Naeyeonsan and Bogyeongsa

The cherry blossoms are in full bloom, and the unusually long winter has finally run its course. Time for a trip to the mountains to take in fresh air, green hills, a temple, and some village life. I know that when I leave Korea, these trips to the countryside with friends will be my best memories of life here. So I try to escape the concrete and crowds of humanity as much as possible.

This journey took us to Naeyeonsan mountain and Bogyeongsa temple. It’s an area about a half hour drive north of the east coast city of Pohang, itself about a half hour north of the popular tourist destination, Gyeongju. Seven of us left Friday evening around 8:30 and arrived in Pohang, where we meandered in search of a place to stay. We found a hotel and crashed out early.

It’s difficult to get seven people motivated in the morning, so we got a late start. It took a bus ride and a couple of ripoff taxi drivers, but we eventually arrived at the mountain village around noon. We quickly found what must be the coolest minbak in South Korea, with tons of character, huge open windows letting in light, a balcony overlooking the main drag, and a piano in one of the rooms. We unloaded our things and went downstairs to gorge on homemade kalguksu.

After lunch, we headed down the cherry-blossom-lined road and entered Bogyeongsa temple. It was a fairly humble complex, set in open land, with no real discernable identity to it. This was probably the shortest temple visit I’ve done. But the day was beginning to grow old and we had other, more important destinations in mind — namely, the series of waterfalls along the trail up Naeyeonsan.

Singapore

It’s always fun to imagine a place you’ve never been, and then go there and see how the two experiences mesh. You read, look at pictures, talk to people. But all of that it someone else’s mind, someone else’s experience.

My prior image of Singapore was that it’s structured, clean, orderly, paranoid, anal, diverse, expensive, and has a lot of great food. It was all of that but not in the way I imagined. And it was definitely not, as I’ve read on more than one occasion, boring. At least my experience wasn’t. But it probably had a lot to do with who I was with. Traveling’s different when you’ve got a native who meets you at your destination. We weren’t so much traveling through as we were being there, and being there in style.

Still, setting aside the knightly treatment, I loved the place. Maybe it’s that I’m older, or maybe it’s that Busan, aside from the well-known touristy areas, lacks a certain aesthetic sensibility. First of all, Singapore is an extremely “green” city. There are signs everywhere almost bragging about its environmental awareness. As busy as it is, the place has done an outstanding job preserving its natural base and making it work with the highly urban superstructure that keeps the whole thing clicking.

It’s a very multicultural place. Coming from Busan, it was wild to see so many sizes, shapes, colors, ethnicities, fashions, and attitudes walking around. The neighborhoods and nightlife are diverse and interesting. One day we did a forest walk along an elevated platform and wound up at a hawker stand, where people sold Indian, Malay, Chinese, Thai, and a bunch of other kinds of food. It was cheap and delicious. Little India was another great place with kickass food, and interesting shops. Then there was the riverside area, where you can walk along the river at night and go past bars and restaurants that open wide to the passing pedestrian traffic. Finally, there was the shopping. I generally hate shopping, especially in Busan where the fashions are either hipster youth or staid golf-playing father of two. But Singapore had so many different kinds of shops, the options were endless.

The best moments are always the unexpected ones, and for me and my troupe, the peak of our Singapore experience came on our final night. We were told of an open mic at the Blue Jazz club, so we made our way down in the hopes of playing. What we found was a tribute to a drummer in the scene who had died a year before on that date. The place was packed with musicians. We didn’t know what to expect, but wow, the calibur of talent was just phenomenal. Throughout the night the stage of this rather humble club cycled through exceptional musician after exceptional musician. I felt like I should have been paying $40 to watch and listen to talent like this. My head was swimming.

Now, I don’t know anything about the Singapore music scene. “Scenes” are kind of nebulous things anyway. Anyone who says the San Francisco scene is this and the Chicago scene is that is speaking from a highly subjective perspective. The value changes depending who’s talking. My scene now is the Busan music scene, which more specifically means the Busan foreigner music scene. At the risk of pissing off any of my friends, the quality of music (from my subjective perspective) is, to use a popular Korean phrase, “so-so.” It really doesn’t matter though, because no one (except one that I know) is trying to make a living out of it. The point is to drink a few beers, gather a crowd, and have a few hours of stupid fun. And in that regard it works. There’s no money involved so there’s no pressure to play particular songs or make the club happy. You can do whatever the fuck you want. I’ve managed to find people I enjoy playing with and play some pretty out-there tunes so I have a good time.

But when I experience something like I did that night at the Blue Jazz, it makes me wonder what it would be like to be a part of something like that. It wasn’t just that they were really, really good. It was that they were all so clearly, visibly enjoying themselves, and seemed to be completely respectful of one another. And there was real diversity: jazz, Brazilian, Afro-Cuban, singer-songwriter. I think the diversity of the city was coming through in its musicians. And this might be the other key point. These weren’t foreigners. These were Singaporeans. It felt like the music of a place that has multiculturalism built into its soul. Unlike Busan, there was no attitude, no competitiveness. There was no need. When you’re that good you’re not so sensitive to shit like that.

We did get the chance to play and did three songs. We were the odd set of the night. No one knew us, and we felt a bit like party crashers. But we were also humbled to be a part of it and tried as best we could to live up to the spirit of what was going on that night. After our set, people came up and introduced themselves. We met some of these outstanding players and singers and had a few nice conversations. We were the outsiders and people were being gracious to us, something that I haven’t experienced in quite a while. It was such a great feeling.

Driving back to the house that night, no one said much. But I think we all had the same thought: Yeah, I could live here.

Gastrotravel

Food is emerging as the theme of the trip so far. The first meal I had in Hong Kong was a three-dollar bowl of wonton noodle soup that tasted like San Francisco. It was a fairly regular lunch when I lived there. The next day I had my first real pub-style burger in half a year. The next day was an elaborate beef tenderloin cooked to perfection.

Here in Singapore it’s not so much about eating out as eating in. Our hostess is cooking up a storm of comfort food for us – tuna casserole, mac & cheese, and breakfasts of eggs, sausage, real bacon, potatoes and rice.

Today we went on an urban hike along an elevated forest path that looked like something out of Myst. At the end of the trail was a hawker stand representing what seemed to be all of Asia, including its various religions, sitting together side-by-side in one place. I got an Indian curry with rice and mutton that was dee-lish, with a little pulled tea to top it off.

And just now, the three of us went on a $550-sing shopping spree at the local grocery store — our contribution and thankyou for the hospitality. Like everything in Singapore the place was sparkling clean, with perfectly presented produce, meats, and packaged foods. It was like one of those over-priced earthy-hippie stores you’ll find in the liberal enclaves around California. We marveled at all the things we’ve been missing – jars of artichoke hearts and sun-dried tomatoes, refried beans, cheeses, and beers of every kind. Strangely enough, a head of cabbage cost $6. In Korea, you’d probably pay a quarter.

It’s looking like we’re gonna hunker down here for about a week. Our Malaysian invasion will have to be delayed. We’re enjoying ourselves far too much to leave now.

Jirisan, and a new camera

What better place to test out a new camera than Jirisan in the fall.

Yep, I finally did it. I plunked down 1.5 million won and bought my first HD videocamera, a Sony SR11. For the first week or so I was afraid to take it out of the house. But I gave it its first full test this weekend in Jirisan, a beautiful expanse of temples, mountains, and village culture.

This wasn’t my first trip there. I went during Chuseok last year and visited Ssanggyesa temple. This time we went to Hwaeomsa, intending to take a nice hike. But as we entered the temple, I noticed a banner that read “Spiritual Music Ritual 2008.” The date was Oct. 25. Hey, that’s today, cool. We made our way into the temple and found people handing out programs and leading us into the concert area. The show was almost ready to begin.

Andong visit

I went with a couple of friends on a day trip to Andong on Friday. The area is famous for its masks and folk traditions, but it also has an interesting scholarly tradition.

We went to one of these traditional study academies first, called Byeongsan Seowon. It was a very peaceful setting along the Nakdong river. Almost no one was there except for a group of Buddhists off in the distance who set off some lanterns into the sky.

After a lunch of the local cuisine, Andong Jjimdak, we went to a traditional folk village. The village was surrounded by rice fields that, at this time of the year, are a deep yellow-green color. The nice thing about the village itself is that it’s still going. Unlike, say, the replica folk village in Seoul, this one still has inhabitants who mill about tending their gardens and doing whatever it is they do.

Here are a few pictures:

Geumjeongsan

The best way to spend a day in Korea is to go on a nice long hike in the mountains (maybe catch a temple along the way), stumble down into a tiny village, eat the local cuisine, have a few drinks, and sing or play a few songs.

I’ve done this many times and in many different ways. Sometimes its a long bus trip with an overnight (or two night) stay in a minbak, other times it’s a day trip. Sometimes it’s dong-dong-ju, other times soju. Sometimes it’s sunny, sometimes it rains. Sometimes we play guitars, other times we sing Judas Priest songs. But it’s always a good time.

This time out we went to Geumjeongsan for the day. It’s the most popular hiking destination around Busan. The highlight is a long fortress wall that traces much of the ridge-line. It had rained the night before so even though it was hot on the ascent up from Beomosa, there was a cool breeze coming off the hills. Rain clouds still hung in the air and it created a spooky mist that touched the higher peaks.

The village was Sanseongmaeul. The local cuisine was duck and black goat. The drink was dong-dong-ju. The entertainment was lots and lots of norae.

Click ahead for some pictures…

Take a right at Bolivia

I survived “Burning Chicken.” No gunshot wounds, no heatstroke, and I didn’t get lost or starve. That alone is a success. But I didn’t expect it to be so goddamned much fun.

A little background: I belong to a private internet forum hosted by a longtime friend. There are about 10 of us there, mostly from my undergraduate college years plus a few freaks I’ve met along the way. It’s an interesting group: overeducated and underemployed geeks is perhaps the best way to characterize us collectively.

About six months ago or so, one of the group suggested some kind of gathering in the desert. There’s “Burning Man,” but that’s someone else’s idea. He suggested a private gathering that still embodies its freaky, subculture aesthetic. But there was a bigger reason to make it private: guns. About half the group members are way into guns. I’m not into guns, but I’m not averse to them either.

So Burning Chicken was born. The next thing we needed was a place. Nevada has more relaxed gun laws, so that was a good choice. One of the group is a geology professor who had been out to a remote area of the Nevada desert to study the effects of a massive 1954 earthquake there. So he suggested the location — Dixie Valley — about as far from civilization as you can get in America.

Dixie Valley, as viewed from Job Canyon

The plan was to synchronize four vehicles from three locations — Merced, the North Bay, and Salt Lake City — to converge in Fallon, NV. The rendezvous was successful and we stocked up on supplies, food, water, and beer and caravanned for the final 70 mile stretch into nowhere. We finally arrived in the “area” around 6 pm. On the map, there’s a landmark called “Bolivia,” but there’s nothing physically there. Not even a sign. Nothing telling you that you’ve arrived in this “Bolivia” and nothing directing you go Dixie. The highway ends and becomes gravel, and there are several other dirt and gravel roads leading in different directions. There was one right turn. We took it.

unblogging

Is it possible to unblog? Letters, spaces between letters, and symbols get strung together and combine into an agreeable code, and some kind of idea emerges that goes out to nonspecific readers. Can that be undone? No, I guess not.

So I’ll recode the previous: Disregard my last post. I am most definitely NOT going to Japan. It couldn’t come together for everyone involved. In a way I’m bummed. But I have to admit that there’s a little relief. A strange thing has slowly developed in the emotional center of my neural net, and that is homesickness. I miss Korea. I want to go home and sit and work. It’s been wonderful seeing friends and family, but it’s also been a rocket ride of here-to-there-ness.

Tonight I have one last night with the South Bay Crew, then it’s off to Merced. From there, I embark on the last adventure, the one that freaks me out. Four days in the middle of nowhere — and I mean nowhere — with a bunch of my freaky college friends. I’m excited. I’m terrified. I hope I survive.

…here we can be

I just got back from three days in Yosemite. I’ve been there many times in my life, but this is the first time in ages that I’ve been there without going to Tuolumne Meadows — aka, my favorite place on Earth. Instead, I went with my parents to a cabin in Wawona, far on the southern tip of the park.

Wawona has none of the grandeur of the valley or Tuolumne, but staying in a cabin was nice. On the morning of the first full day, we drove up to Glacier Point and took in the incredible view of Yosemite Valley, stretching out into Tenaya Canyon, and featuring the classic landmarks of Half Dome, Cloud’s Rest, Nevada and Vernal Falls, and Yosemite Falls.

I wanted to get at least one epic hike in, so my parents agreed to meet me in the valley and I’d hike down there from Glacier Point. It’s roughly 9.5 miles from the point to Curry Village, using the Panorama Trail that passes through Illouette, Nevada and Vernal falls. It’s a mostly downhill journey, so I figured it would take me three or four hours. I realized about a mile in how off I was, not because it isn’t doable, but because I left no time to chill out and enjoy the views. It wound up taking me 4 ½. I kept a rapid clip, but still left enough time to take pictures and stop to soak it all in once in a while.

View of Half Dome, Yosemite

Any time I’m in the Sierra Nevada, music takes on a new level of appreciation. I like to absorb the sounds around me as I start a hike, but before long I have to listen to something to accompany these landscapes exploding into my field of vision.

It can’t be too pretty or soft. Landscape isn’t just nature and color and light out there. There’s an ontological component at work, especially when I’m hiking alone. It’s beauty combined with isolation and god and the possibility of death. So it has to reflect that feel. Stuff that works is Michael Hedges, A Small Good Thing, Kaki King, Scenic, and, for whatever reason, Smashing Pumpkins. But the two biggies for me are Steve Tibbetts and Yes. Steve Tibbetts is perfect because he’s got that whole Buddhist dynamic thing going on of life/death, darkness/light… I don’t know, his stuff is just… intense.

But Yes is in a whole different class. It’s a strange thing, but when I listen to this band in the Sierras I somehow completely close down certain neural pathways while sending myself into what can only be described – unfortunately – as a transcendental experience. If I play a song like “Awaken” or “The Gates of Delirium” or “And You And I” or “Turn of the Century,” something kind of magical happens without me even trying. I still have my rational mind and all my logical facilities. But it brings about an extreme sense of focus within the place. It’s a bizarre and beautiful thing – the music and the landscape congeal into a single, evolving entity, inseparable from each other. Music becomes nature, art becomes landscape. Color and sound are the same vivid thing.

I know how cheesy and pompous that sounds. But I don’t care. Somehow I’m able to conjure the ability to hear music on a sort of elevated level and it’s one of the things that makes me absolutely thrilled to be alive.

The Curious Case of Wilco

I’ve been listening to a lot of Wilco lately. Four months ago or so I didn’t have a single album. But so many of my friends praised them up and down that I had to give them another shot.

I tried once before, somewhere around 2002. That’s when everyone was talking about them. Their Yankee Hotel Foxtrot album was a rallying cry, not only for the independent minded youth of the digital age, but the journalists who aim to represent them. It was a triumph of art over commerce. They were the band that stuck it to The MAN. Of course, that was all I heard about. Nobody seemed to mention the music. I hate that kind of media-generated buzz, so I had no interest in getting to know them.

But one day I was driving around Palo Alto with my girlfriend at the time. She was more curious than I was so she bought the album. OK, sure, let’s give it a shot. So she put the CD in the car stereo. Ninety seconds into it, I knew I hated it. Once I heard that sad-sack voice I thought God no, not another self-emasculaed, indie whiner please. Two minutes into it I couldn’t take it anymore. I begged her to turn it the hell off. My preconceptions were confirmed: Of course the critics loved them, I thought. These guys hate themselves. They fit perfectly into that drab, post-punk attitude where you have to sound like you don’t care. Critics love that shit. I can’t fucking stand it.

Fast-forward some five or six years into the future, to March 2008. I went with a group of friends to the Korean countryside for some fresh air and to climb a mountain. It had been raining the whole drive up and that night. When we woke up the next morning I opened the curtains and looked outside. The trees were dripping with last night’s rain, the hotel pavement was soaked. But it looked like the weather was going to break and we could climb that mountain.

And then someone put on some music. I heard this really nice, mellow guitar, and then the singer sang the first lines: “Maybe the sun will shine today. The clouds will blow away. Maybe I won’t feel so afraid…” Wait a minute, who’s this? Wilco. First song off their most recent album, Sky Blue Sky. I loved it. It was pretty, it was mellow, the singer was really singing, the mix was beautiful, and it was a great song. In short, it was everything my first experience was not.

And that’s Wilco. There’s a reason every website’s favorite adjective for them is “interesting.” As evidence of this, everyone I know who is a fan has a different preferred phase, a different favorite album. My friend in Pittsburgh thought nothing was ever quite the same after A.M. The bass player in my band prefers Being There. One of the guitarists in my band likes Summerteeth best. The other guitarist swears by A Ghost Is Born. His girlfriend digs Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. I, to this day, still prefer Sky Blue Sky by a mile.

Before I dig into my praise of them, and of that album in particular, I gotta get something off my chest.