First Snow

My buddy Martin is having a small art exhibition in an insurance building by Daehangno ( 대학로 ). Daehangno isn't the only downtown area in Seoul, or even the best. It is, however, the college town-within-town with the most old money. Really old. The oldest university in the world is within walking distance. Although Martin didn't expect anyone who didn't know him to come, but we went out last weekend and blanketed Hongdae ( 홍대 ), one of the other university areas, with little cards for the thing. Noone came to this event, but it is nevertheless significant, because it is the reason I saw snow this weekend.

The reason it caused me to see snow this weekend is because it kept me off the mountains last weekend. Although my mountain addiction is nowhere near as severe as it once was, I still don't relish the thought of missing hikes on consecutive weekends.

So the plan for Saturday was simple. I'd go to Dobong Mountain ( 도봉산 ), my favorite hiking spot, in the morning so I'd have time to shower and change before Martin's show. It was a simple enough plan, until Martin texted me Friday afternoon, asking if I could go into town to help him pass out flyers around Daehangno. No worries though. I wouldn't be able to go to Dobong, but I will next weekend, and I could always just to to Surak Mountain ( 수락산 ). Surak's not as fun as Dobong, but it has always been a special place to me, and the way I always take up is so steep that it has steel cables as thick as ropes running alongside the path for much of the last thirty or fourty minutes up.

Even when I do sunrise hikes, having to get out of bed so early in the morning is the one part I never enjoy. I hastily packed my bag, and since it looked like it might rain, I decided to throw in my rainjacket. I thought it might be too cold to touch the ropes with my bare hands, but decided against packing a pair because my hands are pretty tough and I wasn't quite awake enough to want to have to think about one more thing. I still hadn't shaken off the chill of first waking up when I left home, and I was shivering in the cold while I was waiting for the bus. An hour later, halfway up the mountain, I was just beginning to shake off enough of the cold that I could unzip my jacket and feel the cool, damp fall air against my chest without freezing.

The trip up by the cables was fairly uneventful for the longest time. I stopped to take pictures every now and then, causing me to constantly pass, then be passed by the same group of Korean guys every time I stopped to take out my camera and snap a shot, one of whom was a bit soft and was clearly struggling a lot more than anyone else on the mountain. Then, I started seeing ice on the poles that hold the cables in place.

It wasn't long before I was seeing snow, some of it on the ropes. As cold as my hands were, I couldn't help but be proud of myself for having hands strong enough to support my weight in spite the numbing cold. I don't know if people whose families have lived in tropical countries would experience this, but everyone who's grown up with four seasons knows that when the first snow hits, it triggers an instinct. This instinct, when triggered, acts almost like an awakening. You suddenly become more alert, more aware of everything around you, and you experience a childlike curiosity. Age has no effect on this phenomenon. I've seen middle aged Koreans throwing snowballs at each other and erupting with laughter every time they throw, or are hit by, one. When you're somewhere away from civilization, it also triggers survival instincts. Your body automatically begins pumping out more heat, and you can almost feel a well of strength bursting out of your chest. You feel a sense of pride at having gone out into the wilderness, faced the elements, and conquered them. As I was going down from the summit, I ran into the group of guys. They had fallen behind when they stopped at a tent for a cup of milky rice wine. Even the whiny guy couldn't escape this sensation, and we exchanged a look of pride and camaraderie at having confronted the elements and proven we could still stand.

Books and Stew

It's a chill, rainy November day in Seoul. I'm sitting on the floor leaning my back against the couch, reading a book I borrowed from the loose-cannon of a Canadian that goes by Ryan around here. With a stomach full of bean paste stew and kimchi, the cabbage fermented in red pepper you can't get away from in this country, I find myself thinking life can't get much better.

I also find myself thinking about how odd this whole scene is. Although quite a few, but by no means all, foreigners in Korea eventually warm up to the local food, I'm one of the few that would actually make it in their own apartment. Most of my friends stick to Western food when they're cooking. Which isn't to say I avoid Western food while I'm over here. I'll always have a soft spot for cheeseburgers, and I usually have a couple of hot dogs in the fridge and a half-empty jar of peanut butter lying around somewhere in my apartment. But I've always had a soft spot for hearty soups, and traditional Koreans will insist it isn't a meal without some kind of salty broth.

I'm enjoying the luxury of having an hour and a half break between classes, just enough time to walk home, heat up the stew from last night I left on the stove, and relax a bit. I haven't seen my native land in more than three years now, and I don't know when I will again, but few things make me feel at home like having a hot bowl of stew and a nice book in a warm home on a cold, rainy day. Sure, I have to go back to work soon, but who cares? All of the classes I have left are ones I like anyway.

And I guess this is what it comes to, two days after my 26th birthday. I haven't continuously lived at home in over 6 years, haven't seen my hometown, or home continent for that matter, in nearly three and a half years. When I left home I was a stupid kid who thought he knew everything and had a plan for how he was gonna live the rest of his life. I was gonna teach in Korea for a year, then go home and get my Ph.D. and spend the rest of my life teaching history. My entire department, including the professors I was working for, expected nothing less of me, especially after I tested high on a test that is supposed to screw every history major's chances of getting into a respectable grad school, unless, like all of the smart ones, you make sure to get accepted BEFORE you have to take the test.

As to where things went wrong or, as I prefer to think of it, changed, your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps the most important lesson I've learned in the last three and a half years, the one most relevant right now, is that after I teach a few more classes there will be a nice book and hearty stew waiting for me.