곱창, Gopchang, Cow Guts--call it what you will

Often when one is preparing to leave a place for good, they experience a shift in what I can only call 'presence.' It seems in a person's last few months or weeks in a place, they experience a rush of opportunity. They make friends where it has been difficult to meet people. They interact with neighbors who had previously never stopped to say hello. This is where I am in Seoul, and this may be how I was lucky enough to experience 곱창 (Gopchang).

An acquaintance of mine, who left town in August, was the first to tell me about Gopchang. In short, it is a traditional Korean dish of grilled cow intestines, stomach and heart. At greater length, please see Diana's article about the history and the more recent rise in popularity of Gopchang. I had been curious to try the cuisine as soon as I heard about it, but I knew I would need a Korean to accompany me. As it happens, I recently met SoYoung at a neighborhood restaurant and we have been meeting for dinner once a week since. She also loves Gopchang.

Let me explain why I needed a Korean to introduce me to this treat. First, I don't speak Korean and so I can't say things like "Yes, I am a foreigner, but I want to try Gopchang and I don't want you to hold back. I want the spicy sauce and I want the guts. All of them. Yes, I know I'm a foreigner, but I'd like you to look beyond that. I'm here for the experience. Yes, I know it's spicy, but I like spicy..." Second, I think I needed someone who knew her way around to find the place. Third, well this sort of goes back to the part where I can't speak Korean, because I can't understand it, either. I needed someone to tell me what I was eating--is this small intestine or stomach? How can you tell? I think you get the idea.

We set a time and place to meet and walked from the subway station to a small, out of the way locale. The woman who owned the place was proud of her excellently sourced cow parts.

A warning that I received multiple times was that the place was very small and very greasy. Sure enough, the walls, floor, and ceiling were covered with grime from what was surely weeks or months of grilling splattering innards. But the tables and chairs were clean. I am not sure I would expect anything other than what I found. We were greeted by the owners and by a massive burner in the center of the table. This was no usual kalbi (barbecue) grill.

I was soon warned that the sauce seen below the burner in this picture was spicy (see, I told you). By the end of the evening the owner was telling SoYoung that I was more Korean than she because I consumed more of the sauce than she did. For the record, the sauce was delicious!

This is the first tray of entrails (small intestine, large intestine, and heart with onions and potatoes thrown in--for texture?) and you can see the grease beginning to spit over onto the table. Gopchang is eaten much in the way kalbi is consumed. Samjang (traditional meat dipping sauce), panchan (traditional side dishes), salt, and cabbage are served for wrapping the grilled items, or you can put them right in your mouth and start chewing. Variety is what makes life sweet (or spicy).
When we were partly through our first tray of scrumptious delicacies, SoYoung informed me that the owner had selected only some parts of the digestive system to share with me, assuming that, as a foreigner, I wouldn't like other options. This would not do, I replied. We asked that she not hold back for round two.

I will never know if she did hold some things back, but in this round plenty of pieces of gray and wrinkly stomach were included (seen above).

Finally, the grease is sopped up with fried rice, mixed here with seaweed and kimchi. This may have been the most texture-laden meal I've had in Korea or anywhere. It was delicious and well worth the experience. But our evening adventure didn't stop here.

Down the road a bit was a little place serving 계란 마리 김밥 (egg wrapped kimbap), another special treat I hadn't tasted before. We were more than fulfilled by dinner, so we took some to go and breakfast couldn't have been better the next morning. I've included a photo here to give you an idea of what it is like (sorry, not my photo:) :
The evening ended with a walk home after a quick visit to a local temple. The lanterns were welcoming and the fact that there were no other people in the golden room of the temple made it the quietest place I've experienced in Seoul--I could have stayed for hours.

The walk helped to settle dinner and gave me time to ponder what seems to be my new situation in Seoul. Somehow my guard has fallen just enough to allow strangers to converse with me in diners (that is how SoYoung and I met). I am just open enough to share more personal aspects of my life with other friends with whom I had previously been more guarded. I am relaxed enough to appreciate people's reactions to my winter hat (and to me in general). I am aware enough to stop to greet the butcher or the man who sells bananas to me in the market. My presence is simply more present, as if I no longer have to save my energy for basic survival here. How interesting that a pause in surviving and lead to living.

An Accidental Visit to the Chicken Museum

Seoul, like many international cities, is littered with museums; they are cultural, historical and even eclectic in nature and presentation. They are world-renowned (for example, the National Museum of Korea), they are cultural (e.g. the Kimchi Field Museum), and they are obscure (like the Seoul Museum of Chicken Art). I typically appreciate national museums for their historical and cultural treasures, but I often can't be bothered by many others. Sometimes, however, the universe makes it so that you don't have a choice. If it is meant to be that you are to tour the Museum of Chicken Art, then you are to take the tour. And you will gain something from the experience, too.

For several weeks I had been waiting for December 4th to come around so I could take the afternoon off work and sit in on the English language lecture at the Anguk Zen Center in northern Seoul. It is uncommon for me to leave work early and I felt like a bit of a truant as I took the subway to Anguk Station. I had a page from Groove magazine in my pocket. On it was an advertisement and map to the center. In my anticipation of this day, I had folded and unfolded the page so often that the seams were flimsy, and seemingly delicate.

I followed the map out exit 2 and up the road, passed the middle school on my right, across the intersection, and passed the Catholic church on my left. The neighborhood was lovely. It was quieter than other neighborhoods and little shops sold scarves and sweaters, trendy clothes and handmade and locally designed pottery. I thought of my mom because she would have appreciated this part of the city and because we didn't venture here while she was visiting. It was my mom who found the magazine advertisement now crumpling in my hand.

Visiting a new part of a city you know a bit about is always a special experience. It's full of "Huh, I had no idea," surprises. I had no idea ceramics could be so beautiful and that they were so plentiful in Seoul. I had no idea there was a road that felt to me so much like home. I had no idea that there were so many Catholic nuns in Seoul. I had a vague idea that the Chicken Museum was in this area, so it wasn't a great surprise when I passed by the first time.

As it turns out, the building in which the Anguk Zen Center resides (or resided?) has no sign or placard identifying it to be the Zen Center. I only now this now because I found a picture of it online. Last Saturday I walked passed this building two of three times and asked employees in the neighboring ceramics shop if they had heard of the place or if they might know where it is. Nothing.

It is not uncommon that something advertised in Seoul is no longer there. Restaurants, service businesses, and institutes are known to disappear or relocate with little or no notice at all. So I easily decided to do something else with my day. I started walking in the direction from which I came, and that is wen I passed the Chicken museum again.

I stood outside of the building for several seconds, wondering why one might create a museum for chickens. I am sure every creature under the sun is worthy of a museum all its own, but chicken art simply sounds funny in my mind and off my tongue. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to answer my question. I was meant to learn about chickens on this very day.

The entrance fee is 3,000 won for adults, and I was greeted upon entering the first gallery, and escorted upstairs to the second gallery--this is where the tour begins. I was then greeted by the curator, who led me through the museum. This was fine. I should feel honored--I do a little bit-- that the curator spent this time with me, but his English was difficult to understand and I think he only told me what was written on the poster boards next to each exhibit. He sort of rushed me through the many sculptures of chicken heads and paintings of chickens and peonies, cedar trees, and other representative foliage. I may have liked to take more time taking in all of the chicken history, but he seemed to be on a schedule.

So what did I learn about the chicken? Well first off, I learned that Korea respects and appreciates the chicken, but mostly Korea reveres the rooster. The rooster's five virtues are much sought after by Korean men: Intelligence, Strength, Courage, Heartedness, Trust. The rooster is intelligent because it wears that lovely crown. The traditional hat worn by government officials in Korea is named after the chicken's crown. The rooster's sharp and fierce talons represent his strength. The rooster will fight without running away, and this is representative of his courage. The tiger, I was reminded, will run away from a fight. (Wuss!) The rooster has what is called heartedness because he cries when he finds food. Instead of gobbling it all up for himself, he lets his family know that it is there so they can have some, too. Finally, we can always count on the rooster to cry out at dawn and this is our reason for trusting him.

A rooster and hen chicken represent fertility when shown together, and chicks added to the mix make this message stronger. A rooster in a peony (seen at left) will bring wealth and fame--this is popularly represented in traditional art and may be a gift from a bride's parents to their new son-in-law. Similarly, a rooster in a Cockscomb brings a successful career.

The entire second floor gallery is dedicated to Korean traditional chicken art. Traditional Korean coffins include wood carved sculptures called 'Kokdu' at the corners, and these sculptures are often in the shape of chicken heads. The chicken happens to be the only one of twelve Chinese zodiac animals that has wings, and so it serves as a messenger between this world and the next. It also wards off evil spirits. The museums collection of chicken Kokdu is quite extensive and they represent a great variety of styles and influences. Some are more than a hundred years old.







I learned a lot about the place of the chicken in Korean history and culture. The gallery has pieces that tie the chicken to the Shamanic God of fortune, it includes furniture carved with chickens or the heads of chickens, and it shares some history of how the chicken was used in protecting the spirits of the dead.

The first floor gallery houses a collection of chicken art from around the world. And as you may imagine, everyone has something to share when chickens are the focus. From Scandinavia to Africa, Myanmar to native American North America, and from South America to Japan, everyone has turned something into a chicken. Wood, brass, crystal, ceramic, recycled plastic bags, you name it, there was a chicken made out of it. There were chicken pairs and families, chicken tea sets and paintings, chickens sitting, chickens crowing, chickens pecking and chickens simply standing about. There was little history shared here, but one thing was clear: the chicken is revered everywhere.

I had set out seeking a lecture about Zen meditation, but my path was not as direct as I had expected it to be. I suppose I can take this experience as my lesson in Zen anyhow. Too strong an expectation may lead to a frustration so great that the opportunity that is truly available on this path may be missed. And if that were the case, how would I learn what snippet of wisdom the Museum of Chicken Art had to offer? Well, I wouldn't.

A Visit to Seodaemun Prison

A friend and I recently visited Seodaemun Prison History Hall in Seoul and I would recommend it to anyone interested in history, prisons, or appreciating Korea.

In brief, the prison was built in 1908 and used during the Japanese rule of Korea to house anti-colonial activists. After the Japanese occupation ended in 1945, the prison was used by the South Korean government until 1987. It was constructed to accommodate around 500 people, but actually housed close to 3,000 prisoners at the height of civil disobedience. In 1992, the site was dedicated as the Seodaemun Prison History Hall. For more historical information, click on the link above.

Prisoners at Seodaemun were forced to work, they were tortured, and many of them were executed. I was reminded of visits to Buchenwald, Sachsenhausen, and other former German concentration camps where one can't help but imagine the suffering that occurred in the very cells you walk by. Like many of the concentration camps, the execution building still stands at Seodaemun and remains a reminder of the prison's original purpose. The execution building itself was off limits to photographs, although you'll find many on the web. I took this shot from outside the wall that now blocks the small wood-sided execution building from plain view (you see the wall to the left of the poplar tree).

A plaque before the entrance to the execution building states that this poplar tree "was planted in 1923 at the time when the execution building was constructed. It was said that patriots in the course of being dragged to the execution hall grabbed this tree and wailed with deep resentment for their unachieved independence." The tree is therefore named the Wailing Poplar.

Seodaemun offers something of an interactive approach that I have never experienced at another historical prison exhibit. In the bottom floor of the main exhibit, visitors can see life-like representations of what cells, prisoners and even torture looked like. They can also become a Korean revolutionary and watch themselves be arrested. I took the opportunity to participate.

Smiling me in a crowd of fellow Koreans hollering "대한 독립 만세!" ( [daehan dokrib mansae] Hooray for Independence!)
And before you know it I've gotten myself arrested.
Faceless guards escort me to Seodaemun.
My smiling profile is interrogated. But I don't budge!
This is me being tortured--I believe with scalding hot water poured down my throat. This was disturbing to see and it took me a bit of time to identify what was so disturbing about it: One-seeing myself in a position to be tortured was simply uncomfortable. I think few people really want to see this. Two-it is a fun and interactive museum setting. School kids come through, have their likenesses imprinted on the screen and watch themselves be Korean nationalists, giggling all the way. I want to know that at the end of the day, they realize what they are giggling at. Three-I can't forget that this is someone's reality in this world. Right now.

After much thought, I have concluded that the activity is as realistic as it can be, and that should make people uncomfortable.
Here I am escorted to my cell.
And in my spacious cell I continue my hollering for freedom: "대한 독립 만세!" It should be noted that Seodaemun has solitary cells that were much smaller than the one seen here, and I imagine I was not alone in this room.

The Seodaemun Prison History Hall exhibit left me feeling thankful that I could say "that was then..." and made me question how much I would be able to endure for my own beliefs and values. But it also reminded me that "this is now" in some parts of the world. It makes one consider the differences one feels when they visit Alcatraz--with its clean and pristine lines of cells, beautiful west coast Pacific views, and fantastic jail break stories--and when they visit the camps and prisons where the execution room is still to be seen, where we are given the numbers of lives that suffered torture, starvation, and death.

It leaves me wondering if we will someday tour other modern day prisons in this fashion. More pictures of Seodaemun follow.
This room memorializes Seodaemun prisoners. Each 3X5 card is a prisoner intake card with photo and personal information. There are thousands here.
Buildings were built with these bricks, which were made by prisoners. The mark represents Seodaemun prison bricks. Textiles and prison uniforms were also made in Seodaemun and shipped to other prisons throughout the country.
A view so often seen in Seoul--the old, the new, and the natural. The red brick buildings are century-old Seodaemun prison buildings, while the white buildings in the background are modern apartment buildings. In the far background a mountain outcropping can be seen, which has surely been here longer than everything else.

Winter Hats Make Me Smile

Hats used to be so uncool that I preferred walking to school with icicles in my hair. Apparently using a hair dryer when I was fifteen years old was uncool, too. Anyhow, in the dead of winter in northern lower Michigan I walked a mile or so with wet hair to get an education, and I arrived with icicles over my ears. (Someday I may share these facts with my grandchildren in order to let them know how hard life was, but I'll omit the part about how it was my choice and I'll add that bit about up hill both ways. I always appreciated that snippet of trickery.)

Call it maturity or what you will, nowadays I can't stand going without a hat in cold weather. At the end of last year's hat season, I was faced with a horrible situation--my favorite hat was lost in the Vancouver airport. Yes, it's true! Either someone snatched it from my luggage cart or (more likely) it fell out of my bag as I was shifting my belongings around in preparation for boarding. It was a great hat but can't be seen here because I can't seem to find a single photo of me in it. You'll have to take my word on how lovely it was.

The hat was gifted to me years ago by a dear friend and I initially had a hard time figuring out how to wear it (it was very loose knit, so if I wore it without folding it, my ears suffered from wind zipping through those large holes). When it finally clicked, I wore the hat through several winters. It was angora and had four lovely little flowers at the top. It received many comments and surely beat frozen locks both in comfort and in fashion. When I realized it was gone, I hardly had the opportunity to say goodbye.

However, as any traveler knows, goodbyes are inevitable. Nothing lasts forever and I took the loss in stride, hoping only that someone else came upon my little head-warmer and appreciates her as much as I did (yes, she's a she). And I along my way, I didn't think about the need for a hat all summer long.

Then I visited Lake Michigan in September and was reminded of such things as the gales of November. I would need a hat soon, I knew.

Looking through my mom's closet--still in MI--I came across a big knit hat I wore in college and that I think my mother had worn years before me. I remembered that hat being perfect in warmth and fantastic in fashion, but I also remembered that hat having been unraveled in my college years... Well, some of the memories were foggy and apparently false. I took this hat with me when I returned to Seoul, of course.

My returns to Korea are always somewhat bittersweet. I miss friends and family and a place that feels like home, yet there is something familiar enough about my hovel in Seoul that feels like home, too. It is difficult to exist in a city so large and so impersonal, but I was noticing more and more after this return how happy people (strangers) appeared.

The weather had turned quickly. The wind had picked up and already had a winter-like bite to it. The sun shines throughout the fall and winter seasons here, so I thought perhaps it was relief from the rains that people were smiling about. I wore my 'new old' hat to keep me toasty on the way to and from the subway, and I smiled at smiling people all the way.

Seoul is typically like New York. Folks have places to go and don't often pause to acknowledge strangers (foreign or otherwise) while on their way. But these sudden smiles simply wouldn't cease. One day after work I donned my hat in the elevator. At the 8th floor, a man boarded and grinned at me then looked to the floor. When the doors closed he said something quietly in Korean, smiling all the way. I realized he was referring to my hat, which I tapped and said "it's a great hat, isn't it?" He laughed and deboarded at the 7th floor. (Sidebar: Who takes the elevator from floor 8 to floor 7?) As he exited the elevator he turned to me to say "Thank you for the encouragement." "Thank you for appreciating my hat," I thought in return, but in reality I just smiled and nodded.

As I teacher, I like to think that I encourage people, and it makes me feel good to know when I do. Did I encourage this man to wear a poofy winter hat? Did I encourage him to make fun of me in a poofy winter hat? I really don't care. In fact, I am not at all sure 'encourage' was the correct word to express this fellow's true meaning. Just like I am not sure that 'appreciate' was the correct word to reflect what he was doing when he noticed my hat. But semantics isn't important for me here.

What is important is that people keep smiling at me. That makes it worth not taking the hat off until spring.
All images for this post (excluding the final image) were sourced from google images.
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