju bottle out of the fridge (not something patrons are supposed to do) and sat down. The recently-arrived diplomat quietly went over and removed it from their table. Then some words were exchanged, some more bellowing ensued, and eventually these two guys were thrown out. The quieter of the two paid for their meal while the obnoxious one shoved and barked and was led outside.

Outside of the restaurant, the diplomat still tried to remain quiet and calm, but used a little more physical restraint with this guy. It took some time, but he and his buddy finally left.

About ten minutes later, they came back. By this time, our exciting lunch had come to an end and we were paying our bill. Of course, being two strong-minded, loud white women in a restaurant with a drunken bastard hassling some kind, mild-mannered restauranteurs, we were not about to let things get really out of hand without stepping in. Briana has a short fuse attached to a very big, unwieldy bomb, but I have been known to channel outrage into rather efficient responses. We decided we were part of Team Oh-Hell-No (O.H.N. for short) and weren't going to stand by and watch this injustice. So here come the drunks, unconvinced that they were no longer welcome and that they were too inebriated to be served.

Our belligerent fellow is met by the diplomat once more, who attempts to wrangle him into some kind of submission, but in a really passive, half-hearted way. What's the matter with these people? Punch him in the stomach and call the cops!! At some point, this guy walks to the side of the restaurant and SLAMS his face into a vending machine. Briana is horrified and begins screaming, "Psycho! Oh my God he's PSYCHO! PSYCHO!" which was echoed by other patrons familiar with the word. I put my shoes on and we both took our rings off (figuratively) because we were ready to defend this place. We stood in the doorway (two glass doors) and watched this guy now surrounded by several useless pacifists. He tried to come into the restaurant through the door I was now blocking, and opened it in toward me. I simply pushed my fingers into his chest and backed him out the door and then closed it on his face. He struggled to open the doors again, but Briana and I held true!

Oh, and we took photos of this incident, because we were on a vacation and care little about the "loss of face" taboo in conservative Korean culture. Especially for a raging drunk.

Then we found our way over to Anyang Art Park, which was my main destination. There was a deafening over-the-hill Korean traditional pop concert attracting hundreds of elderly hikers that seemed to be an all-day event. We could hear it from every corner of the park, which was rather sizable. The art itself was really cool, made by artists international, and completely interactive. I was a bit surprised to see parents leading their youngsters through the explicit content part of the park with nude statues and erotic poses. Maybe, though, these kids think little of the indecency of a woman's naked breasts.

Oh, and the big building on the hill that said, "Resorts and Youth Hostel," was not that at all. In fact, there was no hostel and there were no rooms available for just two people, only three. I mentioned they should change their sign. We asked where else we might find lodging, and the hotel clerk said, "The..Moon Motel, or...others..." So, those were our options. Sounds like BS, right?

We went over to the Moon Motel, which we could see on an opposite hill, and quickly discovered its true source of business. Why put a love motel in an art park? Couples stinking of soju stumbled in at 2:30pm and clearly weren't going to bed for the night. We could reserve a room, but couldn't get in until 10pm. I hid my luggage behind the motel behind a trellis because I was plum tired of carrying all that cargo around with me.

The day lasted a long time, it seemed. The Anyangcheon (Anyang Stream) flowed through the middle of this park, and since the water was rather low, lots of cool things were exposed like broad granite stones, perfect for playing on. We joined some little kids who had an elaborate mission to collect all the trash, sticks, and leaves out of the water and sort it into piles on the rocks. It might have been briefly satisfying to kick their piles back into the water, but we merely laughed at the prospect and left them to their game. The sun had found itself at a very golden position in the sky, so the water and the children seemed rather ethereal.

Mostly by chance, Briana and I found ourselves at nice big restaurant that served shabu-shabu. Though I've heard of it many times in the States, I've only ever had it twice, both times here in Korea. This dinner was so exceptionally tasty that we ordered an additional half-serving (just for one person, not two). We were also trying to kill time until we could claim our room at the love motel. After some beer, soju, juice, "cider" (which is totally lemon-lime soda), and so much delicious food, we stood up from the floor, stretched our aching legs and bellies, and considered our fatigue just long enough to decide it was time to retire. We braced ourselves for the inevitably sexy room, and were pleased to discover that it was just clean, pretty, and actually very large.

There was a couch, ottoman, coffee table, and vanity partitioned on one half of the room, while the bed, plasma television, computer, and surround-sound speakers were on the other. There were fancy wrought-iron faux windows and the bathroom was awesome. They had lotions, large bottles of shampoo and conditioner, shaving gel, a water cooler, coffee mix, candies (Briana ate all of 'em), and even brushes available. We watched really old episodes of "The Simpsons" and flipped back occasionally to a tacky, overly-dramatic amateur soft-core porn movie on another channel. It was just like all the awful Korean soap operas except with bad lighting and sound, no music whatsoever, and a lot of bare breasts and asses. And tragically misinformed actors who DON'T have a CLUE how to please a woman. Yes, please, pull up my bra, gnaw on one nipple, and do me against the minivan in the parking garage. Lame.


The next day we decided we'd seen all we could in Anyang and took the train even further south to Suwon, and there we visited a cool temporary palace for the king that was built at the end of the 18th century.

It was peaceful, interesting, and inspiring. I thought back to a time of relying on ambient outdoor temperatures to be comfortable, hearing nothing but birds chirping and wind and the occasional conversation or laughter within the palace. When there were trees everywhere, and people got around likely by wagon, walking, or beasts of burden. Briana and I ate at a restaurant directly across the street, after resting and chatting on the giant peace bell structure next-door.

We gradually made our way back to Seoul proper, since it was a bit unappealing to go back to all that we'd left. The train ride back was fun because there was an elderly couple playing with each other, running back and forth on the train, snagging the warm seats left behind by exiting passengers. Their grins were so wide and genuine it was impossible not to smile and giggle with them and their other companions.

I went home with Briana and met her little rescue dog (whose leg was broken by her weekend babysitter while we were gone!), and helped her get the crate back into her apartment from her friend's upstairs, and showed her how to give the little dog syringed pain medication. After a cab ride home, I was finished with my weekend!

And ready to start a frightening new week?

The week has gone extremely quickly but it threatens to leave no survivors. I've written too much to describe it in any detail, so I'll just say I'm wiped. I need to rest but first I need to catch up to everything I need to finish. When will that happen? I haven't felt on top of things since January. Strength, Lord, please give me STRENGTH.