These days I’m not in the classroom long before hearing someone – usually a student but occasionally a cheeky co-teacher – calling out “Santa Claus! Santa Claus!” to me in an unmistakably Konglish patois. Christmas is fast approaching and Santa is busy hawking everything from LCD televisions to gimchee refrigerators in Korea this holiday season. His rosy mug gives a wink and smile from just about every store’s window. So I can understand why kids would have Santa on the brain. But that doesn’t necessarily explain this new nickname of mine.
What is it about me that begs the comparison? At first glance not much:
Despite frequent bouts of gastronomical enthusiasm I do not share jolly Saint Nick’s jovial rotundity. My wardrobe consists of not a single red jumpsuit. I couldn’t locate the North Pole on a globe if the place didn’t have directions built into its very name. My working understanding of reindeer is slight, and while my knowledge of elves is (embarrassingly) considerable this is more of the Dungeons and Dragons/Tolkien’s "Lord of the Rings" variety than it is Santa’s little helpers. I’ve never even ridden on a sleigh.
I don’t exactly sound like a guy whose gonna find out if you’ve been naughty or nice, right?
But there’s more to the story.
You see there is something about me – a quality so uncommon, so rare, and so significant in Korea – that it is seemingly capable of changing the fresh face of a boy from the Mid-West into the very visage of Father Christmas.
What is this caterpillian quality? What is the motivation of this transmogrification?
My beard.
Now my beard isn’t especially Clausian: it is of a chestnut hue and, despite three month’s of unmolested growth, doesn’t reach much beyond my chin. Judged against even a garden variety Santa at the mall in any American suburb I wouldn’t measure up. But I’m not in Kansas anymore. And around these parts a little scruff goes a long way.
The beard in Korea is an endangered species. A thick whiskered Korean man is as elusive a creature as the bird watcher’s ivory bill woodpecker: they may be out there but it’s been many a moon since one was spotted in the wild. True, you may from time to time run across a fellow with a little facial fuzz – the pencil stache is currently popular with gangsters and a few pop stars – but this is the kind of well-manicured, finely sculpted “beard” that looks like it took about three times as long to groom as it did to grow.
Gentlemen, if you could successfully audition for a boy band it’s not a beard.
This scarcity of facial hair, this paucity of pileousity if beards happen to make you rhapsodic (ladies you know who you are), is more a genetic matter than it is a cosmetic one: Koreans just aren’t very hairy. Any effort by a typical Korean man to muster more than a downy shadow on his chin is an exercise in follicular futility. Naturally, then, my beard is a bit of a novelty and reactions to it run the spectrum from awe (pre-adolescent boys) to envy (middle-aged men) to courteous disgust (women regardless of age).
I take the good with the bad. Sure my beard is essentially date-repellant, but it also provides me with the most effective means I have of keeping some of my sixth grade boys in line: they see it as a testament to my alpha-male status. (Clearly these aren’t the same students who liken me to Santa Claus). Luckily I’ve not yet had to join these boys on the soccer field where their perceived notions of my presumed manliness will collapse like a house of cards. I’ll milk it for what it’s worth while I can.
In just a couple of weeks 2008 will be winding down. And I imagine once the holidays have passed, after the sales have ended and the Christmas tree has been packed away till next time, I won’t hear so many shouts of “Santa Claus! Santa Claus!” as I walk the halls of my elementary school.
No, I’ll probably go back to hearing the refrain of “Chuck Norris! Chuck Norris!” that greets me for the better part of the year.
That’s right: Santa Claus and Chuck Norris.
I’d like to think I’m doing the beard proud.
Wednesday, 10 December 2008
Thursday, 4 December 2008
No. 4
The buildings stand packed together in tight rows. Their concrete facades – advertising for restaurants, shops, clubs and bars – are similar enough to be interchangeable; each block replicating itself with only minor variations. The air is rank with exhaust fumes.
Central Seoul.
The streets are busy now with families and couples out on the weekend, but this crowd is nothing compared with what will happen later that night. After dark these streets will overflow with hundreds of young men and women awash in a sea of neon drifting from one bar to the next. People will huddle shoulder to shoulder around street stalls eating a cheap midnight snack of odeng or deokboki. There’s likely to be a fight or two; someone passed out or vomiting on the sidewalk. The crowds won’t let up until the trains start running again at 5 AM.
You’ve spent most of the afternoon walking through this neighborhood without any destination in mind and now you’re thirsty. It doesn’t take long to find a café. Approaching it you can smell freshly ground coffee beans. Korea doesn’t serve the best coffee but it’s not the worst you’ve had either; and you’ve had plenty of opportunities to learn to appreciate it.
Inside there is some confusion about your order which is frustrating because you consider ordering coffee one of the few things you are capable of in the language. Once this gets straightened out you mount the stairs to try and find a seat on the second floor; it is crowded but there’s a table available. You quickly walk over and sit down.
You take a couple of things out of your book bag and have a look around.
A group of four women are sitting at the table in front of you. Three of the women sport nearly identical bobbed hairstyles. There are frequent lulls in their chattering as they scoop spoonfuls from a shared bowl of ice cream and cake into their mouths. To your right, at the tables lined up against a row of floor to ceiling windows, sit three couples. The couple sitting farthest from you – the youngest of the trio – might be on a first date: their interactions conducted with all of the awkwardness and expectation of romance in its infancy. The two other couples – older; perhaps in their thirties – seem comfortable if not a little bored: that initial wild excitement long since subdued through habit.
You take another drink of your iced Americano.
Young girls reading fashion magazines consult with pocket mirrors before reapplying lipstick and foundation according to their own exclusive code of beauty. A man in a tweed jacket gesticulates wildly and knocks his drink over in the process. A mother bounces a baby on her knee while her husband flips mindlessly through the newspaper. Music – mostly American Top 40 from the ‘80’s – plays over the intercom. In the short time you’ve been here nearly every person has had their cell phone out to take a call or send a text message.
This is the same Saturday afternoon that plays out in any number of cafés around the world; the same Saturday afternoon you have participated in for many years. From a café in Kansas City to one in Seoul; it doesn’t matter where you go; how far you may wander from home. You never stop being yourself.
Man is a map.
By the time you step out of the café the sun smolders in a glowing heap on the horizon. The crowd is growing. You zip up your coat. December can be a cruel month here. You could stand to eat something but it is difficult getting a table for one in Korea. There’s always street food but you had that for lunch. All the restaurants you check look full. You decide to try a quieter part of the neighborhood. Following a narrow, twisting back alley you come to a Japanese franchise that specializes in ramen. The place is packed but the cook lets you eat at the counter with a few other people. You order pork ramen and a beer. It isn’t long before a piping bowl of noodles arrives. Alternating bites of hot ramen with sips of cold beer makes for a satisfying meal. You hurry to finish and free up a spot at the counter; there are people waiting.
Returning to the main street the now massive crowd moves like one entity: each person a single cell contributing a tiny part to this organism’s enormity. From any of the surrounding rooftops you imagine it to look like a pulsating, amorphous creature – something out of a B grade horror flick – heaving its way in all directions; a cacophony of white noise rising from it like an alien frequency. Merging with the crowd you move to the pulse of this amalgamated animal, aimlessly, without volition.
The crowd carries you to a place called “The Gamble” which you figure will be as good as any of the other countless bars around here. You spill with a few others into the building’s lobby. The Gamble is on the fourth floor but there is a line for the elevator so you take the stairs. On your way up you are bombarded by images of candy canes, presents, Santa Claus and reindeer. It is like a concerted effort by all that is lurid and crass about the holiday season to make you homesick.
It more or less succeeds.
Unsurprisingly, The Gamble is wall-to-wall crowded with the exception of the bar itself which is completely empty. You order an imported brown ale. It’s more expensive than a domestic but worth it. You’ve only had your beer long enough to take a few swigs before two men walk up to you. They are both pretty big: the kind of crew cut, square-jawed dudes who look like they take their steaks raw. American G.I.’s, probably. They are saying something to you in English. One cracks a lewd joke; you don’t laugh; they get the picture.
You finish your beer alone.
That first beer hits the spot so you order another. The bartender – a no longer young but still attractive woman calling herself “Phantasia” – brings it over. You’ve both made some marginal attempts at small talk, but these are just ramshackle bridges that can only begin to span a linguistic divide. She pantomimes a rock, scissors, and paper with her hand. “Play”, she says. Your first game ends in a draw: paper. You beat her on the second try. Reaching into her jacket pocket she pulls out a wooden bracelet of Buddhist prayer beads. The charm is slipped over your wrist. “Here”, she says. “For good luck.”
For good luck, you think. It couldn’t hurt.
The elevator’s slow descent is interrupted at each floor to pick up new passengers. Two drunken girls stumble on. They try to practice their English with you. The ride down seems to take forever. Finally the doors open with a sound like a gasp, a rush of breath, and cool air hits your face. Your ears are burning. The buildings outside are lit up in the garish greens and reds of Christmas back home. It is as bright as midday. A business card for a strip joint is placed in your hand. Over the thumping bass of a generic hip hop track laughter mixes with a language you can barely comprehend. You feel like a sleepwalker in someone else’s dream.
Fingering the bracelet you struggle against the crowd towards the subway entrance. You need to hurry.
The last train leaves in fifteen minutes.
Central Seoul.
The streets are busy now with families and couples out on the weekend, but this crowd is nothing compared with what will happen later that night. After dark these streets will overflow with hundreds of young men and women awash in a sea of neon drifting from one bar to the next. People will huddle shoulder to shoulder around street stalls eating a cheap midnight snack of odeng or deokboki. There’s likely to be a fight or two; someone passed out or vomiting on the sidewalk. The crowds won’t let up until the trains start running again at 5 AM.
You’ve spent most of the afternoon walking through this neighborhood without any destination in mind and now you’re thirsty. It doesn’t take long to find a café. Approaching it you can smell freshly ground coffee beans. Korea doesn’t serve the best coffee but it’s not the worst you’ve had either; and you’ve had plenty of opportunities to learn to appreciate it.
Inside there is some confusion about your order which is frustrating because you consider ordering coffee one of the few things you are capable of in the language. Once this gets straightened out you mount the stairs to try and find a seat on the second floor; it is crowded but there’s a table available. You quickly walk over and sit down.
You take a couple of things out of your book bag and have a look around.
A group of four women are sitting at the table in front of you. Three of the women sport nearly identical bobbed hairstyles. There are frequent lulls in their chattering as they scoop spoonfuls from a shared bowl of ice cream and cake into their mouths. To your right, at the tables lined up against a row of floor to ceiling windows, sit three couples. The couple sitting farthest from you – the youngest of the trio – might be on a first date: their interactions conducted with all of the awkwardness and expectation of romance in its infancy. The two other couples – older; perhaps in their thirties – seem comfortable if not a little bored: that initial wild excitement long since subdued through habit.
You take another drink of your iced Americano.
Young girls reading fashion magazines consult with pocket mirrors before reapplying lipstick and foundation according to their own exclusive code of beauty. A man in a tweed jacket gesticulates wildly and knocks his drink over in the process. A mother bounces a baby on her knee while her husband flips mindlessly through the newspaper. Music – mostly American Top 40 from the ‘80’s – plays over the intercom. In the short time you’ve been here nearly every person has had their cell phone out to take a call or send a text message.
This is the same Saturday afternoon that plays out in any number of cafés around the world; the same Saturday afternoon you have participated in for many years. From a café in Kansas City to one in Seoul; it doesn’t matter where you go; how far you may wander from home. You never stop being yourself.
Man is a map.
By the time you step out of the café the sun smolders in a glowing heap on the horizon. The crowd is growing. You zip up your coat. December can be a cruel month here. You could stand to eat something but it is difficult getting a table for one in Korea. There’s always street food but you had that for lunch. All the restaurants you check look full. You decide to try a quieter part of the neighborhood. Following a narrow, twisting back alley you come to a Japanese franchise that specializes in ramen. The place is packed but the cook lets you eat at the counter with a few other people. You order pork ramen and a beer. It isn’t long before a piping bowl of noodles arrives. Alternating bites of hot ramen with sips of cold beer makes for a satisfying meal. You hurry to finish and free up a spot at the counter; there are people waiting.
Returning to the main street the now massive crowd moves like one entity: each person a single cell contributing a tiny part to this organism’s enormity. From any of the surrounding rooftops you imagine it to look like a pulsating, amorphous creature – something out of a B grade horror flick – heaving its way in all directions; a cacophony of white noise rising from it like an alien frequency. Merging with the crowd you move to the pulse of this amalgamated animal, aimlessly, without volition.
The crowd carries you to a place called “The Gamble” which you figure will be as good as any of the other countless bars around here. You spill with a few others into the building’s lobby. The Gamble is on the fourth floor but there is a line for the elevator so you take the stairs. On your way up you are bombarded by images of candy canes, presents, Santa Claus and reindeer. It is like a concerted effort by all that is lurid and crass about the holiday season to make you homesick.
It more or less succeeds.
Unsurprisingly, The Gamble is wall-to-wall crowded with the exception of the bar itself which is completely empty. You order an imported brown ale. It’s more expensive than a domestic but worth it. You’ve only had your beer long enough to take a few swigs before two men walk up to you. They are both pretty big: the kind of crew cut, square-jawed dudes who look like they take their steaks raw. American G.I.’s, probably. They are saying something to you in English. One cracks a lewd joke; you don’t laugh; they get the picture.
You finish your beer alone.
That first beer hits the spot so you order another. The bartender – a no longer young but still attractive woman calling herself “Phantasia” – brings it over. You’ve both made some marginal attempts at small talk, but these are just ramshackle bridges that can only begin to span a linguistic divide. She pantomimes a rock, scissors, and paper with her hand. “Play”, she says. Your first game ends in a draw: paper. You beat her on the second try. Reaching into her jacket pocket she pulls out a wooden bracelet of Buddhist prayer beads. The charm is slipped over your wrist. “Here”, she says. “For good luck.”
For good luck, you think. It couldn’t hurt.
The elevator’s slow descent is interrupted at each floor to pick up new passengers. Two drunken girls stumble on. They try to practice their English with you. The ride down seems to take forever. Finally the doors open with a sound like a gasp, a rush of breath, and cool air hits your face. Your ears are burning. The buildings outside are lit up in the garish greens and reds of Christmas back home. It is as bright as midday. A business card for a strip joint is placed in your hand. Over the thumping bass of a generic hip hop track laughter mixes with a language you can barely comprehend. You feel like a sleepwalker in someone else’s dream.
Fingering the bracelet you struggle against the crowd towards the subway entrance. You need to hurry.
The last train leaves in fifteen minutes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
