Wednesday, May 21, 2008
sup
i discovered today that a korean shaking their head "no" can be used to say hi. you know, for those times that a two-letter word is simply too taxing on a body. im thinking currently that this is probably something that i should have been able to figure out, oh, 8 or 9 months ago. alas, i remain quite often confounded by the daily habits and behaviors of those that surround me. but at least im learning, right?
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
On to something
The NY Times is on to something. In this recent article they discuss the Korean phenomenon of the jimjilbang, a Korean spa of sorts. This article, it seems, describes an aspect of my life, and life in general, in Korea. Access to hot pools with which to relax or to soak away muscle aches are common. In fact, the mall next to my apartment has one that includes a pool of little fish to eat the dead skin off your feet. At the beach this weekend, the spa had a mud pool in addition to an area where you paint your entire body with mud and allow it to add nutrients to your skin as it dries. There is also one at my gym. While they aren't so elaborate as the one described in the states, they are significantly cheaper. The mall one is about $7, the beach was $3, and the one at the gym is free. Of course, you pay more for extras like massages or scrubs, but regardless, you walk out feeling great.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Happy Bday
Spring is here, why not appreciate the awesome joy that is a Korean bidet? Click here to watch an amazing commerial.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
yes, that is funny. you can laugh now.
So, I don't know if you will get the unbelievable hilarity that is this video; it may be a purely contextual thing. Regardless, this demonstrates my life.
watch with joy.
watch with joy.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
well, maybe with some lysol
It wasn't easy.
I arrived here seven months ago (was it eight? I've lost count) and, after a bit of shuffling, moved into my very own apartment. And it was, entirely and wholly, wonderful. I'd never lived by myself before, and as lonely as it could be sometimes, and as much as I missed my family or my former housemates, it felt great to be the master of my own domain. My bed, my fridge, my bathroom, my, well, bed. That's a really short list because, despite its glory, the apartment was far from furnished.
For awhile the spartan white walls were a welcome contrast to the 1970s-gone-wild acid trip decor basement apartment I had just evacuated. High ceilings, marble floors, window wall: this is what it feels like to be a real person.
That feeling didn't last forever, however, as I realized that real people don't eat standing up at the kitchen counter and real people don't dry their freshly laundered clothes by lying them flat on the floor. Purchases were made. Now I eat at an old restaurant table (table 11!) that is one foot tall and dry my clothes by hanging them on a classy metal rack that I lean against the wall when not in use. Pictures have been enlarged and now adorn the walls. I have plants. My life is more or less comfortable. Real personhood, finally, could arrive, right? Wrong! It seems that my lack of seating options disqualifies me from such distinction. The floor or bed are not desirable options to offer guests.
Tonight, however, everything changed. It seems that Koreans have a cultural aversion to re-using things that others may find useful. I, being the American that I am, have no such reservations. Enter the couch.
It wasn't easy. We went for a drink to our regular post-soccer dive bar and, lo and behold, three mini-couches were stacked outside, complete with labels for garbage pickup. It was a gold mine of person-seating potential. I won't describe in depth the process that was taken to bring the red fuzzy bar couch the five blocks to my apartment building, mainly because it would involve more cursing than I care to admit. The upside of the trek was that whenever we got tired, we had a couch to sit on while we caught our breath. It wasn't easy.
At any rate, I now sit comfortably in my apartment writing this not from my bed, but with my bottom resting where only 9248 bar patrons have sat before. My feet rest on table 11 which, as it turns out, is the perfect height for such a task. My eyes occasionally drift to the metal skeleton where my most recent load of laundry begins the painstakingly slow process of drying, but I prefer to let them drift to the enlarged photos of Korean mountaintops and Adirondack holidays. This is what it feels like to be a real person.
I arrived here seven months ago (was it eight? I've lost count) and, after a bit of shuffling, moved into my very own apartment. And it was, entirely and wholly, wonderful. I'd never lived by myself before, and as lonely as it could be sometimes, and as much as I missed my family or my former housemates, it felt great to be the master of my own domain. My bed, my fridge, my bathroom, my, well, bed. That's a really short list because, despite its glory, the apartment was far from furnished.
For awhile the spartan white walls were a welcome contrast to the 1970s-gone-wild acid trip decor basement apartment I had just evacuated. High ceilings, marble floors, window wall: this is what it feels like to be a real person.
That feeling didn't last forever, however, as I realized that real people don't eat standing up at the kitchen counter and real people don't dry their freshly laundered clothes by lying them flat on the floor. Purchases were made. Now I eat at an old restaurant table (table 11!) that is one foot tall and dry my clothes by hanging them on a classy metal rack that I lean against the wall when not in use. Pictures have been enlarged and now adorn the walls. I have plants. My life is more or less comfortable. Real personhood, finally, could arrive, right? Wrong! It seems that my lack of seating options disqualifies me from such distinction. The floor or bed are not desirable options to offer guests.
Tonight, however, everything changed. It seems that Koreans have a cultural aversion to re-using things that others may find useful. I, being the American that I am, have no such reservations. Enter the couch.
It wasn't easy. We went for a drink to our regular post-soccer dive bar and, lo and behold, three mini-couches were stacked outside, complete with labels for garbage pickup. It was a gold mine of person-seating potential. I won't describe in depth the process that was taken to bring the red fuzzy bar couch the five blocks to my apartment building, mainly because it would involve more cursing than I care to admit. The upside of the trek was that whenever we got tired, we had a couch to sit on while we caught our breath. It wasn't easy.
At any rate, I now sit comfortably in my apartment writing this not from my bed, but with my bottom resting where only 9248 bar patrons have sat before. My feet rest on table 11 which, as it turns out, is the perfect height for such a task. My eyes occasionally drift to the metal skeleton where my most recent load of laundry begins the painstakingly slow process of drying, but I prefer to let them drift to the enlarged photos of Korean mountaintops and Adirondack holidays. This is what it feels like to be a real person.
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