Violence in Korea: Trying to Channel My Inner Lara Croft, and Failing Miserably.

There are moments when I feel completely uncomfortable in Korea.

Not because of curious eyes on me in the subway, diners munching on dog meat, or the stench of sewage in the street. I feel uncomfortable because of violent interactions I observe between Korean men and women.

Last Sunday I met up with a group of my friends near Pusan National University for lunch. My buddy Won had some college friends visiting from Japan, and he really wanted to introduce them to hae-jang-guk (pork spine soup), a delicious and popular Korean dish. We walked a few blocks to the small restaurant, greeted with the usual chorus of "Annyong-ha-seyo!" as we stepped inside. We removed our shoes and padded barefoot to a low wooden table in the corner, where we sat on square cushions. There was about eight of us, chatting and laughing as we situated ourselves. Won rang the bell on the table and our waitress came over to take our order. She then scurried off to get our side dishes - kimchi, carrots, green peppers, wasabi - while the eight of us talked.

The restaurant was fairly empty, but quite suddenly the middle-aged woman sitting across the room started yelling. We looked over and she was on her feet, shouting at an ajassi (older man) while another women squeezed between them and tried to push both back, a palm on each chest. The man was also shouting loudly in Korean, spittle shooting from his mouth, trying to push the woman in the middle out of the way.

What is going on? we murmured to each other, looking around the restaurant to see if anyone would come to intervene. One waitress was organizing chopsticks, no others were in sight. Our gazes glued to this strange fight, we watched as the man and woman slapped at each other, and then, the man pulled back and punched the woman farthest from him in the side of the head.

At this point, thankfully, Won and Dave jumped up and ran over to help. The woman in the middle was whimpering, "Juseyo, juseyo" (Please, please) but the man pulled away before the boys reached their table. It was difficult to tell what was going on, as they'd been screaming in Korean, but it was certainly disturbing. One of the waitresses walked over, but seeing that the physical fighting had stopped, just told Won and Dave "It's okay." With uncertain looks, they returned to our table.

We all sat in silence for a few minutes, trying to digest the situation. It is unsettling to watch any kind of physical altercation, particularly when it's between a man and a woman. It is confusing and disturbing when nobody around you seems to do much about it.

In the States, if there were any kind of fighting in a restaurant, those involved would most likely be asked to leave. If a man punched a woman, it is safe to assume that the police would be called. Here, everybody returned to their food and the couple returned to their fight. There were no more punches thrown, but they continued yelling for another 20 minutes. Won, who speaks some Korean, said the man was being asked to sign divorce papers. Throughout the meal, I kept glancing over to see if he was going to hit her again.

This kind of scenario isn't entirely new to me. I've seen men push their girlfriends into telephone poles on the street during heated arguments - I've even had a drunk man punch me in the back, another shove me into traffic. Most of the fights I've seen appear to be two-sided; the woman pushes or hits back. Physical abuse between couples appears to be accepted, or at the very least, one minds his or her own business when it comes to domestic issues.

And that's what really bothers me. Nobody wants to be involved in a personal fight between strangers. But my upbringing has taught me that I have no choice when a fight becomes violent - I now have an obligation to intervene. If I sit back, if I do nothing, I become part of the problem. And I feel like shit.

Which is exactly how I felt when I didn't help the woman screaming in my apartment building. It was a Tuesday night, and I was watching a movie with a friend. When we first heard the screams, we couldn't tell if it was part of the film or not. I muted the sound, and heard the shouting much more clearly - a woman's voice, almost shrieking, the sound of someone being hurt badly.

I rushed to the door, swung it open, stuck my head outside. I expected to see other faces in the hall - my neighbors, also investigating the screams. But nothing, just a dark and deserted corridor.

I thought I should call the police, but I didn't even know the emergency number in Korea. I dialed my Korean friend Monica, and explained the situation to her.

"So, what's the Korean 911, Moni?" I asked. "I need to call them." I was breathless.

She made a clucking sound. "Ah, Jenn, no call police. Maybe just wife in fight with husband."

"But she sounds like she's being hurt very bad. I don't care if it's her husband."

Monica sighed. "Sometimes Korean woman good at screaming, I think. But it is okay. Don't worry. Maybe I will check for you tomorrow."

I hung up the phone feeling unsettled. I couldn't just turn the movie on and forget I'd heard something. But I wasn't so sure about calling the police, either. What if they blew me off the same way Monica had?

I slipped on my leather boots and stepped back out into the hallway. I could still hear the woman shrieking, although it was sporadic. The hall was pitch black and I could only see a few feet ahead of me. It sounded like the woman was screaming from the floor above me, so I walked as quickly as I could down the hall to the stairwell, my heels clicking loudly on the ground.

I peered into the empty stairwell, could hear the woman's voice overhead. My heart hammered in my chest, my ears, even the bottoms of my feet. When I reached the landing, I paused to listen. The screaming had stopped. I waited a few moments, and then, utterly spooked, I ran down the stairs as fast as my feet would take me. I burst through the door onto my floor, never slowing down. I didn't stop until I'd locked my front door behind me with clammy hands, panting.

I was too scared to help the woman. I had been raised to believe women were fearless, and that if someone were in danger, I would go to their rescue, Sydney Bristow style - kicking ass and taking names. But without cops or other worried neighbors, I was too scared to put my nose where I'd been told it didn't belong. I felt like a coward, like I was responsible if the woman was seriously hurt.

I travel so I can view, and be a small part of, other cultures. I enjoy learning about different views, different ways of life. But I believed that there were several universal truths, a few things that connect all of us, regardless of age, gender, religion, geographic region, race: our love for family, our belief that killing and violence are wrong, a desire for a bright future for our children.

Living in Korea has shaken that belief. I have seen bad and scary things during my travels across South America, Africa, Asia, Europe. There are plenty of bad and scary things in my own country, in my own city. But what worries me is when those things aren't deemed "bad" and "scary" or when the belief is that others shouldn't get involved in preventing such things.

A belief in myself has also been shaken: the belief that I will always try to do the right thing, regardless of consequence. I hate the fact that I overestimated my bravery, and that regard for my own safety compromised my ideals.

I don't know what happened to the woman in my apartment building, but I hope she was more courageous than me. I hope she found the strength to leave whomever thought it alright to harm or hurt her.

A Sunday at Shinsegae: Glimpses of a New Korea

If there is one place to see where the new face of Korea is thriving, it's at Shinsegae mall.

World recession? A slumping won? Not apparent here, a gleaming ten-story multiplex shopping center, with three Starbucks, designer boutiques, an ice rink, golf driving range, a massive spa and an ultra-modern cinema attached to an upscale restaurant. The Korea Times reports the total cost to be 1 trillion won.

I first heard whisperings of Shinsegae when other foreigners began excitedly mentioning the arrival of Gap (!) and Banana Republic (!) in Pusan. In true Korean style, it was all built in a flash (no mind that part of the cinema roof has already collapsed), and a few weeks later I went to see for myself.

Gap was, expectedly, out of my price range. Even though most of the clothes are made in neighboring China, the prices are three or four times that of the States, making a cotton t-shirt almost $55. The best selling items appear to be colorful baseball caps with GAP stitched in white lettering, another indication of the Koreans' obsession with labels.

I first visited Shinsegae with my adorable, stylish Korean friend Monica. If anyone knows about label lust, it's her. She has designer purses worth the price of a used car. Although she is 24 years old, she lives with her parents like most young Koreans, and a majority of her paycheck goes toward expanding her wardrobe. The last bag she bought, a small quilted black Chanel, cost her about $2,600 and the wrath of her mother, who made her stand in her bedroom with the purse held over her head until she cried from the pain of keeping her arms up for so long.

Our first stop was Starbucks, where a plastic cup with the green logo splashed on the front informs others that you can afford to pay $3 for a cup of coffee. Monica has told me that some Koreans will carry the cup around all day, long past the last sip of coffee, re-filling it and proudly displaying the Starbucks name. It reminds me of the Africans I encountered on my travels, who would decorate their cell phones with rhinestones, choose the loudest ringtones and wear them on cords around their necks, just to draw attention to the fact that they could afford a mobile phone (sometimes they couldn't pay for the minutes, but hey, they had the phone).

Monica and I then wandered through Marni and Marc Jacobs, both busy on this particular Sunday afternoon. Monica ogled a red purse, and studied a dress she was sure she could re-create with her sewing machine. After passing women with multiple shopping bags, we took an escalator down to the food hall on the 1st floor.

The floor was a maze of counters, serving uncommon "Western" food like smoked salmon salads and club sandwiches (none cheaper than $10), as well as cakes, Turkish wraps, mandu dumplings, Chinese dishes, chocolate truffles. The "Water Bar" was a gleaming turquoise counter with dozens of different kinds of sparkling, flavored or flat water. Next to that stood the European imports - a $12 package of instant oatmeal, a $5 bottle of Orangina. A large section of the hall is devoted to a Korean favorite: bread. Koreans have embraced bakeries the way Rose clings to Jack at the end of Titanic. Dunkin' Donuts, Paris Baguette, Tous Les Jours - they can't get enough pastries, bagels, loaves of bread. Unfortunately, most of it is crammed with sugar, not a whole wheat option in sight, but they sure love the stuff.

Looking around the mammoth mall packed with people, I thought about how America is clearly not the only consumer-driven country. Sure, I think people everywhere like to buy things, but the rabid obsession with stuff - electronics, labels, clothing, designers - is this a result of "Westernization"? Or would it have happened regardless of our influence?

When I walked into class a few weeks ago with a red knock-off purse I'd bought in Beijing (for $15, I might add), my elementary school students all started pointing excitedly at the Chloe label.

"Teacher, is it real? Real Chloe?" they asked.

I was taken aback that they had any idea what Chloe was - at their age, the only Chloe I knew was my mom's cat. Perhaps you'd find this with upper-middle class 4th graders in the States too, but I'm not sure.

I'm also not sure if all this consumerism isn't going to get Korea into a lot of trouble. As we've seen in the past few months, every time we open a newspaper, Americans are now literally paying the price of years of buying stuff, most of it they couldn't afford in the first place. The story continues to unfold, but many agree that this recession may actually be a good thing, a chance to step back and re-evaluate what we actually need.

I think it's wonderful that the Korean economy has grown so much in such a short period of time - they are a hard-working country that has risen from the dust in only a half-century. But like many Americans, my friend Monica is in a heap of credit card debt, charging all her Starbucks coffees and designer bags with just a swipe.

As she said as we were leaving the mall, "Ah, Jenn. Shinsegae is so good, I think." She paused. "But for me, maybe also so bad."

Spring Fever

With spring knocking on the door – cherry blossoms in bloom, balmy days, winter coats packed away – love seems to be on the brain in Busan.

We just celebrated a slew of love-themed holidays in Korea: Valentines Day on February 14th, when girls are required to buy boys chocolate, followed by White Day on March 14th, when roles reverse and boys buy chocolate for girls. April 14th brought Black Day, a holiday for those who did not receive chocolate in previous months, a chance to cry into their “black noodles” (a Chinese dish called ja-jang-myeon). Korea and its disdain for single people!

My students are endlessly curious about my love life, asking me if anyone had bought me chocolate on White Day (I asked if I could just walk around the city on March 14th, approaching any male for free chocolate – they looked shocked and dismayed at this idea). Yesterday they wanted to know if I’d eaten black noodles, or if I had a boyfriend, which would exclude me from lamenting about being single. Sometimes I’m tempted to play “Independent Woman” by Destiny’s Child for them.

They, of course, have constructed a love story for me. The story circulating through my students is that two of my co-workers, Jason and Niko, are dating (they are not) but that Jason is secretly in love with me (he is not) and I am trying to break up their happy union (I am not – well, if there were any union to speak of). I will often return from break and walk into a room of bright-eyed middle schoolers, all grinning at me.

“Teacher!” they shout. “We saw you and you were talking to Jason!”

“Teacher, do you love Jason?”

“Is Niko really Jason’s girlfriend?”

During their mid-terms a few weeks ago, they were required to write a skit about anything of their choosing, as part of the test’s speaking component. They had twenty minutes to write, during which I walked around and peered over their shoulders to make sure they were on track. One group was shrieking with laughter, and refused to let me see their script, insistent that it be a surprise for me.

When they got up in front of the class to perform, they had to go around and introduce themselves.

“Hi, my name is Harry and I’m playing the part of Jenn,” said Harry.

Oh geez, I thought.

“My name is Kat, and I’m playing the part of Jason,” said Kat.

No way. No way.

“Hello, I’m Daniel and I’m going to be acting Niko,” said Daniel.

Well, this should be interesting.

“One day, Jason met Jenn on the street,” read Reina. “He fell in love with Jenn, but he had a girlfriend named Niko.”

“Hello, where are you going?” asked Kat (as Jason) to Harry (as me). “Are you free on Saturday?”

“Yes,” replied Harry.

“Shall we go to the zoo?” asked Kat.

Reina, our narrator, continued. “Jason did a great job on Saturday, but there was someone who watched the date. She was Jason’s girlfriend, Niko.”

“What are you doing?” yelled Daniel, as Niko. The class roared with laughter.

“I am proposing marriage to Jenn,” yelled Kat. Daniel reached over and pretended to slap Kat across the face. Even I was giggling now.

“Well, I don’t want to marry you!” shouted Harry/Jenn.

“Jason was very unhappy and ended up all alone,” read Reina. “The end.”

This is how most of their stories or skits go – somebody dies or is left alone. I guess Korean school children aren’t as interested in happy endings.

Last Friday, my upper-level Listening class was smaller than usual because most of my students were off studying for middle school exams. There were three girls present, and one lone boy – as per usual, the girls all congregated on one side of the room, and Danny sat alone on the other. Our topic for the day was Love, and I wasn’t too sure how it would go over with the small group.

I figured that since none of the students would have first-hand experience with love (you know, being under 15 years old and all), I could ask them about how their parents met to start the discussion. Most of them informed me that their mom and dad had been introduced in college, or that their parents had been older and therefore it was “time” to get married. No romantic love stories here.

Annie’s parents had an even more straight-forward union. “Well,” she told the class. “My mother tried to trap my father, and then they get married.”

The conversation hadn’t gone exactly as I’d planned, and during the final hour of class, I had them write down the person they loved most in the world, and what their definition was for love.

Danny was first. “The person I love most in the world is my mother,” he said. “She always help me and understand me. She also say good thing to me and is kind to me.”

Vicky followed with her definition, saying, “To be in love is when we keep smiling when we think of our lover.”

And again, Annie’s thoughts were the funniest. She declared that the person she loves most in the world is Big Bang, a Korean boy band. “When I think of Big Bang, the person I love, I feel throb and sometimes we are being hot. Love is when you care what that person likes and do,” she informed us.

She showed us a picture of Big Bang on her pencil case, calling out the names of each member. Personally, I don’t really get it. They all look like skinny girls to me, but Annie was kind enough to say that she would let me “have” the least attractive member named Top. Only because he’s the oldest member at 24 years old, she explained, and therefore closest to my age.

Annie continued. “Tim teacher has 365 girlfriends,” she told me, referring to another one of my co-workers. “But you could have Big Bang boyfriend!”

“Tim has 365 girlfriends?” I asked them.

“Oh yes, Teacher,” said Vicky, her face serious. “One for every day of year.”

China's Showpiece: Shanghai

When I told my Korean elementary school students I was going to Shanghai for the weekend, they crinkled their little noses in disgust.

"China dirty, Teacher!" they cried.

Frankly, I couldn't disagree more.

Unlike Korea, where the smell of sewage hits you every few blocks and the pavement is lined with garbage for lack of trash cans, Shanghai sparkles. The glass and steel from the city's impressive skyscrapers gleam, reflected in the water of the Huangpu River, which was only a few minutes from our hostel in the Bund - an elegant neighborhood that is home to upscale shops like Versace and Dolce & Gabbana, as well as eateries with famous chefs like Jean Gorges. Even in the world's most rapidly changing country, Shanghai stands out.

It easily rivals Hong Kong with its couture shopping, cutting edge architecture and 20 million residents. Once known as the "Whore of the Orient" - for the back-street gambling, the hookers and the opium trade - today it's one of Asia's financial centers and a humming port second only in size to Singapore. The city is divvied up into many distinct neighborhoods, most of which are remnants of British, American and French settlements.

We arrived early Saturday afternoon, whisked about 50 kilometers from Pudong International Airport to the center of Shanghai in under eight minutes on the world's fastest train (The Maglev reaches 431 km/hour!) We immediately set off on food for Yunnan Street, our grumbling tummies ready for the tiny shops and carts lining the road, selling piping bowls of noodles and the delicate hand-made dumplings for which Shanghai is famous.

We opted for xiao long bao ("small steamer buns"), noticing the impressive line of people waiting outside the tiny shopfront, not a white face in sight. I was certainly not disappointed. For $1, I received four plump dumplings freshly made before my eyes, the outside soft and thin, the inside full of sweet pork. It quickly made up for my last botched attempt at eating street food in China!

The sky had clouded over as we exited the shop, and we decided to buy a warm cup of bubble tea, the sweet milky liquid and tapioca balls reminding me of the Asian restaurants in Seattle that also serve the popular drink. We slurped them up through thick red straws, enjoying the stroll through Shanghai's streets.

In the early evening we walked over to Jin Mao Tower, one of the tallest buildings in China. We took an elevator to the 88th floor, hovering about 1,115 feet above ground. For roughly $6, you can stare out of the floor-to-ceiling windows on the observation deck, looking at the shining city below. The buildings blinked before us - yellow, red, blue. The Huangpu River was decorated with the twinkling white lights of boats floating past, part of the city's tourist cruises. And in the center of the 88th floor, you can look directly down at the lobby of the Hyatt, a dizzying and terrifying experience.

On Sunday, our only full day in the city, we awoke early - lured out of bed by the promise of banana pancakes at a cafe in the French Concession. The area, once territory for a French settlement, is now one of the trendiest neighborhoods in Shanghai. If the Bund is Shanghai's sophisticated aunt, dripping in diamonds and fur stoles, the French Concession is her edgy twenty-something cousin, all spunk and style. Boona Cafe lived up to the reputation, charming with framed pictures of Shanghai on its red walls, small nooks next to bookshelves overcrowded with paperbacks. The rest of the morning was spent exploring the back alleys of Taikang Road Art Centre - the small photography exhibits, the sidewalk cafes, the handmade Indian jewelery shops.

After the trendy and modern, we took a harrowing taxi ride (as all our taxi rides were; one driver hitting 160 km/hr) to Old Town, just as the sun started to peer through the cluster of thick clouds. We paid about 30 yuan to enter Yuyuan Gardens - like Central Park, an oasis of greenery amidst a bustling city - where we wandered over bridges, past ponds of bright orange koi fish and blooming cherry blossoms the color of cotton candy. The gardens were built in the traditional Chinese style during the Ming dynasty, and are said to be one of the most remarkable gardens in all of China.

On the way back to the hostel, we cut through a large, open park and I almost stopped dead in my tracks as a familiar smell hit me.

"Oh my god, you guys. Grass! Do you smell that?! It's grass!"

Everyone stood, sniffing appreciatively. Parks, trees, grass - all pretty non-existent in Pusan, Korea. I didn't realize how much I missed it; wanted to roll around in the grass until I had green stains on my knees. It was also refreshing to see children playing in the park on a weekend afternoon, throwing a ball, rollerblading, skateboarding. It's rare to see children past kindergarten age wiling away precious study time in Korea, and I was delighted to see children out enjoying themselves in Shanghai.

The week before my trip to Shanghai, I saw firsthand just how much Korean children miss out on. One of my lessons in Listening class was about zoos - we were discussing whether zoos were a good way to protect endangered animals or a cruel means that kept animals out of their natural habitat. My students were elementary school age, between 10 and 12 years old, and I tried to start the debate by asking them their thoughts about zoos.

"Do you guys like going to the zoo?" I asked them, walking up the aisle of their desks. "They just re-opened the zoo in Pusan, right? Has anyone been yet?"

Silence.

They are usually a fairly energetic class, so I was surprised they didn't have more to say. Don't all kids love exotic animals?

"Daniel," I said, looking at the dark-haired boy doodling in his book. "What's your favorite animal? Do you like elephants? Giraffes?"

He stared at the book. "I like elephants," he said quietly.

"Do they have elephants at the Pusan zoo?" I asked.

"I don't know, teacher," he said.

"Has anyone been to the new zoo yet?" I asked, addressing the whole class. "Or did you go to the zoo before they expanded it?"

Silence.

I started to feel exasperation. "C'mon, guys!" I cried. "Nobody has any thoughts on the zoo? Nobody has been to the zoo?"

One of the smaller girls raised her hand timidly.

"Yes, Lucy? What do you think?" I asked.

"Uh, teacher. No time to go to zoo," she said. "Zoo is for younger kids."

"You don't have time to go to the zoo?" I repeated.

Jason spoke up. "If you go to zoo, it needs 3 or 4 hours to walk in whole zoo. Only younger children have time for that."

Younger children? I thought. You're in 5th grade.

"What do you mean, younger children?" I asked Jason.

"You know, teacher. Like in kindergarten."

I didn't know what to say. I looked around at their faces, so serious, thinking that they hadn't even reached middle school and they couldn't find an afternoon to enjoy a zoo. It was so sad.

And maybe that has been the best part of my trips outside of Korea in the last few months - certainly the Chinese are hard-working, certainly things in China are changing and growing at a frenetic pace. But in my few weekends there, it was nice to slow down, to sit in a park, to watch children playing together on a sunny afternoon.

I wish many of my students had that opportunity - to stop and smell the grass every once in a while.

A New Year, a Great Wall, and Good Times.

With the echo of Jose's words, "Keep searching for your next great adventure," ringing in my ears, I set off for Beijing in January for the long Lunar New Year weekend.

I had visions of myself sitting in small dumpling shops, surrounded by the people of Beijing digging into steaming bowls of authentic Chinese food (I've clearly watched too much Anthony Bourdain). Or on a bench in a tucked-away park with neighborhood children out for the day with their grandparents.

My trip to Beijing, however, was not exactly how I'd pictured it. I'd signed up for a three-day organized tour of the city, in the interest of time and money. I'm not really much of a tour-type person - I always think half the fun of travel is planning the trip - but it was through a popular Korean travel company, with most of the tour made up of other English teachers around my age. Because of this, I spent three days crowded into government factories, watching women craft jade Buddhas, and in sprawling restaurants with over 100 North Americans, eating sweet and sour chicken and french fries (yes, that's right. French Fries).

This was not the picture the Lonely Planet had painted for me.

On the second day, weary of yet another meal that included food I could find in McDonalds, I asked our tour guide if I could sneak off on my own for several hours. I was intent on eating some Chinese street food with the locals. He didn't seem entirely pleased with this idea, especially since I don't speak a lick of Chinese, but jotted down the address of our next destination in Chinese characters, pressed it in my hand and told me to be there in three hours.

I headed off, strolling toward a big intersection, pleased to be far away from the bus and actually walking through Beijing. I smiled at every person who passed by me, feeling like I was back in high school and had scored a pass to leave campus during the lunch hour. I was free!

This joy began to dim slightly as I realized that nothing on the streets was open, despite the early hour of 5pm. It was Chinese New Year, the largest holiday in the country, and much of Beijing was shut down. I decided to just head straight for "snack street" where the most famous street food in Beijing can be found. I pulled out my notebook and glanced at the address I'd copied down from someone's guidebook, the neighborhood spelled phonetically.

I stuck out my arm for a taxi, and jumped into the first one that stopped.

"Dong-cheng," I said, realizing I didn't even remember the words for please or thank you. I did, however, remember hello. Well, that would certainly come in handy.

"Eh?" asked the taxi driver. I repeated myself.

He leaned forward, looking me up and down in his rear view mirror. He seemed confused. I repeated the word again, this time more slowly.

"Dong. Cheng."

He turned around. "Ni-an wunjan hao hunzao," he said (or something like that). Now he looked annoyed.

"Um, okay. Never mind then!" I called. "Thank you!" I opened the door and hopped out.

Damn, I thought. Now what?

It was starting to get really cold, so for lack of a better idea, I decided to try another taxi (genius, I know). My new taxi driver looked a lot younger than the last, so I asked hopefully, "English?"

"Eh?" he said in response.

Okay, no go with that one.

I looked at my notebook, said the name of the neighborhood. He stared at me blankly. I said it again.

He started speaking in rapid Chinese, impatiently motioning to my notebook. I handed it to him, helplessly pointing at the word written in English letters. Hmmm, probably would have been beneficial to have the tour guide write it in Chinese.

He stared at the English, shaking his head and handed it back to me.

"Okay, thank you," I mumbled, even though he had no idea what I was saying.

I started walking, frustrated with myself for assuming I'd be able to communicate without knowing the language. I walked and walked, hoping to stumble upon some small dumpling house teeming with people. All the buildings I passed were dark.

Eventually, I reached an intersection where a police car was parked. One policeman stood next to it; the other was rubbing his hands together in the passenger seat. I thought of all the horror stories I'd read about the Communist Chinese policemen during the Olympics. Then I flashed my biggest smile and approached.

"Hello!" I said. "English?"

The policeman, probably just a few years older than me, eyed me wearily. I looked at the gun on his hip. He said something in Chinese.

I pulled out my notebook again, trying to look hopelessly lost.

"Dong-cheng?" I asked, pointing north, south, east, west. "Wang-fu-jing?"

Strangely, my Chinese pronunciation hadn't improved any in the last 30 minutes, and he looked at me, confused.

I kind of wanted to scream. I just want some Chinese street food! I just want a small piece of a real Beijing experience! Just tell me where Snack Street is!

Instead, I stupidly tried again.

"Wang-fu-jing?"

He reached for something at his side, and I almost gasped. Oh god, he's going to shoot me, I thought. Instead, he pulled out a cell phone, punched in some numbers and started speaking Chinese. Then he handed the phone to me.

"Uh, hello?" I said into his phone, utterly baffled.

"Hello?" said a thickly accented male voice. "I understand you are lost?"

I laughed with relief. "Yes! Yes, I am lost! I am looking for the Dong-cheng neighborhood. Where Snack Street is."

"Dong-cheng?" he responded. "That's a children's hospital, miss."

My heart sank. A children's hospital? What?!

"Well, is there a place near here with good food?" I asked him.

"Oh, yes," he replied. "There's an area with lots of cafes and restaurants, if that's what you're looking for."

I said it was, and he instructed me to hand the phone back to the police officer. He would explain to him where I wanted to go, and the policeman would point me in that direction. After the policeman spoke on his cell for several minutes, he hung up and looked at me. He seemed dubious.

He raised his arm, pointing across the intersection and waving like he was directing traffic.

"Straight across?" I asked, pointing in the same direction. "Just go straight?"

"Shi," he said, nodding. I beamed at him, thanking him profusely in a language he didn't understand. I stopped myself from hugging him, remembering the gun in its holster. He nodded at me, and I dashed across the street.

By now, the temperature was well below freezing and the sky was purple as the sun dipped out of sight. I walked briskly down the main street, past the hotels that still had Christmas decorations, the Prada stores, the KFC. After a while, the street narrowed into what looked like an alley. Night had arrived, and the streets were empty and black. Suddenly, I heard an explosion.

BAM! CRACK, BAM, CRACK, CRACK, CRACK, BAM!

I screamed, covering my head. A car alarm started wailing, and I could see sparks streaking across the alley ahead of me. It was Chinese New Year, and everyone in Beijing was setting off fireworks and firecrackers.

After five terrifying minutes of dodging firecrackers and fervently praying that I wouldn't lose an eye, I weaved my way out of the alley and toward another main road. This is what Kosovo must have been like in the mid-90s, I thought to myself, dashing as quickly as I could toward traffic and well-lit roads. All hopes of Snack Street had vanished. At this point, I just wanted to keep all my fingers.

Two hours had passed since I left the bus, and I realized I had just one hour left before I needed to re-join the group. My stomach grumbled in hunger, and my fingers had lost all feeling. I just wanted somewhere warm where I could get something to eat.

The only thing I could find that was open turned out to be a 24-hour McDonalds near a youth hostel. So much for avoiding french fries, I muttered to myself, stepping inside and basking in the rush of warm air. I ordered an ice cream cone and chicken McNuggets, and sat at a red stool next to the window. I happily licked the cone, watching the shrieking Chinese children outside set off fireworks, the white blaze whizzing by their bright faces.

It wasn't exactly the adventure I'd imagined, but I'd met some people along the way, narrowly avoided losing a limb, and witnessed the streets of Beijing on Lunar New Year. And despite the location of my supper, I had managed not to consume any french fries.

**************************************************************************

The following day, we woke up even earlier than usual for the pinnacle of our trip: The Great Wall of China. I bounced out of bed at 6am, preparing myself with several cups of coffee and a plate full of scrambled eggs.

We reached the entrance about 40 minutes after leaving Beijing, only an hour after sunrise. During the previous days of our trip, most of the attractions in Beijing had been difficult to see, let alone appreciate. Swarms of tourists descended on all the big sights, elbowing their way past you, snapping pictures with their camera phones and speaking in deafening tones (Chinese is already a language in which the speaker sounds perpetually angry, regardless of what is actually being said). Our tour bus was one of the first in the parking lot at the Great Wall, and while our tour guide droned on about a group picture, I started mapping our route up.

"Let's go," I said to my friends - Andrea, Dave and Alex. I was intent on getting in front of the crowd and enjoying the Great Wall sans elbowing tourists and loud commentary.

We quickly broke from the group and started jogging up the first stretch of our section. The Great Wall stretched and snaked through the hills and mountains as far north as I could see in the hazy morning. In the distance, past sky and stillness, the Great Wall continued, tall and thin. Immense.

The jogging didn't last long, as the Great Wall is STEEP and I was quickly winded. I'd somehow pictured walking along the Great Wall and not up it. Oh, how wrong I was.

Somehow the boys, both smokers, both still sightly hung-over from the night before, got a good lead on us, while Andrea and I wheezed our way forward.

Everything I'd read about the Great Wall in January had included words like "bitter cold," "snarling winds" and "extreme weather." As it was a bright, sunny day and I was wearing 47 layers of clothing and felt like I was on a Stairmaster at level 8, we quickly began stripping off hats, gloves, scarves, until I was holding half my clothing.

The climb was tough, but the views made it worthwhile. And because I wasn't with the guys, I didn't need to pretend to tie my shoelace in order to stop and take a look (good thing too, since I was wearing slip-on boots). We sat on the stone steps, taking it all in - the train chugging toward Mongolia, the infinite curl of the wall, the bright day.

I had been prepared to be disappointed by the Great Wall, the Asian equivalent to the Leaning Toward of Pisa, a sight hyped up and overrated. Especially, as the week before, one of my Korean middle school students had returned from a weekend trip to Beijing and told me the Great Wall wasn't all that great.

"It wasn't that big," she'd said, sounding bored.

Well, apathetic Korean teenager I was not. The wall was big - and grand and impressive and every other adjective for big I can think of.

I mulled over all the facts our guide had spouted off: over 1 million people had helped construct it, the longest man-made structure on Earth. Half of the builders had died in the process, built in sections over 2,000 years. And while it was intended, for the most part, to keep out foreign invaders, supposedly Genghis Khan had famously said: "A wall is only as strong as those who built it." (take that, China!)

All the facts and information about the wall were cool, but the coolest part was just being there, staring at it unfolding through the mountains, walking up it, touching it.

I will always remember my dad telling me a story when I was younger, of him riding in the back of a truck through Sudan. "There I was, bumping around in the back of a truck through the deserts of Eastern Africa. And I thought to myself, Remember this moment. You never know if you'll be back here again. And you know, 30 years later, I've never been back to Sudan."

That stuck with me, and standing atop the Great Wall of China, on Lunar New Year just outside of Beijing, I marveled at it all. Closing my eyes, I thought to myself, Remember this moment. You never know if you'll be back here again.

'09 Updates from the Other Side of the World

"Life changes in the instant," writes Joan Didion in one of my favorite books, The Year of Magical Thinking. Oh, how she is right. I had every intention of keeping up with this blog and updating it regularly. But then life stepped in, and decided to drastically change - with that came a trip back to the United States, time away from work, and little thought for things like blogs.

But now I am back in Korea, approaching the six-month mark of my time here in Pusan. Somehow, in between the turmoil and tragedy, life has continued on. My adventures in the last few months have been less frequent, but I've been pushing myself to continue to explore, wander, wonder.

In December, a few of my buddies and I took a weekend trip to Seoul to visit friends and take a tour of the DMZ (De-militarized Zone) between North and South Korea. Although I haven't been good about keeping up the blog, I have continued to write in my journal, and I will include clips from there:

"We were speeding north toward Seoul on the KTX train, zipping past green rice fields and a dark sky at just under 300 km/hour. The boys - Nate, Alex, Scott and Eric - were drinking cans of Korean beer, while I slurped down a box of chocolate milk. They'd bought both Cass and Hite and were trying to decide which tasted better, while reading each other text messages from various Korean girls they were seeing, all of who clearly did not speak English fluently.

"I think you hate me. You go Seoul, but always a good face to me," Scott read. Nate and Alex discussed theories of what this could actually mean, while I rolled my eyes at the whole thing. Luckily for me, we planned to meet up with my American friends My Khanh and Shadiyah once we reached Seoul, as all seven of us were booked on a tour of the DMZ the following morning at 7am. I would be spared an entire weekend of beer taste tests and the merits of dating girls who don't speak the same language.

The KTX reached Seoul in 2 hours and 45 minutes, depositing us in the city just before 11pm. It was the first weekend in December, and this Palm Springs girl wasn't prepared for the rush of cold wind that hit us face-on as we stepped out of the train station.

Scott, a Michigan native, quickly started giving me instructions: "Zip up your jacket. You gotta keep the heat in. Good, good. Okay, now pull up your hood. You lose most of your heat from your head. Jenn, where's your hat?!"

We walked through the Friday night streets, looking for a warm place to eat. It looked as though the five of us were chain-smoking, white puffs rising up every time we took a breath. My legs were already starting to go numb.

We eventually found a place across the street from the train station, where we could wait for My Khanh, who was arriving from the city of Daejeon around midnight. The boys happily devoured fried chicken and more beer, while we tried to name the capital of every U.S. state (Scott won that game, even though I often suspect he's actually from Canada).

When My Khanh arrived, we parted ways - the boys decided to sleep at a jinjilbang (Korean bathhouse) and My Khanh and I decided to splurge on a nearby motel (total cost: 30,000 won or roughly $21). It was nearly 2am when we finally crawled under the electric blankets, our phone alarms set for the early hour of 5:45am.



* * * * * * * *
Alex had already called me twice and it wasn't even 6:30am - he wanted to make sure we were going to be on time, and I assured him we would. Even though My Khanh and I were closest to the meeting point for the tour, we managed to get hopelessly lost and ended up sprinting up subway stairs and through the streets, sure we were going to miss the tour and anger everyone (the only upside to all this frantic running was that it warmed me up ever so slightly).

We finally arrived at the USO office (United Service Organization, the group that leads the tour) after finding Eric waiting outside the Namyeong exit, jumping up and down to keep warm. The people queing inside were mostly white and bleary-eyed, and we paid our fee of $40 USD, showed our passports and were ushered to a bus waiting out back. It was just before 7:30am at this point, I still hadn't had my coffee, and the bus was so cold that there was ICE lining the windows (we later came to find that this particular Saturday was one of the coldest on record in Seoul).

We began the ride 50 km north to the DMZ and almost immediately, everyone on board dozed off. I was too riled up to sleep though, thinking only of what lay ahead, what we would see and experience. Borders have always fascinated me - some arbitrary point where, by just stepping a few feet in one direction, the laws, languages, currency can change. I've crossed my fair share of borders and it's always an interesting experience: a boat in hippo-infested waters into Mozambique, getting blackmailed by a man wielding a machete in Paraguay, being detained by Immigration trying to enter Canada.

And now here I was, at one of the most famous borders in the world. The DMZ is the most fortified border on Earth, a thin strip of land just 4km wide between North and South Korea, established in 1953 after the Korean War ended in an unhappy cease-fire. The DMZ had just grabbed news headlines before I reached Korea, when a South Korean woman was shot and killed by North Korean soldiers while out walking in a quiet patch of forest just a little too close to the border (this had been a great comfort to my mother, who adamantly protested when I started reading aloud from the "Getting Started in North Korea" section of my Lonely Planet).

We reached Camp Bonifas, the small U.S. military post at the border, about 30 minutes after leaving Seoul, and boarded another bus, this time led by an American soldier with a baby face and a Southern twang. I guess part of his military duty was showing busloads of Westerners around.

After we signed our lives away (a statement relieving the United States military of any responsibility if we were injured or killed on the tour), we were led to the area where North and South Korean soldiers square off. It was a bizarre and highly tense scene: the South Koreans, clad in blue coats, black helmets and reflective Aviators, standing in a modified tae-kwon-do stance, not moving a muscle. Most of their faces were hidden by the helmet and their eyes couldn't be seen behind the glasses. In many ways, they reminded me of the British soldiers outside Buckingham Palace, but there would be no funny faces or silly attempts at laughter here. The North Koreans, standing straight ahead in the distance, faced the South in olive green coats and hats, arms at their sides, guns on their hips. It was essentially the largest military face-off in the world, with each side engaged in what looked like a staring contest.

After snapping a few pictures and being told to make no sudden movements, we were led into the Joint Security Area, which is basically a large conference room where all negotiations between North and South have taken place since 1953. A long table divides the room in half, and the Military Demarcation Line literally cuts through the table, marking the boundary between North Korea and South Korea. A South Korean soldier, his eyes hidden by the Aviator sunglasses even indoors, stood blocking the door that leads to North Korea. We were told that if we tried to get past him, we would most likely be shot (no worries, I had little inclination to risk death in an attempt to reach the paradise that is North Korea).

From outside, we could look out across the North Korean landscape. On this cold day, the sky was gray and the mountains rose behind the village of Gijeong (supposedly a ghost town, where the buildings are empty and the only activity is the propaganda being broadcast from a huge loudspeaker in the center of town). We could also see the North Korean flag atop a giant metal structure; at 525 feet, the tallest flagpole in the world. It is hard to imagine what life is like across that border....

The tour ended underground, in a series of intricate tunnels North Korea built in the 1970s in an attempt to invade the South. We were given hard hats (which a kind American miner on the tour showed us how to put on our heads) and led down a steep hill into the darkness of the tunnels. The last tunnel wasn't discovered until 1990, and each tunnel is wide enough to permit the passage of an entire military division in just one hour. The whole thing was eerie, an entire underground world which the North Koreans outfitted with electricity, storage for weapons and even sleeping areas."

It's very easy to forget that North and South Korea are still at war, even living here in Pusan. I haven't talked to many older Koreans about the war; just my students, who have typical child answers when I ask them if they'd like to see the Koreas unite.

"No, teacher," they say. "North Koreans are so poor and stupid. We would have to help them too much."

But I think about the Koreans who remember family members left in the North, the hometowns many senior Koreans will never see again, the mothers, fathers, siblings who have probably died and been buried in the North, without goodbyes.

And yet it's so clear at the DMZ just how strongly these countries distrust each other. Thoughts of reconciliation are fast forgotten when you see just how quickly the two sides could swing into action, lest the cease-fire abruptly ended. I seriously wonder what will become of the Korean peninsula - if they will ever come together, or if this war will go on indefinitely, the massive staring contest a permanent symbol of struggle on the 38th parallel.