We went rafting, but this is the closest we have to proof.

Saw some pretty photos by Ruud van Empel. Check out.

The royal tennis bomb

He told me if I got to the garbage pile I’d gone to far. Only in Seoul. Still, the directions got me there, to a roof top BBQ full of champagne, soju, and twenty-somethings dressed like tennis stars.

To frequent park-goers we’re probably “those people.” Or, as it were, they are. I am not. Every birthday is an occasion for a theme. K-pop, superheroes, the like. That night was Golf hos and tennis pros.

I used my imagination. High khaki shorts, an oxford, and penny loafers? Um, sorry. I don’t golf. Like, my dad’s a pro. He works here…I’m at the club for the bar tab. OK? Ok. Now go away.

Away.

Street Art Hongdae: Day 5 Sex, money, and animal love

Down a back alley a jazz cat brands himself the sex king. Down another a brother and his two-foot sister avert their eyes to the piss stained rubble and beer boxes at their feet.

The half spun social messages give way to dizzy-happy colours and pets. A Korean capitalist poses Kimchi, another tired tug against the Starbucks strings. The quietest commenters resonate the best.

Two exed-out eyes on the bag headed rabbit, brother wears a tie. A gopher grins and a pipe pours black paint onto a sumo wrestler’s head. Stretching from Hongik University out to Sinchon, a walkway is painted by students and re-collaged by vandals late at night.

Dozens of faces form three triangles of caricatured flesh. Peer close and you’ll see your face; we’ve all been one of those. Fall far enough down the alley and you’ll loose yourself, like the white silhouette.

Like his heeled feet, I fell face first into the art. The painted street lamps continue on, but just like at that: Oops! I’m gone.

Skies and clear tide

On the last day of our adventure we headed back to the beach. As soon as we go to Samcheok, this was where we went, and it was where we took the trip to let it die. The hotels were all boarded up and empty, us the only ones reveling in the season they call off.

We built a sandcastle then stomped it down to rubble, walked out to the lifeguard tower. Could not stop staring at the sea-blue colour, our toes beneath the clearest tide. With the clock ticking to our exit, we hailed a cabby, sand covering all our feet.

Days and holidays

In the first week of June we decided to bear bad traffic and take the holiday Monday as an escape. We headed north, then east, out on the not so open road. Held books to our noses and ipods to our ears, the bus stood stagnant; a blood clot in the road.

Hours later we arrived at our destination, the night cooling off the day. Found an Italian diner on the street’s main drag, and relaxed with worst glass of wine. Walked lazily down the blocks around the hotel, ice cream in hand.

Out of the city and away from work, all the world was calm.

Destination unknown

We miss the bus back to the city. Instead we hitch a ride with a middle-aged couple that drives us to a sandy beach. Drink straight from the hose at the hand of a happy monk who lets water run from his temple to our thirsty mouths.

The beach is empty, strip down to skivvies and run straight into the clear, open surf. Wipe sand from feet, lick salt from lips, stare at nowhere and hope for another ride.