I can hardly believe that Christmas is right around the corner.  These weeks seem to roll by so quickly, dates just creep right up on you.  For me it is the atmosphere around Christmas.  You notice this more in the states with all the themed decor they put on the streets.  Its a nice feeling.  Here, not as much, but that doesn’t stop me from getting in gear. These past few weeks have involved a lot of Christmas music in my classes.  The kids love it and more importantly who doesn’t automatically get relaxed by “White Christmas” by the legend Bing Crosby or “It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas” by Perry Como.  “Feliz Navidad” always puts me in a good mood.  Particularly, when they break into the soulful “I wana’ wish you a merry Christmas.”  It always puts me in second gear.

Well,  I hope everyone has a good vacation and remember to be safe out there.  Don’t trust random men dressed up as the Claus, for there is only one.

Does anyone else think Korea needs more trashcans lying around?

As stated in my previous post, when I hang out with my Korean friend(s), I end up sleeping in weird places or situations.  I was right.  This is by far the strangest one to date.  To make it short, as I understand that what readership I may have most likely will not want to read a long diatribe on the night, which on the whole was rather tame. So here it is in precis:

My friend’s girlfriend broke up with him.  He was a wreck.  Emotionally crushed.  He did what most men do, and drank.  It helps.  Like a good friend I helped him and was his drinking buddy.  Its not an easy job, as I didn’t really want to get drunk, but duty called.  Anyway, he claimed he wanted to and I quote “catch a girl”.  Sorry to all the ladies out there.  He was wearing blinders.

His attempts failed which brought us to a creepy alley and eventually a red light district.  I said before that never in my life had I been to a red light district till I came to Seoul.  Now I have been to two.  I digress:  I wanted to go.  I knew where this was going.  I didnt want to be part of it.  I enjoy not having the clap.  I told him I was going and he became upset. Belligerent.

When ended up at a massage parlor which also doubled as a whore house, but that second part is optional.  Actually both are optional.  I planned on getting ONLY a massage.  But as I sat in the room at 5am drinking the free cup of coffee, I started to get really nervous at all the possibilities.  I could literally have sex with a women with no baggage whatsoever. I could ask her to do anything.  Even just a happy ending. I needed to calm down.  My heart was racing.  My head wouldn’t shut up.  I laid down on the massage bed.  Oh Christ.  Next thing I know I wake up.  Its 1 in the afternoon.  Nothing happened.  I was relieved.

I walked downstairs.  I think they forgot about me.  Lucky me… maybe.  The guy kinda freaked out.  I tried to tell him I never got my massage but he played dumb and I was dumb—I don’t know enough Korean.  I walked outside,  feeling odd to even exit the building, though nothing happened.  There was a park across the street with kids playing.  I lit a cigarette and walked home. A long shower.

I have made a few Korean friends since being here.  They are very nice.  There is a clear language barrier, which at times can be quite frustrating, but I dont let it get to me.  I try not and focus on that and more so on their mannerisms and how they treat one another.  They call me the drinking king.  I am more like the Drinking Benevolent Despot, if that can be possible.  All nights with them most certainly end with me waking up hungover.  They love to drink…soju.  I dont mind Soju.  For the price, who is going to complain?  Though, people do.  Most nights with them leave us all very drunk and me sleeping in unusual places.  Tonight will most likely be one of those nights.  Enjoy your Saturday.  Be Safe.

Sometimes when I am drunkenly walking down the brightly lit streets of Seoul on a weekend night with a slight drunk and a cigarette still lit in my hand, I notice everything that’s going on around me:  the traffic lights, the people walking, their fingers, the sky, the neon on every corner, my slight stumble, my freezing toes.  And as I take a drag of my cigarette and slowly exhale watching it crystallize and disperse slowly into the air in front of me, I think to myself that this city, this grand metropolis of smog and no grass, is not so bad.  This may be my next home.

We last left our two heroes stumbling through the streets of a notorious red-light district of Seoul, where Robert, or Ricky Hatton, as I call him now, got done slugging a Korean man in the face.  I could see the light at the end of the tunnel, the night was almost over.  I had a plan in my mind of what we would do:  find some good Korean BBQ, have some beers while we eat it, and go home.  Simple right.  I’ve found that my time in Korea more so than anywhere else, has shown me that plans do not always end up as you like.  There’s too many wild-cards in this country.  You never know when someone will pop out the woodwork to either be extremely nice to you, or bark at you.

I mentioned to Robert K-BBQ and he enthusiastically agreed.  I could almost taste it.  We were almost at the end of this ribald street with its sultry decorations, when a lady of the night walked out into the middle of the street to proposition us.  She was a very attractive road block.  I saw the cow grazing in the field instead of simmering in front of me.  I wasn’t very happy, but I could do nothing.  She started the physical contact quickly: hands on the shoulder, wrist, generally acting coy— all to draw us in.  It worked.  She mentioned cold beer and we could not refuse.

The building we went into had an unmistakable smell.  We got our beer and business began.  The minimum physical contact they were attempting to seduce you with, or convince your mind to connect the dots, felt comforting, wonderful.  I haven’t been with a women since my ex-wife.  No desire.

I could not call this harlot a liar, because the beer was cold.  Robert really seemed to be enjoying himself and I don’t blame him.  I tapped him on the shoulder, told him I was heading out to get some food and he should do what he wants.  I thanked the kind ladies and walked out.  My heart chose food.  I know someone who is mad.

Once in the street again, I lit up one my last cigarettes, and waited outside the fine establishment to see if Robert would come out or not.  No matter what he did, I wouldn’t have cared.  Who is to blame a man for indulging in that kind of service.  It’s the oldest profession because its always had customers.

It didn’t appear as if he was going to come so I began my lonely walk in search of some food.  I was waiting to cross the street when I felt a hand on my shoulder. My first thought jumped to that Korean guy who got socked.  A slight sense of fear  tingled throughout my body.  No worries.  It was Robert.  He had a red mark on the right side of his face, but I didn’t ask about it.

“I thought you were going to be spending the night,” I said.

Robert replied, “Are you kidding me?  I couldn’t leave you wandering in the night when angry Korean Neo-Nazis are parading around looking for revenge.”

Not a bad guy to have around.  We continued to walk.  We finally caught the scent of a Korean BBQ place.  It was fairly packed for the time of day/night/morning, but that doesn’t really surprise me anymore.  We sat down at a table and the food and drinks were brought to us with an efficient urgency.    More beer more soju.  The time seemed to be stuck in one slow speed, which I enjoyed noticing.  Robert’s face grew paler and it was clear he was tired.  I can’t believe the old man was beating him.  I grew prideful.

Our waitress was a pro.  She was quick, steady and had a graceful strut across the restaurant.  She didn’t seem to know any English, but the language barrier didn’t stop her from excelling at her job.  Robert and I were transfixed on her.  She brought us a beer and Robert couldn’t hold himself back.  He proclaimed that he loved her.  Without missing a beat, she looked up, stoned faced and said she hated him.  I couldn’t stop laughing.  Even the table of lady-boys sitting behind us were laughing.  He had proclaimed it fairly loudly.

It was the last blow for Robert.  I saw it slide across his face.  The sun was rising.  Robert went to sleep on the table.  That’s OK.  I was still sipping beer and enjoying long drags of my cigarettes.  I didn’t mind the night ending this way.  It was peaceful.  The sun slowly bringing light to this city.  It was my first sunrise in Seoul.

It soaked it in and felt calm.  I was ready to go and wanted to use the restroom first.  When I returned I poked Robert in the arm to get him up so we could leave.  It took some nudging, but he finally awoke.  Like a chain reaction, as soon as his eyes saw light it began:  terrible vomiting.  It went all over the table, the floor, himself.  My soul shrunk.  Who was going to have to clean this up.  Damn it hold our liquor.  I found a worker and pointed out the problem repeating over and over one of the few Korean words I knew:  Sorry.

They of course were as polite as could be.  I paid our rather large tab and walked out supporting my fallen comrade.  While walking away I looked back at the old Korean man cleaning up the vomit on the table because of my friend.  His eyes were old and distant.  I felt horrible.  But I kept walking.

I sat Robert down on the curb away from the restaurant.  He was looking better.  But he continued to throw up.  I still had a beer I was working on from the restaurant.  I was in for the long haul.  I bought him some water and got him some napkins.  What are friends for?  After an hour or so he started to come through.  His speech was clearing up.  I was talking about getting him a taxi.  He opened his wallet and showed it had no more money.  No one was thinking straight.  I was broke too.  I told him I would get him some money and when I returned he was no longer there.  Just a pile of vomit.

At this point I figured he went home somehow.  I was too tired to really care.  I tried.  My bed was calling my name but it was so far away.  Tottering towards to subway I was determined to make it home.  The following memories of the night/day/morning are only flashes.  Exhaustion had won.  Next thing I knew I woke up on the end of the subway line in the opposite direction of my home.  Fuck.  I angrily exited and hailed a taxi.  The next thing I knew the cab driver was barking at me to wake up. We had arrived.  I handed him half of the money that was supposed to go to Robert and I clumsily exited the cab.

My bed was comforting.  I felt wholly exhausted like I never had before.  Thanks to Robert I truly had seen the underbelly of Seoul.  Its whore-houses, its whore-bars, its strange seedy environments that don’t ever appeal to you for sane reasons. Robert would be fine the next day as would I.

What group are you a part of that you may not tell anyone?  Answer below.  I part of Quail Unlimited.  Let me explain.  QU is a sister/brother company of Ducks Unlimited, the more famous of the too.  Back where I used to call home, I worked with an avid hunter and gamesmen.  He was an extremely kind guy and we always had friendly chats in the workplace.  I try to keep myself open to as wide a variety of social interactions as possible.  And it was for this reason that when he asked me if I wanted to go to a Quail Unlimited function I said yes.  It was probably the fact that it was all you can eat and all you can drink for $20.  Not bad.  I was the only one not wearing something camouflage, swear to god.  There was also an auction, where the top prize was what looked like an anti aircraft gun.  Too sweet.  Here’s the icing, they ran out of Bud heavy half way through the banquet and started passing out the Sierra Nevada.  I was in heaven.  Friend Chicken and good beer, God I miss good beer.  Max, Cass, OB, they are all getting old and it’s insane to dish out for the imports as they are priced through the roof.  Woe is me.  Stay tuned for the finale of The Underbelly of Seoul Pt. 3.

My last post left off with me and my co-worker, British Robert, somewhere between drunk and gone, in a dirty bar, with a sign that gave the prices of the women, while I watched some hammered Korean man dancing insanely alone on the dance floor and listening to Robert talk about Anglophiles or Prince Harry.  And when I say this drunk Korean man was dancing alone, I don’t mean he was one of many out there, no hewas  the only one dancing in the whole place.  Ohhh yeahhh.

Well, after one beer, the place began to bore Robert and myself.  Robert is quite keen to these things and asked if I wanted to move on.  I said sure.  We exited, walking past winking working girls longing for a buck.  No thanks.

He showed me an infamous hooker street.  You walked and walked and it was brothel after brothel.  Women in skimpy clothes if they were wearing anything at all, beckoning you to enter, you know “just for a drink”.  All types of shady characters sauntering by, waiting for a certain call to strike just the right chord.  Very interesting.  I am not ancient, but I’ve been on this Earth for some time and I have never quite seen anything like this.  Call me sheltered.  Very interesting indeed.

Robert wanted to take me to a bar at the end of this street where people like to buy and chat up women.  This perked my interest.  I am an observer, not a judge. These things really tickle my fancy.  Anything with humans being humans in odd manners, is always interesting.

Robert’s place wasn’t open.  It was late, I guess too late.  No worries though for Robert knew another spot on the same street.  We walked passed the same prospective night-walkers, soliciting us again and again to no avail.  The bar was nestled between some whore houses, excellent.  There was a a guard at the door.  He was one mean looking Korean man.  Dressed in a perfect riot gear-esq. outfit.  Robert told me to wait outside as he checked the place out.  Whatever.  It was a good time to have a cigarette.  So good.  I waited, trying to take it all in when a strong hand grasped my shoulder.

It was a tall, slender dark-skinned man.  He was dressed pretty well and had a boisterous voice.  We got to talking, his hand still on my shoulder, gripping harder.  He was from Kenya.  He wanted something.  I am not big or small and I don’t particularly think I would be a good fighter.  I haven’t been in one since the early school days.  Plus this man was a behemoth.  My senses were heightened.  Robert is smaller than myself and looks even more out of shape.  The Kenyan didn’t so much ask me as tell me the two of us were going to go out together and hit some of these brothels.  I respectfully declined.  He wouldn’t take no for answer and his grip tightened.

Robert returned from his inspection and noticed the tension in the air between the Kenyan and I.  Robert got all fired up and put his finger in the large man’s face barking to leave me alone.  What a good friend, I guess.  Both of their eyes were opened wide.  The guard was extending his riot stick.  He had seen this before.  So did I and I didn’t feel like getting my head bashed in.  I pushed Robert’s finger down and forced us to enter this place.  The Kenyan disappeared for now.

The establishment was dimly lit and there was a dance floor, some pool tables, booths, tables and a bar.  We sat up the bar. I tried to get Robert to calm down a little so I ordered two beers and two whiskeys.  He seemed to cool down and ranted for a good twenty minutes on “the nerve of that bloke”.  It was entertaining.  He finally seemed fully relaxed after a few more beers and got up to use the restroom.  All was well.  Nope.  When he got up, he bent over to my ear and said, “I don’t know why but I really want to punch that guy sitting next to you in the face.”  Then he went to the bathroom.  I sat there for a second and gave a passing glance to the man sitting next to me.  He was a young looking Korean man with his friend.  Looked harmless.

Everything weird happened that night when Robert was absent.  It was on cue:  Robert, exit stage left.  Shit happens. Not once during my stay in Korea have I ever felt insulted.  Well,  this young Korean man sitting next to me would change all that.  He leaned over as I was sipping a beer and taking a drag of my cigarette and says, no joke, “America is run by Jew” in a very heavy Korean accent.  I didn’t know if I should laugh or putty on my Capt. America pants and recite the Bill of Rights.  Luckily for this guy I didn’t bring my Capt. America pants.  I laughed.  But he didn’t stop.

He mumbled some more about how we are owned by Israel, Obama is a Jew lover, all this stuff in a terrible Korean accent.  At this point it was just annoying. I told him to fuck off, but he started to get more intense about it.  Right when I was telling him to go fuck himself, Robert entered.  Scene 2.  They get in a terrible shouting match.  The Korean man pushes Robert and before I could intervene he was dropped by one fell swoop of Robert’s unbelievably quick left.  My jaw dropped.  The Korean crumbled.  I immediately headed for the door.  No one really knew what happened.  There were a lot of foreigners in the bar, including some of the workers.  The Korean bouncer entered as I was leaving.  I’m too old for this shit.

I start walking a little down the street and turn back to see if Robert is going to make it out alive.  Instinct took over and I was looking out for number one.  I like Robert though, and thought I should go back for him.  As I do Robert turns onto the street and is walking nonchalantly towards me with with a cigarette dangling from one of the biggest grins I have ever seen plastered on another human’s face.  I could have died.  The old bastard.  He said the bar-keep was a foreigner and basically that Korean guy had been saying weird shit all night.  No harm no foul, well to us.

Robert would tell me at our next destination that he used to box.  Lucky me.  Unlucky drunk Korean anti-Semite.  Unfortunately for Robert and for me our night wouldn’t end on a high note.  Actually a quite low one indeed.  There was still three more hours to go…

I am old.  Some of my co-workers don’t get that I’m not fresh out of college.  My party spirit has long since passed.  Don’t get me wrong, I like to have fun, but not the kind that yields my vomit in the street or a two day hangover.  I have simple needs for fun: a M.A.S.H. marathon and a six pack.

My co-workers with a few exceptions like to have the youthful fun that is associated with alcohol.  They drink a lot.  That’s fine.  Its fun to watch their weekly progression.  On Mondays they are zombies, still recovering from the weekend.  By Wednesday you see them step out of their melancholy daze.  The weekend is nigh and they can smell it.  Their dispositions change, they become happier, more excited.  All of a sudden work doesn’t suck so much.  I feel it too.  And by Friday, we are all filled with jubilation and set our work mode on cruise control.

Like I said, I don’t have that party instinct anymore, but I do go out.  There’s one person at my work who I particularly like to hang out with.  He is closer to my age.  We share some of the same  interests:  smoking and drinking.  Plus he’s British.  I’ve never had a British friend before, so it has been somewhat exciting.  I like his accent.  Even he is saying something boring, I am somehow always happy about it.  Who knows?

He has been here for quite some time.  A veteran of the teaching world in Korea.  He even knows a little Korean to boot.  Some weekdays we grab a beer after work and shoot the shit.  We bitch about work, about this, about that.  We pound the cold Korean beer and have some cigarettes, it’s nice.  He convinced me to go out with him this weekend. I obliged.

I know my age.  Some people my age are still out there living it up like they are in their early twenty’s.  Their corner needs to throw in the towel.  I don’t let it get me down, It’s just a value judgment.  They dress like they are in the mid twenties with torn designer jeans and product in their hair.  But their old faces tell the truth. I keep it simple.  Jeans, some comfortable loafers or sneakers and the appropriate attire for the weather.  Its probably pretty boring, but at least I don’t look like a jackass.  So what?

We went to a Foreign bar.  I am OK with that.  I can comfortably generalize the majority of English teachers here into one of three categories:  those who only want to hang out with foreigners, those who only want to hang out with Koreans, and those who could do either.  Again, a generalization, I am aware.

The place is pretty nice.  Its hard to find a good bar here, one that has bar stools and is not one of those lounge places with the dim mood-lighting.  The place was pretty well packed with all types: the big time party-ers, the sharks, people who were laidback, some dart players, overall a good mix. I was having a very good time.

Robert, my co-worker, and I talked about a whole spectrum of things.  Mostly old people stuff: politics, economics, sports, whatever.  As the night went on and the beer continued to be sipped, our conversation lacked anything of serious value.  We talked about the best cigarettes, how nice it was that cigarettes are cheap here,  why Max was better than Cass(or maybe it was the other way around: who knows?), and Robert tried to explain to me why Benny Hill is one of the funniest people ever.

After we left the bar, I was hungry.  We were both drunk, if not on our way there.  I do drunk well, I like it.  It’s a calm place for me.  I walk slowly and comfortably to where I want to go and enjoy it.  Robert gets a little more talkative and adventurous.   We were sitting at some kimbab place chowing down on some Tuna Kimbab.  Delicious.  He told me he wanted to show me underbelly of Seoul, the places I wouldn’t know about without him.  He had a certain air about him, a glow of something seedy and possibly interesting.  Hook, line and sinker.

I was comfortable, as I said.  I went along for the ride.  Mistake.  I am old.  Anyway, the first place Robert showed me was a bar that had a sign on the door listing the price of women.  It wasn’t my type of hangout scene, but made for an interesting view for the one beer we had there.  Booths with men of all ages and ethnicities surrounded by women of all ages and ethnicities.  But that didn’t get my attention, nor did any women in the bar.  It was a dancer.  I know you are thinking, “like a stripper”.  No.  It was a very drunk man.  He was Korean and he was young.  Donning a suit he let his feet fly on the dance floor.  A real Kevin Bacon.  What I found particularly funny about this young man, was that he was the only one dancing and he was awful at it.  His body gyrated in all types of awkward and uncomfortable ways.  Nothing was in rhythm.  It was like Elaine’s dance from Seinfeld is combined with someone who has CP.  It wasnt pretty.

I found, though, that he was immensely enjoying himself and it made me happy in my semi-glazed, drunk state.  Robert didn’t notice nor did he notice I wasn’t really paying attention.  Rude of me, but what can you do.  He was talking to me about Prince Harry and the army, I think.  But this was only the beginning.  It was nearing midnight and I did not know I would have another six hours exploration:  I am old.

Well, for starters I am not one to be bashful or ashamed.  I want this, whatever it will turn into, to be honest and straight-forward.  This proposition does not predicate the idea that what I write about has to be boring or lack flair—though it may be the case that no matter how it is written, a post may still be boring.  Quite the opposite of my desire.  With my simple disclaimer out of the way, let me begin to tell you how I arrived in Seoul, South Korea without keeping you here all night, whoever you are.

My intention to settle down in the Land of the Morning Calm can be summed up in the notion of getting away, away from it all: my life in the States.  Why?  Well, that’s simple.  It is the reason all good men decide to run, a woman.

You see I am not that old, but I’m certainly not getting any younger.  I have spent the majority of my youth in a monogamous relationship and I married young.  When I tell most people the travails I have been through, they ask me “if it was worth it?”, or “do you feel you wasted your youth?”  There’s two ways I could answer this and feel satisfied:  either yes or no.  Doesn’t help you out much, ehh?  Well,  when the proverbial shit hit the fan I felt like nine-plus years of my life were nothing but a sad joke.  But no one was laughing.  My friends, mostly her friends, weren’t much help.  I never liked them much anyway.  On the other hand, it is something to learn from.  I spent those dedicated years focusing on three things: writing, reading and her.  If I could remove the latter I would be just fine.

So, to the juice or pulp or if you prefer the blend, its here too:  We got married young.  I suggest it, if that is what you want.  My family always described me as an “old soul”.  In the prime of my youth, as it is so often referred to, I declined the normal route of life in the fast lane and caved to the beckoning of a simple life.  I am an engaged observer.  When I was young, I always liked the idea of marriage and a cozy house somewhere far away from it all.  Those were my romantic days.  Then I became sentimental with age and the idea that just a regular old life would be good enough.  Nothing special:  a yard, maybe, a nine to five.  Then I became a cynic when she revealed she was none other than Jezebel.  I was that Indian with the tear in his eye:  too proud to rage but not vain enough to show his world was dead.

Most of my friends, as I mentioned, were really her friends.  I mixed well over the years and they liked me, but I couldn’t have cared less if we went to Jeff’s BBQ Parties where he burnt the chicken every time. They were no help.  So I said fuck em.

All that is left of my family is my brother.  He is quite a few years older than myself.  My parents were from a small family, both only children.  It is just the two of us.  I don’t think I was supposed to be born, I mean planned.  They had me when they were old and passed on to the ground in my mid 20s.  My brother has been supportive.  I love him, but hes old and has his own life, so no need for me to stick around for him—he understands.

I hated my job and soon after the dust had settle, the divorce and moving on, I quit.  I essentially told everyone I had been associated with to fuck off, like a real grown-up.  What next?  I came across a listing for teaching in Korea, got off my ass, sent some emails and before you knew it I was drinking free Cass on a Korean Air flight.  What a wonderful world.

I’ve been here for some time now.  I am enjoying myself, though the novelty of Korean beer is quickly fading. Lightning round:  Have you gone crazy and partied like a mad man?  No. What do you do?  I sit, I read, I drink, I smoke, I teach and I am trying to learn this language.  Why blog?  Well, for one, I read too many in my free time.  It’s a free look into the reflected psyche of an individual, an open diary if you will.  Fascinates me.  I want to add to the collective consciousness of this existence, the English teacher abroad.  Who do  you work with?  I work with foreigners and Koreans, obviously.  It is interesting, but most of my younger coworkers do not understand why I don’t want to party hardy ever weekend.  Forgive me.

More to come.  Kids, keep your heads up.