The Last Post?

It's time.

Tomorrow marks the eighth anniversary of The Brown Knowser. One thousand, eight hundred, and seventy published posts. More than 376,000 views (almost 4,000 views, on average, each month: this month, I was stunned to learn that my blog topped 10,000 views for the first time in almost two years). 

I am eternally grateful for all of my readers and followers. But now, I have to stop.

At least, for a time.

A week ago, I visited my doctor because I found that my short-term memory was failing me, among other things. I'm constantly exhausted, both mentally and physically, and my anxiety levels are through the roof.

I already know that I suffer from depression. It's not something I talk about, not even with family and close friends, but some days I find myself paralyzed, unable to get myself out of bed or off the sofa. It doesn't last long, no more than a day or two, but these days I've been fighting it to the point that my mind becomes scattered and I have to struggle to keep moving.

My doctor talked about all of my activities and my sleep pattern. I talked about my blog; I talked about my novel; I talked about my photography; I talked about my family; I talked about work. I told her that I strive to get to bed before midnight but usually fail. My alarm rings, most weekday mornings, at 5.

I told her that over the past couple of months, I've grown stressed at work, that I'm not happy with my job and how I dread being in the office.

We talked about my feet and how I've dealt with the pain. I told her that things were rough in the years that led up to my surgery, that I had "picked my bridge" in the event that my foot couldn't be fixed, that the pain would continue.

Thankfully, with the exception of a strain on my left ankle that came from overworking my foot in South Korea, my pain has diminished, that the surgery was a success, that the injections in my right foot for my osteoarthritis keep the pain at bay.

I have my bridge, but I don't need it at present.

My doctor has referred me to a psychiatrist, and I await my first appointment. In the meantime, my doctor has instructed me to get more sleep, and has given me literature on techniques I can use to sleep better.

My doctor has also told me that I have too much on my plate. Particularly with my writing, which occupies so much of my time. "Something has to go," she said. "Keep two things that give you the most joy and eliminate the other." She was referring to my blog, my novel, and my photography.

I'm committed to finishing my novel by the end of the summer. My whole reason for going to Korea was to jump start my writing, and it succeeded. I wasn't about to put that back on the shelf.

Whether I'm with my D-SLR, my compact cameras, or my smartphone, not a day goes by that a camera isn't within short reach. I can't look at anything without considering how it would look in my viewfinder or screen. Photography gives me almost more joy than writing, and so I can't put my cameras down.

That leaves The Brown Knowser.

Even though my blog has given me so much joy, it also produces a lot of stress. I worry about not having any material to use for a post. I worry that the quality of my writing isn't worthy of my readers. I worry that my rants will offend people.

I love my blog but it's a large part of my anxiety.

So, on the eve of my eighth anniversary, I'm going to step away. Maybe not forever, but for the foreseeable future.

At least, until my physical and mental health improve.

So, what happens to Beer O'Clock? What happens to my photos?

When I was travelling in Korea, I shared a lot of thoughts through Twitter. I think I'll use that social media tool as my main outlet. I also posted photos through Instagram, which were shared out through Twitter and Facebook. I liked posting images and ideas through that format.

Beer O'Clock, when I do review beer, will start through Instagram, with photos of the beer or brewery, and will continue as a thread on Twitter. If you like my beer reviews, consider following me.

As I work on my novel, I will share rough drafts of my chapters on my Gyeosunim blog. When the manuscript is ready for my publisher, that blog will stop but the first chapter will be available. Same as what I did with Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary.

So, this is it. It's time. After eight years, I'm stepping away from The Brown Knowser. I won't say goodbye: instead, I'll just see ya around sometime.

Oh, and here's one last photo...

Cheonggyecheon Canal Video

It was my first evening in South Korea, and I had been re-energized by a 90-minute nap after having travelled for about 18 hours. I had time travelled 13 hours into the future (by Ottawa standards), and I didn't want to waste any more time.

One of my non-negotiable night walks in Seoul was the Cheonggyecheon Canal, a stream that runs for nearly 11 kilometres from west to east in the heart of the city. This stream had been covered over after the Korean War, during the city's restructuring. It was uncovered and built into a water park that runs below the streets in 2005.

Today, it's a massive draw for tourists like me and the city's residents. On a Saturday night, the waterway was packed with families with their young children, couples on a date, and friends out on the town. Folks were strolling, sitting by the stream, or taking selfies in front of the illuminated pieces of art that hovered above the water.

I had seen images on Google Maps' street view, but the still images don't capture the atmosphere of being there.

I took many stills, myself, hoping to capture some candid images of people relaxing, but I also brought my 360-degree video camera with me, and I put it to use. As soon as I had walked about half a kilometre eastward from the canal's starting point, I turned on my video camera and walked back.

The walk took about five minutes or so but the video has been sped up in spots, and runs for less than two minutes.

Unfortunately, with my jet lag, I forgot to set the camera to night mode, so that the camera runs faster in low light. As a result, there is some pixelation in spots, but it does give a good feel for the canal and the night life.

Here's the video:

Note: this video was shot in one take and edited on my smartphone. I love portable technology.

Wordless Wednesday: Random Chŏnju

Room With No View

On my last evening in Korea, I had returned to Seoul, from where I would head back to the Incheon International Airport and eventually, home. I had done all I wanted to do in Chŏnju, had all the information that I wanted to gather, and was ready to say goodbye to the country that had been my home from 1997 to 1999.

Actually, that's not quite true: I didn't do everything that I wanted to do in Chŏnju. I didn't climb Namgosan, the hill on the south end of the city, just a short hike from the neighbourhood in which I was staying. On that hill there were the remains of a fortress wall, a temple—Namgosansa—and a commanding view of Chŏnju.

The view in 1997.

In my first year, on summer afternoons when I had several hours to kill between classes, I would climb this hill and walk past the temple, along some of the remaining stones from the wall, find a cluster of trees that would offer shade from the burning sun, and relax as I watched the city move below me. I sometimes even brought some food and a bottle of soju or beer, and have a picnic.

I didn't climb Namgosan. I had injured my foot, seen it swell to a ginormous size, and didn't want to walk any further than about 10 or 15 minutes at a time. It's a shame, really: I have a photo that I shot in 1997 and would have loved to capture an image to see how the cityscape had changed over the past two decades.

No matter: I had the view I shot from Jeonju University and a night view of the Hanok Village from Omokdae Park, which shows the sprawl in the near distance, looking northwest, past city hall and toward the downtown core.

I didn't go to Tokchin Park, near Chŏnbuk National University, but I had been there before and recent photos on Google Maps showed that it hadn't changed much, except for the plaza where intercity buses made short stops. But I could see part of the plaza, from a bus stop, and I can always visit it on Google's street view.

I didn't visit the neighbourhood where I lived when I worked at the hagwon (private institute) in 1997, but again, I can see just as much from Google street view. The same with the apartment that I lived in in 1998, when I worked at Jeonju U. I caught a quick glimpse of it from a city bus, as I headed to the university, and I thought that was enough. I didn't need to get up close.

So, I left Chŏnju, not with all my boxes checked but feeling satisfied that I had accomplished my mission.

When I returned to Seoul, I wanted to be a tourist, wanted to visit sites that I had planned to visit when I lived in South Korea but never had the chance. And while I have never been a shopper, I wanted to go through some of the shopping districts and poke around.

Two nights before I returned to Seoul, I had no booked accommodation. A friend of mine had told me about love hotels, which can be rented for a night or for a few hours, depending on your motives. If your motive was sleep, it was an inexpensive, clean room. If you were looking for hanky panky, away from prying eyes, it was an inexpensive, clean room.

Before going to Korea, I checked one out on YouTube.

While I trust my friend's judgement on travel, I opted to not follow this recommendation because I didn't want to worry about searching for the right hotel at the right price, in the right neighbourhood. I wanted to be in a neighbourhood that I knew well, that had easy access to transportation to the airport. And so, I searched online and found a room for only $89CAD just a short walk from the hotel I stayed in, a few days prior, when I first arrived in Korea.

For that little amount, there was a catch: the room had no windows.

New Kukje Hotel.

I didn't really care because I was only staying for one night and I was only going to use the room for sleep. And, most importantly, the hotel had plenty of positive reviews, mostly about the cleanliness of the rooms and the friendliness of the staff.

The room was, indeed, clean and the staff were very helpful—and they were fluent in English (even the elevator spoke exclusively in English, as it announced floors).

As soon as I settled into my room, it was time to head out and play tourist. There was a temple that I had wanted to visit so long ago but never found the time, and so I headed out to Bongeunsa. This temple, dating back to 794, is located on the south shore of the Han River, and just east of the neighbourhood where the Express Bus Terminal is located. (The bus terminal is the only reason I had previously ever found myself on that side of the Han.)

The temple was devastated by a fire in 1939 and was all but completely destroyed during the Korean War, but the rebuilt structures and giant standing Buddha of today are no less impressive.

Bongeunsa is located in the heart of the Gangnam district which was made famous by the 2012 hit by Korean artist, Psy. A statue in his honor is located a block away from the temple.

After I visited the temple, I returned to my hotel neighbourhood, near city hall, where I ate dinner, picked up some grapefruit-flavoured soju, some potato chips, and unwinded to a Korean version of a reality talent show.

 
I discovered, though, that even though my room had no view, the hotel had a rooftop restaurant with a terrace that had a spectacular view. So my hotel was well worth the visit.

My trip to South Korea was short but well worth the jet lag and injured ankle. As I return to more work on my novel, Gyeosunim, I have lots of renewed memories as well as fresh ones.

Who knows? Maybe I'll return in another 20 years?

Kumsansa

When I lived in Chŏnju, South Korea, from 1997 to 1999, one of the things that DW and I loved to do was get away from the city on the weekends. We would travel, by bus, or sometimes in a vehicle with our Korean friends, to the various temples, mountains, and other sites throughout the small country.

One of our favourite places to visit, if we didn't want to stray too far, was to the far side of Moaksan (Moak Mountain), to the southwest of Chŏnju, to Korea's only three-tiered temples, Kumsansa (now spelled Geumsansa).

Built around 600 AD, the original structure was burned down following the 1592 Japanese invasion and rebuilt in 1632. This is the main temple that still exists to this day.

When DW and I would go to Kumsansa, we would either go by car (our hagwon, or language institute, had a car that was available to the teachers), by scooter (we each bought one in our second year), or by bus. It would take 20 minutes by car, a half an hour by scooter, or just under an hour by bus.

On my recent return to Chŏnju, I had to return to this temple. Being in the mountains, it was set in a beautiful, peaceful, and quiet surrounding. Even when we visited the site, one spring evening, for Buddha's birthday, there was a crowded calm about the grounds.

I caught the bus just around the corner from Pungnammun, Chŏnju's old south gate, which was close to my Airbnb. I was able to use the T-card that I bought in Seoul, which gave me passage on buses, subways, and even some taxis. The care worked on the buses in Chŏnju.

Making our way out of Chŏnju, the bus passed through neighbourhoods that didn't exist when I lived there, 20 years ago. But once we saw Moaksan, with its cluster of television and radio antennae (and no doubt, cell-phone towers), the windy road became familiar. I even recognized a restaurant that DW and I had visited, with some of her students, all those years ago. It was famous for it's smoked duck, and judging by the number of cars parked outside it, the restaurant had not lost its charm.

The bus let me off about 1,300 metres from the entrance to the temple. Years ago, I could have driven much closer. I remembered the lines of souvenir stalls and restaurants, but once I walked past them, where a narrow road once lay, the quality of the roadway was much improved and a landscaped walkway kept me in shaded comfort. It was an extremely pleasant walk, despite my injured ankle from too much walking throughout Seoul and Chŏnju.

The Airbnb in which I was staying is part of a group of lodgings, called Hanok Stay. As I neared the temple, I saw a similar logo and the words Temple Stay near a new group of traditional-style houses. Apparently, you can now rent lodging near Kumsansa.

The grounds of the temple were exactly how I remembered them. The paint on the main building was in serious need of touchup, but everything was how I expected it to be. There were still some lanterns hanging from the previous weekend's celebration of Buddha's birthday: when I had attended the celebration in 1998, the entire grounds were covered in these colourful decorations.

There's not much else to say about the site. I'm going to share the photos I shot and let you decide if this is a place you'd want to escape to, if you lived nearby.

A Conversation in Silence

I'm a big-time people watcher. I love to observe others, casually, as they come and go on the journey of their own lives. Sometimes, I try to imagine what motivates them on their journey, what is going on in their heads. I invent a story to accompany their actions.

While I was in South Korea, I had plenty of opportunities to watch people, especially when I was sitting at a table in a restaurant, eating. Whether I was observing fellow patrons at their own tables or watching pedestrians walking past the restaurant window, I saw a lot of brisk activity over the eight short days in this far-away country.

I was hungry for duk-kalbi, a barbecue beef that is wrapped in lettuce and popped into your mouth. From my Airbnb room, I searched Google for the closest restaurant that served this food. It was in the centre of the touristy Hanok Village, less than a 10-minute walk away. I grabbed my smartphone and headed out.

The menu was not suited to a single person, dining alone. I ordered my meal, the restaurant specialty, and a bottle of mokoli, a semi-fermented rice wine.

Because it was fairly late in the evening, almost 8:00, the restaurant wasn't crowded. It was scheduled to close at 9, and so those who were in there were almost finishing up or were in for a short dining experience.

With my dinner delivered, I was prepared to focus on the job at hand: take a leaf of lettuce; add some greens, some noodles, a sliver of raw garlic, and samjang, a red-pepper paste. Take a piece of beef, dip it in a salty sauce, and place it on top. Roll up the lettuce into a bite-sized bundle and pop the whole thing in your mouth.

I had more pieces of beef than I had leaves of lettuce, so when I could no longer wrap a bite, I slowly grazed at all of my side dishes, leisurely popping a piece of the tender meat into my mouth and sipping at my beverage. It was at this point that my eyes started wandering the room.

I didn't see them come into the room. A couple in their mid to late 20s. The woman was beautiful: makeup flawlessly applied and her long, dark hair combed impeccably straight. She wore a navy blue dress with flecks of pink and red. The man was in a tan golf shirt with a light-weight, light-blue jacket over it. His hair was short on the sides, puffed on top.

I noticed the body language right away. The man was leaning back in his chair, eyes fixed either on the food in front of him or up toward the ceiling. He was speaking boisterously, obviously trying to get his ideas out. He would pause only to put food in his mouth, when he would continue to speak and chew at the same time.

I figured he was mansplaining.

The woman had her elbows on the table. The chopsticks in her hand were occasionally picking at her food but it was clear that she wasn't hungry. Her eyes rolled upward and then scanned the restaurant, seemingly seeking a distraction.

She found it in my eyes, as my gaze met hers.

Neither of us flinched or looked away. Her eyes and face said, "Oh, a westerner. I wonder what he's doing in Chŏnju." She held her gaze and let out a subtle sigh.

I raised my eyebrows. My mouth turned to a slight frown. "It doesn't look like you're enjoying yourself," my face said.

"I'm not," she relied, wordlessly. Her eyes turned to her dinner partner, and then back to me. "He's all about himself," she gestured with her face, "he hasn't engaged me."

"That's okay," my face nodded in sympathy, "I'll keep you company."

"You're not with anybody?" her eyes asked as she looked to the empty seat at my table.

"Just me."

The woman's dinner partner raised his voice over some point he was trying to make, and her gaze turned to him. Figuring that our exchange was over, I picked up my smartphone and described my observation on Twitter.

I put my phone down and picked up my chopsticks. I reached for another piece of beef and popped it in my mouth. My eyes returned to the woman, who was once again looking at me.

"Where did you go?" her eyes asked me.

"Sorry," I indicated, "you seemed distracted by your partner."

"Why won't he ask me for my opinion?"

"I'm sorry to say that from my perspective, he isn't interested in your opinion." I reached for my final piece of meat. My meal was pretty much done, with only a few side dishes remaining for me to poke at. I still had almost a third of my mokoli left. I picked up the small bowl that held my drink and, still in her gaze, raised it subtly in a toast. "Kombei," I implied. Cheers.

She picked up her glass of soju, a clear, distilled drink. "Kombei," she answered, also with a slightly raised glass. We both smiled and took a sip. "Do you like mokoli?" her eyes turned to my drinking bowl and then back to me, her eyebrows raised in question.

"Very much. I've missed it." I took another sip without looking away from her.

The man asked her a question and she spoke for the first time. "Nae, nae." Yes, yes.

The man took a quick swig of his soju and spooned some vegetables and rice into his mouth before continuing his pontificating. Once again, I took a pause to live-tweet my wordless interaction.

Phone down, I looked back at her. She looked a bit sad. "I don't want to be here," her eyes told me. "I can't wait for this evening to be over."

"First date?"

"Yes." As if she truly understood me, she gave me a subtle nod.

"Last date?" I rolled my eyes for emphasis.

She smiled and almost laughed, but composed herself, lest her date discover that she wasn't paying attention to him. "Yes," she replied, also rolling her eyes.

A server came to my table with a trolley and began removing some of my empty plates. I could see that I only had a few sips of mokoli. Other dinner guests had left, save for one other table with two women about my age. They too were just finishing up. I looked at my watch and saw that it was just a couple of minutes before 9.

The staff wanted to clean up and go home.

I picked up my mokoli, gave it a swirl, and looked at the woman. "This has been fun but it looks like the time for me to go is now."

"Please stay," her eyes implored, "don't leave me alone."

I took my last swig, "Sorry, but I have no valid reason to stay."

She looked utterly deflated.

"Thanks for keeping me company," I gestured, "and good luck." With my eyes, I bowed, and then I picked up my phone and made my way to the front of the restaurant, where the cashier was ready for me. Behind me, the two women who were at the only other occupied table were also approaching to settle their bill.

As soon as I paid for my meal, I stepped out into the warm, spring evening. There was a bench along the sidewalk, facing the restaurant, and I sat down to give another tweet: I'm now outside the restaurant. The woman looked deflated as I headed from my table to pay my bill and go. As I type this, I can see her, looking at me through the window, as her dinner date prattles on.

I stand, put my phone in my back pocket, and give the woman a wave of my hand. "Good night, fair lady."

She smiles, raises her soju glass once more in a salute, and shoots back the remaining contents before turning to her dinner date. A little liquid courage, perhaps?

I turn to the street ahead, feeling less alone in this city, feeling that for the first time since I arrived in Korea, I've made someone else's day a little brighter.

People watching doesn't hold a candle to conversations in silence.

 
 

Food For Thought

In late 1996, when DW and I started making plans for our first trip to Korea, we went to the embassy, on Boteler Street, to enquire about work visas. It was there that we learned that the E-2 work visas for South Korea are actually processed out of the consulate, in Toronto.

But as we spoke with a representative, we were asked which city we would be working in. When we answered "Chŏnju," we were met with a smile.

"Ah, the epicurean capital of Korea," we were told. "You'll eat well."

The man at the Korean embassy was so right.

On my recent return to Chŏnju (I'm still recovering from the jet lag), as part of my research for my upcoming novel, Gyeosunim, I wanted to experience the food that I loved from 1997 to 1999. Sure, we have at least one really good Korean restaurant in Ottawa, but if I was going to gather other information, I might as well immerse myself in the culinary treasures that the city had to offer.

I made the decision, before I arrived in Seoul, that I would eat no western food for the duration of my trip. The only exception would be coffee, which had exploded in the country over my 20-year absence, and the bakeries, which had existed in my time and did offer western-like food.

To that end, I ate breakfast once, at a Paris Baguette Café, and twice, at a Hollys Coffee, while I was in Seoul. I experienced two different breakfast sandwiches and a fruit-filled muffin. And cappuccinos—if I was going to have a breakfast coffee, it might as well be a cappuccino.

On my first evening in Seoul, I ended up not eating. I had been well-fed on the flight—two full meals and a generous chicken curry sandwich—so I wasn't particularly hungry when I checked into my hotel, opting for a nap rather than a meal. My first meal was the next morning, at the Paris Baguette Café, near Namdaemun Market.

As I had written last week, my first full day in Seoul involved a lot of walking, and you would think that all of that exercise would have made me hungry. It didn't. Fuelled by the breakfast sandwich—egg, ham, and cheese on an English muffin—I toured Gyeongbokgung Palace, Bukchon Hanok Village, Jogye Temple (Jogyesa), Insa-dong, and Cheonggyecheon canal before returning to my hotel for a short nap. My only stop for refreshment was in a corner store, where I picked up a bottle of Pocari Sweat, an energy drink that was DW's and my go-to beverage on hot summer days.

And on that day, it was sunny and 29°C. Underneath my backpack, two layers of shirts were soaked through.

Because I was unfamiliar with the restaurants near my hotel, I decided to stay close to my bed and opted for the restaurant across the narrow road from my hotel. On signs that were posted outside its doors, I could see the various dishes that it offered, and my eyes fell on one familiar dish: kalbi-tang, a beef soup.

The dish was served piping-hot, in a stone bowl, and came with various side dishes, including kimchi, and rice.

I spooned half of the container of rice into the dish and kept the other half to eat as needed. I was concerned that I would become too full to finish the soup. That wasn't necessary. I ate everything, save the stuffed peppers, most of the kimchi, and one of the dates (or prunes?) that floated in the soup.

I was fully satiated, and tired. I returned to my hotel room and watched a variety show until sleep got the better of me.

The next morning, I tried Hollys Coffee, Korea's answer to Starbucks—though there were Starbucks on nearly every block in the neighbourhood of my hotel, far more than there were of the Korean chain. But I was saving my appetite for when I would arrive in Chŏnju, later that afternoon.

I had been thinking of kalguk-su since I started planning my return to my old city. It was the first meal that I ate in Korea, in 1997, and was a special treat throughout my stay. That meal was so memorable that I made it Roland Axam's first meal in Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary. In my planning for my return, I found the restaurant, now called Veteran, which had been rebuilt into a newer structure.

Kalguk-su is a noodle dish with lots of spice. I think that when they made my dish, they might have gone a little heavy on the spice, because while the flavours were exactly as I remembered, the intensity was greater. It was still a satisfyingly delicious meal, and it conjured lots of memories while I sat and ate, in silence.

One of the traditional breakfast meals that was introduced to DW and me by one of our good Korean friends, Ji-yeong, as a cure for hangovers. Kongna-mul gookbap is a soup that was heavily laden with bean sprouts and eaten with seaweed. A side dish of a semi-cooked egg, mixed with more seaweed, is the first part of the meal.

When I checked into my Airbnb, my hostess, Choon-ju, gave me a map of the Hanok Village and circled our address and the various restaurants in our neighbourhood. She pointed out the restaurants where, if I stated I was staying at a Hanokstay lodging, would receive a discount on my bill. She pointed to a kongna-mul gookbap restaurant and added that it would provide that discount.

The next morning, as I prepared to head out, I met Choon-ju, tending her garden. I bade her good morning and told her, in broken Hangul, that I was going to the kongna-mul gookbap restaurant. I pointed in the direction, in relation to the Airbnb, to which she asked me to wait a minute, and she went into her house. When she returned, she had her purse, and she said, "Let's go."

We walked for about two blocks and then turned right at an intersection. Choon-ju pointed out a building that housed the oldest tea shop in Chŏnju, suggesting that I try it out. I would have, but every time I passed by it, I was either on my way to somewhere else or it was closed.

Two doors down from the tea shop, we entered a restaurant that read 콩나물국밥 in stylized letters. Inside, the shop was basic, with simple tables and lacquered tree stumps for seats. Choon-ju directed me to a table and told me that she would pay for my breakfast, despite my protests. She even carried my side dishes to my table. I figured that she was friends with the owners, as she made herself at home in the kitchen area.

The bean sprouts were fresh and crunchy, the broth flavourful. The proper way to eat this dish is to place a square of seaweed on top and, using chopsticks, wrap the seaweed around the sprouts and make a blanket, which you pop in your mouth.

I have a video that I'll eventually share.

One of my favourite restaurants in 1997 and 1998 was a place that was located kitty-corner to my old hagwon (learning institute), Sinpo Woori Mandoo. In addition to making tasty mandoo, this Korean chain also had the best dolsot bipimbap, a rice and vegetable dish that is served in a hot, stone bowl. A raw egg is served on top, and as you stir the ingredients the egg cooks and the rice becomes crispy.

Of course, over the past 20 years, that restaurant was no longer on that corner, and I wasn't even sure that it was still open anywhere. But after a couple of days of keeping my eyes on the lookout, I found the restaurant among the shops that surround what was known as the Core Department Store, not far from the old guest house, the Gaeksa.

The dolsot bipimbap was exactly as I remembered it. Fresh vegetables, crackling rice, and the right amount of spice. My first bite took me back in time.

The next evening, for dinner, I returned to Sinpo Woori Mandoo for another favourite dish, maemil soba, which is actually Japanese in origin. Black noodles are served next to a bowl of ice-cold broth. On the side is minced garlic and wasabi paste. You take one batch of noodles and dunk it in the broth, and add the garlic and wasabi to taste.

One of the things I also loved about Sinpo (pronounced shin-po) was the side dishes: a yellow, sweet, pickled radish, and kimchi that is crispy and hasn't fermented.

One evening, as I was contemplating dinner, I had an overwhelming craving for duk-kalbi, a barbecue beef that is wrapped in a lettuce leaf with a variety of side dishes and a pepper paste, samjang. I searched Google for the best duk-kalbi restaurant near me, and there was one in the Hanok Village, less than 10 minutes on foot from my Airbnb. Being in the heart of the tourist zone, however, it wasn't cheap.

But it was worth it.

 

The beef was so succulent and the side dishes fresh and tasty. I even ordered a bottle of a traditional drink, mokoli, which is like a mild, semi-fermented rice wine. It has a milky appearance and the bottle must be shaken well before you pour each serving. It is served in a small bowl, and you must swirl it before each sip.

It was one of my best meals in Chŏnju and I have a story to share, of my experience while I ate, but I'll save that for tomorrow.

There's only one dish that I sought on my trip but never found. It's a bean-paste soup with mussels, called dwen-jahn djigae. Thankfully, we have it at the Korean restaurant in Ottawa, and I plan to satisfy that craving very soon.