Korean Honeymoon

Winter in Madrid

ailsa — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 03:30:00 GMT

I slip back under my cotton sheets, listen to raindrops dance on the roof. The perfect Sunday.

It would be if he was here, but I’m alone with this storm that has stolen the light, stolen my day, blanketed my apartment in melancholy grey. It’s too silent. I switch on my ipod and let Julie Delphy sing,

‘You were for me that night, everything I ever dreamt of in life.’

We met in a debauched bar in Tel Aviv, and built on each others’ jokes like a game of Jenga that never fell. I looked beautiful that night. Or more accurately, covered in his whisky kisses, I felt beautiful. But he was flying home in the morning. So when he joked that I should come to see him in Madrid, I ignored his haha tones and booked a flight. Haha.

A week later, I waited for him by the fountain at Sol square. Promoters wore placards and shouted special deals outside Vodafone and Topshop. A scruffy couple sat next to me, blew hot air on each others’ cold fingers and blasted Rihanna from their phone. I nervously tapped my fingers to the music.

A few minutes later he arrived. Unsure of whether to place my lips on his, I shook his hand, went red and wished I could start all over again.

He took my suitcase, and I strode after him up the street to his charming flat in the old town. We drank tea and talked over each other, until my nerves thawed and our laughter became real.

At four he had class, so I took the chance to see a city I had never been curious about. Wrapped up against the crisp winter air, I wandered quiet streets. Past artisan bakeries, bars and galleries that glowed in the fading light. The low buildings were terracotta, more Provence than Barcelona. I followed the hand-illustrated street signs to Plaza Mayor. A historic square, street performers entertained little princesses in pea coats as they strolled with their parents.

I ended up in the red light district, same same as any other – hard-faced girls, sex shops and takeaways. Just as quickly I was back to riches on Gran Via, a wide avenue of elaborate architecture, where even the McDonalds had marble pillars.

He texted to say he was back at his apartment. I ran through the old streets, back to his room that boasted stone walls a metre thick. But we ignored the warmth and headed for the metro, getting off in a poor neighbourhood of identical apartment blocks. The streets were bleak, the closest thing to life were the neon signs saying Bingo!

Los Amigos, a tiny tapas bar. It was sweaty and loud, as Spanish as a bullfight. Middle-aged waiters shouted for orders over the din of friends who debated, drank and choked on sizzling chunks of Chorizo. Standing room only, we grabbed a space and watched our tapas spill out of a hatch in the corner of the bar. Plates like metal ash trays were filled with squid, sausages and tiny cheese pastries. And the food was delicious because it was so brash, because the atmosphere was so rambunctious after the elegance of the old town by day.

Under the inky sky, we took the metro back to central Madrid. The streets vibrated with madrileños, a glistening image of the good life. We met his friends and floated from bar to bar, chucking down ham and Rioja.

We said our adios, and bought beers from a Chino in the alternative Malasaña district. Frozen to a park bench, our fingers were clamped to the tin when the police showed up. And I felt like I was fourteen again, running from trouble in a tiny Scottish town. Laughing and out of breath, we opened heavy red doors into cafe Manuela, an art nouveau bar filled with smoke and boys and girls in brogues. Tired and dreaming of sleep, we left and took a taxi back to his place.

Beeeeep Beeeeep Beeeeep! It was four am. All too fast, I had to leave that warm body and fly home.

He was gone.

He’s been gone for five months now. Julie has finished her heart-broken tune, and my room feels empty once again.

Why I travel.

ailsa — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 03:26:00 GMT

Why Travel? Even when I hate it, I love it.

I dreaded my last trip from Seoul to Aberdeen, because the flight was with Russia's economy airline Aeroflot. It had been a year since I was last home and I was tired of travelling, new faces and new places, I just wanted to be home. Instead, a two day journey lay ahead.

As the movies on the plane were in Russian, I took a second-hand book from my backpack and started to read. The book wasn't great, but it didn't need to be. As I read On Love by Alain de Botton, it reminded me of all the people who I'd ever loved or longed for on my travels. I spent the next few hours living in my memories. A previous reader had highlighted passages where I could find no special meaning, I wondered what magic On Love had conjured for them.

As we flew over Siberia sometime in the late afternoon, the sun's glow stretched across the cabin, giving the journey the glamour of another era. We touched down at Sheremetyevo airport, Moscow. I washed my face in the toilets and changed into fresh clothes.

That was when I felt it, the feeling I only get in airports, despite being a dishevelled TEFL teacher, I felt glamorous in my anonymity. I could be from any country, have any job, be anyone, be no one. In turn, I imagined wild personal histories for everyone I saw.

Despite the airports attempts to be blandly international, everything spoke of the country beyond the terminal doors, from the restaurant menus advertising borscht, to the beautiful women and unsmiling staff. I finished On Love and left it on a seat for someone else to read, then spent the remaining hour imagining what lay in the snow-capped forest beyond the runway, full of joy for travelling once again.

My Scholarship entry - A local encounter that changed my life

ailsa — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 03:11:00 GMT

As I chased childhood memories of a white sandy cove on Scotland's west coast, a girl of around seven danced in the waves beside me on the beach. Flapping her arms with a pure wide smile, she looked as swell as a gull in the March sun. As I continued along the sand dunes, tap dancing to some French jazz tune, I felt like I was that little girl.

Alone and free, I was glad to be home from Seoul for a few weeks, one of the most crowded cities on Earth, where I had often felt lost amongst the crush of people, the skyscrapers and loudspeakers.

Home, Aberdeenshire, castles, tearooms, whisky distilleries. Oppressive in its own way, I borrowed mum's car and drove as far as I could go, to the West coast of Scotland, and parked on a silent coastal road somewhere near Arisaig.

Along the coast lay crumpled glens the colour of my grandpa's brown old cords. The chimneys of a few white crofts smoked in the cloudless blue sky. I thought of stoic women rocking alone by the peat fire, looking out at afternoon trees as the timeless sea sparkled with the faded reflection of a million stars.

For an hour or so I ran along bay after bay, crunching seashells to white powder under my bare feet, feeling glad as I scrambled over wet rocks and peaty bogs, kicking sand into the brightness of the sun and the twinkling sea.

Soft sand slipped beneath my feet and Marram grass flicked my knees, carrying me closer to the wild islands traced blue across the pale sea. At a perfect little beach I stopped and sat by the salty sigh of the sea, hugging my knees in the clean cotton breeze.

A single seagull soared across the water, Marram grass glinted and danced in the clear light as the sun slipped below the islands across the ancient bay. After three years running from country to country I was finally home. As the crescendo of clapping waves washed over me I felt it, totally at peace with the stars, the silence and the sea.

The Perfect Sunday on Paxos

ailsa — Fri, 25 Mar 2011 01:24:00 GMT

The afternoon is fading as I wander through Corfu town’s tired alleyways. Past shop owners puffing on cigarettes and hot air, the shelves behind them crumbling with unwanted souvenirs. And restless in a country where every day feels like Sunday, we sail a few hours south to Paxos for its white pebble beaches, emerald bays and relaxed island lifestyle.

Our tiny boat is flung towards the village of Lakka by waves dark and furious. But as we turn into a bay of hills rich with pines, the sea glistens pink, calm under the soft light of a Greek sunset. The peace does not last, the storm has tailed our boat. We anchor down and ricochet amongst luxury yachts and fishing boats, as the sky blackens and sea water skids onto the harbour’s street.

The wind chases us through rustic streets too narrow for cars to pass, into a village that ends almost as soon as it begins. Our napkins dance in the wind, alongside George the waiter at Pounentes, as he plays a celebratory song on the trumpet for our friend’s birthday. Four months without a day off, yet still part of the sea of contented faces around the village square. Wine splashes from glasses, an attempt to forget the Mediterranean’s vicious face a street away.

We fall back into the Neilson yacht and listen to the wind lick the boat’s edge, whispering us to sleep. The gale still blows bumps on our arms the next morning, and the skipper smiles taut at his guests, 'No sailing until tomorrow.’ My sea legs smile.

Yoghurt and honey at Fanis on the quay. I swap my book at Planos Holidays and, like everyone else , read One Day on a whitewashed stoop, sheltered in the breast of a hill. Old women smile as they struggle past carrying fish and potatoes for lunch with their family. Then my world becomes the book, and I am late for lunch on deck. Freshly cut feta from the square’s shop, warm baker’s bread and a beaded bag from the boy, courtesy of the hippy bazaar on the waterfront.

Forty degrees for the past four days, the sea spray revives me, and I wander away from the burnt-orange roofs of the village, past gardens crumbling under star-shaped pomegranate flowers and heart-shaped vines. I climb through delicate olive groves that have weaved round Lakka’s hills for over two thousand years.

Their crippled bodies are how the Greeks who run the tavernas feel this year. Higher tax, fewer tourists. Complaints rumble round the coast. From the hilltop, I view the sea charging towards the mainland in great white wisps, refreshingly clear of flotsam. And I realise that despite its problems, Greece is a beautiful country.

I fish by Akis, Tom Hanks’ favourite restaurant for seafood, next to children selling seashells for fifty cents. They have more luck than me. But I do not feel it. Because it is the perfect Sunday.

Korean Honeymoon - My Big Adventure

ailsa — Thu, 24 Mar 2011 21:54:00 GMT

Seoul,

I wasn't sure when I first saw you. There can be a sexiness to skyscrapers, but yours are too often tired blasts of Soviet-style concrete that choke the streets and cut out the sun. Look again and down at street level you are the most colourful, crowded place I have ever seen.

Street-sellers stir pans of red stew under sticky tarpaulin, bright-lit shops fire music into the streets. The businessmen in sparkly ties hurry along, but the cutesy sounds of Korean pop will tinkle into their dreams.

Groups of young women link arms down the avenues, covering their mouths as they giggle together. Calling cards cover tarmac like confetti, the girls' smiles smeared by a thousand footsteps. Down on the subway, rows of doughy aunties sit silently, their eyebrows ready-painted into glimmering arches that signal 'I do not approve'. One smiles, I wave, she laughs.

Living in artsy Hongdae, I feel at home. The coffee shops are strung with fairy lights, with blankets for huddling against the bitter nights. Tea dresses and pastel coats hang simply from white walls in vintage stores, sanctuary from the outdoor hustle of Korea's hippest kids. Street artists splash colour over concrete, live bands and tap dancers make music in the park, while beat boxers take over the subway station. I am privileged to see you at your most alive, your most neon, where every sign shouts Karaoke! Internet! Booze! Burger King!

You deserve your fun, because you lifted yourself out of the Korean War's ashes. Just forty years ago yours was one of the poorest countries in the world. Now it is a member of the trillion dollar club, a world economy elite. You work to keep your membership more than anyone. Your drive should mean you are a hard-edged swirl of 24 million people but your Confucian roots soften you.

Sometimes I forget the rules, forget to nod at my elders, or look messy with holes in my tights. I am trying to be respectful in the ways you expect, but it is hard to remember when I barely get to see you. For while you are at work, I look after your children, teaching them English.

To be honest, I have never stayed anywhere for long. I guess I'm too addicted to the honeymoon period. Being committed to you for a year, I feel scared. Scared to discover the real you. Seoul, without a doubt you are my big adventure.