Another Walking Story

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5/28/05: The Longest Day

Aeolus Lives in My Stomach (Read Your Homer To Find Out the Meaning)
How many winds does one man have? Shit, I don’t know. I’ve got at least four in me, and I know this because I am on my fourth or fifth wind right now. I’m totally wiped - squeegeed, in fact - but it’s the good kind of tired, the kind of tired that only comes from a day full of work.

Mania versus Fascism versus Fashion
It started with an unplanned hike around the central area of Pusan: I really didn’t know what I was getting into when I decided it would be a good idea for me to, instead of taking a meditative stroll, blaze a trail through the wilds untamed of Shin Choen (the area of town I live in). I got to the highway that runs east-west through the city before I gave up my breathing exercises entirely in favor of manic grasping. For what? For the only thing that an addict like me wants, and the only thing I can never truly have: the quick way, the best way…he says, while taking a swig off of his Bacchus-D energy drink (from the makers of Red Bull), in between bites of Mr. Big candy bar and Strawberry Hi-Chew candy (high-caste Now’n’Laters, which my dirty friends and I, as ignorant youngsters in St. Louis, pronounced “Ni-ah-laters,” as in “annihilators”). So it could be worse: it could be quaffs of Jack Daniels and lines of blow. To some hardcore recovery people, it might as well be, but fuck those fascists anyway. I’m not trying to hurt anyone with this, whereas with the blow and JD I’m blind raging or suicidal or, almost worse, out in the public, in society, with an opinion, some self-righteousness, and no intention of doing any harm. But I digress. Pusan on a sunny Saturday morning is a wondrous thing. I couldn’t see without my line of sight coming to rest on some street vendor with a lean-to, some amazing flora peeking through the rungs of a wrought-iron fence, or some smiling, doddering old man with a Mr. Rogers sweater or old woman with a visor completely covering her worn face. They have these face-mask visors that are translucent, like sunglasses, that can be worn as a visor or a facemask. Having a nearly white, unblemished face is a big thing here for the women.

Coordinated But Disoriented
All of these things and more greeted me as I trekked the wrong way, then sort of the right way, then the completely wrong way, then somehow directly to the school (spiritual guidance system, or dog-like ability to go with the magnetic fields? You decide), the hagwon at which I work part-time Wednesday and Friday. I hadn’t ever walked there or back to my apartment near City Hall before, so on a morning with nothing else to do, what else could I do but try to find a route? Mind you, the route had been shown from the safety and calyptic cushion of an automobile more than once. I just find it difficult to garner any real sense of time or space while car-borne, especially as these vectors pertain to walking. Needless to say, I got hopelessly lost more than once and simply kept walking and following the road signs, fortunately plentiful and in both Korean and English. The same thing happened on my way back - I wanted the better route and got stuck covered with smog-grime and a sheepish grin upon realizing that I have had north and south confused ever since I got here.

Poor Kid
I shat, showered, shampooed, and shaved and got my ass to work, grabbing lunch en route. There is something highly depressing about being in a foreign country and eating a cold-cuts ham sandwich with American cheese on white-bread. I am surrounded by authentic Asian restaurants, and I’m eating a goddamned ham sandwich. For the same price, I could have given a child in Ethiopia meals for a year, with money left over for some black-market AIDS medication. But such is the cruelty of life. I don’t know that kid in Ethiopia, will never see him or her, and will not think about it much ever again, in all likelihood. Harsh.

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