The Daily Split

It’s 5:30 a.m., and the sound of crickets on my phone alarm shakes me out of slumber. Our one-room studio smells of coffee, and Zak is finishing up his breakfast sandwich. Five minutes of wake-up yoga and a cup of green tea before donning the professional wear. On goes the jacket, hat and scarf and it’s out into the chilly darkness. Zak descends into the subway; my route takes me through Jongno, an old Seoul neighborhood where elaborately decorated temples flamed with red, green and orange fall in the shadows of high rise office buildings and gray apartment complexes.

It’s peaceful though, and I walk by the early morning crowd – an old woman bent over a ten-gallon pot, steam rising in puffs tinged with the scent of vinegar, an old man squatting beside her peeling onions. A truck drives by, filled with persimmons, Asian pears, and mandarin oranges. If I’m lucky, he’ll be around again tonight so I can buy a bag for half the price as at the store. I cross the street, and the city bustle takes over, busses whirring by and commuters easing their way through growing morning traffic. 

I get to my building, grab my prepared materials and head to class. Four out of five students are present today. Kimjang. Kimchi-making. One girl said she’d be out all day helping her mother. Napa cabbage, or baechu, is salted and layered with sok, a filling of red pepper paste, radishes, garlic, pine nuts and a variety of other ingredients then left to ferment in a large clay pots. It’s like spaghetti sauce – each family has their own unique recipe.  I ask the rest of the class if they’ll kimjang, and everyone looks at me like I asked if they brush their teeth. I continue my classes, facilitating conversations; generally not too difficult despite the softspoken Korean communication I’m adjusting to. 

It’s nearly noon and time for a break. I make my way home following the same route, this time it’s lively with clothes vendors, business people out for air, and an old man with speakers attached to his back playing an unidentifiable tune reminiscent of Asian goes burlesque. Zak beat me home and we exchange tidbits from the day. Did you know it’s rude to wave at old people? Never write someone’s name in red, it’s bad luck. 

Our midday stretch is nearly as long as our evening one, and we work out at our gym. I spend a few hours on Bona Dea, and if there’s time we nap. Dinner is soup, yet another variety I’ve concocted from the holy trinity of garlic, ginger and soy sauce. Add some rice noodles, mushrooms, bok choy, seaweed, and sesame seeds and our one-pot dinner is served. 

Though it’s dark again, my evening walk to work is a completely different scene, with a row of fortune tellers lining the park and a peppering of food vendors peddling roasted chestnuts, fish cakes on sticks, and dokbokki, chewy rice cakes smothered in spicy chili sauce. I get to class – more students, tonight discussing the present continuous tense, or why Americans are so obsessed with running. 

Half past nine, the day's split shift is over, and I’m headed home, the evening streets simmering down for a few hours’ rest. Zak arrives just as I’m getting in bed. We a few share more anecdotes and doze off, tired yet energized, content with the daily routine and dreaming of Sunday, our day to explore, talk with friends and family, and do anything or nothing at all.

Seoul, old and new

Roasted chestnuts