Dark Days Are Good Days

For all of you who may not know theater lingo, a "dark day" refers to the once-weekly salvation of twenty-four performance-free hours. The stage lights remain dim, the costumes undergo a thorough washing, the seats are left empty of spectators and floors free of popcorn, while the artists are made to hurry up and refresh themselves so as to appear vibrant once again come showtime . Once in a much-anticipated blue moon, we are granted the glorious treat of a "double dark." I realize now how unappreciated the average two-day weekend truly is. If you could only imagine the extensive planning that goes into a double dark, the irrational squeezing of activities into the span of two spins of the earth, you could perhaps conjure up the same excitement I feel now, with time spread before me like dried squid in a Korean market.

DAY 1

Deciding to stick with the tried and true, I set out for Insadong, site of my vegetarian temple adventure of two weeks past. Going solo, I squeezed into a subway car and grabbed ahold of a swinging ring overhead for balance (Wasn't this my day off of hanging from metal hoops?!) Despite the crowdedness, I managed to read three chapters of my latest book titled The Zahir by Paulo Coelho, Brazilian author of The Alchemist, whose writing is extraordinary if one has an appetite for maxim-heavy storytelling.

Coelho's contemplative prose proved apt for an afternoon spent strolling the stony lanes of Insadong, and I soon happened upon a cluster of shops enclosing a courtyard called Ssamzie-gil As I entered the first few shops, I quickly realized the uniqueness of what they contained - independent artists selling their handmade wares on an intimate scale. Many of the shops were run by groups of art students and featured handmade jewelery, ceramics, stationary, gifts, dyed fabric, and all sorts of overwhelmingly cute character items. (Like Japan and its immensely popular Sanrio brand, Korea is rife with adorable little characters, of which my favorites so far are Tofu Heads and SSBA's Little Peace Activists.)

After winding my way up the spiral staircase that connected the shops, I reached the airy Gallery Cafe, where I pointed to a neighboring table that was spread with numerous beverages of the piping-hot variety.
I was served green tea in a manner involving no fewer than four ceramic vessels: a bowl of boiled water, a pot containing the tea leaves, a bowl to pour the brewed tea into, and a teensy cup from which to sip the much-poured liquid. Delicious, especially when paired with the sesame-rice crisp I had bought from the vendor downstairs. The all-natural snack is concocted of rice, seeds, nuts, and raisins over an open flame and stirred with a paddle before being slapped onto a wooden board and chopped up for instant enjoyment.

An acrobat's body is drawn towards massage with a magnetic pull beyond all rationale, which is why I let myself be drawn towards the nearest storefront boasting a foot reflexology chart in its window. I suspected it may be a Thai-style massage place, and my suspicions were confirmed after the first agressive thud of a palm on my back. Thai massage is not of the pampering, soothing, lotiony variety, but involves a quick kneading motion, manual stretching, and a pounding technique that could easily be mistaken for abuse if it didn't deliver such invigorating results. The woman giving the massage was excellent, though she clucked her tongue and shook her head at my tight muscles and calloused hands, a reaction which I'm used to but never exactly pleased with.

Our Good Friend Will Be Sorely Missed

"I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.'" -Kurt Vonnegut

Hmmm...

"Yoga has been evolved over the centuries as to exercise every muscle, nerve and gland in the body... but its real importance lies in the way it trains and disciplines the mind. Many actors, acrobats, athletes, dancers, musicians and sportmen possess superb physiques and have great control over the body but they lack any control over the mind, the intellect and the self. Hence they are in disharmony with themselves and one rarely comes across a balanced personality among them. They put the body above all else. Though the yogi does not underrate his body, he does not think merely of its perfection but of his senses, mind, intellect and soul."

-B.K.S. Iyengar

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).