Busan Journal, Day 2

Chicago-Incheon-Seoul

We arrived four hours early at the deserted Asiana Airlines gate for our 1 AM flight from O’Hare to Incheon/Seoul.  It is hard to imagine any part of O’Hare nearly shut down, but there we were.  We lined up our carryon bags eight or ten rows away from the ticket counter and settled in.  The flight from Rochester, delayed though it was, had still arrived way ahead of our connection.

It is genuinely hard to kill time.  We read, walked around, ate snacks, watched.  Gradually, the waiting area began to fill up.  I remember looking up once to discover that a nearly empty room had suddenly filled.

Not surprisingly for a flight to Seoul, the passangers were mostly Asian. Families with small children, old couples, college and high school age kids traveling by themselves, women and men in business suits – just lots of folks. 

Had we been able to understand any language but English we might easily have listened in on dozen of conversations.  Without knowing the languages, I can often distinguish Chinese from Korean or from something else.  

Still, it all seemed normal somehow.  After years of exposure to international students, the rapid exchanges of conversation, incomprehensible though it all remains, was somehow comforting to me. I credit my many Asian daughters and sons with making me feel at ease both there in the waiting area at O’Hare and on the Asiana flight to Korea.

The flight was as free of trauma as a fourteen hour flight can be.  The real troopers on board were the parents with small children, of whom there were many. One poor woman, seated near the bulkhead in front of us, was on her feet for hours on end while her children sprawled across her seat to sleep.

When we arrived at Incheon, we began to feel the need for English more acutely, if only because we were tired and wanted to move more quickly than our incomprehension allowed.  We were nearly the last people off the plane and we were nearly the last ones from our flight in line through immigration.   

By the time we arrived at baggage claim, our suitcases were circling around nearly by themselves.

We were not sure what we would find once we cleared customs and walked out into the arrival area.  But before we even located the driver who had been sent to drive us into Seoul, Ahn Mi-Sook appeared out of the crowd and gave Donna a big hug.  

 She does not speak much English and we speak no Korean, but we know her from her trip to Houghton last June for her son’s graduation.  Now she is family.

She had come to the airport to welcome us to Korea.  We will learn what it means to be in the minority in the next four months, a first lesson in cultural adjustment.   But at the moment it does not seem so bad; Mi-Sook got us started off on the right note.  She has given our experience a loving face. And that has made a world of difference.

Busan Journal

As a preschooler I began having a dream about falling.  I was always standing on the second floor landing when the railing gave way to my leaning and I tumbled forward into that empty space, crashing toward the floor beneath. I don't know how that dream ever ended.  I always woke up as the railing collapsed, terrified.

I have had two major fears my whole life, that is, two beyond everyone's fear of being thought stupid, ugly, or uncool. One is the fear of heights and the other is the fear of closed spaces.

As a challenge to my fear of heights I used to jump off the high board at the swimming pool.  It would sometimes take an hour or better to get up the nerve to climb to the platform.  Even then, sometimes, I would look down at the water so far far below and climb back down the ladder.  But when I succeeded, it was with great concentration on entering the water upright, feet first.

I can relive it in my mind even though it has been years since I took that step of commitment.  There is the decision to act, which is actually the first step out into space.  Then there is the fraction of a second before gravity grabs the feet in a big way.  Then the plummet, arms waving to keep the torso from tilting forward or backward. Just when the rush in the chest signals heart attack, contact!  The cold braking embrace of the water.

And then, for a moment, I realize I am alive and I could do it again.

Nothing bad ever happened to me jumping off the high board, although the possibilities of real pain could fill a medical book.

Just to show I could do it, beat the heights, I climbed to the top of St Paul's Cathedral in London this past October following my son, who shares my fear of heights, and his wife, who doesn't.  The fear is still there, I realized during most of the climb.  As I looked out over the city from that ity bity walkabout 400 feet or more above street level, hugging the stones in sheer terror, as I fought the fear:  this view is worth the trip.  Cool!  Now let's go down.  Now!

This is roughly the situation we're in now.  My wife's fear of heading for Korea for four months is like my old fears of falling through the railing on the landing.  There is no reasoning with fear like that.
My own fears are more of the high board variety.  In a few hours we will board the actual jet that will take off for Seoul.  It is, in fact, a tin can with wings and lots of thrust.

This is the point of commitment.  We will take that step out into space and wait for the adrenalin rush to catch hold.

Day 25

                                                        An English Winter? No Joke.

Those who gave advice on these things told us not to worry, English winters are mild.  So we left most of the serious winter things at our home in western New York.  We live an hour from Buffalo, which has a reputation for fierce winter weather even though Syracuse regularly gets far more snow and Watertown is a virtual ice box in comparison.

So we packed light for the winter that we thought might give us a few days of cold wind and a dusting of powder.

But we suspected something more serious was up when reports of cold (-22 C) in Wales and highway-closing snow fall in Scotland and northern England began to make news as headline stories. In the aftermath of one storm after Thanksgiving, two elderly people died, having gone outside and lost their way.

As we found seats at St. Paul's Cathedral for a Christmas performance of the Messiah on 8 December, the couple sitting next to us expressed their concerns they would have to cancel their trip down from Yorkshire because of bad road conditions.

London itself seemed to have been spared.  Our day or two of snowfall left picturesque icing on buildings, as on the steeple of St. Mary's below. It was sloppy for a bit and created a few hours of inconvenience, but within days all traces were melted away and life went on without a pause.

The view from our window, pictured in early morning, was snowless again by nightfall.

I went out and took pictures of various snowy scenes involving humans, thinking they might give an idea of what that snow was like.  But I favor the bird tracks more.  These are from the pond in Clissold Park, a seven minute walk from our flat.  The coots and geese and swans were walking on ice that was so close to the freezing - melting point that they left watery imprints as they padded about.

Those of us who live in snow country joke about the havoc created by a "little snow" where it is rare.  Now, having lived in London for four months, I understand that -- all joking aside -- this is serious weather.

As I write, Heathrow has been closed for several days, stranding thousands of passangers in the airport and disrupting travel around the world.  This, from the storm that rolled in hours after we departed.

I am happy to report, to quote John Lennon, these birds have flown.  For those who were not so fortunate, I can only express sympathy. In this kind of weather it is better to find a secure spot, like these hearty souls in the bare tree, and ride it out.

Day 24

Good-Bye to All That

A few left over the weekend, but the bulk of our Houghton in London group flew out Monday.  They stole away quietly, like mice.  On Tuesday the last of our students, Mary was gone.  That last night at the Highbury Center, site of so much activity since mid-September, must have been strangely quiet and lonely.

On Tuesday we began our own packing, took our last bus rides into London center, finished our tour of the National Gallery begun some time ago, checked for left or lost items at Highbury Center, and tried to come to terms with these last hours at our English home.

I had thought I had seen every new thing I was likely to see on this trip, but I was wrong.  As we returned to our high street on the 19 bus from Foyles book store, while stopped in traffic at Highbury Barn waiting for an opening to curb the bus, I spotted this truck.

Perhaps I am still feeling the responsibilities of benign parental responsibility, but when I saw this truck I had a split second of doubt.  When I encouraged them all to leave something of themselves in Islington, I had thought in terms of positive impressions, good memories, an investment in lives.  I trust you took my meaning.

If not, if like the quiet mice you left something behind, the city workers, prepared for anything apparently, are already on it.

Good-by London.  It has been priceless.

Day 22

These Last Days Are A Blurr

One observation that old people make is that time passes faster as we get older. 

The summer that lasted forever between first and second grade now passes between nap time and dinner. How eager we were to make it last forever. How rapidly that eternal summer flew by.

The quickening passage of time applies now to these last days of our prolonged tour in London.  We are working on our last monthweeksdayshours.  Now we are packing and already the taxi is chugging up the street.

In that spirit I am sharing some photographs that embody the blur of time and the hopes of good intentions.

Ah, young love!  Remember early October in the Victoria Tower Gardens near Parliament? 

So long ago, October, when my son and his wife, Ian and Kristen, visited from Maine. The picture, taken at long distance with a zoom, captured . . . just . . . enough . . . of . . . the  . . . moment . . .

Some ideas for photographs seem better than they turn out.  See it, shoot it. I was looking for visible evidence of the past in the present, which is not all that hard to find in London.  My idea for a deeply significant shot of old pier pilings and scavangers on the Thames tidal flats looks less like London than a movie set or than nowhere in particular.  

Another good idea that I could not bring off, the image blurred, its distinctives lost. Incorrect focus or shakey hands?

Soon October ended, and November, and now the brief, dark, hurried days of winter are upon us.

On a recent walk from the Tate Modern toward the National Theatre along the South Bank, I thought to capture seasonal lights strung in the bare trees. They have a kind of mysterious beauty.  Like the season itself, which we will taste but not complete in London, the photograph is more an impression than clear rendering.

The blue blob on the left in the distance is the National Theatre. The mysterious dark figure to the right is my "other half," to quote the young woman who sells me newspapers and tops up my Oyster card, escaping from the shakey photographer into the dark night.

So has London been for us -- a blur, recognizable at times, indecipherable at others, but full of personally evocative and moving touch stones.

Such is this failed shot of St. Paul's Cathedral, using the "night" setting with its long exposure -- a memory-packed touch stone, an image that will trigger and store a dozen tellings.

A bright and vibrant time glowing in the foggy London night across the restless river.  That is London for us now.  It's not my childhood time frame, but then what do I remember of those childhood summers if not impressions blurred by distance and the vagueries of memory?

Day 21

Essential Music

iPods and ear buds are so common these days it would be fair to say that nearly everyone carries their music with them.  Those who are not wired to playlists are often on the phone. 

We used to be cautioned to step aside for someone talking loudly to himself.  Now it is common, and the only curiosity is that they speak so often in loud voices -- as if being in public did not matter.

I carry my music with me, too.  But I never bring my iPod out of the house.  When I am out on the streets, I listen like everyone else -- to the music already in my head.

On a walk in October along the 4 bus route heading toward St Paul's Cathedral and the Globe Theatre, I found myself hearing "Mr Tambourine Man." I was looking for photo opportunities and I was not terribly conscious, as I usually am, of my limitations as a photographer. I live with hope, and like everyone else I always think at any moment I will start doing serious photography.

I was looking for brick walls with stories hidden in them, for characteristically English things, for colorful or odd doors, for the sharp slant of sunlight that would give me evocative shadows -- or for anything that would surprise me visually. The white horse, for example.

Without announcing itself, "Mr Tambourine Man" started looping through my head. 

"Hey, Mister Tambourine Man, play a song for me/ I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to . . ."

Why this song when literally hundreds of songs are available in the brain wrinkles?  "Then take me disappearing/ down the smoky ruins of time/ far past the frozen leaves/ the haunted frightened tree/ far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow . . ."

This phenomenon is essentially an emotional association.  So remembering the lyrics correctly, let alone understanding them, is always not critical to the experience.

My students will often write about songs that they find meaningful.  What they assume or hope for is that  the weight of a song -- its emotional or lyrical association -- will automatically make itself apparent. That is, they hope the song will do its magic on me without additional explanation. But often this assumption is false; the meaningful association is personal.  It must be connected to time, place, circumstances, and (most importantly) frame of mind.

The fact that these musical associations are personal, private, or complicated does not change the fact that they are powerful.  I cannot hear the music to "Out Of Africa," which is known and loved by many, without thinking of my daughter's wedding in 2000.  I listened to that music repeatedly in the weeks as I worked on the poem I had been asked to write for and read at the wedding.  I cannot now dis-associate the two.

Essential music may also be the music shared by couples, who will say, "This is our song." One such song for my wife and me is "Never, My Love" from our dating days more than 40 years ago, conveniently (for this discuss) recorded by a group called The Association.

We shared an evening of essential music in late October when Van Morrison performed at the Royal Albert Hall. Like many of the writers who created my essential music, he is my age or a little older.  But the evening was not about nostalgia.  It was about the worlds that essential music brings together.  It was at once very present and timeless -- a wonderful moment evocatively anchored in the past.

Essential music is a tree with deep roots.

Twice in the few days before we leave England, we will have opportunity for more essential music.  We have tickets to experience Handel's "Messiah," first at St. Paul's Cathderal and then at the Royal Albert Hall. Despite the persistent jokey use of the "Halleluiah Chorus" in movies and advertisements, "The Messiah" has retained its power.  When we heard it performed at Carnegie Hall two years ago, I was moved nearly to tears. 

I expect no less this year.  I have come to understand,  regardless of how I first heard it, that essential music -- especially "The Messiah" -- is not about me or about my connection to it, however vital that connection. The fact that my essential music is shared with others, of course, enhances rather than diminishes its importance.  We can share essential music.

So, while I am out and about -- when I am not hearing essential music, or taking in the sounds of the street, or talking with someone, or praying -- I solve problems. Or I write.  In my head.

It is amazing how the knottiest problems will untangle themselves when the body is in motion and the mind is engaged elsewhere.  To bend a famous lyric of Paul Simon's, it's still useful after all these years. No ear buds required.

Day 20

Late Adjustments

In early September, shortly after we arrived in London, I wrote about adjustments we would face as we started life in this “alien” environment.

Jet lag, our first hurdle after customs, goes away by itself.

If jet lag is a wound, time heals it without fuss, whether or not elaborate coping strategies have been used.

English money is easy to understand because of its nearly precise correspondence to American money. Don’t let the unfamiliar terms throw you. Some, like “quid,” are just slang references to a particular unit; and other references, like “shilling” and “farthing,” are coins now relegated to museums and literature.

The tricky part of money is the exchange rate, which is only tricky if you feel you must calculate a dollar price for every purchase you make. People who do that on an item by item, transaction by transaction basis either have brains wired for those calculations or they have masochistic tendencies.

As far as I can tell there is no middle ground. Learn to see expenses in terms of pounds and save the micro-managing for other things.

The same kind of advice holds for calculating temperature.

We learned a set of formulas in grade school that were intended to bridge the expected American transition from Fahrenheit to Celsius. We also learned formulas for translating weight and volume from the familiar to the metric, because -- we were told -- that is what the rest of the world is doing.

Obviously, most of the shift to metrics never happened. My point here is, learn to understand Celsius in terms of how the air feels rather than in precise, mathematical terms. What difference does it make whether -1 C is 30 or 31 Fahrenheit ? At -1 C the wintery slop on the sidewalks has frozen and walking is no longer sloppy but treacherous.

Other calculations matter even less. Will I ever be interested in determining my weight in “stones”?

Well, eventually, if I were to stay here, knowing how to determine my weight in stones might prove useful, if only in conversation.

None of these things have proven to be major obstacles over the 12 weeks we have been here.

I have learned to navigate the maze of streets and negotiate the bus and tube lines. Even street traffic is less hazardous for us. One only has to look both ways before crossing, which is a lesson I was taught as a toddler anyway.

Practicing the sensible caution is the difficult part.  Doing what one knows is appropriate and wise is generally the issue in life anyway, isn’t it.

But there are a few things that I have not adjusted to quite so easily.

One of these is British sport. I played soccer – excuse me, football – in high school so I understand the rudiments of the game. But I have not yet made the necessary transition to professional football, which is so consuming here. I have next to no interest in rugby, except that I find the sports page photos of bloodied players astonishing. And cricket, which has frequently dominated news since we arrived in August, remains an absolute puzzle.

Reading the sports pages, which I linger over at home, takes me a matter of seconds. I actually spend more time in Business than in Sports. What is happening to me?!

The single hardest practical adjustment, however, is a fairly simple one: the time difference between London and home.

The logical adjustment in thinking would be to simply gear my day, my waking and sleeping patterns, to my present needs. Twenty-five years ago, on our first visit to England, this was an easy process. Day is day, and night is night.

Due largely to communication advances in the last 25 years, however, I find my day reshaped, and stretched. Because I CAN talk with people now, I WANT to talk with people.

At heart, the problem is “real time.” I have stretched my bedtime to accommodate people back home – my grandchildren, for example – who naturally keep American schedules. Not much wiggle room there.

A similar tension arises over emails that I send or reply to in the morning, when I am up and thinking about whatever-it-is. If I need or anticipate a reply, I have a good long wait before these people even get up, let alone read my urgent message.

Waiting, oddly, proves stressful.

All of this says very little about England in particular or about how we manage our "English" life. It does, however, say a great deal about evolving global technologies and on how those technologies have come to manage us.

And it says a great deal about those things time alone will not heal.