Mrs. Chung called last night to cancel today’s class. Today is the day I go to my class at Ewha too, but I decided to skip it, even though this will be the second one in a row that I’ve missed. I’m just not ready to jump back into life in Seoul yet. When I go away, to another country or a trip home, I realize how much I hate living here. Most of the time I’m capable of constructing an adequate emotional shell that allows me to feel content and to enjoy certain aspects of the culture, but that mechanism fails against the overwhelming relief and comfort I feel when I go elsewhere.

It just doesn’t seem like things should be that hard. This is a mostly developed country; I have lived here for two years and am quite familiar with the place by now; other people seem to like it. I’m puzzled by the discomfort. I wrote to my friend Catherine, who now lives in Tokyo, that I felt immediately comfortable once I arrived in Japan. She replied that she feels more comfortable there than in Seoul too; that she feels more at home there. I felt that way when I went to Taiwan too. I notice that I feel safe and have no anxiety about falling asleep. For some reason, I have felt a lot of anxiety about going to sleep in Korea. Ever since we arrived I have often found myself lying in bed in the dark trying to comfort myself. The first night in Taiwan and in Japan I felt immediately safe and I fell into sleep with great relief that I did not have to worry.

Where does that come from?

I’ve wondered if it had to do with choice: my choosing to visit as opposed to coming to live someplace my partner had chosen. I think that’s a huge part of it. Another thing is that I am very aware of the dangers in Korea. Everything from a hostile neighbor just spitting distance to the North and the fact that two major structures collapsed from poor workmanship and neglect just a few years ago. One thing I noticed while traveling from Kansai airport, through Osaka, to Kyoto is that hardly any concrete buildings were riddled with cracks. Of course, there aren’t as many concrete structures to begin with in Japan, but everything I saw looked well-constructed. Every day I see structures that look like they’re on the verge of collapse. I ride on overpasses whose concrete is crumbling onto the pavement below, and I hope that I pass over it before the critical mass of weakening is achieved. I used to worry a lot about fire. All of the apartments in the thousands of buildings stacked in neat rows throughout the city are hooked up to gas. It’s hard for me to trust, after seeing how some people live, that people will be mindful of their gas hook-ups. Occasionally there are gas explosions in the city that level whole buildings. There are so many examples.

But all of this, I think, is exacerbated by the move here. It was such a huge change in my life, one that - as I’ve said more than once - was not really my choice. A decision I made, but not one I wanted. I guess it was a lesser of two evils. It was enormously stressful for me, and when I’m very stressed I become aware of danger and fear it. Maybe if I had moved to Japan under similar circumstances I’d be constantly worried about earthquakes. A lot of structures in Taiwan didn’t look like what I would call sturdy, either.

Nevertheless, whenever I return here from somewhere else, I always just want to hide for awhile. I’m not quite ready to tackle the stress and, as summer approaches, the heat and stickiness of this city. I spent so much time out looking at stuff with our visitors that I’m pretty much tired of doing the whole bus and subway thing; the walking thing too. I’m looking forward to the oppressive summer and the comfort spewed by the mega-air conditioner. It means I’ll be motivated to stay indoors where I hope to do a lot of reading, some writing, bookbinding, and even some sewing in the next few months. Hail hermitdom!

I want to write some blips for the Stranger section: One about visiting Kyongju with Bob and another about visiting Kyoto. Two former capitols in two weeks; they are each very different from the other. I’ll probably wait for the pictures to get back before uploading, so it may be awhile.

I’m also thinking about starting a selective notify list for entries I want to keep more private, and for things I might feel more comfortable sending out in email. If you are interested, let me know.

This picture was in the heaps o’mail I downloaded upon our return from Japan. My cousin Bob took it 10 years ago when we were in mountain climbing class together. This was from our trip to Mt.Rainier where we dug our own snow caves and slept in them overnight. In this shot I’m firming up the "door". I like that I’m smiling and that my hat appears to be falling off - no, I know it’s falling off. I still have that hat and I despise it because it’s too small and always slips off. It’s useless; I should just throw it away. The other thing I like is that I’m in my blue condom suit. I had that Helly Hansen rain gear for several years - I think I still have it in storage somewhere - and I wore it as my primary outer shell while mountain climbing most of the time. It was donned the blue condom suit (lubed) during another trip to Rainier when my friend Tom and I went up just to practice glissading one day. With the hood up, I was one rod of slickness and I could slide down head or feet first, defying the claws of friction.

See how much I’m squinting? The skies were overcast, but the sun leaked through. After that day I had a horrible sunburn that caused my whole face to swell. I was 16 and had to show up at school the following Monday with a big swollen face and blistered cheeks. I looked gross.

I miss climbing and hiking. I miss the forests of home. Japan is forested and greets the ocean like the Puget Sound. When we flew into Kansai, the terrain reminded me much of home.

I took the class because I was miserable in my teenage life and needed a distraction that was not at all connected to my social circles and my overactive mind. It worked and I remember it always for being an activity that required all of my energy, allowing me to forget momentarily. Although, I also remember being mostly miserable on the trips because I was still a slave to my social life and would often be out until midnight and beyond on the night before a climb, ensuring exhaustion on the side of the mountain. I didn’t have great gear either, and I was almost always freezing and wet. The night we slept in this snow cave, the heat from our bodies raised the temperature to about 33 degrees, causing the snow to melt and utilize the uneven texture of the ceiling to drip on us, instead of running down smooth sides to the floor - it was our fault for not making it more smooth. I was awake all night because my bag was not enough to keep me warm even in above freezing temps. I had an insulating pad, but it was disgustingly thin and useless against the mattress of snow. I listened to the big drips pelting Bob’s Goretex bivy bag throughout the night while he slept peacefully. A couple of years ago I went on a climb with my uncle Kerry when I’d only gotten two hours of sleep the night before. Each sinking step I said to myself that if I could only reach the top the going down would be so easy and then I could sleep. It’s the only thing that kept me going. I think now - I mean now that I’ve lived here in this place where I feel so trapped from seeing and doing the things I always took for granted, I think I would take better care to prepare for a climb: Go to bed early so I would feel rested and ready; I could enjoy the moment in the wilderness and the beauty of a magnificent mountain.