Wait, you might think: you have other blogs?
I do.
Some of you might remember my old Beer O'Clock blog, where I posted my beer reviews. That blog ended in 2017, when I moved my reviews back to The Brown Knowser. Soon, I'll move my reviews over to my Brown Knowser YouTube channel, but that's another day.
I haven't removed my old beer blog. You can still read the old reviews.
But I have other blogs. If you're a long-time reader of The Brown Knowser, you may have forgotten that I had created blogs for my fiction: one, for my first novel, Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary, and another for the rough drafts of the sequel, Gyeosunim.
If you've now noticed that the title to the sequel is missing a hyperlink, that's because I've removed this blog.
When I wrote Songsaengnim, I posted chapters on the blog as I finished writing them. A month after I finished the manuscript and sent it to my publishing company, I removed all but the first chapter.
Very little of that blog has changed since then.
I was planning to do the same with Gyeosunim, but I was writing sporadically, and several months... years... went by before I continued writing. I had gone in so many directions and had lost some of my writing that I felt a blog was not going to work, this time, so I stopped posting to it.
I'm now almost finished the full manuscript (more than a year late), but while I put the final touches, maybe go into a different direction (again!), or start from scratch, I thought I would start sharing some of the segments that I'm particularly pleased with and perhaps some that I question as worthy.
Ready to read some fiction? Here's a small exert from what is currently the prelude to the novel:
Monday, February 2, 1998
A storm was coming.
It was still out to sea, approaching from the southeast. From high above, the definition of where the density of the cloud that held the precipitation and the sea was muddied by what was, no doubt, rain that would soak if not for the near freezing air that would change the raindrops to ice. From this distance, it was hard to see which form of precipitation was heading this way.
Either way, it was best that I get inside.
Because the sky was already heavily overcast, it was becoming too dark to remain atop the Law. And although I had climbed this hill countless times in all sorts of conditions, making the descent in darkness was never desired, especially in foul weather. Though the storm was still dozens of kilometres away, the first of the stray, cold drops were being carried by the chilling, brisk winds.
I took one last look at the town, below. Though it was only mid to late afternoon, this time of year offered few hours of daylight. Under cloud cover, light was even shorter. I could see street lamps already coming to life, and many homes and shops revealed illumination from within. The rustle of wind in my cold ears whispered that within those structures, there was warmth.
I pulled the collar of my jacket up to cover my neck, turned toward the path, and convinced myself that where there was warmth, a pint was also awaiting me. The path led me down the south side of Berwick Law, away from North Berwick. It was only a 20-minute descent, in good weather, and another five minutes or so to shelter.
A storm was coming. Best that I get down now.
***
Friday, May 10, 2019
Namsan Tower was still there, drawing my eyes to it like proverbial moths to a flame. It would only be when I could find it, not atop Seoul’s tallest mountain, but prominent in the centre of Seoul’s northern half, that I would know that I had arrived. Despite the slim, towering skyscrapers that tried to hide it, the icon of South Korea’s capital city still stood out.
I didn’t have the fear of my first arrival, more than 22 years earlier. Though I knew that this city—this country—had changed dramatically over my 20-year absence, I felt I still knew it. The Internet and Google Maps had helped a lot.
Seoul Yuk, the central train station, was now a massive sprawl of steel and glass. White marble, escalators, and myriad shops. I had stepped off a train and arrived at a shopping mall. Where was the old station, with its red brick and Byzantine-like dome, that had survived both Japanese occupation and the Korean War?
I followed the crowds and signs that led toward the building’s exits. With my smartphone in hand, I opened a compass app and gained my bearings. I wanted to head north. Having had the wherewithal to study Google Maps, with its satellite and street views, I knew that the street I wanted to be on would be along the east side of the station, and so I kept to the right-hand side of the mall.
The bustle was the same. The crowd hadn’t diminished, though I did notice that there were more foreigners than I would have spotted two decades ago. And not just white people like me. Dark-coloured skin, Middle Eastern and African. I saw some women wearing hijab, something I had never seen before in all of my travels in South Korea.
Good for you, Seoul: you’ve grown into a true metropolitan centre.
Even my arrival had changed from 1997 and again, in 1998. Kimp’o was no longer the international airport. Incheon, which, back then, was little more than swampy land with a few bedroom communities, was now a modern city with an ultra-modern airport. For more than 20 years, the government had reclaimed and created land to make Incheon a giant, twenty-first-century city.
I was going to book my flight to Kimp’o, but after complaining to my old friend, Brad, that the trip would take me almost 30 hours, he set me straight.
“You did enter ICN as the destination airport, right?” his deep, New Jersey accent as strong as ever, over the phone. I met Brad MacMillan nearly two weeks after first arriving in Chonju, in 1997, and we had been close friends ever since. During the financial crisis, when Korean businesses were closing left, right, and centre, Brad’s hagwon, or learning institute, had suffered the same fate as mine would just a few weeks later. He and his girlfriend, Wilma Martin, left for Australia—Wilma’s home—where they landed jobs at a firm in Sydney, teaching English to Koreans and other East Asian business people.
In 2015, his company expanded to Seoul, where Brad and Wilma once again returned, teaching English to Korean business people.
“No,” I admitted, “I typed GMP. Why?”
“My dear Roland,” said Brad, “Kimp’o is now a domestic-flights airport. You want to fly to Incheon International Airport. Have you already booked?”
“Yes, but I can change my tickets. I’m using points so I think there’s only a $100 penalty.”
“Let me know when you’ve changed up and when you’re due to arrive. I’m looking forward to seeing you.”
“Same here,” I said. I had last seen Brad and Wilma, married since 2004, in Provence, France, in 2014. We managed to get together every few years, in Italy, in Edinburgh, in Sydney, and Canada, even though not a month would go by where we wouldn’t reach out through e-mail, Skype, Facebook, and Twitter. Through these channels, the world became a lot smaller.
Brad was right, of course. I could book a flight from Edinburgh to Incheon, with brief stops in Frankfurt and Beijing, all within 17 hours. And, as a bonus, the flight used fewer points and cost less in fuel and taxes. Even with my penalty, I came out ahead on all fronts.
Brad had provided even more tips: “Wait to get your cash when you arrive. The kiosks at the airport have fairly decent rates. And go to a convenience store at the airport and buy a T-card. You can use it for the train to Seoul, on the subways, buses, and taxis. Some convenience stores also let you use it for purchases. You pay cash to top up the card.”
I found an ATM as I searched for a foreign-exchange kiosk, and used my debit card to withdraw cash. I found a convenience store and put 30,000 won on the T-card. More than I would need, I was sure, but Brad had also told me that I could cash in the card at a convenience store before I flew home.
Exiting Seoul Yuk, I saw more steel and glass. Towers everywhere I looked. But between them, the familiar sight of Namsan Tower.
“I’m back,” I said out loud, tipping my hat at the only thing I recognized.
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