I have always wanted to arrive at a foreign airport and be picked up by someone holding a sign with my name on it. That’s what I was told to expect at Incheon International Airport. When I entered the main atrium of the airport, however, I found no one waiting for me with a sign. I did not panic. I strolled up and down the atrium past several welcome areas lined with families, friends, and business representatives, looking for my name on a sign. I enjoyed the stroll. I was taking in my first exposure to Korea. After passing several welcome areas and turning down several ambitious taxi drivers my eyes fell upon one of the few other Caucasian faces in the atrium, my friend David. What a pleasant surprise. It had been over a year since I had last seen David, but we immediately renewed our in-person friendship and headed off on about an hour-long bus ride to my new home in Bundang.
As David and I carried on a rapacious conversation I observed my new setting outside the window. Everything I saw was new, but at the same time as I expected it would be. I had seen several pictures containing the numerous uniform buildings with bold neon Korean script that immediately drew my attention. My new city was both totally foreign and familiar. The city struck me as affluent, organized, and comfortable as was the post-monsoon-season summer weather as David and I stepped out of the cab in front of the bold yet welcoming luxury tower, The Grand Palace Housevill, my new home.
David took me up to my new studio apartment, my new perch on the 21st floor, where the first thing I laid my eyes upon was the incredible expansive view beyond the large windows above my bed. From these windows I can look down upon the beaming lights of the vibrant strip below; the bars, restaurants, and storefronts. I can see the river running parallel to these lively planned city streets. I can see the mountains and hills set as a backdrop to other cities pocketed in the distance below the streaming icebergs of the clouded sky. Finally, if I squint my eyes just right I’m pretty sure I can see the neon lights of Tokyo and the tip of the space needle in Seattle. I’m pretty sure.
My room has an initial tile platform at the entrance where I am to leave my shoes before stepping onto the sleek hardwood floors. The floors are to remain unscuffed, which means I can no longer long-jump into my room with my boots on as I am used to (sometimes one needs to make sacrifices when visiting a foreign country). I have a washing machine with buttons labeled in Hangeul (Korean script), which should be pretty interesting come cloths-washing time. I’ll have to find out the Korean characters for “permanent press” and “cotton sturdy”. I also have a mini-kitchen for my mini-cooking and a bathroom-shower where I am able to shower, brush my teeth, and relieve myself all at the same time. (and I do.)
Notice the showerhead. Notice me!
My room is decked out with a variety of interesting gadgets. First of all, my door handle talks to me in Korean whenever I lock or unlock it. I have not yet figured out what this pleasant female voice is saying, but I can only assume she is saying something like “You look very handsome today” or “Thanks for touching me”. Again I’m not sure. In any case I always say, “thank you, you too” just to be on the safe side. She may also be saying something like “help I am a very small person trapped inside your door handle please let me out, I really need to go to the bathroom”. I’ll have to ask David. Occasionally, and sometimes early in the morning, I am woken up to what sounds like a Korean prayer coming from the wall opposing my bed. Apparently, these are service announcements for the building. Service announcements are nice wakeup calls when you understand the language. However, when you don’t understand the language the experience is that of being torn from your slumber with one part of your mind still chasing grumpy teapots in a cornfield in Kansas while the other half is wondering what urgent events are taking place in your building. The first time I heard this I just laid in my bed with the befuddled “what the F*&%” expression of Billy Murray in Lost in Translation. (I think I am the Bill Murray of Korea… now I just need to find my Scarlet Johanson so I can abandon her once my contract is up.) In addition to this I have what appears to be a handheld video game console beside my bed. I had tried several times to play video games on it, to no avail. Apparently the little screen lights up and displays whoever rings the doorbell outside my door. I of course did not realize this at first. So when my friend Chris came to my door the next day to take me out to lunch, I thought he was inviting me to a Skype conversation on my wall, which I eagerly accepted until I was interrupted by a knock on the door.
Bundang is an exciting, prosperous, and comfortable satellite city. It has a satisfying pulse, which may be only a reverberation of the greater organ of Seoul, but is still very thrilling and at times electric. I really enjoy the prevalence of dazzling neon lights that appear to be the trend all over urban Korea. Light pollution is offensive, but I feel you would really have to be a devout cynic to view this signage this way. Like a moth I am drawn to it as well any other bare display of vibrance I have encountered in this country.
From what I have been told, Bundang, the bustling, thriving city where I now live was nothing but farmland 10 years ago. While it is likely that this is a bit of an overstatement it is true that Bundang, like many of the other satellite suburbs of Seoul, exploded from “fun size” to “king size” in the time it took me to sprout my first few facial hairs. I had a friend in elementary school and later highschool named Martin Izaguirre, who in the sixth grade had facial hair thicker than I may ever know. I am pretty sure he had to shave almost every day to keep it under control. Bundang, in so many ways, is like the bristly Mexican chin of Martin Izaguirre. It is a beard on a sixth grader. If I may. It is the Pop Secret in the microwave of Seoul. It is the Jack in Korea’s box. And off in the distance I hear the music of many more to come.
From my window I can see a sparse forest of cranes hoisting up the next city. From what I understand, a pattern exists in the development of these satellite cities where the entire city (apartments, offices, restaurants, department stores, etc.) is built all at once. Which means they are as planned as China’s opening ceremony; with wide streets running between uniform buildings lined like dominos, convenient cute little parks, and concentrated commercial centers. At some point the ribbon is cut and everyone moves on in. Again, this is my understanding. I don’t have the full picture. I imagine at one point someone has explained it better and in more detail to me, but my spacey mind seems to have rested on popcorn and Martin Izaguirre.
I have been very fortunate in being immediately accepted into a fun and friendly social group of foreign teachers here in Bundang. The night I arrived, after dropping of my bags in my apartment, David and I headed straight out to his Korean friend Hanwool’s family’s apartment, where I met many of the teachers at my school including another Emory graduate (Alex Pollack) and a friend (Chris Snyder) from a previous road trip David and I took in the states. This is also where I enjoyed my first Korean meal of home-made Dak-galbi.
The friends I have made here, most of whom work at the same school, have been really great. They are all very good humored, friendly, and laid back. For my first few weeks they have showed me the ropes. Rarely have I eaten alone or had trouble finding people to go out with. It has worked out very well. I am sure each of these new faces will have a presence throughout the rest of this blog.
