Ice

Despite the seeming monotony of existence, life is never stationary. Time keeps moving forward along with our hopes, dreams and relationships with people. What is ironic, perhaps, is that disintegration is also a form of forward movement.

Someone once showed me a series of photos documenting a bird that had died in his yard. Everyday at 5pm when he got home from work, he would take a picture of it, which is either morbid as hell and slightly degrading to the memory (or lack thereof) of this blameless creature, or complementary—proof that something compelling can most certainly come of death and rot, that even in death, there is purpose—a sort of reluctant martyrdom.

This weekend was good. I had a lot of happy moments and I didn't feel entirely alone for the first time in awhile. Sometimes I think it is better for me to be independent, that I don't need anyone, that becoming close to someone else will lead to more sadness, which these days, I no longer believe I can handle. I am not a clingy person. In fact, I am the opposite. I am sure people often become annoyed with having to pursue me, attract my attention. Hope for the clouds to leave my eyes and make me focus on theirs. I wish I were more accepting of affection, but I think I sometimes fear losing the beautiful numbness to which I've become so accustomed.

I am always cold. Frozen, in fact. This weekend, for a moment, I became so warm I thought I might suffocate. But perhaps asphyxiation isn't really such a terrible way to melt the ice lodged in my eyes.

One of my favourite fairy tales is an old, Norwegian story about a magic mirror made of ice. The images one saw in this mirror caused everything, despite its goodness, to appear ugly, repellent. This pessimistic mirror existed in a realm unknown to humans, in a time well before mankind's characteristic bitterness and cynicism. It was owned by a terrible little goblin who in a fit of rage cast the mirror from his home in the sky. The looking-glass shattered into billions of tiny, icy slivers, invisible to the naked eye, but terribly affecting.

Down below on Earth in a small village, a little boy and a little girl—beautiful, simplistic children, who despite their poverty, enjoyed every aspect of life and had been best friends since birth—were playing. The little boy, looking upwards to catch sight of the birds in the sky, did not feel it when the shard of ice pierced his eye and by extension, his very soul…(we all know the old adage…don't make me get cliché..). He finished watching the birds until they flew out of view, then continued his game rather robotically.

Though he'd always been a very joyful, sensitive boy, he now felt very little, if anything at all. But, because of the shard's magic properties, he was unaware that anything had changed at all. His blue eyes, once the color of the sky on the balmiest of sunny summer days, eyes flecked with radiant, warm light, were now the color of a frozen over pond in the bitterest of January cold. When he closed his eyes partway, his blonde eyelashes resembled icicles, unmoved by the temperate wind that blew through the countryside where he had lived his entire life.

Gradually, as the weeks and months passed and he grew, he became cruel, uncaring for the feelings of others, unable to show remorse for the bitterness he now unjustly felt towards those closest to them.

If memory recalls, the story goes on about all of the boy's many misdeeds, how he finally leaves home and breaks his best friend's heart in so doing. Though he had been unkind to her, she had always believed in his innate goodness and had sought to melt the ice enveloping his soul, though in vain. As the tale continues onward, the little village girl decides to go in search of her lost friend and travels throughout Norway's most northern, frozen land, suffering many hardships and nearly losing her life to the frost and the cruel creatures who thrive off it. She finally finds the boy within the palace of the Ice Queen, where the mirror's magic was strongest (it had been created within) and the boy had lost all memory of sunlight and happiness. He was hopelessly devoted to his new queen as a slave would be to his master, and blinked dumbly at the sight of the wretched, ragged, shivering creature that stood before him, imploring him to come home.

I don't remember how the story ends, but I expect in the children's version, the boy is able to recognize the girl, sheds tears of shame and repentance (his first in a decade) and in so doing, melts the terrible ice which had gripped his life in a stranglehold for so very long. If there is an original, un-bowdlerized version of the story somewhere still in existence, I expect that it ended badly for the girl, most likely in her tragic, hopeless demise after realizing the scourge the mirror had released upon the world, the irreversible plague which had affected so many. Still in possession of a delicate heart, she is overcome by the extremity of the cold and perishes. I simply cannot recall.

Perhaps, though I am not so hopeful, the ice has begun to thaw for me too. I must be one of the mirror's unhappy recipients. I got an email from my mother this weekend. It seemed final, like actual effort was applied in its writing. She is tired of me. She is bored of my self-indulgence and lies and unwillingness to be a different person for her. Strange, because I don't know why she thinks the situation with us is any different now, or that it's all my fault. I wrote her back. Twice. She probably hates me more, though she will never admit it.

I had spent Friday night in Seoul after an evening in Hong Dae. I was sitting in a PC room reading her cutting words when I felt the unfamiliar welling up of tears in my eyes. Silently, I typed while a friend watched and brought me tissue. The PC room was cheap. A mere 1000 won for five minutes of misery and empathy. I've never experienced anything quite like it. It was almost surreal. I tried to disregard it, but we walked to the subway in utter silence. The rest of the weekend had a sad tone to it, but I decided to stay in Seoul, keeping busy.

Saturday, I returned to Hong Dae. I wandered around alleys with piercing parlours, bought something for my sister in an Indian man's store, and ate Vietnamese food, which was really quite good. We went to several bars, though we didn't drink too much this time. One bar, I think it was called 'Jamiroquai' (after the singer) was pretty laid back, though the stools were literally falling apart and the menus were written on the backs of cut-up Heineken boxes. Upon attempting to use the washroom, my friend broke the key in the lock. We decided it would be wise to leave shortly after…

We also went to a tiny place called 'Las Vegas Western Bar', which I really wasn't too fond of. It was really eclectically decorated with odd bits of this and that from around the world—oddly enough, the collection, trapped under the bar's glass and strewn around the window panes had nothing to do with Western culture or Las Vegas at all…African statues with erections, filthy old coins from Vietnam, random playing cards, a stuffed bear with a pair of children's panties on its head…the usual. (ha…) The waitresses were a little too chatty and wouldn't leave us alone. It was the first time I've seen a white girl (a tall blonde Russian) working anywhere other than as a teacher or in the military…Just a girl with a regular job…They gave me a free shot of a much too sweet Vodka mudslide (basically chocolate milk with a tiny bit of instant coffee flavouring and a drop of alcohol), which was nice, but I was feeling a little claustrophobic with the attention.

When we emerged outside, it was snowing heavily. I was amused at the overall fascination with snow. I was just trying not to get hypothermia…Instead, I have no voice currently (I haven't smoked a damn cigarette since Friday), have been coughing heavily, and been doing my trademark sniffing (I, of the deviated septum, yes). I promised a real snowball fight when I felt better and had mittens on…

We ended the evening in a very empty little bar where really terrible music was playing. Luckily, there was an Ipod with decent music on hand and the waitress was willing to take requests…We ended up chatting to a man who came in later, who taught us a bit about Korea and invited us to come to Daegu, which I am very interested in doing. The rest of the evening was a blur of neon and swirling snow and taxis.

Sunday was much of the same. I bought a good friend a beautiful mother of pearl mirror in Insa Dong. We ate sundubu and drank soju, despite some major ordering problems—we had no desire for soju, but were actually in search of juice or tea or some (very needed) coffee. I tried Jujube tea and listened to music that made me think of childhood—screechy Indian music with potentially obscene words in them (though who could ever really be sure)—at a tea shop called Little India Café. Bollywood stars just may be worse than their American counterparts (I learned much while flipping through some culturally appropriate magazines…), though not by much, admittedly…

I've been so sick and so cold all week at school. I have a new class on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays for gifted students who want to learn how to write essays. It seems like it could have potential, but now I have to stay at work until 10:30PM. Monday was unpleasant and I was so exhausted. I kept my coat on all day and sat so close to the little space heater in my classroom. My boss is giving me his humidifier, as I've been sick on and off since getting here.

Perhaps it is ironic that Korea's first real snow occurred on a weekend when I felt I was beginning to thaw.

Escape

In high school, I once stood before a panel of judges in what is perhaps the most damaging activity a person could ever choose to do—I was a member of my school's "Intellectual Olympic" team as the official expert in the areas of literature and art. The point of this blog is not to reminisce about a not so distant past. Neither is it to tell of the social Hell of high school—that's a given and anyone who tells you otherwise obviously didn't go to Galt...Rather, my point (and I do have one, although perhaps it is not so much as a point as a catalyst into a different thought) is that last night I was thinking about how one of the judges asked me to tell him what Pop Art was. Standing there, in front of hundreds of people I didn't know (we were competing at a school in Montreal, not that it would have made a difference as I knew no one at Galt either), I babbled on for a bit to give myself a chance to think (the sound of my monotone voice can actually be quite meditative), and then, finally, I launched into a rant about how a lot of art can be intimidating, lofty, pretentious. We recognize that it's art because we stand in awe of the sheer genius of the sculptor's work, how the slightest quiver of a brush can damage an expression, change the meaning forever.

We go to museums to see 'art' because it is so precious that the protection of velvet ropes (soft as they are, they do have a certain authority about them…) becomes necessary. People love this 'art' because they know they would never be capable of such genius—an impossible endeavour. We may call this art 'popular' for a small, somewhat elitist portion of society, but in truth, sometimes images bleed into one another. One landscape becomes barely more memorable than the next. One dead aristocrat, battle-scene or biblical moment becomes not more striking, chilling or more sentimental than the next...We love it all, but this 'art' has nothing to do with our lives (upon reflection, perhaps that is why we enjoy it so much). It is an ancient part of someone else's history.

Pop Art, on the other hand, is for the people: the popular mass society; the strange; the angry; the addicted; the passionate. Pop Art is messy, imperfect, and often cheaply mass produced so as many people as possible will get a chance to see it. Its point does not follow Pater's Victorian idea of 'art for art's sake,' but instead elicits a reaction, be it joy, fear, disgust, anger, sadness or nausea. Pop Art wants to make you squirm. It wants you to question the artist's motivation and to realize that though it is undeniably art, perhaps it really wouldn't be so impossible to create something just as good, just as provocative. Pop Art essentially gives anyone the green light to call themselves an artist (whatever that is—it's highly open to interpretation…), just so long as the work they produce is seen, be it in a loft somewhere, a garage, or a freezing warehouse. To be seen is all that matters.

Late on Saturday afternoon, after I'd taken care of some business, I went again to Insa Dong, the traditional marketplace area, a space that simply (and so endearingly so) vibrates with life, color and artistry. Wandering around, we came upon a tribute to Andy Warhol, he of the multi-hued silkscreen Monroes and Campbell's Soup notoriety. Apparently there are many galleries in Insa Dong, and we did stop in a few traditional ones with beautiful pencil portraits for sale, but this awe-inspiring, many layered space just might be my favourite, as its strangeness had a very sublime, dreamlike quality to it, literal and nonsensical and plastic all at once.

Upon entering this open-air, freezing cold building/warehouse, the first noticeable thing is part of the large ceiling, covered in little shimmering yellow Christmas-tree lights and open blue umbrellas. The lights looked like stars, I thought, and I imagined that had it been warm enough, I would have liked to lie down and get a better view upwards. Maybe, I thought, I would pretend like the sky was falling and that I needed to catch an umbrella (a la Wile E. Coyote) to protect myself from the dangerous stars catapulting to Earth.

In true Pop Art tradition, there was also a place where one might purchase a mug or a plate and paint whatever they pleased: Art for the masses. We were going to try it—and I'd still like to at some point—but we would have had to wait a week or two to return to retrieve it from the kiln's finishing touches. Everything is uncertain—who knows if I'd even be able to find this place again—or if I wasn't just imagining it in some feverish moment of delusion (I've been known to have them)—a fairy palace where time doesn't exist and that will disappear and change locations if ever exited.

There was a staircase to another level as well, decked out with weird little space cadets with rather android like qualities—their arms and legs kind of petered out into rounded-off points and their expressions made me laugh, as even with the long water/opium/hookah (?) pipes jammed into their O-shaped mouths, they gave off the sense of looking very constipated, yet blissful, like whatever they were smoking had prevented any movement, the utter inability to walk, and formed these bulbous little bodies which the skinny, feetless legs could never support. I loved it. The sign said "don't touch."

We also saw giant plastic flowers of all varieties and colors. The sunflower was cool and I recall leaning down to have my photo taken with a pretty purple, somewhat faded African violet (?), not realizing that these things weren't nailed down, were very lightweight and could just roll around at the slightest touch. I very nearly ended up on my ass. I was amused and thought of Alice in Wonderland after she'd grown to a "very respectable 4 inches" and had to deal with rather bitchy flowers.

Additionally, though less striking, were 'shoetrees,'—not in the sense of the word we know, of course, but rather, actual trees, the branches of which housed trees of all colors and styles, sealed hygienically in plastic baggies. I wondered if any of them matched, though on second thought, to wear matching shoes is of probably very little concern to the artist. There were also these kind of gross, white, rather phallic objects with brown splotches on them, not dissimilar to nipples. I think the point of art like this is that the artist wants you to feel as though it's a piece that's open to interpretation, but everyone automatically associates it with something perverse. The artists wants us to go away thinking that we have dirty minds, are sexual deviants and contemplating the possibility that the person next to you may have seen something purely innocent in it. We came to the conclusion that it looked like a structure one might encounter in Whoville, or anywhere else on Dr. Seuss' fertile mindscape. I could go on, the warehouse was richly packed with things both sacred and profane—all subversive as hell, all thought-provoking—but I won't, because this is not meant to be a book, but a humble little blog with but a few loyal subscribers…(:

Later, we explored many booths and stores—I bought a fan and a little green stone that I had hoped to make into a necklace, but I fear I may have lost it…I have come to the conclusion that many Korean artisans tend to have wonderful and strange ideas about the things they make. There were all these little wooden key chains and statues that really reminded me of Tim Burton's The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy…I thought fondly of the "girl with nails in her eyes," "Stain Boy, et al, and became very nostalgic for some of the cool comic book shops in Ottawa…Oh, Silver Snail, how I miss your dollar bin….ha.. Anyway, these little statuette/ key chain things are basically little men decked out with spikes (or other unpleasantly sharp objects) through their foreheads….Little zombie Frankensteins. I thought they were adorable. My heart melts at the strangest things…

We tried to get our picture taken with these two people dressed as teddy bears, but there were just too many children who wanted it more, so I wasn't very assertive about it. A weird guy who loved that we were North American started rattling off all the Americana he could remember. He had no point at all: Batman, Spideman, Superman, Brad Pitt, Madonna, Hulk, etc. We nodded fiercely, encouraging this little bout of insanity, and as he rubbed his hands with glee (I don't often get to use this word, but it's the only appropriate choice in this case), we made our escape. Maybe he thought we were bonding….hah..

I know North Americans are often objects of interest here in Korea, but sometimes it gets a little tiring. Maybe sometimes I'd like to be invisible and not worry about scrutiny. It is then that I wrap my scarf tighter, pull my hat lower and narrow my shoulders inside my warm winter coat. But really, they are going to stare regardless. On the subway, lots of Korean guys in their 20s like to practice their English with me and will just start saying "Hi" a lot. On Saturday, a slightly drunk older businessman type kind of leaned in a little too close to my face for comfort, pulled a crumpled paper plane out of his pocket, zoomed it around my eyes, and finally deposited it in my had as he was getting off the train….Lovely, guy, I'll cherish it forever and ever…

We went to a Vegetarian Buddhist restaurant for supper and it was great, just a nice, chill atmosphere with a lot of variety to choose from. It's the first exclusively vegetarian place I've encountered since coming here and I was grateful to eat something I recognized for once. I like everything, except the green bean dish, which tasted bitter to me, like sucking on an aspirin.

We went to Hong Dae, somehow ended up at Tin Pan (after a few relaxing drinks at a much quieter, more awesome bar) and drank shots, apparently. We decided to pull an all-nighter, stay up and catch an early morning train. I was really tired, but not very intoxicated. We met some 'interesting' (it's a very all-encompassing sort of word) people at Tin Pan who invited us to tag along to a Norebang. I'm not into singing, as I am tone-deaf, but I enjoy watching others do it, even strangers. It was pretty great. I finally got home about 9am after a really great day that I seriously needed—I'd had a rather depressing, unhealthy week, which I still feel very sad about, as the events leading up to it seemed somehow special and impacting.

I was not angry this week. I was just confused and resigned and desired some form of escape. But, as I've said so many times to so many people, how much farther can I really go? I've spent many years, my whole life, in fact, hiding out in my bedroom, turning off my phone, blending into walls, closing the light. No one here but us ghosts… And yet, upon reflection, I want so badly to be a part of something more important than myself. Maybe it is vanity that I rarely let that happen, or maybe it is fear. I hope people remember my rare moments when I really try to expose myself for the human I happen to be. I still find it difficult to come off that way. Humans, myself included, tend to make me physically ill.

I've met many people in my life. I tend to know them for short amounts of time. Never a repeat performance. I've never argued with any of them, really, except for family, but somehow they all just vanish into the night. Maybe that is why I feel strange and sad whenever I've told a secret. It's like I'm just passing on information. I am someone to remember, not to know. Or maybe people think that a couple of intense days is all they need to know a person. I'm sure that this may sometimes be true. One day, I'll fade, become translucent. I'll be a passing thought, that kind of makes you smile or maybe it will make you sad, or sentimental. I never really know how people see me. I never will. But, then, because of how I am, sometimes I think I like this—There is something mildly Romantic about it all—Rather like The Lady of Shallot a woman trapped in a tower, her only means of looking out into the world, a magic mirror. Her descent means alienation, banishment, misery, unhappiness. I know it's not the same thing. I do go out more often these days, I do speak to people, but I often feel very disconnected. It's rare that I feel comfortable. It hasn't happened for awhile that I do feel okay with others, and so I am confused, like I don't know who I am and perhaps I never will.

I am concerned about change. Even though I hated life as a child, I figured that if anything changed, it would be for the worse, because what good could possibly happen to us, to me. I honestly believe that we live in a culture of shame and guilt. These two are the only tangible sentiments people really instil on their children. Everything everywhere is constantly criticized. If it's not being criticized outwardly by someone else, you're doing it to yourself, making awfully sure to self-edit and censor your actual feelings because you know nothing in this life can be kept secret for more than a few moments. I treasure those moments while they're happening, because later, after the jubilation has passed, when we're in a public place and parting ways and I have been removed from the heady happiness of a warm place and a nice person to myself, the self-criticism comes to torment me and I experience an enormous, unbearable urge to leave where I am and run home to proceed to dwell on every sentence uttered, every possibly obnoxious look, strange posture or uncomfortable silence. I hate that I am this way and I know I 'm not alone in mental mind fucking, but I think I may be a more extreme case.

Before I decided to drop everything and come to Korea, I'd seriously considered seeking some sort of "help" (although I have my doubts about whether it would improve anything at all--it may just be the only thing that hasn't been tried, a convenient solution to my messy mind) but I can't actually foresee improvement in my current state. Everything culminates. Everything in my whole goddamned life has culminated to this moment, now, where I feel kind of nauseated, with my cramped fingers and my heavy eyelids, and where I am writing this blog as a means to avoid doing other, unhealthier things. I forget nothing. I repress nothing. It's all on the surface and I've become so ashamed of it, so guilty for seeing it in myself when I wake up, that I can't leave the house until it's been conveniently tucked away in some back pocket or other. Someone once called me a "delicate child of life" and I laughed at his reference to Thomas Mann. I felt it was out of context.

And so here I am with all my wisdom and headaches and weight and loneliness and guilt and denial and memories and disgust and moments of wanting to act on impulse so, so badly. Perhaps I am even nostalgic for 2 weeks ago. Should I feel stupid for thinking this? Maybe, but I can escape everything but my thoughts.

I have turned on my telephone. Sometimes I answer and sometimes I don't.

Oblivion

This weekend I let someone take pictures of me. Having been told my entire life to 'not look so miserable,' most pictures of me and other people result in my face being stretched into a ridiculous Chesire Cat sort of smile. Everyone knows it's fake, but most people keep their own mouths shut about it, as they realize the fabrication is more a result of effort on my part, than deception. This weekend, I was told to "be myself," to not smile if it wasn't in the cards. That was some mighty ironic foreshadowing, because I feel smiling is beyond my current capabilities.

My name, "Aletha" means 'truth.' In Dante's Inferno, Aligeri's character travels to Hell where he comes upon seven rivers. The final and most elusive river is called "Lethe," a river which to drink from means everything and nothing at the same time. Drinking from this river, every personal truth is revealed. One single drop upon one's tongue means to know oneself, and blissful or otherwise, the truth will make you complacent since Man's ultimate desire has always been the quest for knowledge or happiness—but maybe these two are more closely connected than we—the collective, naïve, isolated mass of beating hearts and throbbing minds—think.

So, for one terrifying and beautiful moment, like a nifty magic trick, all is revealed. The smoke dissipates. The mirrors are cracked and crumble away. They fall to the dirt in tiny piles of finely ground dust. And for a whole minute, there is no need to be paranoid or suspicious. The burden of having to wonder is lifted, and maybe for the first time ever you can accept your sadness or your happiness as genuine and not just as a part of a series of convenient escapes. Sixty seconds go by…And then, just as easily as it came, everything is lost, for Lethe is the river of Oblivion. Lethe is beautiful and fascinating but highly forgettable. No one ever regrets forgetting Lethe or having taken that first little sip because they will never think of it again. As for Lethe, it remains in the Underworld, stationary, willing to share the little it can offer, but ancient and oh so tired with the life-burdens of countless bright-light seekers who have visited and rested by its shores, searched for meaning in its reflective surfaces, and then, having drunk their fill, calmly wandered off to Death, unaware of the second chance their new lives will offer them. They are without memory, veritable tableau rasos (blank slates).

Can Lethe really reflect? I don't know. It may have its more lucid moments…I imagine that like a pair of wide, dead eyes, a traveler of the depths might search steadfastly for that entire minute, trying to see inside, to find a source for the new feelings of overwhelming captivation and confusion. But, only able to catch a mirror image, the traveler gives up after that moment and decides to concentrate on himself…Just looking out for number one, Doll, and ain't I fine? … Narcissus did the same thing to Echo and I'm sure it's happening to some forgettable soul as we speak, as it will for time immemorium.

So, click flash, I stopped smiling my silly cattish smile. I gazed into the lens. I made eye contact. I let him search my face for traces of life. I told him that my only philosophy to existence (or otherwise) is that everything rots and revives. I wanted to tell him the story of Lethe. ..Instead, I drank some gin and muttered something about how I wanted a tattoo of the words "Entropy" and "Optimism" because they're the only things that make sense to me.

I cannot—should not—connect with people. Once I do, it's all over—and when I don't for this same reason (I learn from experience), it's generally over anyways—I guess I must have very few purposes. I have never had anything genuine in my life and have never expected to (as I don't feel I have ever particularly deserved it), but hardened to disappointment or not, my feelings are constantly being very hurt. The waters at Lethe always maintain the same depths despite innumerable visitors. Likewise, I have no desire to shed tears for strangers as appealing as they might have been. I have never wanted anything from anyone, so I am disgusted with myself for being so trusting. It won't happen again. I really ought to know by now that like me, other people are pretenders too. Sometimes it is the only way to even be in the same room as another person. When I don't lie, I am too revealing—which is the worst, most scary thing of all for one such as myself. Peel away the layers, guy, you'll find onions don't make me cry…

One of the worst feelings is that I may have caused unhappiness to someone else. That is something I may only reserve for yours truly. I sincerely hope it works out for those directly involved in this situation which I shouldn't even be a part of. At the subway station in Seoul I started to feel very depressed. I lied and said I was hungover. I cursed myself for having spoken at all about myself, for having stepped beyond the looking glass for a moment, when it's undeniably so much safer and warmer in my own fucking head. I hope I manage to find my way back soon. It's far too harsh out here. I shouldn't have stopped taking my pills this week. It was a stupid idea. I just wanted to not need to rely on what feels like pretence. But I guess if that's what the world needs to spin, why should I be special? I've been having some more than unpleasant thoughts the last few days. My old counsellor from university emailed me to check on how things are going here in Korea, I forwarded her this blog. I wonder if she is concerned…

I went to Dongdaemoon this weekend and bought some praying hands on a hinge that open up to reveal beautiful and intricately hand carved Buddha statuettes. It's lovely and I'm going to stare at it tonight while I damage my lugs and heart and should the taste prove too foul, perhaps my arms, with my Raison Blues, my current raison d'etre.

I need some sensory deprivation. I wish I had a bathtub so I could sit in the dark in body temperature water and simulate the womb or something. The 'mother' would be shocked at my desire to have any wish to retreat into her, but it's really more the hiding that I find so appealing because no one will come looking—why would they?

This weekend was frigid. With one exception, cabs wouldn't pick us up. We called the driver 'Joe' and his seats were leopard print. His English was decent and he wore a flamboyantly yellow shirt and a black vest. We taught him to swear in English and I don't think I've ever been so elated to hear someone use the word 'fuck' in my life. There was something just really cool about this guy and for 6000won and a 20 minute cab ride, the price was right. There are apparently no bars in Dongdaemoon or Jung-no 5. There were no tours going on at the Buddhist temple either, but it was beautiful nonetheless. I took pictures, of course, but who knows if I'll want to keep them once they're developed. No regret, just more sadness. Eyes a little less bright.