For ever and for ever when I move

Ireland: the land of music and laughter. Unlike many of my American friends and acquaintances, I don’t have Irish roots. I never truly felt the magic of St. Patrick’s Day, my family has been Lutheran for as long as time, my skin turns a lovely shade of brown in the sun, and my only association with red hair is an enduring adoration for the classy sass it portrays when paired with lipstick and freckles. However, as luck comes to luck, I was plopped onto a ferry at Holyhead, headed for Dublin, with no plans, no lifetime ambition for coming to Ireland, no idea what I might want to do or see.

And here I am, two weeks later, gradually getting my socks charmed off by the hospitable and humorous Irish. Galway, with the sunny cobblestoned streets full of gorgeous young musicians: a beaming tap dancer, a duo paired on harp and Irish accordion, a street performer with genuinely hilarious jokes, four boys in green traditional vests with smiles as big as the sun. A little old lady stopped by me as the crowd gathered on the street to watch the band, the cello player dancing as he played, all four whooping together with giant, contagious grins: “Aren’t they lovely, then?” she smiled at me, “Even me, I’m old and oh, aren’t they just lovely? God bless them.”

After a quiet celebration of the fourth of July–American flags dancing in the streets outside the pubs, possibly united by the common joy of escaping British rule–we moved on to the Aran Islands, to Inis Meáin: desolate, totally unique, known for its truly preserved use of Gaelic, unlike anything I have seen in the world. “God’s country, that is,” an Irish woman told me in the market after starting conversation with me when she saw me looking at wines. “It’s incredible, I haven’t been in years, but my memories of it… I first went when I was 18, and then again when I was 28… I’m always waiting to go back.”

“The end of the world, it is,” another woman said. “Just drops off there, you know. That’s the edge of it.” And the island is silent, not polluted by traffic sounds, only the quiet buzz of the few electric poles that run alongside the two perpendicular roads, very few bird calls, the occasional echoing moo of a cow a mile away. The island is covered by walls: rock walls four to five foot high, dividing the small rocky isle into hundred upon thousands of miniature square plots.

“Well, some of the walls are for property division, of course,” the man at the B&B informed us. “But I do believe some of it is for surface clearance,” which really got us cracking up, despite the truth of it. The island is basically a mass of rock, which over the last hundreds of thousands of years people have been breaking up into smaller chunks of rock, which are piled into walls, thus clearing the surface for plants or livestock: two cows here, a couple of mules across the way, the occasional bleating sheep. One day we left with the intention of walking completely around the island, which led us through a seemingly abandoned countryside of walls. We crossed an ancient fort (of piled rocks), along the coastline (where we stopped to eat in a sheltered cove of piled rocks), to the entirely desolate opposite side of the island, where we stumbled across the most incredible, staggering display of seaside cliffs.

Cormorants washed and played in the waterfalls as they splashed down alongside the cliffs, seagulls effortlessly gliding above the view, curiously cocking their heads to look at me as they passed. A fresh spray of salty mist splashed againt my face as I crawled close to the edge. Not a soul in sight, and possibly the most breathtaking landscape I’ve seen in my life. We walked along the coast for at least an hour, drinking it in, not seeing a single other person in the whole time we were there. After some time, the coast flattened down back to sea level and we attempted to cut inland through the labyrinth to make it back to the one road on the island: after 20 minutes of walking, we were clearly trapped and had to retrace our steps back to the coastline. So many walls. Could drive one to insanity.

Dublin has become an international city, like so many other European capital cities: flush with diversity, innumerable languages on the street, vibrant with city life, totally illogical traffic signaling that often leaves pedestrians stranded on concrete islands in the middle of opposing lanes of rushing traffic. Everything ‘Irish’ is bartered at a price: culture and history branded for money, authenticity replaced by flashing tourist traps at exorbitant prices, everyone is a tourist and everyone is drinking Guinness. I met only the occasional Irish lad working in the pub that was able to lighten up the scene by cracking jokes.

So I escaped south to Wexford, in a quiet town tucked just off the beach*, right on the coast of the Irish Sea. I spent my birthday laying on the beach and swimming in the salty sea, floating effortlessly at the surface of the water. In the pubs here everyone drinks Heineken or Carlsberg, possibly capping off the night with a Guinness. The pubs are full of laughter and music: it seems to be a requirement that the music be played live, cover songs and requests, the occasional jaunt into rebel songs and traditional folk songs a must. Jokes are played at the offense of friends or neighbors, the beer flows strong and everyone has a laugh waiting to surface: “Bloody hell, man, whaddya’ doing wearing my shorts?” yelled one very tall man to a much shorter man in high-waters, causing the two tables to roar.  “Make sure you put ’em back just where you found ’em!” In another pub, a friend of a friend is a musician, his voice for singing, curly red hair cropped close to his head, reddish-blonde stubble on his face, eyes glowing with mischief and humor, a sort of restlessness in his motions: he told stories like a god, perfectly painting the scene and inviting the listeners in, humor evident throughout. I hung on his words, “Tell another story, please, would you?” and we delved into conversation about stardust and the luck of the universe. His friend was a realist painter, trained from a young age: “What was his name, again?” I asked, met only with, “Ah, I donno man.” Which I confusedly but solidly believed.

Trailing from gig to gig, we ended up overlooking the coastline as the sun began to set. There were about six of us, all ages, sitting on the picnic benches with a pint: conversation flowed into songs which flowed back into conversation. Effortlessly, one person would start to sing and suddenly we’d all join in, clapping and snapping along. The light was sucked slowly out of the sky and absorbed into the water, transforming from deep steely blue to a pink-tinged silver. Someone grabbed a guitar, and then another person went to his car for a banjo, and we were joined by some men from a nearby pub, who sang and clapped and threw out compliments: “I loved your voice there, the way it blends with the guitar. It’s really lovely, that is.” And as we retired at the end of the night, everyone was appreciative and kind, inviting the musicians to come back, wishing everyone well as we floated off to our respective places.

Musicians and artists and rebels, the lot of ’em. It’s the people that make Ireland, just as I’ve always been told. A hidden charm, buried in kindness and humor. Give it time, let Ireland soak you up. And the longer I stay, the move evident it becomes that there is something undeniably unique about this Kingdom of Éire, land of musicians and poets and artists, this misty green, gorgeous island settled in the ocean at the edge of the world.

Another week or two of vacation in Ireland for me and then it’s back to chasing trains in Scotland. Cheers, to your good health! Moving on today to the south of Ireland! Sláinte!

*Apologies from the writer. A misstatement regarding the town of Riverchapel was written based on rumor and not fact. I had a relaxing stay in the Beaches Youth Hostel (more like an apartment share than a hostel) and would highly recommend a stay to anyone looking for a peaceful day or two tucked away from the city and near the beach. 

We leave at 5.30 in the morning from North Queensferry. I sleep in the front seat until we begin winding through the start of the highlands, the hills are dramatic as they rise and fall as far as the eye can see. Our arrival at Fort William is simply to scope out the engine, shunting on the tracks: Black 5 no. 45407, the Jacobite, built in 1936-7 for LMS (London-Midlands-Scotland) in Crewe, privately owned and contracted to West Coast Railways for the six-month tourist season to run from Fort William to Mallaig. It’s a gorgeous engine, shining black steel, massive cast iron wheels connected by forged steel simple-linkage rods, healthy exhaust as the train primes.

We set off to Corpach Basin, to have a brisk walk along the lower loch and watch the departure of the train from across the lake. It’s off in perfect time, 10.20 on the dot, steam blowing, a line of exhaust tracing across the cluster of white, fort-like buildings arranged on the hillside that composes Fort William. We reverse direction, pick up the pace and return to the Basin, past the ducks quacking as they skim across the lake and the boats bobbing between the bridges in the canal space of the seventeen lochs, waiting for their chance to rest in the lower loch.

A crowd is gathered in the parking lot, cameras at the ready: the engine sails through, giving a whistle of greeting, exhaust beautifully stretched out behind. The windows are full of smiling faces, everyone waving, six red carriages and then it is gone, racing along the lake and out of view. We jump into the car and we’re off in hot pursuit–leaving Coprach and racing through villages, overtaking cars and lauries on the motorway and before long we are next to the train, racing beside it as it flashes though the trees, slowly overtaking the carriages and the engine is barely visible, the powerful barking sound resonating through the air, chugga-chugga-chugga, the exhaust billowing and the red bodies of the carriages flashing, windows perfectly placed inside them, faces seemingly frozen beside us as our speed matches and the route changes, the train disappears behind the hill and we are alone, racing on the road, buried in the trees.

We race on. “A turn on the right, and the lay-by just after it,” John repeats to himself, a road flashes by on the right and he slams on the brakes: “Seatbelt off, dearie, saves a few milliseconds,” and we pull off the road at Fassfarn, jump out of the car and John grabs his camera, we jump over the fence, race across the track, clamber over the second fence and we are in a field, sheep grazing to the right and Loch Eil stretches up to the base of the railway on the right. “We’ve got a few seconds here,” John tells me, and, “Oh, look at that spot of sun!” and he is visibly excited, walking in his rushed, bouncing gait to stand beneath a tree and situate himself with his camera.

The sound reaches us first, a-chugga-chugga-chugga, the engine is working and for nearly a minute we are bouncing with excitement and anticipation: a glimpse of exhaust in the trees in the distance and, “Wah-hoo! There it is!” and the engine races beautifully out of the woods towards us, the sounds and the sight and the sun peeks out and it races past, faces waving in the windows and we are buried in the field, laughing and waving as it races by.

“Very good, carry on,” says John and we race back over the fences, across the tracks and back to the road where we rush on, eating wine-gums and hooting and hollering and laughing, racing down the sprawling roads and John starts chatting and drives slightly slower and we miss it at Craigag bridge, getting just a glimpse of the tail end as it races along the hillside and into the trees out of sight and we speed along. “We’ll catch it tomorrow!” I exclaim with a whoop.

We race on to Glenfinnan, where all the tourists are clustered at the base of the hill: John drops me off at the edge of the parking lot and I sprint out of the car, laughing and running in sheer exhilaration, and just as the train reaches the start of the viaduct in the distance it slows down, lets out a stream of exhaust and whistles for the crowd, everyone cheers and as it disappears on the other side of the epic valley I race back to John, jump in the car, and we’re off again.

And so it goes, for three days, chasing the trains from Fort William to Mallaig and back again, climbing through the wild, rugged highlands, making our way through ferns and boggy mosses, over the cliffs to see hidden parts of the railway, pruning back the trees that distract the view of the train: being eaten by midges, searching for ticks, no time for food in the day as we race after the morning train and afternoon train and in the evening we enjoy meals of fresh seafood or fish and chips before I go to rest in the Bed & Breakfast and John drives off to sleep in the car and bathe in the river, he enjoying his ‘wild living’ as I bask in the glorious luxury of a hot shower, a brief time of quiet and rest before a proper breakfast early in the morning and the call of the whistle to roil our blood and entice us to follow.

“It’s super! It’s wonderful! It’s excellent!” John yells in his excited English accent, pumping his fist in the air, reaching and exceeding the speed limit for the first time since I’ve met him. “It’s all in the chase! Who-hoo! Just knowing it’s coming! Who-hoo! Oh, wonderful, dear. Just wonderful. Fantastic! Ho-ho! Who-hoo!”

And I giggle and whoop and holler along with him, and roll down the window for the refreshing flood of energy that accompanies the pursuit of the barking and whistling steam engine.

A handful of useful sites and resources that I take for granted being familiar with, now gathered up to present to you: keep in mind that this is primarily Europe-based travel advice, as I am at this time primarily traveling through Western Europe and the UK.

I travel cheap. Dirt cheap. Sometimes all I eat is bread, for weeks, until I can’t stand the thought of cutting up another piece of cheese and ripping off another piece of bread and putting it in my mouth to thoroughly masticate before the sodden lump retreats down my throat to my grumbling, endlessly crying stomach. Brief relief: apples. Cream cheese and tomatoes. Different types of cheese and bread as per the country. Always buy enough for the day, and buy it fresh again in the morning. Local bakeries are best. Splurge and buy good jam. Carrots. Make pasta occasionally. Splurge and buy ingredients necessary to make a great dinner. Avocados can be a great relief. Canned artichoke hearts are a cheap and tasty snack. Take your own loose leaf tea and make it as you go: hot water is always free.

Lodging: if you have time and not money, look into WOOFing to do some local organic farm-stays or find a job through sites like WorkAway. Otherwise, stay with friends you meet along the way. Always take the contacts of people from interesting countries, especially those you like. Travel-minded people love to host and travel to meet other travel-minded people. Couchsurfing is a great site, which some people avidly swear by. You can get the occasional loose screw, but be smart about how you travel, always have an escape plan in the back of your mind, and be critical and selective when choosing who to stay with. Hostelworld is the next step up, which is pretty much the only site I use when searching for hostels. Search by price, read the reviews (I hate mildew and generally do my best to avoid mildew-ridden-comment places) and book from there. Generally the cheaper prices you get online are not available if you just impromptu arrive at the hostel desk: and as you pay a booking fee through the site, it is best to book the number of days you plan to stay and pay when you arrive.

Airbnb is a more expensive alternative, but a completely verified and totally reliable way to apartment-share. While I was traveling in New York, I stayed via Airbnb in a fantastic flat in Brooklyn: our hosts were so sweet and knowledgeable, told us where the best food was and how to order wine via delivery, and when the apartment was broken into and all our electronics were stolen, they completely reimbursed us the loss via the insurance they had through the site. Pretty slick. Slightly awkward at the time, completely resolved by the end.

Flights are best found through Kayak. It’s great to make a multi-city selection, as you can plan layovers in cool places and often find a cheaper flight. Sometimes I’ll search through Kayak to get an idea of which airline has the cheapest flight, and then go directly to the airline’s site, such as Aerlingus, United Airlines or Korean Air to find the same flight for slightly cheaper. Icelandair is pretty cool in that the government subsidizes layover flights through Iceland, in order to encourage tourism to the tiny isolated isle. It’s a super legit place to have a week to chill, but bring a tent if you’re budget-conscious. Be wary of China Airlines, as they give ZERO reimbursement if you cannot make the flight. NEVER buy a flight more than two months in advance. Every time I have purchased a cheap flight in advance, my plans have changed and I have to bite the bullet and suffer the loss. Be aware that buying cheap means no flexibility, huge charges to make changes, and potentially zero customer service (see Ryanair, local budget airlines from sites like Swoodoo, or Easy Jet).

Buses are the cheapest way to travel long-distance, and there are all sorts of incredibly cheap bus sites that vary via country. Megabus can get you from the UK to several key cities in Europe, such as Paris or Amsterdam, often overnight (which alleviates the need to pay for lodging) and is clean, easy, and has bathrooms onboard. Germany has recently has some legal shifts regarding rail monopolies over cities, and as a result a huge number of cheap bus companies have sprung up, nearly overnight: Meinfernbus is a great one, astoundingly cheap, the buses are brand new AND they sell cheap snacks onboard, if a nibbling need arises.

Hitchhiking is good in countries like Germany, the UK, Iceland, or Scandinavia, but it’s best to hitch with two, as you can put yourself into unpredictably bad situations with one. But the very best way of traveling overland is via carpool. I LOVE carpooling. I can’t rave enough about it. Though this brilliant communication system originated as a small cork-board office in Germany, you can also carpool France, which is also great to get through Spain. In France the carpools are generally empty, but the ride is comfortable and usually silent, unless you speak French well. The carpools in Germany are a riot, always full of Germans, and is a totally valid and acceptable way to painlessly arrange rides from city to city. It’s often cheaper and more enjoyable than buses, and is a great way to meet and talk with locals.

So, that’s about it for now. Enjoy your cheap, dirty travels, kids, they’re the best.

Recently, as I was sitting at lunch with one of my dear friends, meeting her mother for the first time, we cracked open a bottle of wine and delved into stories. Travel stories, stories about people, about ourselves, about the past and how it leads into our hopes for the future. With the newfound presence of her mother, the lens to access these familiar stories was changed; a new perspective was present, which lead to an entirely new presentation and projection of these past experiences.

The truth is, most of my stories are largely untold. I travel to collect them, to garner these experiences which I tuck somewhere in the back of my heart, and they stumble out with strangers, occasionally with friends, and in short anecdotes or jokes, with family. I rarely know what stories I will tell. Sometimes I feel stuffed with so many stories that none of them will come out, that I’ll continually be an overstuffed cookie bear with all the cookies smashed up inside losing their shape and context. The chocolate melts into the dough and I can’t remember which flight it was, what country that was, who it was I shared that coffee with, where exactly this piece of clothing came from.

Yet, when I travel, my stories are vivid, they are present, they are shared. It is so easy to meet other travelers, some of whom have similar experiences, and what begins as a meeting turns into an exchange of memories. Details are sometimes so similar that one is able to immediately feel a connection with a stranger, and a greater web of connection between humanity is begun. It might be meeting a local from one of the countries I have traveled, such as meeting Germans in southern Spain, cracking jokes about Darmstadt and bananabier. It may be meeting another traveler who has had a similar experience, and in discovering such similarities we are able to instantly bond: such as meeting an Australian girl who was similarly berated at customs while trying to get into the United Kingdom, or meeting a French couple and exchanging stories and emotions about how families in Nepal were so incredibly willing to open their homes and their hearts, or meeting a Slovenian girl whose dream is to go to Korea. Sometimes it is merely a shared desire to go to a country: daydreaming about the mystical natural beauty of Laos; talking about Croatia or Greece or Turkey; getting lost in stories you’ve only heard from others about Costa Rica, or Peru, or Chile.

Sometimes the connection may consist of meeting someone from home who has similar mindsets and misses similar things. The nearness of your common heartbeat is a unique comfort: understanding the value of a hug over a kiss, missing traditional American-style coffee, talking about the beauty of lazy Minnesota cabin days and how summer on the lake may be the most perfect place in all the world.

I travel to learn empathy, to see the world through others’ eyes. I often forget the boundaries of my self when traveling, losing the edges of my American accent, passively following instead of speaking my mind, unable to decide on a place to eat despite hunger tearing up and receding into a dull ache as my feet pass restaurant after restaurant after restaurant, sometimes going to bed hungry because I just don’t feel like going to the effort of making a decision and eating alone.

Yet this aloneness is necessary to create experience, and the stories that result are what bring us together. It is the individual responsibility to garner and stitch together the basic framework of the stories, but it is the people we are lucky enough to meet and share our stories with that give us context, meaning, depth.

I travel to leave and I travel to return home. It is both the coming and the going that gives depth and growth to the human spirit, for it is necessary to understand and witness not only the cultures of others, but to view the culture in which one was raised and to see what is familiar through fresh, foreign eyes: to panic about wasting water as you listen to the sound of friends washing the dishes, to feel despair at the endless expansion of American suburbia, to question whether work ought to be the function and purpose of life, to understand the culture of food in entirely different ways, to question the immediate acceptance we have toward routines and habits that exist merely because, “That’s how it is, that’s how it’s always been,” instead of saying that things ought to be done differently because they could be done better.

The more I travel, the more I realize that there exists no one correct way to live; it is only the circumstances we have and the decisions we make and the priorities we choose that dictate the fullness, depth and experience of our life. It is what we choose to do with what we have, and how seriously we take our selves, the dreams and desires that come out of the heart, and how deeply we respect the lives of others in the decisions we make. Culture, values, food, and climate vary greatly; gender roles, hierarchies of respect, and freedom of decision culturally intersect at polar opposites across the world; the value of work versus play, the value of education, the value of health as a social or individual responsibility are starkly divided. But we are all human, we are all born and we will all reach the end of our life, where we will inevitably die. While spiritual, governmental, cultural and religious systems have all been created to deal with this system of life and death, and these vary greatly in context and practice, we the individuals are integrally, at our very core, the same.

It is my belief that the greatest thing which connects us, as humans, in facilitating understanding across all manner of boundaries, most especially when told with an open heart and mind (those of which create the ability to tolerate varying degrees and understandings of truth), is stories.  Each of us is nothing but the stories we have. We need stories, to deepen our self and to connect us with others. Stories to help us remember who we are and to give us understanding of our role among others. We are nothing but the stories we have, and the whole experience of life is given meaning by our ability to share these stories with others.

If this were my rallying cry, I would cry: So go on, go out there! Wherever it is you must go. Live your stories and open your heart and share them with others. This is the life, this is what we have, it is our personal and individual duty to live it as best we can. One day, we will die. We will all die. And our stories will die with us. All we can do is share them now with the people we love. It is the best of what we have, and one of the only ways of understanding who and what we are. Make your stories, be your stories. And if you’re not happy with your stories, make new ones. This is it. Here we are. So go.

***

Are we all happy? John, my adopted English grandfather, asks Esther and me. Are we happy, is it fair? That’s what’s most important. We must be happy, and everything must be divided equally. Are you happy then, my dears?

I met Hannah Sutton at a hostel on the Isle of Skye, Scotland, in early March. I was charmed by her sweet personality and her depth of traveling experiences, and managed to snag her for a quick interview the morning before she flew out of London. At twenty-one, this Australian chica has been on the road since October, 2011, starting in Indonesia, and has no prospects of stopping anytime soon: read on to hear her perspectives on hitchhiking, solo travel, and general travel anecdotes.

A: “Where have you been so far on your travels?”

H: “The rough path is this: Indonesia- India- Nepal- Thailand- Cambodia- Thailand- Myanmar- Malaysia- Japan- South Korea-Hong Kong- China- Mongolia- China- Krygyzstan- Kazakhstan- Russia- Georgia- Turkey- Bulgaria- Serbia- Hungary- Austria- Czech Republic-Germany- Netherlands- Germany- England- Wales- France- Switzerland- Italy- Austria- Czech Republic- Poland- Germany- Netherlands- England- Scotland- England- South Africa. After Hong Kong and before South Africa, everything was traveling overland.”

A: “That’s quite a list! Tell me a little about Myanmar/Burma.”

H: “It was my first taste in solo travel; I met so many people. It was a difficult country to travel at times, but really rewarding. The people are the best part. They’re so genuine and nice. I left my wallet on the table on day–the thing about Myanmar is that they don’t have any ATMS, so all the money you want you have to carry it all with you. The currency exchange rate is just insane and inflation is huge–so I had a huge stack of money in my wallet, probably enough to feed a family for a few good months. I left it on the table in the cafe and I walked out and the man ran after me and gave it back to me with all the money still in it. It was so gorgeous. The people there are so nice.

Another time I was just walking around a lake and this lady, she stopped me and was like, oh, I invite you to dinner at my place. And I was traveling with these three other travelers at the time and the next day we went over to her place and she cooked this huge feast for us and we sat down and started eating it, it was enough food to feed a family for a week.

So they’re very humble and very well educated as well. They have a very good understanding of English, as they used to be a colony, and they’re just really really wonderful people.

But, on my first day in Burma, I was riding the local train around Yangon, which is the main city, and the train suddenly stopped. I walked out to see what had happened, and a guy had jumped in front of the train and committed suicide. It was three days into me traveling solo and I was like WHAT. It was so scary. All the kids were going up and poking the body, and after awhile they just rolled the body off the tracks and kept the train going. It was really amazing to see how they see death all the time, and so it’s not a big thing for them, whereas we’re sort of sheltered from it. It’s a good way to see the difference between our cultures.”

A: “Definitely. In Korea, they have a lot of similarities in that way. The way they talk about death is… commonplace. A lot of my students would say, well, I chose not to commit suicide. There were two paths, one is to commit suicide and one is to not. Whereas in the states, you don’t say anything about it.”

H: “And even if someone has committed suicide, you don’t say that, as well. You try to cover it up as something else. It was the same in India as well, very out there, seeing dead bodies, like the burning ghats in Varanasi.”

A: “And it’s normal, a natural part of life. So, from Burma, where did you go?”

H: “Well, I was talking to my family more, and I hadn’t seen them in a few months time. My parents happened to be in Japan, and I had nothing to do and I had a lot of money saved up so they told me to come over and visit them. So I crashed their romantic get-away, and was third-wheeling and getting free accommodation and free food and stuff, which is really nice. So that was really cool to see them. After everything I’d done, going through India and Nepal and the breakup with my boyfriend, it was really nice to have family around.” Continue reading

Okay, I admit it. I love my camera.

In fact, I love my camera as much as Koreans love mirrors.

And let me tell you, Koreans love their mirrors.

Rural reflection en route to Godalsil temple/ ruins

Mirrors in Korea are everywhere. In the hallways. In stairwells. Along entire walls in coffee shops. In my student’s hands during classes. On teacher’s desks.

I have seen more men preening in Korea than anywhere else in my life. I consider this to be an impressive statement, being that I lived for a time in Italy, home of beautiful Italian men, who are not like our timid, humble Midwest American men.

Intelzone Elevator Reflections - my apartment in Yeoju

The elevator in my apartment is completely mirrors, all four walls, including the doors.

It is not uncommon to find myself awkwardly sharing the elevator with one Korean man, of any age, but for now, picture one who is relatively similar to my age, perhaps mid- to- upper- twenties: and me, standing awkwardly upright and swaying my weight from heels to toes, heels to toes while said man stands with his back to me, face glued to the mirror, hands patting at his hair, picking at his teeth, gazing, preening, with nary a glance elsewhere.

Awkward.

This scenario is the opposite of America, where it is blatantly uncool to preen, especially in the presence of others.

Men preen, women preen, Amanda stands awkwardly unsure of what to do with her hands, but often decides to settle on making solid eye contact with the floor, or, when the floor feels too lame, with the steely, slightly squirming reflection of the eyes exactly even to my own.

To be fair, physical appearance is a matter of some significance in Korea. An attractive physical appearance plays a role in getting a good job, as has been explained to me several times.

Mirrored mustard scarf.

Rural road to Godalsil II

As a result, the women are incredibly stylish. They do their makeup in little hand mirrors on the subway. On the streets. In busses. In cafes. While on a date with their man, who happens to also be dressed very stylishly, and carries his own purse, or his woman’s purse, or both, with one over each shoulder.

Plastic surgery is not uncommon in younger girls, end of middle school prior to starting high school, who like to go to the doctor and get a double eyelid. Double what? Double eyelid. Yes. You heard correctly.

Did you know that you, in the event that you are a non-Asian reader of this blog, which is a large percent of my blogosphere audience, and consequently I am referring to you, yes, you have a double eyelid, and that Korean women find that to be an incredibly beautiful feature of your face?

You may also have a small face, which I have been told is extremely attractive, and you may have a big nose, of which my own has been endlessly discussed after first introductions.

Enough.

In the spirit of cameras and mirrors, I offer you the following collection of mirrors, cameras, and opposite-Amanda photos.

Enjoy.

Onlyholic reflections: small and incredibly cheap coffee shop

As you may or may not have heard, the big questions upon meeting someone in Korea are as follows:

(1) The age bomb. It usually goes as follows:

“Nice to meet you”(Bashful look and Korean murmurings.) “Do you mind, I ask how old you are?”

To which I’ll respond, in Korean years, which are one year more than most human years, being that the 9 months in Korean utero are counted as near- enough to pop you out as a one- year old. (Also, all Koreans increase their age at the new year–not on their birthday! So though they still celebrate their birthday with cakes and stuff, since cake and bread is all the rage for delicacy and special occasion ’round these parts, they don’t get older. Weird, huh.)

Even despite using Korean years to boost my age, I’m always met with “ooohhhhhhhh” and “murmurmurmurjjjealous” and “so young!” So, needless to say, I generally dread this question.

Furthermore, in the event I ask the curious questioning Korean their own age, they will be super- duper tricky and say, “Guess!” which is IMPOSSIBLE to do, due to the fact that (1) all Koreans dye their hair dark, and (2) it is impossible to guess Asian ages. Seriously. So hard.

(2) Your blood type. Now, I was given ample warning that this question would hit me regularly, but it’s still a little goofy to me. From what I gather, knowing your blood type is a little like knowing whether you are type A or type B personality, or knowing what sign you are, or any other means to guage personality and compatibility upon first impression.

Basically, I can never tell them my blood type, because I don’t know. I’ve never known. Unless you donate blood, which I’ve tried to do a couple times but was short on iron due to lack of red meat and broccoli consumption in my late high- school years, you just don’t know.

They always look so disappointed when I can’t tell them.

Oh! Also.

My personal favorite is that in many of the calendar/ planner books in Korea, on the back page where you write your name and info and stuff, you have to option to fill in these corresponding boxes: Name, Address, Phone Number, Birthday, Blood Type, School, etc.

(3) The Boyfriend. If you’ve managed to continue conversation past the first two bombs, you may be met with this:

“I’m sorry, but may I ask… do you have a boyfriend?”

To which, when responding with a ‘no’, you are met with either surprise or concern. “But, oh… but you so pretty!! Why boyfriend, no?”

I’ve made the mistake of feigning disappointment at a couple of these questionings (do not underestimate how many questionings I’ve had… endless upon endless encounters with these three bombs…) which just brings on a huge show of genuine pity, and/ or the attempt to set me up on blind dates.

Also, side- side note, blind dates in Korea are a pretty common thing.

One of the most comical boyfriend moments: One day, a few weeks back, I was walking with one of the young female teachers from my school to the Post Office. One of the foreigners in Yeoju (of which there are only about 20-30 foreigners to the population of 100,000 Koreans in Yeoju), who happened to be a boy, and who I also happened to know, biked past and said hello to me. We briefly asked each other about dinner plans before saying goodbye and moving on.

Ms. Lee turned to me, excitedly, and asked, “Your boyfriend!?!”

I told her, not regretfully at all, no.

She was quiet for a moment before turning to me and saying, quite solemnly, “You missed an opportunity there. Really, I think.”

Ba dum dum. But! No fear. I’m happy as a clam in jam.

Aaaaaand, school’s out. Today is Wednesday and I get to go home while the sun still sets! (No such thing as Daylight Savings Time in Korea! Sun is gone by 5.20pm).

Love!

Well hello there.

It’s been awhile, and for this I apologize.

Athough time seems to have stopped on this blog, it has done anything but in the living world. Today is my one month anniversary in Korea, happy anniversary to me! I hope Korea is happy about it as well. Anniversaries are lonely things to celebrate alone.

Anyhow, boy have things been happening. This past week was a big Korean holiday: Chuseok, the celebration of the harvest, which means that all the Korean kiddos go to grandmother’s house for the weekend and the foreigner teachers bond together to try and battle the traffic and make something of their unexpected- and- rather- abrubt week off from teaching duties. Being that we are all without our official Alien Registration Cards, and consequently unable to leave the country, a small collection of Wisco grad kids and I gathered up our cameras, notebooks and odd- number of travel clothes and went to Seoul! Hooray!

It was great. My second time in Seoul, and I’m in love.

There are, however, a few notable accomplishments that must not be overlooked.

First big demon: the subway. When one is a newbie to big cities in general, subways are a formidable beast to face. There that newbie stands, a colorful bowl of spaghetti noodles mapped out and open in their hand, and for whatever confusing, awful reason, that map stubbornly refuses to let up its secrets. Meanwhile, all around is ordered chaos, a never- ending flow of people that know exactly what needs to be done to get past those beeping, blocking machines and don’t appreciate the awkwardly gawking around and blocking the perfectly synchronized flow of traffic.

Well friends, I have to admit that on my first trip to Seoul, I was that newbie. I meekly followed where my equally foreign friends led (which was, I’ll admit again, to a safe corner of the subway system as we poked the map and begged it to release its secrets), but now! Oh, now.

Let me just tell you, I am a newbie no more. I have conquered the Seoul subway system. When I take that bowl of colorful spaghetti noodles from its expertly folded home in my back pocket, those beautiful lines all crissing and crossing that enormous span of city, I hold a puzzle! An intricate puzzle that allows me to get from any point in Seoul to any other point in Seoul almost instantaneously. It’s amazing. Instead of confusion, it’s a code. Awesome. Plus, I now have a T-Money card that is good for use on the subway, for any taxi in Seoul, and for half the pay- phones in the city. Equally awesome. Goodbye, awkward gawking. Hello suave new white girl, welcome to your second home.

Second demon to face down: traveling alone in such a big city as Seoul. I have to admit, this also was intimidating for me. Something about the ultra- foreign feeling of the language, the absurd way I stick out in a crowd, and the still- not- completely- acclimated- to- the- culture in Korea has made me feel a bit like a turtle roaming out of its shell. I kind of miss that cozy turtley- shell feeling.

But, again, I’ve done it. My first subway ride on my own was a bit nerve- wracking. It didn’t help that as I sat alone in the corner of the train, a little old Korean man sitting across from me and staring at me, without a single blink, dusk slowly setting outside the windows, a blazingly bright traditional Korean mask rested on my head, (one that I had decorated earlier that day at the Seoul World Design Fair 2010). It wasn’t long before I cracked under the pressure and took it off.

Not only did I travel alone to meet an old friend from Madison that evening, but I spent the entirety of the next day kicking around Seoul on my own, and it felt great. I unexpectedly visited the Gyeongbokgung Palace in downtown Seoul, figured out the city map and made it to Insadong, (okay, it was only a few blocks away, but still….): the artsy hub of Seoul, known for art galleries, paint studios and a beautiful open- air market that stretches for several blocks. It was so peaceful to wander the city alone without the stressed- out feeling that has been camping in the back of my head for far too long.

The next few days in Seoul were relatively uneventful in terms of blogosphere ratings, but for this:

Picture us, three ragged companions with me on a train back to rural Yeoju after three nights of very little sleep. Matt plays with his iPad, I sit beside him reading a book, Brian sits beside me staring out the window, Ryan sits beside Brian napping with his headphones in.

We are tired. We are hungry. We have very little money and we haven’t eaten any food all day. The train unexpectedly unloads us and we have to transfer. Before this, we accidentally rode on the train for too long and had to backtrack twenty minutes. We want to go home and we each want to sleep in our own beds. Seoul is beautiful but exhausting. Korea is beautiful and exhausting. I want to be in my own bed in my big apartment and I want to sleep for a very, very long time.

Transfer in Yeong Peyong, get off the train and walk a half hour through the downtown towards the bus stop. It is Wednesday, Chuseok day, and aside from soldiers in the streets with their families and random scatterings of large groups of friends, there are few people out. We are a gangly, the odd ones out in the streets and we are hungry. Most of the restaurants are closed, but as we are passing Baskin Robbins we see a little hole- in- the- wall restaurant beside it that is pretty packed with people. We look at each other and decide to walk in.

Enter the hole in the wall restaurant. There is one open table in the middle and three filled, the restaurant is very small. The corner table to the left is brimming with a group of teenage friends, the back corner table has a couple of old men laughing and eating, their eyes beginning to have the drunken Soju glaze in them. The table to the right has a little old man, his wife and daughter and they have an abundance of food and alcohol on their table. The lady that owns the restaurant clears off the fourth table and wipes away the dead flies and mosquitos as we sit.

Little old man on the table to the right is extremely entertained that we have entered this restaurant. He grabs Ryan’s attention and speaks loudly in Korean, I am beginning to see that he is quite drunk, and he uses his chopsticks to feed Ryan food from his communal dish in the center of his table. Little old drunken Korean man then walks to the back table, grabs a bit of food from their communal center plate, and proceeds to walk back to our table feed it to Ryan. Ryan is doing well under all this attention. The rest of us are half- paying attention, half- figuring out how the hell we’re going to order any food when nothing is in English and we’re bone- weary with exhaustion.

Little drunk old Korean man then decides to feed me a bite of his food, via his hand with his chopsticks, and I am too tired to refuse so I let him. I don’t want to think about what it is, so I just chew. And chew and chew and chew. It’s unchewable, I can’t think about it so I just swallow. One huge gulp and it is down.

“Guys, whatever we order, we do not want that. I promise you. Don’t get what he has. Please. It’s not meat.”

The nice Korean woman is trying her best to take our order but the little drunk old Korean man behind us is telling her we want what he has, pointing at his dish with much enthusiasm, my eyes are begging Brian to change it but the woman is crossing her arms in the ‘no’ symbol and walks away.

At this point, little drunk old Korean man decides to feed us shots of Soju and mechu (beer) mixed together. In the Korean culture it is considered very rude to refuse drinks, especially from people that are on a higher tier of respect than you. Being unsure whether his age is enough to qualify him on a higher tier of respect, and knowing that refusing it will be a much greater battle than taking it, I regretfully accept the shot, and immediately afterwards find another bite of unchewable chunk and liver- paste noodles in my mouth and, desperate not to puke, gag before spitting out the unchewable into a napkin wad beneath my plate.

The rest of the meal consisted in teary disbelief at the enormous plate of pig intestine and, possibly testicle, that we had knowingly- but- powerlessly ordered as all the sounds, sights and smells swirled around me and smacked me hard in my empty gut.

As soon as possible we excavated that restaurant and learned the hard way that a hole- in- the- wall restaurant in Madison is incredibly different than a hole- in- the- wall restaurant in Korea. We trudged on to the bus station and hungrily, with the taste of intestine hoovering on our lips, split ways to our apartments.

Rarely before has a bed felt so wonderful. 😉

Hello, culture shock. Hello, new side of Korean food. Hello bright new world! Can’t wait to see what’s next, haha. Suffice it to say I’ve been taking it easy for the last few days, reading, eating rice, eating eggs, ordering safe things like kimbop and dragon noodle soup, both of which are incredibly delicious and wonderful.

Well! That should be enough of a post to make up for awhile. Take care, until we meet agaiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnn!!! I promise in the next post I will use more pictures than I use words. That’ll be a change, eh? 😉

I have made a terrible mistake.

This morning I woke early, as per intention to write a lesson plan. Up until now, I have been eating an egg every morning. One egg. Plain. Very boring. No coffee.

This morning, however, I had no eggs. My one egg per morning routine slowly and steadily decreased the population of eggs in my fridge until, regretfully, there were none. Not even one: none. There was one yesterday but today is today, and today there are none.

Delightfully seizing the opportunity that the extra time of my early morning provided, I grabbed my wallet and retreated down the five flights of stairs to the convenience store located beneath my apartment. (Actually, that was a lie. I take the elevator, the stairs make me dizzy.)

First mission: buy some coffee. Second mission: find milk for breakfast. Though there are two boxes of cereal on the fridge in my apartment, (a gift from the former teacher living here before me, along with the eggs), there is no milk.

Mission one, coffee. I begin my search with a walk to the back corner, near the ice cream freezer, where I know I have seen little coffee- looking cups. Bingo: little cups filled with dried powder, just add hot water. A fine option, but all I’ve had is dried powdery coffee, so I decide to grab one and continue to peruse the store.

On to the back freezer: jackpot! Jardin coffee, which comes in little pouches, simply rip off the top and pour over ice! There are at least five different colored pouches, so there are plenty of flavors. Or, if you’re not feeling the pouch, there are little adorable bottles “a cafe la”, though they look expensive. Four flavors, one of which is black, I think it must be americano–so basically, the coffee I want, loosened up with water. Naturally, due to my combination of desperation for coffee and my need to know what I’m dealing with, I grab one purple bag of Jardin coffee and one red bottle of “a cafe la”. Set. Next mission: milk.

My arms are getting a little full, but I grab a blue carton that has pictured a splash of milk on the front. Next to it is a carton with pictures of plums on it, so I grab that too.

“Need help?” asks the guy at the counter, being that he speaks a little English and I am the only customer in the store, and that he is very nice. “Ummm…..” I artfully respond, arms full of coffee samples and two cartons of liquid. “Sure.” He walks back to me, and, as I try to explain that I am searching for coffee, he grabs me a small cup full of ice cubes for the Jardin coffee before telling me that he has an espresso machine at the counter. “Oh GREAT!” I respond, grabbing a little triangle thing of seaweed and rice before following him to the counter.

Ten thousand Won later and I have a shot of espresso, a pouch of coffee, a cup of powdery coffee stuff, a little red bottle of milky coffee- looking stuff, a triangle of seaweed rice cake, a carton of milk and a carton of plum juice. I tip back the espresso (much to the surprise of the kid at the counter) and… it’s not bad. Close to coffee but more like a strong cup of coffee than espresso. Satisfied, I thank the kid at the counter, ask for a bag and hop back on the elevator.

Now, things are not so hot. On the contrary, thing are extremely hot but not so good. Very bad, actually. I sit at my computer making a blog post instead of a lesson plan, my mouth burning terribly from the small triangle of seaweed kimchi rice thing I ate. I unwrapped it (very badly, I ripped the seaweed), unwittingly bit in and ate almost all of it before I realized what an awful idea it was.

As though in mockery of my burning pain, the cereal box showered me with moths upon opening it, the plum juice is the sweetest juice in the world, and this coffee does nothing for the burn.

My last resort: grapes. Pop it in, chew off the peel and spit it out, spit out the cluster of seeds in the middle, pretend like the burn is going away.

No more spicy food in the morning. Breakfasts are not for experimentation. They are for one egg, nice and simple, and time left for lesson plans. None of this breaking from the haven of normalcy:

I want a cinnamon roll and a piping hot, strong cup of coffee.