Adrift

At the end of the night back in November, the night he ate pho and I didn’t, I was surprised to see that seven hours had passed since I’d met him at the train station. For me, it felt like three. The next week went on like any other, except I’d often find my thoughts turning back to that night at the most inconvenient times, especially while I was working. We’d be talking about vowels or Harry Houdini, or things around the classroom that Marcel the Shell might find useful. I’d lose focus as soon as I’d picture him and the way he would pause to choose his words thoughtfully. I’d have to shake the image from my mind as ten pairs of young eyes peered from below, innocently anticipating my next move. Which should have been a major clue. “You like him,” Kathryn commented more than once during that week. “I’m not really sure,” I’d respond after considering it. And until we went out a second time, I wasn’t.

We went out a second time. We sat across from each other for dinner first, then later down the street for drinks, and I was again unaware of the hours passing until the cafe was closing around us. At the start of the night, I was nervous like I haven’t been in a really long time. Which should have been another clue. My usual way of dealing with nerves is to make jokes, spit caustic retort, self-deprecate. Thankfully I’ve gotten over my compulsion to playfully mock. It doesn’t happen easily or often, but once I realize I like someone, I’m a bit of a wreck. As the ship sails from a familiar state of singledom, from calm, breezy, predictable waters into precarious, erratic territory, my brain sounds an alarm. “S.O.S.!  DANGER AHEAD. Steer clear before you lose track of yourself and you can’t tell your head from your ass!” Before I know it, I’m in irons. I might eventually find my sea legs, but the beginning of any relationship or dating situation of mine has, historically, been choppy at best.

Lately I’ve begun to believe something, something I’ve always considered to be a tad hackneyed. The questions, the guilt, the knocks to the ego – all of it eventually builds up to something much better. Something that makes everything worthwhile. I should follow that statement with this: On my best days, I believe it. Sure, a part of me wonders when the ball is going to drop. That will never go away completely. This, whatever this is and however long it lasts, is better, and for so many reasons. Most importantly, because I trust that whatever happens, I’m going to be fine.

Writing does wonders with all of that.

We went on a third date, a fourth, a fifth, and several more after. Each time I ride the train to meet him at a different station around Seoul, my heart beats at a rate some cardiologists might find alarming. (Without trying to sound sweet or romantic, really – some cardiologists might prescribe pills for this). Everything comes easier with practice, right?

Next weekend, I’m going with him to his family’s house for Lunar New Year. As he opens up his world to me, I’m trying to be a little less spastic and to take on these new experiences one at a time. As nervous as it makes me, it feels good to be adrift.

time to get back to it

I’ve got food on my brain even more often than usual these days. Yeah, that’s possible, apparently. Besides a batch of stewed prunes, french fried onions to top a green bean casserole (twice), strawberry milk, and my new favorite pumpkin and lentil soup, I haven’t done much cooking in the past three months. I’m not exactly sure why. For one, our entire apartment loves to eat. We’re a group of three girls and one guy, and the guy might possibly love to feed people more than he loves to eat. Paolo is excellent in the kitchen. He didn’t bring a winter coat with him from Canada, but he did lug along three heavy Turkish cookbooks. He rarely cooks exactly from recipes and instead relies mostly on his experience living in Istanbul and instincts gained from growing up with Italian and Argentine parents who also love to cook. I’ve learned some useful techniques from him in a short amount of time, like how to put together a proper Turkish breakfast of feta, olives, crusty bread, and eggs with tomatoes, peppers, and a pinch of aleppo pepper. I could eat breakfast like that seven days a week.

If I had the time, I’d hole up in the kitchen and stay there until I’d worked my way through this list of recipes, which tells me I’m ready to get back to it. I’d love to hear what you’re cooking and eating over the holidays, too.

Cranberry Soup

Spiced Cherry Maple Carrots

Persian Pomegranate Soup

Spiced Persimmon Punch

Goat Cheese and Basil-Stuffed Filo Parcels

Roasted Winter Squash Salad

Popover Pudding with Irish Bacon

Broiled Apples and Pears with Rosemary

P.S.  the complications of learning English

Hong Kong in 23 hours

I took a trip last weekend to visit my friends in Hong Kong. There wasn’t time for much other than to meet their baby, devour some pumpkin pie, and catch up over breakfast. Still, it was plenty restorative. It’s nice to have old friends in new timezones. Happy belated Thanksgiving. Have one hell of a week.

to pho or not to pho?

My list of foods never to consume in the company of a person I might hope to see again is short. Some might say alarmingly so. Besides ribs, everything else is pretty much fair game.

That list doubled last weekend with the addition of rice noodle soups.  Here’s the story.

It had been awhile since I’d had a bowl of pho, but it’d been even longer since I’d gone on a first date. The day started late and lazily, but even so, it was the sort of day that called for a nap. A big, warming bowl of noodles steeped in savory broth for dinner sounded like a bulls-eye. Also, I miss cilantro like I miss a mammoth slice of thin crust pizza. In other words, pho on a first date was my idea. (I should add that I didn’t exactly realize it was a first date until the day after it happened. Good thing, because I would have been more nervous by epic proportions). I sent him a message and told him of my idea. I asked if he’d like to join me. He did, and before I knew it, I was knee-deep in unfamiliar territory, and I didn’t know what to do about it. So, I talked. I drank two beers. When dinner was over, I looked down at the table to survey our damage. My bowl was almost full with noodles and totally void of broth. His, a shallow pool of beef stock in the bottom of an otherwise empty bowl.

In my mind, the experience is always the same. A cart is wheeled over and a hot bowl is set in front of me. I lean in and let the steam hit my face first. Inhale deeply. Add the bean sprouts and sliced jalapeños and stir to soften. A bit of cilantro, but not all at once. I like to eat it fresh and while it’s still green. Drop dots of chili sauce evenly around the bowl. Gingerly dip a spoon into the bowl of broth and taste it for heat. Add more chili sauce sometimes, sometimes not. Pluck the right amount of slippery noodles from the bowl, bring them forward and nibble off one clean line with the grace of a gazelle. I should say, this is how I used to imagine it. In reality, after last weekend I discovered the difference between the way I eat pho alone and the way I eat it with someone sitting across from me, especially if the person happens to be quite attractive and a regular chopstick virtuoso. In my exaggerated reality, if it’s just me, I’m less of a graceful gazelle and more of a caged chimpanzee eating a banana for the first time in weeks.

The next night, I went back to the same restaurant for what had become a sure-fire method of personal restoration a long time ago. And as it usually went whenever I’d gone out for pho in the past, I was alone.

The cart was wheeled over and the bowl set down in front of me. I inhaled, and I started to picture the absurd. Bean sprouts sticking from both corners of my mouth. Noodles hanging like a swinging curtain from my front teeth. Chopsticks catapulting involuntarily from my hands to the other side of the room. Was that really what I was afraid of? How did I know that I was about to enjoy that bowl of pho so much more than the one I’d attempted to eat the night before? I can’t think of a better way to catch up or to get to know someone than to eat together. When I realized that a food I love to eat regularly is one I’d rather eat alone, it made me think about what exactly it does for me that my favorite pastime of breaking bread with friends or strangers cannot.

Five years ago, I had never eaten alone outside of my apartment or an airport. Now, I’ve developed a ritual that I look forward to with no one’s company but my own. And that could very well change. For now, I think I’ll keep it just for me.

a whiskey soother

On a cold day, almost nothing is better than a hot toddy. I’d put it in the same highly-acclaimed category as tom yum. Like the soup, a hot toddy will warm you from the inside, soothe you, and bring you back to center. It’s been known to cure an array of ailments, congestion and homesickness included. In other words, a hot toddy’s got it going on.

(A woman just walked down my street, passing below my bedroom window. I heard her voice first. She was singing with abandon, and I pulled up my blinds to get a better look. Her face was hidden under a purple umbrella, the clip-clop of her heels marking the beat of her song as her legs scissored out in front of her. She walked at the pace of a someone with places to go and people to see. I’m glad it’s warm enough to leave the windows open, but cold enough to drink hot tea and whiskey).

Maybe five years ago, my friend Matt and I were out in New York on a Saturday night. We were feeling fickle enough to hop from bar to bar despite the typical February temperatures, eating a little here and drinking a little there. It was so frigid that many bars were empty, which is rare for most nights in New York. Toward the end of the evening, on our way to the train, we ducked out of the cold and into one last low-lit spot, lured by the moody tabletop tea lights and the prospect of the perfect night cap to ease our commutes home. I ordered a hot toddy, probably for the sake of the name, and it turned out to be a winner.

To me, a good hot toddy means a lot of lemon, a little honey, the unmistakable taste of cinnamon, and a back note of whiskey.

Here’s how to recreate a really good version. In a mug, steep black tea with boiling hot water and a cinnamon stick. One minute does the trick. Take out the teabag and drizzle in a tablespoon of honey. Squeeze in half a lemon. Add an ounce of whiskey and stir.

my favorite part

I’m sitting at a wooden desk behind a glass window, across from a real estate office that looks out into a narrow street, for eyes to follow the casual Saturday life that passes by. Actually, I’m across from a “well-being Korean snack and coffee shop.” Next to that is a real estate office. It’s a dreary day, perfect for curling up in bed with a movie, or a book, and spending the whole afternoon there, until it’s nearly dark and close to dinnertime, until it’s time to get up and make a pot of soup. Earlier today, chilled mist hung in the air, enough to warrant a scarf, and about twenty minutes ago, the mist morphed into flurries barely noticeable against anything but a blackish background. I didn’t acknowledge the truth for the first ten minutes of it. “Must be street dust,” my voice of denial whispered to no one in particular. Now, the pillowy clouds are thinning to gauze, revealing pockets of pale blue sky. It’s been a strange combination of weather to have in a day.

Exactly a week ago, the sky was bright. Wind conditions were, as we’d heard, ideal for casually floating down from a mountain with a parachute strapped to the back. What luck! Because that’s exactly what we did.

I’ve said this before, but I want to say it again. Autumn in Korea is so, so gorgeous. The season lingers here, like winter lingers in Minnesota, but it’s a welcomed houseguest, and I don’t want it to leave. Autumn in Korea lives up to its reputation. So when I heard of an opportunity to paraglide from the top of Mount Yumyung, in the middle of a season full of turning leaves, heights and fear-of-death-by-falling be damned. I was going.

The ride to the top of the mountain was worse than the actual jump. When we were halfway, the driver jokingly swerved his van even closer to the edge before letting out a big belly laugh, as if he hadn’t pulled the same trick on every other group he’d driven up the mountain, probably hundreds of them. I closed my eyes and spoke meditatively of more comforting, less petrifying things, like puppies, guacamole, and tequila shots. I don’t like tequila shots, but at that moment, they sounded nice.

We hopped out of the van to take in the view and to be paired with local experts. We suited up, and moments later I was walking toward the runoff, my tandem partner behind me. Our only instructions were to run, to not, whatever we did, stop running, and to keep our feet up while landing. Before I knew it, there was another man in front of me, pulling me, running backward, shouting “go! go! go!” and my feet were in motion, struggling to run as fast as conceivably possible with a full-grown man attached to my back. The man in front wasn’t letting go, and he said something that made me think I was supposed to stop, even though I had worked hard to remember the simple instructions I was given. I stopped. And when I did, a look of panic crossed his face as he wide-eyed our parachute, presumably to make sure it was going to catch air when it was supposed to. He shouted, “no no! go! go!” and so I went again, running as hard as I could. He jumped out of the way, and suddenly my feet were touching ground no more. We were airborne.

I would remember the second instruction as we came in hot at an angle, forcing onlookers to scramble from their chairs out of the way. Other than our haphazard takeoff and characteristically ungraceful landing, the rest of the flight is a bit of a blur. I know that I didn’t want to smile for the camera as my partner clicked shots for memorabilia, and I definitely didn’t want to hold it as he took a video. I wanted to look at the trees and absorb the reality of our circumstances. Before long, my feet were touching the ground. It was over so quickly. And you know what? None of that was my favorite part of the day.

So what was? Hands down, our impromptu lunch in a free standing shack down the road. It looked like something out of a horror flick. Sawdust covered the tables. Hornets nested cozily in visible nooks and crannies of the exterior. A colossal, razor-legged spider guarded the entrance. Jars of ginseng and honeycomb filled the shelves against one wall. The connected room was littered with work boots, power tools, and a cooler stocked with sodas. After a few minutes of poking around, a women appeared, and she was willing to serve us noodles. We sat around the table, and she cooked in the back kitchen. In about ten minutes, she brought out a tray of oversized bowls, steaming with spicy ramen, a poached egg floating in each, sliced scallions speckling the top. As we slurped our noodles, I felt something for the first time since I’ve been here. At that moment, in that dusty room, with that mixed group of friends and strangers who were about to run off a mountain together, I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

One thing I know to be true.

Sarah Kay performed her TED talk, “If I have a daughter,” back in March. I watched it once last summer and a second time this morning. She’s impressive. Have a look here.

One thing I know to be true? I am scared shitless of heights. Heights have both brought me to tears and forced a record-breaking slew of swear words out of my mouth, all from the top rung of a household ladder. But today, I’m going paragliding through the mountains of Korea. Or rather, today I’m going to attempt to paraglide through the mountains of Korea. My heart is already pumping. Four letter words are at the tip of my tongue. Who the f*ck came up with this idea? is flashing through my mind. We leave in thirty minutes. I’ve got to go brush my teeth. If I’m going to be apologizing to my cohorts, I’m sure as hell not going to be doing it with morning breath.

I’ll see you next week, perhaps with a story, or maybe even with something else I will have learned to be true.

look up or you could miss it

INSIDE:  Sometimes blogging feels equivalent to talking to an imaginary companion. I’d guess many of the reasons for doing both are pretty similar, too.

OUTSIDE: How often do we actually look up while we’re walking somewhere, especially when we’re in a hurry? To what extent do we take in our surroundings instead of staying stuck in our own heads, absorbed by whatever or whoever is on the front of our minds at the time? It’s an easy place to be, the latter, and admittedly, the moment I step out into the world is often the moment I tuck back inside of my own.

I found this photo again recently, and even though I took it last spring, I hadn’t noticed it the same way until the other day. It reminded me to look up, to connect, to share. Because when I do, and do so consciously, I am always surprised by what I find.

THIS TOO: I like this song so much, and the video is good for October.

happily, coffee

Things there are no shortage of in Seoul:

Elderly women donning big plastic visors.

Young, leggy, milky-skinned, gloss-haired women with impeccably blended style: edge and femininity at its finest.

Bows, sequins, and sparkly TOMS.

Waffles. Seoul is smack-dab in the middle of a waffle craze.

Jars of (pickled?) squid. Er, red ginseng. Hell. Gets me every time.

Following in the footsteps of Montreal:  bikes.

Soju and Makgeolli, two drinks native to Korea.

And happily, coffee.

There must be more coffee shops in Seoul than in New York City, Seattle, and Chicago combined.  It feels that way, anyway.  But without knowing better, it can be hard to distinguish the good from the bad.  Besides Starbucks, I’d never heard of any of the chains found here, like Paris Baguette, or Tom and Tom’s, or Holly’s. During my first few weeks, I sampled them all. And then, I sent my friend Jen an email. Jen lived in Seoul for almost two years, and during that time, she got to know the city backwards and forwards. Besides where to get good coffee in our neighborhood, she’s given me a ton of other travel tips, helped me secure my teaching position, and assuaged my misgivings the week before I boarded the plane to Korea. I owe her at least one hell of a travel guide, should she ever decide to visit Minneapolis or Buenos Aires.

Rani: in Jangan-dong, across from Bauhaus, at Janghan-Sagori (the four-way intersection every taxi driver knows).  Closest metro stop:  Janghanpyeong, line 5

This is easily my favorite place to spend a Sunday afternoon in our neighborhood. It is from here that I type this post, and where the only thing served besides coffee are Nutrigrain bars and a couple of cookies of the unidentifiable variety. The perfect local joint where the barista always brings your coffee to you on a plastic tray with a tiny spoon and one slender packet of sugar on a napkin. The absence of anything outwardly remarkable is exactly what makes Rani great, and the people who frequent Rani are neighborhood people. From what I can tell, when the people are in the neighborhood, the people don’t stray.

Square Garden: tel:  010.3106.8466  closest metro stops: Express Bus Terminal, line 3 exit 5.  Also, Sinbanpo, line 9 exit 4

Kathryn and Kate and I were craving eggs, bacon, toast and pancakes last weekend. In a city where kimchi and rice is the local breakfast of choice, this is not easy to find. My affinity for kimchi is strong, but the only vegetable I like before eleven am is ketchup. For a weekend breakfast, I stay true to a plate of what I’m accustomed to, save for the occasional morning of cold pizza following a long night of enthusiastic imbibage. But that’s neither here nor there. We weren’t hungover. We were homesick for eggs. And we wanted them served next to a pile of thickly cut bacon.  We wanted to lay our eyes on some cheese, maybe some crusty buttered bread, hopefully without sugar. So we headed to Seorae Village, the French section of Seoul.  If any district was guaranteed to have what we craved, we figured it would be here. When we found the spot Kate knew of, it was gutted. Stomachs rumbling, and not knowing the area well, we walked the main street for a few minutes before we climbed the stairs to a place that promised brunch. Brunch turned out to be a Korean-Italian lunch of sweet red-sauced pasta and pizza with gorgonzola and honey. It wasn’t half bad, but it wasn’t what we commuted across the city for, either. No small disappointment some afternoon wine in the park couldn’t cure. On our way to find a bottle, we found some great spots tucked away on narrow, quiet side streets, places we knew we wanted to return to. And then, from outside of a vintage clothing boutique that also served coffee to go, we spotted Square Garden. From where we stood, it looked like a garage full of kitsch, lights strung from the ceiling, tiny polaroids hanging from clothespins. It didn’t have wine, but it did have coffee roasted in-house and gigantic wild fruit smoothies in old-fashioned malt glasses. The coffee was very good, and the smoothie could have fed four, easily. I’d make the trip across town for this place alone.

Kaffee Klatsch: 150 Dongsun-dong 2 1F, Sungbuk-gu   tel: 02.921.2561

I met my friend, Young-Joo, a few days after I arrived in Seoul. Once a week, we get together for food and language exchange. She started at the basics with me, teaching me to read and pronounce Hangul. She gives me homework that she finds online, and I send her articles to read and comprehend in English. Kaffee Klatsch is her coffee shop of choice. It’s near her apartment by Sung-shin Women’s University, and it’s one of the only places I’ve found that serves hand-dripped coffee. There’s always a daily roast, and it’s always only 2,000 won. That, my friends, is less than two U.S. dollars a cup. They serve waffles and other sweet things, too.

You know what pairs well with coffee? Feist. Have you heard Metals? I’ve had it on repeat today, and it is, in my humble opinion, a work of art. I especially like the third track. It’s called “Caught a Long Wind,” and you should be able to stream it and the rest of her latest album here.

Enjoy the week, everyone. Enjoy your coffee, or whatever your daily beverage of choice happens to be.

when I look at my hands, I see hers

Well, it happened fast. My grandma passed away last week, comfortably and at home. It was quiet and peaceful, and she was surrounded by family. Because of New Ulm’s annual Oktoberfest and the traffic that flocks to town for the weekend, the funeral was postponed a few days later than it was intended to be.

As it works out, she will be buried today, which is the same date that my mother died twenty-one years earlier. Wherever they are, however they are, I bet their reunion was one for the books.

My grandma taught me never to go to bed angry and how to give a proper hug. To pull weeds from the start of their roots and how to make a chocolate malt taste old fashioned. To go against the grain at my leisure, and to play the high notes of a Chopsticks duet.  To curse with fervor. To blame an accidental fart on the most unsuspecting person in the room, or to just pretend it never happened in the first place.

Lately when I look at my own hands, I see hers – just with less experience.

Long, thin fingers, wrinkled knuckles, deep nail beds, pronounced veins.

She loved unconditionally, more than anyone I’ve ever known.

She lived.

And I’m really going to miss her.