Originally published in The Groove, January 2008
A Stark View
By Tracey Stark
My wife complains that I have nothing good to say about Korea. After five years, she says, I should be able to look around and see things I really like about this country. So for this month, if you will indulge me, I am going to come up with things I really am happy with. (This list will NOT include any of the following: spitting, littering, noisy eating, criminally-insane bus drivers, Saturday traffic jams, motorbikes on the sidewalks, the smell of garlic and soju on the subways and public smoking.)
Typically, a “Best of” list contains 10 items. Since I am constrained by both space and the number of things I am actually pleased with here, I am only going to get to five. So, here we go…
1. If you have ever had a conversation similar to the following before, you will know the sinking feeling I had at the beginning and the complete elation I felt by the time the call was over:
“Yoboseyo?”
“Yes, hi. I left my cell phone in your taxi. Can I get it back, please?”
“Yoboseyo?”
“Yes, hello. My hand-u-pone in your tak-shi. Please, I get it back, juseyo?”
“Yoboseyo?”
I don’t speak Korean, so I passed the phone to a Korean friend and let him take care of it. In the end, the taxi driver was willing to drive back to where I was (for a small fee) and return the phone that I had so carelessly left on the seat.
This is not a one-off occurrence. In fact, I have left my phone in taxis five times in five years. I have gotten my phone back four times. It isn’t just phones that I have lost and re-found. I frequently forget to take my pool cue home with me when I leave a bar as well as books, keys, clothing, umbrellas, unpaid bar tabs, my wallet and even my wife. Overall, the odds are 10 to 1 that I get my stuff back (the odds are slightly higher for my wife). Those are much better odds than anywhere I’ve lived in the States.
2. Speaking of taxis, I love the fact that you can catch a cab at any hour and pay a fraction of what it costs in, say, Washington, D.C. or Tokyo. Sure, the doors on the cabs here don’t open automatically for you like in Japan, but I don’t think it’s worth paying a 50 percent premium.
3. Safety. Yes, aside from the fact that motorcycles tear up and down the sidewalks and everybody is talking on their cell phones when they drive, it is still among the safest places I have ever been. I hear stories from time to time about an attack or a burglary, but overall your chances of being a victim of a crime in Korea are pretty slim. There are few neighborhoods in Seoul in which I would be reluctant to walk through in the dead of night. Koreans are, for the most part, respectful of other people’s property and physical well being. If you pass out drunk on the side of the street, you will have your money in your pocket when you wake up. If you leave your keys in your car there is little reason to worry about it getting stolen unless, and this is a sad unless, it is parked in a neighborhood full of foreigners.
4. Deliveries. Let’s set aside the fact that the guys making the deliveries would sooner run you down on their 100cc scooters than swerve to miss you and concentrate on the fact that you can have anything delivered almost anytime. If you order something on the internet from any of the major Korean websites, you can expect to have it within a day. If you order food, you can expect it within an hour. This is something you won’t find anywhere in the West.
5. Finally, I must say something about Korean food. Love it or just merely like it, you won’t get a more filling and cheap meal anywhere. The side dishes alone would cost you $10 in the U.S. Take for example my favorite meal here, Bibimbap. That with four different bowls of, for lack of a better word, side stuff, would run you $15 or $20 in any decent Korean restaurant in the U.S. Here? The equivalent of $5 or less. You can’t beat that.
So there you have it. If I had to give five reasons why I am still here, these are the ones that would mean the most to me. There are other things I like about Korea, but these are the top five. Hopefully my wife will stop referring to me as Mr. Negativity from now on.
Showing posts with label Tracey Stark. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tracey Stark. Show all posts
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Cat-Man-Don't!
Originally published in The Groove, December 2007
A Stark View
By Tracey Stark
Cat-Man-Don't!
Whenever I talk about our cats in public, my wife cringes. “Nobody cares about Philly and Max but us,” she says. “Put the pictures away.” But I usually ignore her because I believe you can judge a lot about a person by the way they react when you show them a picture of your child (whether biped, quadruped or moped).
I’ll admit it, I gush about the cats (especially Max, but please don’t tell Philly). They make me laugh and give me unconditional love. In return I give them a bonus can of moist cat food that my wife and I have dubbed “crack” because of the way it sends them bouncing off the walls. You really should see it. See, I’m gushing and telling you things that you don’t really care about.
When I was younger, my mother’s single sister had several cats with names like Mr. Chuckles, Napolean and Lady Kitsy. She had imaginary conversations with them non-stop and became the butt of many jokes in our family – behind her back, of course. To my brother, sisters, and me it appeared she had a mental illness. Years went by and Aunt Marilyn stayed the same, only the rotating population of cats changed.
As children, we had cats. Plenty of them. My sisters and I would test their landing skills from various heights, dress them up in capes and pretend they were superheroes by carrying them around like they were flying. But even then we knew that nobody would be even the slightest bit interested in our cat games.
Then one day, many years later, tragedy struck. When my sister Amy turned 35 she began telling me stories about her cats more and more frequently over the phone. “Dexter was chasing Chairman Meow and ran full speed into the sliding glass door and just shook his head like, ‘I didn’t know that was there…” She spoke in a low, dumb-sounding voice for Dexter. It had finally happened: she had succumbed to Aunt Marilyn’s debilitating illness and had claimed the family title of “cat lady.”
The title cat lady explains why I’m not worried about catching a full-blown case of it. I would be a cat gentleman. And as far as I know, there is no such thing as a cat gentleman.
But allow me to get my train of thought back on track.
When my wife and I are out and the topic of pets comes up (and it comes up surprisingly often these days) I flip open the phone and pull up the photo album. “There’s Max sleeping on his back. Isn’t he cute?” I gush. “There’s Philly as a kitten. Isn’t she the sweetest little thing?” And on it goes. Meanwhile, my wife has taken leave of me to make another trip to the ladies’ room or the bar to privately converse with her beer.
The reactions of our friends differ, as do the levels of our friendships. Close friends who know how much I love my cats will politely take a look, nod appreciatively, and promptly change the subject, vowing to themselves never to let it return to the topic of cats ever again. The few friends of ours who actually like cats will give my pictures a perfunctory gush of their own, scroll through a few more of them and return my phone to me.
Then there are those who don’t know me very well and don’t necessarily like cats. These people are my favorite, though I’m almost certainly not theirs. These are the people who don’t want to offend me by refusing to look at my pictures, but do so in various states of distress ranging from nervously babbling about the virtues of dogs (no offense, they add) to breaking out in hives or a cold sweat.
These reactions are understandable. When confronted with a picture of an ugly baby most people are reluctant to tell the truth. We may temporarily recoil from the sight, but we invariably recover and keep our food down long enough to find something nice to say. So why should the sight of an animal you may be allergic to or who may have scarred your childhood in unspeakable ways be any different? (As a child, my cat Joey liked to spray on the head of any human female who was dumb enough to lay in the grass when he was on the prowl.)
With the knowledge of my inherited condition and the love and understanding of my wife and friends, I know I can pet this problem. I can scratch its tummy and kiss its little nose. Then I can dress it up like Superman and carry it around the room like it’s flying.
A Stark View
By Tracey Stark
Cat-Man-Don't!
Whenever I talk about our cats in public, my wife cringes. “Nobody cares about Philly and Max but us,” she says. “Put the pictures away.” But I usually ignore her because I believe you can judge a lot about a person by the way they react when you show them a picture of your child (whether biped, quadruped or moped).
I’ll admit it, I gush about the cats (especially Max, but please don’t tell Philly). They make me laugh and give me unconditional love. In return I give them a bonus can of moist cat food that my wife and I have dubbed “crack” because of the way it sends them bouncing off the walls. You really should see it. See, I’m gushing and telling you things that you don’t really care about.
When I was younger, my mother’s single sister had several cats with names like Mr. Chuckles, Napolean and Lady Kitsy. She had imaginary conversations with them non-stop and became the butt of many jokes in our family – behind her back, of course. To my brother, sisters, and me it appeared she had a mental illness. Years went by and Aunt Marilyn stayed the same, only the rotating population of cats changed.
As children, we had cats. Plenty of them. My sisters and I would test their landing skills from various heights, dress them up in capes and pretend they were superheroes by carrying them around like they were flying. But even then we knew that nobody would be even the slightest bit interested in our cat games.
Then one day, many years later, tragedy struck. When my sister Amy turned 35 she began telling me stories about her cats more and more frequently over the phone. “Dexter was chasing Chairman Meow and ran full speed into the sliding glass door and just shook his head like, ‘I didn’t know that was there…” She spoke in a low, dumb-sounding voice for Dexter. It had finally happened: she had succumbed to Aunt Marilyn’s debilitating illness and had claimed the family title of “cat lady.”
The title cat lady explains why I’m not worried about catching a full-blown case of it. I would be a cat gentleman. And as far as I know, there is no such thing as a cat gentleman.
But allow me to get my train of thought back on track.
When my wife and I are out and the topic of pets comes up (and it comes up surprisingly often these days) I flip open the phone and pull up the photo album. “There’s Max sleeping on his back. Isn’t he cute?” I gush. “There’s Philly as a kitten. Isn’t she the sweetest little thing?” And on it goes. Meanwhile, my wife has taken leave of me to make another trip to the ladies’ room or the bar to privately converse with her beer.
The reactions of our friends differ, as do the levels of our friendships. Close friends who know how much I love my cats will politely take a look, nod appreciatively, and promptly change the subject, vowing to themselves never to let it return to the topic of cats ever again. The few friends of ours who actually like cats will give my pictures a perfunctory gush of their own, scroll through a few more of them and return my phone to me.
Then there are those who don’t know me very well and don’t necessarily like cats. These people are my favorite, though I’m almost certainly not theirs. These are the people who don’t want to offend me by refusing to look at my pictures, but do so in various states of distress ranging from nervously babbling about the virtues of dogs (no offense, they add) to breaking out in hives or a cold sweat.
These reactions are understandable. When confronted with a picture of an ugly baby most people are reluctant to tell the truth. We may temporarily recoil from the sight, but we invariably recover and keep our food down long enough to find something nice to say. So why should the sight of an animal you may be allergic to or who may have scarred your childhood in unspeakable ways be any different? (As a child, my cat Joey liked to spray on the head of any human female who was dumb enough to lay in the grass when he was on the prowl.)
With the knowledge of my inherited condition and the love and understanding of my wife and friends, I know I can pet this problem. I can scratch its tummy and kiss its little nose. Then I can dress it up like Superman and carry it around the room like it’s flying.
Ddeok Ddeok Revolution!
Originally published in Seoul Magazine, November 2007
Ddeok Ddeok Revolution!
By Tracey Stark
In an age of fluffy white bread, Krispy Kreme Donuts and chocolate chip cookies, Koreans found themselves looking inward in search of something flavorful, wholesome and, well, Korean for dessert. The search led straight to one of their most traditional and versatile foods: ddeok, or rice cakes.
The well-being trend, which started around 2002, brought attention back to many traditional Korean foods, such as kimchi, ddeok and dishes made with doenjang (fermented soybeans). Along with the well-being craze came entrepreneurs looking to capitalize on the trend, preserve a part of Korean culture and compete with Western-style bakeries and coffee shops.
Although among Westerners the term “rice cakes” often brings to mind the crunchy, flavorless puffed-rice crackers sold in health food stores (known in Korea as bbeong tuigi), the Korean translation of the chewy, steamed or pounded rice desert is a more accurate use of the term.
Ddeok has traditionally been a food served only on special occasions. Over the years, though, the number of occasions has grown to the point that if you had a particularly large and prosperous family, hardly a week would go by when you did not eat ddeok.
Three weeks after a baby is born, family and friends celebrate with baej seol gi, a very pure-white colored ddeok. After 100 days, they break out the chal su-su gyeong dan (ddeok made with millet and red beans), o-sek song pyeon (five-colored ddeok) and again the baek seol gi.
During the Chosun Dynasty, when a student advanced in school, the family would send in ddeok for the teacher and students.
Weddings, birthdays, funerals and the anniversary of a parent or grandparent’s death all command a special kind of ddeok. There is a special ddeok for when a person turns 61 years old, or hwe gap. This is to celebrate the return of the zodiac sign of their birth year.
But, as the sphere of Western influence spread in Korea, bakeries have usurped the ddeok bang at gan, the neighborhood ddeok maker. Birthday cakes have replaced rice cakes as the centerpiece of the celebration. While ddeok is still served, it often remains on the periphery.
That modern tradition may be changing, however, as new methods of making ddeok meld with the taste buds of today’s Koreans resulting in more flavorful and varied types of ddeok than would typically be found at family gatherings.
Taking it to the masses
On the ground floor of the Institute of Traditional Korean food in Jongno-gu is the Jilsiru Rice Cake Café, which opened in 2002. The café serves 40 types of sweet and savory ddeok, ddeok sandwiches (in which the “bread” is made from rice served with an egg salad filling), tea and more.
In front of the café are parked several tourist buses. Being located between the Jongno and Insadong neighborhoods has attracted many people to the food institute, the ddeok museum, and of course, Jilsiru Rice Cake Café.
“The café was opened to let more people know about ddeok,” said Kim So-jung, manager of the Jilsiru in Jongno. “The well-being trend increased the popularity of ddeok and by 2004 we were much busier.” Ddeok is considered a low-calorie, low-sugar dessert.
Now, as the well-being craze wanes, Kim believes the introduction of more ddeok cafes is fueling the continued interest in the traditional Korean dessert.
Kim said the Insadong location was opened to introduce rice cakes to foreigners who might be more likely to go into a Starbucks.
Carolyn Papworth, a former food and travel writer for Lonely Planet Books and The Age newspaper in Melbourne and a current book editor in Seoul, has lived in Korea for five years and loved ddeok from the first time she tried it. “I’m inclined toward the texture of ddeok. I used to eat it all the time when I first moved here.”
“But the idea of a ddeok café seems a bit too contrived,” Papworth says. “If you want to add ddeok to your existing menu at your café, fine. But a ddeok-themed café? It seems gimmicky.” She does admit, however, that a place like Jilsiru is a great way to introduce tourists to ddeok and an aspect of Korean culture.
Although head to head competition between coffee shops and rice cake cafes tends to lean more toward The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf than to Jilsiru, Kim hopes time and a sense of cultural loyalty will change that.
Sung Jin-woo, 31, an English teacher in Seoul, prefers ddeok to bread. In fact, he says, he eats it for breakfast every day. But he is not a coffee or tea drinker and rarely frequents coffee shops. Until one was pointed out to him, he had never taken notice of a ddeok café. He still has yet to eat ddeok in one.
When his freezer is empty of the rice cakes his mother sent back with him from his last trip to Busan for Chuseok, Sung said he will probably buy a whole cheesecake and not look for more ddeok. “But,” he adds, “if there is ddeok and cheesecake available at the same time, I will buy both.”
Still, Sung believes the cafes and the evolution of ddeok is a good idea. “Making ddeok is important,” Sung says earnestly. “It’s our food.”
Although she eats it less frequently, she still enjoys it on occasions such as Chuseok and the Lunar New Year. “Ddeok is about celebration,” she said.
The changing face of ddeok
In an effort to turn new generations away from cookies and back to rice cakes, Jilsiru has taken the “less is more” approach.
“Traditionally, you had to buy ddeok in large quantities and bigger chunks,” Kim said. By making it bite-sized, Kim says, ddeok becomes a more elegant dish.
Size aside, Jilsiru also focuses on making ddeok pleasing to the eye and palate by combining common and uncommon flavors with modern food styling. One rice cake resembles a California sushi roll but is actually a ddeok stuffed with kimchi. Other varieties resemble cheesecakes or bon-bons. This, she believes, is what will attract the younger generation.
One of the main problems with ddeok is its relatively short shelf life. It typically keeps its optimum flavor for only one or two days. After that, it becomes stale and spoils rather quickly. Ddeok can be frozen and eaten for months at a time, as Sung has proven, but the flavor begins to suffer. The director of the food institute Sook Ja-yoon has been working for years to address these issues through developing a new style of packaging. What she has come up with is a vacuum-packed ddeok that can be heated in the microwave when one is ready to eat it.
One of Jilsiru’s most popular items is the ddeok sandwich. In the past 20 years, it was common for children to have pizza or hamburgers for school celebrations, but they have found in recent years the sandwich has been gaining in popularity.
Jilsiru also offers “lunch boxes” with a small salad, a ddeok sandwich and several varieties of sweet rice cakes for those on the go.
Though some of the flavors available from Jilsiru, like pumpkin or berry, might seem modern, there were around 100 ingredients used to flavor ddeok over the centuries. Many of these recipes were lost and many were just not available to the average Korean because fancy, flavored ddeok was most often reserved for the wealthy.
Other ingredients, such as cocoa, coffee, cheese, or green tea fit into the “fusion” category of modern ddeok.
Jo Ji-eun, 26, a translator at the National Palace Museum of Korea, thinks the new flavors are just the normal evolution of food that happens to all cultures, but she fears cafes will change the way people think about ddeok.
“Ddeok is about sharing,” Jo said “It never used to be possible to eat ddeok alone.”
She added that she would hate to see ddeok lose it cultural relevance.
Kim, on the other hand, looks forward to the day when ddeok becomes “Korea’s donuts.” As more rice cake cafes open and more specialty shops (ddeok jibs) and department stores offer a wider variety of rice cakes in more manageable portions, she may get her wish.
The Institute of Traditional Korean Food, the Ddeok and Kitchen Utensils Museums and Jilsiru Rice Cake Café are located at 164-2 Waryong-dong, Jongno-gu, two blocks north of the Jongno 3-ga Station (line 3) exit 7 and about four blocks southeast of the Anguk Station (line 3) exit 4. The Jilsiru Rice Cake Café in Insadong is one block south of Anguk Station exit 6.
Ddeok Ddeok Revolution!
By Tracey Stark
In an age of fluffy white bread, Krispy Kreme Donuts and chocolate chip cookies, Koreans found themselves looking inward in search of something flavorful, wholesome and, well, Korean for dessert. The search led straight to one of their most traditional and versatile foods: ddeok, or rice cakes.
The well-being trend, which started around 2002, brought attention back to many traditional Korean foods, such as kimchi, ddeok and dishes made with doenjang (fermented soybeans). Along with the well-being craze came entrepreneurs looking to capitalize on the trend, preserve a part of Korean culture and compete with Western-style bakeries and coffee shops.
Although among Westerners the term “rice cakes” often brings to mind the crunchy, flavorless puffed-rice crackers sold in health food stores (known in Korea as bbeong tuigi), the Korean translation of the chewy, steamed or pounded rice desert is a more accurate use of the term.
Ddeok has traditionally been a food served only on special occasions. Over the years, though, the number of occasions has grown to the point that if you had a particularly large and prosperous family, hardly a week would go by when you did not eat ddeok.
Three weeks after a baby is born, family and friends celebrate with baej seol gi, a very pure-white colored ddeok. After 100 days, they break out the chal su-su gyeong dan (ddeok made with millet and red beans), o-sek song pyeon (five-colored ddeok) and again the baek seol gi.
During the Chosun Dynasty, when a student advanced in school, the family would send in ddeok for the teacher and students.
Weddings, birthdays, funerals and the anniversary of a parent or grandparent’s death all command a special kind of ddeok. There is a special ddeok for when a person turns 61 years old, or hwe gap. This is to celebrate the return of the zodiac sign of their birth year.
But, as the sphere of Western influence spread in Korea, bakeries have usurped the ddeok bang at gan, the neighborhood ddeok maker. Birthday cakes have replaced rice cakes as the centerpiece of the celebration. While ddeok is still served, it often remains on the periphery.
That modern tradition may be changing, however, as new methods of making ddeok meld with the taste buds of today’s Koreans resulting in more flavorful and varied types of ddeok than would typically be found at family gatherings.
Taking it to the masses
On the ground floor of the Institute of Traditional Korean food in Jongno-gu is the Jilsiru Rice Cake Café, which opened in 2002. The café serves 40 types of sweet and savory ddeok, ddeok sandwiches (in which the “bread” is made from rice served with an egg salad filling), tea and more.
In front of the café are parked several tourist buses. Being located between the Jongno and Insadong neighborhoods has attracted many people to the food institute, the ddeok museum, and of course, Jilsiru Rice Cake Café.
“The café was opened to let more people know about ddeok,” said Kim So-jung, manager of the Jilsiru in Jongno. “The well-being trend increased the popularity of ddeok and by 2004 we were much busier.” Ddeok is considered a low-calorie, low-sugar dessert.
Now, as the well-being craze wanes, Kim believes the introduction of more ddeok cafes is fueling the continued interest in the traditional Korean dessert.
Kim said the Insadong location was opened to introduce rice cakes to foreigners who might be more likely to go into a Starbucks.
Carolyn Papworth, a former food and travel writer for Lonely Planet Books and The Age newspaper in Melbourne and a current book editor in Seoul, has lived in Korea for five years and loved ddeok from the first time she tried it. “I’m inclined toward the texture of ddeok. I used to eat it all the time when I first moved here.”
“But the idea of a ddeok café seems a bit too contrived,” Papworth says. “If you want to add ddeok to your existing menu at your café, fine. But a ddeok-themed café? It seems gimmicky.” She does admit, however, that a place like Jilsiru is a great way to introduce tourists to ddeok and an aspect of Korean culture.
Although head to head competition between coffee shops and rice cake cafes tends to lean more toward The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf than to Jilsiru, Kim hopes time and a sense of cultural loyalty will change that.
Sung Jin-woo, 31, an English teacher in Seoul, prefers ddeok to bread. In fact, he says, he eats it for breakfast every day. But he is not a coffee or tea drinker and rarely frequents coffee shops. Until one was pointed out to him, he had never taken notice of a ddeok café. He still has yet to eat ddeok in one.
When his freezer is empty of the rice cakes his mother sent back with him from his last trip to Busan for Chuseok, Sung said he will probably buy a whole cheesecake and not look for more ddeok. “But,” he adds, “if there is ddeok and cheesecake available at the same time, I will buy both.”
Still, Sung believes the cafes and the evolution of ddeok is a good idea. “Making ddeok is important,” Sung says earnestly. “It’s our food.”
Although she eats it less frequently, she still enjoys it on occasions such as Chuseok and the Lunar New Year. “Ddeok is about celebration,” she said.
The changing face of ddeok
In an effort to turn new generations away from cookies and back to rice cakes, Jilsiru has taken the “less is more” approach.
“Traditionally, you had to buy ddeok in large quantities and bigger chunks,” Kim said. By making it bite-sized, Kim says, ddeok becomes a more elegant dish.
Size aside, Jilsiru also focuses on making ddeok pleasing to the eye and palate by combining common and uncommon flavors with modern food styling. One rice cake resembles a California sushi roll but is actually a ddeok stuffed with kimchi. Other varieties resemble cheesecakes or bon-bons. This, she believes, is what will attract the younger generation.
One of the main problems with ddeok is its relatively short shelf life. It typically keeps its optimum flavor for only one or two days. After that, it becomes stale and spoils rather quickly. Ddeok can be frozen and eaten for months at a time, as Sung has proven, but the flavor begins to suffer. The director of the food institute Sook Ja-yoon has been working for years to address these issues through developing a new style of packaging. What she has come up with is a vacuum-packed ddeok that can be heated in the microwave when one is ready to eat it.
One of Jilsiru’s most popular items is the ddeok sandwich. In the past 20 years, it was common for children to have pizza or hamburgers for school celebrations, but they have found in recent years the sandwich has been gaining in popularity.
Jilsiru also offers “lunch boxes” with a small salad, a ddeok sandwich and several varieties of sweet rice cakes for those on the go.
Though some of the flavors available from Jilsiru, like pumpkin or berry, might seem modern, there were around 100 ingredients used to flavor ddeok over the centuries. Many of these recipes were lost and many were just not available to the average Korean because fancy, flavored ddeok was most often reserved for the wealthy.
Other ingredients, such as cocoa, coffee, cheese, or green tea fit into the “fusion” category of modern ddeok.
Jo Ji-eun, 26, a translator at the National Palace Museum of Korea, thinks the new flavors are just the normal evolution of food that happens to all cultures, but she fears cafes will change the way people think about ddeok.
“Ddeok is about sharing,” Jo said “It never used to be possible to eat ddeok alone.”
She added that she would hate to see ddeok lose it cultural relevance.
Kim, on the other hand, looks forward to the day when ddeok becomes “Korea’s donuts.” As more rice cake cafes open and more specialty shops (ddeok jibs) and department stores offer a wider variety of rice cakes in more manageable portions, she may get her wish.
The Institute of Traditional Korean Food, the Ddeok and Kitchen Utensils Museums and Jilsiru Rice Cake Café are located at 164-2 Waryong-dong, Jongno-gu, two blocks north of the Jongno 3-ga Station (line 3) exit 7 and about four blocks southeast of the Anguk Station (line 3) exit 4. The Jilsiru Rice Cake Café in Insadong is one block south of Anguk Station exit 6.
Does Tracey Have a Boo-boo?
Originally published in The Groove, September 2007
A Stark View
By Tracey Stark
Does Tracey have a boo-boo?
Please bear with me this month. I’d like to share an experience of mine regarding hospitals in Korea. Don’t worry though, I’m in fine health as of this writing.
Almost two years ago I injured my hand at a bar in Shinchon doing something not important enough to mention. I made it to a hospital that could do with a wrecking ball and was x-rayed. The bone poking through my skin led me to suspect I had broken something, so I wasn’t startled in the least when the doctor said, “compound fracture.” Even when he said “you need surgery” there was nothing to do but shake my head and mutter a curse for my stupidity.
Within a few hours I walked into surgery in a pair of shower shoes and climbed up onto the operating table. The surgery was successful, as was the surprise surgery the following day – another broken bone was apparent in follow-up x-rays.
While I lay in bed recovering, I wondered when I would be discharged. After all, I had only broken my hand. It’s not like I had open heart surgery.
And so began my painful endeavor of leaving a Korean hospital against doctor’s wishes.
As the nurse changed my IV bag and injected some additional meds into me, I asked her if I could go home the next day. She laughed and moved on to the next patient. (Perhaps I should have asked in Korean.)
“To prevent infection, is necessary for you stay two weeks,” the doctor told me during one of his infrequent trips to the broken hand room. (Next door to the broken leg room.)
Needless to say I balked. “I’ll be fine, doc. Just give me a prescription for antibiotics and I’ll clean the wound every day.” I thought that would clear things up. He would understand that I could take care of myself and that I knew how to prevent an infection. I would even save him and his nurses some time and supplies. But his answer was no. He explained that I needed intravenous antibiotics for the next 10 days. Pills, he said, were out of the question.
There was no way I was going to lie back and watch lame variety shows for two weeks, so I called in a friend to help me. A Korean, he is rather imposing in stature and good looking enough to command instant attention and respect. After a half hour arguing with first the nurse and then the doctor, he persuaded them to process me, issue me a prescription for pills, and send me on my way. (They tsk-tsked non stop.)
I understand the importance of caution and I do enjoy a bit of pampering from time to time. But there is a difference between giving someone a bowl of chicken soup and treating them like Terry Schiavo.
I believe my case is far from an isolated one, however. About a week ago, my wife had some bruising, swelling and pain in her wrist after an unfortunate run-in with a door. Fearing a minor fracture, she stopped in at an orthopedic clinic and was examined by a surgeon, x-rayed, and splinted up. She was told it was a sprain and that she should keep her wrist wrapped for two weeks. She was full of praise for their care and diligence and marveled at how little the whole ordeal cost her compared to Australia. That night she unwrapped her arm for a shower and found that the swelling was gone and that it no longer hurt so much. As a precaution, though, she wore the splint to bed. In the morning she tossed it in the bin along with the two days’ worth of mystery pills he had prescribed.
I’m not trying to sound ungrateful for the high-quality and low-cost medical treatment I’ve received. While a child may need his boo-boo kissed and an extra bowl of ice cream, most adults can’t take two weeks off to tend to an ingrown toenail.
But who am I to complain? Back home in America I’d have to be George Bush in a coma to get this kind of treatment.
A Stark View
By Tracey Stark
Does Tracey have a boo-boo?
Please bear with me this month. I’d like to share an experience of mine regarding hospitals in Korea. Don’t worry though, I’m in fine health as of this writing.
Almost two years ago I injured my hand at a bar in Shinchon doing something not important enough to mention. I made it to a hospital that could do with a wrecking ball and was x-rayed. The bone poking through my skin led me to suspect I had broken something, so I wasn’t startled in the least when the doctor said, “compound fracture.” Even when he said “you need surgery” there was nothing to do but shake my head and mutter a curse for my stupidity.
Within a few hours I walked into surgery in a pair of shower shoes and climbed up onto the operating table. The surgery was successful, as was the surprise surgery the following day – another broken bone was apparent in follow-up x-rays.
While I lay in bed recovering, I wondered when I would be discharged. After all, I had only broken my hand. It’s not like I had open heart surgery.
And so began my painful endeavor of leaving a Korean hospital against doctor’s wishes.
As the nurse changed my IV bag and injected some additional meds into me, I asked her if I could go home the next day. She laughed and moved on to the next patient. (Perhaps I should have asked in Korean.)
“To prevent infection, is necessary for you stay two weeks,” the doctor told me during one of his infrequent trips to the broken hand room. (Next door to the broken leg room.)
Needless to say I balked. “I’ll be fine, doc. Just give me a prescription for antibiotics and I’ll clean the wound every day.” I thought that would clear things up. He would understand that I could take care of myself and that I knew how to prevent an infection. I would even save him and his nurses some time and supplies. But his answer was no. He explained that I needed intravenous antibiotics for the next 10 days. Pills, he said, were out of the question.
There was no way I was going to lie back and watch lame variety shows for two weeks, so I called in a friend to help me. A Korean, he is rather imposing in stature and good looking enough to command instant attention and respect. After a half hour arguing with first the nurse and then the doctor, he persuaded them to process me, issue me a prescription for pills, and send me on my way. (They tsk-tsked non stop.)
I understand the importance of caution and I do enjoy a bit of pampering from time to time. But there is a difference between giving someone a bowl of chicken soup and treating them like Terry Schiavo.
I believe my case is far from an isolated one, however. About a week ago, my wife had some bruising, swelling and pain in her wrist after an unfortunate run-in with a door. Fearing a minor fracture, she stopped in at an orthopedic clinic and was examined by a surgeon, x-rayed, and splinted up. She was told it was a sprain and that she should keep her wrist wrapped for two weeks. She was full of praise for their care and diligence and marveled at how little the whole ordeal cost her compared to Australia. That night she unwrapped her arm for a shower and found that the swelling was gone and that it no longer hurt so much. As a precaution, though, she wore the splint to bed. In the morning she tossed it in the bin along with the two days’ worth of mystery pills he had prescribed.
I’m not trying to sound ungrateful for the high-quality and low-cost medical treatment I’ve received. While a child may need his boo-boo kissed and an extra bowl of ice cream, most adults can’t take two weeks off to tend to an ingrown toenail.
But who am I to complain? Back home in America I’d have to be George Bush in a coma to get this kind of treatment.
Sol Hospital, Sports Medicine and Rehabilitation Clinic: Giving injured athletes a sporting chance
Originally published in Seoul Magazine, August 2007
Giving injured athletes a sporting chance
By Tracey Stark
From the outside, this unassuming eight-story building in the southern part of Seoul gives the impression of just another health clinic. But step into the waiting room and you will be greeted by a wall covered with a dozen pictures of Dr. Na Young-moo in action, some showing him tending to the Korean National Soccer Team during the 2002 World Cup.
Another noticeable difference from other hospitals is that you won’t hear anyone coughing, because the Sol Hospital, Sports Medicine and Rehabilitation Clinic specializes in physical and mental rehabilitation for athletes and regular citizens alike who have suffered an injury or were born with a disability.
While serving as the team doctor for the Korean National Soccer Team in 2002 Dr. Na, at the time a physical rehabilitation specialist at Yonsei Severance Hospital, had an epiphany. Coach Gus Hiddink flew in a team of sports medicine specialists for the games. Up until that time, Dr. Na says, “There was no such thing as ‘sports medicine’ in Korea.” Athletes here relied on a blend of massage therapy, physical training and traditional Korean and Chinese medicine and techniques. He learned a lot from the western doctors and immediately set out to qualify as a sports medicine specialist.
Dr. Na was determined to combine the two areas of medicine and in June 2003 he opened Korea’s first clinic specializing in sports medicine.
A well-published doctor and the vice chairman of the medical committee for the Korean Football Association, Dr. Na is known throughout Korea’s athletic community. Professional athletes who hurt themselves while training or competing will come from as far away as Jeju to get what they consider the best sports medicine treatment in Korea.
More than 100 patients come through the doors each day for a variety of problems. Many of the hospital’s 3,000 regular patients are athletes with injuries, but a large portion of them come for frequent rehabilitation treatments to help them recover from serious accidents or the effects of aging, which have left them injured or disabled.
Each floor offers different services. On one floor is a room used for occupational therapy to help people regain at least some semblance of a normal life by re-teaching them basic tasks necessary to get through each day. In another room there are physical therapists working with patients with every level of injury and disability on various platforms and machines. And in yet another room, therapists use state-of-the-art techniques and equipment for pain control and mobility.
On a separate floor are athletes of different ages working out with the assistance of physical trainers in a gym on weight machines, treadmills and stationary bikes. One young man is jumping one-footed from a trampoline to a bench and back again. Not an easy feat, but an exercise said to greatly improve his balance as a soccer player.
Across the hall are more physical trainers working with young athletes – most in their teens – doing more traditional exercises for strength and flexibility. One boy does sit-ups holding a heavy ball over his head and places it between his knees with his feet off the floor. A tall girl sits up straight in a stool and repeatedly stretches a length of rubber cord back, using only her triceps. She is a volleyball player strengthening her spiking and serving arm. In all, the room has at least 10 young athletes, each with a clipboard nearby with a “prescription” of exercises to conquer any weaknesses they may have in relation to their sport.
“Korean culture is go, go, go,” says Young Lae-nah, the head of public relations for the hospital. “Parents want their children to be great athletes, so they send them here for training and assessment. Some of them come six days a week for six hours a day.” Although these children may not be injured, they come to Sol Hospital to get better.
The facility boasts 70 beds for overnight stays, lab facilities and high-tech scanning equipment such as a CT scanner and a digital infrared thermal imaging (DITI) machine. The hospital is staffed by four doctors, 25 certified physical therapists, a chiropractor, eight personal trainers and a nutrition team. These professionals are assisted by a constantly moving hive of nurses, assistants and receptionists, keeping the hospital running smoothly.
Dr. Na’s plans for the future include a school for sports medicine in Korea, but for now his clinic in Banghwa 2-dong, Gangseo-gu, southern Seoul keeps him and his team busy learning and applying the latest techniques in sports medicine and rehabilitation therapy.
Giving injured athletes a sporting chance
By Tracey Stark
From the outside, this unassuming eight-story building in the southern part of Seoul gives the impression of just another health clinic. But step into the waiting room and you will be greeted by a wall covered with a dozen pictures of Dr. Na Young-moo in action, some showing him tending to the Korean National Soccer Team during the 2002 World Cup.
Another noticeable difference from other hospitals is that you won’t hear anyone coughing, because the Sol Hospital, Sports Medicine and Rehabilitation Clinic specializes in physical and mental rehabilitation for athletes and regular citizens alike who have suffered an injury or were born with a disability.
While serving as the team doctor for the Korean National Soccer Team in 2002 Dr. Na, at the time a physical rehabilitation specialist at Yonsei Severance Hospital, had an epiphany. Coach Gus Hiddink flew in a team of sports medicine specialists for the games. Up until that time, Dr. Na says, “There was no such thing as ‘sports medicine’ in Korea.” Athletes here relied on a blend of massage therapy, physical training and traditional Korean and Chinese medicine and techniques. He learned a lot from the western doctors and immediately set out to qualify as a sports medicine specialist.
Dr. Na was determined to combine the two areas of medicine and in June 2003 he opened Korea’s first clinic specializing in sports medicine.
A well-published doctor and the vice chairman of the medical committee for the Korean Football Association, Dr. Na is known throughout Korea’s athletic community. Professional athletes who hurt themselves while training or competing will come from as far away as Jeju to get what they consider the best sports medicine treatment in Korea.
More than 100 patients come through the doors each day for a variety of problems. Many of the hospital’s 3,000 regular patients are athletes with injuries, but a large portion of them come for frequent rehabilitation treatments to help them recover from serious accidents or the effects of aging, which have left them injured or disabled.
Each floor offers different services. On one floor is a room used for occupational therapy to help people regain at least some semblance of a normal life by re-teaching them basic tasks necessary to get through each day. In another room there are physical therapists working with patients with every level of injury and disability on various platforms and machines. And in yet another room, therapists use state-of-the-art techniques and equipment for pain control and mobility.
On a separate floor are athletes of different ages working out with the assistance of physical trainers in a gym on weight machines, treadmills and stationary bikes. One young man is jumping one-footed from a trampoline to a bench and back again. Not an easy feat, but an exercise said to greatly improve his balance as a soccer player.
Across the hall are more physical trainers working with young athletes – most in their teens – doing more traditional exercises for strength and flexibility. One boy does sit-ups holding a heavy ball over his head and places it between his knees with his feet off the floor. A tall girl sits up straight in a stool and repeatedly stretches a length of rubber cord back, using only her triceps. She is a volleyball player strengthening her spiking and serving arm. In all, the room has at least 10 young athletes, each with a clipboard nearby with a “prescription” of exercises to conquer any weaknesses they may have in relation to their sport.
“Korean culture is go, go, go,” says Young Lae-nah, the head of public relations for the hospital. “Parents want their children to be great athletes, so they send them here for training and assessment. Some of them come six days a week for six hours a day.” Although these children may not be injured, they come to Sol Hospital to get better.
The facility boasts 70 beds for overnight stays, lab facilities and high-tech scanning equipment such as a CT scanner and a digital infrared thermal imaging (DITI) machine. The hospital is staffed by four doctors, 25 certified physical therapists, a chiropractor, eight personal trainers and a nutrition team. These professionals are assisted by a constantly moving hive of nurses, assistants and receptionists, keeping the hospital running smoothly.
Dr. Na’s plans for the future include a school for sports medicine in Korea, but for now his clinic in Banghwa 2-dong, Gangseo-gu, southern Seoul keeps him and his team busy learning and applying the latest techniques in sports medicine and rehabilitation therapy.
Them's the Rules
Originally published in The Groove
August 2007
A Stark View
By Tracey Stark
Them’s the rules
Since it’s already more than midway through 2007, I thought it was about time to do my good deed, my selfless act, if you will, for the decade. I figure I’ve lived in the Haebangchan neighborhood for almost a year, so I should give something back.
My project: to clean up a festering pile of trash down the street from my house that had been there for about three months. Now, some people might say, “Why hadn’t the trash collectors cleaned it up yet?” The answer is: because there is a right way and a wrong way to dispose of your rubbish in Seoul. And this was definitely the wrong way.
You see, in Korea there are rules for almost everything you do. Some are actually laws, like the one requiring you to buy special bags for your trash and to sort recyclables and food rubbish as well. And then there are customs, such as the one where women over 50 years old must get a perm and dye their hair. These customs strengthen over time. Ask an ajumma today why she gets a perm and she may not know the answer, but she will assure you that if she doesn’t it will likely result in her death by stoning. When given the choice, in fact (and I have nothing with which to back this assertion), more Koreans will choose customs over laws in almost any circumstance.
For example, while hiking a few summers ago at Soraksan my friends and I stopped to eat our bagged lunches partway up the trail. Not knowing any better, we packed mostly sandwiches and fruit. A large group of locals walked by us very slowly and a murmur began to pass among the hikers. I asked a friend who spoke better Korean than I do what we had done.
“It’s what we didn’t do that has them bothered,” he replied.
“What did we miss?” I pleaded, really worried by this point that a lynch mob was being formed just around the next bend.
“We didn’t pack kimbap,” he said gravely, “and we aren’t wearing black or red clothes.”
Needless to say, we turned back and headed for the car.
On another occasion, I went to a public swimming pool with a few Korean friends. When we got there, they donned swimming caps and jumped in. This is a requirement at pools to prevent great clusters of hair from bunching up and dragging some small child under to his or her death. But I shave my head clean, so I jumped in without a swim cap. Almost immediately a lifeguard summoned me out of the pool and ordered me to put on one of these rubber yarmulkes. I balked and pointed at my bald head, but he wouldn’t budge. “Everyone must wear one,” he said. There was no getting around it. On went the cabesa condom.
But my faux pas don’t stop there.
One morning last autumn I was riding the bus through one of the Namsan tunnels. It was a cool day and I was heading to work, enjoying the morning breeze through my window, which was open about an inch or two. About 100 meters into the tunnel the man behind me literally climbed over me and slammed my window shut. He had a look on his face that said, “You idiot! We could’ve all died from breathing tunnel air!” It’s like that silly game my sister and I played as children during long trips where we would hold our breath when passing a cemetery or lift our feet when crossing railroad tracks. (Well, almost the same except these are adults here.)
After five years, though, I think I’m getting the hang of it, which is why I decided to help someone out who obviously didn’t know any better.
So I bought the biggest trash bag available and headed for the flyblown pile of trash down the street for a little karmic workout. As I separated the tennis shoes from the broken beer bottles an old woman with a bulletproof perm, plaid pants and a floral shirt walked up, stopped for a minute, pointed at me and muttered something about doing outdoor work without wearing white cotton gloves and a vest. Then she walked away shaking her head in disgust.
(I hope she doesn’t report me, because I can’t remember if that one is a custom or a law.)
August 2007
A Stark View
By Tracey Stark
Them’s the rules
Since it’s already more than midway through 2007, I thought it was about time to do my good deed, my selfless act, if you will, for the decade. I figure I’ve lived in the Haebangchan neighborhood for almost a year, so I should give something back.
My project: to clean up a festering pile of trash down the street from my house that had been there for about three months. Now, some people might say, “Why hadn’t the trash collectors cleaned it up yet?” The answer is: because there is a right way and a wrong way to dispose of your rubbish in Seoul. And this was definitely the wrong way.
You see, in Korea there are rules for almost everything you do. Some are actually laws, like the one requiring you to buy special bags for your trash and to sort recyclables and food rubbish as well. And then there are customs, such as the one where women over 50 years old must get a perm and dye their hair. These customs strengthen over time. Ask an ajumma today why she gets a perm and she may not know the answer, but she will assure you that if she doesn’t it will likely result in her death by stoning. When given the choice, in fact (and I have nothing with which to back this assertion), more Koreans will choose customs over laws in almost any circumstance.
For example, while hiking a few summers ago at Soraksan my friends and I stopped to eat our bagged lunches partway up the trail. Not knowing any better, we packed mostly sandwiches and fruit. A large group of locals walked by us very slowly and a murmur began to pass among the hikers. I asked a friend who spoke better Korean than I do what we had done.
“It’s what we didn’t do that has them bothered,” he replied.
“What did we miss?” I pleaded, really worried by this point that a lynch mob was being formed just around the next bend.
“We didn’t pack kimbap,” he said gravely, “and we aren’t wearing black or red clothes.”
Needless to say, we turned back and headed for the car.
On another occasion, I went to a public swimming pool with a few Korean friends. When we got there, they donned swimming caps and jumped in. This is a requirement at pools to prevent great clusters of hair from bunching up and dragging some small child under to his or her death. But I shave my head clean, so I jumped in without a swim cap. Almost immediately a lifeguard summoned me out of the pool and ordered me to put on one of these rubber yarmulkes. I balked and pointed at my bald head, but he wouldn’t budge. “Everyone must wear one,” he said. There was no getting around it. On went the cabesa condom.
But my faux pas don’t stop there.
One morning last autumn I was riding the bus through one of the Namsan tunnels. It was a cool day and I was heading to work, enjoying the morning breeze through my window, which was open about an inch or two. About 100 meters into the tunnel the man behind me literally climbed over me and slammed my window shut. He had a look on his face that said, “You idiot! We could’ve all died from breathing tunnel air!” It’s like that silly game my sister and I played as children during long trips where we would hold our breath when passing a cemetery or lift our feet when crossing railroad tracks. (Well, almost the same except these are adults here.)
After five years, though, I think I’m getting the hang of it, which is why I decided to help someone out who obviously didn’t know any better.
So I bought the biggest trash bag available and headed for the flyblown pile of trash down the street for a little karmic workout. As I separated the tennis shoes from the broken beer bottles an old woman with a bulletproof perm, plaid pants and a floral shirt walked up, stopped for a minute, pointed at me and muttered something about doing outdoor work without wearing white cotton gloves and a vest. Then she walked away shaking her head in disgust.
(I hope she doesn’t report me, because I can’t remember if that one is a custom or a law.)
The Doppelganger Syndrome In Korea
The Stark View
From The Groove Magazine,
July 2007,
Seoul, Korea
The Doppleganger Syndrome in Korea
By Tracey Stark
“Do you know who you look like?” a bartender asked me one night a few years back. I thought about it, and my poor self image conjured up a picture of Uncle Fester with a light bulb in his mouth or some other bald-headed goon.
She surprised me by saying she thought I was the spitting image of Andre Agassi, one of tennis’ greats and, although bald, far from a goon. A short time later a much older Korean woman told me I reminded her of Yul Brynner, a bald-yet-ruggedly-handsome actor from a bygone era.
My case is far from an isolated one, I must add. Almost every foreigner in Korea is compared to some famous white, black or Hispanic person. (A short, chubby black guy I know used to be told he looked like Denzel Washington.)
A friend of mine, let’s call him Dave since that’s his name, came to Korea six years ago. With darker hair and a younger face, he was compared favorably to Mel Gibson and even Rowan Atkinson – a combination that not even my fertile imagination can conceive. Now, with his hair speckled with gray, this truly nice, non-war mongering type of guy is compared to – wait for it – George W. Bush. (I don’t see the resemblance, nor do I want to see it.)
Then there was the case of the young Canadian woman who came to Korea to teach English at a hagwon. She was tall and thin with short brown hair and freckles. Cute, really. One of her Korean colleagues excitedly approached her a few days after she started her job and, barely able to contain herself, told her, “You look like a famous British pop singer!”
As you can imagine, names like Dido or Posh Spice or even Madonna (she’s British now, right?) came to mind as she prepared for, no doubt, a great bit of flattery.
“Who?” she asked, smiling widely and perhaps even blushing a bit.
“Sting!” he co-worker replied, beaming. Needless to say, Sting’s female doppelganger was a bit deflated. But it was her first introduction into the average Korean’s appreciation of Western popular culture.
If the roles were reversed, my knowledge of famous Asians would leave me telling everyone that they looked just like Jackie Chan or “a young Mr. Miagi” from The Karate Kid.
My wife has been compared to Sigourney Weaver. Mind you, this is not an insult, but considering my wife is about 5 foot 2 and Ms. Weaver is a bit over 6 feet tall, it is a bit of a stretch. Her favorite, however, is Audrey Hepburn.
But Koreans aren’t always that far off the mark. I personally know the spitting images of Johnny Cash, Jesus Christ, Jude Law and Alec Baldwin.
But after hearing Scottish Dave’s tale of woe, going from favoring Mel Gibson (and Mr. Bean) to George W. Bush, I wondered how far from Andre Agassi and Yul Brynner the next few years would take me.
Dr. Evil or Minnie Me? A white Samuel L. Jackson? Or Marlin Brando as Colonel Kurtz in Apocalypse Now? The horror!
From The Groove Magazine,
July 2007,
Seoul, Korea
The Doppleganger Syndrome in Korea
By Tracey Stark
“Do you know who you look like?” a bartender asked me one night a few years back. I thought about it, and my poor self image conjured up a picture of Uncle Fester with a light bulb in his mouth or some other bald-headed goon.
She surprised me by saying she thought I was the spitting image of Andre Agassi, one of tennis’ greats and, although bald, far from a goon. A short time later a much older Korean woman told me I reminded her of Yul Brynner, a bald-yet-ruggedly-handsome actor from a bygone era.
My case is far from an isolated one, I must add. Almost every foreigner in Korea is compared to some famous white, black or Hispanic person. (A short, chubby black guy I know used to be told he looked like Denzel Washington.)
A friend of mine, let’s call him Dave since that’s his name, came to Korea six years ago. With darker hair and a younger face, he was compared favorably to Mel Gibson and even Rowan Atkinson – a combination that not even my fertile imagination can conceive. Now, with his hair speckled with gray, this truly nice, non-war mongering type of guy is compared to – wait for it – George W. Bush. (I don’t see the resemblance, nor do I want to see it.)
Then there was the case of the young Canadian woman who came to Korea to teach English at a hagwon. She was tall and thin with short brown hair and freckles. Cute, really. One of her Korean colleagues excitedly approached her a few days after she started her job and, barely able to contain herself, told her, “You look like a famous British pop singer!”
As you can imagine, names like Dido or Posh Spice or even Madonna (she’s British now, right?) came to mind as she prepared for, no doubt, a great bit of flattery.
“Who?” she asked, smiling widely and perhaps even blushing a bit.
“Sting!” he co-worker replied, beaming. Needless to say, Sting’s female doppelganger was a bit deflated. But it was her first introduction into the average Korean’s appreciation of Western popular culture.
If the roles were reversed, my knowledge of famous Asians would leave me telling everyone that they looked just like Jackie Chan or “a young Mr. Miagi” from The Karate Kid.
My wife has been compared to Sigourney Weaver. Mind you, this is not an insult, but considering my wife is about 5 foot 2 and Ms. Weaver is a bit over 6 feet tall, it is a bit of a stretch. Her favorite, however, is Audrey Hepburn.
But Koreans aren’t always that far off the mark. I personally know the spitting images of Johnny Cash, Jesus Christ, Jude Law and Alec Baldwin.
But after hearing Scottish Dave’s tale of woe, going from favoring Mel Gibson (and Mr. Bean) to George W. Bush, I wondered how far from Andre Agassi and Yul Brynner the next few years would take me.
Dr. Evil or Minnie Me? A white Samuel L. Jackson? Or Marlin Brando as Colonel Kurtz in Apocalypse Now? The horror!
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Hwighting! An Ode to Konglish
A Stark ViewHwighting! An Ode to Konglish
By Tracey Stark
Originally published in The Groove magazine, Seoul, Korea, February 2007
“More than 350 million people in the world speak English and the rest, it sometimes seems, try to,” Bill Bryson writes in his book The Mother Tongue: English & How It Got That Way.
In Korea, English is a multi-million dollar a year industry. But what happens when you mix the Korean language’s syntax with a limited English vocabulary?
Answer: You end up with a pidgin known locally as Konglish.
The rise in Konglish has resulted in the creation of English-based phrases used in a uniquely Korean way. Terms like “level-up” instead of upgrade, “hwighting” instead of go for it, and referring to a person as a “mania” of something instead of the something being the mania (or the person being a maniac for that matter). The list goes on and new phrases arise all the time.
A great example of Konglish in its written form can be found at the western entrance to Itaewon (the side coming from the army base), on the left hand side, near the big map of the neighborhood. Here is just the first sentence of it:
“As for Itaewon dong that the Han River is located at south and the Mt. Nam is located at north, Dong name originated from the fact that the post-town in which is Itaewon existed at Chosun era (14C).”
This example perhaps best illustrates how translations can go terribly wrong. If you haven’t seen this sign, I strongly suggest you make a pilgrimage to it the next time you are in Itaewon. When read aloud by a mildly inebriated native English speaker, it has a strong intoxicating effect, leaving the reader befuddled and perhaps slightly drunker.
Restaurants and other businesses sometimes seem to advertise their wares in Konglish/English to appear more sophisticated to non-English speakers. Bars with signs that read “Live and Hof” signify that they are more international in nature than a pojangmacha, because they are using both English and German to advertise their offerings. I have yet to figure out what they mean by “Live.”
Or else they translate their menus directly into English using the first word on offer in their bilingual dictionary - “Ooh, look! Rice with spawn! Sounds delicious.”
Restaurants with creative names like “Born to Be Chicken” near Seoul Station, “Sexy Pig” in Hongdae, and “Donkey Fried Chicken” abound. Knock-offs of Western retailers like “Foot Rocker” proliferate. And misspelled translations made into expensive-looking signs like the “Cigalettes” stands along the main road near City Hall are also common.
While admiring the sheer number of places with such names, one has to ask if this is not a marketing ploy to lure you in instead of the result of ignorance, over-ambitiousness or an innocent mistake on the part of some of these merchants.
A case in point is a little clothing boutique in Itaewon called “Make Yourself Fucking Lovely.” The owner speaks some English and is savvy enough to know her sign alone will attract foreigners and her engaging personality as well as sense of style will entice them to spend.
“More than 350 million people in the world speak English and the rest, it sometimes seems, try to,” Bill Bryson writes in his book The Mother Tongue: English & How It Got That Way.
In Korea, English is a multi-million dollar a year industry. But what happens when you mix the Korean language’s syntax with a limited English vocabulary?
Answer: You end up with a pidgin known locally as Konglish.
The rise in Konglish has resulted in the creation of English-based phrases used in a uniquely Korean way. Terms like “level-up” instead of upgrade, “hwighting” instead of go for it, and referring to a person as a “mania” of something instead of the something being the mania (or the person being a maniac for that matter). The list goes on and new phrases arise all the time.
A great example of Konglish in its written form can be found at the western entrance to Itaewon (the side coming from the army base), on the left hand side, near the big map of the neighborhood. Here is just the first sentence of it:
“As for Itaewon dong that the Han River is located at south and the Mt. Nam is located at north, Dong name originated from the fact that the post-town in which is Itaewon existed at Chosun era (14C).”
This example perhaps best illustrates how translations can go terribly wrong. If you haven’t seen this sign, I strongly suggest you make a pilgrimage to it the next time you are in Itaewon. When read aloud by a mildly inebriated native English speaker, it has a strong intoxicating effect, leaving the reader befuddled and perhaps slightly drunker.
Restaurants and other businesses sometimes seem to advertise their wares in Konglish/English to appear more sophisticated to non-English speakers. Bars with signs that read “Live and Hof” signify that they are more international in nature than a pojangmacha, because they are using both English and German to advertise their offerings. I have yet to figure out what they mean by “Live.”
Or else they translate their menus directly into English using the first word on offer in their bilingual dictionary - “Ooh, look! Rice with spawn! Sounds delicious.”
Restaurants with creative names like “Born to Be Chicken” near Seoul Station, “Sexy Pig” in Hongdae, and “Donkey Fried Chicken” abound. Knock-offs of Western retailers like “Foot Rocker” proliferate. And misspelled translations made into expensive-looking signs like the “Cigalettes” stands along the main road near City Hall are also common.
While admiring the sheer number of places with such names, one has to ask if this is not a marketing ploy to lure you in instead of the result of ignorance, over-ambitiousness or an innocent mistake on the part of some of these merchants.
A case in point is a little clothing boutique in Itaewon called “Make Yourself Fucking Lovely.” The owner speaks some English and is savvy enough to know her sign alone will attract foreigners and her engaging personality as well as sense of style will entice them to spend.
English is commonly used in products marketed primarily to Koreans to give them a cachet that regular Korean products do not have. Take my jeans, for example. They boast “genuine quality” and the “energy of denim.” I think I get what they are trying to say, but still find myself shaking my head like I have water in my ears.
But I digress.
I’m a big fan of Konglish. I’m fascinated by it and have tried to write it and speak it, but my innate attachment to English grammar rules will not allow me to think in this particular idiom. My attempts sound silly next to a true practitioner of the dialect, such as an Itaewon cab driver or bartender or most any hagwon director.
And so I removing cap for the Konglish. Let’s having funny times tonight. Hwighting!
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