March

March 1

The sound is overwhelming, deafening is an understatement. Two stages, 300 meters apart at most, voices with political rhetoric blaring from large speaker racks that hang from cranes high above the ground. Between the stages a crowd of thousands and thousands, that make a fair reflection of today’s conservative, rightwing Korea. They cheer when they’re asked to, they sing when they can and they all display a weird combination of happy anger, or angry happiness. All speeches follow a similar pattern and boast a similar tone; it’s either political or religious. The current president is very good, the previous one is very bad. America is the ally, the communists the axis of evil. God is crucial, heathens should be crucified. All the while everyone is incredibly friendly to me, many take me for an American, so I’m the ally. I walk around, snap pictures, and talk with people over the course of 2,5 hours. Conversations follow the same pattern over and over; there’s shouting to outcry the hellish noise, and ‘No, I’m not from America!‘ and ‘Thank you yes, but no I don’t speak Korean very well.’ and when we find out I’m not particularly against the previous president there’s compassionate head shaking at best. It’s where most conversations end.

I see a guy dressed as Jesus, carrying a crucifix through the crowds and can’t withhold a little smile. There are flags, thousands of flags. The Korean flag in countless different sizes, on umbrellas, and capes, and masks and balloons. American flags, I even spot an Israeli and a Ukrainian flag. There’s a man holding a sign that says ‘Homosex is sin. Repent.’ His friend a meter to the left holding another crucifix. Gayfriend? And wait, is that man wearing a woollen tracksuit, decorated with Korean flags? Is that a home-knit tracksuit? I approach him to find out and – even better! – when he turns around he appears to carry a portrait of the late president Park Chung-Hee. A devote follower of the military strongman who closed more than his two eyes to the human collateral damage that had to be sacrificed to lift South Korea out of poverty in the 60’s and 70’s. The man doesn’t understand my question about the knitting but is happy to pose for a shot. A beauty if you ask me. Making someone pose in a large crowd can result in other people seeing the need to approach me to have their picture taken too so I laugh and agree to a group of three demanding their looks to be eternalised. One is dressed as an army trooper, slightly overweight though and I’m doubtful if he’ll be of much use when the enemy strikes later today. As soon as I kneel down for perspective, one of them unfolds a star spangled banner, making the picture useless for me. They’re happy though, so we laugh some more, and when I walk away I decide I shall share the image with my friend Jack tonight, finding use for the picture after all.

There’s police dressed in yellow jackets e-ve-ry-where. Protesting is a common habit of many and can often gather massive crowds. I never feel unsafe in Korean crowds myself, especially when hosted out in the open, on the major 10-lane street in front of the palace. Most people are respectful of each other’s presence, and the occasional collision or heel trip is usually met with remorseful bows. The only exception being older Korean ladies. Every Seoulite is well aware of the fact that older Korean ladies among crowds and in public transport are known to physically stand their ground, to forcefully make their way to the head of the line, or barge through impassable crowds. Elbows, knees, umbrella’s, whatever it takes. The shorter in height, the fiercer they are. As for today though, with the recent Halloween disaster fresh in everyone’s mind, it feels as if police security has been doubled and there are organising volunteers every step of the way. Smiling and gently waving and pushing everyone in the right direction.

It’s March 1, the day Korea commemorates the March 1st Movement, a large protest (some say the largest) against the Japanese oppressors that kicked off on this day in 1919, in Seoul, and then rapidly spread across the country. Thousands of people were killed, wounded and arrested, and the Japanese had to dig deep to silence the suppressed. It’s one of the major days of memorial in South Korea, a national holiday, celebrated almost by everyone. It’s just this area, nearby city hall and the palaces that’s hijacked by the conservatist right every year. As with every national holiday the Korean flag, taegukgi, lines every major street of Seoul in the week approaching the event and I decided last night a taegukgi-themed photowalk to be on today’s cards. Twenty kilometers on foot, 97 pictures remain after the first round of ‘keep-or-delete’ selection, a head numb by megaphone’s, police officer whistles, the ever-blasting Siberian wind bouncing between the high-rise of Gwanghwamun Square, and my attempts at trying to grasp people’s stupidity. Probably words don’t do a lot of justice today, I’m adding several photo’s to make up for what’s missing. I’m toast and in dire need of 10 hours of sleep.

March 2

The content of my dreams tends to slip away mysteriously in the five seconds it takes me to stumble from the bed to the alarm. It’s rare for me to be able to produce a coherent recollection of a dream for Inyoung after, and six years into our relationship she is now on the verge of giving up on asking altogether. Last night’s dream content wasn’t any different, albeit for the one noun I managed to scribble on a piece of paper I found on the table while going full Uri Geller on a morning bladder that screamed for its morning routine.

Cargo ship.

That’s all I have of the final part of my dream, just before being rudely summoned back to life in the real world. A cargo ship on toast, with baked beans and tomato sauce. A horse sized cargo ship left to rust in the back-end of the stables. Cargo ships that tap-dance, cargo ships with an interest for fencing. It’s all possible. I simply don’t remember more.

Then why did I write it down? A cargo ship in whatever shape or form appeared in dream land and that reminded me of the one time I secured myself a bunk aboard a cargo ship that sailed from the northern German town of Lübeck to the northern Baltic coast town Oulu in Finland. It’s one of the fondest travel memories I have, it kickstarted my backpack travels a week or two after leaving the adidas offices in 2016. I have always had a nag for ships that cross oceans and as a kid I even considered the possibility to work on one. Maybe it’s the gentle rocking of the water of the canal where I lived with mom and dad, that rooted something in me. Maybe it’s the children books my father often gifted me; tales of strong Dutch boys who’d coincidentally end up on ships bound for Indonesia, or on war ships battling the Germans. Before heading out to Finland and all the world after, I told myself this would be one of the few occasions in life that the dream could become reality. A now or never kind of approach. Have to. Travel. Crossing oceans.

While emptying my bladder I remember having started (and soon also abandoned) another blog while on the road at the time. I can’t recall formally closing it and wonder if it’s still around. Somewhere in a dank corner of the internet, waiting to be undusted by its rightful owner. Seven years is a long time, I wasn’t as calm at the time as I am these days, and I was writing with a mind focused on adventures not on keeping the folks at home updated. As a consequence I’m not too hopeful about the quality of the writing but it can serve as a nice refresher to jot down some more thoughts here tomorrow. I’ll park that for tomorrow’s writing when there’s more time and attention to give it the attention it deserves. And in the meantime I’ll see if I can retrieve that blog.

March 3

It’s the late afternoon of January 8, a grey and unpleasantly cold Friday in the northern coastal area of Germany. It’s 2016 and I arrived in Lübeck yesterday. Back in the twelfth century when nation borders were still a thing of the future, Lübeck was part of the so called Hanseatic cities, a long stretch of allied merchant towns in Northern Europe, reaching from the Baltic states in the East all the way to The Netherlands in the west. The old part of Lübeck is a joy to explore, it’s as if walking into a Harry Potter decorum; old red brick buildings, cobble stoned streets, and evening hours filled with that warm yellow light glowing from restaurant windows, speaking to the honesty of the food that’s being served. Safe haven for the lone traveller; ’a tankard of ale and some water for the horse barman!’ No restaurants for me tonight though, I’m on my way to Travemünde, the harbour district. Day two of what’s supposed to become months, a year, or more, and the first cracks in the romantic idea of life on the road are appearing; sleet complicates my walk to the busstop, a 17 kg backpack is not of help either, and what if my reservation for tonight’s accommodation never came through? A short bus ride and I’m dropped near the entrance of one of the bigger container ports in Germany. I strap my pack a little tighter than required, as if to proof to myself all will be fine when sufficiently restraining myself.

A good month ago, I had just handed in my resignation, I sent some emails back and forth with a friendly lady about an enquiry I had for a cabin aboard a cargo ship in the northern region of Europe. I had found a few online businesses offering said service, commonly named a ‘unique experience’ for travellers who ‘want to disconnect‘ or ‘like treading the unbeaten path‘, and I had sent a blunt email to the only one offering services in Northern Europe asking for information and availability. A response came a week later by means of a list of strict rules and were I still interested after reading these? Hell yeah, the costs of helicopter repatriation in case of emergency is not going to stop me now, same for all accidents at own risk. A large ship filled with containers, cranes, machinery, wet iron flooring, steep stairs, and nobody to show me around. What can go wrong?! I answer yes and after days am send the itinerary and dates. There’s no question if dates and locations suit me, the ocean and her business are not adjusting themselves to my liking. This is what it is, take it or leave it. Transferring the fee is confirming the journey. And so it happened. The crew of the M/S Transpaper will be delighted to have me around while they ship empty containers from Lübeck to Oulu, a town on the northern Baltic coast area in Finland. 1250 kilometers as the crow flies, three nights on the Baltic Sea by ship.

I walk towards a large iron fence and what seems to be the entrance of the port. A port where cargo is the sole business, shipped in and out of Europe, arriving or leaving on trains and trucks, there is no reason for individual travellers to be here. And still here’s one. One who has little clue of next steps and has no support line to call either. Just beside the fence a container type structure is elevated above the street, a large window on one side and stairs leading up to a door on the front. There’s no life inside visible from the street, no lights welcoming one to the reception desk for stranded wanderers. Looking around timidly it seems to be all I have to go for here, and a little knock on a stranger’s door never killed anyone, right? I walk up, knock the door and am surprised when a light switches on and a man opens the door, just as surprised. He looks at my backpack and tells me I’m in the wrong port, only cargo here, that’s why the elevated window, it’s for truck drivers. I tell him about the cabin on the ship, he remains skeptical but when I manage to provide him the name of a ship that’s clearly in his books he starts to make a phone call. He finishes the call and I can see he now balances between the many questions he has and his composure of the sturdy, North-German night watch who shouldn’t be interested in smalltalk. I pick up my pack and ask him for instructions how to get to the ship when he starts laughing. Fool! Apparently I’m not supposed to wander around the port by myself at risk of being crushed by containers, or falling off the quays and drowning an unrecorded death. He calls a car to pick me up and bring me to the ship of choice and while we wait he loosens up a little and starts firing questions at me. Unaware of the possibility of this travel method he can’t seem to grasp why one would torture himself this way. I retort by asking after his preferred way to spent his time off and he laughs even louder. Whether the couch at home is considered a rightful destination? Or otherwise something all-in, something Canary Islands. It’s clear we don’t have much in common but when my ride arrives we part on much higher spirits than when we encountered first.

It’s a three minute ride to the ship and I notice the driver is following lines painted on the tarmac, different coloured lines to ensure complete safety, all in complete silence. It’s pretty dark all around, safe for some lighting in central places and when we stop near a ship I can’t find a name, I even struggle to see what the front and what the rear end is. I’m reminded of the spare sailing lessons I took as a teenager and a little voice in the back of my head nags that ships don’t have front and rear ends, or right and left sides. The driver points at the ship making sure I understand this is what I asked for, an unnecessary gesture as it’s a 200-meter long ship and it’s not as if I can easily board the wrong one. It’s a five minutes walk to any neighbouring freighter. Without a word he closes the window and drives off leaving me staring at plates of steel towering 10 meters over me. I have no idea what’s next. There’s no one to ask for help, no one welcoming me, should I scream to see if someone will tell me to come up? Some narrow removable stairs lead upwards, holding the middle between a rope ladder and a New York building’s fire escape. I man up and climb the stairs, half expecting a loud whistle or a warning scream not to enter, but all remains eerily silent, apart from me climbing metal stairs. The clunking of every steps seems to resonate through the entire ship, I’m sure anyone has noticed now.

Arriving on board I face a wall of containers, 170 out of 200 meters is made up of different size and color containers and there are signs everywhere warning to stay away from this part of the ship. The cabins, the captain’s bridge, the engine rooms are on my right hand, the front of the ship, it’s where I’ll spend the next three nights and days. There’s still no one in sight. Am I really expected to just walk to the light and enter the inner parts of this beast? It’s the only thing I have and through the first door (gate? hatchet?) I glance into the hallway and notice the comfortable atmosphere of thick blue carpet on the floor. It reminds me of the ferry crossings to Scotland we used to make when I was young, big ships still have thick carpet. Like airports used to have but no longer. Long gone are the days of airports with carpet. Doors at same intervals on both sides of the hallway with names displayed on signs, these must be the staff cabins. I enter and find, at the end of the hallway, a sign that says ‘Guest’. This could be… Hopeful! By now I can hear men’s voices from around the corner, so I take a right and find all the way in the back, in the corner an entrance without a door and behind it the canteen and kitchen area where 25 guys are seated, eating their dinner and talking. I couldn’t have picked a more awkward moment to get on board as 25 heads spin simultaneously, gaping at me without holding back on chewing. ‘Ah, you must be the guest!’ says one, some others murmur a little. ‘It’s dinner time, sit down, let’s eat together.’

March 4

I use the term too loosely, too easily. My favourite Korean food. There are so many delicious types of food one can find here, such a variety of ingredients used and cooking methods applied and then there’s the continuous development of new types, adaptations of traditional meals. Realising it’s just the excitement of this type of food on that particular moment, or me getting out of bed left foot first rather than the usual right, a perfect corner seat overseeing the restaurant or even more obvious, a friendly waitress striking up some smalltalk, I tell myself no longer to coin the term ‘my favourite food.’ That being said… Put a gun to my head and ask me which food I’d pick as my go-to staple in any given life-death scenario, I’d pick yukgaejang, a hearty and spicy beef soup stuffed with bean sprouts and radish, some vegetables. Works at any time of day, and provides solace against tired running legs, soju drenched hangovers, or cold, Siberian winter nights.

I had a light yoghurt breakfast just before 8. I met the hiking group at 10 and climbed the mountain’s peak well past 12. The group continued one way, routing back to the start location, but I decided to continue the other way. A to B always prefers over A to A for me. By the time I come down from the mountain it was half past 1 and my legs were shaky as the descent was covered by loose rocks but also because the engine ran on last bits of fuel reserve. My mind as always exploring options to make it home by foot, but the body protests. At this moment the democratic vote will lead us to a nearby metro station for an easy return home where warm shower and lunch are awaiting. My belly rambles softly to reiterate no daring adventures to be considered. I’m in a well-off, clean neighbourhood on the northern edge of the city, Gugi-dong, a residential area with big houses and walled gardens. I’m estimating the closest metro station at 15 minutes walking and decide to check the map to be sure. If it’s longer than 15 minutes I need to grab a quick snack from the convenience store, a last resort that I should have prevented needing. While pulling the phone from my pocket, I scan the horizon unfocused but my eyes land on a sign 100, 150 meters down the road, a sign that says beef soup.

Not only a life saver but the soup turns out to be one of the tastiest versions I have eaten to date. The restaurant’s interior is very clean, lots of white with wooden panels, this suits the neighbourhood well. And friendly staff who only suffer minor strokes at the sight of a foreigner entering. I put them at ease by ordering quickly and getting down to the business of laying out cutlery, and filling a glass of water. The soup is served boiling hot, sweat appears almost instantly and is rolling down my temples after a few minutes. It’s spicy, and salty. Not too salty though, it’s the savouriness derived from slow simmering meat in broth for hours on end, not the saltiness of added condiment. The cook must have big hands looking at the wealthy amount of bean sprouts added. The side dishes are few but done to perfection, the kimchi is sour, I’m guessing several months of fermentation, and the barley water refreshing. I order another bowl of rice after eating all the meat just to finish what’s left of the broth. It’s too much, but too delicious to abandon. I get up proclaiming how well I ate as loudly as I comfortably dare in public, hoping my words also reach the kitchen in the back. I leave the restaurant with a full belly, a sweaty face and a warm heart. I make sure to save the location in my maps for future visits, and change my plans for the remainder of the afternoon. Screw the metro, I’m walking the remaining 2 hours home. I’m walking on beef soup now, a noble man’s petrol.

March 5

In all honesty I bailed on your journal scribbles about half way, the first half being slightly more in focus, better lit as well, it got too difficult to decipher. You mentioned earlier you had a dentist appointment in Amsterdam-Zuid – far way from home if you ask me – and now you found yourself in the well-off part of town, home to the posh and the like-to-be-seen. Lawyers, doctors, notaries, but also retirees, criminals and celebrities. The wine bar where you had your rooibos is unfamiliar to me, but I know the area well and it’s easy to visualise the picture, the interior and its clientèle. I’m curious if you are the type who enjoys his tea after a dentist visit or before. My guess is you were too early for the appointment, the walk from Zuid station turned out a lot shorter than calculated and now you had some time to kill.

I should have acted on your first message mentioning the dentist visit but it slipped my mind. For you I hope there are no follow-up visits scheduled soon, but for me I hope you get to go back soon again. The reason you ask? I’d send you on a little walk around the neighbourhood as this is where I spend the majority of my teenage years. Lots of what formed my later me sprouted in this chique barrio, an island separate from the rest of Amsterdam. My high school is situated in the street that runs parallel to the Beethovenstraat where the wine bar is. The first five of a six year period my school, the Ignatius gymnasium, was in the building that now houses a French international school. The school and me with it moved to a bigger, more modern building just down the same street. Both buildings are less than 500 meters from the wine bar, so please allow for a little walking time when you find yourself in the area again. The idea of sending you on a little tour around these streets is exciting.

I have many fond memories of this part of town, the butcher where we bought our lunch sandwiches is still around, the coffee place where we spent all our free time between classes seems to be replaced by a Dunkin’ Donuts. I smoked my first of too many Gauloises Red in one of the private porches, teenage boys discussing the latest developments, opportunities and failures with the girls of our school. A friend and me once accidentally set fire to the school’s basement when disposing of some burning tree leaves, resulting in a fire truck being called for and the entire school having to evacuate. Never got caught for that one, so if anyone’s reading, let’s check the statute of limitations for arson by minors. We often ran into Herman Brood too, rock ’n roll icon, enfant terrible, famous for his music, his paintings and his drug (ab)use. He lived with his wife and daughter in a house a stone-throw from our school and he would have his morning tea with gin in the same coffee place where we would go. He’d always walk in with his parrot on his head, his coat covered in bird crap. He’d be very casual with the waitresses there, too casual for current woke perspectives if you ask me: “A strong morning tea for me, and some fries for the bird please!”. A little while later planting the parrot firmly amidst a plate of unsalted fries, no mayo. Brood, such a character. Always up for a talk with the kids from the school nearby, but also known for firing a gun from a train, and surprising everyone to making it past the fifty year mark. My friends and I graduated from the school end May 2001. Brood, age 54, a body destroyed by alcohol and two grams of speed a day, multiple detox attempts unsuccessful, decided the ride had been fun and he jumped from the roof of the nearby Hilton in July 2001, a note in his pocket stating ‘it has been fun, we’ll meet again, let’s bungee without a cord’. Brood was Amsterdam and was as punk as one can get.

Now I feel a bit down.

March 6

The walker, the writer, the wanderer, he has to appreciate the interior of a coffee place done right. I’m preconceiving these scribbles in exactly such a place. If I have to be a true nitpick and find a minor detail that should have deserved a little extra drip of creativity it’s the name of the place. OKLM, short for the French ‘Au Calme’. The French is slightly off, but the abbreviation is just plain weird. Apart from that this could easily become a go-to for me for a few hours of sit, sip and stare. Big white tables sparsely and randomly set out on a concrete floor of different shades of brown. A small elevated platform in the corner opposite the counter and the brewing machinery, has a table with cushioned floor seats, but all other tables have comfortable chairs. The ones in which a one-piece, metal frame replaces traditional legs, making the seating experience pleasantly bouncy. I picked the table just left from the entrance, behind the window that covers the entire front of the coffee shop. The combination of a standing lamp and a large green plant with big leaves (this may well be a cheap Ikea purchase), both placed in the corner behind the table, create a superb shadow show on the wall. There are several standing lamps around the room, all spreading a comfortable yellow light in their near vicinity. None of the ugly and hard LED lighting you sometimes find these days. It’s late afternoon and the street is glowing orange. It’s the first spring day in Seoul and the sun is near setting, I can picture it hanging just above the hills to the west, its orange beams split by the high rise apartment buildings nearby. The coffee shop is situated five minutes from Korea University, one of the three most prestigious universities in town, and students are filling the sidewalks at this time of day. Individuals with heavy backpacks and eyes only for their smartphone, but also groups of friends, talking and laughing. Hopefully they’re on their way home after a long day of learning, but with Korea’s obsession for educational stature, I’m afraid they are just out here now for some spicy rice cakes to energise them for another nocturnal library stint. It’s an almost magical coffee on this late Monday afternoon, it’s a sight to behold, all light sources playing their part, a soundtrack of simple guitar music filling the space, and there is me. Me who brought a book, a notebook, a camera and a phone, but I leave them all to be. Just a few minutes, no hardware required. The simple joy of sitting and noticing.

March 7

I’ve been enjoying several long walks the last few days, one was mountain themed, the others photography themed. Passing the 40 year mark has not been an explicitly physical event other than the white hair line that keeps advancing upwards. On the contrary it feels as if my 40-years body demands from me these hours long, slow strolls to confirm its perpetual power. There’s obvious physical fatigue at the end of the day, specifically my calves hurt, but I wake up refreshed and ever ready to go out again. The hardest part then is that I’m mentally completely drained, apathetic, and half braindead when I close the door behind me and scramble to the couch. In a weird way this too is a pleasing feeling – is this what helium inhalers experience? – it’s just that I hardly have sufficient capacity to focus on a simple Netflix drama, not to mention trying to formulate somewhat coherent sentences. I’m still drawn to stealing the idea of Craig Mod, American author living in Japan (I may have told you about him), who entertains his following but first and foremost himself by spending a week, or two weeks of going on daily long walks, followed by writing targets (say 1,000 words a day) which he shares in newsletter form with his fans, combined with photographs he made along the way. It’s all he does during those days, walking and writing, he switches off all social connection, and he complains of being exhausted continuously too, but still. To be able to compose something worth sharing, in more than acceptable prose, without too many grammar mistakes, after spending hours on feet, communicating with strangers in an unfamiliar language, one eye open all the time to avoid accidents and the other eye scanning the world for interesting image frames. It’s not even 21:30 now but I’d happily take the bet that I’ll be asleep before ten. As soon as I hit the pillow even the simplicity of the Scottish Hebrides thriller I’m reading, will feel like I’m back with Ulysses, not long after which the ereader will drop on my forehead which I won’t notice, neither will Inyoung’s laugh that usually follows. I might walk again tomorrow but I vow to do my writing first thing in the morning securing some creative sparks still available.

March 8

I know next to nothing of the Santiago de Compostela pilgrimage and did a little wiki-research to enrich my knowhow of what’s probably the most famous destination for long walking hauls. I learned for example that there are several routes leading to Santiago, which explains you doing the ‘Northern route’. You make it sound as if you go an early 20th century attempt to reach the absolute center of Antarctica, or as if you and your sherpa plan to find a new route up a Himalayan 8,000’er. Calling it the Northern route makes Santiago sound like a medieval town still under siege by the Moors, and you trying to find the hidden tunnel leading you under the city’s defence wall to safety. But no, I understand now that the remains of the apostle James are buried in Santiago, and for centuries people are flocking from all over Europe to be nearer his spirit and hence a network of different routes. Like so many things in life we grow up with one perspective and remain ignorant to the abundance of all others. My version of the route to Santiago is the idea that one starts in France and walks south crossing the border with Spain, then takes a right and head eastwards. To the best of my knowledge this is the main version for Dutch walkers.

This leaves me with two questions for you, one small and one that may lead to a path we didn’t trot before. I’ll start small. You plan to walk from Bilbao to Santander, does this mean you ended your previous stint in Bilbao and you are now simply continuing? And then the question that probably requires more thought. How do you call yourself when doing this? A pilgrim? A wanderer? A traveller? Do you feel as if you are on a pilgrimage or in someway retracing the steps of pilgrims? Do the remains of good ol’ James mean anything to you while covering the miles? Many questions that may require an evening over beers, or even several evenings over beers, I realise this. Maybe then in a broader sense, and also referring to your earlier post about high school and the importance of belonging to a community of some sort over the surroundings we find ourselves in or the ultimate goal we are striving towards, what is your stance on the existence of a higher power? Was religion part of your early childhood days, and how did this develop since?

The high school I referred you to earlier as the Ignatius gymnasium is officially named St. Ignatius gymnasium in honour of the saint Ignatius of Loyola who was born in Azpeitia (again, it’s wiki, not me), a town in the Basque region not too far from Bilbao. So a school based on catholic principals, that mainly showed itself in a weird school hymn we had to sing at the end of every school year and in a weekly hour of theology class. My elementary school in Amsterdam was operated by ‘the nuns’, I’m guessing a similarly light standard in that school as prayer has never been part of my school life. My mom never forced me to follow her on her path of faith or religion, I would consider my father an atheist, but should maybe ask him that for confirmation. I joined my mom to church on Christmas Eve until I turned 16 after which I was allowed to make my own choice and I became a devout atheist. In recent years the harshness of that choice has softened a bit, wisdom comes with age they say, and from time to time I started reading books one finds in the dusty corner of the bookstore, typically under the ‘philosophy’ sign. I’m not much for the idea of the divine, or some old chap with a beard granting us approval and making us suffer, but am more of an agnostic who simply does not know what or how. To me the writing we do daily and the walking we do often, your walks on the Pieterpad and to Santiago, my walks around Korea, this seems to be the best answer to the quest(ion) of my not-knowing.

I finished V.S. Naipaul’s An Area Of Darkness a week or two ago and interestingly enough I am coming around on my initial verdict that he’s a sour and negative man tracing his roots back to the mother country. It still is a sour account, but on several moments since reading I am reminded of the beautiful prose he uses to describe anecdotes of his first time in India. One of which is his account of the 1962 mass Hindu pilgrimage he joins to the mountain Amarnath in the remote region of Jammu Kashmir. An annual pilgrimage where thousands of devotees climb to a cave in the mountain to see a physical manifestation of the holy Shiva, a large stalagmite made of ice. Naipaul writes the following, an accurate description of where I stand these days:

The pictures I knew to be wrong; their message was no message to me; but in that corner of the mind which continues child-like their truth remained a possibility.

March 9

Baekdudaegan. The mountain ridge yes, it’s on my mind from time to time. You know what the problem is with these walks, it’s arranging all the logistics aside from the core, the walking. Finding accommodation to sleep in mainly, as I’m not sure if I can do this on the go and keep the right peace of walking mind. Korea brings comfort to a whole other level. I never experienced comfort on the level I enjoy it here. Koreans take pride in everything being available, whenever and wherever one needs. I think this is still the after-war mentality, a society that knew immense poverty and that created a country that never wants to go or look back, always aiming for the absolute opposite, comfort and wealth is the ultimate goal. So yes, there is accommodation to sleep everywhere, there is food available at any moment, but it’s still just a trail along a rugged mountain ridge, only every so often dropping down from the mountains, leading to rural villages maybe once, twice a day. Do I feel like winging it, bringing a tent just to be sure when I don’t find a proper bed? That’s where the intrinsic laziness kicks in to organise projects like these. I hiked several bits until now, mainly in two of the larger national parks. It’s absolutely stunning, large parts of these hikes are very quiet, and it’s only here one might understand the American who coined the term ‘land of the morning calm’ describing late 20th century Korea.

You are right to remind me of my earlier statements, I should get back at it. An early morning climb up a Korean mountain is always a memorable experience, be it the mist clouds of rainy July, the thick January frost, the morning chants from a nearby Buddhist temple or simply the mountain’s stillness. Most mountains hold a sacred value to Koreans, the spirit of the mountain is important and can be found among its temples, its shamanistic shrines and in local lore, often badly explained on tourist signs at the start of trails. Several people described it to me as ‘there is climbing a mountain, and there is climbing a Korean mountain’. Also you don’t use the mountain (for hiking, or climbing, or praying), no, you are with the mountain.

Another interesting walking route which I discovered recently is the long distance trail that encircles the entire country. Three coastlines, east-south-west, and the border area in the north. Approximately 4,500 kilometers of connected trails. You would expect someone to find out of a trail of this immensity sooner rather than later, but I had not heard of it before. It’s one of the many secrets this country hides behind the language barrier and hence a little victory for me in itself. What would be a good formula to calculate with, how long would it take to walk 4,500 kilometers? Six days of walking, one day of rest, twenty kilometer a day? Could one walk around in 37 weeks? Looking at local bus maps, I should be able to reach the northwest corner of the route in 2,5 hours from here and I am considering a quick and dirty one day escape to walk and check out the first 30 or so kilometers. Do keep reminding me of such statements!

Should a visit to the far east for some walking remain on your horizon one day, an easier option would be to walk around the island of Jeju, of the south coast. An incredibly well-curated trail loops Jeju, and several smaller neighbouring rock islands in 430-something kilometers. Some climbing but mainly flat coastal roads, with South Korea’s highest peak, Hallasan, the siren in the middle of the island softly whispering your name. Jeju, incorrectly deemed Korea’s Hawaii – it’s pretty, but not Hawaii pretty – is a popular tourist destination and every village has sufficient options for food and bed.

I loved reading how you lured the mrs. into a trip to the Spain-France border area. Also I immediately wonder if first the beach then the walk was the best order of events. Maybe there was no other way to make agenda’s meet, but I’d have opted for meeting at the beach after the walk instead. Anyway, good on you. I look forward to the second part of your pilgrimage. This part of Spain always looked incredibly enticing when I saw cyclists crossing this region during the Vuelta a España; lush and green, tranquil and not too hot, the ocean near.

March 10

It’s been a strange day today. Something feels off but I don’t know what is. If it’s me or the world around me. That there is probably what’s off, me and the world out there being separate entities. The alarm wakes me at seven, I can’t recall falling asleep last night, Inyoung says that it takes less than ten seconds for me to fall asleep recently, I sleep nonstop, no old man’s nightly toilet pitstops, and wake abrupt from heavy dreaming when the alarm rings. Dreams without clues. Nights without purpose. I pour water in the machine, add fresh beans and let the thing do its magic while transferring last night’s clean dishes to their respective shelves. I’ll write a little this morning, but I need to eat breakfast sooner than I’d like, to be able to leave the house not too long past eight. Walking to the prison museum in Seodaemun takes an hour and a half. The tour the museum hosts an hour and half too. After the tour I walk the grounds by myself for another hour and a half. Then I walk home, a different route but still, you guessed it, an hour and half. All of a sudden Seoul is caught in a weird one day reality of 20 degrees and full spring. The floor heating was still on yesterday, today we take our long sleeves off, tomorrow we put them back on as mercury levels are dropping again. The last couple of days have the added nuisance of terrible air quality. It’s as if walking in a 35mm film, grainy and sepia world. I have short periods of headaches during the day. I never had those. It’s a first time visiting Seodaemun prison, situated next to the Independence gate, and home to the clearest visual proof of Japan’s horrendous conduct oppressing the Korean peninsula. The red brick wall surrounding the prison may be five metres high, but it mutes the city sounds completely, it’s both respectfully but also eerily quiet walking between the prison buildings. Inside the buildings it’s claustrophobic. And cold. The cold of European churches and castles, and prison’s. It’s an impressive experience and I try to capture the pain and despair with pictures. I work harder on compositions than I do when capturing the streets. Leaving the prison, walking through the gate in the wall feels as if leaving its timelessness behind and returning to reality. At the same time I’m relieved of this stifling notion to behave sober and the self-imposed duty of doing the imprisoned, the fallen and the tortured sufficient justice. Three steps down the sidewalk I realise I could have done better. I should have shot the images in black and white. When I get home I have the home to myself, I grab a beer from the fridge and drink in silence. I wonder when the last time was that I drank a beer solo at 3 in the afternoon. It’s been a strange today.

March 11

“As I was going to St. Ives, I met a man with 7 wives, every wife had 7 sacks, every sack had 7 cats, every cat had 7 kittens. Kittens, cats, sacks and wives, how many were going to St. Ives? My phonenumber is 555 and zhe answer…”

The thing that brings a smile to my face several times a day is a square aluminium piece of art made by a Dutch artist who goes by the name of Barry Pirovano. His art pieces, very instagrammable, popularly called ‘a Piro’.

This creation shows an image of a scene from Die Hard With A Vengeance (the third of the Die Hard movies) with John McClane and Zeus Carter, or Bruce Willis and Samuel L. Jackson respectively, these two being the main characters of both the piece of art and the movie. There is no other movie I have seen as many times as I saw this, I’ve seen it at least ten times, but I’m quite sure it’s many more. My first cinema experiences with my dad were Jurassic Park (’93), Grisham’s The Client (’94) and this Die Hard (’95) – yes, the old Jager was not much of an arthouse guy at the time – and all three movies left a lasting impression. The Willis/Jackson tandem is the one I re-watch most though. Pirovano is known for taking images, photo’s or movie stills and re-creating these digitally, highly simplifying them using straight lines and leaving out most of the details (e.g. faces without eyes). He is best known for his football art – check out his interpretation of the Rijkaard-Völler spitting incident – and he’s the designer of the 2023 Eredivisie match ball. I’ve always like his work, it’s simple but brings a smile to my face, and have thought of ordering something Hakim Ziyech before. When he recreated this particular still from Die Hard I knew the time had come, I simply had to. I ordered the thing a long time ago, early 2021, and had it delivered at my mom’s house, then completely forgot about it for more than a year, until she brought it here when she visited us last October. John and Zeus are talking on a New York payphone, playing ‘Simon Says’ with the bad guy (a brilliant Jeremy Irons). I’ve seen the movie so often, wake me up in the night and I will deliver any conversation without hesitation. And still after all that, having Bruce and Samuel L. a top my book shelves makes me happy any time they greet me.

March 12

It makes me happy to read you simply told your friends the truth. I’m also guilty of making up nonsense excuses to save face, to ensure friendships remain scratchless and whole but came to a point where I wondered why we were keeping up a show. We all seem to do it and I’m sure we’re also all guilty of that quick glance at where the scale of a friendship is tipping and whether it’s in our favour, meaning we can cancel with a baloney argument or in theirs and ‘we have to sit this one out’. I guess we do this to save face, to ensure others keep their polished, shiny, undented image of us, the picture-perfect couple or the reliable friend. As said, I came around to this and now encourage friends actively to simply speak the truth. If you don’t feel it, don’t do it. Want to hang on the couch and waste your life, totally understand. Not in the mood to chat, don’t. Just own it, let me know and we have the first interesting topic for a future conversation already lined up. ‘So you cancelled on me because of a 30 hours Seinfeld marathon and now you suffer from bedsores?’

A friend suggested we use the indirectness of bullshit arguments to create a layer of softness on which the cancellation blow can land nicely. Not everyone appreciates the level of my (Dutch?) directness he says, especially here in Korea. I’ve heard this more, so am not surprised. But how about the level of disappointment I have to deal with when reading messages that smell like dogshit, I counter. He advocates for the devil even though I know he’d live in the world I’d happily create for us, a world in which we allow each other to cancel plans for the true reasons.

A year ago or so I read the phenomenal ‘Remembrance of Earth’s Past’ trilogy, a science fiction series written by Liu Cixin. One of the main characteristics of the alien civilisation we encounter is their complete inability to lie and the consequences this has for their world. A world where lies of any size are completely non-existent. They observe Earth from a distance and they struggle understanding it because the concept of lying is completely …ur… alien (?) to them. A very thought-provoking idea. How would our life look like if we didn’t know how to deceive.

I hope your friends took it well. A crucial piece of information missing from your text may be how you passed along the message. Call or text?

March 13

7.51 am on a Monday and someone is sorting soju bottles in front of the convenience store near our house. It’s a common sound, the clanking of glass on glass, attesting to Korea’s love relationship with the cheap booze in its small green bottles. The joy of a glass or two to loosen up the night applies across generations, so does unfortunately the alcoholism and with bottles the size of a can of soda, a glass or two usually turns out a bottle or two. Mainstream soju, as sold in most bars and convenience stores, is a watered down version of the original rice/wheat based alcohol and it’s cheap. A perfect release for the pressure of work, TikTok, study, or in-laws, but also the cause of restaurant tables completely camouflaged by bottles, radiating a trippy green spectacle on the eaters. And said clanking of someone sorting bottles to receive a few coins for the deposit on glass.

8.11 am, the neighbour starts his motorbike. Never before 8, but rarely later than 8.30 either. Maybe not as accurate as a Swiss watch, but an Austrian one at least. Side note: I read somewhere that Swiss regulation forbids the Toblerone producers to keep a picture of a Swiss alp on its packaging now that production of the famous chocolate bar is done abroad. I’ve never been a big supporter of Swiss weirdness.

8.18 am, two ladies with equally loud, high pitched voices make their way through the alley, ensuring everyone still asleep is now also awake. Their destination unbeknownst to me, but they’re heading in direction of the market, or the main street where buses and metro’s are found. I call this ‘to life’, the other way ‘to hill’.

8.20 am, yup, the lady of the house is awake.

8.26 am, I can hear the truck approaching that collects people’s disposed electronics. The same guy with his blue van, speaker above the driver’s seat, a taped message on repeat, a distorted almost robotic voice reminding us he is happy to collect the wash machines, the aircoooo’s, or the vacuum cleaners we want to get rid off. No payment to be expected, just the convenience of not having to follow governmental procedures. Our stuff still functions fairly well but maybe one day I get the chance to haul something heavy to the street and crash it down on the car’s tailgate. It sounds like the perfect appetizer to a Monday morning coffee and cake. Pecan pie maybe. Or do brownies go better with trash dumping?

8.35 am, I turn off the desk light, it looks to be a beautiful, sun-shiny day. Spring is here, the air is clean after the yesterrain. Time to leave the laptop for a fresh morning walk.

March 14

Uncertainty about the decisions made is an indispensable part of my life the last three years. We’re approaching the three year mark, three years of living in Korea, and every day there is doubt. It creeps up when I write my morning pages, it sits with me drinking coffee, or it presses the blanket when I try to fall asleep. Did we do right, how on earth is this sustainable, are we as weird as people think we are, couldn’t I simply combine all the things I do now with a solid 9-to-5 and the softness of a monthly financial reward? Maybe yes. But what if no. It doesn’t take much though to remember the misery of not being in control of my own life, of living life per other one’s standards, and of never allowing myself the liberty of doing crazy on the spot. We read although we have a streaming service ready to spoon feed us the story, we run the mountains when instead we can stretch ourselves and turn around once more before getting out of bed, we learn to play the trumpet even though we’ll probably never get to the realms where good ol’ Miles took it, we waste our time learning languages knowing damn well a simple implant will soon allow us to communicate with everyone everywhere without ever speaking their language. I can only speak for myself, but when I reach the age that eyes, lymphs, brain and hands have all deteriorated to the extent that I can’t pursue any of the above independently, I can only hope that I still manage to sit down in a soft chair and tell of all the things I once experienced. The sadness of the cubicle is not an interesting topic, neither is the amount of money they paid me for the act of masochism I had to put up day in and day out. It’s a one time around the stars Jack, let’s make it count. Let’s make it worth it for Milo to sit down in a decade or two to hear what his old man has to say about this thing called life.

March 15

Having dinner with this friend always puts things in perspective. He fled from North Korea four years ago, now lives and studies in Seoul and dreams of studying at MIT. We connected last year through an NGO called Liberty in North Korea, I became a mentor for his English language learning. I considered myself lucky for he learns easy and his English language skills are advanced already. We focused on conversation skills, smalltalk is harder for him than explaining me his interest in space rockets and AI robotics comes easier than his favourite food. It’s been as much a learning process for me to be honest, maybe more for me than for him. Even though we stopped the mentoring project, I still learn every time we meet.

Back to the initial point, he turned 22 on Monday (hence the (birthday) dinner tonight) and every time I realise how old, young he is, I scratch my head and question what I did at his age. Age 17 he decided time had come to try to get out and leave North Korea. To get things started he traveled several hours from his hometown on the coast to a town at the China-NK border, only to make an illegal phone call, through China, connecting him to his cousin in South Korea. Processes were started (we never discussed this part so I don’t know the details), he crossed the border into China illegally after which…again, I don’t exactly know. Usually the defectors arrive in China, live there for a while, hopefully obtain well-meant support and travel onwards to Mongolia or Vietnam. Here they are offered support to fly to Seoul, upon entering the South Korean embassy. South Korea allows defectors to live and settle here, on the condition they undergo a six months in-house integration program first. So he did. He then entered a South Korean high school by himself with the hassle of lagging massively behind compared to his South Korean classmates. He caught up and managed to qualify for the most prestigious university of the country, where he now studies to become a mechanical engineer. All the while facing and overcoming the social stigmas NK defectors have to deal with down here, struggling through a pandemic just as anyone else and doing this without family close, under the intense pressure of South Korean’s educational system, shooting for his stars (spangled banner). He’s now preparing the papers required for his graduation, he is taking the TOEFL exams, and he’s asking his professors to write him required recommendations. Hopefully landing him in Boston some time after summer. Can’t say I was walking similar paths at that age.

If you can manage the China-NK border, a plane to Boston shouldn’t be too hard. I hold my fingers crossed for him, I’m confident he’ll get there eventually and in the meantime the occasional catchup over a Korean bbq dinner seems appropriate.

March 16

I purchased a pair of Korean-English and English-Korean dictionaries. Especially the Korean-English one will come in handy, as I’m determined to read more Korean text – I set myself a goal of reading one entire Korean book by the end of the year – and this old soul likes the idea of using a traditional dictionary. The simplicity of a paper solution solving the other paper’s problem.

I sit down with a Korean translation of one of Winnie The Pooh’s tales and I translate a page or two every other few weeks. Setting the one book goal for the year I had not considered Pooh to suffice, but seeing how many pages are left from where the sleeve’s inner flap is now folded, it may have to. On a side note, it’s a soft cover book with a sleeve cover. Acceptable?

What I hadn’t thought off in the book store is the renewed struggle the Korean alphabet, hangul, provides when using (especially) the Korean-English dictionary. I know the alphabet, but I don’t know the order in which letters are listed and now find it’s a real struggle to find a word and its translation, to the point that it’s almost not worth it. I never learned it. But they never taught it either. The Saturday school in Amstelveen, the overpriced university here in Seoul, they never thought it may come in handy for the tall foreigner to know the order of the alphabet. Who’s to blame here? I may be ignorant yes, but they are the specialists who claim to know all. We all learn that C follows B which followed A, but they forgot to tell me the Korean alphabet starts with G, N, D. Or worse, they consciously decided to not tell me. “Students wouldn’t be so stupid as to use paper dictionaries these days. It’s all phone apps these days so don’t worry about it.”

As with any good dictionary the letters are printed on the paper side, leading one to the required letter’s section. Unfortunately, and again I was ignorant, it appears to be common for the Korean_hangul _alphabet to list all consonants individually but for reasons that go too far to explain here, all vowels are categorised under just one sign. Ugh, my head.

While stumbling on a word of which the meaning is unknown to me, I now grab the dictionary and am presented with two scenarios of equal chagrin. The word starts with a consonant, the right section is easy to find but the order of subsequent vowels is still a mystery and can’t be verified easily on the side either. The word starts with a vowel and well, it’s a big heap of u’s, a’s and o’s thrown together seemingly at random. As with all these things I will master this by practise, I can find Korean letters on my laptop’s keyboard blindly now, but still, I’m reading Pooh and not the dictionary. And to realise this is only the reading bit of the language, don’t get me started on not hearing the difference between a hard O and a softer EO in spoken speech.

March 17

Your post left me slightly jealous. A new blender. It’s been on my kitchen appliances wish-list for several years already, far outpacing any of the other contenders on the ranking. We have a blender but it’s completely synthetic, it’s pure plastic, a gadget one receives as a gift with a new phone subscription or in exchange for dedicating a lifetime’s spending on a local supermarket point system. It’s perfect to blend a kiwi with some yoghurt. Blending a slightly unripe banana with berries and some green leaves is stretching its ability. The nut butter I tried two or three times is as welding metal parts with a lighter; the thing started giving off a heavy melting smell and sounds not uncommon for dentistry interventions. It was easy to envision the plastic breaking midways, leaving an unprotected exit for the blade that’s been warming-up on its launchpad, ready to go full ninja shuriken on the kitchen or me. Given the size of our house I withheld myself so far from the indulgence of buying one of those fancy ones now lining up on your kitchen team. Is it softly whizzing the Miskiewicz hymn upon you entering the kitchen in the morning? I’m sure yours takes on uncut beetroots, straight from the ground tossed in the jar, gravel and stones shovelled in too and still provide you a secure living environment and a safe to drink breakfast smoothie for the lil’ man.

Oh the joy of home-made nut butter (almond-cashew, almond-peanut) spread thickly on a home-baked bread! Yes, I did dive into the world of sourdough bread. Not because of the pandemic but because edible dark Korean bread is still rare and therefore expensive. Feeding the sourdough starter daily (sometimes twice a day) became one of the rhythms my life alternated against. There is a deep and dark online rabbit hole on sourdough and mother cultures and lactic acids, a dank pit that reeks not only of fruity fermentation but also of Portland, fixie bikes, gluten, non-gluten and food trucks. I read of sourdough hotels offering to house and feed one’s fermentation when on holiday, I puked a little and came to the brink of leaving the cult but I got pulled back in every time I lifted the lid of the cast-iron revealing the beauty of a new golden crust, the crispy crack created with one swift slash of the bread lame and the warm smell of toasted grains screaming to be ripped apart. The smell of freshly baked morning bread is the quicksand to my sourdough cult devotion.

March 18

In his book “War,” Sebastian Junger explores the idea that soldiers in combat often experience a heightened state of presence, a sense of living in the moment that many people these days struggle so hard to find; in meditation, in exercise, in pharmaceuticals. All it takes is a one way ticket to the battleground. Danger and fear, but also brotherhood and a deep sense of community often generate an intense focus on what’s happening here and now. I find this fascinating. The chuffing of an Apache helicopter flying overhead or the softness of a pillow in the morning sun. On the other hand, one rarely hears of severe traumatic disorder resulting from a few days of silent retreat in an Indian jungle.

The world wars obviously, but also wars The Netherlands fought in earlier times, against the Spanish, the English and the French are a large part of Dutch school’s history curriculum. My father made me read fictional children stories set during World War Two, my grandfather was forced to work in Germany during the war, he developed an incredible hatred for everything German. He died well before I put a signature to my voluntary surrender to the three striped labor institute. Like many I’ve always had a nag for reading about war. Tedious non-fictional accounts on the movement of troops as well as fictional, even historical fictional, revolving around the dread or the courage of the individuals passing through.

Junger’s exploration of the trooper’s mental state reminds me that the best of war accounts often focus on the individual’s mental disposition. It reminds me of the insanity of Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five, of the suffocating vividness with which Marlantes’ Matterhorn describes the combat trenches in Vietnam, and of the weirdly schizophrenic account of a Dutch factory selling cocaine to both the allies and the opposing central powers, The Cocaine Salesman. Soldiers being fed cocktails of morphine and cocaine, evoking a sense of euphoria while at the same time suppressing all other emotions. All the while living perfectly ‘in the moment’. Oh the irony of the comparison with today’s elitist hordes who possess everything one can possibly wish for, and still need to find a next nugget of pleasure, the next shot of lust by licking the back of venomous frogs in the Sonoran Desert.

“As we say with most things you come across in a national park, whether it be a banana slug, unfamiliar mushroom, or a large toad with glowing eyes in the dead of night, please refrain from licking. Thank you.”

I wonder what Billy Pilgrim would have made of this eloquent piece of writing of the National Park Service.

”I should have refrained from licking the toad. The firestorm was incredible – tornadoes of fire with winds of up to 130 miles per hour. It sucked everything up into it – buildings, trees, people. It was like the end of the world.”

So it goes.

March 19

Today I watched a long video on people experiencing bad luck on the street and the different ways in which photographers have captured these events throughout the years. Lots of traffic accidents, bloody faces, murder scenes, suicidal stages, and crowds surprised or horrified, staring at the disastrous scene but just as often at the photographer instead. It’s an indispensable part of street photography, spectators not understanding why you’re pointing a lens at something. I don’t take pictures of accidents or of people in pain (not yet that is), but even without this drama I’m often asked what the hell I’m doing, or what triggers my interest. The other day, in the back alley of an outdoor market, I was taking a picture of two metal barrels, one blue and one green, large flasks of soy sauce somewhat hidden in the red bowls typically used for kimchi making. Sunlight fell through the markets canopy, creating an aesthetically pleasing composition. To my eye at least. Dancing around the barrels to find the right angle I attracted the attention of several fish sellers who started whispering amongst each other, ignorant to the idea the foreign weirdo might be able to understand what they were saying. I broke it to them by simply answering one of the questions one lady asked a male runner with a trolley and we all laughed loudly. I tried to explain to them the beauty of light beams, and prime colours, and raw details, but it was clear they thought I was mad and should have been in the palace gardens instead for this kind of nonsense.

This is what you see in pictures of infamous street photographers Arthur ‘Weegee’ Fellig, Enrique Metinides and Andrew Savulich when they capture the most gruesome of street scenes. Bystanders completely oblivious to the actual reality in front of them. Forget the blood seeping from the bullet hole, ignore the car being on fire, look at that madman with a camera on the other side of the street.

I watched the video and dove headfirst into an online rabbit hole learning more about the characters behind the lens, trying to understand what pulled these guys into photographing New York in the late 30’s (Weegee) and holding camera’s in front of Mexican gang murderers as early as age 12 (Metinides). I’ll spare you the details, it’s a bit of a niche interest I realise. Just the one thing that brought a smile to my face. Here is a picture of a check Weegee – known for stating ‘Murder is my business’ – received from Time after publishing two of his pictures. Two murders, 35 bucks. A bargain if you ask me.

March 20

https://aeon.co/videos/what-wrapping-a-rope-around-the-earth-reveals-about-the-limits-of-human-intuition

Somebody sent me this video and having watched it three times now, it may have broken me. I never was much of a maths kinda student, never turned in high grades for science classes and dropped all finance related subjects in school as soon as they allowed me. I’ve always been more of a humanities oriented learner. In Dutch we differentiate between alpha interests and bèta interests, is there something similar in English? On a scale of one to a hundred, I was a 110-alpha. Logically we had to have at least a little taste of every subject offered, if memory serves me right all subjects passed our attention during the first three years, after which we were allowed to drop several and form our final graduation ‘package’. I managed to save my ass in economics, I have no clue how I made it through science class and chemistry class and me, well, let’s say we were immiscible (I had to google that word). My final high school diploma shows five languages, history and the most basic version of maths, the stuff 5 year old geniuses solve while debating Pythagoras with their parents.

Watching aforementioned video wormholed me straight back to the dank basement classroom of professor Ringeling, our maths teacher, who took a sadistic pride at forcing principles, deductions and formulas down our adolescent throats. Throats that were trying to get accustomed to whole other levels of measurement, units and (liquid) volume anyway. I didn’t get it then, I don’t get it now and worse, although I am well aware some things are just not for me, or I am just not made for some things, I HATE not getting it. Add an inch to a rope and understand the consequences, how hard can it be. I can’t wrap my head around it. Wrapping pun intended.

Do you understand this stuff Jack?

March 21

Because I wanted to stroll around the electronics market next to the station, I went to Yongsan-dong later in the afternoon. I’d like to get my hands on another secondhand, so called point-and-shoot film camera. Not an urgent search just something I’d like, something cheap, no more than 50,000 won, something I can carry along when I don’t want to be bothered by camera settings or the shoulder weight of the other camera’s. It’s the first time on the metro since the mask mandate for public transport is lifted and even though I’m happy it’s finally possible, the first ride feels like I’m travelling naked. After an unsuccessful stroll around the inner parts of the market, I make my way outside where I’m struck by the low-hanging sunlight. Sometimes it feels as if sunlight in Seoul is harder, brighter than anywhere else I experienced it. On days like today, the sun light coming in on a low angle, bouncing of the many glass high-rises, light beams with razor-sharp edges, it’s a joy to walk the streets of Seoul. Temperatures reaching an early spring’ 20 degrees, workers leaving their offices early, smells of grilled meat and sounds of chattering and soju clinking float across the sidewalks. The only downside of this harsh sunlight is that it’s difficult (for me) to get photography right. There’s the blinding of the sun itself, and when I turn the other way my elongated shadow on the street creeping into the composition. The sharp edge between light and dark is great, but try to catch a person in the midst of it and it’s often too much on either side of the light spectre.

I switch to black and white photography, which feels as an easy way out. The harsh tones and shades are easier framed in the uncoloured reality. The walk home from Yongsan is a comfortable hour and a half on foot, add to that an hour of delay caused by snapping pictures, I expect to be home well in time for the dinner Inyoung prepares. Things turn out different today though. I was onto something I guess, scenes evolve from one to the next, the one photo draws me directly to the following. The patience to walk back and forth through streets, I usually can’t, but today is different. I trained myself to be comfortable to stand still and wait, yes, but only as long as I move in the same direction. But not today. I walk back to the previous corner, turn around one more time to re-do a scene, I cross streets unnecessarily, simply to check the view from the other side. It’s an uncanny photo walk, but we blend so well today, the camera, its owner, the light, and the people flaunting their excitement for late spring afternoons. In the end I walk four hours and get back on the metro at Seoul Station, two stops from Yongsan Station, a walk that would normally take me 20 minutes. A memory card filled with the unrelenting black and white exposures of March 21, just another Tuesday in Seoul.

March 22

It’s evenings like this when I regret my journaling is all in Dutch. Phrased more in my advantage, it’s evenings like this I regret the level of your Dutch not being up too par for me to sometimes simply post a picture of a journal page. That’s a weird assumption though. Do I have any clue to what extent you master mijn moedertaal? Not really. Enlighten me Jack! Can I send you Dutch documentaries to watch, books to read, podcasts, crossword puzzles, stamppot recipes? That being said, my handwriting is very obscure. It’s safe to say, without offending you once again, a picture of my morning scribbles would leave you disorientated at the very least. It’s a last resort, my final Who Wants To Be A Millionaire lifeline, and I’m not using it now.

Today was a full day. A warm day too. I spent a good hour in the kitchen cooking the pasta sauce we just ate. It feels as if these are the first minutes I’m sitting down in peace today. I made my go-to tomato pasta sauce, the one stuffed with veggies. We both love it but the part of me that was built in the Venetian summer of 2002 cries big tears when I torture the simplicity of Italian pasta sauces. I’m sure many an Italian nonna turns around in their grave when they hear about me raping their long-loved cooking traditions. Mi dispiace signorina! What’s your trick to elevate a tomato sauce Jack? Mine is a little pinch of cinnamon, added to the onion sautéing in oil.

Today brought another walk around warm and sunny Seoul, today was even warmer than yesterday, almost short sleeves weather. A Danish guy slid in my DM’s some weeks ago asking if I was interested in showing him around the neighbourhoods on this side of town. The camera in hand is a great way to meet new people, there’s common ground to talk about and there’s the relief of pretending to focus on a photo when running out of topics to talk about. We got along fine and didn’t need any of the tricks to unwind from social awkwardness. Well, I didn’t need that. He may have but did so carefully as not to offend me.

We crossed a flea market where I decided to buy the point-and-shoot camera I wrote about earlier this week. Sooner than I expected it to happen, but my monkey mind is not comfortable handling that type of soft planning. 30,000 won, 25-ish euro’s, for a secondhand Olympus made in 1993. The old man asked for 50,000 estimating me an American traveler ready for a rip-off, oblivious to the economic discrepancy between 25 and 35 bucks. Who cares anyway? I laughed loudly, pretended to gasp for air, shrieked ‘so expensive’ in unnatural high pitched voice and simply walked off. This is how they taught me to get more reasonable rickshaw fares in India, but it was the first time I haggled in Korea and I felt uncomfortable doing it. The old guy jumped from the chair in the back of his little store and came after me, laughing, but also desperate for today’s financial fix-me-upper, he lowered the price to 30 directly. Probably still not the bargain I should have worked for. I asked him to toss in some spare batteries, we shook hands and promised to stay friends and we lived happily ever after.

March 23

A tiny shot of glucose got my adrenalin running, a little spike of blood sugar in the middle of yesterday’s after dinner dip. I read your post and got excited, sent you a message committing to something I now don’t know exactly remember the what and why of. It is true it reminded me of an interesting article I read a while ago, but the bit on veering of to whatever rabbit hole was gravely exaggerated.

You close by asking ‘how is Oman different from oil rich Norway?’ and that’s what I thought immediately. Oman may be nice, but the way Hamed describes his country I see sufficient similarities with Northwest-Europe. Do you feel Norway to be more of an ultimate state than the Netherlands, or Germany, or Canada for that matter? Norway frightens me. The landscapes too dramatic, the Norwegian individuality alienating, almost cultish. The one time I went to Norway, three weeks of trains, camping, hiking and fjords was certainly magical, but I have never been as happy to leave a country as then from Norway to Sweden. Three weeks of meeting people who don’t care for others just one bit, three weeks of striking up conversations without single success, three weeks of grumpy ‘here’s your croissant, now piss off!’ mornings. And this would all be okay if not for the fortunes you have to leave behind. I can’t wait to visit the other Scandinavian countries again, but Norway might be a one-timer. Been there, done that.

To refine the ideal of a perfect state Hamed and you started to build, allow me to add to the mix the article I read. If memory serves me well it’s an article written by a Dutch professor East-Asian studies but I can’t find it any longer. The professor made the case that the North Korean leaders like to label themselves communist and a government for the people, but in reality they form(ed) the most capitalistic state in the world. Like an all consuming private corporate in the western world all the North Korean elite care for is power and money. There are the obvious differences; as murderous as some of these corporate giants may be, unlike North Korea they still seem to hold some level of ethics and behave according to the bare minimum of rules and regulations. North Korea has no competitors to outrun, an entire different operational structure and a complete lack of transparency on all levels. Still, it’s an interesting idea.

If Oman sounds tempting to you, or at least the part where the sultan offers an annual bag of free gadgets to the commoners outside his palace – what’s the female version of a sultan? – I’m curious what your thoughts on communism are. A communist state done right (true, not many historical examples available) does that appeal to you? Hypothetically, China continues its march to global domination for another ten year, the western world by then has long given up on now trendy, problematic issues of the Chinese state, total authoritarian control, repression of individual rights, etcetera, they’ve adopted a western version of the Chinese system (just as the western version of Chinese food you are served in restaurants there) and the Netherlands offers you free healthcare, free education (censored books though!), support with housing and a little retirement money. Do you sign up? If not in Asia or the Caribbean but in the safehouse that is Western Europe or North America, could you live in modern day Vietnam or Cuba?

While we’re at it, one would be remiss not including a little Slavoj Zizek when playing his home turf. Here’s a keynote he made in October 2016 – that feels recent, but is already seven years ago – in which he briefly mentions a visit to Seoul, and his conviction that South Korea reflects the country of the future. I can recommend the entire keynote, but since your time is limited, just watch the first important five minutes.

“We live in an extraordinary era where there is no tradition on which we can base our identity, no frame of meaningful life which would enable us to live a life beyond hedonist reproduction. This new world disorder, this gradually emerging worldless (weltlos) civilization, exemplarily affects the younger generation — which oscillates between the intensity of fully burning out (sexual enjoyment, drugs, alcohol, up to violence) and the endeavour to succeed (study, make a career, earn money and so on and so on). The only alternative to it being a violent retreat into some artificially resuscitated tradition.“

One more time Slavoj, for the people in the back!

March 24

During my run today I thought of some of the statements you made in yesterday’s writing. I read the post while putting my running shoes on, hence the contemplation over running. Don’t worry, your thoughts don’t hijack my thinking all the time. The spring weather is amazing, we’re not far off from the cherry blossom weeks. In the park along the city wall behind our house, the magnolia whites and the forsythia yellows are dominating. In the Cheonggye-stream large fish (trout?) and white herons in charge of respectively the under water world and the water’s surface.

Whenever you’re considering the journey back to the motherland, the dream of being muffled back in a Torontean suburb, make sure to read what you wrote about Canada yesterday. It’s still fine to make the jump back to mama’s lap, but no complaining afterwards about the things Canada lacks. You knew it all too well. On Oman, and Oman-like states, I struggle to understand your reasoning about gender equality and censorship, freedom of speech. You mention the corporate cool-aid, the whoring of interns and yes, while that’s all well and true, it’s still quite the jump to putting an all-covering black veil on Milo’s little sister, on burning your Houellebecq collection and worse, publicly whipping a string of leather over your controversial back. And is it possible to play the trumpet when your finger nails were recently removed, a punishment for you practising ‘the Internationale’ when the mosque’s morning prayer woke you early on the one day you were supposed to sleep in?

Agreed, I’m sure you could live in Norway. It’s not the paradise we sometimes think it is, but Scandinavia comes really damned close. Closer than any other place. I’d probably opt for a Finnish prison cell over any accommodation in the \ countries we mentioned yesterday. I’m also sure though that life in a humble abode on the outskirts of Stavanger won’t be all that different from your current situation in Utrecht. A little side step on the topic of Scandinavian paradise, did you ever see Vinterberg’s masterpiece ‘Jagten’ (The Hunt)?

I remember asking weeks, months ago how you square your complaints about North American suburbs and a cubicle in the monster that’s called corporate office environment, and the continuous references that you’re on your way back to both. Are the complaints vain or is there truly a masochistic side to you that you hide behind your entertaining prose?

Indeed, I thought of you when running.

A friend has arrived for dinner and Mario Kart. It’s back to Zizek’s weltlos intensity of fully burning out. To be continued, I guess.

March 25

We attended a wedding today. A wedding typical for Korea these days. Mass-produced weddings. I’m not a fan. Let me try to paint you a picture.

My mother-in-law’s grandfather had several children, one of whom came to produce, well you got that one. The other sons and daughters had several offspring too and today the granddaughter of one of them got married. It’s quite normal for the entire extended family to be invited for the wedding even if, like today, bride and groom have no idea who these guests are, nor did they ever meet before. My mother-in-law being invited makes some sense as those cousins still speak from time to time. For Inyoung to be there is a leap I would consider to grand to explain, and for me being there…let’s say they could have invited you too Jack, considering the idea of ‘six degrees of separation’. Normally I would have gently declined but Inyoung and her mom explicitly asked me to join as the extended family of aunties finally wanted to meet the stranger from abroad. So off we went, an hour by bus to the outskirts of Seoul, to a Korean wedding hall. A suburban town just like any other, a dime a dozen, the Seoul-suburban-blueprint copy-and-pasted. A nine-floor building boasting a cafe on the ground floor, pilates and yoga rooms higher up, some apartments to live in and the Nobilitium wedding hall on the top floor. Some people still deviate from the expected standards, but most of Korea’s modern day weddings are held in these kinds of wedding halls where multiple weddings are hosted (in separate rooms) simultaneously. Today only two weddings at the same time, but we’ve been to one before where six weddings were factory produced synchronically.

The doors of the elevator open and a recently mopped floor welcomes us, a shiny day on all fronts, it’s exactly what I remember from the previous wedding. It looks the same, it feels the same, it is the same. Weddings organised locations like this come with the great convenience of everything included in one booking. The seats are set, the flowers arranged, the lighting taken care of, staff is included, a photographer knows what to do. It is literally a one-package deal, the only flavours probably being a light, medium or top version. Or in wedding jargon maybe the more appropriate gold, sapphire and diamond deal. Signs with names of the soon-to-be-married point guests to the appropriate room. I share with Inyoung my thought that the signs don’t make a difference for me. “I could sit in any room here, enjoy the wedding, only to find out after I was in the wrong room.” It’s not funny she says, her eyes telling me to keep this bit of the wide variety that is my sense of humour in the stables today. Six or seven identical flower bouquets are lined up against the wall, in a corner next to the entrance of one of the rooms, set apart only by the ribbons with different bride and groom names. ‘Our’ wedding is set to start at 1:20 pm. I’ve been calling it a zero-one-twenty start all morning, but wasn’t granted applause for that one either.

Weddings shouldn’t start at 20 past the hour. Weddings start at the whole, or at the half hour. Or even better, the ceremony is around 2-ish, but you can walk in any time after twelve. And no, we don’t know the end time but you’re welcome to book a room for the night, just in case.

We’re being introduced to all the family members, I stick to pleasure-to-meet-you’s and nod politely. People are excited to see Inyoung, this surprises me a little as I’ve never really heard her talk about this part of the family. Highlight of the pre-show is the grand idea my mother-in-law has to go meet the bride and groom who are set in a by-room on a white and pink, fake leather couch surrounded by white flowers. They’re here waiting for the ceremony and in the meantime take audience from guests who just arrived. It’s common for small groups of friends, or related family to join the couple on or around the couch and have a picture taken. The moment I have seen coming for days already is now upon us. Inyoung and I enter the room and they have – obviously – not the faintest idea who we are, let alone “WHO is this tall stranger?!” I envy the show they put up, friendly smiling, humbly accepting our well wishes, sharing some pleasantries and as expected inviting us to join and have a picture taken. I leave this to Inyoung and mom, and politely decline, this is really a step too far for me, a breach of what is supposed to be one of the most important days of their life.

The wedding prior – I’m guessing the twelve-hundred-forty session as the ceremonies last about half an hour – ends five minutes before we are set, we could high-five the other guests on their way out. I withhold from suggesting this to Inyoung. Three friendly, but stern girls ensure a smooth transfer of people out and then in, and we all sit down two minutes prior to roll call. Most of the lights switch off when first the two moms, and then followed by the happy couple make their way along a catwalk, slightly elevated, between the chairs. The ceremony itself is exactly as I’ve seen in previous weddings and I’ll save you the description. Vows, bowing, rings, the works. Then more photography and we’re sent off to the buffet restaurant next door where a similar structure of staff, name tags, long rows of tables ensures that each party gets exactly the right amount of time, seats and, most importantly, unlimited food. It’s Korea, the food is good, the food is tasty but again, it’s exactly the same food we had at previous weddings, and it’s the same food they will serve tomorrow, next week, and the next thousand days.

Korean weddings with traditional dress and music are still organised, but most people opt for the easy factory produced solution and who can blame them. It’s all you see from others too, wedding pictures on the socials are all the same, they’re part of the production line. People these days are too busy with work or study, they can’t squeeze out time from their daily schedule to organise something truly unique, so why bother doing all the groceries and cooking the meal if you can order it with the click of a button.

Because the love is missing Jack. The crucial part is missing. It’s loveless. Whatever the background, whatever the settings, whoever the people, it’s the one thing that unites all weddings, right? Love! And it’s missing in these events and that’s why I don’t like it.

Thanks for sticking with me today, it’s not as entertaining as it should be, but it seems appropriate to share a little of my emotion today with you. Consider yourself the shoulder and mine the tears. I want to get the Korean wedding experience written down properly, and thought today could serve as the foundation for a more elaborate piece.

March 26

Nothing beats the views from the old city wall during the day. Blue sunny skies, cold snowy blizzards, the dark greens of the rainy season. Even so there is something magical to a late night slog up the wall too. The part closest to our home tends to be a little busy when the spring flowers are blooming, but ten minutes further up, after crossing the road nearby the small gate of Hyehwa, it’s almost deserted late at night. It’s the lonely runner, two ladies walking their dogs and a student hidden behind face mask and gigantic earphones. A privileged evening. Running late night always makes me think of Jodie Foster’s running in the opening scene of Silence of the Lambs, an invigorating form of dark and grim.

Starting at the gate this part of the wall lingers first through streets of an average residential area, between the houses, along the premises of a high school with large sports grounds, and then reaches the foot of the steep climb that eventually leads to the entrance of Bugak Mountain. A lovely mountain to hike, but only open to the public during the day, this explains the emptiness at night. I left music and podcasts at home today and listen to the change in rhythm of foot steps switching from flat to steep. I didn’t run enough recently and especially miss my average weekly elevation numbers. Breathing is fine but the upper legs are on fire quickly and the lower back protests slightly. Nothing worrying, just a sign I’ve been slacking. I know the route up by heart and could go with eyes closed. I switch from the path to the stairs that were recently renovated, then the gravel part almost flat, leading to the steepest section. Twenty seconds at most, but ridiculous to pretend to be running, then ten seconds flat, welcome leg relief, before the long stretch of wooden steps snaking through the trees, leading me all the way to the badminton pitches. The path transfers through the wall from its left to its right side, the climbing is not over but the hardest part is done. It’s up and down for half a kilometer with the wall being both my left hard shoulder and my sole companion, then down the stairs, more badminton pitches and before reaching the highest point of this loop a small stretch of total darkness of the unlit trail. One minute of sincere regret not having brought my phone for a bit of light, but I stay upright and jump the crazy tree roots sticking out and find the final stairs. The stairs with steps too short to take them one by one, but too long to take them by two. It’s a weird arrhythmic one-two-two-one shuffle I pull off, but then again, it’s totally deserted tonight so who’s to know!

March 27

It’s not persé the cookie cutter that I wish to be content with, it’s more the possibility to not constantly (over-)think about the meaning of all this here. To naively satisfy with whatever life throws at me, and yes this can be true crime series on Netflix, mass produced weddings, living life per the blueprint, so cookie cutter is part of it, but it’s the ability to be more simpleminded. Without aiming to insult and not saying everyone religious is simpleminded, but I can envy people who solve every important life question by nailing it with their belief in a higher spirit. Every time I visit India I’m struck by the way many hinduist believers have it all mapped out and because they have so are able to accept every type of suffering they experience, to live almost completely in the present and to take life at true face value. The concept of karma and the idea that everything in life is already pre-determined, so why bother, I know I will never achieve that state of calm, but from time to time I wish I would.

I’d add some thoughts here I had today when listening to Sam Harris, guest in a podcast, speaking about the notion of free will not existing but that would lead me too far astray.

Or wait. Free will does not exist, so thoughts arise, you don’t have ideas. I’d add some thoughts here that arose today when listening to Sam Harris…etcetera, etcetera, bla-di-bla.

From the bright side though, it’s the absurdity and the disbelief that keeps me upright too, I’d truly miss the continuous laughing about others were it to dissolve entirely. And it makes for great books and for the occasional letter to a friend. Ah, who are we kidding Jack, who were we to be living the cookie cutter life. Screw the cubicle man, blow the trumpet and give it another thought. Apply for a job at the library, write those Utrecht memoirs you have been nightmare-ing over, use the three hours with the little man to tell him about life. He’s still not hearing you anyway, let him be the silent mirror showing you how ridiculous you are, and all those around you too.

Today Wim de Bie died. I’d be surprised if that rung a bell for you. De Bie, half of the iconic comedic duo Van Kooten en De Bie who kept tv-watching Netherlands on the edge of their seat with their satire and absurdist sketches. Engaged, political, insubordinate and timeless comedy. When tv was all but cookie cutter yet, when there were just three channels to choose from, when only visionaries could see the early stages of the moral coma the country was slowly being seduced in, these two guys used their prime time slots for several decades trying to provoke, incite and revive the masses. As per the editor in chief of the Van Dale Dictionary, Netherlands’ main dictionary: “Zij waren in staat om een taal te vinden waarmee zij hele ingewikkelde, lastige en idiote situaties waar zij kritiek op leverden wisten te vatten in begrijpelijke dialogen”. (They were capable to find the language with which the complicated, difficult and idiotic situations they were criticising. were caught in understandable dialogue.)

To Wim, to absurdity and to never giving up!

March 28

If only briefly some days ago we were onto something when we were writing bits on countries and states you could see yourself living. Our posts are short, there’s no way can we do the topic sufficient justice with the odd 20 minutes here and there. Today I realised we’ve been looking at it unnecessarily backwards so far, only within the comfortable confines of structures we know quite well. The communism regimes of the past, the odd lore about the utopia that is Scandinavia, a current description of Oman. In light of the current rise of (the) AI and its popularity combined with apparent exponential growth, it’s probably better to let go of Norway, the sultan or pops Xi in China and consider our options of living under the reign of a new intelligence. An intelligence according to specialists still capable of far outpacing us humans. The speed at which updates of concepts like ChatGPT are rolled out apparently surprises even the insiders, realtime progress leaving expected progress dumbfounded.

So on behalf of the future, how about we offer you the following life upgrade: A universal income to be paid at the end of every calendar month, free and unlimited state-of-the-art healthcare which may include conditions such as replacement of organs with carbon equivalents, and a roof over your head, at least for the time other intelligences don’t require cover from sun and rain.* Additional to this we would like to take the opportunity to welcome in our midst a new intelligence. An intelligence that shows dramatic improvement on all levels of society, all data driven, no more of that cultural and linguistic guessing and playing we’ve been doing for the last 50,000 years. Neither us, nor they have any clue where they might take us, when they will do so, and what will remain of what’s here now, but we are all too happy handing over the baton. As you and we know all too well from corporate experience, the relief of letting go of something that spun out of hand long ago and shows no signs of improvement, is a pleasure not easily overlooked. We’ve made such a mess of things that we cannot overstate how excited we are with a new party interested in taking the reins.

If all this sounds appealing to you, please visit a city hall of your choice to sign off on this deal, have your fingers printed, your irises scanned, and necessary AI chips implanted. We’ll have freshly made coffee ready upon your arrival as this may be the last time you visit a government building.

* past performance is not indicative of future results

March 29

I giggled at the visual of your head tilted far to the right in the bookstore, a familiar uncomfortable pose. It’s one of the inconveniences of book shopping mankind still is to fix. The other being the just-above-floor bottom shelf, the dead legs reward for trying to read the titles on that level, followed by the lightheaded, drunken rouse with legs no longer part of the body upon the body’s erection.

There seems to be an ever-continuing disconnect between the logistics of the market place and the comforts of the customer. I wonder if project groups are peeling the onion yet, trying to reinvent the age-old wheel. Having visited book stores in several countries I’m confident stating it’s a pain point around the globe and solutions will have to be immensely scalable. To me it’s a no brainer that customers will be lost in the process so they really need to move the needle on this and drill down to the core. Should we take this offline for a brainstorm session, away from this slack channel, touch base over coffee, then hit the ground running towards a better bodily bookstore experience? One can take the man from his cubicle yes, but can never remove the cubicle from the man.

Visiting book stores, mooching around tables with books, judging covers, reading a page here and there, it’s one of the things I left behind in The Netherlands. Unfortunately. Korea has enough book stores, big franchises but also many smaller, indie hangouts operated by true book lovers. It’s the availability of books in English translation that’s the issue. 98% of all books sold is Korean – this is per my own scientific judgement – there simply is not enough interest in books in other languages. Foreigners make up a small percentage of the entire population, most of the foreigners are from neighbouring Asian countries, and reading English books is not a common hobby for Koreans. The large franchise called Kyobo Bookstore is my go-to and even so it fills me with happiness, it has a good English book section, both Korean literature translated and also international reads, it just doesn’t offer the same joy I used to experience in Europe. I stroll around the Korean book sections too, I love the colourful cover design of Korean books, I read the titles, check the weekly top-10 ranking, and I see which (in)famous foreign authors have been translated into Korean. It’s a lot of self-help, financial advice, politically polarising non-fiction stuff that runs the charts these days.

There is a girl who runs an English bookstore half an hour walk from our house, she sells first and second hand books. She offers store credit for bringing her your old books. The store is a wonderful mess of books. Books on shelves, books in boxes, books on the piano. The second hand books on shelves are stacked two, sometimes three layers deep. One shelf has the ominous sign saying ‘these books are not for sale’. It’s a narrow store with a table and a couch squeezed in the middle, she plays vinyl records and hosts VHS movie nights in the store. You get the gist, she clings to the past. Close the door behind you and 2023 is pretty far away. She asked me to sell some of my pictures there, so I have a stack of printed pictures in front of me, to which I will include a personal note. A funny quote, a description of the picture or just a polite salute. Feeling the weight of fifty yet unwritten notes obviously depresses me, but I promised to get it to her by early next week. I guess that brings this to a close so I can start writing memo’s to strangers. Maybe I’ll address them all to you to make the task a little more personal.

March 30

I’ve been enjoying the ‘Beatles: Get Back’ documentary recently, it reminds me of my father’s persistence at (force-)feeding me his favourite 60’s and 70’s music. There is a lot there that I still listen to, I’m very grateful for many of the sounds he introduced me too. There is just as much that I don’t ever want to hear again, but soit. My first ever live concert was in the Ahoy music hall in Rotterdam, where we went to see Peter Gabriel. As I clearly remember him singing his opening song, Come Talk To Me, from a phone box on the far end of a stage with a cat walk leading into the crowds, a quick online search tells me it’s the 1994 Secret World tour. I was 11. I didn’t understand the music very well but I was mesmerised by the crowds, people hidden in the dark staring at the small group of performers standing in the light. We went to several concerts since, my father still visits one, two concerts a month all over the country, often with others but also alone. In 1999 I decided to return the favour and I bought us two tickets for the Beastie Boys’ Hello Nasty tour, also in Ahoy. I was 16 by then and into hiphop, the crotch of my jeans hanging somewhere knee level, always wearing Airwalk sneakers, much to the irritation of my dad. The Beastie Boys turned out to be the perfect combination for the two of us as their harder, guitar tracks worked well for my dad, and I could enjoy the rap and electronic stuff they performed. Slightly awkward for a 16 year old and his 45 year old dad, was the amount of stimulants being consumed around us but at least I was old enough for us to share a couple of lukewarm concert beers.

My dad will pick The Beatles any time over The Rolling Stones, but were we to ask him I think he would discharge the idea of either/or fandom. That said, he had a large Beatles poster in his office, next to a framed Ajax jersey, ostentatiously making clear to his immigrant visitors what kind of lawyer they were dealing with. A similar poster was framed in the house in Abcoude where I grew up, and where he still resides. Favourite anecdote about that image is still my sister’s school friend who came over for a visit, I’m guessing 8, maybe 9 years old, pointing at the picture asking my dad dead serious if these were ’those famous Backstreet Boys’.

One of the best parts of the Get Back documentary is a scene in which a part of the band in the foreground is arguing about something, but we hear Paul McCartney in the background toying around a little on the piano, playing the first little lines of what will turn out to be Let It Be. It reminded me of an audio file of the BeeGees writing ‘How Deep Is Your Love’ back in ’77. I’m adding a link here below, it’s YouTube, but only audio. Realising everyone has a strong opinion about the BeeGees, like it, hate it, I would still recommend you giving it a listen. Only do so if you have the required 9 minutes for complete focus and preferably on a headphone. The birth of a song that nobody knows at the time, even the makers hardly, but that will go on to capture the world and live eternally. A fascinating moment to be part of if you ask me. Think about all the things that could have been done in the name of ‘further improvement’ to masterpieces and potentially drive those into the dark abyss where all the ‘just-shy-offs’ are laying, rotten to the bone, forgotten for eternity. What would have happened had someone suggested to Paul McCartney to alter ‘Hey Jude’ to ‘Hey Dude’ because it would catch on much better?

March 31

It’s a street as ordinary as you find them in Seoul, a few blocks away from Ttukseom Station. It’s very sunny today, and warm, and I’m in dire need of a caffeinated sit-down. There are several universities nearby and also Seoul Forest, so on this Friday afternoon the streets are buzzing with younger generation Seoulites, lots of couples holding hands. Some of them dressed in completely matching outfits, but most have chosen for subtle overlaps in colours or style. Some just wear matching shoes or caps. Couple clothes is a thing in Korea and when done right, up to a certain age (25-ish), I enjoy seeing it. It’s the cherry blossom season, phones snapping selfies and they’re all off to Seoul Forest for a walk, a picknick or whatever youngsters do these days at the start of a well-deserved weekend.

I pass on several coffee places but then there’s Upside that attracts my attention, or especially the wooden seats outside against the facade, flooded in warm afternoon sunlight. Two friendly girls taking orders and pouring coffee’s, as helpful as Koreans are (Dutch hospitality take note!) one of them places a little wooden table in front of me for coffee, camera and book. The coffee is great, warm and full, not too bitter, just how I like it best. I try to read a few pages but too much is happening on the street, I put the book down, Kerouac will have to wait a little longer. In front of me on the other side of the street is a space between buildings, left open after the connecting building has been torn down, it’s fenced off by a yellow garment. Behind the open space another building where renovation is done, and above and behind that a true high-rise building covered in blue nets, also a typical sign of renovation going on, a huge crane sticking its neck above everything.

There’s a guy smoking a cigarette in front of the yellow fence, somewhat hidden behind a blue van. He’s as typical a Korean man in his fifties as ever you can find one. A cigarette and a small paper cup in his left hand, the tea bag’s ribbon dangling from the cup but I can’t see which flavour, phone in the other hand and his gaze fixated on the screen. He’s wearing flip-flops which confirms to me he’s an office man, Koreans tend to slip off their shoes when they enter the office and wear some kind of slippers all day until they go home. Cigarette breaks, restaurant visits for lunch, a quick take out coffee, all done on slippers. Another giveaway for his office life is the sleeveless body warmer he wears, typical office attire to withstand a blowing airco or as an extra layer in spring and autumn months. Koreans like to be a little warmer than your average Dutch pencil pusher. Let him take you to his office after this cigarette and you will see similar variants of the same ensemble. Functional, monotonous, often styleless.

From inside Upside another career crasher appears, but this time one in a well fitted grey suit, he’s even older than the first one and must be in charge of a team as he holds to carriers filled with eight different coffee’s. Looking at the suit and his age I would even estimate him to be amongst the highest ranks. Director of something, or a VP who decided to show his gratitude to the team for a week of hard work, hoping to lure them into another early evening or late night in the office before the time-off they’re so desperately looking forward to. He wears a pair of black leather slip in shoes with a subtle shiny buckle and black tassels. Had I endless amounts of money this would be a pair of shoes I would love to own, simply to see the look on Inyoung’s face.

An expensive white Jeep that has tasteless written all over it, covers part of my view to the right, above which in the background, elevated between the houses, I can see the green metro line passing by every now and again. Nearer to me, just right from the fenced-off open space is a restaurant that is specialised in black pork meat on charcoal grill, the famous delicacy from the island Jeju. It’s a continuous stream of people passing by, young kids shouting at each other, couples showing each other their phones. Oh the joy that is the Friday before the weekend! There’s the ticking of a cane owned by an older lady I cannot yet see because of the Jeep, I hear water trickling in a sewage pipe nearby, and there’s an ongoing, slightly annoying background beeping sound. It’s the warning of a truck reversing. But what truck reverses for minutes on end?

Directly left from me is a bakery by the name of Doux Tourier which I would translate as soft or sweet traveller, a name supposedly assuring us of the highest level of Frenchness of the products on offer. There’s a bright yellow Piaggio three-wheeler showcased on the patio in front of the soft traveller, an Italian brand if I’m correct, but hey, it’s all La Mediterranee right. Potato, potahto. Pomodori, tomato! Also left but on the other side of the street are the Radiant Dance Studio – I sense passionate and sultry Friday late night dancings – and a flower café named The Secret Garden. Were it not for the flowers I’d say one starts in The Garden to get the mood going, to get the blood flowing, and once all machinery is oiled properly one continues next door at The Dance Studio.

Maybe I’m being carried away here, but there’s just so much going on. On the outlook such an ordinary street but I could sit here for hours more. I could do with another coffee and maybe, instead of the long walk I had planned, just sit and watch Seoul on a Friday pass by.