I keep weather widgets running on all three of the computers I regularly use. I see, side-by-side, the current weather and forecasts for Seoul, Seattle, and Pullman. I suppose that’s me trying to maintain a connection to the places I’ve lived. Seoul can be very cold, but that does not deter me from climbing through snow and wind to get a good view of this majestic country.
Maarten and I had talked about snow hiking earlier in the year. He suggested Seoraksan for our excursion. The mountain is set within a large national park on the eastern coast of Korea. The nearest city is Sokcho, which is situated right on the coast and about three hours from Seoul by express bus.
Okay, now that the boring stuff is out of the way, let me get to business: It has been quite some time since I last wrote. I won’t get into that here, but I will mention that part of it is probably due to the amount of time I spend studying Korean. My increased studies have made me more confident in getting around the city, and it really came in handy for this adventure. Previously, I would have been terrified to hop in a cab and tell the cabbie to take me to the bus station, purchase a ticket, and go all by myself. In fact, I wouldn’t have been able to do it. I’ve progressed to the point where I can do all that and not feel completely uncomfortable. It’s a very small but important feat. The scenario I described is also exactly what I did a couple of weekends ago.
I came to work in flannel pants under jeans, and my brand new jacket. Slung over my shoulder was my trusty backpack (I bought specifically for my move to Korea). The pack wasn’t stuffed completely full, but it held the essentials: My camera, some clothes, a toothbrush, gloves, and this ridiculous hat I got in Jamsil. My feet were wrapped in the glove-like embrace of new, stylish hiking boots I bought just for this occasion. All summer, I scrabbled over Korea’s craggy peaks in old New Balance sneakers, but that wouldn’t do for Seoraksan. I also had my brand new 아이젠 (aijen) – crampons. They’re actually quite awesome. They consist of steel chains with spikes stretched between a silicon frame that stretches over your boots. Neat, huh? Very easy to put on and take off.
With my equipment in toe, I ducked out of the office as quickly as I could. I ran straight out to the main drag in front of our building, and stuck my arm out level from my body – the way one hails a cab in Korea. I got in the back seat, throwing my pack to one side and told my silver-haired driver, “동서울 터미널 가주세요.” (Dong-Seoul Terminal gajuseo – Take me to East Seoul Terminal, please) With a nod and curt “ne” (yes), the cabbie sped off from the curb, darting into the rush hour traffic in a manner that has taken me seven months to get used to.
I knew the terminal was near Gangbyeon subway station, but I didn’t know exactly where it was. As we approached the subway station, the cabbie pulled a u-turn (another stunningly dangerous feat to pull in Seoul, but as common as anything else) and said, “Should I pull over here?” I told him that’d be fine, paid my fare, and got out, scanning the kalaidescope puzzle of neon and backlit signs for 동서울 터미널. Instead, I noticed several people carrying luggage, and followed them into a large building. Bingo!
The next ten minutes were spent thus: Above the ticket windows, there were lists of cities. Thank goodness I can read Korean, because nothing was written in English. I scanned for Sokcho, my destination city – Sokcho, Sokcho… No Sokcho. What the shit? I walked around some more, trying to seem casual, like I belonged. I was the only foreigner in sight, though, and surely stuck out like a 6′2″ sore thumb.
I finally got fed up with looking for certainty, went up to a window and simply said, “Sokcho?” The pretty, but rather bored looking woman behind the woman said, “Yes, the next bus leaves at 7:00. 20,000 won, please.” I handed over two green 10,000 won notes, took my ticket, and walked off to – where? I had no clue where to go. I looked at my ticket. Okay, departure date, departure time, seat number, I understood that much. Ah ha! 승차홈 must mean something. I pulled out my trusty cellphone and punched the characters into the dictionary function. Nothing. Shit. I looked around and noticed large boards with the names of cities on them. At the top of each, 승차홈 was written. I still don’t know what that means, but I assume it has something to do with each door being assigned to specific destinations. I quickly found 승차홈 4, and sure enough, it had 속초 (Sokcho) written on it.
Fifteen minutes after I found the appropriate bus, I was seated in my spacious window seat, staring out the window as brightly lit nighttime Seoul flowed past. Soon, though, the window fogged over from the steamy breath of 30 sleepy passengers on their way to the coast. I took quick stock of my fellow passengers – not a single other foreigner. Unsurprising; why would a foreigner go to Sokcho for the weekend during the winter? I opened my book and started reading, and the time began to slip by.
Three hours later, I was at Sokcho terminal. It was quite small, simply a large, unheated room filled with seats facing one large, flat panel TV. The ticket windows were to one side, with a small market for road snacks occupying the other end. I sent Maarten a quick text: “Arrived. You here?” A minute later, I received, “Still 30 minutes away. Grab some beers or get us a room if you’re really bored!”
Although my Korean skills have improved, I didn’t feel like attempting that transaction, and settled for one I’m much more familiar with: Entering a small 슈퍼 (Syupeo – aka “super” aka “super market” aka “tiny corner market run by an old lady”), heading straight for the cooler, grabbing a couple of Cass beers, and handing over 5,000 won. Having completed my mission, I pulled my gloves from my pack, shoved them on, and walked outside, beers in hand. I was able to just about finish both by the time Maarten arrived (early, I might add).
My phone rang. Maarten. I answered, “Oi!”
“Tonerrrrrr! Where are you, man?” Maarten asked.
“I’m in front of the terminal. Are you-” I began to reply.
“Ah! I see you! Turn around!” There was Maarten, walking toward me up the sidewalk, waving.
“You won’t believe what happened. I’m so mad I’m literally shaking,” Maarten began in a rush. “I was on the bus, right, and the driver said, ‘Hey! Get up here!’ to me and the other girl with me on the bus. But he used panmal! (side note – there are levels of politeness in the Korean language. It is a major insult to use an inappropriate familiar form of speech with a stranger) So I said, ‘Ajusshi, you know you can’t speak panmal with people you don’t know, right?” Maarten told me.
Another side note: “Ajusshi” is somewhat like saying, “sir.” It really means something like “man” or even “older man,” but it is simply used as a polite way to get the attention of a man, or as a way of addressing a man you do not know. Apparently, though, this ajusshi was quite old, and a pissed off ajusshi as well.
Maarten continued his story, “So then the guy says, ‘I’m no ajusshi! I’m a grandfather! My son is 48! You come to Korea, you had better be able to speak Korea! This is our country!’ Can you believe that? I was speaking to him in Korean! How dare he speak to me that way? I was shaking with anger. I could feel it in my chest! I chuckled, and we walked off to find a hotel.
Hotels in Korea can be interesting – well, the cheap kind. As you drive along any major highway, or come to the edge of a city, or even stumble across the right (wrong) part of town, you’ll find love motels. They advertize to the folks looking for something in the by-the-hour department. We didn’t exactly find one of those, but we did manage to snag a cozy – er, smokey – room in a hotel right by the harbor. As soon as we put our stuff down, we decided to hunt down some beer.
We walked up the street, hoping to find a place with some people. We chose at random, and found ourselves in a nearly empty room. The karaoke equipment stood unused and darkened at the front of the room. A bored-looking woman in her 40s brought us seaweed and some unknown, crunchy snack. Maarten wolfed down the seaweed, and I ignored both. We drank a couple large bottles of Cass, wondering where all the patrons were. Sokcho isn’t that small a town.
Maarten asked the ajjumah where her normal Friday night clients were.
“At home, I guess,” she replied, without a trace of humor. Maarten and I gave up and left.
As we walked, we changed tactics. That is to say, we decided to adopt some tactics. This time, we’d look for a bar that seemed interesting. And that’s when we saw the sign – Dumb Bar.
It was hidden in a dark, dank alley, protruding less than a meter from the brick wall from which it hung. The name was ridiculous by our standards, but this was the land of shops like, “Fucking Beautiful,” and, “I Hate – Wine & Coffee”. What also drew us in was the weird, handcrafted, and comparatively ornate door to the joint. It seemed to be made out of crudely hammered sheet metal, with a wavy top, flame-like spikes above the jamb, and a totally unnerving awning made of the same material featuring some sort of horn. Dumb it may be, but uninteresting, we knew it was not.
We walked up narrow wooden stairs to the bar on the second floor. Surprise – it was as lifeless as our previous choice. One man – presumably, the bartender – sat at a computer monitor on the bar. He turned to look at us as we walked in, mildly surprised, greeting us with the typical “eoseosohseyo” (welcome).
The bartender (I never caught his name) paid us a lot of attention. Obviously, we were the only people in the bar, but he also shared our interests. We learned that he moved to Sokcho from Seoul with his brother to open the bar in order to fund other activities, such as hiking and scuba diving. We told him of our plans to climb Seoraksan, and he began to quiz us about our equipment.
“Do you have aizen?” These are chains one straps to one’s boots in order to gain footing on the snowy slopes. We call them crampons, where I come from. “Yes, we do.”
“You have thermals?” Yes.
“Gloves?” Of course.
“How many pairs?” Well… “One pair each.”
“Jinjja?!” (Really?!) “You need two pairs at least!”
“We think we’ll be fine.”
“No! Here. Please, take these North Face gloves. Here, try them on. No, really, I insist, you have to take these; your hands will get sweaty and wet, and you’ll need an extra pair.”
The bartender had disappeared in the back room of the bar, and returned with brand new gloves, complete with tags. After trying to get him to take them back without luck, we thanked him profusely and begged our leave. After all, it was getting late, and we had a date with dawn the next morning.
Back in our hotel, we took a close look at the gloves. They were obvious fakes, to the point of hilarity. Still, Maarten and I agreed that when we got back to Sokcho in two days, we’d give them back to the bartender. If he wasn’t there, like he said he wouldn’t be, we’d stuff them in that ridiculous door of his.
Maarten settled into the smokey bed, and I stripped down to my flannel pants, got down on my floor mat, and immediately fell asleep.
