Our Local Internet Cafe

The Seoul Saga You've Been Waiting For

I will just come out with it, lift the hefty load off my chest and admit that I am not exactly having an all-out blast in Korea. It is cold and dry with an extra garnish of thick yellow dust blown over from the Gobi desert in China. The Koreans, knowing very well that dust from China carries a rich mix of heavy metals and noxious chemical pollutants, have whipped out the super fashionable surgical mask made famous by recent SARS and bird flu scares. And when your face mask features Hello Kitty, why not? It occurs to me I have been a face-exposed visitor in not one, but two masked countries in recent months...

Seoul, I have quickly learned, is expensive. My Korean won disappears so quickly, and I often wonder why somebody doesn't chop off some zeros from their currency (1,000 won is about $1 US). I cannot afford to hook up internet in my hotel room more than once every 10 days or so, resorting to furtive roaming with an open laptop, searching for wireless signals in the mall. Teeny coffees run me 4,500 won apiece, and a mango can be 7,000 in the supermarket!

To pretend I'm in California, I keep the thermostat up in my hotel room and have found the warm spots in the tent, but have given up any attempts at fashion in favor of practicality: jeans and a jacket and sneakers day in and day out, especially for the trek to work. Yes! A bright spot in my Seoul doldrums - I am once again a pedestrian, loving the freedom to stride wide and walk away restlessness. After Dubai's taxi-reliant lifestyle, I was ready to zip out onto the sidewalks like an unleashed hound, but quickly learned to watch out. Absurdly, you are not all that much safer on a raised curb than in the middle of an intersection here, where cars seem to rule with robust authority and the city's overcrowding prompts the ridiculous practice of parking, and therefore driving, on sidewalks. Motorbikes and scooters, it seems, are above any laws whatsoever. Now, as a girl who tends to believe (perhaps stupidly) in her physical prowess and exceptional agility, I am often quite brave at sprinting across streets and dodging traffic. Not here. One must budget a minimum of 10 extra minutes to account for crossing streets, the gigantic 16-lane boulevards whose green lights are as common as unicorns. Cars line up at intersections like officers in a firing squad, occasionally darting through red signals, feigning innocence as though they had only accidentally pulled their gun's triggers.

But what am I, a civil surveyor? Enough about urban peril. In truth, I am much more in danger of being sideswiped by a roving Jehovah's Witness. In general, English is a rarity in Seoul, and though the Koreans' kindness invariably shines through our miscommunications, I abandon nearly every attempted conversation in exasperation. Most likely banking on this frustration, the Christian missionaries here are beautifully fluent in my native tongue, presenting themselves as "volunteers for English speakers." Because of these omnipresent "volunteers," I now have an ample supply of religious leaflets and church invitations, and I have learned to avoid the corner coffee shop with the huge yellow sign that says, "CAUTION: I'm crazy about Jesus!" I can't seem to get up the malicious nerve it takes to slam doors in people's faces or refuse their advances completely, and have wondered at the effect of dying my hair black and adopting a more Goth-like style. Or not.

One last topic, as it's getting late and I'm determined to rise early and enjoy one of my hour-long yoga sessions with my virtual teacher on the free Yoga Today podcast (www.yogatoday.com). As it was Monday, my precious day off, my friend Veronica and I braved the crowded subway all the way to Insadong, the hub of traditional Korean culture in northern Seoul. We wandered the streets of the Buddhist-influenced neighborhood, passing monks and nuns, both with shaved heads. Everything was aesthetically pleasing, peaceful, minimalist. Paper shops produced fine, fibrous folds of paper sprinkled with leaves, flowers, splashes of color and accents of calligraphy. Pale green Korean ceramics, in all their simple beauty, were stacked in precarious teacup towers. Rice was ground into a fine powder, mixed into a gelatinous goo and pounded with loud grunts and shouts by a man wielding a wooden mallet. Mmmm... the rice cakes produced were subtly sweet, gooey, and covered in red bean powder or flavored with green tea.

Veronica and I, hungry for lunch, sought out Sanchon, which means Mountain Village, a world-famous vegetarian restaurant specializing in Buddhist temple cuisine. The lunch was a fixed-price set of multiple dishes served in 30 tiny bowls (we counted), and included tastes and textures we had never experienced in our lives. Reading from the menu, it seems we experienced "mountain porridge," "fried kelp," "millet jelly," "steamed beancurd and burdock," "seasoned wild mountain roots" and "watery kimchi." It was outrageously fun to experiment without the fear of ingesting some unexpected and unappetizing meat or animal part. After rising from our floor-level dining table and replacing our shoes to return outside, our tastebuds were still in a frenzy.

And so, I am surviving Seoul one day at a time, navigating the inconveniences, sometimes with grace and other times as a grump.

Kamsa hamnida (thank you) for listening : )

On a Jet Plane

March 19, 2007
(written on the 12-hour flight to Seoul)

Making a home, a beautiful, comfortable home, only to leave it soon after seems cruelly akin to snatching a newly-given gift from the hands of an exuberant child. Perhaps I am being melodramatic, but I do not exaggerate my up-down feelings of luck followed by loss. I had settled my feathers neatly into a lofty San Francisco nest, yet am now disturbed quite rudely into flapping my wings (ok, the airplane’s wings, and they don’t flap) across the Pacific to South Korea. I’d be squawking all the way, too, like a pissed-off Canadian goose, if it weren’t for my excellent sense of decorum and and respect for the authority of flight attendants.

The truth is, I suffer from Grass-is-Greener Syndrome, the kind that spawns wishes of that mythical cake that is to be both had and eaten, too. The lush, sunny grass of the Marina, flowing with the foot-traffic of joggers and Frisbee-ers, and with the Golden Gate rising behind it certainly seems green to me now, especially compared with the prospect of a frigidly cold Korea. Yet the prospect of staying put makes me claustrophobic, anxious that the world is out there living without me seeing it!

Andy and I have a fresh new studio on Fillmore Street, the vibrant hub of a neighborhood full of yuppies (Aaah! Could I be counted among their ranks?!) and the bars, cafes, gyms, and trendy shops that cater to them. Our rooftop view is a generous one - basically all of San Francisco's waterfront spendor, with a fog-topped Golden Gate, an ominous Alcatraz, and the Palace of Fine Arts' dome glowing like a yolk, sunny-side-up. After months of crashing on relatives' couches (for which we are eternally grateful), we relish the privacy, the space, the chance to make it uniquely ours.

I will settle in to life in Korea, the homesickness will subside as it always eventually does. I have come by now to realize the cycle of arrival and departure, and all the associated emotions that follow closely like hayfever clings to Spring. But now, at least, there is a closet where my left-behind clothes hang, a bed that's truly mine, a shelf full of my books, and my best friend awaiting my return.

Coming soon: Meg in Korea!

Pre-tirement

Back in eclectic, earth-quaking California, I'm blessed with a month to bide my time before my next assignment as acrobat ambassador. This time it's Seoul, South Korea, which, after a recent unpleasant experience with kimchee, and the news that it will be below freezing there, is making me a bit nervous.

A break from work offers the chance to peek into a sphere of society that is uncharted territory for most of my peers, the majority of whom are slaving away in med school labs and investment banking offices as we speak. I've joined the ranks of senior citizens, stay-at-home moms, and dot-com millionnaires who need not follow the 9 to 5 quotidian life. While I somewhat resent the family and friends who ask incredulously, "What do you do all day?!" I find it rather easy to spend the hours drifting through town, sometimes as a 'productive citizen' and other times as a hopeless waste of space.

Andy's working at the Google headquarters in Mountain View now, product-managing their Google Checkout thingy and thoroughly enjoying the perks of their "campus" - free and excellent dining, a shuttle with WiFi, motorized scooters, massage, laundry service, etc. If it weren't for the fact that I am similarly pampered by Cirque, I'd be noticeably tinged green with envy.

So, while he googles around, I've scoured the penninsula for Iyengar yoga classes (the style I've recently delved into) that can give a boost to my own very amateur teaching. As I generally attend these sometime from morning to mid-afternoon, my fellow students are almost invariably a minimum of 35 years my senior, retired, and free to take on all the extracurriculars they wish. While at first my ego and I entered the classes with a disdain for their wrinkles and hip replacements, my fellow classmates were unassuming yogic warriors, and I learned soon enough how much I have to learn. Seventy-seven year old Betty, my Wednesday morning instructor, with her blue eyeshadow and bright pink tracksuit was adamant about the merits of lifelong yoga practice, rolling up her sleeve to show me her still-strong bicep... how could I argue with that?

Besides elderly yogis, the new mom demographic is a big one I encounter during the workday. A heads up: storytime at the Red Rock coffee shop is at 11am sharp, so if you plan to, say, read the newspaper while enjoying your caffeine, better bring some earplugs.

While I did love my time studying abroad in Scandanavia, imported Swedish furniture can't quite compare. I've been practically living at Ikea, charged with the task of outfitting our new apartment in San Francisco. The beautiful view of the Golden Gate Bridge, an idyllic SF neighborhood and gorgeous hardwood floors are exactly what Andy and I haved dreamed of, but after living in countless furnished corporate apartments, I had no clue how much goes into creating a living space from scratch. If nothing else, we've managed to pick out a mattress, a dresser, and two placemats for a non-existant table and yet-to-be-chosen dishes. I have a feeling that Martha Stewart would not advise basing one's interior design on the color of placemats, but I am not yet boring enough to shy away from the unorthodox, and am rather enjoying discovering my inner interior decorator (inner interior... that's deep).

Does the desert have no drains? Why would it?

Last week Dubai was hit by the most devastating of events for a desert city equipped with an exceedingly poor drainage system: a rainstorm. It's like when Californians, unacustomed to snow, shut down an entire urban area at the first fallen flake.

We could have laughed, were it not for Quidam's location in the slight valley of a parking lot outside Ibn Battuta Mall. Within minutes of the show's beginning, we were flash-flooded. Costumes and props were soaked, electrical equipment damaged, and getting onstage involved fording a small river. All this while an eager audience waited patiently in their seats. Water began collecting in pools under the stage and beneath their shoes. While I am an aerialist and could conceivably perform above the rising tide, the show was deemed impossible to put on, drowned out of commission for the night.

Fortunately, the audience seemed gracious and obliging as we sent a few musicians and characters out to greet them and apologize for the cancellation, promising a drier show the next day. Backstage, we celebrated the night off (see our impromptu pyramid-building), though I'm sure the sponsors and producers were not equally elated.

As our technicians cursed the lack of drains or pumps (in a place that's never needed them before), I could just picture Al Gore shaking his head...

Yogini Contrologist

It's already a quarter to one, and if I intend to rise earlier enough to get in my blissful morning beach-walk, I had better make this a quickie of a blog post. Speaking of that beach walk, my tranquil 40-minute sand ramble, which I manage to fit in every other day or so, has become a reason to wake. Our small strip of shore is framed on each side by large piles of rocks intended to resemble natural geological features, but after climbing a few steps, I found myself staring a bulldozer in the jaws. What did I expect, to find a mossy grove in the middle of Dubai?

I find myself now with a schedule rivaling the one I scrambled to maintain at Cornell... Okay, nowhere near that, but I'm verging on busy. After finishing a month-long teacher training course at the Kripalu Center this past November, Cirque has hired me to instruct my co-workers in the art and science of Yoga. (If you'd like to read more about my experience at Kripalu, there's an interview at their website - just click on my face).
Since I started on tour, I've sought out yoga instructors in each city and incorporated the practice into my daily preparation for the show. I guess I hadn't realized how much I've learned and absorbed from yoga until I was faced with the task of introducing it to people who just think I'm that weird girl who's mistaken her legs for pretzels. Now I'm charged with lesson planning, hauling mats, scheduling, answering questions... it's a new role. I've begun to teach a number of group classes - everyone from the musicians to the little Chinese girls, the technicians to the acrobats.
While my confidence has risen and I've grown more at ease with myself as an instructor, I am constantly surprised by my students. These are my friends who I work with day in and day out, who I eat with and travel with and party with, yet I realize I know very little about them. Teaching yoga shows me where their vulnerabilities and strengths are as I watch them try to relax, try to focus on their breathing and tune into themselves.

And then there is Pilates, or "Philates" as we've dubbed it after my friend, roommate, and Pilates guru, Philippa. A group of eight of us here at Cirque have taken on an in-depth study of the exercise system, which emphasizes building a strong core of muscles to support the health of the musculoskeletal body. Joseph Pilates himself first called his system "Contrology", though to me this sounds a bit militaristic for today's fitness seeker. I recall the studio I attended in Cincinnati whose sole advertisement was a large sign that said "Pilates: Look Better Naked." For all of you Sex and the City fans, you may also remember Samantha's one word explanation for her hotness: "Pilates." Now while I won't make any promises, it's a deceptively difficult set of exercises... making even the strongest strongman cry for mercy after only a few repetitions of the complex movements and articulations.

So if you'd like to find your six-pack (abs) or maybe discover your inner yogic peace, let me know!

Highlights, Lowlights, Quirks, and Quagmires of Life in the UAE

Highlights:
1. Andy made it to Dubai!!!

2. Palatial living on the 25th floor of the Oasis Beach Tower, with gorgeous views of the Arabian Gulf, the Palm Jumeirah, sailboats, and sun-soaked leisure tourists.
3. Small-scale fame as poster-child for Cirque du Soleil in the Middle East (I'm in the middle). A billboard, T-shirts, and now an appearance in AHLAN! International Glamour Magazine (issue #194).
4. The welcome assault on my senses by potent spices, rich Arabic coffee, and the delicacy of almond-stuffed dates. As if it weren't enough to wallow in the pleasure of these luxuries, it seems every seller is eager to tout his goods as "for prevention of the diabetes, Ma'am." I've purchased small bags of saffron, cardamon, vanilla, nuts and fruit, hoping to bring home some of the enticingly heady aroma of Arabic cuisine.
5. Ski Dubai, a real ski slope inside the massive Mall of the Emirates, complete with a ski school, chair lift, snow park, and lodge. Just make sure to stop at the bottom of the hill or risk going through the window of the 5-star hotel (also part of the mall).
6. "Dune bashing" with our trusty driver, Muhammed Ali, who took us for a wild ride over the dessert sand dunes in a seemingly indestructible 4-wheel drive vehicle. After that, I thought a camel ride would be cake, but little did I know, the creatures can be highly grumpy: ours grunted so loudly I thought he would throw us off his back. I also concluded that humps are not so fun to sit on... but the experience was definitely worth a sore butt!

Lowlights:
1. The impossibility of pedestrianism. I'm feeling the part of hamster-in-wheel with no sidewalks, parks, or paths to tread. But then who would dare walk without a hard hat around here?
2. Being "blocked" from using the internet or phone at any time without notice and for no apparent reason, and for seeing this message way too often:

We apologize the site you are attempting to visit has been blocked

due to its content being inconsistent with the religious, cultural, political and

moral values of the United Arab Emirates. If you think this site should not be

blocked, please visit the Feedback Form available on our website.

Quirks:
1. Despite my initial annoyance at being constantly referred to as "Ma'am," (it is tacked onto the end of nearly every sentence I hear and has a way of making me feel rather matronly), the new title of "Ma'am-Sir" deserved nothing but a laugh between Andy and I as we were seated by an eager waiter at our favorite cafe. Alas, now that he has left, our conjoined status has been lost, as the staff worriedly inquires, "Ma'am, where is Sir today?" I can only answer with a forlorn shake of the head and a request for my usual cappuchino.

2. Alcohol and its associated debauchery are highly discouraged and scorned as a foreigner's vice. Feel free, however, to get buzzed as a buzzsaw smoking Sheesha pipes (apple flavor is best).

3. Performing under the patronage of HH Sheikh Maktoum bin Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum. Does he have a nickname? Also, we have been honored enough to perform for the Saudi Arabian royalty. The Sheik and his multiple wives delayed the show half an hour, required a formal announcement of their presence (involving spotlight and applause), brought along countless bodyguards, and left at intermission.