L e a d i n g U p . . .
Early August is when most Korean schools finally let out. Teachers, having taught a week or two of summer camp, are then are released for our mandatory vacations. These dates and travel plans we have heckled our co-teachers, head teachers, vice principals, and spouses over until they culminate (usually very last-minute) in a trip so built up with desire and ennui that it can rarely live up to the hype. Last year, Kristen and I went to Jeju for our vacation and, although it was lovely, we didn’t have the most stellar time. Part of that was culture shock, especially on my part. I remember being in a taxi and feeling like the driver was trying to give us whiplash and being so angry that I didn’t say goodbye after we had paid and thanked him.
This year however, we sought to learn from others and hopefully not repeat our previous mistakes, choosing something more exotic so that our new mistakes could be wrought wholly upon unknown territory. Like realizing that you have colored outside the lines of your picture so you decide to color upon a wall instead and hope for the best. Our putting crayon-to-wall was not entirely original on our part, as nearly everyone we know from our orientation went to the Philippines last year--so we learned a great deal from those who went before us. Like their photos and our marriage, our trip was built on a sturdy foundation of blind idealism and beautiful beaches.
In any case, we were ready, bright-eyed, and bushy-tailed . . .
Before we left, however, we were made to suffer for our future happiness. The Korean weather service cranked up the heat and left the shower running with the windows closed, turning our little part of the world into a sauna full of half-naked Korean men (and me!). Being a teacher and a man (according to whom, I cannot say), I was beholden to wear pants daily; and, being stubborn, I was beholden to walk around outside in them for longer than it takes to hail a taxi. It takes me thirty minutes to walk to work and another thirty to walk home. In the mornings, I’m spared total embarrassment, as only my forearms, forehead, arms, hands, face, and neck tend to sweat--converting my undershirt into a towel and soaking up all that had situated itself in my sweet, sweet curves. My colleagues and students are spared this visage, only enjoying the view of a large dark oval, created by my father’s thick shoulders and my own voluptuous love handles. In the afternoons, however, when I walk home, it is a competition between articles of clothing to see which will become soggy first. Invariably, the winner is always my boxer briefs, which amaze and astound any visitors or house-guests when I show them how they can stick to the wall, even hours after I’ve finished wearing them.
During the two weeks leading up to our vacation, Kristen and I had our summer camps with our respective students. Kristen had one great week with a group of very sweet first – third-graders, and then another with some older, more sassy kids during the second. I had two weeks of first and second-grade high school girls (sophomore and junior year back in The States). For these I did a very simple project, making an episode of a TV show, which the students seemed to not hate completely and arguably enjoy during the times I provided free food.
. . . More on this to come!
S e o u l
Eventually and finally the day of our departure dawned. We left the apartment early, opening our cupboards and closing the windows against the heat and humidity. Kristen and I had gone to Daiso over the weekend for some last-minute supplies. Daiso is Korea’s version of the Dollar Store, but with a more abundant stock of an array of things and slightly higher prices on a ton of useful stuff for teaching and around the house. Kristen has been a little obsessed with the store ever since we moved to Korea, as she is constantly in a “nesting mode”; wherein, she prepares and decorates our house--now apartment--even with the sad knowledge we will only stay there for a year or so, at most. She can’t help it though, it’s in her genes. Her family has lived and worked and bred like beavers in the Central Valley of California and surrounding parts for the past century. My family is much smaller and simpler and the most exotic label I have for a relative is that of “half-uncle.” If her family is a giant sequoia, mine is a saguaro cactus, a small one (most likely struck by lightning too at some point, as we Chaney's are nothing if not eccentric).
In any case, we had bought at Daiso some “hippos,” as we call them: small, dehumidifying boxes filled with a scented powder which leech the moisture from the air and replaces it with a fresh scent, leaving your house smelling of fresh tulips and is then mostly mold-free. We made sure to leave these out everywhere before we left. We checked our lists and left the apartment for the train station, with only the small hiccup of leaving our A.C. on--I ran back up and turned it off when we were nearly to the taxi.
We made it to the train station . . .
We arrived in Seoul not but 3 hours later. Seoul is an amazing city, which is near and dear to our hearts. Within Seoul, nearer and dearer to our hearts, is Edae (short for “Ehwa Woman’s University” or 이화여자대학교). This is a quaint, quiet area in the northwest of Seoul, near to Honggik University, though far enough to be a bit safer and cleaner. But nearest and dearest to our already-bursting hearts in Edae, is Cozybox Guesthouse.
We first came to Cozybox for a short trip during Seollal, the Chinese New Year, back in February. We were lazy about our plans for the long holiday, so while everyone was going on special trips to spas in Namhae or partying in Busan, we went to Gwangju to buy a laptop for Kristen. Not wanting to be too far from the party but also not wanting to stay in a hostel with Kristen’s new laptop, we booked a hotel in nearby Edae, not knowing quite what to expect. What we found was glorious. Not only was the hotel very cute, the staff friendly, and the rooms accommodating, though also very upfront with their policies (they had a introductory PowerPoint in four languages for guests), it was less than a five-minute walk from a Subway restaurant.
It’s hard to explain to people back home how excited we get when we think of Subway sandwiches. Like most American food, most people take for granted the simple delight of a sub sandwich; turkey, ham, roast beef, salami, with lettuce, tomatoes, onions, CHEESE. It’s almost too much for me to endure, even writing this. I get misty-eyed and wax on like a character from an early Anne Rice novel, deeply existential in the face of a food so delicious it sucks the very warmth and joy from those moments spent in its absence. Needless to say, we ate there no less than three times in twenty four hours, and, upon our last trip, ordered two foot-longs each, to go, so we could take them with us on the train.
Devotion.
Anywho, when we got Seoul this time, we immediately made a break for the second best brunch place we’ve ever been to in Korea: Suji’s.
We had never been to Suji’s previous to this trip, but the menu online, when we had looked at it the night before, made it seem so appetizing that I stopped looking for other restaurants altogether and just went to bed. Suji’s is in Itaewon, the more foreigner, waygook-esque part of Seoul, so we were excited for the quality of the brunch there. Suji’s, different from other restaurants in Itaewon, as a mark of their outstanding quality, was not just catering to Americans and Canadians, so desperate for a decent brunch they were pouring pancake mix into their coffee and drinking it with their tears; but instead, was almost nearly full of Koreans. If Koreans can forego the cost for something as niche as brunch, the saying goes, it must be good.
Seoul was very hot and humid (as was all of Korea) so when we arrived at Suji’s, we were immediately sat in front of the A.C.. I had been carrying a huge duffel bag that I’d bought on sale at Marmot. This had the unappetizing side effect of trapping the moisture to my back while I wore it, coating the new shirt I had bought for the first day of our trip with a thick layer of my home-brewed adhesive.
Since we were celebrating the trip, we ordered mimosas, which were the right amount of boozy, citrus-y, and carbonated-y. Kristen ordered a stack of French toast with strawberries and I decided to at least attempt to eat healthy for some unforeseeable period of time, with a Mexican scramble.
After Suji’s, we took a break in a Starbucks before riding the subway to Edae and checking into our room at Cozybox. We also took the opportunity to indulge in some Subway, even though we were set to meet our friends from Jangheung/Gangjin, Min and Drew, and Drew’s brother and his boyfriend, and their friend, Helda, for dinner.
Later that evening, we left Edae and went to Myeongdong, a popular shopping area at the foot of Namsan, where the North Seoul Tower is located. Like most areas of Seoul, Myeongdong is a wide boulevard through which waves of tourists and locals alike pass, ducking in and out of shops, or stopping full-tilt in front of street food vendors. Kristen had never been and I had been once, back in 2013 with friends from my college. I had a memory of walking around a very crowded cobblestone street and eating ddeokbokki at a lovely restaurant off the main drag. During this adventure, I took the requisite bathroom break and saw that the bright pink door to the mens' room had a lovely little stencil of a man with a mustache. This has been my Instagram profile picture ever since, so infatuated with the cute little man am I.
Here in future, we took ten steps on the wide, milling boulevard and pulled a hard right into Forever 21. Here we stayed for upwards of two hours while I belligerently encouraged Kristen to try on clothes until we left with piles of outfits for the Philippines. Piles, I say! Knowing that we had dinner plans and had already eaten, we decided to eat some more, since we are genteel in nature and prefer not to eat like madmen in front of guests (I have a condition, passed down from my father, which drives me to madness and fury if I am withheld an expected meal for too long, so early feedings are best). Kristen sampled some of the chicken skewers while I ran for the nearest donner kebab, as I am an affable slut for Turkish.
During our movable meal, Kristen came to discover her shoes were slowly filling with blood and ooze from the blisters that had formed and then burst. This was because, in a stroke of fashion, she had brought the new TOMS wedges that my lovely sister had sent her for her birthday. She had wanted to break them in and had not counted on the large number of steps it takes to get anywhere in Seoul. For this undersight, she suffered. So we limped on back to our room and I changed clothes again (having soaked through the first outfit, changed, and soaked on through the second).
In Hongdae, we were delighted to see Drew and Min, a lovely couple whom we watched blossom into romance while sitting and drinking wine on the floor of our living room in Jangheung. Min is a close friend here in Korea, as she was the Chinese teacher at my first high school and she and Kristen and another friend, Yuna, are thick as thieves. Drew is lovely too and a dreamboat at that. His brother, Tristan, was also very polite, as was his boyfriend, Andrew, and their common friend, Helda.
Together, we went back the same samgyeopsal restaurant run by ornery elderly people who provide us with bad service and seem to detest our very presence. We were seated again in front of the A.C., more by our choice than theirs, and, through a protracted exchange of shouts, managed to order our meal. Samgyeopsal, for those not acquainted, is a specific cut of pork, possibly pork belly? The “sam” means “three” and refers to the three layers of the pork: fat, dark meat, and light meal. The “gyeopsal” surely stands for something, but what, I haven’t any inkling.
After some more eating and some more shouting and some fairly innocuous drinking games, we left the barbecue restaurant and headed to a bar, where our kind guests fell quickly asleep. They were jetlagged and well-fed and we took this as a sign we had accomplished our host-ly duties. We left them in front of buskers, heading home at a reasonable hour as we are an old married couple from Kansas in the bodies of two young hotties. To Drew’s brother and company, it was a delight. To Drew and Min, also a delight, as always.
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T h e N e x t D a y (Wed.)
We got up at a reasonable hour for our flight--though we were sad to leave our beloved Cozybox as you can gather from above, and decided to take the metro to the airport, though we had never before.
We got on the train and settled in for a mostly uneventful (we switched trains once, an affair that left us standing on a station, blinking at the morning sunlight. I also ate an unfortunate-tasting donut) ride. We arrived with a moderate amount of time to spare, Kristen bought a book for us to read together on our trip (1984, I’ve never read it is why), we both took advantages of the spacious and clean facilities, and proceeded to check in. The lady behind the counter was a little persnickety with me, though I might have just been hungry, and that set the tone for our travel through customs and the airport. During the security screening, they threw away our aloe vera and bug spray, an event that left us glum (Kristen more fuming than I), as the aloe was still sealed and we had bought it after Children’s Day, when we had burned the bejeezus out of ourselves. We left it on the edge of the metal table with an imaginary note which read “To a good home,” which felt like leaving a puppy on a sidewalk who looks back at you and wags his tail because he thinks you’re coming back, but your’e not (sobs).
After that, we took a tram and got to our gate. We bought food and water, which we had to chuck since they wanted to sell us food and water on the flight. And with that additional annoyance, we left Korea for the non-Korean unknown.
Upon arrival, Manila was in a state of chaos. Not from anything in particular, no volcanoes or anything, that’s just Manila.
We landed and deplaned, heading out into more stewing heat. The Ninoy Aquino International Airport was crowded to the rafters with all manner of people, who, to our delicate and Korea-wise sensibilities, seemed more like the denizens of a bar on Tatooine than the same weary travelers a person can see at any other airport in the world. To my credit, I’d overstimulated myself by reading about crime and kidnapping in the Philippines on the website for the US Embassy. I’d read all of the smart traveler’s advice on scams and theft and guns and how you can die at any moment from something as simple as wishing a person good day or asking for a chicken sandwich. We had also heard that the airport out of Manila via AirAsia was bad, essentially a cardboard box held down with large rocks to stop your departure gate from switching unnecessarily; and that chief-est among its sins was a lack of proper food.
Armed with this knowledge and confused by the disinterest shown by the airport staff’s responses when we asked where the AirAsia terminal was, we decided the best option was to just sit and eat somewhere and then figure everything else out later. So, our first Filipino meal was the authentic flavors of Wendy’s.
After we ate, we resumed our search for our terminal, the mystical Terminal 4, only to discover it was, in fact, somewhere else.
By somewhere else, I mean, not “at” the airport. The whole time we were looking for it, people kept shooing us away and pointing out at the city, like we were meant to discover it for ourselves through adventure and exploration. By this time, I was getting a little anxious, since we were about fifty minutes from our departure and hadn’t checked in yet. Our plane was set to leave at 5:55 and start boarding at 5:25 and we were still at the airport, slowly recognizing the sweeping gesture we had been given by the airport staff referred to a large line of people waiting for taxis.
So we waited in line and took a taxi and kind of got ripped off--the guy never started the meter and then at the end I pointed at a wad of cash and said “this much?” and he responded with a “yup”. And that’s how I learned not to be an idiot.
We eventually got to the airport, a full twenty minutes after our flight was set to leave. The flight was delayed, but, due to some amount of impenetrable bureaucracy, we were forced to re-book our flights at twice the price and then wait with all the other sad souls as the flight we were meant for got delayed until nine, then left, then the flight we had re-booked got delayed until midnight, and then left. This second airport was nice though, not near as cardboard-y as I had hoped.
Aboard our flight around 11 that evening, a full four hours later than scheduled, Kristen and I talked a lot about home and what we want to do when we move back next year and how much we miss our families; all things that comfort me when flying a delayed aircraft in a country unknown to us to a place we’d never been before. I’ve driven across the state of Texas and once had a flight layover in Salt Lake City, but nothing takes you out of your element like not really having any idea where you are headed.
We landed and walked off the plane, now on a southern island in the Philppines, called Kalibo. We headed straight through the airport (to the bathroom), and into warm night air and open doors of a cavalcade of vans. We were ushered and coerced by the van service sitting directly in front of the airport exit door until we found ourselves sitting in a van with a group of strangers. Kristen called our hotel on Boracay to let them know we’d be getting in late--it was now 1 o' clock in the morning at this point and check-in ended at 10pm, but with all the airport craziness and delays, we had forgotten about that important little detail. Thankfully, the night manager answered but was confused or perturbed by the call or the relayed information, and hung up.
After that, we had an hour or so of quality time with our grim-faced driver, as we twisted through the hilltops and around an army of semi-domesticated dogs who liked to lie on the highway at night for the thrill of being honked at and nearly run over by passing traffic. While on Kalibo, we were headed north to a ferry terminal that would take us to Boracay, our final destination for the duration of the vacation. Two planes, a few delays, and an interesting and exhilarating 1am van ride, and we were almost there!
We reached the squat ferry building around 2 or 2:30am and went to buy our boat tickets. Everything was oddly still up and running, to our surprise. What we didn't know was the ese tickets would come in three stages: pay for the ticket to ride the ferry, pay an “environmental” fee, and pay some dude at the dock for the pleasure. We were fine with the first, but Kristen became agitated at the second. After the second, we were lead indoors and through a metal detector and through a set of turnstiles and a long, dark hallway to the seating area where we sat for a bit, hoping no one would ask us to pay another fee. As we waited, it neared 3 o’clock in the morning, but the seating area slowly filled with all manner of groups, mostly Korean or Chinese.
I went to the bathroom, again, as is my lot in life, and when I got back it was time to fight for a seat on the boat. Here’s where Kristen became perturbed.
We followed the stream of weary travelers out to find a small, fat boat sitting low in the water. Huddled around the gangplank, was a posse of Filipinos picking and choosing, seemingly at random, who got on and when. A group with name badges and a guide who seemed to know the flavor of these transactions, pushed passed us and led his group on to the boat, throwing their luggage onto the rooftop of the cabin for safekeeping. We followed them up to the front of the horde, but were stopped by the posse and asked to pay a fee. Kristen asked why and to that was greeted with, “For the boat, miss." I, ever the middle child, got out the cash (about 200 pesos), but Kristen was furious at, what she saw correctly as con. Though we didn't know this yet, but it was to be one so thoroughly intertwined with the industries of the island as to be a formality. “This money is for you, then?” she asked one of the men, crouched on a concrete railing, hand outstretched. “For the boat, miss,” he repeated, but he and the others laughed at her frustration, in a way that conveyed to me that they knew full well what they were doing, but we were going to pay up either way. We were to take our grifting and like it. So I gently nudged an agitated and now-gesture-making Kristen onto the boat before she decided to choke a bitch. We stood on a raised platform in the center of the interior of the little tugboat as the seats had already been taken by the tour groups who had put on their life vests and nestled in for the ride. I tried to soothe Kristen, telling her that she was in the right, but that her righteous indignation would do us no good. They had the home turf advantage, a metaphor that appealed to my wife’s greater knowledge of sports. She fumed quietly as the boat started and chugged across a narrow inlet to the other side. In front of us on the seat, three little Korean girls, tired from traveling, looked up at us with unabashed curiosity as we bent in the low room of the boat and stared out the windows behind them.
We hit the dock and fled the boat, leaving the laughing gargoyles to tend to their spoils. We were completely unfamiliar with what to do next, so we went up to someone who looked like they gave taxi rides and told them the name of our hotel. He led us to his tricycle, the most common--if not infamous--mode of transportation on the island outside of boats. This “vehicle” is the fusion of a motorcycle and a kind of overgrown sidecar. If you think of a sidecar as a testicular tumor, these tricycles had a severe case elephantitis, as the parasite outgrew the host.
Kristen climbed in the front and I climbed on to the bench seats in the back and we both held on for dear life and hoped the driver wouldn’t take a toll road or anything like it. It took about half an hour to get to our hotel, The Strand. This ride put us at now nearing almost 4 in the morning. We reached The Strand’s entrance at the far end of a long alley at some far flung portion of the island. The doorway was made of wood and iron with a thatched roof, like the entrance to Jurassic Park that the Jeeps drive through in the first, and only good movie.
We wandered into the courtyard, too tired to marvel at any of the gazebos or patios attached to rooms. The office door was firmly locked and all the lights off. I knocked on the door softly, twice, but nothing moved but the wind through the palm trees. A storm was on its way in the next few days, I’d read about it in Manila on what little Wifi I could scrounge up at the first airport of the previous day. It was Typhoon Sidelor until it made landfall in the northern part of the Philippines, now it was Typhoon Hanna. It even had it’s own hashtag.
We waited a few moments, looking around at the trees and the sidewalks, at the rooms we longed to enter and lay down and finally rest from our long, long day. The moment faded and we resigned ourselves to finding something to keep us awake in this strange town until dawn. We left through the Jurassic doors and started walking back up the hill, the way we had just been brought. Hoping to see another tricycle or hotel or a talking goose to guide us home, I turned back to look down the darkened street and saw a small, round face leaning out of the wooden doors to the hotel. We stopped and turned back and the face disappeared from the doorway as we re-entered the hotel entryway. The man was gone, but returned from behind a bamboo fence with a key attached to a stick with a small note taped to it, reading “Kristin Chaney.” Good enough for us. The man, who wore a black t-shirt which read “Security,” grunted and took us to our room, showing us the door and staring through us with blood-shot eyes as we thanked him, before hobbling back to bed.
We were exultant as we walked into our rooms, but mostly tired. Super super tired. We closed the doors and turned on the air conditioning and went to sleep.
So the day began much happier than it had ended, but the fact was that we were finally on vacation and we were ready to enjoy it! After a much-needed rest. . .
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Next up : (P A R T 2) Exploring The Strand
And boy, was it worth all of the struggle to get to!
