Today it’s cold and wet, but yesterday broke through fog and mist to become a beautiful fall day with sunshine and blue sky. Just the right weather for exploring.

Yesterday, I didn’t need reminding that “what goes up must come down.” But the reverse was even more excruciating–”what goes down must come back up”–as I trekked through the mountainous Cheorwan district on an RASKB birdwatching tour to see the migratory Red-Crowned Crane and, as a side trip, the DMZ.

The Cheorwon Theme Road winds through a large valley of rice fields, now harvested and lying in patterned rows of stubble and straw. It must be a sight to see in its spring green and summer gold, but winter also has its beauty. The valley having ample supply of water and food is on the migratory path of cranes and ducks and geese. Yes, we did see the Red-Crowned Crane. Because of its location in a military zone, all viewing had to be done from the bus, but the driver was very accommodating and slowed down every time a shout went up “Cranes on the left” or “Cranes on the right” and we would all shift to the side announced with cameras and binoculars ready and “Ooohs” and “Aahhs” marveling at their beauty. Every once in awhile we would catch site of a Mongolian crane instead–smaller, gray, and more numerous–and the “Oohs” and “Aahhs were not quite so pronounced.

I was so reminded of the Sandhill Cranes of West Texas as they would fly overhead at sunrise and sunset. It brought back memories of how they could cover the fields in the hundreds–maybe thousands–sometimes destroying our new winter wheat and ripe milo on the ranch in Wingate. But I didn’t want to put this negative–but realistic–spin on everyone’s delight.

I mentioned down and up and up and down. One of our first stops was the second infiltration tunnel built by North Korea until discovered in 1975. The Korean War ended, more or less, in the mid-50s. This tunnel was for contemporary and dubious purposes. To get to the tunnel we had to walk up a hill–heavy breathing walk!–then after donning hard hats, we went down into the tunnel about half a kilometer to the point that is under the actual border. Parts of the tunnel were high enough we could stand up as we walked, but the resounding “thump-unh” heard from those taller or just not looking ahead were constant reminders to duck at the low parts. Going down, we then had to go up. The tunnel is a reminder not to get too complacent about the ambitions of the North Koreans. They are a threat.

A picture of what that threat could mean is seen at the remains of the North Korean Labor Party building, a gutted, pock marked shell of the cement building that held the offices of the Labor Party. For five years before the Korean War the Communist Party controlled this area with brutality and torture, according to the description on the information boards and the brochure. It is a pretentious, ugly, austere, and frightening building just to look at in its decline. I shudder to think what it was like in its prime.

At the Cheorwon Peace Observatory, we climbed another breath-taking hill–at least it took my breath as I puffed and panted to the top–to get an eagle’s view of the DMZ and North Korea. The contrast in the two countries is sad. On the South side the valley is covered in rice fields and agriculture. This is a valley of rich, volcanic soil, of springs and reservoirs. On the North side no crops are visible–and this from a country whose people are starving! On the South side the mountains and hills have been reforested after generations of warfare and using wood for heating and cooking. On the North side the hills are still barren. On the South side there are people driving, working, living, moving. On the North side there is no one in sight, no movement, no vehicles. On both sides there are barbed wire, observation posts, and soldiers with guns at the ready.

I was reminded of Berlin. I was there visiting my brother in 1989 just after the wall came down. We could go into the East side, which we inadvertently did one night trying to find our way home from the Pink Floyd concert “The Wall.” The East side was frightening in its austerity, its lack of color, people, movement, even knowing we were safe. Standing there looking across the DMZ, I had that same feeling.

When we think of the Korean War, we think of Heartbreak Ridge and places like Pork Chop Hill. We think of MASH and Hawkeye’s agony at patching up young soldiers to send them back to retake a hill that is later declared unimportant. We think of the difficulty and futility of guerrilla warfare. These messages were brought home when we visited Baengmagoji Hill Monument erected to the White Horse Unit of Korean and foreign soldiers who fought against Chinese forces taking, losing, and retaking the hill twenty-four times in ten days of fierce fighting. The climb up the hill is worth it for the moment of awareness and the view where I could see into North Korea in the distance. At the top is a hugh bell of freedom which serves as an alarm for people nearby–another reminder against complacency.

Sitting on a bench at the top of the hill and monument, looking out over the valley below, visualizing those ten days of devastation that cost so many lives and reshaped the landscape, I was reminded of a similar feeling In Italy at the top of Monte Cassino. What goes up must come down. What hikes down must eventually hike back up. But history keeps going around and around.

(There are a few pictures on the photoblog, but not in the order I intended them. I still can’t figure out the picture thing!!)

This evening the relevancy of my chosen profession was brought home to me. It has always been my job. For many years it was my passion. But I have always realized the lower ranking in the echelon of the hierarchy on the professional scale–usually measured in the U.S. by salary and bonuses.

This evening I had a Thanksgiving dinner cooked by and in the home of Mrs. Kim with a few of the other members of the “Grandmother’s Club” (my name for the group) who have taken me under wing to show me Seoul and let me a little bit into their lives and also practice their English. We had a wonderful meal of marinated beef ribs, salad with a delicate yogurt dressing, chop che, kim chi, vegetable soup, beansprouts, spinach, and rice. There was also a very nice, dry red wine. I had stopped at Hans and brought a New York cheese cake with blueberry topping, and Mrs. Kim had fresh fruit and cookies. Good food; good conversation.

We talked about family and politics and religion and Korea and celadon–of which I have just been introduced and am fascinated by the delicate green color of the pottery for which Korea is famous–and culture and experiences in other countries. We exchanged recipes–I shared my tomato soup invention and they gave me directions for chop che and the salad dressing and the marinade for the beef. They talked about the medicinal value of a fermented green plum drink, and I talked about my good experiences with ginseng and vitamin B complex to ward off mosquito bites.

As we got ready to leave, I was all prepared to bundle up for the trek home–it has turned very cold here, but Mrs. Kim insisted on driving me almost to my door. I kept saying, “I really don’t mind the walk, and after that wonderful meal I probably need it!” But they wouldn’t listen, so we all piled into Mrs. Kim’s Mercedes and off we went down back streets, winding our way to my neighborhood on the other side of Apgujeong.

The clincher was when we all got quiet and they tried to explain wanting to do for me: You are a teacher. That was it. “You are a teacher.” The respect in their voices, their concern for my well-being, their openness to my company–all because “I am a teacher.”

I think we never stop learning, and maybe in some way, shape, or form we never stop teaching.
But tonight I was proud to be reminded that—I am a teacher.

I just made the most amazing tomato soup–yep, from a can. Background: A few blocks from where I live is a store called Sweet Space that has a big Campbell soup can on the storefront for advertising. Inside, they specialize in JellyBelly’s and lot of other foreign products and brands. It’s pretty pricy, but it’s my favorite place to buy jam, some Danish brand, for about $6 a jar. But–they always throw in a box of Carr’s crackers, and lately, have been giving me a few cans of tomato soup–Campbells. So I figure it’s a pretty good deal.

The weather here has turned cold–highs of 37 degrees, and lows–about the time I leave for work!–around 27 degrees. Tonight was perfect grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup time. I had a fresh tomato that really needed using, so I put that in the soup with a can of water and then added about a half cup of kim chi. Oh, my gosh, was it ever delicious! And just what a cold almost winter evening called for!

I seem to be writing about food quite a lot, but I’m realizing that when you live in a foreign place, relying on the pictures on the packages, and what you can pick up each evening at the Mom-Pop grocery or on from the street vendors or from the take-out restaurants where I’ve figured out what are a few of the items on the menu–you tend to think about food quite a lot. One of the guys I work with told me he thinks about his next meal all the time–what will it be, where’s it coming from, who he’ll share it with, etc. I know that as I walk home in the ever increasing darkness, I’m thinking, “OK, what am I in the mood for, what do I have in my tiny refridgerator, where do I need to stop to get something else, how much of a detour will that be?”

My grilled cheese sandwich and Campbells’ tomato soup with Korean infusion turned out just great–and I suspect it will be even better tomorrow since I seemed to make quite a lot.

All my life November 11th has been Veteran’s Day. Being an Air Force Brat, whose father served in WWII, and being raised around veterans of WWII, the Korean War, and what seemed to be the ever present Cold War, and as an adult agonizing through Vietnam, the Gulf War, Iraq, and Afghanistan, Veteran’s Day has always been very real and personal.

Korea is a country that has seen war, rebellion, colonization by Japan, and it’s own civil war in just the last century. It is a country full of veterans of all those conflagrations. But November 11th here is celebrated with Paparoe. There may be another date commemorating veterans here that I am not aware of, but this day of 11.11 is a time to bring out the Paparoe.

Every convenience store had huge displays of Paparoe in everything from simple boxes, to cellophane wrapped gift baskets, to stuffed animal-like Paparoe. I had no idea what was going on. I wish I had taken some pictures, but I had no idea what was happening. The displays were elaborate, yet I hadn’t read of any special holiday. My calendar doesn’t have the day singled out in red–a sign that it is a special holiday and we should get a day off from work. But when I got to school, we had a special treat of Paparoe. Several teachers who have been here for several years, came by my room and dropped off a Paparoe just for me!

What’s going on? ! ?

What’s special is the date: 11.11. Paparoe is a pretzel-like stick (without the salt) dipped in chocolate, thus the same shape as 1111. To celebrate the 11.11, it is customary to buy Paparoe and give to friends. It’s just a friendly, fun thing to do for people you like–as far as I can figure out. The Paparoe is quite inexpensive–or not, depending on the gift level you want to buy in to–about a dollar for a box of twelve small ones.

I got into the spirit of the thing, once I figured out what was going on. On my way home from school, I stopped at a convenience store–there are soooo many in my neighborhood–and bought a few boxes. I gave one to Panque who always smiles and says hello to me when I pass his shop: “Hello, Naanncee, how are you today?” and whose wife always gives me a little something extra when I stop in to buy gimpap for supper. I gave one to the man and woman who smile at me and give me a few extra roasted chestnuts when I pass their sidewalk vendor spot. I gave one to James, the student I tutor in English on Wednesday evenings.

I wish I had known about the Paparoe tradition before hand. I can think of so many people I would have liked to have shared with on my walk to and from school, of so many people I work with, of so many people whose path I cross nearly every day.

It’s important to remember veterans, to be reminded of the high costs of wars in the toll it takes from those who fight them for us. It’s important to take at least this one day to think about those who gave their lives and the innocence of their youth to safeguard and perpetuate our ideals. These people were very much in my mind on this day of 11.11 as I also thought about friends—and munched on a chocolate covered pretzel.

I seem to have a penchant for stealing from credible authors, and this time is no different. I remember when I first read Hemmingway’s novel, Moveable Feast, about eating and his life in Paris. It’s been a long time since I’ve read it, so I won’t even attempt a literary ciriticism type thing with it, but this week has been one of “moveable feasts” where life and food have intersected.

Monday, Mina and Seong were here from Papua, New Guinea, where they are missionaries working with an aboriginal tribe to transcribe their language and begin an educational program as well as bring the message of Christ, the Bible, and the Good News. The circumstances were sad, Mina’s mother had just passed away, but our meeting was joyful. Mina, who speaks very good English, and I fell in like friends who had not seen each other in months–a truthful statement since they left to return to their mission not long after I came to Korea. They came to our school to offer prayers and meditations to Mr. Chou, Hace, and me on Monday evening. Seong is a gifted minister, and although he preached in Korean, I said, “Don’t worry about it. I pick up on the spirit so easily.” Then Mina translated so I would get the gist of his message. After prayers, Seong was called out on a phone call, and Mina asked if she could sing a song for me. First she talked about the message of the song, then she sang in a clear, bell toned voice “You Lift Me Up.” Her message was not to forget that God is there to lift us up to do things we never thought we could do, which I truly take to heart.

But this is about food! After our meeting we all went out to dinner at a place buried in the warren of eateries in the Apgujeong area that Mr. Chou and Hace know so well. The food was delicious: a huge, mung bean pancake, dumplings the size of your fist, delicious, spicy soup, and lots of Korean side dishes. Hace told me these were North Korean dishes, so a little different from what we’re used to. You should have seen Seon’s face as he savoured each bite saying, “This is the dish I miss the most in the bush!”

It was a joy to see Mina and Seong enjoying the meal. They work for the New Tribes Mission out of Florida, and truly live in the bush as natives do. Supplies come about every three months. Did you know that eggs can last unrefridgerated for about two months? I started to title this “Two Month Eggs” because that’s just one of the facts about their life that stuck with me. They are dealing with an indigineous tibe that has no written language–that’s their job, to write it down, which they have done. They are dealing with traditions–polygamy–and superstition, especially surrounding death, and still bringing health, hygiene, literacy, and Christianity to these people. Electricity is a valued commodity to them, as are just about all the other basics of life we can imagine and that we take for granted.

It was a good visit. We worshipped, we talked, we ate, we laughed, we sang, we prayed, and we renewed friendships.

But I mentioned feasts, in the plural. Another memorable meal was held at Zelen’s, a Bulgarian restaurant in Itaewan. It was Dee Ann’s and Kerri’s birthday, so all the expat and Korean kindred spirits were gathering to celebrate. The food, and the amount of food, was unbelievable. It was almost like being back in Hungary with the mix of meat and roasted vegetables and pickles. We stayed for quite some time just enjoying the good food and the ambiance. Dee Ann will soon be leaving Korea as will a few others who were at the table. We’re planning a Good-bye Brunch for next weekend for those leavers. It was just a nice evening out with friends, food, wine, good beer–for me, and good company.

A Moveable Feast: Hemmingway wrote this as an expatriot living in Paris in the 1920s. He wrote about his life as a writer, his friends, his life as the husband of Hadley. He wrote about living in a foreign country. He wrote about the food. How ironic that that title should pop into my mind as I think back over this past week: my expat and Korean friends, my life here, and the food. The Feast goes on.