83-1. Air yellowish outside and it’s raining. Temperature has warmed up but I’m still dressing for last week: too hot. The umbrella hangs wet from the handle on the back of the seat in front of me. Fogged windows obscure the view, but I’ve seen it before. The music is good anyway; besides that my thoughts keep me occupied. One CD completed before I reach my destination. Tori Amos Little Earthquakes. One of Joan’s, but not really hers: I asked if I could borrow it and when she said no I made Jason stop at Tower Records on the way to the airport. It’s the words: I don’t think I’ve heard a woman’s lyrics who reach me so well. Just before Namdaemun shijang, I traded it for a Depeche Mode CD single: World in My Eyes and Sea of Sin. This was the world in which I moved as I stepped down from the bus and mixed into the market.

Rain makes the tarps appear. Under them old ladies sewing out in front of their shops. Old ladies behind stacks of pork legs that are bent and revealing the joints. Slippery, a little. People shoving past me because I’m just strolling, not in any particular hurry. All those clothes just hanging. More socks than any country can use. Little alleys where old ladies put the space to good use with gigantic pots over propane tank burners. Steam rises in great clouds above them, between them, into my nose warming it with their heat, the aroma of things cooking.

The housewares building found too easily. Round three flights of stairs, past women’s clothing, beyond hairware, step out into flowers. Stacks and stacks along rows and rows of roses piled as tall as me, their buds facing toward the aisle in walls of soft, fragrant, reds pinks yellows. My. The floor upon which I walk is littered with the beheaded stems and they crunch under my feet. I slip a little in their juice. I must walk all the way through here to the other side, to the door. And when I do, I walk out onto a bridge connecting this building with the next, three floors above the streets. A damp breeze blowing up here where the electric wires begin. Surplus inventory is stacked all along the sides of the bridge and someone has left their dirty lunch dishes balancing on the concrete railing. Below, black hair circulates between tarps of all colors, shapes, and sizes. This moment. Namdaemun, in its ancient splendor rising above all these battleship grey, postwar structures. In this winter rain, the grey mist rises from the humanity below, presses from the clouds above. Interstitial observer.

This is the housewares building. Dulsot bowls (made from stone) are stacked before every vendor’s booth. I’m looking for a teakettle too, so I walk around to see if I can find a booth selling both. I can’t. The floor is empty except for all the men selling things, smoking things. They have nothing better to do than to stand in the aisle and watch me as I walk by. I feel uncomfortable.

Pick a booth, any booth. This one: How much for this bowl? EEEEMANochunwan. About $23. Running through my head: "My god. No, I'm not buying this for Jason. Not paying this much and then lugging it back there. He wouldn’t want it anyway at this cost. All those restaurants don’t pay that much for these bowls, I’m sure." No. The bowl is handed back to him. When I get to the exit, I stop at the last booth and ask the guy how much his bowls are - the very same bowls as the other guy. He says they’re 8000 won, about $7. That’s more like it. Sold! Very nice man.

Back to the street. Walking with a bowl made from stone. People bumping their knees against it when they fail to step out of my way. I am vindicated. I’m still looking for a teakettle and not particularly itching to get out of the market so I decide to stroll a little, if walking anywhere in Korea can be called a stroll with all the bumping and shoving. I learn quickly not to walk below the rim of tarps: Must walk either completely underneath or completely outside of them. See an old lady sitting under an umbrella with a coal burner keeping warm the dokk she's selling. She's just sitting, a boulder in a raging river. Ah! There's teakettle I want.

Kyobo bookstore underground nightmare. I can’t ever tolerate it but here I am buying a dictionary that weighs more than the stone bowl for a friend who studies Korean in Seattle. Buying pens for myself too. Too many haksaeng. All buying pens and erasers and paper and that Sanrio crap. I think if I bought something for you at this store, you should pay me extra in damages. I got out of there as fast as possible. Climbed up out of there and straight into pimatgol, the alley behind Chongno, where I was alone for two entire blocks.

Insadong. Tojang. Finished. The man is so kind, giving me tea and helping me patiently to understand his artwork, the tojang. They are so beautiful and I told him so, in Korean. He says it makes his heart feel good. Mahum. They are beautiful. Ahh, Mrs. Chung has been a good resource for me. Chung Sansangnim.

Home. Dave and I pass the time pressing our names onto paper, into books.