A Case of Writerlust: Gangnam Style

I figured I would find a way to address the elephantine joke in the room - next to "say hello to Kim Jong-Un for me" the notion of somehow coming into contact with PSY might be one of the most frequent "what-ifs" I was presented with in the seven months leading up to heading over.

I don't know, you guys. What if I met PSY? What if you met Weird Al?

"I wouldn't meet Weird Al," they'd say, and then I'd just give them a long, level look, and go back to passive aggressively pretending there's something more interesting in my pretend text that I just got on my phone.

Regardless, I knew I would have to mention it eventually, seeing as how there's still billboards with little SD PSYs galloping around Seoul and his face is in every other commercial. But I wanted to do it my way. I wanted a hilarious joke, a real gut busting, knee-slapping, kill-all-the-toons-in-Toonville joke about Gangnam Style that would render anything they could possibly say to me so unfunny it would crawl back down their throat unbidden into existence and just cease to be.

Instead I found something better to talk about.

I'm staying in Gangnam-gu for training, in a hotel in Seocho-dong about two blocks from the proper Gangnam subway stop. The Seoul subway is, to put it succinctly, impressive. I've used the rail in NYC, DC, Baltimore and Philly and mostly just lie back and think of England until I can breathe sweet, sweet air again. (Except DC, I'll give you guys that, but only because you're air conditioned and your Union station terminal is pretty neat looking. But y'all get way too pricey.)

So when I heard that to get to training we would be taking the subway all by ourselves to who-knows-where Cheongdam-dong every day, I was a little skeptical. Thankfully, after the medical exam (which was absolutely ridiculous and maybe I'll post about that later) I went back to our hotel with other people in the program, and we took the subway. It was my first time in the Gangnam station. My jaw hit the floor.

Let me back up a bit.

Ever since I was tiny tiny tiny, there's been a running joke around Christmas time about shrimp. We invite people over for dinner on Christmas eve and my mom always goes balls-out on the appetizers, putting them all on the coffee table within reach of everyone. Tortilla chips and salsa, potato chips and dip, cheese, crackers, disgusting hummus and weird bread niblets, tiny toast (I don't know what the hell that's about), vegetables, all kinds of things get put out on the pre-meal spread.

Including a bowl of shrimp.

It's the season. Christmas and Hanukkah and I guess Susie Carmichael celebrated Kwanzaa and whatnot. It's time for The Dinner. Imagine getting a multi-pound bag of frozen shrimp and spending an ungodly long time running each individual shrimp under hot water. One shrimp, two shrimp, pink shrimp, still-blue shrimp, it gets frustrating and maddening but still you keep at it because Christmas is the spirit of giving and your only solace is that these annoying little shits are already dead and you can't kill them any deader out of some sick revenge.

Eventually, you fill a huge bowl with that shrimp, and triumphant, set it on the counter while you quickly pull together some cocktail sauce. Ketchup, horseradish, it's not complicated but your nostrils and eyes burn and you wonder if any of this is probably actually worth it because no one in the family is doing anything but arguing anyway, so wouldn't it be better if you just took the goddamn ham out and went to go eat it in bed for the next six hours before somebody noticed you were actually gone with the food, tracks you down, and instead of asking what the matter is, asks you "is the ham ready yet?"

But the crown jewel of appetizers is finally done, and you finally get to bring it out to the party. And everyone cheers and leans forward to grab a shrimp and you smile and turn around for two seconds.

And when you turn back around, everyone is glaring at your goddamn nine-year-old who is already practically gnawing on the last shrimp tail from atop her throne of empty carcasses.

Someone tried to take a shrimp from her once, and then changed their mind because it was going to be hard enough adjusting to life with only nine fingers.

Why is this relevant? Because that ten-year-old is going to eat two bites of Christmas dinner and then be "full" because all the shrimp in the world currently resides in her stomach. And she'll be sorry, and sad, but only a little bit because goddamn do I love shrimp.

For fourteen years I have been the Conqueror of the Crustacean, and for fourteen years I have had a stomach ache for Christmas Day straight on till New Years.

I cannot stop, I will not stop. I am the scorpion, and it is my nature.

My point is: Gangnam station is a bowl of shrimp.

Other than the subway, Gangnam hosts a huge underground market. When you first enter it it just looks like a normal subway a la NYC, a convenient store, a chain shop here or there, angry rushing people (but I thought they were Korean?) but it's when you enter the main event that it shines. It's filled with booth after booth of clothing stores, cell phone case stores, accessory stores, shoe stores, and a whole slew of eateries that serve anything from hot dogs to waffles and ice cream to bubble tea. And oh, did they serve bubble tea.*

I went after training today to wash off the stench of sub-parity from my mock teaching performance (it was almost like I'd never taught in my life, God), purely with the intent of possibly buying *a* sweater to make myself feel better about the fact that I didn't do that well. (Am I nervous about getting in? A little.) I thoroughly underestimated the amount of impulse control I don't have. To be fair, I forced myself out before I actually reached critical levels.

The really, really impossibly nice thing about this market - and from what I've heard the other similar ones in Seoul - are the₩10,000 racks. A system where they have rack after rack lined up outside their stores where everything is - you guessed it-₩10.000. Sometimes they have racks labeled ₩15,000. Sometimes they have racks labeled ₩5000 and I completely lose myself. Coming from someone who's spent a lifetime dropping upwards of $150.00 on importing Asian pieces of clothing, I could barely fathom how cheap it all was.
There were stores all over and everything looked like something I wanted to wear. The hardest part was just finding things I knew would fit me in my price range (virtually nothing, but I intend to come back here once I get a real paycheck) and I managed to settle on a wool skirt and a warm vest. ₩20,000!

I was a little nervous going in. I'd heard countless horror stories of foreigners - particularly foreign girls - coming into Korean clothing stores, and the Koreans' peculiar lack of a filter (whether for better or for worse, I find it sort of endearing in a weird, drunk uncle sort of way) meaning they have no problem to rush over and assure them that they won't fit into anything they're looking at so why bother trying.

Fortunately, even despite me being some titanesque force of destruction with my high clearance and huge messenger bag from work, permanently bopping into everything and everyone, no one did anything like that! They mostly just got out of my way and giggled when they thought I wasn't noticing. I don't really mind the weird looks I get, I got stared at back home, too, and here I know it's mostly just out of curiosity and not anything worse. Worse being, I don't know, but something worse.

The one total bummer was, of course, my huge flippers. Korean shoes are adorable and stylish, and we all know how much I love boots. Good luck finding a size 9.5 in women's out here. I don't even know how Dan's going to manage it. (Obviously not in women's. Unless he has a side project I don't know about.)

So at the end of the day, I forced myself out of Gangnam Station like Gollum being physically dragged across Mordor. A wool skirt, a soft vest, bubble tea and a new phone case to better protect my $275.00 deposit...I headed back to the hotel room intent on not spending 6 hours on my homework tonight. Because when you're at rock bottom, there's nowhere to go but up.

More later, I have a ton of stuff to do and I'm trying to ignore the burning hole in my pocket. At least I'll look good while doing it.