One more reason to wear heels. And a bandana.

I was recently confronted by an ugly truth: I am getting older. I’m not quite sure if this means that I am ugly, but the realization certainly was. I’ve also realized that motherhood does not make a woman more fashionable. More womanly, perhaps. Wiser, almost certainly – but not more fashionable. Fashion takes time and money and energy - things that most mothers, myself included, often experience a dearth of. I manage to brush my teeth and make sure my clothes are not stained with grape juice and sticky rice before I leave the house in the morning. For months now I’ve been experiencing some low-grade melancholy about both my dowdiness and my frugality, and worry about my looming 34^th birthday. I’ve been wanting a haircut, an exercise regimen, a day at the spa, a new wardrobe, a snappy scarf and new shoes. Better skin tone and smaller pores. I’ve been worrying about what 44 is going to feel like, if 34 feels this much like a failure.

All this became part of an epiphany – or a blog post if you will – a few days ago while I waited at the elevator with my co-workers. I attempted to make cheery chitchat by complimenting one of my younger-but-born-in-the-same-decade workmates on her outfit: a billowing, gauzy frock that looked like it had just been worn on a runway, complete with perfectly tailored pants and spotless heels. Impeccable hair spun into an impossible bun - held together with a single, shining pin - and glowing makeup. It was truly impressive, and clearly required a lot of time, planning and long skinny limbs. Oh, and money. I was envious but didn’t want to show it. I tried to sound genuine when I complimented her.

At first her response was gracious. She thanked me and told me where she had bought her clothing (a swank place popular with hip young professionals) and which I knew only by name, but not by wallet. At this stage in my life I find I am more Gmarket and less Zara, if you know what I mean. But then for some unfathomable reason she peered at me (narrow eyed and smugly) for a few seconds before settling on my shirt and said:

“Oh. Um, I like your shirt. It’s kinda … nice …”.

Kinda. And trailed off dramatically. And cleared her throat. And then pushed the elevator button again.

And that was all I needed, folks. Seriously.

You think I’m going to say I punched her in her fake nose, but I didn’t. That’s not what happened. What actually happened is that any discomfort and worry I felt about my own recycled fashion and Irish thighs vanished like a blemish on Photoshop. And I laughed. Deeply and well. You know - the kind of laughter that just *feels good*. The kind of laughter that just doesn’t happen often enough. It was liberating.

I didn’t feel bad at all because I suddenly saw how ludicrous we were. And how unimportant our fashion was. There we were, standing at the elevator in one of the most respected institutions in the country, taking a break from our work – a job I know we both worked very hard to get - and the only thing we could find to talk about was clothing? I was wasting my time by being insecure, and she was wasting my time by being catty. We should have been holding hands and gazing into each other eyes instead of eyeing each other’s trousers and bags like enemies. If there were teams then we would most certainly be on the same one.

Of course, I’m not sure if there are teams, or if there is a them vs. us. I still don’t know if I’m a radical or liberal feminist. I don’t know if I’m Paglia or Wolf, Prada or Pucci or Palin or Obama*– but I’m sure I don’t want to fight about it - and I don’t want to get distracted by pettiness and smallness. I was never that kind of person, not even as teenager, and I certainly don’t want to start now. I don’t want to be that kind of role-model for my daughter.

And here’s another point: I’m sure that she is going to need role models. Because feminism may not be dead but it is confused right now, and has been for a while. As Rebecca Walker (a few of us around here read her, I guess) said: “if Feminism was Wal-Mart, and had as many decades-old unresolved grievances against it, it would have long ago been bankrupt”. So true.

I’m not sure why we do it. Tear each other down and beat each other up, I mean. The theories are varied: genetics, evolutionary psychology, environment, effects of pop culture, lack of role models, etc … and I certainly have no revolutionary answers but I know that the last thing women need is more infighting, squabbling and jealousy. Really. Because we still have this shit to deal with, and this and, of course, this video reveals a lot too. Pun not intended.

The things that have been causing me to fret: age, baby fat, laugh lines and saggy breasts are actually the things that I should be most proud of. Or, more honestly, I should be proud of the processes that brought them about. And I shouldn’t be just complimenting my younger workmates on their fashion choices and accessories, I should be engaging them in real dialogue about the things that we have in common, and the very real challenges we all face as women: glass ceilings, childcare issues and leering male workmates. And unrealistic expectations. From everyone – maybe even ourselves.

So go ahead, have a good day - and wear whatever you want.

*well, ok. I do know the answer to that one.

This is Carol’s first post on Naked in the Sauna. She’ll be back soon with new shoes and a nursing bra.

Becoming what we're called.

I stole this title from an essay by Alice Walker about being called “dude.” I don’t really have any problem with the word “dude” but it is a lovely essay. But I am only slowly getting used to be being called “ajuma.” The title makes me cringe a bit, because I don’t want to be automatically incorporated into notions of bad driving, rabid consumption, visor-wearing, etc. (no offense Queen Min).

As some of you know, we have recently moved to China. I’ve written a bit on my own blog about how we’ve leveraged the knowledge and connections in the Korean community to hit the ground running here, but last week I really experienced the power of the ajuma network in particular.

Last Friday I took my older son Aiden for his school health check. The two of us moved as one wave towards the entrance of the school with all the other new students and their parents only to halt abruptly a few feet through the door as everyone in front of us stopped to survey the surroundings and figure out where to go. I said, “jian kang jian cha” to the matron standing there and she pointed me to one of the doors to the left. I went into a small room where parents and kids were crowded around a woman with a cashbox and a roster. The mom directly in front of me was a foreigner, I could tell, since her Chinese wasn’t smooth, but I didn’t know where she was from until the two kids next to her started arguing with each other in Korean. Look, I said to Aiden, Korean kids! He watched them from a position mostly hidden behind my body.

I had to fight my way into the cashier’s attention and by that time they were gone. I paid my money for “Jang Xiong Zai” and she told me where to go but I didn’t understand the directions. I figured I’d follow the flow of people, but after stepping out of the office I realized there was no flow, people were going in all different directions. I stood there in the lobby a little lost, Aiden looking at me with utter faith that I would figure things out. I waited until the people who had been behind us came out and asked them where we were supposed to go. That mom also didn’t know and went in to question the cashier again. She came back out and said something to me that I didn’t understand but I followed her and her daughter down the long hall into the gymnasium.

The gymnasium was set up with stations all around the perimeter: one table for blood, one for urine and stool samples, one for a vision test, one for blood pressure, etc. The room was full of kids, some with their parents and some in large groups with a teacher. I took my fa piao (receipt) and showed it to the people manning the front table who checked Jang Xiong Zai’s name off the list and gave me a stack of papers. She instructed me (I think) to visit each station and then bring the paper back to her.
At this point I began to feel like I could use an ally. Not that the situation itself called for any combat, but I felt I needed a cushion from the mass of people and noise. The Korean mom and her two kids were at the blood test station close to us so I went up to her and said, “최송하지만, 저희가 따라가도되요?" I picked the right person. She was surprised and a little confused to find that I spoke Korean, but not as surprised as people usually are in Korea. Her boys are twins, the same age as Aiden, but they tested into different grades, one into 3rd grade and one into 2nd grade (but not in the same class as Aiden). It turns out they live in the apartment complex next to us. (I REALLY met the right person.) The kids immediately started joking around and punching each other; they were already friends. They watched each other with fascination and a bit of pressure during the blood draw and none of them cried.

We went as a group through all the tests, meeting other Korean moms and their kids along the way. The twins’ family have lived in Shanghai for 2.5 years already and their mom (who had her youngest child, now 2, here in Shanghai) was familiar with medical terminology and the system of health checks. If I had been by myself I could have done it (I took Max for his kindergarten tests at the local hospital by myself and survived psychologically unscathed) but meeting her, the other moms, and those two boys made the process so much more comfortable. And it made the prospect of going to this new school seem far far better for Aiden. Standing in line for the chest x-rays the Korean moms and I were working out which taekwondo class to send the kids to and explaining which homework was supposed to be done during vacation. There was one pale little girl and her mom standing in line in front of me who was sort of caught in the middle of this group of Koreans.

After the health checks they came to our place to play with Legos and the Game Cube. We ordered 자장면 and spent hours talking about different schools, about language acquisition, about siblings and birth order, about raising boys, and other typical ajuma topics.

On Sunday we reported to the school for orientation. I met the twins’ mom in the room to pay for taekwondo and bus service. She had gotten there earlier and was waiting for me to sign up for taekwondo too. I went to pay for the bus first and found that Aiden’s name wasn’t on the list. The woman there told me that if he wasn’t on the list I must not have registered properly and he would be put on the waiting list. I started to get upset; I had told them we needed bus service, how could I possible take him to school every day and send Max on time too? The twins’ mom saw I was in trouble and came over to help me argue, and a few other moms followed. Them stepping in to do the talking for a little bit gave me some time to collect myself and recover my Chinese a bit; being upset doesn’t do anything for my language ability. Eventually I went to talk to the admissions director who knows me and she sent her assistant who told the bus people to let Aiden on the bus and that was that. More rigid here than in Korea and you have to know the right person to talk to; I have a lot to learn about negotiation.

But I was impressed by these Korean moms. They seem to speak Korean really well, they know how to finesse a situation, they know when to raise their voices and argue and they know when to sit back, smile, and pal around with the person. KC calls his “전투" Chinese (“combat” Chinese), not because it is necessarily confrontational but because it’s language learned in the trenches, necessary for negotiation but also ready to dig in until one side gets what it needs. Having just spent the last week relying on KC’s tutor to help us resolve issues with our shipment and our broken air conditioning, I was impressed.

We met Aiden’s teacher and received his uniform. It turns out that the pale girl who had been in the x-ray line in front of us is in Aiden’s class and I got to meet her parents who are Taiwanese but spent years living in Boston. I liked them very much and reflected that being in that bubble of Korean speakers had prevented me from making friends with anyone else -- we had spent all that time standing in line next to each other but didn’t actually meet until I was without my new entourage.

Tuesday was the second day of school, and after hammering out further bus problems on Monday we reported to our new bus stop at 7:20 sharp. The bus arrived and Aiden stepped on, then a mom and boy came running up from behind. What have we here? Another Korean! I spent about 20 minutes talking to that mom after the bus left; she had just moved to this side of town from Puxi and has lived in Shanghai for about a year, but was full of worries after switching her son’s school. I told her I had to go take a level test at Marine University where I had enrolled to take Chinese classes and somehow (did I convince her?) she decided to enroll too, so we met a third woman (also Korean, but young and relatively newly married, no kids) and went together. Then we had lunch and ended up talking for 5 hours afterwards. I introduced her to KC’s tutor, who came over to the apartment to teach KC, and she promptly hired KC’s tutor to hire her own children.

Next day. I had to pay the twins’ mom back some money I had borrowed to pay for bus service (yes, I was unprepared, despite finding nearly every day that I need to carry more cash because China is such a cash society) and I thought I should introduce the twins’ mom to the mom I had just met; their sons are in the same class. The three of us enrolled at Marine University were planning to meet and go and buy books together anyway so I asked the twins’ mom if she wanted to come to the meeting place and 인사 to the others. She ended up coming along for the ride and again we spent about five hours talking, adding another mom (whose son is also in the same 3rd grade class) around 11am. The group was snowballing, picking up new members here and there, and I was playing an active part in making that happen, hooking up the people I know and actively incorporating them. I felt empowered by the process; in less than a week I had found a community to fall back upon. After the bus problems I hadn’t had any big problems but the 3rd grade moms were having issues with uniforms, schedules, and classes and they set about pooling their resources to solve them.

This is the information gathering power of the ajuma network. It was a network I benefited from while I was living in Korea, without working very hard to create and sustain it. The neighborhood ajumas had already done all the footwork to figure out the best soccer programs, swimming lessons, teachers, the way to get certain homework assignments done, etc., and I just leeched the knowledge from then, offering my English expertise in return. Now I find myself here in China actively hooking up moms I know from different places who have similar anxieties or interests, building layers of a support system that help me deal with the largely unknown Chinese aspects of living here but also buffer me from those aspects. It is both a blessing and a source of danger, as it allows me to get a lot of things done in a short time (we’ve only been here a month) but decreases my need to interact with locals.

I guess I am an ajuma after all.

So yeah, I need to get out more

This post isn't exactly one for the ages, but I was out and about in central Seoul today for the first time in a while and noticed some things.

First, is it me, or has Starbucks negotiated some kind of deal where they open a location every 50 feet or so? I blinked and like five more stores have opened since the last time I was in the area. (In this case, I am referring specifically to two locations in Seoraemaeul and one around Bogwang-dong near Yongsan. There are already two in Itaewon.) It's getting so you can't throw a rock without hitting a chain coffee shop. Maybe that's while there's so much tension on public transportation. Folks are consuming entirely too much caffeine. Time to chill out with some traditional 보리차, babes.

Also, what's going on with all that construction on the lower level of the Banpo Bridge? A few years ago, another friend of mine said she heard the city was planning to make it pedestrian-only. Any chance this is true?

And what is the giant thing under construction near Itaewon where the giant pay parking lot was? I was passing through in a cab and all I could make out was the big Hyundai Construction logo and some artist's rendering of a building. What gives?

Sorry. Yes, I have been under a rock for the last six or seven months. Why do you ask?

There can be only one

I read Lollybat's bus bump post with great interest, and was tempted to concoct my own rap in homage, but as I have not nearly her talent I thought it best to confine my thoughts to a slightly different subject: the subway.

I've spent a lot of time riding the Seoul subway: first as a Young Thing, later as a Older Married Thing, also as a species of the Pregnant, Uncomfortable, and Moody Don't-Mess-With-Me type, and even later as Herding Mom.

Now, I have an active imagination and a tendancy toward the dramatic so you may take this with a dash of 깨소금if you wish, but I think of riding the subway as having a front row seat at the Spectacles of Unspoken Resentment. And perhaps the latest front in the gender wars as well.

You got your old people, pissed if any young thing DARE sit in the old people seats. You got the men, who used to resign themselves to standing the whole time, who have in the last ten years decided they've had enough and will sit with their legs spread JUST to make it that much harder to sit next to them. They'll even use your shoulder as a spare pillow. You women! They say to me with their spread legs. You think you can do better than us at school and at golf too! Well I'm going to take your seat then. See how you like it. Maybe it'll make your calves EVEN STRONGER to stand a little.

And then the young women. Sick, perhaps, of being all cute and smily in their jobs as the ones who stand in the 백화점 parking lot wearing gloves and saying cheerfully for the 10,000th time to put your blinkers on if you're parking. Or sick of being told what to do by their older bosses. Sick of covering their mouths with their hands when they laugh. I've glared at many a young woman, thrust my 8 month pregnant belly meaningfully in her face as she pretended to sleep or send her important text message.

If you want to know where all the anger and rage goes, look at the suicide rate, the drinking, the depression rates, yes. But look also, my friends, at the Subway Spectacle. Subtlely, surrepticiously, stealthily, and a little bit snottily, people are using the subway to express disenchantment and to take revenge, one ride at a time.

That is why, my friends (although I admire Lollybat's rap), I only think one thing as I approach those doors. There can be only one. Yes, in fact, there are many people sitting in the seats. But admitting that fact is distracting and overly logical. There can be only one. I ignore the signs to stand to the side so that other people may exit. Instead I stand right in front of the doors so that I can be the first person on. THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE. C'mon, say it with me now, you know you think it too. THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE!

On invisibility and other things

One of the reasons I moved to Korea, was to challenge myself to learn. Learn more about the world and the huge variety of people who live in it.
This is what I know now, but when I first arrived here, I don't think I had any idea what I was doing here, or for that matter, why I was here.

I left NZ feeling like I was clever. Wow, I am off to Korea with no information (past what I had managed to pick up from the four books I had found in the library) , no real understanding and no real idea of what I was letting myself in for. I should have realized this was not clever. Writing this down right now, it smacks of not clever. But in the interests of not knowing then what I know now, I am opting for naive. I was clueless. But luckily, like the ambassador of love and humanity that I am, I wanted to learn and know more. So like a little sponge, I started to absorb Korea.

This absorption process has been quite fascinating. As a sponge I have been willing to take in as much as I can, but there has had to be necessary rejections too as I reach saturation point.

Korean style, fashion, use of accessories - what I like to call the cutesy-fun stuff - I am somewhat embarrassed to report, has been well and truly absorbed and continues to capture my attention. I am trying to put limits on my on-going interest in this aspect of Korea. Shopping should not be something that I refer to as either a hobby or one of my favourite interests. Efforts are being made to re-channel this lusty appetite for sparkly cute items with no real value.

Crowd operation mentality. The ability to imagine you are the only one in a world where there are quite clearly, many. The astounding capacity to render every other human being around you invisible - which may indeed mean people actually walk into other people like they are not there. To be single-minded in your goal or destination, with dis-regard (what I marvel at) for any other, creating a world where, charmingly, only you exist.
This, I have yet to be completely sponge-ok on.
I have tried - and yes, there has been remarkable improvement. I now push (a little) when I need to get to the exit on the bus. (I didn't do this at first, and consequently had a lot of bus rides where I was stuck on the bus, forlornly watching the stop I needed to get off at through the back window as we drove away...) I also hold my ground in the public bathrooms, sometimes parking myself so close to my chosen cubicle door it makes things a little uncomfortable when the surprised occupant exits. I also don't mind so much all the touching and bumping and pushing of my body and my personal space. I have spongefied and adjusted to these things.
What I am still having some difficulties with, is being invisible.
I believe I exist, yet to the general population of Seoul, I don't.
This still causes me to have to stop sometimes, take a deep breath, steadying myself from wanting to kick, or even shove very hard, the person who has just walked right into me and continued on their way like I was - gasp - not even there.
This is not just about being shoved and pushed - difficult to understand, but I am improving in this area - no, this is about a deeper issue. The issue of my own existence - which I feel is constantly undermined! I exist!! I do!! It can be exhausting work though, when you constantly have to re-affirm this fact.

Gorgeous Korean men. Check. Have totally sponged up this idea. This one was not hard at all. Got off the plane, saw one of the security guards (now I know he wasn't even a great specimen of fantastic man-candy) and was in love. I was not aware I had arrived in a kind of beautiful people paradise. And yet, yes - everywhere I went, beautiful men and women abounded. Amazing! I could totally adapt and soak up this idea.
Unfortunately, as time has gone on, and (if you read my earlier post re. the marriage question) I am still finding the same err...younger men attractive (and lets just clarify, these are still men - they just may still be in their, say 20s as opposed to my slightly more mature...30s) whereas I seem to attract attention from the more debonaire (or should I say dodgey) ahjosshi crowd.
I have not sponged up this attention very enthusiastically. For the most part though, it's pretty innocent. The odd leering gaze, drunken staring or attempts to strike up conversation. The next level seems to be the staring coupled with the question many women of European descent seem to get "Are you from Russia? Russian girl?" which at first I just took to mean, he was interested in my place of birth, and just happened to place it at the opposite end of the earth from where I really had come into existence (see I do exist!!). After hearing this a few times, I came to understand - through various sources - that nooooo, the ahjosshi was not so much interested in my lovely homeland, as enquiring whether I was part of the sex industry (which many Russian women, often not so willingly, are involved in) and he was propositioning me. Shock, horror!!

Everyday I am learning. This is just some of it. And what I love about being here, is whether I agree or not, feel threatened or comfortable, wonder or ignore, interact or withdraw - Korea offers me something new and challenges my world view - the view that up until I came here was all I knew. I like having to accomodate, to absorb, to sponge up the idea that I am very much a part of a huge crowd of human beings who live on this earth.

Maybe it's the whirring blades?

Hyejin Kim at Global Voices Online has posted a roundup of Korean bloggers discussing the persistent belief in fan death.

As in, why do so many people admit that they think the idea is ridiculous but still make sure they've at least got a window open? Or, as one blogger put it:

Sometimes what we believe without any questioning might not be true. Therefore, we should check at least one time whether what we believe so naturally is really true or not.

Regardless of it, I would like to recommend opening the windows when you sleep with the fan in summer. As a matter of fact, sleeping while drunk in the hot summer is such a dangerous behavior (maybe the drunken people even don’t have sense to open the window). It doesn’t matter whether you have a fan or not. Even when you use the fan, place it near your feet, and so your face is not going to be swollen the next day ...

I have to admit, since my daughter was born, I fall into the 'I think it's bunk, but hedging the bets anyway' category. When I moved here almost three years ago, I thought belief in fan death was one of the most absurd things I'd ever heard. I mean, it's not like it's some superstition left over from the murky mists of time. We're talking about a fear of electric fans.

But now that the weather is so hot that we need a fan in my infant daughter's room, I just can not bring myself to completely shut the door when it's on. I leave it open, you know, just in case there's something to it.

I had some half-baked, pseudo-intellectual argument worked up about the power of culture and socialization versus the individual, and how the surrounding culture inherently shapes the way you think---sometimes against your will, sometimes without you even knowing it. But, this is probably a lame example, so I'm not even going to try to explain it.

All I know is, although I'm glad to have it, I totally don't trust that fan.

bus bump follow up

I have a confession to make. This is something I have not come out and said publicly very often, but here goes.
I am the worst driver.
I thought I would be a great driver(I think we all think this don't we?), but as it turned out, nope, I'm not even an average driver, I think I might be bordering on...terrible. I'm fairly co-ordinated and aware. I thought driving would just come completely naturally. It didn't. I scared people with my swerving corners, my sudden change of lanes or direction, my speed and the feeling that this driver was out of control. And, yes, they were quite right. I was - out of control.
Luckily, as fate would have it, I have been blessed with the rather quaint ability to fall asleep at any given moment. A charming flaw which seems to make people smile at dinner parties, staff meetings, standing in line at the bank...apparently quite a neat 'party-trick' and without sounding like I am bragging about it, quite a few people have told me I am a pretty cute sleeper. Which is just as well - because with the amount of control I have over this thing - it would be a real bummer if I was the drooling snoring kind of public snoozer...

So, you may wonder how being a cute little napper has anything to do with my terrible driving. In fact, I can almost hear your brains ticking over then starting to grow alarmed as the two concepts come together as one ugly nasty idea. Noooooo, don't let the sleepy terrible driver at the wheel!! No, no, no!!! And you would be right. It's a very bad idea. Unfortunately, it was one of those things, a bit like your mother saying to you that joining the very scary looking gang at the end of the street, piercing your eyebrow and getting that tattoo that yells anarchy and insults from your lily white arm, wasn't really great life tactics - yet you had to try it all out only to find out that err, yes, she might have been right about that too(not to mention the expensive laser surgery to try and remove the hate from your skin). Sometimes you just have to do the thing, to find out how very wrong it is.

I knew I was a bad driver. Yet, as I mentioned earlier, I wasn't really that good at acknowledging my lack of ability - at anything - and driving, it seems, was a tough one for me to woman-up and just say you know what, I suck at this, and I really should leave it to the people who have more skills in this area. Yes. That would have been the mature and sensible approach to all of this. But that's not how it goes. Admittedly, the small complication of the fact I had a known condition where I could fall asleep at any given moment, you would hope - pray - that this might have alerted me to the dangers of driving. But no. Again, apparently I was a superstar and these tiny details were unlikely to affect me or others on the road. I was a terrible driver, but dammit, I intended to get better!

Luckily, and yes, this may sound strange, but it was lucky - for me and the rest of the public at large - I had a completely non-serious driving accident (well, there was no person damage, however trees, shrubs, a fence, the power supply to three houses in the street and an elderly couple's recently planted rhododendron collection were all wiped out in the course of my 10 seconds where I was trying to do the impossible - sleep and drive at the same time).
I say luckily because it stopped me from ever getting behind the wheel again. The police who arrived at the scene of my little skirmish with the road (and the abovementioned flora and fauna) told me that no charges would be pressed if I willingly surrendered my drivers license. It was a moment of complete clarity where suddenly I knew, I was never meant to drive again. The people of the world audibly sighed knowing there was one less crazy driver on the roads.

Then I came to Korea. I was shocked. It seemed the entire driving population was made up of very very crazy drivers. It was a rather scary moment when I realised my driving actually looked pretty good compared to some of the wild traffic tangos I was seeing around me every day.
Needless to say, as time has steadily ticked by here in the land of morning calm, as I love to refer to Korea (and you know what, I think I have only seen Korea calm about three times) I have become completely cool and non-plussed by the driving which at first had me swallowing the fear looking everywhere for a seatbelt (was it tucked in here? in here? ooh yes, I have the belt in my hot little hands, but no sign of anything to lock it into - the cigarette lighter perhaps? open the door and slam it in there?). Frustrated, my eyes would water with self-control (which is different from crying I just need to add), my knuckles white as I clutched whatever was closest at hand - although preferably not the driver - in the event that there was any kind of traffic emergency.
Even better than the experience of being driven in a car or a taxi, the Korean bus - back to that bum bumping - is the ultimate experience of traffic madness in Korea. Whereas the taxi drivers exude a kind of macho-cool, darting in and out of commuter traffic with a renegade cowboy swagger (which comes from doing this often and knowing they can get away with it), the bus drivers are King Kong on the road. Biggest and most important, sometimes with a huge horn (which I swear the individual bus driver has had installed for his personal pleasure) it's a "coming through and too bad if you are in my way" kind of mentality. This bus-driver thinking -which although yes, does get the bus to it's destination fairly efficiently - seems to have some conflict with the fact that there are in fact people aboard this speeding tank. By moving and manipulating this people truck at high speed, swerving and braking, accelerating and jerking through traffic, the g-forces and r-forces and z-forces of bus movement are killing the passengers. Old ladies flung through the air - making a good meter or so of distance from standing point to landing point. Men stumbling and grabbing onto anything infront of them - sometimes faceplanting into a pole - although alcohol has also been known to be a factor...It's dangerous out there in the world of bus travel. You need to have all senses alert and not only mentally healthy, but you need to be strong and in good shape, to hang on and keep your balance during the trip from the grocery store back home.
This of course is the story of the passenger who has to stand.

I have spent a lot of time working out the best place to get on the bus, the best time to take a bus and the best bus to take if I want to optimize my chances of getting a seat. Understand, this is necessary research because it's an ugly fight - age (well, sometimes this comes into play, there are still the polite people who give their seats to the older passengers)gender, number of packages you are carrying - none of this holds precedence when it's just you and another faceless person with the same vacant seat set in your sights. Once you learn how to move, elbow and shove in just the right way, that seat can be yours. And believe you me, there is nothing sweeter than the comparative comfort of a vinyl, squishy, broken springs kinda seat when you are watching the dis-comfort and physical acrobatics going on with the standers.

And so, through the joys of bus travel I have come to the conclusion that Korea is the perfect place for this*cute* little sleeper to live. With all this traffic activity and excellent public transportation - why would I even want to contribute to it by driving my own car. I have the bumping bus, a semi-comfy seat, and I am at liberty - along with most Korean passengers too, to just blend in and fall asleep. Bliss.