Feeling Korean

On Thursday, our English department head told us, laughing, that English department heads always get cancer because foreigners give them so much stress. Maybe, she added, I’ll get breast cancer. Ha! Ha! Ha!

            We tried to smile politely because, being veterans of Korea, we know sometimes things are lost in translation. But still we’re not sure if it’s a joke or what the joke is or why our department head is both laughing and why she thinks the very simple issues we’ve raised are nuisance enough to kill her. Surely it’s more stressful for a foreigner to live in Korea than a Korean to interact with a couple foreigners. Surely our requests for our contract to be honored are reasonable. Surely.

Surely?

            The longer I’m in Korea, the more I see and feel Korean. Not only do I finally notice my small face and high nose; I’m happy to have them. Although a medically dubious claim, our department head’s stress to the point of cancer is beginning to make a lot more sense to me.

            When Koreans are told to work overtime, they do it. And they do it without overtime pay, incentives, or ill-will toward their company. Overtime isn’t good news to them, but there’s no furrowing of the brows that says, “Why should I? Is this the best way to increase productivity? Have you thought about x, y, and z?”

            Time is not yours to arbitrate in Korea; you are too far down on the totem pole for that. You may want more time to sleep or to be with friends, but you are a student now: time is dictated by your professors. Now you’re a company worker: time is given to you by that company. You have to earn time; it is not an essential right. Right now the company is busy, so, company employee, you stay until 11 each night instead of the tacitly assumed 9:30 and, for fun, we’ll have a mandatory company retreat on Saturday and Sunday. We’ll play games and drink soju and it will increase productivity through team spirit. You will not experience more stress.

            Why don’t you quit? I asked my friend. She works in a hospital, and for about two months every year they work three hours overtime every day without pay. She shrugged.

            “There’s more work for the hospital at that time,” she explained. “And if I quit . . . other companies are worse.” She laughed. “I finish work at seven or eight on a bad day but on Facebook I see my friends at Seoul writing ‘Early day’ and like that when they finish work so early.”

            Here at Kosin, while we foreigners are dragging our feet on some random government or school stipulation, weighing the benefits for our students and the logic behind the decision, the Korean teachers don’t bat an eye. They certainly don’t raise questions like, “Is it ethical for a Christian school to violate a contract—taking away pensions and severance—in order to save money?”

            Our department head blinks at us when we do. “Everyone is taking a pay cut. No one gets a pension anymore. Even Korean teachers. Actually, three art teachers were changed to part time recently.”

            “In violation of their contract?” We are horrified.

            She didn’t understand why. The next issue—getting into the English department office when the secretary locks us out—was similarly thorny.

“Our secretary . . . I cannot convince her. She is stubborn. The secretary wants extra pay for coming to extra events,” our department chair said, shaking her head in disappointed frustration.

Now it was our turn to be baffled. Convince her? Of what? Why shouldn’t she get pay for extra work?

Photo unrelated except as evidence to my parents that I'm still alive.

It all makes me hate those geography textbooks we had growing up that covered every spare inch of their spreads with colorful pictures of cultural dress and drama and transportation methods of other cultures to explain their differences with America: windmills for the Dutch, yellow and blue-jerseyed Soccer players for Brazil; the Nutcracker for Russia; Sushi and chopsticks for Japan. The unknown and unheard-of traditions. As if those things separated us; as if any of the unknown clothes, language, dancing, chopsticks—were the barrier that kept us from understanding one another.

As if it weren’t the known—the assumptions, the unquestioned—that was the real problem. 

The Korean Spirit

On the wrong day, Koreans piss me off. Sometimes it’s for “good[1]” reasons like my Korean girl students turning their backs to me and playing on their cell phones during class, or because sidewalks are chaos, ahjummas are pushy, and ajhusshis are handsy and smell like old, old, old sweat. Koreans gawk, but cute Korean boys are scared of Western women, possibly because we have hips and refuse to engage in “egyo” to make their skinniness seem manlier than it could ever be.

Other times it’s for “bad[2]” reasons such as Koreans’ inability to understand sarcasm or pronounce “zombie.” Koreans act and talk like children, sometimes on purpose (to look cute), sometimes because that’s how their dialect sounds compared with English, and sometimes because they are looking for freedom after their high school exams. They’re obsessed with appearance; they don’t have garbage cans. They can’t abide confrontation, are bureaucratic, and their views on women’s abilities and social roles are outdated enough to make my grandparents look like radical progressives.

At the end of these days, the wrong days—when Koreans can do nothing right—I watch American t.v. shows, eat peanut butter, and try to create a cocoon of anti-Korea. Ask any ex-pat who has been here for more than a year and I think they’d agree: this country wears on you. And sometimes even the anti-Korean cocoon doesn’t help.

So I run. On days when I work out in the gym, it’s a power trip. While everyone else is strolling on treadmills while talking on the phone, and generally soaking up “work-out atmosphere” without all that nasty business of perspiration, I am huffing and puffing, putting the treadmill through its paces, smelly and sweating. RAWR! I feel like the Hulk in a puppy shop (in a good way).

It is running outdoors, though, that really brings me back to peace with Korea. Sometime in the past two days, sunny summer slipped and broke into a chill autumn without letting me know and despite the subsequent cold I’ve contracted, the weather is perfect for exercise. Yesterday I ran for two hours and by the end I was so tired I could barely remember which country I was in or why I was in it or what could possibly be frustrating about Korea.

Every time I’ve gone running outside, at least one person—usually a genial older gentleman-type—gives me a huge smile and thumbs up. If the same man gave me a thumbs up when I’m wearing a skirt and make-up, I’d be running for home to form the anti-Korea cocoon. But when my face is the unattractive color of an overly-pesticided Fuji apple, I feel a surge of affection for the Korean people. There is something in them that loves to encourage the downtrodden. Their natural inclination to cheer and fist pump a person into “Fighting!” mode is an impulse Americans lack and it is one I find most admirable. One of the few phrases that most Koreans know is “cheer up.” That is what I try to remember when an ahjumma shoves me into a wall while exiting the subway.

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[1] By this I mean that I would nod sympathetically if someone else were complaining about this.

[2] By this I mean that I would remind people that these sorts of things are what they sign up for when they live/travel abroad. These two distinctions are extremely arbitrary and subject to abrupt changes of heart based on mood and menstrual cycle.

Raining on My Parade

            It’s scary how easy it is to pack everything in two suitcases. For the better part of a week I’d been dreading piling things up and pushing them into their coffins of convenience for the flight back to Korea.[1] There was simply too much—I knew it would never all fit, that it would be impossible to stuff my life of the last couple months  into as many bags (fifty pounds or less). I would have to cull a few books from the packing list, or maybe leave a beloved sweatshirt behind to loiter in my room until I got back.

            Packing is my nemesis, my Captain Hammer if you will. I hate the hard choices—I want all of those books with me all the time! I want that stupid t-shirt I only wear when it’s frigid and I’m eating cookies in my cookie pants (which I also want to bring, even though Korea is lacks many cookies). It had to be done—but I knew it would undoubtedly be difficult.

            False.

            After a relaxing hour of watching Avatar the Last Airbender and completing the early stages of packing, it was clear I had over-estimated how hard it is to put one’s life in a suitcase. Obviously I had to leave the beagle behind (woe!) and my parents have lives to live that aren’t in Korea, but still. It should have been harder. I should have had to spend days—or at least an all-nighter, since I never pack more than 24 hours in advance—to figure things out. I should have been reviewing the past weeks, sifting through experiences and thoughts and memories and getting ready to move on.

            It was raining when I left, as we drove out of the driveway. Some people think rain at the beginning of the trip is a bad omen, or at the very least not in the proper spirit of trip-making. I see their point, rather like how some people say you aren’t supposed to cry when someone leaves because the last way they see you and how they remember you ought to be smiling. I like that idea. My family would fit in well in that kind of tradition, not because of the belief, but because we’re simply not criers.

            That’s why I like it when it rains at the beginning of a trip. Sure it makes logistics less nice and sometimes fouls up your hair or gets in your socks. But my parents and I don’t cry when we separate. We—like the packing, which of course shouldn’t take days—are logical like that. But the rain has other priorities. Lacking a vocabulary and the practicality to know that barring freakish misfortune reunion is inevitable—the sky is right to rain.

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[1] And I really do mean coffin. The twinkies barely made it and the grits were mangled something fierce.

Other Side

“Why did the chicken cross the road?”

“To get to the other side.”

I used to think this was why I did all my traveling. Why go to Korea? Just to be going somewhere. But now I wonder if maybe the chicken went across that road and I went across the ocean to figure out why it was the other side.

There have been a lot of “other side” moments these past few days and if they hadn’t been quite so crazy, I would have blogged about them more. I’ll do my best to catch up, but today’s “other side of the road” moment is actually from Wednesday’s trip to the one of the local hill tribes.

Not many people are invited into the hill tribes, but HELP has a special connection with this particular village’s chief. Because hill tribe people do not live in cities, they often did not know where their daughters went when they sent them to work in the city. HELP has gotten the word out more and more and this chief is one of their informants; he contacts HELP if he knows about an at-risk girl.

We walked around meeting the oldest and youngest members of his village (there weren’t many teenagers) and seeing their homes. Hill tribe people live in traditional Thai houses—basically huts on stilts. Some huts are nicer than others, of course—some are made only of wood, some are wooden frames supporting woven gradan as the floors and walls. One house was nicer than the rest, with intricate carvings on the doors and mad entirely of heavy, lustered wood. It was by far the most beautiful thing in the village and by the smiles and jollity of the people there we gathered they were very wealthy.

Around there, the only way to become that wealthy is to send your daughter to work in the city.

People look for other options, though. Right now HELP has about forty applications to review to find out if the girls really are at risk or if their parents are angling for a better life (one less mouth to feed and a good education for at least one child). Due to financial and spatial reasons, they can only accept eight, so discernment is of utmost importance.

And to think that back home the pinnacle of discernment for me is whether or not I should buy that second jar of peanut butter. That’s why this is the other side of the road.

A New Kind of New Years

The holidays aren’t really my thing, but I’ve decided I don’t mind New Years in Thailand too much. It was 80 degrees and sunny all day with plenty of time for reading, writing, running, badminton, necklace-making, napping, more reading, and more writing—all before the sun went down.

When it did, I and the other Westerners here (I need to do yet another cast of characters soon; my apologies) trooped over to the other girls’ home on the property just in time for dinner. It was a special night with two kinds of protein (egg and chicken!) as well as the ever-present and always delicious rice. Dessert was rice with sugar. Delicious.

The evening festivities began at eight with all the people present taking turns saying what they were thankful for. It took a while because every person required a translator. The adults took forever to say the tiniest things, but the girls were eloquent in their succinctness. They thanked God for keeping them safe and fed and bringing them to this home. They spoke about God’s love and his blessing in their lives. They spoke with conviction I’ve rarely heard in such young Christians.

I heard some of their stories, so I understand why. Our youngest girl, Tati, is only 16 months old and was brought to this girls’ home only a few weeks ago when her mother was selling her on the streets of Chiang Mai. Dora, once little more than a skeleton now a mini Dora the Explorer with chubby cheeks and big, round eyes, was found taking care of herself at the age of two while her alcoholic mother spent all the money she had on drinks. Nana, a little girl who loves to sing “Happy Birthday” and say “I love you,” suffered from a fever when she was seven that stagnated her mental capacity and her physical growth. She was too poor to go to school, but soon she hopes to enter a small school for mentally challenged girls.

After the serious stuff the girls watched a Thai movie (it looked hilarious) while the westerners sat and talked around a campfire. Around ten-thirty the movie was shut off and suddenly everyone was playing games and screaming and laughing. Everyone who lost got their names written down and had to act like a chicken when all the games were finished. By the time we’d all calmed down to have another snack—rice soup and jello, not mixed—it was quarter to midnight and time to light off the lanterns.

Have you seen Tangled? It was like that.

Then fireworks were set off while we were only feet away. The little girl next to me snuggled close and squealed (all right, I squealed a little too) when they banged only twenty feet above our heads. When the last lantern was launched and the last firecracked sparked, we all hugged and said “Happy New Year” and “sawadi pimai ka!”

As one of my little Thai sisters in Christ reminded us, “The Bible says that ‘the old has gone and the new is here!’”

Amen (so be it).

Party in the Subway

Japanese book in hand, I stepped onto the subway. Even though I only had two minutes of a ride until my transfer station (Seomyeon), I automatically glanced through the car to see if there were any easily accessible seats. I’m a city dweller now, and practiced in the art of scanning for subway seats. I looked first for the rare space of two or three open seats, then for the prized seats nearest to the door where you only have to touch one person on either side of you. Eopseoyo.[1] There were only a couple of half-open seats neighbored by puffy-coated Koreans trying to cover as much of said open seat without being rude but simultaneously defending that precious bit of breathing room for all they are worth.

I didn’t even glance to my left at the special seats reserved for the elderly, the pregnant, the handicapped, and me during my first week here when I didn’t know any better. But I do know better now, so I calmly stood by the closing doors and waited for the two minutes to pass until I could hop onto the orange line and home. I opened my Japanese book and started deciphering the once-familiar symbols into half-remembered words. I heard some rickety Korean by my left elbow.

The area of special seats on the subway is often empty, or maybe only one or two seats are filled by slightly smelly ajeosshis[2] (old men) or babbling ajummas[3] (old women). But sometimes—sometimes!—they’re packed with old folks who may or may not know one another and whose shouts and laughter ring out throughout the otherwise quiet subway car. At times like that, the rest of us glance up from our i-phones, i-kindles, and i-newspapers—maybe even remove an ear bud—in order to observe the raucous impromptu party we weren’t invited to due to our lack of dentures.

Gyu says, “That is the ajeosshi and ajumma way of talking. They like to be loud and they don’t care if anyone else is really listening. They are always yelling and they are self-important.” And they’re definitely having more fun than the rest of us. They’re the cool kids at the other lunch table who are always laughing about something while your table is quietly munching on your lunchables and ham sandwiches.

Looking gangsta. Nbd.

So you can understand why I felt so shocked and honored when the ajumma behind my left elbow scooted over and patted the special seat beside her. I sat—hesitantly—by her side and nod/bowed in her general direction. She smiled and half-nod/bowed back at me, and I opened by Japanese book once more.

She leeeeeeeaned all the way over my shoulder to look at what I was studying. Koreans are remarkably comfortable rubbernecking on the subway and ajummas are the opposite of the exception, but rather the intensification of the rule, as so often is the case with age in Korea. The following took place in a garble of English, Japanese, and Korean. I’ll translate the important parts:

Ajumma(Korean): Japanese garblegarblegarble?

Me: (Korean) Uhhhhhhh (Japanese): Yes, I’m studying Japanese.

Ajumma (Korean): Russian garblegarblegarble?

Me (Korean): uuuuuuuhAmerican person!

Ajumma (Korean): Ahhhhh. Korean garblegarblegarble know?

Me (Korean): I am studying Korean. GarbleIcanonlythinkoftheJapaneseword...(English) But it’s difficult.

Ajumma (Korean): garblegarble?garblegarblegar?blegarble

Me (English/giving up): uuuuuuuuh—gotta go! My stop!

My two-minute ride was up, as was my ability to speak in Korean. With yet another nod/bow thing I slipped off the green line and onto the orange grinning like a mad thing. Clearly I’m well on my way to both fluency and fame. If I can break into the ajumma circle of popularity, who knows what will happen next? I might even get invited to all the coolest subway parties!

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[1]없어요 = Don’t have

[2]아저씨 = old man, but in a respectful way

[3]아줌마 = old lady, but in a respectful way

Parts is Parts: A 찜질방 Experience

This is not a jjimjilbang. It is a
mountain with me doing a half-lotus.

I have a new favorite part of Korea. It used to be the movie posters I can get for free at every movie theatre closely followed by hotteok 호떡[1]. But now, it is the jjimjilbang 찜질방, or Korean spa. The veteran readers among you will recognize the 방 character which designates “room.” The 찜질 denotes “heated baths.” The Japanese nerds among you will recognize these as the Korean version of the Japanese hot springs, called onsen 温泉.

Now, a little 찜질방 101: there’s a naked part and a not naked part and a corresponding sex-segregated part and a co-ed part. The naked part includes the natural spring spas and the actual bathhouse part of it. Awesome. The co-ed part—in which you wear baggy shorts and tunic[2]--includes everything else: saunas, footbaths, tv rooms and, though you have to pay a little extra, massages, nail treatment, and restaurants. The basic fee is only 12,000 won (roughly $12) for four hours of complete relaxation.

This is also not a jjimjilbbang but a
cracked-out notebook I found.

First were the footbaths which are shallow pools of water at about 40 C for people wading. Not that cool, except it’s outside on a patio and it almost—almost!—feels like you’re completely out of the city and your feet are warm enough that you can sit comfortably in the night air. Next were the saunas. Spaland (the 찜질방 I went to) has 13 saunas, all set at varying temperatures with varying themes. One is an Egyptian pyramid, another a Roman bathhouse, another has bamboo walls and vibrations running through the floor. Very neat and very sweaty. 

Then there’s the naked part.

“Parts is parts,” my dad used to say, I can only assume quoting some ancient Schnabel Family Proverb. Other famous Schnabel Proverbs include “There’s always room for dessert” and “Sing at the table, and you’ll marry a crazy man.” Both of those are used around the kitchen table, obviously and are used with some ubiquity, but “parts is parts” is a rarely heard and much more difficult Schnabel Proverb to use in an appropriate context.

Excerpt from my incredibly helpful Korean
textbook. Delicious.

And the naked part of 찜질방s is a most appropriate context I think I’ve ever found. It’s also the best part of SpaLand (as long as you’re okay with naked and obviously, with a family adage of “parts is parts,” I am). Pools range from 19 degrees Celsius (that’s cold for those of you of a Fahrenheit persuasion) up to 40 C. The pool outside—with a waterfall, trees, and walls high enough that you really can believe you’re not in the city anymore—was like something from a resort magazine.[3]

Back inside, you can sit in the 70 degree C sauna and watch Korean sports news with naked old ladies and then dip back into the freezing 19 degree pool before soaping up, rinsing off, and calling it the most relaxing night of your life.

Thanks, Korea.

p.s. I don't have any idea what's with this random white hilighting, so I hope you'll excuse it. It's driving me up the wall.

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[1] Fried donuts with goop and seeds in them. I don’t want you to know how good they are because the line in Napo at the best street vendor’s is always too long anyway.

[2] Growing up on fantasy books, I’ve always wanted to be able to use this word in a legitimate context. Yet another reason to love the 찜질방.

[3] I wanted to say “something out of a Korean drama” but I realize I still haven’t written about them much and you will have no idea what I’m talking about. Soon and very soon.

The Sketchy Korean Clubbing Scene

Scene: Saturday

As always, I woke up early to play some soccer with the Saturday Mornings Korean Boy Mafia. In the afternoon I judged an English speech contest for Kosin. I had to rate students on how well they delivered a memorized a famous American speech. More on that later, but mostly you should know how hilarious it is to hear Korean high-schoolers say, “They said, they said, they said this day would never come” in an Obama accent.

In the evening I went swing dancing! As always, my meager dancing skills remind me of how little time there is available. In my second, third, and fourth lives I want to become proficient in several languages, an excellent dancer, and a ninja—but probably not in that order.

After that we went to a club—but don’t worry, mom and dad, Korean clubs so straight-laced, they make Baptist church services look like the devil’s work. Well, yes, we did have a beer, danced without being led by the Holy Spirit, and I did give out my number to a cute Korean boy. But aside from that, it was infinitely less sketchy than even the cleanest of American middle school dances.

Rules of Clubbing in Korea:

       1.      American girls get a discount on their cover charge.

And said cover charge includes the aforementioned mildly good beer. Double win.

       2.      Face the front.

No joke: The dance floor was as organized as a CRC service, minus the pews. Everyone stood in rows, respectfully facing the front of the room and dancing in a small square foot of personal space.

       3.      No touching.

The odd thing is, that during these precious moments of freedom from the grind of school and work—in their wildest moments of Saturday Night Bacchanalian Revelry—Korean men and women alike are apparently less likely to touch one another (sling an arm around one another? link arms?). No touching. No grinding. No close dancing. Not with strangers. Not with your girlfriend/boyfriend. The most scandalous dancing I think I saw all night was when a couple held hands and he moved her arms around through the air. I have to say, it was the oddest dance party I have ever been a part of.

       4.      Dance like it’s the 80s.

Koreans are good dancers, but this does not apply to their clubbing style. I reference here rule #2 and #3. Combine this with their natural enthusiasm, the current popularity of the shuffle, and perhaps a lack of creativity and you'll have some idea of the hilarity that ensued this Saturday night.

       5.      Smile at the foreigners

We made friends quickly on the dance floor by virtue of being 외국사람. Within seconds of our arrival near the front, a group of girls giggled a “Hello!” and started dancing with us. One asked me—screamed at me, more like, between the furious techno beats while the strobe light distorting her face oddly and her friends flailed around her—“How do you like Korea?”

It’s great, thanks for asking! You guys are nuts! *thumbs up*

Pepero Day!

Standard Pepero repertoire

Happy Pepero Day!

As far as I can tell, Pepero (빼빼로!!) Day is the Korean equivalent of Valentine’s Day, but much more delicious and less guilt-inducing. Just like Valentine’s Day, Pepero Day is probably a commercialist stunt pulled by Lotte, a confectionary company who has manufactured the Japanese-based product (pocky) since the 80s.

According to Wikipedia (I am not ashamed!), there is one story that Pepero Day was begun by some schoolgirls in Busan. These girls exchanged the tall chocolate-covered pretzels on November 11 (11/11—like sticks of Pepero), in order to wish one another luck in growing tall and skinny—like a Pepero stick.

Unlike Valentine’s Day, however, there seems to be less pressure on couples. Yes, boyfriends and girlfriends are expected to get special Pepero for their special person, but it’s not nearly as difficult: it’s far more clear-cut. Stores upon stores gear up for Pepero Day and since the “holiday” revolves around little candy sticks (sometimes chocolate, sometimes strawberry, sometimes “nude”) there are only so many variations. And, as always with couples in Korea, it’s just about being as cute as possible.

And, as I believe we’ve already covered, Koreans excel in that particular department.

NUDE!!!

        

Rocking the Soccer 'Burbs

In my never-ending search for more people to play soccer with, I’ve acquired a Tuesday night group out in Daeti. Gyu, my soccer savior, helped connect me to these boys who (he says) use “tough language” and, as (I’ve noted) smoke between games.

Nancy picked me up from the airport when
I first got here, and has the cutest southern
twang in the world.

I’m not sure exactly how to describe the skeptical Korean face. Nancy (pictured left, disgustingly fit, and nicely cheery) calls it The Korean Stare. We get it a lot in class.

Actual excerpt:

“In the picture, do you think he is walking proudly *point*, or absent-mindedly? *point* Raise your hand *demonstrate* if you think proudly.” 3 hands and 47 Korean Stares. “Raise your hand *demonstrate* if you think absent-mindedly.” No hands and 32 Korean Stares (everyone else isn’t looking at me).

But the stare I get when I lace up my cleats, while difficult to read, is possible to guess. 3 parts confused, 2 parts skeptical, and 1 part completely disoriented. As soon as I start playing, it’s mayhem. If it didn’t resemble the utter disbelief one might expect from someone who has never seen a pet poodle roll over and play dead, it would be flattering.

A favourite from Jeju.

I got cheers and hollers from even the simplest of moves and whenever I actually did something good, the boys in the stands would faint and weep and make marriage proposals.

I am joking, of course. But I have gotten a marriage proposal before (pre-Korea). And their reactions here are similarly ridiculous.

That said, of course I love being the girl rocking the guy’s world. I love the catcalls at the boy I just beat one-on-one; I love watching them gradually realize I won’t break if they touch me; I love turning the 2 parts skeptical, 1 part disoriented stare into a thumbs-up and an invitation back next week.

Because more soccer is never a bad thing.

I promise (maybe) that I'll stop writing about soccer and start writing about...Korean culture and things. Maybe. 

Don't Worry - I Know CPR!

There are have been some memorable quotes this past week, but my favorite is from Gyu (my unofficial soccer translator who happens to play outside mid like a [skinny, Korean] demon).

Let me preface this by saying that Gyu has a smile that is all things sweet, sincere and polite. But it’s not exactly reassuring when he uses it while translating soccer buddy #38’s, “당신이남자가아니라는것을확신합니까” into

“He says, ‘Are you sure you’re not a man?’ But in a good way!”

The runner-up for this week’s quote contest came from an unidentified defender who kicked me in the stomach.

“Are you okay? Don’t worry. I know *gestures* CPR!”

Third place goes to my dad for telling me to “Have a good weekend! Have an adventure!” Unfortunately, I have failed to do this. Three hours of soccer (even in the beautiful rain) does bad things to an out-of-shape-Elaine’s quad muscles and four hours of sleep does even worse things to her adventurous spirit. So I settled for a small walking tour of my side of the Yeongdo mountain (봉내산, Bongnaesan).

This is "Tomato," one of our main go-to restaurants.

Some friendly schoolgirls who practiced their English on me.
When I asked to take a picture, this was the resulting scramble
for the pink comb.