Happy new year from the Korean peninsula!

We made it awake through midnight, then fell asleep almost immediately. There was nothing to it, we should have probably gone to bed an hour earlier already. New Year’s Eve is not a wild celebration in Korea in general, there’s the ringing of giant bell and a few impressive light shows, but no fireworks and parties and this time whatever event happened was toned down as the country is in an official state of mourning. We slept in until half past nine when Inyoung woke up and made us coffee, only to retreat back to bed, where we spend the first hour and a half of the new year with book and tablet. I started reading a thin Dutch book, part memoir, part travel, all centred around the concept of hospitality. It’s part better than great and part not so good at all. The author’s observations on what makes true hospitality and how this concept has developed (for the worse) in western Europe and North America are really strong. His very short sentenced observations of his travel experiences put me off. It’s perfect for the last/first day of the year transition as it’s a quick read. All but a thin foundational layer for what’s to come in the next twelve months.

We then visited my mother-in-law and shared a hearty bowl of soup with rice cakes and the kimchi dumplings we made yesterday. Three dumplings each. Leaving at least three hundred more which weren’t for the orphanage as I politely suggested but were actually for both our freezers, and the one of mom’s neighbour friend. Why on earth we always make these large batches of food, it keeps surprising me, but then the freezers never spill over and there’s always good reason to gift some to friends and family. It’s hospitality. Hospitality without conditions or strings. The good version. Not the western institutionalised version where hospitality is governed by rules and regulations. That said, there wouldn’t be any harm in making two or three smaller batches on different occasions and safe everyone the slight complaining that seeps through when having to carry all the groceries home for said production, or the physical complications that follow spending the length of a football game wrapping kimchi filling in dough skins. Then all was forgotten when the soup was served. Delicious.

In an obituary for Cormac McCarthy that had been saved as ‘to be read’ for over a year, I read the following:

‘Mr. McCarthy sold his archives, 98 boxes of letters, drafts, notes and unpublished work, to Texas State University in 2008 for $2 million. A year later, the Olivetti typewriter on which he’d written each of his novels sold at auction for $254,500. He immediately began working on a new Olivetti, the same model, purchased for less than $20.’

We’ve entered the year of the snake. The year of the blue snake to be even more precise. I’ve received different explanations of what this may entail but in general the eastern perspective on the snake is more optimistic than the one I grew up with. There’s rebirth for one, and the shedding of the skin. December brought martial law back to the Korean peninsula, preceded by substantial and still ongoing political protests. Its people being resilient the first signs of recovery could be felt towards the second half of December already, and then there was the plane disaster in Muan, pushing moral back to subzero levels. The country can do with a bit of skin shedding and rebirth.

You mentioned filling immigration paperwork for Fatima, so I guess this means the decision to return to Canada in the somewhat near future has been made. Is the process itself as tedious as the paperwork? Does it resemble the green card application used in the US or is the Canadian government more sensible and can multinational partners simply follow their Canadian other half? I have a feeling it’s difficult but less of a hassle than in the US but if not, I stand corrected. With that, and realising that the rational won’t hold much for eastern zodiac and related concepts, I wish for you in the new year rebirth and skin-shedding to the extend that it brings you and the team happiness, good health and lots of fond memories to be made.

January 3, Seoul

A common thing in sports blooper reels is the gun going off for a track distance, the athletes stretching their legs upon the signal and then one of the race participants tripping over for reasons unknown, spikes not leaving the block, an unwilling hamstring, sheer stupidity. It’s always one athlete though, two a rarity I’ve never seen. Our writing performance on the second day of the year feels related. Both making up valid reasons as to why not, and when then, but are they really? I’m committed and back tomorrow, here’s why I didn’t write. Oh, and I’ve a son but will see to wake up in the darkest of the night (Bolaño vibes!) and try to write then. At least we can both let go of the illusion we’ll ever get to write something more serious than these scribbles here.

With coffee and still half-asleep I finished reading ‘The Afternoon of a Writer’ by Peter Handke. Glad it’s a thin piece of work because of the many ways I could have spent my time better than reading this book. It started off promising, a writer in his home, on routines and keeping writer’s block at bay. I hadn’t read anything upfront, even ignoring your goodreads ambassador voice in the back of my head, and had thought to be reading a memoir of sorts, a nobel prize winner eloquently describing bits of the life the laymen will never experience. Turns out it’s a fictional account. Some writer, maybe Handke, maybe not. The house scenes are fine but after the writer leaves the house in the afternoon, exhausted by his morning routine and starts his daily walk, I lost him and we never found one another after. His musings on whether to walk through the outskirts of town or to go to the city centre meant nothing to me. The outskirts preferred, hence the protagonist’s decision to head downtown where it’s busiest and where his apparent fame among fellow citizens, triggers an awkward amount of antipathy in our main character. Nagging would be an appropriate description. ‘To himself he was a puzzle, a long-forgotten wonderment.’ A closing sentence just by itself may not tell much, but the irony of this characterisation felt striking.

After breakfast I enjoyed a long walk through cold and bright Seoul, to meet my friend Coen who suggested to join me on my visit to a small historical museum I’ve been planning to visit for years. Not often is any positive result achieved from me planning or intending to do something. A do’er is what I am. We can box me in with the other do’ers. Coen’s a Dutch guy with a Korean wife (sounds familiar) but they live in Amsterdam and visit Korea regularly. So he’s here on holiday spirits, vacationing after months of strenuous work (not really), and therefore became a bit nervous when I told him of my intention to enter the museum upon 9am opening time, but what could he say. My plan, my decision. It’s the cyclist who decides the route, never the passenger.

Not a bad day all in all. Museum, book, and 2 for 3 on the writing.

January 4, Seoul

The book made me trace the steps of the long journey into Scandinavia, immediately after leaving the stripes. The feeling I had standing on the deck of the M/S Transpaper, while sailing into the freight harbour of Oulu. A sense of freedom, the intensity of which matched the fierceness of the temperature of the world through which I moved. The mother of all colds. I made two photos: a view of the harbour and a selfie for mom. Then my phone died. More freedom. Jobless, dumped in the months leading up to the trip, a tenant in my house, and a world so cold it provided endless excuses not to speak to the people back home. I would return to Oulu a few months later on the way down, but I was now only in transit.

I cannot recall descending the stairs from the ship, though I can remember ascending them days earlier. But I do remember standing on the dock and walking to the gate leading to the non-maritime world where people lived and interacted. My ultimate destination clear, yet there was still that sense of freedom. I could stay here and not get on the train. Nobody would notice. Or take a bus to the Russian border. Buses feel more anonymous than trains. The unnamed wanderer on an undesignated bus heading for a faceless country. I didn’t though. But I could have. Instead, I took the train I had intended. Oulu to Rovaniemi, one way. A night in Santa Town, a bed offered by a Finnish-Dutch couple. Hospitality at its grandest. “We don’t know you, so it’ll be fine. Here’s a plate, there’s a bed.”

The next photo on the roll looks like it was made in the deepest of the night, the sky pitch dark. In all likelihood, I’d say it was 8 a.m. A sign at the bus stop, indicating my direction. I’d have opted for the first bus out. It’s January 12, 2016. A tuesday. The historical weather report (where would we be without internet) states -6 degrees at 6 am. It also shows the temperatures dropped only further during the day, something I’ve only experienced in Lapland. -6 for breakfast, -10 for lunch. The bus ride, a thing of beauty. Just staring at the movie of landscapes filled with snow and trees, pulling past the window. The occasional hill. The first group of reindeer. Was my backpack beside me on the chair or in the luggage compartment? Did I listen to music or simply stared outside? No Wi-Fi on the bus. Freedom. Hardly any other passengers.

Korvala.
Sodankylä.
Tankavaara.
Kakslauttanen.
Saariselkä.

And then Ivalo. Temporary home away from home. The petrol station that serves as a bus terminal. We were five hours later, sometime past noon, the few hours of indirect sunlight. The sun wasn’t to rise over the horizon for another few days. The cold hit me after the lulling comfort of a heated bus. My bag was back on my shoulder now, heavy with winter gear. A skin I would have to shed before May when I intended to fly to India. Thoughts for later. Freedom. I met Outi, the mater familias of the guesthouse where I’d live and work. She drove a Volvo station wagon, which, even in Finland, felt appropriate. “Are you ready for lunch?” she asked. The directness with which she jumped across the banalities of “how-are-you’s” perfectly suited that sense of freedom. The privilege not to be bothered by questions to which the answers aren’t wanted. Not now. There’s a time for questions like that, when we know each other better after getting factual introductions out of the way, after sharing a meal and sauna.

The drive took another twenty minutes, plus a few stops along the road for errands: picking up mail and groceries. My first encounter with a life more tedious than I had ever experienced. Up here, this north, everything takes a lot of time and energy. A life stripped of so many of the comforts of Amsterdam life, or even Helsinki life. Life in the forests of northern Finland is a never-ending, constant wheel of preparing for and remembering to. Want to go for a drive? Don’t forget to plug the car for heating 20 minutes before. Want to wash yourself? Heat up the sauna. Want to feed your husky dogs today? First clean yourself a way through heaps of fresh snow. Want to open a window to air your room? Don’t, things freeze in a minute. Want to go for a run? Dress like the michelin man, wear spikes, stay on the main roads, know your exact route, tell someone about your plan, then… never mind, do something else instead.

Juha-Pekka, Outi’s husband, a man of few words. Antisocial would be understating it. He was working when I arrived; we only shook hands before dinner and didn’t speak a word until we worked together with his dogs for the first time, two days later. The bare necessities only. Instructions. “Juha-Pekka, how do I know which size harness goes with which of your 85 dogs here?” A question I never imagined asking anyway. “This harness, that dog,” as if it couldn’t have been more obvious. “Okay, and now how do I know which harness for the other 84 dogs?” “That harness, that dog.” We didn’t have much in common, but we would manage. He the boss, I the unpaid worker. After years of corporate hierarchy, this seemed a perfect status quo to nestle into for this part of my life.

The guesthouse offered husky sled tours to tourists, the once-in-a-lifetime experience of almost freezing to death in one of the most spectacular places on earth. Either standing behind the sled on two wooden slats no wider than 2 inches, guarding the brake, or reclined in the sled, more horizontally than vertically, having handed over all reins of life to the person braking and to a group of 4 to 8 overly excited dogs. Tours varied from an hour to three days. The overnight experiences were all planned and booked months in advance, with either one or two nights in Juha-Pekka’s wooden retreat on a small, otherwise uninhabited island. A true adventure, and from the perspective of safety and liability in the civilised world, an insane risk. A group of inexperienced guests, frozen rivers, no communication with the outside world — what could go wrong? For the workers, these were the cherries on the pie, we all hoped to be part of the two, sometimes three-man group of guides. A few weeks into my stay, it may have been a month, Juha-Pekka came up to me at the breakfast buffet, saying I had to go to town to get new boots and a sleeping bag. That’s all he said. I asked him what for, but he had said his thing and disconnected in front of me. Like a telephone connection gone wrong, but live. It turned out this was his way of saying I’d be next for an overnighter. Maybe even a way of expressing a compliment. It was all I needed at the time, after years of corporate bullshitting in team stand-ups, 360 feedbacks, and year-end appraisals (did you have yours already?). But I empathised with his three sons and wife.

The book is from a Swedish author, it was lauded widely last year and came recommended by a friend who lives in Sweden, whose reading I trust. I read the first half before sleeping, the rest this morning. It’s an image of life through four vignettes, four relationships. The I-person is in bed, down with a fever. Relationships and the essence of the details are described beautifully, the people once loved and now lost forever. It will easily make my favourites of the year. I constantly thought of 35mm film photography and Scandinavian forests. Of friendships in the nineties and the complexity of not understanding relationships. The fragments that remain today. Who left an impression, who did not. Why do I so vividly remember my first girlfriend and the holidays we spent, but the relationship that ended years later, almost simultaneously with my adidas employment, appears a five-year blur? Memories of long weekends sailing, sleeping, smoking, near the turn of the millennium, but hardly anything remains of two weeks on the American east coast in 2014. The strange correlation that memories seem stronger when I had least possessions. Little means, but seemingly tons more meaning.

January 6, Seoul

In Altre Parole. In Other Words. Jhumpa Lahiri. I don’t know which part of the archive to shelf this book. Its content is mediocre at best. But it’s written in the author’s third language—Italian. A language she’d been learning for all but a few years only at the time of writing. Lahiri fell in love with Italian and started language practise. She and her family moved to Italy, at which point she decided to full-stop switch to using Italian. Regular daily conversations, but also all her reading and writing, even refusing to translate her own Italian texts to English. Everyone who is trying to learn a new language beyond our forming years, knows how impressive a feat she pulled off—writing a 120 page memoir, including a few fictional chapters, in said language. That said though, at best it reads as an account of average standards, but mediocre is more appropriate. I have to admit, I read the English translation, not the Italian original which makes the second part of the book. As an homage to the author’s effort, I read the afterword in Italian first and then verified my understanding with the translation. Lahiri addresses the quality of the content of the text in the afterword, but that still leaves me conflicted. Is the effort in itself, plus addressing the matter afterwards, sufficient? Can it be published as such? Obviously anything can be published. One could consider shelving it among other kids writers (Does that section exist? And if not, why not?). As for grading the effort, the all important stars making up the infamous Bezos scale my reading friend finds so important. Do we grade for effort? I don’t think we do, right? If we do, would Anne Frank in her writing conditions be graded substantially higher than Philip Roth, whose writing, I would expect, was done in far less dangerous context. So we grade for content and style? Then how to square 3.74-stars from 15,000 reviews? It’s an impressive thing to pull off. I wish I were as brave as Lahiri in my Korean learning. To forfeit any English or Dutch reading in the foreseeable future only to succeed at mastering a language, then to convert all my writing to elementary school scribbling, and be satisfied with that. Is the justification that she was an established author at the time and therefore likely to convert some of this into money and success, a cynical way of looking at things?

Yesterday we ordered pepperoni pizza’s for movie night. Unhealthy, too salty, too expensive, inferior quality pizzas. I then walked twelve minutes to and jogged eight back to save the delivery costs. This act of hypocrisy has been conflicting me all of today. Saving a few bucks yes, but joyfully destroying my own health and taste. What nonsense.

Talking of nonsense and hypocrisy. One of our downstairs neighbours, one of the Chinese students, is a cigarette smoker. Nothing wrong there. She smokes outside, keeping the building fresh. I’ve been there too back in the days. You find a pair of adilettes, don’t bother changing from the house clothes, and then you head out for a few puffs of nicotine. In her case it’s crocs, and a knee long coat, but legs exposes so I’m guessing pyjama shorts underneath. It’s freezing outside though, snowfall yesterday too. So there’s the risk of lung infection from the cold, lung cancer from the cigs. And then there is me bumping into her in the little market around the corner, wearing a face mask to be protected against…well against what these day. Swine flu, bad breath, security cameras. I couldn’t resist a chuckle.

Off for beef soup.

January 7, Seoul

Two boiled eggs.
A quarter baguette.
One and a half knife dips of peanut butter.
Another quarter baguette.
Big mug of the black tea I bought in Chennai.
Paired with The Copenhagen Trilogy.

A walk to Haero Coffee in the Seongbuk district, not the route directly along the city wall, but the one through the playground, followed by the street where I frequently buy a piece of hotteok. There is pizza place in this street that did their branding right, I’ve often thought of eating a slice or two of their pizza. Unfortunately for me and them, I don’t eat pizza slices on the go.

Three pigeons braving the wind, sitting atop the traffic lights. I doubt whether birds experience cold as we do. Green light, all anonymous souls swiftly cross the street, then the bridge over Seongbuk-stream, then the opposite street too. I’m tempted to buy a pack of those white rice cakes to eat home later. Oven grilled, bit of honey on the side. Not today.

Left at the bakery where I told Inyoung to buy the lemon pie for my birthday. Then the big crossroads in front of Napoleon bakery. Out in the open, all sensible beings trying to disappear in their furs, hides or coats. A few steps from here, then left for the alley leading to Haero where Christmas is still in full swing, all the lights, trees and accessories still on show in the garden.

Warmth.
One hot americano coffee.
Part one (childhood) of the trilogy done.

Instead of walking to the coffee roaster for fresh beans straight away, I decide to take a detour along the palaces to see if protests are still staged every day. A convenient extra, a brief stint in the large bookstore underneath the main square. People of both political sides are still protesting but group size has dramatically decreased. Tuesday lunch time, Siberian wind, good reasons to stay hidden. An older lady grabs my arm and asks me if I’m American, and why not, and what is my opinion about the impeached president. Looking at the sign in her other hand that says ‘Stop the steal’, I guess we have different political views and I politely tell her my opinion is completely irrelevant. The ‘and so is yours’ remains unspoken.

There are two or three books I would allow myself buying today, but as these are not on any of the shelves, and a sudden crave for food hits me, I leave the bookstore quicker than usual. I take a bus back to Dongdaemun, grab a sack with twisted, sugar donuts from the old guy in our street, donuts that come with elaborate new year’s politeness and bowing. I enter neighbouring Seoul Restaurant – perfect name for a restaurant in this city – and order their stone pot bibimbap. More happy new years here from the staff. The three older ladies in the kitchen and the two younger ladies serving. These two, one the daughter and one the niece of mom in the kitchen, have decided to call me uncle in Korean. A polite way of addressing, no harm taken, but it makes me feel old. We’re all about the same age, and it’s a new 2025 thing it seems. It’s one of those things that needs addressing immediately or not at all. I’m slow to the task, hesitant what would be a better option, and loose the mental game with myself.

Uncle it is.

Home now. One final coffee. Two of the donuts. Writing a few words. Looking forward to reading more Ditlevsen tonight.

January 8, Seoul

Six minutes in and I managed to pull myself out. A youtube video of 16 minutes total. Lately I’ve been inspired (and demoralised at the same time) by the work of Byung-Chul Han. After reading a few of his books, I was searching for a bit of context, some external observation on Han and his work, an interview maybe and that’s where I stumbled on this video. Rather than expanding on Han’s book (A Scent of Time) it boils it down to a pulped summary that may just about fit the attention span of an overachiever—two parts on the way to and from work, two more over lunch and dinner. A Scent of Time speaks of, as may be obvious in light of his philosophical stands, our use of time, the loss of it, and how time is experienced (differently) in this modern, burned-out society. In essence, and yes I am guilty of doing just what the video does, Han advocates a quieter life. Not per se in terms of sounds but rather to stop the constant bouncing between happenings and events. Both off- and online. And there I was, trying to get the quick fix, the shortcut, digesting a long philosophical essay in just two cookies and a coffee. Deliberate decisions this year, even on youtube.

That brings me to another question for you. A thing I’m interested to hear your opinion on a thing you may be able to address from the cubicle. Do you consider reading a biography of a person, written by someone else, the inferior choice over consuming said person’s work first? Authors, philosophers, historians, ‘wise’ people. So many biographies, documentaries, audiobooks out there, but it feels as if betraying the original work. Trying to get the whole picture of one’s life and work in a single piece and that often makes it feel as if there’s a gradual and thoughtful progression throughout one’s life. Now I’m not advocating one has to read every important piece of work to be able to draw conclusions and form a solid opinion, but rather than the benefit of hindsight and the relative objective view of a third person, wouldn’t reading a few different pieces from the original source be better. One’s pièce de résistance plus another one or two.

And if you would be so kind, please add the following to your response as well. Assuming that you don’t entirely object to the opinion I just posed, would you say my life would be better without youtube and other sources that don’t do justice? My life that is. I realise it’s easier to judge another’s life than it would be your own. Do not envision the dry desert, the dark pit, the bare void that is your life without social media, without easy entertainment, without presumable shortcuts.

A lot of these thoughts are occupying my mind lately. Along with the language ambivalence that was sparked by Lahiri’s ‘In Altre Parole’. I’m torn as to whether it would be best to say farewell to anything Dutch and English for the foreseeable future. Read, write, listen, speak Korean. Constantly. For a year. Or a half year. I can’t though, the anxiety of missing out. It’s stupid though as every thing pleasing is available in Korean too. It would just a lot longer to digest a book, a podcast, writing down an idea or a description of my day. It’s not going to happen, we know this. But a part of me wants to. And it would fit perfect with the loss of time and Han’s recommendation to linger more.

I wonder what an unbearable asshole would make of all this.

January 9, Seoul

A Thursday as uneventful as Thursdays come. It is the coldest day of this winter season so far. I went to Peer Coffee half past 8 this morning, another roasting gem, about half an hour walk. Minus 12 but with incessant, hard gusts of wind it was tough going. Several people around me, waiting for the traffic light, moaning loudly as if the winds could be spoken to. Headwind to the coffee, unpleasant, frozen ears and nose. A lemon, blueberry butter bar and the remainder of part two of The Copenhagen Trilogy making up for hardship experienced. Then wind in favourable direction heading home, I walked through the Central Asian district to grab some Uzbek breads, walked up the hill behind the house to strain the legs and stiffen up the face once more, before retreating to our floor heating. That’s where I’ve been since.

Tomorrow evening I’m meeting one of our former colleagues from Herzo. I’m curious to hear a few stories of the stripes and I’m just as curious to see how long it will take for me to get bored, or furious about the distorted worldview that probably still dominates the town and its people. We’ll see what tomorrow brings, Heiko is a happy guy, it’ll turn out fun.

On a page with notable events that happened ‘today in Korean history’ it says that on this day in 1994, a group of Koreans reached the South Pole by foot. And although this may not be in similar severe arctic conditions as, I’ve decided now is a good moment for a short evening walk prior to bedtime.

January 10, Seoul

Several things coming together that seem to circle around the same denominator: Drugs. I have just seven minutes before leaving the house, but do want to make sure I jot it down. Maybe returning later this afternoon to polish things, or better, to see if things made sense in the first place.

Drugs then. I watched Avicii and his serfs. I’ve been to one too many of these festivals, raves to not see the dirt and pain that lies behind the fluorescent sun glasses, the happy smiles, the colourful wristbands that speak to a life lived well. A life in which the five days between two festivals are but a bridge to gain some strength and capital. I turned fifteen a few weeks before I went to my first rave. The iconic I Love Techno event in Belgium. No drugs for me, just beer. But among my friends I have seen it all, the whole range of chemicals, different states of deterioration. The video is recorded at the perfect moment, nearing the end of daylight, a soft glow over the crowd, most of them not yet completely destroyed which would often go hand-in-hand with the disappearance of daylight. Hoping not to sound as the grumpy old man looking back, it was great. Often. Not always. And the pain that followed for everyone is a sincere pain. Financially, emotionally, physically. There is rave life and there is real life. Avicii and his Oman death serve as a striking metaphor.

Before reading your post I wanted to write about demerol though. The eternal and temporary shot of bliss. A name that sounds old, there’s almost a touch of innocence to it. If I had to guess I would have connected it to the KGB. A shot of demerol to get the insurrectionist talking. Another one to delay the pain caused by pincet-removed toenails. An unfair judgement as apparently it originates in Hitler’s Germany. Opium den’s, demerol bliss, crystal meth. I vividly remember the needles on the side walk going to elementary school in the late 80’s. Growing up two corners from where the red light district started. Then still far removed from the touristic landmark it is now, but a neighbourhood where crime and anarchy reigned. Where the homeless were converted to heroin junkies.

A few hours later now, coming back to this and I have no clue where I was leading this to. I thought of connecting the drugs thread with this Russian author Pelevin, whom I only heard of for the first time through the article and how his fantastical and satirical, or maybe cynical writing on the Russian state of things, hint at drug use. And how you and I, since we are too far apart to experience a demerol high, instead should try one of his novels instead. And how you wrote in your review of Ditlevsen’s trilogy about the cause of what she calls ‘dependency’ is so subtly done, and what I thought when reading that one short chapter, the last one of part two, where everything changes in an instant. The shot of bliss she receives to get through an abortion, and how she wants to stay with someone forever, only because he can provide that particular high. An amazing chapter. Heartbreaking but beautifully done too. Sparse description, short and punctuate. It’s banal to say she manages to make the reader feel how she felt, but writing it this way we probably get closest.

And then I would weave in another thread about the never-ending discussion whether drugs are important for certain artists to free their creativity, or whether that’s a whole lot of crap and made up story to justify one’s dependency. And I would add a profound piece of writing, a short essay of sorts on addiction among Korean youngsters. How a country that’s gone from aid-receiving to aid-providing in the span of 35 odd years, that still forbids any type of stimulant other than alcohol and that has generations growing up who have (1) too much money to spend and (2) almost no perspective on the labor market. Tell them not to find ways to escape the wheel and obviously they’ll grasp any possibility.

I would have written all that, had it not be for the lunch break that ruined it all and, more importantly, no time.

Sincerely,

The rabbit from Alice in Wonderland

January 15, Seoul

A long weekend spent with blankets and tea. Inyoung went to Vietnam last week and returned this morning. I spent most of the in-between time wrapped up, feeling sorry for myself. A nasty fever, lots of sneezing, endless amounts of tissues. A sincere case of man flu but luckily I came out alive on the other end. Writing, or rather looking at a laptop screen, was not an option. I read a mindless Scandinavian thriller and watched a similar six episodes on Netflix. Draining me of just about all the potential that was left in me. Avoiding her marching around the house victorious, I didn’t tell Inyoung the entire story. She may connect my wellbeing to her being gone and that we cannot have. She travelled with mom and two aunties. Mom was so worried about me surviving their absence she secretly gave me a handful of pocket money upon waving farewell at the bus stop. Unaware of the flu looming over me, I spent it on all the fruits that I wouldn’t usually buy for concerns over their prices.

You have a Croatian friend who complains about three hour coffee sessions. Your friend needs to get his priorities straight. Especially a Croatian, like other mediterraneans, you’d expect to consider their coffee time with friends sacred. A square surrounded by red brick, the sun passed its midday highpoint, three older gentlemen playing backgammon in the shade of an ancient cypress. Your friend and you occupying one of two small terrace tables on the opposite corner, a large coffee press in between, no words spoken. If he refuses to prioritise differently, you should get your priorities straight and sincerely reconsider your friendship.

Inyoung just woke up from a deep sleep she collapsed into after their return. She just about managed to unpack the birthday presents I had brought her, then couldn’t stay upright. There are two dogs wagging their tails, awaiting her return, to be let out later this afternoon. In the Netherlands the person celebrating gets to choose the dinner. A tradition I thought globally accepted but here in Korea it’s not a thing apparently. She chose my home-made pasta sauce. Now there’s true love I’d say. My cooking specialty—a mediocre tomato sauce. If that’s what she craves after a week of pho soups and other cilantro infused foods, then that’s what she’ll have.

Otherwise things are fairly quiet on the peninsula. For the first time in history a Korean president in service has been arrested this morning. About time. He had it coming. One of many global eyes has been on Korea and many Koreans are somewhat ashamed of current affairs. I try to tell them grass is not greener in the west currently. I can only hope you did all the due diligence and a clause has been added to the remigration contracts. Should Canada become part of the US, along with Greenland and Panama, the deal is off and you get to retreat back into the cozy Utrecht den, without penalties.

I’m off to the tomatoes.

January 16, Seoul

It’s a 22 minutes train ride from Mangwon station to Dongmyo, the station near our house. Only 22 minutes, all underground. I get on the metro in Mangwon after a Japanese ramen dinner with my friend Chris. It’s not too cold, just around freezing, the sky is clear in Mangwon, the air fresh. On the other side of the train ride, I leave Dongmyo station through exit 9, unaware of any major incidents that may have happened in the meantime. The final steps of stairs a bit wet, that’s weird, ‘maybe someone cleaned the stairs’ I figure. Following the movement upwards, my gaze is upwards still. The night sky, bright as in Mangwon, a traffic light for nearby crossroads. Then the orientation shifts when I reach street level, back to horizontal focus, I hop of the little step that marks the entrance of the station and there it happens. I land softly, but surprisingly too, in more than a centimetre of fresh snow. No clouds in sight, surely someone’s playing tricks with me as this seems too thick a layer for the time and distance spent underground.

A few steps down the snowy street, a lady stops me for a chat. I see her hand is holding a stack of brochures, meaning that, whichever the topic, this conversation won’t likely go anywhere good. It’s only after our chat that I decide to use it for my daily post, undermining my own thoughts on a potential positive outcome. It’s actually not a brochure she hands me, it’s a tiny sort of newspaper. The 화광신문, Hwa Gwang Newspaper which is a doctrinal tabloid for the SGI-believers. The Korean offshoot of the buddhist cult Soka Gakkai. I remember reading about this group before and having difficulties squaring buddhist and cult. Here on the sidewalk the difficulties lay more with me seeing an older lady being forced, or at least feeling devoted enough to stand here in the winter evening trying to convert lost souls to the practise. There’s a service on sunday she says. A global service actually. It feels as if she’s trying to make me believe all countries celebrating at the same time. I ask her what that means, given the time zones being so different. We don’t understand each other well. She won’t let go, her commitment is to the cause. I don’t want to let go first, I’m working on my east-asian calm and politeness. We’re stuck and we both realise it. A game of who winks first but with our eyes closed. A game I will lose, and we probably also both realise that. I scramble through my vocabulary looking for words of closure. “It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for this newspaper and your explanation. I will think about the sunday event you mentioned. I have a friend who I will ask if he is interested to join me, so I don’t have to be alone with people I don’t know.’

So here, on the sofa now lies the newspaper of a group of happy believers and with that, I’m happy to tell you that the friend I mentioned closing the conversation is you. A global event, this sunday, I’m sure we can find you their Netherlands branch and then we attend together separated.

January 17, Seoul

Among Koreans, older Koreans mainly but not uniquely, there’s a lingering hatred for Japan and the Japanese. A hatred that stems from the forty-odd years Korea was colonised and the Koreans brutally, often violently repressed. The period of colonisation ended with Japan surrendering on August 15 at the end of world war II. The last survivors who experienced this Japanese violence firsthand are now very old and very few. Every time one passes, especially one of the few women who were made sex slaves (not comfort women, let’s stop calling them comfort women) to the Japanese, it’s a news item. Just as the two Korea’s divide is often compared to the east-west Germany division, the negative sentiment towards the Japanese mirrors the emotions often felt towards the Germans in European countries.

Last year a book named Zwijgende Vaders (silent fathers) was released. A book with research on the Arbeitseinsatz, the forced labor – Arbeitseinsatz sounds more intimidating and therefore better – policies of the nazi regime under which Dutch men were made to work in German war factories. My grandpa was shipped off to hitler-land for this reason. Albeit with the physical nuisance of a grenade shrapnel hit, he survived his time there but hated everything German since. Of all the things that happened to him after the war during the remainder of his life, the Netherlands beating West-Germany in the ’88 euro semi finals, on German turf even, was the pinnacle of his life. The return of the Dutch pride 43 years after. That the team went on to win the euros was just a dessert, the semis were the highlight. I often wondered what grandpa would have made of my employment for the stripes. He never lived to experience the moment, but I’m not confident if he’d supported me wholeheartedly.

The book is one I forgot to buy when in the Netherlands, but I’m sure I’ll get hold of it someday. After reading an article about a protest in front of the Japanese embassy (will they ever say sorry?), I went down another tiny rabbit hole online and then stumbled on a document, found in the national Dutch archives. A list of names, one page among more than 700 other pages, stamped by an American, so most likely gathered as some sort of evidence upon the ending of the war. A list of names of men who were forced to work in a factory in Krefeld, Germany, and towards the bottom of the document, there is my grandfather: Jitze Jager. The man who I’m named after, if with a small z to s conversion.

It’s a surprising find for me. He died too young of a heart attack, halfway his sixties. I have memories of him, but not as many as I’d like. The war topic I was too young to be told about, let alone address in conversation. He occasionally came to watch my football matches, a Feyenoord fan with an Ajax-minded grandson. We spoke of football. He smoked tobacco. A lot of tobacco. Conditions for a heart attack were not obscured. After his wife, my grandma passed, nine years ago, my father and I cleaned up their house. I started off with the book collection (obviously) and never made it much further than the book collection. There was a vast array of books on the war, at least fifty. Non-fictional accounts of the war, old stuff though, written in the fifties and sixties. Archaic Dutch words, dry material, pure factual and historical information. He may have kept his mouth shut about the war, he clearly wanted to know and understand everything about it. A realisation that is thirty years too late but how I’d love to have a few hours with my grandpa to hear him out. To get to know his thoughts and feelings. Therewith maybe understanding the Korean sentiment towards Japan better too.

January 18, Seoul

Today I wrote a bit on photobooks, as per a request from a friend. Below is a quickly edited version of that piece. There’s a sudden hard cut at the end, the remainder was even more irrelevant to you than the first part already was. It’s close to 10, there is no inspiration left to write something more interesting, and I want to read my book. It’s this for today. Do feel free to pass on reading it. I’ll be back with something more appropriate tomorrow or monday.

A few thoughts on photobooks, following up on reading Teju Cole’s article ‘In Praise of the Photobook’.

My feelings towards photobooks are ambivalent.

There is my love for photography, a pastime that (oft) provides me happiness. To make photographs and to look at other photographers’ work. The quality of my own photographs is mediocre at best. This is not vain modesty, I trust my eyes sufficiently to judge my work and, although I strive to get better at the craft, I’ve come to terms with said judgement. The awe I find in the work of (some) others, I’m yet to find in mine.

Whether it ‘repairs the world’ as Cole states, I do not know. But to spend time looking at photos, in exhibitions, in books and magazines, or in a store, it brings a joy in which one may read reparations. I go as far as including the photograph a friend or relative sends me. Maybe not the average holiday bulk, but something more singular, photographs made (and send) for its content. Photographs made where thoughts preceded the making.

‘In a world of deafening images, the quiet consolations of photobooks doom them to a relatively small, and sometimes tiny, audience.’

This is obviously true. Almost everyone today holds a device that takes high quality images resulting in holiday bulk and an excess of selfies and pictures of meals. Most of this reaches us through online channels but walking around a city today – especially one like Seoul where the picture we (have to) mirror ourself towards is ever-present and oh-so-important – offline image bombardment is all around too. That being said, there is an important part missing to Cole’s statement . That relatively small audience does not solely stem from photobooks being covered by the shattering amounts of images anyway. Photobooks, like certain other types of arts, suffer from a strong smell of elitism. Whether this is fair or not, one can argue. In some cases it may even be its intention.

The freedom we are extended to give interpretation to the photobook, creates a complexity and expects a level of creativity on the reader’s side that can make one put a book down dazzled and confused. It would be interesting to see which books end up on the did-not-finish pile more frequently, novels or photobooks.

What do we see, what is the photographer trying to communicate, how should we read the book, where are my borders. Now this is not a problem that necessarily needs repairing, today’s netflixication of our consumption offers plenty of easily digestible and upfront triggered story lines, and even among other traditional, more highbrow arts there is enough in stock for the (temporary) less courageous consumer. But it does add to a sense of exclusiveness. And so does the price. By the simple numbers to be paid at the counter of an often highly specialist, daunting to navigate and snooty store, photobooks exclude a large part of the population. I don’t know the way out from current pricing situation, I think there is no other conclusion than ‘photobooks are simply expensive’, but personally I think there’s something to be argued in favour of arts that are widely available. That a market of blown-out-of-proportion second hand or rare-find, expensive photobooks exists, soit. But all these books are now available only to the ones who have a big enough wallet—and maybe a big enough place for books. Cole mentions the library. An interesting thought. Do people really attend the library to scroll through photobooks? Maybe they do. Maybe I should too.

Again, I don’t think there is another way and I’m not even arguing strongly for it, but it’s an important factor to add when addressing the ‘relatively small, and sometimes tiny, audience’.

‘And of all the elements that make a photobook truly special, I think the most important is the specific order of the images. Look at this, the photographer says, then look at this, then look at this one. All books are chronological, but the feeling of being guided, of being simultaneously surprised and satisfied, is particularly intense in photobooks.’

This touches on the conversation we had on Thursday, about the arts in general and your photography and magazine more particularly. I’m not sure that ‘all books are chronological’, but yes, good photobooks, or better the ones that speak to me – I initially wanted to say grab me by the balls but that felt banal – are the ones that show me, in Inyoung’s words, what the photographer sees. Is there a risk of presumptuousness? There definitely is. What did you think making this photograph, why did you put this sequel of photographs together, what is the story behind this photograph, all questions that (to me) do not necessarily have to have an answer, nor do we always need to ask these. On top of all the complexities, I will always argue for the possibility that something can merely be considered beautiful. Colours, composition, similar to how we can enjoy a style of writing, or how a song can strike us for no obvious reason.

January 20, Seoul

There is a candle on the desk. It burns excessively. I’ve tried to fix the matter but have been unsuccessful and have now decided to let it do its destructive work. The fuse lies bare, the flame spews drama. The pack from which I took it states an expected burning time of five hours. A marathon effort that is good enough but that would not land one in historical annals of running. Looking at the clock and the notion that this candle has burned itself well over fifty percent in about an hour, we’re looking at an Eliud Kipcandle here. No laughing stock. We mean business.

Over coffee today, a black drip, in cafe Haero again, I read three pages in a new book. 긴긴밤 or Long, Long Night. A kids book that caught momentum among adult readers for it being philosophically charged. I’m guessing a Korean ‘le petit prince’. My friend who gifted me the book said she cried throughout its entirety. Somewhere in Lahiri’s book about her slow translating of Italian books, she states, and I’m paraphrasing, that as she spends more time with the text trying to understand every word and every detail, she values the text more. A deeper connection as it were. Reading slowly about the rhino who has no memory of his youth other than being surrounded by long noses (it seems he grew up amongst elephants), and while frequently referring to my pocket dictionary, I understand within a page or two both Lahiri and my friend. To look at every single word, to check its meaning if unknown, and thereby painfully slow seeing a sentence coming together, is an experience I lost somewhere. The people that surround the rhino are unfriendly people, he’s not happy as they surround and pinch him with sticks (needles? I need to verify the nuance with a native speaker). I wouldn’t want for this to be my sole reading style, but there’s definitely an appreciation to it.

Last night I stayed awake a little longer to watch Ajax. It’s strange to be an Ajax fan these days. Last year was an absolute horror. The damage done by the German director will echo along the Arena area for years to come. Thirteen overpaid new players, all on five year Champions League contracts, a brief stint in the relegation zone. A season to forget, with a final day that at least found ‘us’ qualify for the Europa league. In comes a 35 years old Italian coach, one of the modern data guys, from the class of De Zerbi. Also from the catenaccio class though as his previous teams were known for very little goals received (the main focus) and ditto for goals scored. He brought exactly this to the Amsterdam grounds. The football is not even close to what we like to see from Ajax. But within half a season he made a solid team of a bunch of demoralised individuals. PSV was expected, and still is actually, to be far ahead of the rest of the league but we’re just a point behind in the title race. Second place for now, numbers three and further five or more points down. Yesterday was the ninth no goal conceded match, we beat both PSV and Feyenoord in the first half of the season and seem to head for direct Champions League qualification if things are like this. Any Amsterdammer would have signed off on a proposal like this back in summer last year. But still. The quality of the games. Ugh, it’s hard to watch. It’s so Italian. Well an avid Seria A ambassador like you knows what I’m talking about. Winning or losing, Ajax would at least dominate their games. Possession ratio to be 55-45 in favor the bare minimum. But yesterday is an exemplary match for this season, Heerenveen-Ajax, ball possession 58-42, score 0-2. I mean we should not complain after last season, I guess. But then, shouldn’t we? Spoiled kids we are. Maybe the appreciation for the Italian game needs to grow on us a little and we should better focus our attention to the more important, less trivial things in life.

Pizza, pasta? Prosciutto, salami?

January 21, Seoul

Whether after a night sleep you are now fully on board with the match visit yes or no, it does not really matter. I ain’t doing it. I’ll cut you some slack for ignorance, but telling someone to visit a k-league match could be perceived an insult. I’m not taking it as such, but please make sure it doesn’t happen again. Inyoung’s uncle and aunt are season ticket holders of Incheon United. Incheon is where the main airport is, an hour by metro on the west coast. Seoul’s Almere. Incheon relegated to the k-league 2 after last season. Finally I’d like to add. We visited a few matches, three if memory serves me well, maybe four. The fact I don’t exactly remember is telling. They lost all of them. It feels as if they’ve lost all games for the past six, seven years, since uncle and I chat about football. That’s why it surprised me they weren’t relegated prior to this time.

Korean football isn’t all that bad. But the football is very static, very practised if that makes sense at all, bereft of riquelmeness and emotion. Until the famous Dutchman flew down to the peninsula in 2001 and brought the red devils to the semis of the 2002 world cup, baseball was the go-to sport. Brought here by the ‘muricans. It’s football and baseball now. Both in spectators and stadiums atmosphere fairly similar. Hotdogs and led-lightsticks. Chanting but no swearing. More of an event than a thing that stems from muddy grass and goal posts made of sports bags. It’s more a night at yankee stadium than a night at la bombonera.

Tim Sparks sounds like a good idea though. I’ve been wanting to read it for years. Curious to hear whether it’s good.

If you have any suggestions for something we can watch/visit separately together, other than a k-league football match, I’m all ears. Watch the same movie, with additional cinema challenge of finding the same title in both countries. Watch the Ajax (probably) decisive match this thursday evening (NL time) in the Europa League, against underdog FK RFS, highflyer in the Latvian Virsliga. A 5 am start in Korea, I’m alternating between watching or sleeping, but you watching it also can be the decisive push. Next week, same day, same time, Galatasaray is visiting the Arena for the final stage match. Other options that are not movie or football?

Asking only little amounts of questions in posts has been one of my writing new year’s resolutions. The only one probably. But as you brought up the matter yourself, I’m glad you bring on the Puma running shoes as it’s been a thing I’ve been wanting to ask. Did you dump all your stripes merch? Did they make you replace your entire shelf content? Were you paid a proper starting bonus to get this done? Are you truly enjoying the Puma runners or are you just tickling my corporate aversion? I don’t know what’s good in running shoe world these days. Not running enough – I do occasionally though – I rely on the same choice of shoes over and over, always ordering the same if new is needed. Just had a look at the Korean Puma website and as expected, they don’t do my size. A 46-46.5 may be straightforward in the e-lowlands, it’s not here. Feel free to post me a pair anytime. Also, shoe sizes here go by centimeter lengths. Isn’t that a much easier approach, which the rest of the world should adopt too? I’m sure Elon and the boys are down as well.

January 22, Seoul

Listening to an audiobook on my walks these days, one about great minds from the East, I’m constantly reminded how vain humans are. That’s not to say I don’t see it otherwise, but this one has a constant reminder. The book is part of the ‘Great Courses’, my first taste of those, and it’s pretty good so far. A western talking about the east always makes me a little uneasy, but that’s more me than the book. Why this makes me uneasy may be an interesting topic for a future post. t’s a professor speaking to us as if we’re sitting in a university classroom. But we’re not. And it’s not recorded in class. We know this as there is 0 background noise. There is though, and that’s where the vanity seeps through the cracks, applause at the start and at the end of every chapter. And since it’s eighteen hours long and covers I-dont-know-how-many chapters, there is a lot of applauding taking place. It’s obvious a recorded cheer and it’s detrimental to the entire experience. I’m obviously prejudiced saying this, but it feels this works well in the US but it doesn’t in the Netherlands. It’s a case of someone taking himself (always men as well) a little too serious. And that’s where a lot of trouble starts. Not being able to judge the difference between taking oneself serious or taking the thing one does serious.

Then to someone else. I’m not sure if he takes himself too serious. He seems to be on the right side of things, judging by the way he smiles doing the thing he does best but that shouldn’t be too much of an effort earning GBP 350,000 a week and having 60,000 people kneeling for you once, twice a week. But Mo Salah these days. One of the best players in the world, certainly one of the most entertaining, if not the most entertaining player currently walking the green fields. If you didn’t see the highlights of last night’s Liverpool – Lille champions league please give it a watch. Here’s a link. Best bit, no goal, but proof of Mo’s soft feet, starts at 1:50 min in. A long cross by Diaz and Salah’s first touch, while physically in battle with a defender, simply magical. Now the real ambasciatori del catenaccio will say it’s about defense. Contemporary cynics will say it’s about money. But let’s be true. If it’s not about these kinds of skills and these kinds of players, then we may as well wrap the whole thing up and give it to the Americans to destroy.

Let’s not take ourselves to serious Jack!

January 23, Seoul

We ate chicken burgers and watched a netflix episode. Korean dramas tend to have longer episodes than Hollywood’s or Europeans. This one’s sixteen episodes, all clocking at longer than an hour and a half. That’s sixteen movies packed in one long row—the art of stretching a plot and keeping attention. With chicken burgers I’m good for a long sit though. The burgers are ordered from the infamous Mom’s Touch franchise. If ever people need a reason to visit Korea, Mom’s Touch is that reason. So we watched and ate, and after doing the dishes I thought I’d retreat to the bed with the laptop to write this, at which point Inyoung started hackling me for being old and boring. A tricky one. She’s right but it stings. Also, she’s right but I’m fine with that. I’m turning 42 in a week. You know how that feels. Every next birthday I’m doing the math— in which half of life am I now? In my university years I always proudly boasted I wouldn’t make it to 65. Thirty would be halfway. Easy to say at that age. Obviously that changes over time. There’s the reality of everyone growing older, average life expectancy in Korea now over 80 years, for women over 85. Is this a border restricted concept though? Should I look at Dutch numbers instead? Average the two. By no means do I want things to end anytime soon, but the idea of turning 42 and being halfway is, in a way, kind of tiring. It’s life’s equivalent of the 50km mark of a 100km race. And that’s not the platitude that it sounds like. I’m being earnest, another 40-odd years is a lot. All these things to be done, all the thoughts to be had. It’s a curious thing to think about. Who knows, I may leave the house tomorrow morning for my appointment and be run over by bus 721, the one that connects city hall with Wangsimni station. There are definitely worse bus lines to be run over by. Imagine being run over not by a blue city bus but by one of the local green town buses. Smaller than the blue ones, so there’s the risk of not being dead completely. He was hit by the local Bukcheon line, the one that takes retirees from the station to the foot of the mountain. Dead? No not that. Has a nice chair now, with two wheels and a little joystick he can move with his chin. Oh, technology these days.

To counter the hackling, I’m considering asking Inyoung to read the above, just to be annoying too. She can’t stand these kinds of thoughts. Whenever we argue, I make it a point for any one of us not to depart prior to setting things straight. I often use the ‘being hit by a bus’ analogy to put some guilt in the equation. It works sometimes but just as often we’re back at square one. Back at another argument as she gets mad once over.

January 24, Seoul

We’re five days before ‘seollal’, the lunar new year, a much larger celebration than the first of january one. It’s a three days holiday (tue-wed-thu) with the second being the first day of the new year. This year the government added a mandatory extra holiday on monday, allowing everyone the possibility of taking the week off. Imagine being the one dork having to look after the department on the friday that all the eager employees immediately requested as a day-off. And there are you who forgot or who was too slow, or simply the good guy. ‘I have no family anyway, you guys can have it.’ So with all that next week, today’s afternoon traffic was mad. Massive traffic jams leaving the city, people heading to the countryside to meet up with the rest of the family. Other families heading to Seoul because that’s where the cool people (we!) hang. People leaving the offices early. I was glad to walk home as even the bus lanes seemed clogged.

But that walk was only after a tour I guided around the market. That place is alive. Always. Or officially, every day between 4am and about 7pm. But in the days leading up to new year (and thanksgiving too), it’s madness. I had warned the guests upfront. Told them it would be one for the books, one to remember, but also one that would require a lot of patience. And man did it pay out. Guests loved it, but they agreed this is madness. All we do is stroll the alleys, I tell them about the market and its produce, but basically we just put one foot in front of the other and try to keep that rhythm. Tomorrow though, I’m on market duty myself. Not guiding, but buying. The saturday before the holidays. If I were the owner of an action cam, I would have strapped it on for you. You could then compare it to something north american. Maybe black friday sales? I called my mother in law to ask her if my help is needed with the preparations for all the family visiting. She answered no. In a very Korean way she added that the offer of help already made her heart warm (+1 for me). Knowing these offerings in Korea tend to require a multi-tier approach, I decided to chip in another sacrifice. ‘How about I buy the meat for the family dinner.’ An easy score for mom as it just involves a different bank card, she accepted (+2). Then I threw in a third, and final possibility for acceptance of help. ‘Are you going to the market this weekend?’. A vile indirect way of asking, as we both know full well she obviously will go to the market. She does so for every holiday. Her answer was good though, returning the question, leaving me no space to manoeuvre. ‘Do you want to go together’? So there we are, I’m plus three on the scoreboard, but also will be hurrying after my mother in law, through an overcrowded market, carrying bags that will slowly fill with foods that can feed 14 persons. For at least a week.

I realise this sounds as if I’m complimenting myself, and that is probably (partially) true. Feel free to scold me for it. But the thing I did want to address more pressingly, is that feeling of trepidation. That brief moment after you offer your help and prior to it being accepted by the other party. Irrelevant whether you are actually happy to provide the help, but that part of your mind that mumbles about ‘the couch instead’, and ‘book time’ and ‘I hope they say no’. And the elasticity of the sacrifice offer. How long are you willing to ignore the ‘no help needed’ and do you keep insisting. They say in Korea these things go in three. Your offer is politely declined at least two times, sometimes more, meaning you are requested to offer three times if your intent is honest. How far can you stretch that line, when will one of the two give in, and when are things final. Anyway, I’m happy to get to spend some time with Inyoung’s mom (I really am), it’ll be awkward as hell, it always is without Inyoung around to mediate and translate. It’ll be fun for the thousands of spectators in the market. A short Korean lady, determined to get to the best apples and the cheapest fish and a tall Dutch guy, trying to keep up, while increasingly burdened by the weight of the shopping bags. An update may be in the cards for writing tomorrow.

January 27, Seoul

It’s as quiet outside as it will ever be. Monday morning, the town should be roaring with sounds but today there is none of that. Everyone’s off, and although stores and restaurants are open, most working people are sleeping in today. Snow’s falling heavily, muffling all of the remaining sounds in the alley. Inyoung just woke up but still in bed. We plan to head out for a stroll in snowy wonderland, then eat some and drink some coffee in the Ordinary Coffee Lab, a place she hasn’t been and one that I’ve been wanting to introduce her to. It’s strange to think of the holidays here (it’s almost like the days between christmas and new year’s in the west) realising that the Netherlands will wake up in a few hours for your average monday, starting the week.

While reading Mater 2-10, a novel about industrial development, the resistance movement during the Japanese colonisation and labor protests—it packs a lot, yes. I’m enjoying it a lot. Reading some online critics I agree there are things not to appreciate. Comparing it to what it sets out for, and keeping in mind earlier work by Hwang Sok-yong, the prose falls flat from time to time. There are glimpses of magical realism when figures appear to speak from other realities, figures who have long passed on to other worlds. But they are only glimpses. I’m ambivalent on magical realism in stories, but I’d argue that, if decided to add the style, then one should do it proper, and not sprinkle it as randomly and sparse as in this novel. The translators have decided to keep most of the original Korean names and titles, an attempt to keep the novel closer to its source. Just romanised for clarity, but non-translated. Even with an elaborate note on the translation upfront, I’m not sure if it works well for readers who lack any reference to the Korean language, possibly setting up for a confused read.

But, with all that said and agreed upon, I like it for its thematic development. It pairs fantastically well with Hwang’s The Prisoner which is the non-fictional sibling to this fictional account. The ghosts of Korea’s past, especially Korea’s past century make for fascinating stories and I’ve been contemplating writing a bigger piece about the labor movement and protesting. Especially in light of recent political chaos there is a lot to unpack. Add to it the miracle of the Han river, South Korea’s insane jump from third to first world country in the span of thirty years. Maybe I could write it from the perspective of living in Changsin, one of few towns in central Seoul that still combine living and working in the same place. A dynamic I had not experienced as such until moving here.

I’ll get to it if I find the courage to do so. If I write the thing, I wouldn’t want to do it halfheartedly and with the snowy hill around the corner, softly whispering our names, the focus isn’t there. On another note, I asked you for movie recommendations for the christmas holidays. Did I ever report back on that? In all honesty, all three recommendations were acquired but I only watched one so far. Pawlikowski’s Cold War which was great. Especially for the music you mentioned as well. But there’s more to it. I fell in love with the main actress from the beginning. That helped too. The other movies are to be watched still and maybe the quiet holidays this week will see me watch one.

January 28, Seoul

All over the country heaps of snow fell overnight. In Seoul it’s all but impressive. The fluffy kind of snow that does not make a snowball. It’s cold though and that makes me happy. The next few days will be freezing, and if it weren’t for the social drain that is new year’s, I would walk hours in the cold then read hours on the heated floor. I cannot say I’m looking forward to tomorrow. Not sure what makes the difference but Koreans seem endlessly better capable of withstanding social expectations than the Dutch. They often dread the obligatory weekend visit to the parents (in-law) but then simply do what is expected. Younger generation Koreans often (always) tell me how hard they find the mandatory family sit-down for holidays, the (friendly) verbal abuse they have to sustain, ranging from school results to body appearance to future family size, but they sit at the table wearing an invisible uniform made of tefal coating. One ear in, the other ear out. When we first moved here, the most heated arguments between Inyoung and me concerned these family gatherings. As a true Dutchman I was always out setting borders, claiming my own space. It must have been hard for her. Now I’m at the point where I realise that for me (only for me!) it’s small sacrifice to a group of people who’ve accepted me without too many questions. With that, I’m sure that somewhere between lunch and diner, sitting around with all of us, my ass will start burning and my brain will scream ‘freedom!’ Maybe it’s time for me to find a tailor who makes a non-stick cloak my size.

I’ve always been a fan of the citrus family fruits. I lean towards the slightly more sour descendants of the citrus family tree. Slightly that is. I’m not one of those strange creatures who can eat a lemon whole. If you’re one of them, no offense intended. But tangerines, oranges, preferably with an acidic twist. Living so near to Japan, there is the unexpected benefit of accessing a whole new array of orange, yellow and green zest that, to my humble knowledge, never made it to the western parts of Europe. Jeju, the largest Korean island, is famous for its delicious tangerines, a breed also stemming from Japan. But two days ago I was gifted a bag full of orange skinned juiciness, a shape I hadn’t seen before. Too big for a tangerine, too small for an orange. Today I ate two. And then immediately two more. Sheer perfection on the sweet-sour scale. Absolutely magnificent. Hand peeled, a big endorsement upfront. Juicy but firm. According to wiki they’re created by crossing the dekopon and nishinokaori – with that knowledge I assume you know enough – already back in 1991, but it wasn’t officially introduced until 2007. What happened during the intermediary sixteen years, we’re left guessing but it deserves a documentary or even a true crime podcast series. They’re called kanpei and in the long list of ‘why one should visit East Asia’, I’d say the kanpei ranks high.

Another new year – January 29, Seoul

We are lucky to have coffee beans. I sneaked out for a brew between lunch and snacks and cake and dinner.

Your reflection on time passing through the pepper mill is an apt one for the first day of another new year. The hourglass marking the time between two new moons. Twelve months—sometimes even thirteen. The pepper mill may not be an hour glass exactly—turn it around when empty and nothing happens. But there is something to be said for an untimed end. An open end. No end even. With that in mind, and running contrary to your spice purchase policy, I recommend buying the big load anyway. Why bother calculating? Just buy the thing. I say this staring at a kitchen drawer that holds an amount of kurkuma we could eat healthy yellow food with for years to come. But again, why calculate? It’s a boring thing. It’s not moving countries, it’s not having a second child, it’s buying peppercorns. Stop making everything rational. Buy the lot and gift it to your favourite neighbour upon heading home. There’s no better time to buy 3kg of spices than now. Not tomorrow, not next year. I have a friend here in Seoul who speaks no Korean. He’s been here for more than seven years. It’s not a matter of can or cannot. He speaks fluent Thai through an earlier stint down south. He told me he regrets not speaking Korean. He put it off every time, thinking he’d be here for 90 days only (the visa max). Then ninety days became a year, and then he met someone, and now it’s seven years. I told him to start learning ‘today’ a few times. He said he would but never did. It seems to me that for most things there is no better time than now. Excluding major life events—though, even then, some (many (most)) could be decided on a whim. In my humble opinion, one would be better for it. All the stress of having to choose, having to consider, having to weigh. So if learning a language and starting to run is a thing you don’t put off (and you and I both know it isn’t) then to hell with grocery planning. Do it for my friend who will never learn the language, buy the bloody pepper today. It’s a new year, if ever you needed the ‘right moment’. Then book the Canada tickets upon returning home. Leave the house, leave the country, and leave behind the spices. You’d be the first person leaving the Netherlands more spicy than you found it.

January 31

It’s a slim novel in which a narrator tells us about life in a Danish psychiatric hospital. Written in short chapters, some a few pages, some a single line, we get to spend some time with the inhabitants of the fifth floor—the temporary floor. There’s the individual horror of every of the young lives occupying a room here, but more pressingly, there is the constant plea (unwritten) for a wider, shared approach to psychiatric care. At one point the narrator describes the option of a camera constantly zooming in (on the individual) where one that pans would be preferable. Therewith adding others in the frame, an external and societal approach to care, rather than individual labels and boxing. It’s hard to imagine what life in a unit like this entails. There is camaraderie and dependency. There are pills and conversations. Lots of candy and cigarettes. And suicidal thoughts too. Continuing to read the book last night, all the way from start to the very end, I tried to adding to the somewhat dreamy, or deliriously way the story is told.

The book rightfully received praise in Denmark. It stands by no means close to reading Ditlevsen’s Copenhagen Trilogy but it follow nicely to it.

A society that continues to label every single individual for sake of its own false sense of security. Things are bad in the Netherlands, things are bad in Denmark. It’s frightening to think of countries that offer no nationwide healthcare, that have no social net for people to land in. At the same time, it’s the so called developed countries, the white and the wealthy where suicide numbers roar, where antidepressants are sold before the pharmacy can even unbox them. It makes no sense comparing our times with prehistoric times. We live in a different world and humankind now is a different species. But it is tempting. And that is not to say that the individual nowadays fakes or makes up. I just wonder whether the hunter gatherers often dealt with cases of mentally ill in their small communities. Whether there was psychosis and bipolar distress. A cousin committing suicide for not seeing the end of the tunnel of chasing buffalo and gathering berries.

What Kingdom is part of an exploration of books from the nordic countries. At first an unconscious thing, I decided to stay in the nordics for a while. Ferrante may have to sit on the shelf a little longer. It does however open a door to the potential of finally starting Min Kampf. It’s a door in a room a little further from the room I’m currently in but one may dream. If you have strong nordic recommendations that are not KOK, do not hold back but let me know. Next up, a room filled with Icelandic dystopia. An Icelandic Black Mirror if you will. Íslenskur svartur spegill.