A Korean Wedding

'Do I really want to do this?' I asked myself, as I was donning another layer of the hanbok, Korea's traditional formal attire.  Nonetheless, I have raised too many expectations for me to back out now.  Knowing Korea's penchant for elegant practicality, I knew I will get through this alright.

The notice-board at the luxury hotel was cryptic:  "Wedding 13:00-15:00".   For me, coming from the Israeli culture of lax arrivals and dancing till sunrise, this was an impossible statement.

A jazz trio played old standards, as friends and family, some of which I previously met, gathered in the flowery ballroom.  At 13:01 all guests were already seated, and the ceremony, which followed a western script, commenced.  From that point on, nothing was left to chance.  Every second was choreographed by a group of sharply dressed attendants, that hovered over the scene, directing every move and gesture.  The occasional interruptions in the flow, were to allow one of the attendants to rush to the bride, re-arrange the folds of her dress, and make her perfect for the next photo.  The bride's university professor conducted the ceremony, and gave a short speech advising the couple to contribute their talents to society.  Soon it was time to cut the cake and throw the flowers to a designated recipient (She didn't catch it, and the throw was repeated.)  Only the bride's younger sister, who could not contain her tears, demonstrated a visible emotion.

The attractive food  ($120 per plate) was served by a horde of waiters, who did not let an empty plate linger more than a minute.  I liked the wine, a rarity in Korea.

By 15:01 the last guest left the wedding hall.

I missed the drinking and dancing of Israeli weddings, but was compensated by the after-wedding ceremony, where the young couple, wearing elaborate traditional costumes, honored the groom's parents and accepted their blessing.  Mazal Tov.

          

Korea Snippets

Talking Heads
I assume most city dwellers are by now oblivious to talking elevators, but Korean talking machines may amaze even those that are not country bumpkins from Oaxaca.

• Subway announcements are common around the world, but bus stations that audibly predict the next arrival?
• The rice cooker never fails to inform us of its intentions, and its impending release of steam.  
• As I was fiddling with controls of the automated toilet seat, I believe it was trying to warn me that I am about to receive an ass-splitting water jet.  Unfortunately, the warning came in Korean. 
• I was amazed by the sight of a large dumpster talking to a neighborhood matron.  It politely (very important in Korea) accepted her garbage bag, confirmed her apartment number, and thanked her.  She will be charged based on the weight of her garbage.

When will we get listening machines?  "Last time, the rice was too hard.  Make it softer".

Culinary Tourism
Koreans, fiercely love Korea.  Those few that were not born in or around Seoul, feel great pride for their home town.  To merit this pride, each city claims some special characteristics, not the least of which is its local cuisine.  Seoulites often visit the outlying cities with the declared purpose of  sight-seeing, but with a clear plan to sample the famous local dish.  These celebrity dishes can also be found in Seoul, but acquired a special renown in their designated location.

So far I made three such culinary trips
Bibimbap (Jeonju.  Three hours by bus)

If any dish merits the title of the Korean National Dish, it is bibimbap.  Rice served in a scolding-hot stone bowl, topped with five colors of vegetables.  Spicy red pepper sauce is added, and the combination is mixed thoroughly before eating.  It is said that the founder of the last ruling dynasty, invented this dish while on the battlefield.  Jeonju was his home town.



Dak Galbi (Chuncheon.  One hour by car, which became four hours due to traffic heading to a huge Jazz festival)
Not to be confused with the usual Galbi.  Boneless chicken meat, cabbage, sweet potato, green onion, rice cake, and spices, chopped together at your table, on a sizzling two-feet skillet.  Like galbi, you pick a morsel,  wrap it with a lettuce leaf, and stuff the large package into your mouth.



Soondae (Abai Island. Sokcho city.  Three hours by car)
The Abai version of blood sausage, is mixed with squid meat.  The unanimous verdict of  Adi's family was "Thumbs down".   Fortunately, the main motivation of this trip was to view the fall foliage of Soraksan National Park, which was fabulous.

Falafel on the Lake

Hugo, with falafel balls

Lakeport is the last town before reaching our destination on Clear Lake. It was past noon, and hunger dictated that we stop at the first sight of food.  "Jimmy's Tacos and Burritos" was next to the highway exit.  On the front porch, a worker was flipping chicken over an open flame, saturating the air with mouth-watering aroma.  To my surprise, the menu above the counter, included such items as falafel, humus, and other Mediterranean favorites.  I ordered the Falafel Plate, and with the first bite, my being shook with epicurean delight.  The falafel balls were crispy, moist on the inside, and perfectly seasoned.. I could go on, but let's just say that it was the best falafel I tasted in a very long time.  The eggplant salad (baba ganoush) was just as delicious.

The next day, I made the ten-mile trip from our campground to town, in the pretense of attending Friday's concert-in-the park, but the real reason, was Jimmy's falafel, and the mystery of its origin.  I caught the cook's attention, and congratulated him on the falafel.
His name was Hugo Rodriquez.
"How does a Mexican make such an excellent falafel?"  I asked.
"Well, the owner prepared it."  Hugo pointed to a guy eating his lunch.
"He is from Jordan."  was the response to my follow-up query.
I walked over.
"This is the best falafel I had outside of Israel"  I enthusiastically declared to Jimmy.
He did not seem too thrilled.  "Well, maybe you are in Israel," he said, "I am from Palestine."
The instance of discomfort passed, and we exchanged data on our arrival in the US, and other pleasantries.

Over the next week of camping, we made an almost-daily pilgrimage to Jimmy's.  BTW, Adi loved the BBQ'd chicken burrito.

Highway 66

Kingman, Arizona.  A small desert town on Highway 66.  A town where the boundary between reality and fiction is blurred.  Where, for an unsuspecting couple, the present will soon echo the grim past.

"Highway 66 is the main migrant road.  66 the long concrete path across the country...from the Mississippi to Bakersfield... crossing the Divide and down into the bright and terrible desert, and across the desert... and into the rich California Valleys"

(John Steinbeck: Grapes of Wrath.   All italicized text in this post are from the same source)

The sun already went down, yet a scorching wind was emanating from an immense oven.   I strolled through Kingman's historic downtown, and Steinback's depression-era characters came to life.

"66 is the path of people in flight, refugees from dust and shrinking land...  Ashfork and Kingman and stone mountains again, where water must be hauled and sold"

Without exchanging words, it was clear to both Adi and me, that the next morning we will get off the main freeway, and follow old Route 66 through the desert.

The people in flight streamed out on 66, sometimes in a single car, sometimes a little caravan.  All day they rolled slowly across the road, and night they stopped near water"

Exiting Kingman, the road narrows and steepens.  Soon we were the only car in sight.  We were alone, climbing the arid mountains, totally depending on old Nemo to carry us safely.

"Listen to the motor.  Listen to the wheels.  Listen with your ears and with the palm of your hand on the gear-shift lever...Listen to the pounding old jalopy with all your senses, for a change of tone, a variation of rhythm, may mean- a week here?"

It must have been the term "old jalopy" which upset Nemo,  When we returned to Nemo after a scenic stop, I turned the ignition switch, and nothing happened... complete silence.

"Le's look.  God almighty, the fan belt is gone!  Here, make a belt out of this little piece of rope"

At first, I assumed it was the clutch switch.  This would have been an easy fix.  But that was not the problem.  I did check the fan belt.  It was intact.  Nemo remained lifeless.

"Thirst set in instantly.  Winfield moaned "I wanta drink.  I wanta drink."  The men licked their lips, suddenly conscious of their thirst.  And a little panic started."

Alone in the middle of the desert.  Without a cellphone.  Adi sat in the cabin, not saying a word, but her face betrayed her fear.  I took a sip of water to calm my nerves  (Old soldiers, always carry water) and proceeded with the troubleshooting process.

"Lemme have the monkey wrench an' pliers outa the truck"

For years, I have been bringing along a tool box.  This is the first time I needed it.  With the help of the correct-sized wrench, tightening the battery terminal was a cinch.  The rest of the drive to Oatman, where outlaws shoot blanks for the amusement of tourists, was a relaxing return to the present.

Swimming With Crabs

On Mazatlan's malecon (waterfront walkway), under the shapely tits of a mermaid sculpture, sat an abandoned seawater swimming pool.  Built between the large rocks, and just below the water line, it filled with the rising tide, and emptied when the tide was low.  Constantly pounded by the waves, it resembled an ancient ruin.

No more.  This year, the city renovated the pool, built a water-slide, and opened the Carpa Olivera pool to the public.  Kids line up to climb the slide, and the older generation enjoy watching the waves from within the safety of the pool walls.

The morning after I completed a three kilometer swim to the rocky outcrop which decorates the bay in front of our hotel, I came to the pool to polish my "smooth" style.  It is not often that while taking a breath (trying to keep my head as low in the water as possible), a large crab appears in front of my goggles.  It stayed on the pool's edge, enjoying the sunrise, while I worked on my drills.

Dee's Revenge

Dee and O have been orbiting around each other for years.   O never made a secret of his interest in her, yet throughout this time, Dee remained out of reach.  On the few occasions that they met, she was either tired, preoccupied, or in some other way unavailable.  Until one evening, the stars aligned, and they were finally together.

The long anticipation caused O some anxiety, but gradually, his apprehensions dissipated, and he released himself to the experience.  Tactile and visual sensations flowed through his body creating a symphony of emotions that filled him with joy.  Dee and O shared a night of undulating ecstasy, at times passionate, at times calm, but always connected.  As dawn approached, Dee, reluctantly, was preparing to leave.

"Will I see you again?"  she whispered.

O, still enveloped in a warm cocoon of pleasure, did not reply.  He was not sure.  Noticing the hesitation, Dee's face darkened. 

"You will not forget me" she said with a malevolent look.

I think this is how the curse began.

After she left, O assumed he will fall asleep, but sleep did not come.  At first, he closed his eyes and let the memory of the night flow over him.  Later, he focused on his breathing, a practice that usually led to sleep, but this time to no avail.  He knew it was Dee who was keeping him awake, and decided that it was a small price to pay for such an experience.  Eventually, as day broke, he shuffled to the kitchen.  The coffee helped, but that was all he could take.  He left a buttered toast, unfinished.   He also noticed that his muscles were aching, as if he completed a long swim in the Ocean.  It was a strange contrast.  His body was languid and sore, but he felt happy, and free.
'It will pass'  he thought, but it didn't. 

For the next few days, O went about his regular duties, but Dee was still affecting his body and mind.  Most noticeable to him, besides the muscle-aches and loss of appetite, which were slowly returning to normal,  were his eyes.  Whenever he was not occupied with a task, he would become aware of a peculiar sensation behind his eyelids.  A certain pressure, as if Dee is hiding behind his eyelids, reminding him...  Perversely, despite the discomfort, he started contemplating meeting Dee again.  And then, there were the dreams.

O was riding his motorcycle on a green meadow.  The flat smooth ground let him relax and enjoy the thrill of speed.  Out in the distance, at the edge of a young forest, he saw Dee.  Without any effort he found himself  launched into the air, riding in silent slow motion towards her.  As he reached the apex of  his flight path, he glanced down and his elation were broken.  The jump took him over the edge of a cliff, and now he was descending, still in slow motion, to certain death.   He was high, and perhaps there was time enough to get back to safety.  He leaned his body to the right, and with all his power and all his soul he willed his momentum in that direction.  

'Lean hard!'  Almost contrary to the laws of physics, he was changing direction. 

'Pull more!'  Safety was in sight.
'harder'  His whole body was straining with the effort.

A loud thump, a sharp pain in his shoulder, and he opened his eyes to find himself on the floor, beside the bed.

Still half asleep, O scanned his body for damage.  Some pain in his shoulder, but nothing serious.  Surprisingly, the dull pressure on his eyes was not there.  He felt normal again.
Dee's curse was gone.

Shalom and An'nyong in El Chalten

My previous post described the strange union of two species, glaciers and flamingos.  In El-Chalten, a small hamlet in Patagonia, we observed another incongruous union.  Several years ago, El Chalten was mainly a destination for backpackers heading into the Fitzroy Range.  Nowadays, many tourists like us, take day hikes only to the base of the mountains, and enjoy the  magnificent views of rugged, white-capped  peaks.

As soon as we boarded the bus, we heard more Hebrew than we did for the previous two months in Argentina. On our arrival, we were not surprised to observe that the village was dominated by large groups of post-army Israelis.  However, we were surprised by the second-largest constituency of tourists, which were middle-aged Koreans.  Soon we learned, that even though both the Israeli and the Korean species share the same flocking instinct (Facebook?), they differ in their habits.

We left our hotel for, what we considered, an early start.  Our destination was a glacial lake-with-a-view.  We were alone on the trail for the first half of the pleasant walk, until we encountered a group of Korean ajum'mas (housewives) already on their way back.  We were astounded, they must have left the village at least three hours ahead of us.  For the next hour, every single group coming towards us was Korean.  All were dressed in the latest outdoor fashions (Not including the parasols, which the more elegant women used against the strong sun).  Eventually, the trail regained its serenity.  At the lake, we joined a small crowd of assorted nationalities in admiring the view, and playing with the floating ice.  After eating our sandwiches, we headed back.  Half way home, we had a deja-vu experience, with one difference.  This time, all the groups going towards the lake were Israeli wearing clothes that seemed too light for the weather.  Superfluous to say that they were heard well before they were seen.

One additional fact:  According to a group of Korean backpackers, "It is advised" to be at the lake during sunrise.

Based on the above observations, I will leave it to the reader to deduce national traits.

Flamingos and Glaciers

Both Flamingos and Glaciers evoke fantastic and colorful images.  One brings forth coral colors and tropical plains, the other, high mountain peaks.  In Argentina, they inhabit the same lake.  We encountered the flamingos on the way from our hotel to the center of El Calafate, a two-kilometer walk along the shores of Lake Argentino.  It was a sunny but cold day, and we had to lean forward to overcome the fifty-km/hr headwind.  Through my watering eyes, I saw birds along the waterline, which to my astonishment, were not white.  Adi, who has the better eyesight, confirmed, "These are flamingos."  Due to their short legs, she named them "Asian Flamingos" .

In town, we boarded the bus to Perito Moreno Glacier, which is the main, if not the only, reason tourists flock to this faraway place.  The road to the glacier, which is on the far side of the lake, travels through another incompatible image, a cold desert.  The land is flat and barren with windswept sand dunes adding to the surreal scene.

Perito Moreno Glacier has not been affected by global warming, and maintains its original size.  The topography of the shore allows observation platforms to be placed a few hundred meters across the lake from the glacier, and its sheer size, awed us at first sight.  From the platforms, the vertical hundred-meter high ice wall, seems within touch, and the hypnotic deep-blue light glowing from within the crevasses invite you to explore.  Perito Moreno flows slowly to the lake, and every few minutes a loud roar can be heard.  With some patience and luck, about a second before the thunder arrives, you can observe the spectacular event as a gigantic chunk of ice drops, almost in slow motion, into the water below.
(The photo's point of view is from the boat tour) 

Bye Bye Buenos Aires

I love Buenos Aires.  I love the friendly people, the energy, the cultural events, the great food, and on and on.  It is a very livable city and despite its large size, most destinations are within easy reach.  Although Porteños (as locals call themselves), love to complain (and warn foreigners) about crime in the city, we found it peaceful compared to large cities in Europe.

However, I can't conclude my last post from BA without mentioning one of its quirks. Porteños love dogs, and it seems that each resident has at least one.  Since dogs don't like to "go" inside apartments, they need to be walked, thus providing opportunity for professional dog-walkers (See photo).  Unfortunately, the many residents who like to walk their dogs themselves, have not yet internalized the plastic-bag-pickup routine.  Thus, upon emerging from your air-conditioned apartment building, you are hit with the pungent smell of dog excrement.  Avoiding the landmines on the tree-lined sidewalks, requires good vision, quick reactions, and great agility.   All is forgotten, as you reach your neighborhood parilla (grill) and enjoy a chorizo steak with Malbec wine.