The traditional market at Seomyeon

When I left my apartment Saturday morning, despite my doubts about the directions the Internet gave me, I aimed to find American Apparel and replace my favorite dress. As expected, the map took me the wrong direction, and rather than taking me straight to American Apparel, it created a diversion which lead to a huge traditional market. Without any hesitation, I saw this as an opportunity and put my search for American Apparel on the back burner.

As I approached the covered market, I had no idea of its size. When I first entered, my eyes immediately went to the product, and I caught the familiar stares of older Koreans who are not used to seeing a foreigner in their midst. Ignoring the looks, I continued into the market. The smell of dried seaweed, salt, and fresh ocean fish greeted me. I could almost taste each item. As I walked I saw piles of whole fish, squid, and octopus. I saw buckets of clams. I smelled kimchi, herbal tea, and garlic. I saw green onions, peppers, artfully stacked apples, and Korean traditional rice desserts.

I sauntered on further, at a pace much slower than usual. Finally, I looked up and saw the market's great expanse. The aisle seemed to continue on indefinitely, and myriad directional options surrounded me. Should I turn left toward the upper part of the market with sunlight, napa cabbage and daikon radishes the size of small babies, turn right toward bean sprouts and a large variety of dried beans and peas, or keep going straight toward even more fish, carts of sweet potatoes, and orderly piles of red and green hot peppers? In the end, I decided straight, straight, straight for my first route through the market. I could always return via another route to the aisles I missed.

The displays were precisely arranged and aesthetically appealing. The stall keepers took great pride in their work, constantly arranging and rearranging as product disappeared from their tables and bins. No one except those with mobile carts bothered to yell out what they were selling and for how much, so the market remained calm and welcoming, even with the occasional scooter and a large number of people working, buying, and gawking.

I continued to wander through the market and was astounded at the amount of product these sellers had and were able to prepare. Weeks of work lie ahead for the couple with countless heads of garlic. As I gazed in amazement at this stall, a man, surrounded by bags of garlic sat peeling and separating individual garlic cloves. Korea is a country where many people prefer to purchase their garlic peeled.

Evidence of work already done showed with fresh peppers next to dried peppers and dried peppers next to crushed peppers. My mind jumped to my experience of Pike’s Place market in Seattle. The scale of this market was much larger and the products sold much more practical. While Pike’s Place does serve a practical function for select Seattleites looking for fresh fish, the main appeal seems to be touristic and the majority of stalls I remember sold flowers. On the other hand, while Korea is working to promote traditional markets as a tourist attraction, the markets serve a very real and necessary function for local farmers and family dinner tables. Dried peppers and garlic cloves brought that point home.

Overwhelmed by the market, and realizing that I could not carry fresh vegetables, fish, and other pleasantries around all day to American Apparel, the Busan Museum of Art, and wherever else I wandered, I vowed to shop at the traditional market near my apartment.

Back in South Korea: Zigzag travel in Busan

Trinkets, small figurines, shelves of memorabilia from travel abroad, travel books, pillows, Christmas lights, and small plants adorn a café the size of a two room apartment. These carefully chosen details help to create an inspiringly homey atmosphere.

From the moment I saw the sign with three stacked drawers, I knew this was a café I wanted to visit. Even though the weather hardly permitted patio coffee, two chairs and a small table where artfully arranged on the front porch. On the table were locally created, artsy information booklets about Busan in both English and Korean. Small bits of green, starts of plants, grew in tiny pots on the patio. After two minutes of taking it all in, I consulted my new friend, and we entered the cutest café I have ever seen.

On a small street, a couple blocks from Gwangalli Beach, tucked into a small building sits a café with not many foreign visitors. Off the beaten beach path and lacking an ocean view, the appeal of this café lies not in its view, but in the creativity and passion which has been poured into every detail, every drink, and every chair cushion.

Espresso ice cube coffee

The drinks come out arranged on small wooden platters with animals specific to the beverage. Comment books sit on the table and provide insight about others who have stumbled upon the tiny little oasis.

This café reconfirmed my chosen method of exploration, something Tahir Shah called 'zigzag travel.' “Real adventure can only come about through zigzag travel. One of life’s great sensations is walking along a road without any idea where it leads or what will happen next.” – p.379 In Arabian Nights Tahir Shah

In my time outside my comfort zone, and even in it, I have found that the best way to explore a place is to wander. I usually do this alone and sometimes it means I go without food, without water, without any purpose or aim. I enter places that capture my imagination and shun places which scream at me. I seek out side roads and back doors. I look for the places which most tourists do not ever see. I search for places locals find refuge in and pride myself in scouting out well-kept secrets and keeping them. I share only with fellow wanderers or with those who may never see the places. I have found that an unwalkable city is a place I do not want to be and that wandering is a good exercise in indecisive decision making.

As a solo wanderer, I usually give places space and time. I do not always immediately enter a cute café or intriguing restaurant because I feel, like a good purchase, the idea needs to percolate. The café needs to enter my dreams and tap on my shoulder each time I walk by it.

Every once in a while, I find someone willing to explore with me. It is those times, accompanied by a fellow creative type, that I am more willing to jump in, take even lesser beaten paths, and enter establishments without first vetting them in my dreams.

After my first weekend back in Korea, my decision of Busan has been confirmed as one of the best and most informed decisions I have made in my 28+ years on this Earth thanks to the Gwangan District and this tiny café, which will remain undisclosed.

Conversations with Strangers. PART IV.

Boise is a place where strangers do not talk in bars, and they hardly engage in grocery store banter. Boiseans talk to each other in circumstances that would make people in other, larger cities cringe. In Boise, the bus has become a great forum for conversation. Add to this, downtown – especially The Grove and 8^th street – and public parks. I would not be surprised if parking garages could be added to the list. All of these locations are places in which city dwellers around the world put on their “do not talk to me face” and stick in their ear buds, stare vacantly, or talk on the phone to avoid the crazy person attempting to make conversation, attempting to make them vulnerable. In Moscow, people who tried to talk to strangers on public transit – more than just asking for directions – were shunned. In Boise these conversational locations are somehow encouraged, and the longer I stay here, the more I become used to talking to strangers in previously avoided situations. I do not really want to come across as rude, you know. Boise is a place where you can be walking down the street, in typical city body language for “do not even think about it,” and you may be stopped by a random stranger.

Case in point. Date: Saturday, September 21, 2013 Time: around 4:00 p.m. Location: 8^th Street near Jamba Juice and the construction of the new Mormon Temple, sorry, Zion’s Bank.

I was walking at a fairly decent pace down the street toward the Grove. Both of my ear buds were in, and I was listening to Elliott Smith. I was not making eye contact with anyone but looking straight ahead. I hardly noticed the group of kids hanging out by the “rat race” escalator below Shige’s and near Jamba Juice. They are always there. I did not even look over at the new construction, since I see it every day. I did not glance toward the mounds of people I was coming upon. I kept my pace.

Suddenly there was a guy in “punk rock” garb walking alongside me, saying something. I have no idea what he was saying, I was in what they used to call iPod oblivion, which now sounds ridiculous and archaic. When I noticed him, I looked over, kept walking, and raised an eyebrow – as much as possible with my bangs. I took my ear buds out and said in an unwelcoming tone, “What? (as in huh? I did not catch what you were saying because I was listening to music, jack ass.)”

This is my typical tone when someone decides to interrupt my commute. In most circumstances, my hostility turns to friendliness because the person is merely asking for directions to a place that is usually directly in front of them. These circumstances have happened more than once, and the response to my “What?” is usually an “Oh” because for some ridiculous reason, the person did not notice the bright pink things in my ears. And then what follows (if the person is trying to strike up conversation) is an oblivious repeating of whatever they think is so important that they must keep talking, despite my tone.

PUNK ROCK KID’S IMPORTANT CONVERSATION

“Hi. My name is _____.”

I honestly do not remember the kid’s name because I did not care to meet him. I was on a mission – to get to the hair salon. I had not washed my hair in two days and did not particularly feel like talking to strangers, but Boise has worn on me. So, while I kept walking, I did give this kid the time of day but not without taking in his appearance. With a start of a mohawk, a clean, studded camo vest with patches, and no particular odor, this kid quite obviously was not a “real” punk rocker, of the genre that live on the street or ten to an apartment that is supposed to live two. This kid probably lived with his parents or went to Boise State and lived in the dorms. I chuckled to myself. If he only knew the bad asses I hung out with as a teenager.

 “Hi. I’m Kim.”

Without missing a beat the kid said, “You are looking good today, Kim.”

Laughing to myself because of how gross I felt with unwashed hair, wearing jeans and a sweater, I said, “Thanks.” I have to admit this kid had some cojones.

“Can I get your number?” The kid asked.

Continuing to laugh to myself, all the while continuing to walk, I replied, “I don’t even have my phone with me.”

A bit sarcastically this kid said, “Well, do you know your number?”

“Yes, I know my number. What are you going to do with it?”

At that point, I had to stop walking due to the traffic light. There was a small, Boise-sized crowd of people waiting at the light with us.

“I’m going to call you, of course. Well, not today because I don’t have a phone but tomorrow. I will definitely call you tomorrow.”

“Right. So, what are you going to do, memorize my number?” I replied, humored by his ridiculous attempt to seem genuine.

At this point he promptly pulled out the newest little spiral notebook from his breast pocket (another clue that this kid was neither a punk rocker nor a writer). “I’m going to write it in here.”

To humor him, and because he made me laugh, I gave him my number and then said, “How many numbers do you need to win the bet?”

He looked confused, and I had to repeat myself which of course took away from the humor of the situation. But hell, if you are going to ask for a girl’s number in that way, you should expect to be made fun of. As I walked across Main Street and away from this clean cut “punk rocker,” I overheard a couple ladies, from the crowd of people that witnessed most of this situation, asking each other, “What if he asked for your number?” Oh Boise. 

When I was a child, I spoke as a child ...

As a child, I always worried about consequences. I never took the risks that most children did. Consequently, I always felt like I was not having as much fun as my peers, and I probably was not. I did not want to draw attention to myself, get hurt, or get in trouble. I preferred to spend my time observing the world. Watching other children do daring things, and taking note of the incredible lives of ants that hung out in my back yard. I had a hard time doing things like jumping out of a swing or jumping off the high dive. Eventually I convinced myself to do simple things like that. Logically it was safe. But I never jumped off a rope swing into the river, and I never did anything too daring. In my mind, daring things always involved heights or fear of death (usually only perceived, not actual). Childhood was a serious time for me. A time full of consequences. When I got older, I started caring a bit less, but there are still times with those feelings and worry of getting into trouble come back. As an adult, I am expected to act like an adult, be responsible, and not encourage delinquency. I am not supposed to mess around and try to make up for all the fun I did not have as a child.

But sometimes I meet someone else who did the same thing in childhood, maybe in a different way, but someone who took life too seriously and now is trying to make up for lost time and fit in all in before life gets too serious. 

One of these experiences was with a friend who currently is training to be a Navy SEAL. I do not know if there is anything more serious in life than that. When he came to visit before he started training, we explored the Capitol building, and for some reason, we both started feeling a bit like kids. Well, I felt like a kid, he might always feel this way. It might have been the atmosphere. It might have been that in our wandering we somehow felt like we were secretly exploring places that we should not be able to access. Perhaps it was pure mischievousness of the mind, active imaginations, and ideas of the things we could be doing or discussions of what it would have been like to be in these areas with the legislative body in session. Perhaps it was finding an unlocked window that would have allowed us to go onto the roof if we were not observant enough to realize that there were guards down below. It might have been that I have always wanted to go up in the dome of the Capitol – or at least figure out how to access the stairs that lead to the top. Whatever it was, a mischievous child-like quality took over. Fortunately or unfortunately, it was not all encompassing. Consequences remained foremost in my mind …

So, I did not get on my friend’s shoulders and open a window. We did not climb out on the roof of the Capitol. And in the midst of a great game of lava, we stopped running around the Capitol building because I saw a guard.  We most definitely did not play mission impossible and jump from the first floor down to the bottom floor. But I am happy to know my imagination is still intact. I can goof around like a child, even though I am adult.

Conversations with Strangers. PART III.

Arrive at park.

Notice a guy folding up an orange blanket and looking like he is going to leave.

Walk to my usual spot, on the hill, underneath the tree, just far enough away from the bench. Set my bag down and take out my maroon, plaid blanket.

Guy wanders aimlessly away from me through the park. I try to ignore him.

Call my mom. Chat about the difficulty of meeting new people.

Guy comes back around and passes me while I talk to my mom. He takes a seat on the bench. Pretends to read. How do I know he is pretending? Too much page flipping and nervous energy emanating off of him. I end the call with my mom and decide to draw.

Draw the swing set. Modify it because I don’t want four swings, just two. It’s an ok sketch, but not wonderful.

Pull out my journal of short stories and start reading the next story – it’s about a soldier.

Think I hear a cicada and remember that I had the same thought when I entered the park. Just one cicada. And then it is gone. Probably not a cicada. Regardless the noise makes me miss Korea. Weird to miss Korea because of an imaginary cicada.

Distracted from the story about the soldier, I start trying to draw a cicada. I only saw one up close once. It was so LOUD. Deafening. Weird ancient looking creature. What did it look like? How big were its wings? I attempt to sketch one.

It looks like a fly.

Try again.

Give up. The google will help me when I get home.

Start writing another letter to my friend in Navy Basic. The story about the soldier made me think of him.

I was lying on my stomach, but now I am sitting. Criss-cross apple sauce, as my students like to say.

“WHAT ARE YOU WRITING?”

I had forgotten about the guy. He is obviously yelling his question to me, but I can be cold at first. I roll my eyes. He can’t see my face. I ignore him.

He comes over. Starts a conversation.

“What are you writing?”

“A letter – archaic form of communication, I know.”

Fuck. That was pretentious. I am pretentious for the rest of the conversation.

He offers me a spritzer – I am unclear what that even means. I like sparkling water and assume it is similar.

“It’s sparking water and juice.”

“Seems French.” 

I continue to be pretentious – I don’t even know why at this point. He is from Seattle. He is not wearing shoes. His Ray-Bans shield his eyes from my pretentiousness. The things I talk about are ridiculous for a conversation with a stranger. Somehow I am talking about refugees and Boise’s public transit and geography. I mention Russia and Korea.

I am an ass.

He is polite – talks about the Payette, his love of Idaho, asks me about my plans for the weekend. I look at my phone, vaguely talk of movie plans.

He tells me to enjoy the movie and makes his move to leave.

It is a bit of an awkward parting.

“Take care!”

He grabs his orange blanket and book from the bench. Walks past me through the park.