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.

 

don’t wait

I tried to write in a few different directions for today, but nothing felt genuine. I avoid writing when I feel sad – I do – because, as with most emotions, I’d rather process the feeling by thought or through speech. Each comes easier. We’re here to share life through any medium, if we can brave it, right? Sometimes writing gives whatever the thought, the idea, the blip, a deeper significance. At least for me. And it isn’t always so shiny and gorgeous, so gratifying, so awe-inspiring, but if I write it, I am reminded. Reminded that sometimes life is wretched. Sometimes the silent questions of a broader meaning are so loud that they drown out shouts of opportunity to see beauty in the unexpected completely.

My grandma isn’t doing well back in Minnesota. She took a quick turn for the worse when she moved into a nursing home recently, so now she is back at home with family. My aunt Kathy and uncle John who flew from Florida to be with her.  She is surrounded by people who have loved her from the day they met her, and even as she sleeps, I hope she can sense that. God, I hope. The thought of her in pain is akin to a blow to the gut.  It knocks the wind out.

It is a slight relief to trust that when she’s ready to go, she will, but otherwise, it is tremendously difficult to be so far away knowing I may not have a chance to see her again. Call someone you love and tell him or her how you feel today. This might be a tad inappropriate, but I’d be willing to run naked through the closest park if you can produce a single person who’s ever tired of the words ‘I’ and ‘love’ and ‘you.’

See? Never gonna happen.

So go.

Don’t wait.

I love you already for doing it, and I bet the person on the other line will, too.

hot coffee weather

It’s Monday here, but Sunday somewhere, and also, it’s almost cool enough to acceptably drink hot coffee. !  I’ve had several (er, two) requests to post more photos, but the truth is, I haven’t taken many lately. I don’t always bring my camera for a couple of reasons. For one, I lose things.  I’m trying to be better as I get older, and I’d say I’m succeeding. But also, once I take my camera out, it’s out for the rest of the day, and I find it can cut the experience short. I’m instantly sucked to the safe side of the lens, a place of solid observation, and I miss the whole point of why I went exploring in the first place. I’m focused on everything around me. looking for moments of opportunity, instead of letting everything around me just be. Sometimes I want to be in this space and nowhere else, and sometimes I’d rather be out from behind to let the moment be captured as it will. Preferably drinking coffee. Did I just age myself to a seventy-two year old man?

But you’re right, MJ and Niki, and I like your requests. I want you to see what I see until you can go where I go. (Have I told you how much I love visitors?)

Seoul is not like any city I’ve been to. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it, and it may take awhile. Seoul is massive. Efficient. Not especially pretty, but weirdly quiet, considering its size. You won’t hear a cacophony of honking horns like you do in New York, yet the streets are filled with cars, motorbikes, and bicycles. Our street smells faintly of garlic, which I’ve never noticed until someone mentioned it a few days ago, and on Sundays, a group of men play soccer on the field down the block. We’ve got a market around the corner for basic necessities and a bakery with great croissants and egg salad sandwiches around another corner. On the walk to some good neighborhood coffee, a mechanic is always working on some old car or another.

Thomas is the man who takes care of our building.  He’s either perched in his office eating lunch, perched in his office playing Go with a friend, or walking outside with a broom tidying up the space around our building.  Every day I say hello to him in Korean, and every day he responds with “Good morniiiiing!”  I’m going to have lunch with Thomas one day.  Or better yet, maybe we’ll invite him up to our apartment for dinner.  I wonder if he’s ever had a BLT.

Outside of a sushi place we like, a man sells herbs from a truck.  He told us the popular plants go quickly, so I plan to go earlier than 10 pm next time so I can get my hands on some basil.  The space next to May-may and Melissa is ready.

Every Friday at school, we have show and tell.  In theory, it’s the perfect way for students to describe their favorite belongings in English. In reality, they prefer to use this time as an excuse to bounce around the room, chatter away in Korean, and generally act like life-sized cartoon characters.  You can’t really blame them. Hell, I’d probably do the same, and sometimes I seriously consider joining them. Last Friday was “favorite t-shirt” day. It may come as no surprise to you that the proud owner of the t-shirt below has the best vocabulary in the school. He’s six.

Because this city is so big, I decided I’m going to take it one stretch at a time and  explore a new neighborhood on weekends. I’ll have to pick from twenty-five districts (twenty-five!), but I figure if I choose a new district each month, I’ll have seen  a good portion of the city by the time next September rolls around. My own neighborhood still makes me dizzy, so I’m going to start here.  See you next week.

How about a book recommendation as something for the eve of this Sunday? I’ve got a great share.  It’s called Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, and it’s written by Jonathan Safran Foer.  Heartfelt and poignant, the story is set in New York right after September 11th and told from the point of view of a boy who loses his father to the attacks.  I started the book on the plane ride to Seoul.  When I finished it, I did something I’ve never done before.  I closed the book, turned back to page one, and started reading all over again.  It is honestly that special.  My cousin, Tippy, recommended it to me, and now I’m recommending it to you.  Really, read this book.  I think you’ll enjoy it just as much.

On another note, I’m happy to report that up until yesterday, I have eaten authentically everyday since I arrived.  Everyday I have kimchi as part of lunch.  It’s got this heavenly balance of acidity and heat, something for which I’ve quickly come to crave.  I wake up yearning for the stuff.  Yesterday, I broke the pattern when I had a hamburger from Burger King.  As you may or may not imagine, depending on your stance on these sorts of diversions when there is a plethora of peculiar, enticing, authentic foods within your grasp, it. was. incredible.  Like no fast-food burger I can remember having.  I guess sometimes you need those types of shameless comforts when home is a full day of travel away.

And finally, I had my second language exchange meet-up with my new friend on Saturday.  She is lovely, and I can tell I’m going to learn a lot from her.  I’ve realized that I need to take the bull by the horns, which is a more polite way of saying what I really want to say, if I’m going to make any progress with the Korean language.  As it is, I can say “hello” and “thank you” and “yes,” and she told me my pronunciation is nice.  That is definitely encouraging.  So I’m writing this as a sort of pledge that I will work harder to improve.  If I write it, I’m somehow responsible to follow through, you see?

I leave you with a song that has some beautiful harmony, and harmony reminds me of two things: New Ulm, a small town in Southern Minnesota, and of the coolest grandma in the world, one who could have written the book on good hugging.  Happy week, all.

Click here for song:  Drops in the River by Fleet Foxes

The verdict is in

One day I’m offering complimentary house-purified water to restaurant patrons, and the next, I’m called qualified to teach young humans how to speak English.  This is my life?  I still only half believe it.

The first few days go like this.  My plane lands at 4:00 pm in Seoul after a fourteen hour flight.  I meet Vanessa at baggage claim and learn she flew in from Iowa to also teach English.  A connection!  We talk until we find our bags.  We met ten minutes ago, yet we feel comfortable enough to hug each other goodbye.  A man approaches me while pointing to my photo on his phone.  He is the CEO of the school where I’ll be teaching, and also the husband of the school’s director.  More than once, he suggests that I rest my eyes.  I come to realize that it isn’t rude if I do, and that it may be of some relief to him, too.  My roommates and fellow teachers are waiting for me.  They help me with my luggage, show me around the apartment, and soon we go for dinner.  I’ve been in Seoul for less than two hours, and I’m already eating Korean barbecue.  This is looking good.

I wake up the first morning so fucking early.  I can’t remember a time when I’ve felt so unprepared.  Maybe the first day of seventh grade?  The day I flew on a one-way ticket to New York?  My first and horribly awkward kiss to someone much more experienced than I was, to which he so charmingly said, “let’s try that again”?  Or maybe it was only a few nights ago over dinner with great friends, I’m talking some truly incredible people here, when it hit me that I would be leaving them and all that was comfortable lately the very next morning?

I spend the next few hours writing emails, looking at the ceiling, clicking through photos.  As hard as I work to ease my nerves, my nerves do not subside.  I walk to buy coffee from locals wearing berets.  Caffeine will get me through the next few minutes, I tell myself.  I meet the Korean teachers, all women, and the director.  We call her Wanjangnim.  My hands are sweaty as I approach the door of my new classroom.  The students are already here, full of energy and as small and sweet as I imagined.  After an hour, I discover that my first instinct is to yell at a volume that scares even me when one of them misbehaves.  (At least I manage not to swear?)  The day is a blur, and by the end of it, I’m convinced I’ve just run a marathon.  I find myself left with the question of, “Do I even like kids?  Any chance they might learn to like me?  What if I’m actually not cut out for this?  Lord, I hope I was nice to my kindergarten teacher and every single teacher thereafter.”

The second day, and I’m awake early.  Not so fucking early, but early still.  I spend an hour writing emails, looking at the ceiling, clicking through photos.  Before I know it, I need to rush out the door.  When I walk into the classroom, Wanjangnim tells me that one of my students bought me an iced coffee.  With her own money.  It takes a bit for me to process this.  I’m sorry, what?  She noticed what I was drinking yesterday and thought to buy it for me?  With her own money?  And on a day that I didn’t have time to stop for it myself, no less?  But Wanjangnim, she’s only six years old!  I love a gift as much as the next person, but it’s an act of thoughtfulness, an observation, the simplicity of showing some effort that really get me.  After the first week, some tears, and some words of advice from my super wise aunt and some super helpful friends and roommates, the verdict is in.  I like kids.  And not any more or less because these kids can sing Superstition perfectly, although this discovery was quite the unexpected treat.  I think it’ll be a year full of similarly first-rate surprises.  That’ll be something worth working for, for sure.