The Korean Island of Peace and Another Summer's Passing By

Gangjeong village tagging on the naval base outer wall

 August 3 - 17

Jeju. Eight days. Not enough, but still full of magic. It's difficult to put into words, especially since it went by so fast. Maybe I should try to live there. Maybe not.

It was a solo trip. The original plan was to cycle from the ferry port in Jeju city to a (former) WWOOF host in Seogwipo, near Gangjeong village, and spend time at both. Surprisingly, this plan totally held out. Before leaving, I had some of the usual pessimism - I'm alone, how will I do it? What if my bike breaks down in the middle of nowhere? What if it rains? What if I can't find a place to sleep? None of it happened. I had a really nice, though rather hot, day and a half of cycling and reached all my destinations. I only wish I had spent more time along the way. Next time, Jeju. Wait for me!

The Jeju journey started at 6 a.m. on a Sunday at the Gohan-Sabuk bus terminal. It ended on a rainy Thursday morning back at school in Sabuk. Two days before travelling, I had caught a massive cold and had to teach the summer English camp. That was really unfortunate, as I just couldn't help how sick I was. By the next morning, though, I felt a lot better after kimchi, spicy bibimbap and sleep. It was the annual Sabuk Coal Festival and I was just tired of hearing about the casino and its fireworks - Gangwon Land this, Gangwon Land that. It was time to go.

From the beginning, things seemed to be going my way. It was a day of firsts. The bus ride to Gwangju lasted under 6 hours, less than I thought, and I hopped the first bus to Mokpo with my bike in tact. Mokpo was sweltering hot, but relaxing. I stayed the night with a couple from the Boston days and they were cat sitting for an adorable kitten. I miss interacting with animals very much, so that was enjoyable.

Bright and early the next day, with my bike all fixed up and my big gray Quechua backpack from Lille on my shoulders, I rode down the hill and through the streets to board the 9 a.m. big, slow ship at the Mokpo International Ferry Terminal. Jeju is about 80 km south of the Korean mainland, but somehow it takes 4.5 hours with the Sea Cruise from Mokpo.

The ferry ride was sunny and calm but mostly uneventful. My "seat" was basically just a somewhat crowded room with many Korean couples, families and older people. A young woman travelling alone is definitely not normal here - it reminded me of last year's Sofia roundtrip when I was the only non-Bulgarian, though this was still more comfortable than a bus seat. The young Korean guy who fixed up my bike in Mokpo was on the ferry with his buddy, but definitely not excited to see me. There were no drinking partners to be had, just quite a lot of family noise inside and wind outside. But a boat is still vastly better than a plane.

Once we were approaching the Jeju port, though, I started feeling excited/nervous/anxious. It was almost time to get off and start this real ride. Armed with only a colorful Korean map, two wheels, two bags, a cap, water, a camera and sunscreen - how was this actually going to happen? But it did.

Upon arrival, I successfully strapped the Quechua bag on my bike's back rack, checked the map and just started going straight from the ferry. It was mid-afternoon and definitely pretty hot, but I had plenty of water and energy that day. One of the beautiful things about Korean travel is the seriously impressive signage, nearly always in Hangeul and English. And even more beautiful, I found out that Jeju's bike paths and lanes are indeed stellar, at least the ones I rode all along the coast.

In Jeju City, along the seawall, I breathed a sigh of relief and happiness - I made the first step! I quickly made my way out of the city center and onwards south, ever south. There was a not-so-interesting beach along the way, so the only real stop I made for a while was the bike-themed cafe because it was just calling to me. Otherwise, I had about 4 good hours of daylight before I needed to find a place to crash so I took my time. A few cyclist groups passed me on the way, with their long sleeves and face scarves. I was the only one soaking up the sun.

Pretty soon, the sun was going down. As I stopped for a quick dinner at a random place a bit off the coastal road, I had the wherewithal to just call up a hostel a bit less than halfway between Jeju City and Seogwipo. Sure enough, there were rooms available and it was close to a beach. So after dinner, I was booking it further south to go a few more kilometers that evening and get an even better headstart for the following day. Unfortunately, going off the coastal road eventually got me lost in Hallim-eup, though it was a nice ride through town. It was dark by now, but still warm out. I was anxious to just get to the guesthouse and call it a night. Finally, I figured out how far east I was from the water and without any further problems, I made it to beautiful Hallim Beach where I was solicited for staying at a halmoni (grandmother's) minbak and given further instructions on to Geumneung. Twelve hours after leaving Mokpo that morning, I had found my first resting place on Jeju. The H3 Hostel is owned by a couple in their 30s with lovely little sons. I enjoyed staying up with a bit of makkeoli to chat with the lady and a guest from Hong Kong. The pillow I slept on was called "Ratasha," reminding me of another good Boston friend.

I wish I had spent more time at H3 and said a proper farewell but I was just crashing and needed to move on. The next morning, I said a hasty goodbye and started back on the road, as it was 9 a.m. and already heavy heat. I relaxed on Geumneung Beach for a bit, nearly empty and lovely. Then I continued on. I had been wanting to go to Gangjeong since I came to Korea. I wasn't sure if I would actually make it there on bike, but since I'd gotten such a good headstart on Monday, I decided I'd contact them and do my best to get there by sundown.

Morning on Geumneung Beach

And I succeeded. A full day of solitary riding along the windy but beautiful coastline, with a few twists and turns. I encountered a few more hills making my way down to Seogwipo, but nothing too unmanageable. I sat at a bench outside of a Catholic Church and snacked on fruits and nuts with a quiet halmoni for company. I rode back closer to the coast that would carry me a good chunk of the way and I saw volcanic remains and neolithic remains, around Gosan. After heavy wind and crazy crashing waves, I stopped for a raw fish, veggie and rice lunch at the small port town Moseulpo. Afterwards, I carried on until I finally reached Seogwipo. This is where things got tricky but ended up working out perfectly. To get to the road I needed, I ended up going through the fancy Jungmun resort area and asking around the big hotels. I was getting a bit frustrated because my contact person in the village was too busy to take my call and I wasn't sure I was on the right path. A detour to be sure, but it turns out it gave me just the stalling I needed.

I couldn't imagine where Gangjeong might be, so close to all these resorts, but sure enough the road finally appeared. As I rode through the center of the town, I started seeing people who could be none other than activists. They were all on their way somewhere and I stopped to ask directions and follow one of them who was also on a bike. It turned out that a dinner and evening celebration were being held at the public park not far from the naval base entrance and main protest site. So I arrived just in time to catch the post peace march reveling. And without even asking, I was told that I could have a bed for the night at the community center reserved for activists. Such good luck and timing. Although at one point it got a bit awkward as I was a new and unknown visitor, it was a fun and lively evening.

As often happens for me in activist spaces, I show up alone and uninvited with usually a bit of struggle to engage. And despite this being a very Korean, very traditional village atmosphere, it was an activist space nonetheless. I definitely had a few moments of "what am I doing here? I'm useless" thoughts. As the night went on though, I got to know another American woman who was staying there and working with the international outreach campaign. We drank with some village men, we talked about our experiences, we hung out around town. It was enriching and exactly what needed to happen.

The next day happened to be the one where Father Mun was knocked down by the hired police during the daily 11 a.m. Catholic mass. The situation quickly turned violent, as at least one person climbed onto a police van to demand an apology. Two people were arrested and police encircled them, beating back their comrades trying to break through. So I was able to see a slice of the oppression and frustration that Gangjeong activists face every day. It was amazing to see the strength of many young women, grandmothers, fishermen, the mayor and vice mayor of the village, children, three other Americans and many others. These people - especially the grandmothers! - are fearless in the face of these hired thugs, as they call them. They block the entrance for cement trucks, they climb onto caissons, they endure beatings, arrests, jail time, all for the sake of protecting what is theirs and what is a true treasure of Korea and the world.

Gangjeong village across from naval base entrance

I still had to meet my WWOOF host late that afternoon, though, so unfortunately I had to take off early. Riding out of town, heading a bit further east in Seogwipo, I was struck again by the contrast between Gangjeong and everything around it. It's really an enclave of sorts, almost like a microcosm of all the beauty and ills in Korean society. Something like that could maybe also be said about Sabuk.

It had been a gray day, so I hadn't bothered to put on sunscreen, but it turns out the one day I wasn't riding extensively was the day I looked like a tomato by the end. The sun came out around the golden hour and I was suddenly descending down a steep hill to the Seogwipo harbor. In this beautiful yet highly touristy developed place, I stopped for a bottle of makkeoli and directions to the hotel. I found it soon afterwards. Throwing my bike into the back of his big white truck, Mr. Kim and I were on the way back to his family's house at EM Jeju Farm, the place I would stay for the remainder of my Jeju journey.

Seogwipo Harbor

I was drained from the experience of the past few days and especially my head and heart were racing from Gangjeong. Nevertheless I did my best to keep up the energy. Mr. Kim's wife Oh Song Mi greeted us and we snapped a shot of my arrival on bike. The evening consisted of dinner, family introductions, my personal presentation and an explanation that it was too hot for working in the fruit greenhouses so we would be mostly painting the guesthouse instead. Fine by me.

EM Jeju days start early, especially in the hot summer. 6 or 7 a.m. is the norm and I was definitely still tired the next day but ready to take it on. We went to pick up some dragonfruit from Song Mi's old uncle, who was no doubt taken aback to see a white foreigner. The rest of the afternoon was spent at the EM Jeju storefront where my clumsy and fatigued self didn't contribute much help, but it was enjoyable nonetheless. After an overly spicy seafood lunch - kind of a thing on Jeju - we went to the Seogwipo open market - the biggest one I've seen in Korea so far. It was seriously enormous. I loved it. Back at the guesthouse, I had the rest of the afternoon to myself so I rode down around the harbor and coast - a route that I would quickly get to know over the course of a few days. It would be another early morning the next day for painting, so we tucked in early.

Seogwipo Market

I really enjoyed painting Friday morning, although I wasn't really very good at getting all the details on the wall. The music, the sun, beautiful Hallasan - the tallest mountain in Korea - to our left. What a lovely time. The artist student is a very talented person who draws many comics and it was a pleasure to work alongside her and the family. As so often happens on Jeju during this time, the rain poured down in the afternoon. After a nice lunch and a rest, we were back to painting but I took a break to visit two English teacher friends who happened to be staying not far from the village near the harbor. So back along the harbor road I went and we enjoyed a sunny evening. Riding back, I unfortunately missed a turn in the dark and was a bit late for dinner. Ugh. The start of my jerkdom.

Seogwipo Harbor performance

On Saturday, I had the day off to come back in the evening for the arrival of a young travelling musician and a community meeting where I would do a bit of English with the kids. I wanted to go to the river and/or walk an Olle course, but I was feeling groggy and after a nice ride down to Odelgae - the big penis rock in the middle of the water - I knew that I was back on my way to Gangjeong. Along the road, I bumped into another cycling tourist - a Belgian living with his family in Arizona, in Korea on a business trip. We had a coffee and snack break, talked about our different experiences and killed a bit of time. He was heading back towards Jungmun so we were heading down the same road. I had taken a different route when I left before, a longer one as it turned out. Everything was calm and quiet, when sure enough, seemingly out of nowhere, the wall of cops came into view. The Belgian and I parted ways and I spent a few hours of a lovely sunny Saturday afternoon back at Gangjeong.

The person I hung out with before was still there on the front lines. Almost immediately, she proposed a swim in the river and in we went. It was crazy to see the large family gathering with tubes and a picnic under the bridge with the police marching back and forth above us. What a stark, stark contrast. Back on dry land, I was able to speak with Father Mun, who surprised me with his good English. Everything was calm and positive energy, especially with the arrival of a band of musicians. Just before my departure, though, I filmed in the middle of another standoff with the arrival of several cement trucks. I couldn't believe the fearlessness of the grandmothers going after the younger male policemen. I couldn't believe how the police encircled us for our nonviolent protest. It was really another crazy experience, one that I won't forget anytime soon.

View from the roof of the Gangjeong community center

Security "caught off guard," and just relaxing like there's no problem

Back at EM Jeju, the travelling musician - calling himself the Jeju 거지 (goji) or "beggar/bum" - and his friend arrived. We enjoyed the rest of the evening - eating another lovely homecooked dinner, keeping the boys entertained and a ukulele performance by the goji himself. I went to bed as the two friends stayed up to study English together. Does Korea ever sleep?

Next day was another morning of painting, with worse music but extra good company. The two friends left after lunch in town and though I would have loved to join them in the river, I ended up magically seeing Geumneung Beach again in the late afternoon - packed with people dodging the sun and hardly swimming, but enjoying the water and beautiful view. A Korean family Sunday trip to the beach - I should have taken it as more of a privilege, especially since Song Mi and I went into the public shower afterwards. For some reason, probably due to fatigue and personal experience overload, I was in a grumpy mood that afternoon. I wanted to hang out with younger people, I still had Gangjeong on the brain and I was getting worn down with my inability to handle so much spicy seafood and cultural differences. But the beach was really nice after all.

The next day, Monday, would be my last full day on Jeju as I was taking the ferry back the next day. It was a real 9-5er, the day of making juice samples out of 300 kg of Jeju hanlabong oranges. We started at the house with washing the oranges, loaded them into the white truck and headed down to the processing center, apparently the biggest of its kind on Jeju. So instead of a day of work in the fields or the greenhouse, it was a day inside a metallic, sterile environment. It was OK, though, because I was able to talk more with Song Mi and see the whole juicing process from peeling, to peel grating, to juicing, to packaging and sterilizing the little juice packs. The whole family with the two boys pitched into work. After the day was done, I decided that I did want to cook the family a goodbye dinner, so we went to the store for ingredients. I served up Italian style pasta, salad and bread that we ate with chopsticks and a side of kimchi. It was a nice final evening though a bit stressful for me at the end. Tuesday morning, just before boarding the bus back to Jeju city, I finally saw the fruit greenhouses. The hanlabong, tangerine oranges and passion fruit were mostly green since they don't get ripe until winter. It began raining steadily as I was leaving. So I didn't have to cry - the sky could do it for me.

Goodbye smiles in the greenhouse

Quiet and reflective, I smoothly rode under the summer rain through the streets of Jeju city back to the ferry. This journey was coming to an end, but I knew there were so many others ahead of me, this was just a springboard. The ferry back to Mokpo was a police party and I wondered how many of them were the same hired thugs from Seoul and Gwangju that terrorized the people in Gangjeong. I was afraid that somehow someone would recognize me. I know they are people and just as much victims of the system, but I don't think I can ever again be comfortable around cops. The ferry ride seemed to end faster than the first one, though, and I was back to the hot night of Mokpo city, where it somehow took me two hours with a heavy pack to reach Moe's, the foreigner bar for the open mic night. During that time, I tried my best to enjoy the alternating excitement and quiet of my own thoughts and of the city at night. English teachers stayed up until almost 3, jamming in the street. I kind of missed this. The kitty was still there. The next day, Doug and I had a leisurely morning and made our way to the awesome Korean vegan buffet. I was drained and needing to sleep but I still had a full ride back to Gwangju and Gangwondo, which ended with me crashing at a jimjilbang in Wonju and taking a ridiculously expensive cab back to Sabuk on Thursday morning. The monsoons had started up again those past two days. Jeju had given me new energy, but the weather sapped it and my planning ability towards the end.

Back on the mainland, it was two days of rainy deskwarming followed by a less than impressive weekend in Seoul. Coming from the Jeju experience, I wondered why I was allowing myself to slip back into the same patterns. Never again, I told myself. And since then, it's gotten much better again. More adventures to recount in the next post.

When I was WWOOFing at Peliti, I don't remember anyone directly asking me about my dreams or goals. At least they didn't press me about it. I know that my mental health was already on the decline back then. At EM Jeju, though, I experienced a moment or two of discomfort, despite the language barrier. The farmer was seriously challenging me about what I was doing with my life. He expected me to have a presentation about myself and my dreams and I just didn't have it. It's probably a Korean father thing. Shouldn't take it personally. But it reminded me a little too much of my own father. Mr. Kim also did his presentation of his own life and work. It was great, but I'm not sure I'll ever actually match that journey of making your dreams come true.

Also, the language and culture barrier definitely got to me at times. Coming from the cycling road and Gangjeong, where my own and others' radical ideas could be normal and expected, I had a few moments of difficulty staying tolerant and not getting irritated.  In fact, it's not just about the radicalism. I often put myself in situations where, as the lone traveller, I am stared at, questioned, expected to be social, expected to respond or behave in a certain way. And as a deeply social yet deeply introverted person, I can get easily worn down by all this pressure. Being scrutinized on how and what I eat is a big stress factor. Obviously, food culture in Korea - similar to my family's Russian culture - is of utmost importance in social relations. And I felt bad making the family eat vegetarian with me, although I did my best to eat all that was offered in any case. I felt bad after many small moments - not being able to explain my dream, not wanting to do "English camp" for the kids, not wanting to finish some food, not wanting to go to the beach, not doing well with certain tasks that were given to me. I think, in the end, I did establish a positive connection with the people I met at EM Jeju. But it really hit home for me how I must learn the language and be far more relaxed. This is not my culture, I may never fully understand it, and if I'm volunteering to live in Korea and meet Koreans who speak hardly any English and have never been fully exposed to Western culture, I'm going to bump up against uncomfortable and possibly painful situations. But they will only be as uncomfortable or painful as I let them be. Making my own travel schedule with no one to help keep me balanced only adds to this strain.

Just before I left for Korea, in the Bay Area, a Korean-American told me that I just needed to pass the 4-month mark for depression and then things would get better. I've come to the conclusion that I occasionally still get intensely depressed living in Korea but it generally revolves around two things: 1) living alone in a small town and 2) hanging out with a whole group of almost all English teachers. The first one is not totally fixable and indeed, acknowledging it as a difficulty is totally normal and healthy. But taking advantage of the nice weather means going out and appreciating this small town, with its important Korean history. And it means I have my own space to do pretty much whatever the hell I want, when I want, how I want. The second one is easily fixable: admitting that it's not what I want and doing other things which make me happy.

I want to stay in Korea for a while and find more happiness.

Geumneung Beach sunset

Too Far From Home

Another view of Sabuk, post spring rain

Echoing my sentiments as usual, this is the title of a new book I picked up this past weekend at What the Book? in Itaewon, the mostly foreigner district in central Seoul. It was the second and last real purchase I made over the two days. As last time, I failed to shop as much as I had planned because I was too busy with things like this:

Yeouido Island Bike Path, Seoul

Suzie Q Bar, Hongdae, Seoul

I finished The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Certainly not a bad reread overall and lots of existential food for thought, but I gotta say: it's really all about sex. Yeah, so Tomas is this awesome persecuted doctor who is relegated to window-washing after he publishes an anti-Communist editorial. And he lives many years with Tereza and he just can't leave her and blah blah blah. But he's constantly screwing other women. Leave it to a male author to have your whole plot, dark European politics and all, revolve around a bunch of graphic erotic encounters. Not that that's a bad thing - just not the most fascinating piece I've ever read. Still, I appreciated the reflections on the pettiness of politics, the inane pity received by Czech refugees and the delicacy of intimate relationships.

Must keep reading. After finding a surprise traditional Korean restaurant in an Itaewon alley, I realized I might miss the 4 p.m. train back to Gangwon. Still, I was there so I hurriedly perused the shelves and picked out Too Far From Home, a Paul Bowles collection of stories, novel excerpts, poems, letters and travel essays. Bowles - always heard of the guy but never read him. What is he famous for? Oh, yes. In the 50s-70s, he made a destination out of Tangier, the northernmost Moroccan city. Of course, this makes me reminisce on last year's 10-day trip to Morocco . Beyond the introductions, the first thing I read was the novella that gives the book its title. After a messy divorce, a New York woman stays with her brother in an unknown Niger Valley town and she can't break free from the "too far from home" feeling. Lessons on race relations, ugly tourism and "forgiving everyone" ensue.

Grape Garden House, where I got some soil

Too far from home. Thing is, if you get the drift of this blog, I have no idea where "home" is. Can never answer the question when asked. So, in a sense, I am always too far from this elusive place, right? And I am always straining to find it, wherever I go. Actually, more so than the quest for meaning, my identity must rest on finding a place I can call home.

This is my third book in a row written by a renowned 20th century fiction writer. Murakami, Kundera and Bowles come from vastly different cultures and perspectives but there is, of course, one thing that binds them together: they are men. I actually appreciate all three of them including strong and sympathetic female characters in their work.Yet if you placed prolific womyn authors in modern Japan, or revolutionary Prague, or beautiful Morocco, I'd bet you'd get vastly different stories. If Murakami's women had the main voice, they might describe what it feels like to live in violation. If Kundera's Tereza could talk, she might feel more anger and despair over sexual harassment at work and pervasive cheating by her husband. In Too Far From Home, Bowles actually takes on Anita's character, and I wonder how the great Joyce Carol Oates - who wrote the introduction - would play that role instead.

I guess what I'm thinking is, I want to hear more female voices in fiction. Particularly travel fiction. I want to hear what it's like to have the same spirit of freedom and adventure as male travellers, but not the freedom from verbal street harassment, sexual and violent attacks or a stricter dress code. In fact, I want to hear more about what it's like to live as a part of the societies where female travellers are privileged compared to the local ones. I want to hear about how being a female-assigned person in many parts of this world is simply a battle that none of us chose but how they keep on fighting for their lives. Despite the fucked-up anti-woman legislation currently making its rounds in the States, it doesn't compare to us living as second-class citizens in so many other places, particularly Asia and Africa. So, basically, I should be less lazy and actively seek out these stories. Reading Lolita in Tehran comes to mind.

Hapjeong Station, Hongdae - I loved loading up on gear here!

Rant temporarily over. Springtime is upon us, finally, and the second Seoul weekend was an intense precursor to Sabuk's first truly warm days of the year. I was easily able to get my bike on the train Saturday morning and a daytime train ride was nicer, complete with cute Korean kids in front of me. The challenge began as soon as I got off the train. As usual, I rarely make good advance plans for solo bike trips and all I had done was take pictures of the route I found on BBBike (an awesome resource, regardless). That's right - I did not have a good printed map of Seoul. All I knew was my start point, Changyangni train station in northeast Seoul and my end point - Grape Garden House in Hongdae, southwest Seoul. And so I set off on a bit of a wild ride through the crowded streets of Seoul, on a hot and sunny afternoon. It was mostly enjoyable and I had company on two wheels, though I wouldn't choose to do it that way a second time. The parts of the city I saw were diverse and interesting, but maybe not the most attractive.

It took me way too long to get to the hostel, but once I got there I quickly made plans to ride back out, down to the Han River bike path at dusk. Make no mistake, this is prime city cycling territory - a 68-kilometer loop around the river. Most of the Seoul cyclists seem to cluster here and it's not hard to see why. I crossed the footpath at the Sogang Bridge in Mapo-gu, Hongdae area and finally had a beautiful relaxed ride. So incredibly happy to have a good pair of wheels beneath me. In general, I would say that Seoul reminds me of any big city anywhere, especially from far-away. But that's OK, because they still work hard to make it a liveable, breathable and enjoyable place.

For dinner, I managed to make the mistake of ordering the spiciest thing I've had so far in Korea,     짬뽕. Usually, I can handle it, but sometimes you just gotta laugh it off when you get something that's too much. Afterwards, I managed to get a bit lost in the Hongdae whirlwind but finally met my Houston friend's cousin at the station. I stayed out until nearly 5, in a mix of Hongdae bar hopping, taxi ride to and from a Gangnam charity masquerade party, late-night 비빔밥 and learning about the particular lives of seasoned Seoul hagwon teachers and those who have moved on to other places. For a while there, I really couldn't believe I was going back to the little mountain village with no cafe culture, no live music, no real opportunities for activism. I did "plant seeds" for a joint weekend WWOOFing adventure, though, so that will be something.

But Seoul will always be there. Sunday was beautiful as ever and I headed across the Sogang bridge proper to Yeouido for the Cherry Blossom Festival. These ubiquitous Korean & Japanese trees have yet to sprout in Sabuk, but I imagine it will be actually nicer to enjoy them without the massive crowds. I also enjoyed the path here and rode east to and across the Wonhyo bridge to get back to the city streets. I fully planned to take my bike on the subway to catch the train from Changyangni, but after following the road signs to Itaewon, chowing down, relaxing and buying a book, I realized it just wasn't possible. 

After a brief panic, coupled with the nearly summer heat, I got myself hydrated and back on the road - who knows where? The river seemed like the best option again, finally and I took a long, luxurious, fast and free golden hour ride on the bike path to the Hangyang University station, further east. I fully expected to arrive at the Eastern bus terminal in no time after this, but it turns out I had it wrong. Thankfully, the road signs pointed me to DongSeoul terminal. I passed through a nicer, more small-shoppy part of the city lined with colored latterns - in reality, I was heading back west towards the center. And so it is that, after another very full and tiring day of cycling, I was on a 7:30 bus to the Gohan terminal. Getting off in the nighttime, I felt that the bike was an extension of me, so smoothly and easily did I roll back to my house. A bit hazy and delirious. 

And this work week was hazy. Weeks pass so quickly, I can hardly believe it's almost May. I'm really missing May Day involvement and I hope to go back to Seoul for a weekend parade, if possible. This is the really important year, with a call for a global general strike, but it's on Tuesday! No way I can skip work to go to Seoul that day. And anyway, I don't know anyone directly involved there. Again, I feel split in two between the beauty and peace of my surroundings and everything I could be doing in the city. It will never go away and acceptance is part of the battle. A battle for positive change. 

My French friend who just got back from travelling South America for months messaged me today and it sure as hell made my day. Just knowing that we're still young, still staying on the road and still trying to live our lives to the fullest fills me with the utmost hope. I will never actually be "stuck" anywhere, unless I want to be, and real family and friends will always be there even if it takes 10 years to reunite. 

And yes, I still like teaching my kids. I'm liking it more and more. 

Han River path view, dusk

On the Sogang Bridge

Seoul from the Sogang Bridge

Springtime Lessons

"What if it's broken?" Korean English at Family Mart

Even on a hilltop in the middle of nowhere, you still gotta work out.

After a winter revival in the first week in April, we suddenly had a lovely warm weekend and I obviously took my new two-wheeled friend out for several spins. Korean roads are pretty well kept, even in these rural parts, and long-distance trains and buses comfortably take them on board.

Samcheok

The freedom I feel on a bicycle, especially a quality one that doesn't hurt to ride, is just about unbeatable. Paved open mountain roads around my town. Coastal roads and the beach. On Sunday night, an insane solo 20 kilometer night ride from Taebaek, the smallest city in Korea. Only in motion do I feel truly alive. (But I wouldn't do the last one again. The 2.5 km tunnel near Gohan is deafening and nearly suffocating.)

Despite my good distance endurance for cycling, Taekwando and the weight training that comes with it are beginning to seriously kick my ass. Though an active person, I've never put a high priority on physical fitness and with mirrors all around, I suddenly feel more self-conscious than ever about my body. Realizing my own weaknesses only makes me push harder. A weekly regimen of stretching, yoga, Taekwando, weights and cycling comes on top of teaching, writing, cooking, reflecting. Good for mind and soul as well.

Samcheok

And What About the Language?

Really buckling down and learning Korean would definitely help to become more connected with my new home. Certainly, when I watch the Talk to me in Korean early videos now, I feel like I've gone from zero to basic understanding in a rather short amount of time. It's a well-known fact that most native English teachers, even those who stay here several years, don't go beyond the bare bones of reading Hangeul and basic phrases to greet, order at restaurants, etc. And then there's those who go above and beyond what could be expected in just a year or two. I'm trying my best to take it one step at a time and not feel guilty that my preferred method - absorbing language through listening - is not really "studying." After all, the Asian continent, cultures and language families are a whole new world to me, even as a polyglot. And speaking a language is not the same as doing well in sports or something - it's a skill only measured by how well you can communicate.

Samcheok

"You Need to Give Them Motivation To Learn English"
After I took the initiative to ask why students weren't participating much in my conversation classes, my coteachers spoke with them and found out why. Yes, I understand the motivation thing. I'm beginning to understand that Korean students are bludgeoned by tests, tests, tests, grades, grades, grades, study, study, study all the time. So they're too tired to be self-motivated for just about anything except pop music, computer games, looks. That's not fair and a huge generalization, of course, but generalizations can be somewhat true. Anyway, they are super-competitive with each other, so speaking up in class and making a mistake means getting laughed at which is a big no-no. So I shouldn't correct their mistakes, I should just let their English level stay low - as long as they can half-communicate with me, no problem. No, that's not the right attitude, I know. I'm nowhere near the first or last EFL teacher in Korean to come face-to-face with the basic problem of teaching English in a country with an insane education system that is probably failing its kids. My job is to take it seriously by not taking it seriously. Working to make class fun. Smiling and laughing with my students even when no one feels like smiling or laughing. Not caring if they talk in Korean 75% of the time, as long as they learn something.

Identity Update

If I drink less and talk less, maybe I won't get into inane political or intellectual conversations at the wrong time and the wrong place. Maybe I won't lose friendships before they even got off the ground. Every time I socialize, I try to tell myself to work harder to make up for the mistakes I made last time. As though people are keeping a running tally of the stupid things I've said, my awkwardness, my inability to show myself in the best light. Every time I am accidentally late, or don't answer my phone, or go on too long about a serious topic, I feel that I am chipping away at something. I'm no longer the fun, positive person I'd like to be all the time. I'm that weird, moody, unrelate-able person.

So, no positive updates on changing identity as of yet. Though I have had some beautiful moments over the past few weeks. The highs and the lows could be drawn as close-together steep hills. The highs are usually tied to nature or one-on-one interactions. They lows are usually tied to a night of drinking, coupled with rambling, followed by moodiness and grogginess the next morning. But if I stop drinking, I stop going out. Dilemma.

Land Musings

In Korea, especially Gangwon province, gardening is all the rage. I don't mean young cool people into sustainability and all that jazz. The soil is so rocky in these parts and fertile land so hard to come by that people will turn just about ANY piece of land into a garden. Just in the small niche comprising our apartment complex, snack shops and the middle and high school, there are random veggie beds that are just beginning to sprout. The principal's house has a rather large section and it turns out that, for me, garden patch accessibility is too good to be true. The weather was amazing and I decided to get my hands dirty in the soil. I later learned a Korean teacher has dibs on that plot and the farmer next to my apartment also doesn't have space available. I feel bad about accidentally digging up someone's precious land like that, but maybe it will lead to more communication about gardening in the future. So, I will be starting seeds on my balcony instead and looking for some land later.


And I'm still on the WWOOF mission. I'm trying to gather information about alternative farming communities in Korea and so far I've come across just a few resources, for example: here. There seems to be a Natural Farming movement/practice here, which correlates with Fukuoka, whom I learned about in Greece. Despite learning and absorbing a lot of information and some hands-on experience, I'm still a beginner gardener and feel sort of guilty about that. Why is it taking me so long to get the initiative to do something as simple as planting leafy greens on my balcony? I remember how nice it was to grow my red pepper alongside my roommates' plants in Boston summer '09, but after that, I can't say I've done too much in the way of independent gardening. I'm changing that now too. I intend to be a full-fledged grower within the next few years. Passion must become action.

So, finally, I have a whole lot of different interests that require commitment to fully take root. It's up to each person to decide which activities will take priority. And not to beat herself up about what doesn't get done. It's only one life, after all.

Alive on Two Wheels & What Is Identity Part II

Before

After

Ahem. Ah, yes. The bike has arrived, within 2 days. The picture of the box would be better if it was  from the school administration office, where it first arrived. If only I had had the money to ride a road beauty like this in the ladies' bike gang in Houston. Or, just in Houston for that matter. I look forward to many good times with this lovely light machine, hopefully it can live up to being the best bike I've ever had. It's definitely big, but I still feel more comfortable than ever on it.

Today, despite my own deep ambivalence towards new technologies that disconnect us from each other, I decided to try out a cell phone photo project in class. You wouldn't know this was a relatively low-income region from the fact that just about all of my high schoolers have smart phones, nicer than anything I've ever had. Conspicuous consumption, or something. Anyway, I'm instructing a few of my higher level classes to collect a few cell phone pictures to put into slideshows, for which they will write and present descriptions. I'm taking this teaching thing way too seriously, it seems. Trying to be worth my salt, I guess.

OK, so what does this have to do with identity? My thoughts always sound better in my head than on the page. I live in a constant state of internal stress and creation of drama where none exists. If I can boil it down, it's stress about wanting to be the right person, all the time, in every situation. Impossible, of course. And because I can't focus enough to get it right at least once, I almost never feel like the right person. So creating drama helps to give imaginary meaning to a life that seems "not right" on its own, just as it is. The quest for deeper meaning : maybe that is my identity. The amount of pressure I put on myself to make life meaningful is only rivaled by the pressure I put on others. No wonder people, even close ones, soon grow tired of me.

If someone were to treat me the same way, I would go insane. But in fact, I have come very close to that edge a number of times over the past year. I've lost count of the relationships or mere casual acquaintances I have sacrificed to my unbending, unreal quest. Each time it happens, I am acutely aware and it hurts. It's former roommates, lovers, family members, people I've come across on the road. I can even pinpoint, in retrospect, at which moments my behavior became an annoyance. The problem is, so far I've lacked the ability to stop my heavy searching in its tracks before it runs over everything like an unwieldy freight train.

So as I seem to repeat like a broken record, Korea is the chance to change this fundamental part of my identity. How can the quest for meaning be used to harness positive energy?

I will update as I look for the answers.

What is Identity?

Today I woke up at 8 a.m. to take the bus to meet a new friend, one of the best people I've met in Houston, at a park to ride bikes to volunteer in the community garden. The day worked out really well, even with a 5-hour busy Target shift in the middle. I love those days, when I have enough positive energy to not get down about working this job.

Of course, before I met up with my friend, there were dark clouds hovering in the sky and they were making my already irritable mood spiral into that unreasonable place of despair. Yesterday, I was at an anti-police brutality rally and before we started marching, I suddenly found myself in a very real and very serious conversation with this new friend's girlfriend. She revealed to me her longterm struggle with anxiety and depression and she said many things to me that hit so incredibly close to home, things that I almost could have repeated verbatim. I was caught off my guard and continued on with the march, feeling newly invigorated and vowing to talk with this person again and really pick her brain about radical mental health and other solutions to these problems.

Last Sunday, I went to the Zen Center for the first time, for an informal meditation and discussion section. It was a beautiful bike ride from downtown, after spending the night in the park at Occupy Houston. Many ideas surfaced that also hit me hard, like people who will call you out on your flaws in a helpful, loving way and how those are true friends. But how do we tell the difference between kind honesty and brutal honesty? Is it pure intuition? Or does it require a substantial amount of awareness and humility? Does it require mental health?

So I'm not going to rationalize or pretend, I know why my mood took a turn for the worse yesterday. I had crashed on some awesome peoples' couch the night before and woke up with lots of positivity for my day off, but then I had lunch with Dad and his new wife (maybe if I don't even call her my "stepmother" I won't have to acknowledge her as a family member at all) and it went how it frequently does, with a hugely unpleasant argument, except this time in public. And I can't cope with this, I can't defend myself while also casting myself in the best light. I can't be accused of selfishness and blatantly judged and personally attacked for my lifestyle, past & present choices and remain neutral, accept it as "honesty" and keep my composure with calm responses. For, in my mind, this person's honesty is of the worst kind of brutality, the kind that stems from projection of personal problems on a fellow and undeserving human being. Have I also been guilty of this behavior? It's quite awful when thrown in your face. 

Then I think about the other person who has unintentionally set me on an emotional rollercoaster since I arrived in Houston. Who has also pointed out my shortcomings to me, forced me to look in the mirror. I think about these two people and I think about identity. 

So then on my walk home last night, the truth struck me clearly and at full force: I have no identity. Deep inside, I don't exist as a person. What can normal people, including even therapists, answer to this except "get to know yourself," "we're all finding ourselves," "you're not alone," the whole gammut. I can't relate to any of this on a deep level because I know that my lack of selfhood is a chronic condition, not a "phase" and not just related to my youth. To me, finding myself may be the big difference between getting mentally healthy and continuing down the winding road of crazytown.

I am a cis-gendered female. I am heterosexual. I am a Russian-American. I am a 20-something. I am a college graduate. I am white. I am a daughter, granddaughter, sister, cousin, niece. I am a "writer." I am a reader. I am a cyclist. I am a polyglot. I am a traveller. I am a semi-strict vegetarian. I am a nature lover. I am a radical. I am a worker. I am a non-believer....what else?

Except none of these things are my identity for they are all subsumed in what I do and how I relate to others. And taken together, they are just a blurry amalgam that I become lost in. As a traveller and as a person in general, I know what I gravitate towards and of course, it has helped me figure out where my true interests lie and how I might want to build the remainder of my life, at least for a good part of the foreseeable future. But in fact, I have come to the startling conclusion that this has very little - if anything - to do with who I am.

Spring 2011 - Journeys of Friendship

This is one of the most important entries I will write. These were some of the most memorable moments of my life and they greatly influence my life today. At least my inner life. 

The use of the word 'migrant" in the Calais section sounds weird, even to me, but I don't know a better term because that's the one usually used. To me, they're just people. 

April 25, 2011 - May 8, 2011 

My teaching stint in France ended in anticlimax. The students barely even knew I was leaving and I had no real time to say goodbye except during classtime. Seven months and poof! I was gone. Like I was never there. Why? [Later note: Again, I'm grateful for the Korean system that places us for a full year, full time, gives us housing by the school and does their best to integrate us into the teacher lifestyle. At least, that is my experience.]

So a lot of my anxiety revolved around that, feeling like my time at the two middle schools had been a waste and nobody cared. It could have been my responsibility to integrate myself better though. And plan better lessons. And care more. I did care though.

But that was it - teaching was over and I gave myself no time to reflect. After the last leg of the Cyclotour des Paysans and the farm video shoot, I was anxious for some quality time with friends instead of strangers. Before the journey East to Bulgaria and Greece, there were about two more weeks of even more experience overload in and around Lille. Sounds impossible, even now, but there it was. I would take in another long bike ride, May Day and the Soup Festival in Lille, two nights in Calais immediately followed by a goodbye hangout in the Fives garden and packing up my entire room to make room for a new Fives housemate. 

Spring was beautiful, sunny and vibrant. The last band of the cyclotour landed at the Fives house and garden for a night and when they left the next morning, I had a sudden panic because suddenly I had a few days to myself. Time to think. And thinking was not something I wanted to do. 

"Two Sexy Ladies on Bicycles"

For a while, Marine and I had been planning a cycling trip from Lille to Bruges - from the northern Flemish tip of France to the northern Flemish part of Belgium. Though Marine is the more organized one, in true la-di-da fashion, we only had a printed Google map and directions, pieces of which gradually flew away in the wind. 

We made up a song "Two Sexy Ladies on Bicycles"

On the Friday morning of May Day weekend, we set out from cobble stoned Vieux Lille - the old, wealthy neighborhood in the northern part of the city - with our pretty crappy bikes. Our route was something like 80 km, but we were on the road all day, arriving at our lovely Couchsurfer's place in Bruges around the 8 p.m. sunset. Along the way, we passed ugly construction at the Belgian border, a big pink hippo in a pond, expertly crafted Belgian bike routes along waterways and small towns, lunch on a bench at the Lille-Bruges crossroads, 1 dollar Belgian beers on the ground outside a convenience store near a rushing highway after bouts of frustration. Marine: "I want to take the train!" Me: "No! I don't want to say I got there by train!"

After we got our bearings and put ourselves back on track, we rode on miles and miles of flat, open countryside where the sky suddenly opened to shower us with a torrential downpour. We rode it out, through breaking trees and distant cracking lightning until the roads turned into puddles and then waited it out in shelter with two hardcore road cyclists who only spoke Flemish. Amazing the difference a few dozen miles makes in language and culture! 

Our landing was as cobble stoned as our beginning. Pulling into Bruges on Friday evening  was a dream. Clear, warm, dry, charming, welcoming Bruges. Where there are so many bikes that no one locks them and apparently no one steals them. Our Couchsurfer Hady, fluent in English but only basic in French, was tired from work and chilling at home. So after a nice rest and dinner, we went out on the town, meandering through the main square and park lit up at night, finally settling in a bar with good music and impassioned conversation. 

We called it a pretty early night and crashed on couches, waking up to a sunny, clear Saturday morning. Marine and I were in good spirits and Hady decided to take us to the Bruges farmer's market. We couldn't have asked for a more beautiful, clear and not-too-hot day. Hady was a great host with a year abroad in Australia on the horizon. We enjoyed lunch on a patio, roaming around the market stands and being entertained by a travelling musician. Marine is a fan and practitioner of street theater so she really loved this. 

Hady left us eventually and we kept exploring on our own before making the final decision to add another 30 km to our journey with a round trip ride north to Knokke-Heist, a seaside town on the Netherlands border. It was a beautiful spring day and we were sea bound. From east Bruges, we passed a row of large windmills and continued on through some of the most beautiful, green, lush, countryside along canals and through a forest. I absolutely loved this part of the trip. (Later I would meet a Belgian activist in Calais who hated the Belgian landscape because the government has forcibly cut down so many forests and left all this flattened farmland. But we weren't thinking about it at the time). 

Nearing Knokke-Heist, something I don't remember caused another argument between us. Although none of it could really be called "arguing." It's always just heated discussion with Marine and I - us being the passionate individuals we are. Vegetarianism, mental health, self-confidence, non conformism were hot topics. And Marine always cares deeply about her friends' lives and she's always full of ideas, so she kept encouraging me to continue documentary filmmaking. Which was painful for me to hear, especially having just shot on my friend's family farm and fully unconvinced that I would actually edit the footage. (To this day, I still haven't). We finally made it to the beach, had ourselves a fancy lunch on another patio, but in the ongoing saga of squeezing everything into a short span of time, we had to haul out of there back to Bruges to catch a train back to Northern France. And I mean HAUL. We rode as though our lives depended on it with the sun beginning to set and providing us with more beautiful scenery. 

But we made it back to Hady's, took a last photo at her place and made that train. Chowing down on strawberries, we relaxed on the ride back to just below the Belgian border, riding to a place where we stopped for food, hopped on a tram with our bikes and road back to the main train station Lille-Flandres where we parted ways for the night. On that ride, we got to talking with a nice middle-aged Moroccan man about travel, culture and Morocco because I had just been there 2 months before. Brief connections, they're the best. 

I loved these 2 days. I think Marine did too. I loved them because I had nothing to prove to anyone. Because all I had to do was enjoy the company of someone who had grown to become a dear friend and even more so on the trip. Because of the challenges and little joys we discovered on the road and exploring a new place. Because there were no political undertones, no drama, no reason to do this other than we wanted to. We had a goal and we made it happen. It was a journey of friendship. It reminded me of what that word really means. Because sometimes, often, I forget. 

May Day

This adventure started the morning after the return from Bruges and spanned 2 days because it ended up at Marine's house after a wild and beautiful Wazemmes street party for the annual Louche d' Or (Golden Ladle Soup Festival). There was a travelling couple from Berlin who needed a place to crash, so we took them into our craziness. I showed them a bit around Lille the next day, in the heat and my stress. Less relax, more party.

My room was already nearly empty and I was sleeping downstairs, but I had to finish it all on May Day because the man with two beautiful little girls was moving in. The morning was spent mad bike-rushing between the house and the May Day parade in Wazemmes. I could have chosen to go to a radical book reading at a library, but thankfully, I decided to not include that on my list of a million things to do. The parade surprisingly disappointed me, it was nothing like Boston or even the retirement reform demos, no grand speeches, not much. Oh, well. I guess the Soup Festival was grabbing Lille's attention that day. 

When I got there, I was alone in the park. The soup crew hadn't made the time to actually make any soup and I missed most of the other tastings. So I was just waiting for the festivities to begin. And I was alone, with time to think. And still, thinking was not what I wanted to do. My time in France was quickly coming to an end, I'd experienced so much and met so many people, how could I be subjected to even one moment alone, my irrational brain thought. Where were my friends?? Fellow assistant teachers, activists, artists? Marine and her crew, why were they not here? I was running into people and I hated being seen alone. Clearly, I was overwhelmed and under rested. 

But the party went down for sure. We all gathered, danced in the streets, which were full of music and food vendors. I'd never seen the Wazemmes market that packed. Marine's friends from Paris and elsewhere added even more life to our event. Not surprisingly, I increasingly felt less and less inclined to leave Lille. At all. Ever. How could I? But I did.

Calais 

 What can I say about Calais? Not much that's not already said on the   site. There's the story, and I really played no part other than as a   visitor. I went there before with two other activists from Lille and   slept in the activist space, but this time, I went by myself and slept 2   nights on the floor of the dark, broken-up squatted building with the   Belgian activist and the migrants, most of them from central Africa.   At 6 a.m. every morning, they wake up with whistles around our   necks to watch for cops coming to raid. Every morning people do this. And at night too. It's unbelievable. It's no way to live. Not in Europe, not anywhere. 

I was able to speak Russian with one of the migrants, the only white man, who is from Lithuania. His was a particularly sad story and I have no idea what happened to him after I left. I have no idea what happened to any of the many migrants I met, as eager to share their tales of woe with me when they got the chance as with the other white kids. But the other No Border people were there for weeks, months, years. They're veterans. The one other female activist that I barely spoke with, she seemed to be accustomed and not be actively dealing with what was quite obviously sexual harassment by the migrants. It was tough for me there, as a woman. I wanted to talk to someone about it more, but never got the chance. These men live together in as much solidarity as they can muster, with few if any women coming through. They're from different cultures. They don't necessarily understand all facets of oppression, even though they are being oppressed. They're just human. I didn't have the back knowledge or the skills to call some of the men on their behavior at the time, though I wish I did. 

But sometimes, it was just innocent. Like the next day after lunch at the meal station, the Belgian and one of the young Sudanese decided on a spontaneous walk to the beach with beers. I was near them at the time, so I went too. Calais does have a nice beach. Even before the first No Border trip, Rebecca and I went there for a day trip that she desperately needed at the time. This time, it was warm and it was just a few hours on the beach, some boys surfing, drinking beers, playing in the sand, just young people enjoying a good time, right? On the walk back, I got a sober reminder of where we were and why. Apparently, a desperate migrant trying to swim the Channel to England had drowned or something along those lines. A police boat was circling the waters. We had to hide ourselves, because the Sudanese man was undocumented. If he was desperate enough, it could have been him.

When we were sitting on the beach, the Sudanese, who was in his late 20s, kept tracing circles on my bare foot with his fingers. It felt nice, not violating, not weird, not even romantic, just an innocent gesture. I don't remember his story, but he spoke some level of either English or French. He was a friendly guy with a nice smile. I think he lost some of his family, or he left his whole family. I hope he's OK now. I hope he has or will somehow escape the hell of the border system. 

I do remember the Belgian's story and I bet he's still around Calais. I couldn't believe he was a few years younger than me, but looked so much older and with so much more life experience. His dad was a sailor and had taken his son to so many places, including the North Pole where they were out alone with their boat. With his family and others, he had spent years in a Belgian forest occupation. That's why he hated the Belgian countryside I told him about, he knew full well what that comes from. I really respect this kid and those like him, his dedication to justice, his fearlessness and his unabashed love of life despite the darkness. When we got back to the squat, there was a rowdy soccer game on outside. Later, we sat in the dark, with migrants roasting raw potatoes over fires. There was an Italian photographer with us at some point and overall, this whole day was just a surreal experience. A different world. 

The next morning, there was a raid. I was frozen. I had no clue what to do. I had a whistle, I had my feet, I had my brains, I had my 45,000 dollar a year college education, but I had no idea how to react in this situation. I wasn't trained. The stupid blond female cop pulled me out of the clearing, made fun of my "American woman" passport and rummaged through my bag. Embarassed, I joined the rest of the No Border team and migrants outside the squat. I don't remember if they made arrests or just checked IDs. Many African men were hiding on the roof, looking down on those of us on the ground. I took the train back to Lille at some point that day. I said goodbye to the Lithunian man and promised I'd be back. I couldn't say goodbye to the Belgian guy because he was fast asleep when I was leaving, exhausted from the previous day and stress of that morning. I got a few email addresses and was told I should come visit some of the African men in England when they made it there. If they made it there. 

On the train back, I don't even remember my emotions. I don't remember feeling anything but emptiness. It's normal. It's just the atmosphere of that whole place, the endless violence, physical, psychological. The constant threat of raids, arrests, detention, deportation for these people who are mostly innocent of anything but not having the "right papers." The overwhelming privilege of being white and of having a valid passport, especially a USA passport. And the seeming hopelessness. If I stayed, I could probably do a lot more. I hated this sickly feeling of being nothing but a tourist, just on my own, with so little background knowledge. I just wanted to go there for myself, for my own education. I felt stupid and they probably thought I was. But I don't regret it, not one bit. I only regret not having the determination to stay. Guilt. The feelings are valid and it's all worthwhile. People are doing a lot right now. The situation is growing worse in summer 2012 because of the Olympics training. Calais is being cleared. But a new space is opening. There's a bigger community growing. There is always hope, even in the darkness. 

Goodbye For Now

I was really insane. I had scheduled the goodbye party in the Fives garden for the SAME NIGHT as my return from Calais. Why? I didn't realize I was in shock until I started crying when my roommate asked me how I was when I got back. I was not OK. I needed a retreat from retreats. I needed to meditate. I needed to sleep. I needed so many things that I wasn't giving myself. Teachers from school, Lille friends and acquaintances came and went throughout the night. It was a lovely hangout in our lovely garden. When I look at the pictures, though, I think what the hell was I wearing? A red top with a hoodie over an orange skirt. Crazy on the outside too. I couldn't talk to everybody I wanted, couldn't donate enough time to all these great people that had helped me and been such great company throughout my time here. Thankfully, Marine and Riquier stayed through most of the night. They are good anchors for a wayward sailor. 

The last night was the most wonderful yet, if that was possible. Marine performed at Metalus, an awesome performance space in Loos, on the border of Lille. We celebrated spring with a vengeance - many people that I loved and had gotten to know were also there. An artist/alternative life paradise. I rode back by myself late into the night.

The next day, I was off to Paris to catch the Eurolines bus to Sofia. I could write about how awful of a guest I was at the couple's apartment in Paris, for a second time, but that would just be overkill. I was self-centered. I apologized later.

I would be back to France at the end of June. But for now, I was heading East again...