Aboard the Singapore MRT, sleek pulse of the city transporting everyone to everywhere they need to be. I was on my way from Eunos station to Tanjong Pagar station to meet a new friend for lunch. As I stood in the midst of that crowded car, I caught sight of my reflection in the immaculate windows.
There I was, full-figured by Asian standards, complete with cleavage. In my native America, I go unnoticed among waves of voluptuous Caucasian and African-American women. In Singapore, I stuck out like a sore thumb, plump girl with a full buxom who was conveniently wearing a strapless top. Boy, did I get stares. Even in 97 degree weather, I pulled my jacket over my shoulders and zipped it all the way up.
I began contemplating the varieties of Asian beauty. Singaporeans are typically Asian in origin, mostly ethnic Chinese. Women here are attractive, well-manicured, and highly maintained in expensive cosmetics and strappy designer sandals with rhinestones. Yet their exterior seems to be a production, a process of overlaying the material enhancements until perfection is reached. Their skirts are hiked high at mid-thigh; think lingerie length. In my part of the world, they'd be asking for trouble.
Korean women are willowy, leggy creatures, with the natural advantage of height and stature. Not partial to make-up; their features are soft and simple. However, their plastic surgery industry is renowned within the Pacific. Most female Korean celebrities tend to look alike because their double-lidded eyes and luscious full lips were borne of the same masterful surgical technique. Margaret Cho was not kidding. There were recent controversies because few babies resembled their mothers.
Japanese women have the loveliest complexions. Their features are delicately etched onto ivory skin, smooth as porcelain. Based on the history of geisha, who are living works of art, Japanese women have inherited that grace throughout the years. Even abroad, you can always tell a Japanese tourist by her elegance. But they do tend to be a bit short and stocky compared to their Korean neighbors.
Vietnamese women, too, are rather short; I grudgingly admit this. We are known for our extraordinarily long hair, waterfall of black silk. Despite being petite, we are very proportional. A Vietnamese girl might weigh only 99 lbs and stand 4'9" tall; still she can flaunt her curves in the alluring, fitted "ao dai." And we look deceptively taller (unlike our men). Of course, high heels help.
Chinese women? Even I will not attempt to generalize women from a nation of 1.2 billion in population. There are too many regions and ethnicities within that diverse melting pot of beauty. Same goes for Indian women. I will note, though, that Indian women are by far the most dazzling when it comes to attire. Regardless of economic or social class, Indian women are consistently garbed in wonders of jewel-toned fabrics, even if they are walking around cow dung.
So I stereotype, but quite honestly, we all do. The human brain is wired to make judgements. All political correctness has done was stop us from saying what we really think, not changing the way we think.
Of course, my Singaporean friend Helen broke the stereotype that I have so diligently crafted. We met flying back from Kuala Lumpur and she was a tall, bronze-skinned young woman without a hint of pretension. Between bites of sushi, we discussed career, travel, and of course boyfriend troubles. After sipping sake, I found myself confiding more details about my recently ended relationship than I cared to remember.
I realized that no matter where I went, I took my baggage with me and it weighed more than any physical suitcase. That's the thing about finding yourself. Unless you make peace with your past, it is bound to creep up on you in unexpected ways, in some strange land, sometimes in a bout of intoxication.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
Great Expectations...in Singapore
My friends Samir and Shubhra had relocated to Singapore to pursue a better quality of life. Shubhra recently bore a daughter and cringed at the lifestyle of working mothers in the States. Reminiscent of India, the cost of labor in Singapore was reasonable and she could find domestic help. I bid them a tearful goodbye on their departure from New Jersey, haboring visions of their nearly royal existence in the exotic Southeast.
Fast forward four years later, and I was aboard Singapore Airlines for a visit. I had heard rave reviews about Singapore Airlines before and I am positive they all came from men. I was less impressed by their service than by the fire engine red lips all attendants puckered and their bosom-bearing cobalt outfits. Compared to stately Korean attendants in smart-looking suits from Asiana Air, I got a taste of Singapore before I even got off the plane.
Singapore gleamed at first glance. Floors, walls, and handles were polished until they shone. High-rises loomed from windows and interiors were vibrant colors like pumpkin orange or lime green. The airport was a luxury house in itself with shopping galore, shimmering marble surfaces, posh massage parlors and chairs, free wi-fi, and delectable foods from all over the world. I took the Metro to my friends' place, a modern silver train that made me ashamed of dingy NYC subway cars.
Amid kisses and jokes, my friends introduced me to Meera, their beautiful three year-old toddler and Alma, the Filipina "help." I was shocked when they opened the door to their flat. It was painstakingly bare. There was one table in the living area; only mattresses and sheets in the bedrooms. Refuge-style. The air-conditioning was turned off, despite a temperature of over 92 degreess Fahrenheit. Now Samir and Shubhra were both successful professionals in their fields, and I was under the impression both had been promoted in Singapore. Yet they seemed far more affluent in America. Then they shared with me the reason...taxes.
Samir confided, "Don't be misled by the low income taxes. I had no idea things would be this expensive." He proceeded to enumerate a litany of grievances. "In Singapore, you pay taxes on your home and on your car and on the radio inside your car. You pay a special tax for every television you own and every computer you use. You pay wages to a domestic servant, and then taxes for using her services, even though she is not affiliated with the state. You pay for a license to own a car, another license to drive it on weekends and evenings, and an additional license for unlimited use of your own car. Then you have the exquisite honor of paying a toll every single time you cross a stoplight, whether it is red or green. Multiple times if you are lost or looking for a parking spot..."
"No taxation without representation." So goes the famous American mantra. In Singapore, it is "no breathing without taxation." Every movement you make, everything you own or use, is fair game in the name of taxes.
I began thinking about expectations. My friends had envisioned an entirely different future when they moved here, one of prosperity and relaxation, far from the bitter cold of the American Northeast. Singapore was a veneer of glass and mirrors and glittering opulence, behind which they struggled. The city was everything in material success. The food was fantastic, designer brands were prevalent, and inviting real estate sprawled for miles. It just had no heart. And it was a dream they could scarcely afford.
Fast forward four years later, and I was aboard Singapore Airlines for a visit. I had heard rave reviews about Singapore Airlines before and I am positive they all came from men. I was less impressed by their service than by the fire engine red lips all attendants puckered and their bosom-bearing cobalt outfits. Compared to stately Korean attendants in smart-looking suits from Asiana Air, I got a taste of Singapore before I even got off the plane.
Singapore gleamed at first glance. Floors, walls, and handles were polished until they shone. High-rises loomed from windows and interiors were vibrant colors like pumpkin orange or lime green. The airport was a luxury house in itself with shopping galore, shimmering marble surfaces, posh massage parlors and chairs, free wi-fi, and delectable foods from all over the world. I took the Metro to my friends' place, a modern silver train that made me ashamed of dingy NYC subway cars.
Amid kisses and jokes, my friends introduced me to Meera, their beautiful three year-old toddler and Alma, the Filipina "help." I was shocked when they opened the door to their flat. It was painstakingly bare. There was one table in the living area; only mattresses and sheets in the bedrooms. Refuge-style. The air-conditioning was turned off, despite a temperature of over 92 degreess Fahrenheit. Now Samir and Shubhra were both successful professionals in their fields, and I was under the impression both had been promoted in Singapore. Yet they seemed far more affluent in America. Then they shared with me the reason...taxes.
Samir confided, "Don't be misled by the low income taxes. I had no idea things would be this expensive." He proceeded to enumerate a litany of grievances. "In Singapore, you pay taxes on your home and on your car and on the radio inside your car. You pay a special tax for every television you own and every computer you use. You pay wages to a domestic servant, and then taxes for using her services, even though she is not affiliated with the state. You pay for a license to own a car, another license to drive it on weekends and evenings, and an additional license for unlimited use of your own car. Then you have the exquisite honor of paying a toll every single time you cross a stoplight, whether it is red or green. Multiple times if you are lost or looking for a parking spot..."
"No taxation without representation." So goes the famous American mantra. In Singapore, it is "no breathing without taxation." Every movement you make, everything you own or use, is fair game in the name of taxes.
I began thinking about expectations. My friends had envisioned an entirely different future when they moved here, one of prosperity and relaxation, far from the bitter cold of the American Northeast. Singapore was a veneer of glass and mirrors and glittering opulence, behind which they struggled. The city was everything in material success. The food was fantastic, designer brands were prevalent, and inviting real estate sprawled for miles. It just had no heart. And it was a dream they could scarcely afford.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Back in Brooklyn
On another trip, en route to another flight. Sometimes I fly out of JFK instead of the customary EWR because of significantly cheaper fares. The shuttle would drive on the Cross-Bronx Expressway or the Long Island Expressway and I find myself gazing towards the Verrazano Bridge, shimmering seaboard of the Atlantic and feel suddenly nostalgic.
I am a New Yorker, by birth. As the city evolved from Koch days to Dinkins nights to Guiliani's revolution, I learned to identify myself by my birthplace the farther I ventured from the proximity of the Big Apple. I remember crossing 42nd St with my mother. "Close your eyes!" she admonished, fearful of some triple X vision that would steal my innocence. There was her unfailing closeness to my every step, watchful of potential kidnappers. Strangers tried to give me candy, and she intervened so I never knew if it was an innocuous lollipop or a pedophile in disguise.
Bay Ridge. There was the omnipresent shore a few miles away; we would either go to the beach every weekend or eat fresh seafood as a concession. There were steaming shish kebab carts on the corner and the old man who refused to take money from us. There was the Italian baker who let me choose the biggest, cheesiest Sicilian slices from the local pizzeria. My eyes would rest on old posters of a woman choking and a man helping her, both faceless and yellow, primitive precursors of CPR. I remember window-shopping for Barbie dolls at Century 21 Department stores. I remember opening a single gift on Christmas morning (Santa was all we needed) and never realizing we were poor.
I went to P.S. 314, while my friend Tony across the street went to Catholic school. I used to go there too, until I was harassed by a racist nun. Tony's older brother went to Harvard, and his mother, Cookie or Candy was her name, scolded him for acting "rich." She never forgave the girlfriend in the gleaming convertible and fought hard to prevent him from getting his own phone. Tony never understood it. We watched Michael Jackson videos and Thriller and tried our hand brake-dancing in the streets.
When I was in Brooklyn, my Latina friend AriSally had a house draped in burgundy velvet and all things red. I fought imaginary kungfu with a Chinese boy named Kenny and hung out with a black girl Monique, whose hair were wondrous spirals that just stuck out, no matter what she did. And I had a crush on a Taiwanese boy named, get this, Chiang Kai.
Then we moved to New Jersey. It was the first time I experienced culture shock. Everyone around me was white and Italian, with flowery surnames that ended in vowels. Suddenly, it mattered that I wore boy's socks and I did not have a playroom brimming with recent Cabbage Patch kids. I did not play softball and I was ridiculed because my sentences ended with "thank you" or "please." They smirked when I told them my family only had one car. And I became painfully aware of what I did not have.
Worst of all, I was Asian. Globalization had not hit suburban New Jersey in the late 1980s. There was no Chinese food or appreciation of anything Asian. We were still considered "Orientals" at the time, and anything remotely Pacific in orgin was relegated to the Karate Kid. My nickname at school was Miyogi. They laughed that I knew more about Shaolin and Wudang than I did about "Roseanne."
I learned that kids are cruel, how words and stares can penetrate the bone and make you bleed deeper than any flesh wound. In New York, danger lurked in the streets. Sometimes, I would hear shouting and fighting from my bedside window. In the good neighborhoods of New Jersey, it is a more insidious danger, the kind of bullying that drives students to suicide these days. What's more, I am not sure that inveterate meanness goes away when people grow up.
I am a New Yorker, by birth. As the city evolved from Koch days to Dinkins nights to Guiliani's revolution, I learned to identify myself by my birthplace the farther I ventured from the proximity of the Big Apple. I remember crossing 42nd St with my mother. "Close your eyes!" she admonished, fearful of some triple X vision that would steal my innocence. There was her unfailing closeness to my every step, watchful of potential kidnappers. Strangers tried to give me candy, and she intervened so I never knew if it was an innocuous lollipop or a pedophile in disguise.
Bay Ridge. There was the omnipresent shore a few miles away; we would either go to the beach every weekend or eat fresh seafood as a concession. There were steaming shish kebab carts on the corner and the old man who refused to take money from us. There was the Italian baker who let me choose the biggest, cheesiest Sicilian slices from the local pizzeria. My eyes would rest on old posters of a woman choking and a man helping her, both faceless and yellow, primitive precursors of CPR. I remember window-shopping for Barbie dolls at Century 21 Department stores. I remember opening a single gift on Christmas morning (Santa was all we needed) and never realizing we were poor.
I went to P.S. 314, while my friend Tony across the street went to Catholic school. I used to go there too, until I was harassed by a racist nun. Tony's older brother went to Harvard, and his mother, Cookie or Candy was her name, scolded him for acting "rich." She never forgave the girlfriend in the gleaming convertible and fought hard to prevent him from getting his own phone. Tony never understood it. We watched Michael Jackson videos and Thriller and tried our hand brake-dancing in the streets.
When I was in Brooklyn, my Latina friend AriSally had a house draped in burgundy velvet and all things red. I fought imaginary kungfu with a Chinese boy named Kenny and hung out with a black girl Monique, whose hair were wondrous spirals that just stuck out, no matter what she did. And I had a crush on a Taiwanese boy named, get this, Chiang Kai.
Then we moved to New Jersey. It was the first time I experienced culture shock. Everyone around me was white and Italian, with flowery surnames that ended in vowels. Suddenly, it mattered that I wore boy's socks and I did not have a playroom brimming with recent Cabbage Patch kids. I did not play softball and I was ridiculed because my sentences ended with "thank you" or "please." They smirked when I told them my family only had one car. And I became painfully aware of what I did not have.
Worst of all, I was Asian. Globalization had not hit suburban New Jersey in the late 1980s. There was no Chinese food or appreciation of anything Asian. We were still considered "Orientals" at the time, and anything remotely Pacific in orgin was relegated to the Karate Kid. My nickname at school was Miyogi. They laughed that I knew more about Shaolin and Wudang than I did about "Roseanne."
I learned that kids are cruel, how words and stares can penetrate the bone and make you bleed deeper than any flesh wound. In New York, danger lurked in the streets. Sometimes, I would hear shouting and fighting from my bedside window. In the good neighborhoods of New Jersey, it is a more insidious danger, the kind of bullying that drives students to suicide these days. What's more, I am not sure that inveterate meanness goes away when people grow up.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Enter Jeju Island
This is Korea's answer to Hawaii: a vista of lush greenery, crystal waters, and indecisive volcanoes. Ironic how lava and ash from smoking mountains comprise most of the places we think of as paradise: Hawaii, Jeju, Capri. Out of destruction come our most coveted vacation spots. Perhaps we are more aware of our mortality when we come to these islands. Perhaps we sense that life is fleeting and this beauty within each of us becomes ever more exquisite.
People come to Jeju Island to honeymoon or to fall in love. I came here because I had walked out of my life. My mother followed the footsteps of her favorite Korean TV drama All In, filmed on location here. And apparently, we were accompanied by a plethora of little ones.
Let me explain. South Korea is the mecca of educational after-school programs; students are more ubiquitous than pens. We ran into large groups of students with matching parkas at practically every national site, monument, or museum in Seoul. It must have been field trip week. Some were inquisitive, some were bored, but their sheer numbers made sight-seeing painstakingly slow. Noisy. And they followed us to Jeju. Imagine trying to admire waterfalls and scenic panoramas with giggling kids running past you every two minutes. Or climbing Sunset Peak, a mountaintop with dazzling views of the island, and finding middle-schoolers throwing tissues at each other on the summit. They were impossible to avoid, even at lunch. Some found my mother endearing; they even gave her gifts and shared kimchi with her. Mostly, they just laughed at me. So much for my maternal instinct.
Luckily, I was in good company. I ran into two single Korean gals, teachers on holiday. One was a tomboy, rather petite, dressed in no-nonsense jeans and a t-shirt. The other was feminine and tall, with long ringlets flowing over her ruffled blouse and she sported high-heeled sandals. She carried a purse, and a magenta parasol to keep the sun from infringing upon her fair complexion.
They were exploring a new walking trail that promised to take hikers through all the delights of Jeju, and I joined them. Despite their command of the language, their mastery of trails left some to be desired. Not that I minded. The shores of Jeju were so beautiful. Sapphire seas breaking onto the black rock beaches in a perfect angle of light. We trudged through hills and cliffs overlooking the ocean, and kudos to my friend with the high heels. Along the way, we also traversed unknown roads and wound up stuck on the wrong side of criss-crossing highways.
We laughed through it, and they told me about the rigid Korean social structure, how society expects them to be already paired off, and how single women were regarded as pariahs. "Everyone wants to know why you are still single and then they are scrambling to set you up." I wasn't sure America was so different. They were a few years older than me, approaching forty and I discerned the lines of defiance in their faces. Both were attractive, but seemed somehow wistful. I wondered about their past relationships and the inevitable endings, since neither appeared to trust men. Maybe they were even divorced. Edith Wharton once said, "Our legislation favors divorce, but our social customs don't." Same thing applies to singlehood. Philosophically, we are encouraged to be independent, but socially, we are discouraged.
Single women of a certain age tend to be bold, audacious, and defiant. Maybe it's because we are free. Maybe we just don't care. Or maybe our defiance is a defense mechanism. Maybe underneath it all, we are afraid to be hurt again.
People come to Jeju Island to honeymoon or to fall in love. I came here because I had walked out of my life. My mother followed the footsteps of her favorite Korean TV drama All In, filmed on location here. And apparently, we were accompanied by a plethora of little ones.
Let me explain. South Korea is the mecca of educational after-school programs; students are more ubiquitous than pens. We ran into large groups of students with matching parkas at practically every national site, monument, or museum in Seoul. It must have been field trip week. Some were inquisitive, some were bored, but their sheer numbers made sight-seeing painstakingly slow. Noisy. And they followed us to Jeju. Imagine trying to admire waterfalls and scenic panoramas with giggling kids running past you every two minutes. Or climbing Sunset Peak, a mountaintop with dazzling views of the island, and finding middle-schoolers throwing tissues at each other on the summit. They were impossible to avoid, even at lunch. Some found my mother endearing; they even gave her gifts and shared kimchi with her. Mostly, they just laughed at me. So much for my maternal instinct.
Luckily, I was in good company. I ran into two single Korean gals, teachers on holiday. One was a tomboy, rather petite, dressed in no-nonsense jeans and a t-shirt. The other was feminine and tall, with long ringlets flowing over her ruffled blouse and she sported high-heeled sandals. She carried a purse, and a magenta parasol to keep the sun from infringing upon her fair complexion.
They were exploring a new walking trail that promised to take hikers through all the delights of Jeju, and I joined them. Despite their command of the language, their mastery of trails left some to be desired. Not that I minded. The shores of Jeju were so beautiful. Sapphire seas breaking onto the black rock beaches in a perfect angle of light. We trudged through hills and cliffs overlooking the ocean, and kudos to my friend with the high heels. Along the way, we also traversed unknown roads and wound up stuck on the wrong side of criss-crossing highways.
We laughed through it, and they told me about the rigid Korean social structure, how society expects them to be already paired off, and how single women were regarded as pariahs. "Everyone wants to know why you are still single and then they are scrambling to set you up." I wasn't sure America was so different. They were a few years older than me, approaching forty and I discerned the lines of defiance in their faces. Both were attractive, but seemed somehow wistful. I wondered about their past relationships and the inevitable endings, since neither appeared to trust men. Maybe they were even divorced. Edith Wharton once said, "Our legislation favors divorce, but our social customs don't." Same thing applies to singlehood. Philosophically, we are encouraged to be independent, but socially, we are discouraged.
Single women of a certain age tend to be bold, audacious, and defiant. Maybe it's because we are free. Maybe we just don't care. Or maybe our defiance is a defense mechanism. Maybe underneath it all, we are afraid to be hurt again.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
The Flavors of Haggling
If there is one thing I learned from all my travels, it's haggling. Like cuisines and smells, every country has its unique style. Some challenge you; some overwhelm you; some are downright scary. But you can always count on one thing: the victory of getting a bargain, whether it is real or illusory. How often do we strut through a charming marketplace with a swelled head, thinking we've made a fantastic deal and meanwhile doing noticeable damage to our wallets?
Truth is, we get ripped off. We always do. My grandfather used to say, "The seller never loses out. It is only a matter of how much profit he makes." Wise man. Yet it is a ritual, an enticing dance between tourist and native, a contest of wills to see who emerges on top. A game, a negotiation, and the prize is that sparkling, idiosyncratic trinket that seems ever so inviting with no practical use in everyday life.
You can taste culture through the way the indigenous parade their wares. The Thai are sweet-talkers. They smile coaxingly, cajole with finesse, and welcome you into their well-worn taxi-cabs with no meters. Next thing you know, you are drinking Coke or champagne in the lobby of an overpriced jewelry factory or a well-established brothel.
The Chinese, on the other hand, are exceedingly verbal, whether you understand them or not. "How much? I give you good price." They follow you around, flaunt their merchandise, and curse at you in Mandarin if you look and don't buy. Resourceful folks: they've got everything, including open boxes of Viagra pills that you grab by the fistful for twenty yuan.
Egyptians are touchy-feely. For some reason, only swarthy bearded men are vendors in marketplaces; women are non-existent in the working-class strata of the tourism industry. If you window-shop and leave, they grab you, entwining their arms around your waist and pull you into some sinister corner where they stock "the best stuff." Apparently, it doesn't hurt that I'm a Western woman and they are not allowed to see bare skin on their own Muslim women. Between the American concept of personal space, male/female dynamic in a sexist society, and knowing I was not protected under Islamic law, I felt genuinely threatened.
Indians are fighters. Very aggressive. They battle swarming crowds and flies to get to you, they bicker with you over price, and they beat the crap out of any potential competitor. Case in point: Coming back from the Taj Mahal, we were offered plastic souvenirs by an eight-year old boy asking for a dollar a piece. An Indian-American walked by, informing us it's only worth a quarter. In the blink of an eye, the boy rallied his cronies of four and they charged like bulls at the Indian-American. He even forgot his sale. Let me not recount the endless vendor brawls that occurred on the stairs of our tour bus.
Koreans? I don't remember haggling there. I didn't have a desire to take home any isolated memento to remind me of the country. Seoul is not a city of things. Seoul is an experiential city. It inspires us to experience the things that are evanescent. Carpe Diem. To seize the day. To live in the moment: to savor good food, companionship, and the energy of life buzzing around us.
Truth is, we get ripped off. We always do. My grandfather used to say, "The seller never loses out. It is only a matter of how much profit he makes." Wise man. Yet it is a ritual, an enticing dance between tourist and native, a contest of wills to see who emerges on top. A game, a negotiation, and the prize is that sparkling, idiosyncratic trinket that seems ever so inviting with no practical use in everyday life.
You can taste culture through the way the indigenous parade their wares. The Thai are sweet-talkers. They smile coaxingly, cajole with finesse, and welcome you into their well-worn taxi-cabs with no meters. Next thing you know, you are drinking Coke or champagne in the lobby of an overpriced jewelry factory or a well-established brothel.
The Chinese, on the other hand, are exceedingly verbal, whether you understand them or not. "How much? I give you good price." They follow you around, flaunt their merchandise, and curse at you in Mandarin if you look and don't buy. Resourceful folks: they've got everything, including open boxes of Viagra pills that you grab by the fistful for twenty yuan.
Egyptians are touchy-feely. For some reason, only swarthy bearded men are vendors in marketplaces; women are non-existent in the working-class strata of the tourism industry. If you window-shop and leave, they grab you, entwining their arms around your waist and pull you into some sinister corner where they stock "the best stuff." Apparently, it doesn't hurt that I'm a Western woman and they are not allowed to see bare skin on their own Muslim women. Between the American concept of personal space, male/female dynamic in a sexist society, and knowing I was not protected under Islamic law, I felt genuinely threatened.
Indians are fighters. Very aggressive. They battle swarming crowds and flies to get to you, they bicker with you over price, and they beat the crap out of any potential competitor. Case in point: Coming back from the Taj Mahal, we were offered plastic souvenirs by an eight-year old boy asking for a dollar a piece. An Indian-American walked by, informing us it's only worth a quarter. In the blink of an eye, the boy rallied his cronies of four and they charged like bulls at the Indian-American. He even forgot his sale. Let me not recount the endless vendor brawls that occurred on the stairs of our tour bus.
Koreans? I don't remember haggling there. I didn't have a desire to take home any isolated memento to remind me of the country. Seoul is not a city of things. Seoul is an experiential city. It inspires us to experience the things that are evanescent. Carpe Diem. To seize the day. To live in the moment: to savor good food, companionship, and the energy of life buzzing around us.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Finding Samcheong Dong Part Deux
The next day I returned to the Changdeokgung palace 6 blocks away, a Unesco World Heritage site and undoubtedly more popular than the Gyeongbukgung. It's interesting how rather arbitrary opinions define the way we think...someone at Unesco liked one palace better than another, therefore it becomes more worthwhile. After all, what really separates the noteworthy and the forgettable, success and failure? Opinion.
The Changdeokgung was similar to its older and larger counterpart, except for an exquisite garden situated on a lake in the inner courtyards, aptly named the Secret Garden. Well, it wasn't so secret anymore. Practically everybody who was anybody who visited South Korea had to get a photo with the Secret Garden. It was a greater celebrity than Lee Byung Hun. Aggressive photographers bellowed at tourists blocking shots of willow branches, pavilions, and mirrorlike ponds.
Truth was, the Secret Garden wasn't photogenic. Digitally, the waters came out muddy, and the trees appeared awkward and crooked, gangly sprouting teenagers with leaves. I wondered how many enjoyed the living beauty of such terraced landscapes, since most did not lift their eyes from the camera's viewfinder. Reminded me of Plato's Allegory of the Cave, prosaic men who preferred to see the dark silhouettes of things rather than the things themselves. When faced with the possibility of something real, do we make the leap?
As I left, I saw two fellow backpackers like myself. (Okay, so I really wasn't a backpacker yet, but I pretended to be one in my mother's absence. It made me feel more adventurous.) One was a mild-mannered Korean girl and the other, a beautiful Caucasian girl with an almost tangible exuberance for life. They looked like college students. I introduced myself and invited them to coffee to escape the sweltering heat.
Where, you ask? Samcheong Dong, of course!
Over tea and Kahlua, they told me they were sisters, visiting from Belgium. My bewilderment must have surfaced in my face, because Sun Mee, the Korean girl, leaned forward. "I was adopted. I'm Belgian. People come up and speak to me in Korean, but I have no idea what they are saying."
"It terrifies her," the emerald-eyed Cheryl laughed. "She shakes her head and turns away. Really quickly."
"She's not afraid of anything," Sun Mee countered. "She does whatever gets into her head. Moving out, quitting jobs, moving in with her boyfriend, takes off whenever to see the world."
"She thinks too much and she's too responsible," Cheryl gently berated. "It took forever to get her to Korea."
"Why Korea?" I asked.
"I just wanted to see the country I left when I was 6 months old. And I want to meet my mother."
I found out later that she did meet her birth mother. That it was like two strangers meeting, and that it felt like coming home. How they visited temples, Yangsan, museums, ate black pork dinners together, and still felt out of place, the residual memory of how things could have been permeating their conversation. Yet they still talk, though both are shy.
I realized that no matter where you go, you still have roots. Whether it is near or far, whether it hurts or not, your flesh calls to you like a conscience. Blood is a magnet; it eventually brings you home. I remembered I had left my mother back at the hotel.
I lost touch with Sun Mee soon after. But I wrote this for her, a Rendez-vous*.
Perhaps she will embrace the birth mother.
Marvel at the eyelid's flat plain, its singular whiteness
undisturbed by a crease, so like her own.
The woman's hair would be cropped close to the scalp
or pulled into a bun, speckled grey from weathering Korean snow.
And the girl would spot stray hairs, black as a calligrapher's ink.
protruding from the woman's neat ensemble, the disarray
she must have felt, finding herself with child. Aneong hay say oh?
the girl might ask, hesitation inflecting the vowels incorrectly.
This is not the question she wants to ask. Speech suspended in the
throat like a muffled bird. The woman responds in English, language
native to neither, but a common tongue and good enough.
Meanwhile her sister, a Belgian, is waiting.
She's the landscape of an entire country onto herself, steely confidence,
wheat shade of hair, and green eyes open to all they can hold.
The girl is thinking of tomorrow when she departs, what to say, and
how to pour feeling into it. Outside the sky is thundering.
She's hoping the silence between strangers is
like a break in sound, resting
between great chords of music.
*First published in the River Poets Journal, 2009
The Changdeokgung was similar to its older and larger counterpart, except for an exquisite garden situated on a lake in the inner courtyards, aptly named the Secret Garden. Well, it wasn't so secret anymore. Practically everybody who was anybody who visited South Korea had to get a photo with the Secret Garden. It was a greater celebrity than Lee Byung Hun. Aggressive photographers bellowed at tourists blocking shots of willow branches, pavilions, and mirrorlike ponds.
Truth was, the Secret Garden wasn't photogenic. Digitally, the waters came out muddy, and the trees appeared awkward and crooked, gangly sprouting teenagers with leaves. I wondered how many enjoyed the living beauty of such terraced landscapes, since most did not lift their eyes from the camera's viewfinder. Reminded me of Plato's Allegory of the Cave, prosaic men who preferred to see the dark silhouettes of things rather than the things themselves. When faced with the possibility of something real, do we make the leap?
As I left, I saw two fellow backpackers like myself. (Okay, so I really wasn't a backpacker yet, but I pretended to be one in my mother's absence. It made me feel more adventurous.) One was a mild-mannered Korean girl and the other, a beautiful Caucasian girl with an almost tangible exuberance for life. They looked like college students. I introduced myself and invited them to coffee to escape the sweltering heat.
Where, you ask? Samcheong Dong, of course!
Over tea and Kahlua, they told me they were sisters, visiting from Belgium. My bewilderment must have surfaced in my face, because Sun Mee, the Korean girl, leaned forward. "I was adopted. I'm Belgian. People come up and speak to me in Korean, but I have no idea what they are saying."
"It terrifies her," the emerald-eyed Cheryl laughed. "She shakes her head and turns away. Really quickly."
"She's not afraid of anything," Sun Mee countered. "She does whatever gets into her head. Moving out, quitting jobs, moving in with her boyfriend, takes off whenever to see the world."
"She thinks too much and she's too responsible," Cheryl gently berated. "It took forever to get her to Korea."
"Why Korea?" I asked.
"I just wanted to see the country I left when I was 6 months old. And I want to meet my mother."
I found out later that she did meet her birth mother. That it was like two strangers meeting, and that it felt like coming home. How they visited temples, Yangsan, museums, ate black pork dinners together, and still felt out of place, the residual memory of how things could have been permeating their conversation. Yet they still talk, though both are shy.
I realized that no matter where you go, you still have roots. Whether it is near or far, whether it hurts or not, your flesh calls to you like a conscience. Blood is a magnet; it eventually brings you home. I remembered I had left my mother back at the hotel.
I lost touch with Sun Mee soon after. But I wrote this for her, a Rendez-vous*.
Perhaps she will embrace the birth mother.
Marvel at the eyelid's flat plain, its singular whiteness
undisturbed by a crease, so like her own.
The woman's hair would be cropped close to the scalp
or pulled into a bun, speckled grey from weathering Korean snow.
And the girl would spot stray hairs, black as a calligrapher's ink.
protruding from the woman's neat ensemble, the disarray
she must have felt, finding herself with child. Aneong hay say oh?
the girl might ask, hesitation inflecting the vowels incorrectly.
This is not the question she wants to ask. Speech suspended in the
throat like a muffled bird. The woman responds in English, language
native to neither, but a common tongue and good enough.
Meanwhile her sister, a Belgian, is waiting.
She's the landscape of an entire country onto herself, steely confidence,
wheat shade of hair, and green eyes open to all they can hold.
The girl is thinking of tomorrow when she departs, what to say, and
how to pour feeling into it. Outside the sky is thundering.
She's hoping the silence between strangers is
like a break in sound, resting
between great chords of music.
*First published in the River Poets Journal, 2009
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Finding Samcheong Dong
I love ruins. Old buildings, architecture, decrepit rocks that are shadows of their glorious past; they all make me feel connected to the long line of human history, that continuum on which we are mere specks, no matter how important we think we are.
So I am fascinated by the past. I don't know what that says about my optimism or ability to move on. All I know is that I tend to be more interested in dead stones and departed people than I am about the latest figment of pop culture. (Who the heck is Kim Kardashian?)
In Seoul, my idea of fun is hitting every archaic imperial palace and strolling around, imbibing the atmosphere of kings and queens who reigned centuries ago. I believe that karma exists not only in people, but in places. The walls and floors around us absorb the love, faith, power, struggle, and blood of generations past. That karma, the karma of places, can influence events of the future. I wandered about the Gyeongbokgung, the largest royal palace in Seoul, my eyes drinking in every detail. I imagined a lonely concubine in the courtyard; a stately mandarin in the official hall.
My mother nudged me forward, pointing at our empty water bottles and the grating sun of about 93 degrees Fahrenheit. She surveyed the lake, ceilings, and buildings; then sat in the shade waiting as I completed my circuitous tour. "I don't see what all the fuss is about," she confided, shrugging. "They all look the same. Upturned eaves, pavilions, elaborate red and green etchings; it looks like the Forbidden City, except the roof is grey." I glanced around, hoping no Koreans understood Vietnamese. So much for my grand imaginings of the past.
We left, both annoyed; she feeling exhausted and me feeling slighted because I was not ready to leave. Like any good mother and daughter pair, she rushed me, I snapped, and we fought. Somehow, we managed to miss a turn, a street, and the metro station. We ended up lost.
Now, in a wonderfully organized city like Seoul, it is impossible to really be lost, even for the directionally challenged like us. We poured over the map and located another metro station within a few blocks. I grated my teeth the entire way, since it made such a huge difference in the grand scheme of things and it was naturally all her fault.
A block from the metro station, there were crowds of people heading into a side street. The station was faintly visible in the distance, beyond the teeming heads rushing into that alley way like ants. I looked at my mother and she nodded. What do we do when we see everyone else jumping off a bridge? We follow.
At first it was just people, and I wondered if we joined a rat race, literally. Gradually, shops and cafes began to emerge from the dust of foot-traffic. Tasty barbeques and scallion pancakes grilling in the street. Green-tea and red bean ice cream shops. Intoxicating smells. Artsy jewelry like turquoise and moonstone. Snazzy boutiques that even I, clearly no fashionista, could appreciate. We walked the entire 1.6 miles of that neighborhood without tiring.
"What is this place?" I wondered aloud.
A friendly bystander replied: "Samcheong Dong."
Samcheong Dong!
Todd, a NYC friend who had visited Seoul with native Koreans, recommended Samcheong Dong as one of the coolest neighborhoods in the city, kind of like Brooklyn or Soho. I had searched for it, but it wasn't marked on any of the maps and I was forced to bypass it. And if we hadn't gotten lost, we would never have found it.
I thought about that as my mother and I sat down in a cafe. I thought about it as she sipped some pomegranate-flavored green tea aloe vera drink and I drank my brandy infused cappuccino. I thought about all the things I was searching for with no luck: love, inspiration, a sense of self and the knowledge that I was not just living, but going somewhere. The somewhere I landed was not where I wanted to be, and I woke up one morning lost to myself.
So maybe we need to be lost before finding our way. Maybe there is no roadmap to the best things in life. And like Samcheong Dong, maybe I'll find them not when I'm looking, but when I'm desperate to make a quick exit.
So I am fascinated by the past. I don't know what that says about my optimism or ability to move on. All I know is that I tend to be more interested in dead stones and departed people than I am about the latest figment of pop culture. (Who the heck is Kim Kardashian?)
In Seoul, my idea of fun is hitting every archaic imperial palace and strolling around, imbibing the atmosphere of kings and queens who reigned centuries ago. I believe that karma exists not only in people, but in places. The walls and floors around us absorb the love, faith, power, struggle, and blood of generations past. That karma, the karma of places, can influence events of the future. I wandered about the Gyeongbokgung, the largest royal palace in Seoul, my eyes drinking in every detail. I imagined a lonely concubine in the courtyard; a stately mandarin in the official hall.
My mother nudged me forward, pointing at our empty water bottles and the grating sun of about 93 degrees Fahrenheit. She surveyed the lake, ceilings, and buildings; then sat in the shade waiting as I completed my circuitous tour. "I don't see what all the fuss is about," she confided, shrugging. "They all look the same. Upturned eaves, pavilions, elaborate red and green etchings; it looks like the Forbidden City, except the roof is grey." I glanced around, hoping no Koreans understood Vietnamese. So much for my grand imaginings of the past.
We left, both annoyed; she feeling exhausted and me feeling slighted because I was not ready to leave. Like any good mother and daughter pair, she rushed me, I snapped, and we fought. Somehow, we managed to miss a turn, a street, and the metro station. We ended up lost.
Now, in a wonderfully organized city like Seoul, it is impossible to really be lost, even for the directionally challenged like us. We poured over the map and located another metro station within a few blocks. I grated my teeth the entire way, since it made such a huge difference in the grand scheme of things and it was naturally all her fault.
A block from the metro station, there were crowds of people heading into a side street. The station was faintly visible in the distance, beyond the teeming heads rushing into that alley way like ants. I looked at my mother and she nodded. What do we do when we see everyone else jumping off a bridge? We follow.
At first it was just people, and I wondered if we joined a rat race, literally. Gradually, shops and cafes began to emerge from the dust of foot-traffic. Tasty barbeques and scallion pancakes grilling in the street. Green-tea and red bean ice cream shops. Intoxicating smells. Artsy jewelry like turquoise and moonstone. Snazzy boutiques that even I, clearly no fashionista, could appreciate. We walked the entire 1.6 miles of that neighborhood without tiring.
"What is this place?" I wondered aloud.
A friendly bystander replied: "Samcheong Dong."
Samcheong Dong!
Todd, a NYC friend who had visited Seoul with native Koreans, recommended Samcheong Dong as one of the coolest neighborhoods in the city, kind of like Brooklyn or Soho. I had searched for it, but it wasn't marked on any of the maps and I was forced to bypass it. And if we hadn't gotten lost, we would never have found it.
I thought about that as my mother and I sat down in a cafe. I thought about it as she sipped some pomegranate-flavored green tea aloe vera drink and I drank my brandy infused cappuccino. I thought about all the things I was searching for with no luck: love, inspiration, a sense of self and the knowledge that I was not just living, but going somewhere. The somewhere I landed was not where I wanted to be, and I woke up one morning lost to myself.
So maybe we need to be lost before finding our way. Maybe there is no roadmap to the best things in life. And like Samcheong Dong, maybe I'll find them not when I'm looking, but when I'm desperate to make a quick exit.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)