Korea

19Feb09
en route from Seoul to Helsinki

When my old friend Dick Walker arrived at Inchon, it was his 7th such landing. The first was at Guadalcanal and there followed a string of awful arrivals with the 1st US Marine Corps, at places like Tarawa, Saipan and Iwo Jima. A few years rest and Dick was back into it when the Chinese communists decided to take Korea.

My landing at Inchon yesterday morning was my first, and very short, visit to Korea. Judging from the age of those around me, I was probably the only arriving passenger at what must be the world’s swankiest airport, who thought of Inchon as battleground. Traipsing tiredly and obediently through the immigration and customs checks I missed seeing things that impressed me today on my less rushed departure.

I was in Seoul on business. I’m glad not to be in the business of selling compasses or protractors because they have no use for them here. On the long bus ride to my hotel I see only straight lines. All the architecture is square, vertical, sharp, and business-like. There’s no whimsy in it. The main roads are wide and full of new looking locally made vehicles wearing brands that have taken a soon-to-be-fatal market share from the old new world’s manufacturers. The side roads are narrow. There’s a bustle in the cold air. I am the only non-Asian person I saw at my hotel, which was a convenient few blocks from my business appointment.

Like the protractor salesman, there aren’t any obvious opportunities for me here. Although Korea participates in the world of trade, an artificial barrier lingers in the field I plough. It’s not yet possible to even get through the gate into the field, let alone plough. But the meeting is pleasant and I’m able to whet the appetite of people whose limited access to international expertise leaves them frustrated at the sameness of what’s available to them locally. They’re frustrated that they can’t offer their customers the new innovative things they probably seek. I am invited to persist in trying.

My hotel room is a time warp to about 1980. Everything is the same, and in the same place, except for the huge plasma screen for TV. The only English speaking channels are CNN and a Sports channel. When I turn on to catch up, the news is a repeat of what I saw a few hours earlier. So I have time without distraction.

I read somewhere that Korea leads the world in connectivity to the internet, etc., but I have bad luck. The link in my room is so slow I feel like I’m home already. I do my paperwork and a bit of research, and manage also to Skype home. If this place is so well wired, how is it that my BlackBerry can’t get a signal? I assume it’s because Optus hasn’t arranged it, but when I see how slow the internet connection is, I think maybe I’m misinformed about Korea’s world-leading telephony systems.

The night before I arrived here, I had dinner in Taipei at a humble little restaurant, as the guest of our agent there. Somewhat incongruously he drove me there in a Bentley, which he parked at the door. The meal comprised two broths in the same open pot which had a divider separating the spicy broth from the bland. It was on a gas ring built into the table like Koreans do.
A chatty lady on the plane this morning told me it was Ha Po (I think) and claimed it as a Taiwanese specialty. It was pretty good. The eating of it involved first preparing your own sauce, from a table of different sauces and chopped onions, ginger and so on. At the table, you take what you want from the bubbling pot, put it in your designer sauce and then into your eating bowl. Then came a big plate of finely cut meat that was so red I figured it might be horse. Oh no! I’m assured it is beef, as our host drops a few pieces in the hot side and lets them cook for a minute or so. I get into it all. I hear murmurs that I can tall are expressions of surprise that I handle chop sticks and eat everything. Well not everything – I can’t abide that congealed blood stuff which features in so many soup dishes in Asia.

We are at the table with three ladies who work for Agent. None speak English with any proficiency and my Chinese is less than minimal. Less even than my Korean which is hello and thank you. They are all very deferential and happy. Our agent has only slightly more English than I have Chinese so we’re getting on well with diagrams and gestures.
There’s the standard little Asian table entertainment. There’s “watch the Gwailo eat”. Then it’s time for “guess my age”. No-one can believe mine so I have to show my license. Aren’t they polite to their guest!

A group arrives as we leave and there’s a bit of a hush that tells me these aren’t regular people. Agent whispers “famous” to me so I deduce they’re movie stars or something similar. Their clothes are very out-there modern, which matches their coiffure. Their demeanour suggests they know we’re watching them but they’re used to pretending they don’t. In the car – three ladies all behind me in the back seat with still plenty of room – they chatter excitedly and I learn this group is from a famous TV show which would have just finished a live broadcast. It’s not easy to be impressed by this but they clearly are. They are still chattering excitedly when I’m dropped off at my hotel ten minutes later.

I thank them all profusely and they wish me a happy flight and want to see me again soon. Thank you is the best word to learn in any language. It’s even more important than beer, which is a close second. And please is very good too.

After several days of oriental food I feel like a steak for dinner. It’s way too cold to go out for dinner and the hotel boasts a “Western” restaurant. Another time warp, with a damask covered menu, thick linen tablecloth and stooping waiters with black aprons to their ankles. I might be in France. The fare includes French onion soup and steak Chateaubriand, which my wife and I often ordered in romantic moments in restaurants like this. Way back when it used to always be on the menu...

I read the menu a few times. It’s printed on a high quality paper (I know these things) in an elegant copperplate script. Stuck under two items are narrow strips of paper printed with the words “Product of Korea” (mushrooms) and “Product of Australia” (beef). I assume that Koreans live highly regulated lives and the menu police have insisted that the original printing should have told me the origin of these two, apparently random items.

Is there anything quite as lonely as eating alone in a foreign land? Probably not. But I am used to it, so I stare at the dark cold street below and drift into odd thoughts as I wait for dinner. I also order a beer.

A huge television screen, virtually a full colour movie billboard is mounted outside the building opposite. It casts changing light on the buildings around it and from my viewing angle it appears to be showing TV commercials. I think of the hazard for distracted drivers but there are no screeching tires or tail enders. Maybe they take as much notice of TV ads as I do.

My French onion soup comes with a large green and gold-foiled supermarket canister of Parmesan cheese. French-Italian soup? There isn’t a lot of taste so I pour some cheese on it. The cheese transforms from a powder into plastic and sticks to my spoon. But I persist. Waste not, want not. My tastebuds don't reward my frugality.

I ordered the beef, wondering if I should fill out a form to say I’m going to eat it now. The menu police don’t show up, but the waiter hovers, watching my every move. I can see him in the reflection as I stare outside. I am the only diner, although there are three closed rooms labelled “Rose Room” and suchlike into which he occasionally disappears and remerges empty handed.
The beef is very good, and I rinse it down with a glass of haut medoc, not caring that I don’t know how you pronounce that. It isn’t a Limestone Coast Shiraz but it is very good. Beef and burgundy; I can’t get any more western food than that.

With the sense of contentment that beef and wine can bring, I return to my room. I turn on CNN while the computer boots up. There’s the same Serena Williams interview. It seems she is now also a fashion model. And the financial crisis has uncovered more malefeance, this one involving some guy who put up millions for a Caribbean cricket tournament. It’s old news now. I’ve seen it three times already.

It’s too late to Skype my darling again so I pack for an early checkout and get ready for bed. Drifting off to sleep I recall pleasant times with Dick Walker many years ago. I remember that he seldom smiled but seemed content nonetheless. He was a lanky grey haired man when I knew him. It surprised me when I once borrowed his .22 rifle (to kill our pig) that this marine hadn’t cleaned it in years. I had to disassemble and clean it before it would cock. He clearly had no use for even a small rifle like that anymore. I wonder why he had it at all.

This morning I go back to the western restaurant for breakfast but it’s too crowded and I don’t recognise much of the food on the buffet so I chose the coffee shop instead. I’m the only person in there. No paper strips for the menu police, but there is scrambled eggs and bacon. I read the newspaper as I wait.

There are pages in tribute to a recently deceased catholic cardinal who sounds like an heroic humble guy. There are reports about a crisis in education – sounds like Australia politician speak. So I read on expecting to see that a education revolution is the only cure, but no – violent students and falling grades are two concerns. Students arcing up to their teachers is apparently par for the course. And there’s no counter to it.

The scrambled eggs and bacon arrives with a large helping of soggy looking crinkle-cut French fries - for breakfast! There isn’t a lot of flavour in what I eat, but I have a long day ahead so I make do. As you do.

Checking out it easy and I buy a bus ticket for the airport transfer. Why is it called a transfer if the airport is at either end of a bus trip. I don’t hear people say I’m going to transfer to the city in the transfer bus. Anyway, I transfer to the airport.

It is about an hour away and as we approach the terminal – that swanky one – I see why there aren’t any curves in Seoul’s architecture. The city fathers or the architects must have been storing them to use on the airport building. They used them all on this beautiful structure, this enormous complex at Inchon. It doesn’t have any straight lines – not one. I almost say “that’s where they got to” out loud! This perks me up. I’m the guy who solved the mystery of the missing Seoul curves.

Checking in is simple and quick in these curvaceous surroundings. Built into the structure are systems that make the tedious check in processes almost pleasant, certainly bearable. It doesn’t take long for me to get from the entrance through baggage check-in, security check and immigration check to the automatic train that rushes us to the departure pods.
I notice though that I am the tallest person in the train. This is a recurring Asian thing with me and a subject to be covered on another day. For now, I’m just glad I found those missing curves.