BASA, Mariah Shanice A.

2009-20719/BA CW CW 141 WFR Prof Sandra Nicole Roldan Travel Writing 28 Feb 2013 Word Count: 2,647 Musings of an Amateur Traveler After six hours of looking outside the airplane window,watching as the pitch black darkness slowly gave way to an explosion of lightfinally, touchdown. People trudged towards the plane doors to the tube that connected the plane to the best airport in the world, Incheon International, where marble floors shone perpetually like daylight. Escalators ushered the dazed tourists to a little train that carried them to where they had their passports checked, got their luggages back, had their currencies changed and, still awed, walked to the gates that open to a bus stop. Its posts framed a view of a long line of lush green trees and trimmed gardens back dropped by a clean sky blue. The summer sun balanced out the usual chilly air, which, to the first-time traveler, smelled curiously fragrantredolent of things unique and unknown and romantic. I was about to take out my camera, but Kdin pointed to a 6002 limousine bus. She checked her phone to be sure. The numbers correspond to a route, and 6002 would be passing by Jongno 2-ga, the location of our motel. Commuting in South Korea requires the knowledge about an effectively intricate transportation system, or at the very least, the possession of a smartphone app. Kdin has been in Korea before so Gen and I trusted her familiarity with it, since the supposed phone app guide looked nothing to us but a web of multicolored lines. We boarded the bus. From the inside of a glass pane, one can't help but notice the consistent presence of greenery. Sturdy old trees stood side by side with towering skyscrapers, bringing them down to size. Brightly painted temples seemed to

find their place among commercial areas and apartment complexes. Fenced patches of grass where people can stop by and feed pigeons blended in with the concrete. These things took the edge off the city. Trees and temples are things all people have in common. The natural neutralizes the feeling of threat brought about by unfamiliarity. I took pictures, and let my eyes feast on the sights. We got off the bus, and crossed a street. The place we stayed in was situated behind a line of establishments, and to reach it, one had to pass through a narrow, winding alley jostled by little, privately owned samgeopsal restaurants. I began to smell something right at the alley way entrance. It turned into a sour, rancid odor that got stronger as we trudged farther into the alley, dragging our cumbersome trolley bags. Having no more time to look for other accommodations, we paid for the reservation. We soon found out that in that place all the cleaning up was done in the morning: the garbage are taken out, the plates are washed up, the dirty rags and whatnot aired, because samgeopsal places are also drinking pubs that open regularly at night. The motel receptionist was a pretty Korean woman in her mid-20s, who spoke English fluently. Kdin and Gen talked with her and discussed the price rates. Having never travelled before, I had no idea if we were about to pay too much or if we were in for a good deal. I can convert the prices, but the value of money in Korea is way over my head. I decided to look around. The reception area was a small square space between the door and the first floor hallway. Its walls were covered with posters of Korean celebrities, some of whom I know from watching a Korean variety show. My gaze shifted to an open door on the far end of the hallway. I peered inside. What I saw was a room with two bunk beds, one to either side of the room. There was a small bedside table between the bedsit fit snugly. I had a feeling we may have paid a bit too much. But it was too late to back out. Where would we go? Gen called me and I handed my

money. The Korean started to climb up the stairs. We held on to our trolley bags, took a deep breath, and started the laborious ascent to our room. By the time we reached the door to our room (which turned out to be in the top floor of the building), we were panting like dogs. The woman was already inside. We turned the knob, and were greeted by a bright, spacious living room, complete with a computer area with three PCs. The window framed a nice, panoramic view of the city, and bathed the room in natural light. "This here is the living area," the woman explained, "breakfast is served here every morning, from 6 to 10." She opened a door. Inside were two double decker beds, each one placed against the opposite walls of the room. There was a small dresser space between the beds' headboard and the front wall. There was an air conditioner. It wasnt a bit larger than the room downstairs, but this room had a square window right at the middle of the front wall. It made the room brighter and more spacious, even cozy. We put our things down. The woman gave us the keys and left us with some more reminders. She introduced herself as Min. She asked us if we were Thai, we said no, we're Filipinos. "Maganda," she said. "Maganda ka," Gen answered. She smiled, and told us to not hesitate to contact her in case we ever need anything. She gave us her Kakao ID (an online instant messaging app created, and widely used by Koreans). We thanked her, and she went downstairs. As soon as she was gone we swooned over how nice she was and how her Tagalog sounded so cute while we prepared to go out for the day, giddy with excitement. The brightness of Korea's colors is the first thing an eager travelers eyes will notice. Meals, laid out on a table, are a visual delight. Green leafy vegetables

such as lettuce or kangkong accompanied brown meat or naengmyeon (cold buckwheat noodles). Pickled radish come in the lightest shade of yellow, made even lighter by the ever present reddish hue of kimchi, or kimchi jjigae, or anything mixed with the spicy gojuchang. White comes in the form of steamed rice in a metal bowl, or a bowl of freshly-prepared kongguksu (cold noodle dish). Walking on the streets is like walking on a giant watercolor palette: stalls are scattered on the streets, selling socks designed patterned after cartoon characters and other well-known items, or caps with bunny and dog ears, or shirts in all the possible colors expressing assorted variations of "I love Korea", in line with the bright green roofs of temples held up by bright orange pillars. Koreans walking on the streets have no qualms regarding neon colored clothes since time immemorial, as proved by the changing of the guards ceremony in Deoksogung Palace. The routine event is a strangely pleasing dance of primary colorsfrom the entrance and march of guards who wore three layers of long, thick robes in black and orange and yellow, lined with red and blue ribbons, to the king who was easily identifiable in his towering hat as he shone regal in his azure silken robe, up to the doctors and advisers who followed him around clad in bright reds and greens. To the new traveler, the richness of the colors so deeply ingrained in Korea's culture is an intriguing vision: a living embodiment of a clearly defined identity. Setting foot in Korea, for some people, is in itself is the fulfillment of a dream. Kdin and Gen are both Kpop fans; Korea, to them, has a deeper meaning, one that relates to things theyre more emotionally immersed in as opposed to mere sight seeing. It is a connection, a comfort brought about by the idea of the spatial proximity to a subject of a fantasy. Their itinerary side-items reflect that: a walk on the gardens of a big shot entertainment company; a meal at a restaurant, a cup of coffee, a scoop of ice cream (owned or co-owned by the artists they more than idolized). We go to museums and marketplaces and other places that

tourists frequent, but we try to squeeze those side-destinations through. We ate at Time Out Gelato in Apgujeong, had a delicious (albeit expensive) meal at Blacksmith restaurant near Sinsadong Station, and bought a cup of coffee in KStory, in Myeongdong. I sat there and listened to them talk about their biases, the most special among all of the kpop idols they adored: what the places that we were then sitting in meant to those people they so loved. I listened intently as they recounted anecdotes and events in those peoples lives, anecdotes they heard from other people or found out for themselves (a video clip, or a news article); I listened closely as these people, who, like me, came from an archipelago thousands of miles away tell stories about Korea through the celebrities they worship: from simple personality quirks to privacy issues, from cute couplings to homophobia and self-image, from stories of success through self-sacrifice and perseverance. It was strangely amusing how we all have a narrative, a story that we choose to believe the moment we decide to read about a place. And to my friends, the fans, that was Korea. Walking on the streets of Seoul, however, one can hear a story in the buzzing of the neon lights. The multitudes of Koreans who peruse the Korail pass through subway walls nearly buried with ads competing for attention through fluorescent backdrops. The more, the better. Long-legged on short yellow dresses and bright blue heels wink and smile, their pearly whites shining; young, handsome men in tuxedos with their hands all placed in front of them, palms up with fingers slightly curved in a suggestive come hitherstand poised next to each other, with little to no variation, from one station to the next, from one transfer gate to the other. Sometimes they held in their hands a skin product bottle, at times they stood behind faces that held some semblance with their own but with noses or chins or eyelids encircled in bright red. Embossed on a brick wall, these glowing photos of people with uniformly polished skin cant help but feel like a shelf of dolls.

In the uniformity, the goal is evident: perfection. This is seen, for instance, in the phenomenon that is Korean Pop. Koreans who dream about being a star has to start training and working for it at an early age. If a child proves to harbor potential, and passes through a screening done by a record company. The kid will then undergo years worth of dancing and voice training until they reach 16 or 17, when they go through another set of auditions that will determine the group they will belong to. After that, theyre presented in a debut event, wherein the group is made official: they show how they can all dance in sync, can all sing decently, even act (should the need for it in advertisements or TV and movie projects arise). The members all live in a dorm, where they follow a rigid training routine. They are not allowed to have a romantic relationship while under the contract. Extremely talented individuals with facial features that dont correspond to the idea of whats ideal are improved through plastic surgeries and alteration. Everyone has their own ideals of what perfect is, and it is always based on the ideals of people around them. It is a never ending cycle of temporary achievement and comparison. Several times weve asked store shop owners for the prices of the goods that they sell, and we were met with a series of numbers typed out in the calculator. It was also very difficult to ask directions from passersby: most of them just waved us off, though some of the kinder ones point us to the direction of a guard, or in some places or a roving tourist aid. Once we asked Min for directions before we went out, she drew a small map instructing us where to go. She also wrote in it her Kakao (most common online messaging service in Korea) ID so that we can contact her anytime we needed something. Hearing you talk fluently in English, it makes them shy, she said, they think their English is not as good as yours so theyd prefer not to speak.

Koreans self images seemed so maintained, so fragile, it seemed strange how people survive jostling and being jostled by other Koreans on their way in and out of the subways. They didnt seem to see the need to say sorry, their eyes were all looking straight ahead, towards the things that matter, towards the things that will always be way too much faster than them. We scoured what we could of Seoul, and went out of its bounds to Gyeonggi-do Province. Kdin and Gen had lists. That was mine. Everland Theme Park and Resort housed the steepest wooden roller coasters in the world, and that was the kind of thing I have always seen myself looking for, as a traveler. I have thought about that: some people look for natural landscapes, some look for food, some want to meet people, some want a glimpse into the culture. Me, I want roller coasters. I have thought of going to random places in search of roller coasters and starting from there. I was excited to explore Everland, which also had zoos and other theme park rides and attractions. But my eyes were set on the roller coaster, the T Express, and the exhilarating feeling only being thrown up and down and in a loop repeatedly several kilometers above the ground can give. We began our Everland tour by eating lunch, and looking at the zoo animals. After a considerable time of rest, we decided to begin a dizzying ride called the Double Spin, then proceeded to the Hurricanerides that both, to be fair, were meant to be dizzying as it spins the passengers in two different ways simultaneously. The moment we got off the Hurricane, both Gen and Kdin ran to the comfort room and threw up. I spent a lot of time taking care of them, buying water and finding soda crackers. It was almost three oclock when they said I could go and enjoy myself, while they rested in a stone bench by the theme park gate. Seeing their pale faces I asked for the map, and went on my own. I took pictures of the parts of the zoo weve not yet reached, and tried to incorporate

myself in the pictures of places I wanted people to see Ive been in. I went in circles for an hour and a half, unable to find what I was looking for. The moment I found the T Express, looking like a miniature brown mountain standing imposed in front of the bright green Korean ranges, I shrieked with joy. I almost didnt feel the fact that I did all of the exploring alone, with no one to help and listen to what I thought about things, with no one to listen to my story. I went and waited in line. When I finally rode the train, none of that mattered, and the only thing that existed was the thrill and excitement of flyingsomething I have always loved and wanted. After weve packed our bags and said goodbye and thanked Min for her warmth and kindness, we boarded the 6002 bus back to the airport. I looked out the window and watched as trees came more frequent than buildings and subways and cars as we drove past the limits of Seoul. I wondered how life must be in the provinces in Korea that Ive never set foot on. I smiled as I recognized the familiar fragrant scent, and dreamt of places I have yet to set foot on: unique, unknown, romantic, and inexhaustible.