South Korea
In November, I traveled to Korea with my friend Krystal, a friend from Yale who is studying at Renmin Daxue (just a few subway stops away from me) for the year. In Seoul, we stayed in a cozy hostel run by an adorable middle-aged Korean woman who helped us find our way around. My immediate impression of Seoul was this is China 2.0. In terms of road conditions, traffic moves mostly within marked lanes. The vehicles that occupy the roads are quite similar to those you would find in any American city. There is a notable lack of bicycles, three-wheeled vehicles, motorized bicycles, overloaded carts, and the plethora of other not-pedestrian-yet-not-quite-car traffic that so characterizes Chinese roads. I also found that public restrooms more resemble western bathrooms, with flushing toilet bowls in favor of the squat toilets native to China. The subway, I soon discovered, is mercifully spacious and uncrowded, with an extensive network of lines and stops that boggled my mind. The tap water is drinkable and served at every meal. People don’t spit all over the place as if swallowing their own saliva would somehow harm their health, and sanitation in restaurants, as far as I could tell, is reasonably high. Though poverty certainly exists in Seoul, I rarely came by any evidence of it. I hesitate to bring such subjective and judgmental words as “civilized” and “cultured” into this discussion, but suffice it to say, the most notable difference between Seoul and Beijing, as far as a western visitor is concerned, is the presence (or lack) of those characteristics common to cities in most wealthy and developed countries. (And similarly, the presence or lack of those features common to most cities in developing countries.)
Fortunately, I adjusted to the shock of being in a developed Asian country very quickly. Krystal and I had a great time exploring the city, visiting palaces, meandering bustling commercial alleyways and hopping student neighborhoods, admiring block upon block of gorgeous lit lanterns (for Seoul’s annual lantern festival), and absorbing the general atmosphere of excited preparation in the days before hosting the G20 Summit.
The culinary delights of South Korea were not lost on us either. Although we frequently were forced to order items off menus literally at random, I cannot remember eating a single dish I did not like. Without specific knowledge of ingredients or preparation style (which we were helpless to communicate), it is very difficult to convey the different kinds of foods we encountered, but I will try anyway. On our first night, our random pointing brought us a brothy soup filled with many different large pieces of spongy tofu and fish-flavored chunks, which our waitress promptly cut up with a pair of scissors. We also got large tortilla-esque dish covered in a tuna salad-esque spread, topped with French onion ring-esque flakes. It tasted like none of those. On the street, we ate battered and fried vegetables similar to Japanese tempura, sticky rice cylinders covered in the sweet red sauce universal to Korean cuisine, and a pancake-like dessert with a gooey cinnamon sugar or green tea filling. Of course, we indulged in Korean barbecue (duck and beef bulgogi) which was, unsurprisingly, better than the Korean barbecue restaurants sprinkled throughout Wudaokou (my neighborhood in Beijing). (For the uninitiated, Korean barbecue is kind of like Hibachi, minus the acrobatics.) A friend of Krystal’s living in Seoul introduced us to a kind of curry chicken also cooked at the table, followed by a spicy cheesy fried rice. This was perhaps my favorite of all the foods we tried. We were also happy to discover that the 2010 kimchee shortage seemed to have eased by the time we arrived. (The Koreans swallowed their pride and started importing the cabbage from China.) The most memorable meal, however, was on our last night when we gave in to curiosity and ate at one of the many restaurants in Seoul that proudly display all manner of sea creature in tanks in the front window. Playing it safe, we ordered a squid and an eel, but neglected to specify our preferred form of preparation, falsely assuming the cook would just pick one we’d like well enough. Our order came out very fast. A plate of suspiciously glistening squid tentacles. We slowly realized these tentacles were still moving! I poked one gently with a chopstick and it wiggled. Then Krystal, upping the level of experimentation, took her fork and stabbed a tentacle, which proceeded to writhe as if in pain. The tentacles were fascinating, but neither one of us was quite prepared to eat food that was still protesting as it went down. So we sent the plate back to be cooked, and had a more or less normal dinner from there out.
Of all the activities we did while in South Korea, the one that will stay with me for the rest of my life was our trip to the DMZ (Demilitarized Zone), which took us right up to the border with North Korea at Panmunjom, where the 1953 armistice agreement was signed. At the Joint Security Area, where current day talks between the two sides take place, we were technically able to step across the border into North Korean territory. It was an incredibly eerie experience, standing on “the most heavily guarded border in the world.” The fact that busloads of tourists visit the DMZ every day doesn’t make the experience any less real, or necessarily more safe, even. The entire day, at some points more than others, we were under very strict orders. Do not stand on the bus. Do not take pictures. Do not talk. Do not point, lest a North Korean soldier think you are pointing a gun. Do not wave or make exaggerated expressions, lest you become the object of North Korean propaganda. In retrospect, it is terrifying to think that while at the JSA, I could have been shot just for breaking into a dance. (It was probably a wise decision to only inform my parents of the day’s activity once it was over.) It was only a few weeks after our tour that the worst hostilities between the North and South in decades broke out. Nobody knows the future of North and South Korean relations, but it seems likely that, in the distant future, for reasons either good or bad, having straddled the border of these two countries will seem unimaginable.
Before flying to Seoul, I took on the task of learning the Korean writing and phonetic system, with, at best, partial success. The process, though, just hit me over the head with the contrast between the learning curves of Chinese and Korean, at least in the very beginning stages. One could argue about how Korean has more difficult grammar and whatnot, but when it comes to reading, there is no comparison. After just a few days, I could slowly sound out (probably not very accurately) pretty much any written Korean word. Of course, this is not very helpful when one doesn’t know the meaning of the word one is pronouncing, but it wasn’t a complete waste either. Korean has many borrowings from both English and Chinese, so, with a little bit of context, I was able to figure out the meanings of some words I could sound out (Coca Cola, bank, crispy crunch, etc.) I’d like to learn more Korean, but for now, it’s probably wisest for me to just focus on Chinese.
Ever since this trip, I have had a heightened interest in Korean culture, history, and current day affairs. If any readers have recommendations for books relating to any of these aspects of Korea, please leave a comment! (I have a kindle, so I can probably download it.)
Classical Chinese
At the start of IUP’s second module (of four), I elected to study classical Chinese. It’s hard to describe what classical Chinese actually is, since English really has no equivalent. According to Wikipedia (give me a break, it’s my blog), “Classical Chinese is a traditional style of written Chinese based on the grammar and vocabulary of ancient Chinese, making it different from any modern spoken form of Chinese.” In fact, classical Chinese was always different from spoken Chinese, even at the time many of the great classical texts were written. It was only ever used and understood by scholars, but partly for this reason, knowledge of classical texts was able to be passed down even as the spoken language evolved. In spite of its lofty origins, classical Chinese is still highly relevant to anyone who is serious about learning Chinese, or gaining a deeper understanding of Chinese culture, history, and philosophy. Many of the stories we read in this class are stories every Chinese person knows, whether they have studied it formally in school or not. Each story reveals something about Chinese thought, whether Confucian, Daoist, or Legalist. The titles and terms of address are indirectly informative about traditional Chinese social structures and relations. Most importantly, there are vestiges of classical Chinese found all over modern Chinese. Set idioms in Chinese (called chengyu) all derive from classical Chinese. Knowing the grammar of classical Chinese, and the meaning of different characters in their classical context is extremely helpful in interpreting the meanings of different chengyu and understanding formal written Chinese, especially the style of writing found in Chinese newspapers.
Aside from these benefits, I’ve found classical Chinese to just be an enjoyable class on the whole. It really serves to break the monotony of the modern Chinese classes, which all have the same basic structure. With the greater emphasis on grammar, I also get to exercise a different part of my brain. In modern Chinese, besides sentence word order (S-V-O), and memorizing some different sentence structures, there is not much grammar to worry about. In classical Chinese, we focus on a lot of nitty-gritty grammar rules, which can be an analytical challenge and fun change of pace.
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