Weekend blog, item from the past, #5.

June 6, 1990.

The train's a little bumpy. I'm in a half-empty, half-lit train car on my way to Seoul. Warm day, light clouds. It's a fine afternoon in Korea.

As the train slows to stop -- a number of times on this sub-express, a cheaper sort of train -- I've seen a variety of towns and villages and hamlets along the way. Almost each and every one has a church, often a tidy little brick structure. The plans for many of these probably came with New England missionaries by steamer 100 years ago. I've read that missionaries were remarkably successful in Korea; half the population is Christian now, and here's the visual confirmation.

There are also rice paddies everywhere possible, which isn't everywhere, since like Japan the backdrop is stubby green mountains. Lovely, but bad for farming.

I was only too glad to leave Pusan. It's a dirty, ugly, noisy, depressing place. Did have a few good meals there, however. Especially the nabe (Japanese word, in lieu of the Korean, which I don't remember) -- a stew cooked at the table over a gas flame, lots of fish, squid, vegetables, etc. The Korean version is a good deal spicier than the Japanese, usually done up with kimchee. It's common for inexpensive restaurants in Korea, at least in Pusan, to leave a roll of toilet paper on the tables, instead of square napkins.

The guesthouse (can't remember the Korean word, but it was for a subcategory of cheap guesthouse) -- was also entertaining. The very first night, I played mosquito kill, a summertime sport I've enjoyed for years. Till I found the holes in the window screen, and was able to improvise a way to block their entrance, I got to splat at least four with a rolled up magazine, leaving little pops of my blood on the walls. Damn mosquitoes.

Never been in a town whose residents leaned on their car horns more than this one, except maybe Rome. More little beeps than loud blasts, but constant. Well into the night, I heard beep, beep. Quiet. Beep, BAAAP, beep. Quiet. Beep. Quiet. Beep-beep-beep.

I did like the tea kettle outside my door in the guesthouse, filled at intervals I couldn't quite figure out. Must date from the time past when plain water would have truly been a foolish option. Nice custom, though. Something reassuring about it.