VOULEZ DÉJÀ VU 1
I found Whore Street.
But more of that later.
Welcome back, gentle readers. Welcome back to the proper blog. We all know there's been a few entries since the last tour in 08/09. A few from London. A couple from Oz. We've read them. We've smiled politely. A gentle “a-ha!” to pretend we're enjoying them...
But we haven't. We've been missing the real thing. The genuine articles. The ones that take place all over the place and place me in untoward places after which I describe what took place. They're the ones we like. The ones that start with sentences like
I found Whore Street.
It's a street here in Seoul, South Korea. I'm here because – are you clenching your fists with joy? hope so - I'm doing 'Mamma Mia'. Again! Another world tour. And this is AirportTheatreHotel Place Number One. The Republic of Korea. The nice side. Everybody's talking about doing a day trip up to the border, or more specifically, the DMZ (the Demilitarised Zone) – which, just quietly, is about as demilitarised as a nuclear warhead dressed up to look like the Apocalypse Now Robert Duvall clutching a grenade in a gun shop with a Dare me! stare and an armistice shoved down the front of his underpants – but you know what? I'm thinking 'no'. Not entirely convinced about paying to feel oppressed and frightened. A bit like watching amateurs do Ibsen, I expect. Not what I would call “a nice day out”.
Back to Whore Street. Back to last week.
I'm on a break. I've had my hair cut by the lovely Wigs And Hair Department and realise I have some time up my sleeve before our technical rehearsals recommence. So I escape.
The theatre is in an area called Itaewon and there's a lot of Americans here. Soldiers. A military base or something. (A kindly, helping hand for the demilitarisation, no doubt.) I leave the main road and begin wandering the back streets. Because that's where the Interesting Shit is. Sure enough, I notice a tiny, uphill street that makes the back street look like the Champs-Élysées in Spring. There's a small (I think) restaurant called “V.I.P.”. So says the dead neon. I sense that any P with even a smidgen of V-and-I had never been anywhere near it. The whole street has a strange vibe. I deliberate. This city is new to me and I to it. I'm alone. No-one from the company knows where I am right now. I don't really know where I am right now. I should probably...
I turn and walk into Tiny Street Going Up. The diminutive glass front of “V.I.P.” is dark and secretive. As I walk past, a portion of the dark glass – a door! - opens and a women in a short, silk dressing gown takes one step out. She might be on a lead. “Annyeong!” At this point I still have my restaurant theory going. That moment ends and I quickly add up the dark glass, the short gown, the beckoning finger and the carnival-is-over atmosphere and realise it equals Prozzie. I smile and then it's a small laugh and then I stop that in case it's rude and so I wave for reasons known only to the God of Awkward. However, I keep going. In my book, a prostitute in the first two metres is a promising start. At intervals of about 8 seconds (roughly) doors keep opening and happy Korean prostitutes pop out, the bells on the doors ringing sweetly, their silk dressing gowns covering a little thigh as they beckon and say hello in English and Korean. It's something out of Mary Poppins. I need an umbrella and a smidgen of choreography. A hop, skip and an ankle-crossover. A tweed cap to tip to each and every happy whore as my jaunty walk cues another door, another tinkling bell.
Just a spoonful of dollar
Makes the prostitute “Annyeong!”
The prostitute “Annyeong!”
The prostitute “Annyeong!”
Apparently it's called Hooker Hill. Nice. Over the main road is, I'm told, Homo Hill. Not man-whores; just a couple of bars. I think we'll all be more informed about that in a blog or so.
But there's more to Seoul than alliteration. It's quite large with a population of 10 million. “They can't all be blockers or fanny-vendors,” I clearly hear you all asking. Correct. They're not. The rest are in the food industry or work for Samsung.
They like food. There's a lot of it here. Lots and lots. Much of it meat. The rest is pastries. Meat and pastries. Meat and pastries and Apple relegated to oh-yes-that-other-phone-company status. Yyyarrrhh! Stick that in your ipod! If you've upgraded! To the new docking port! Or forked out for an adaptor! Yyyarrrhh again.
Where was I?
Meat and pastries. Yes. I may retire here. Seriously, there are restaurants and coffee shops abso-bloody-lutely everywhere. Or, in Korean, abso-bloody-lutely yoggichoggi. The main streets. The back streets. Ground floor. First floor. Second floor. Whore floor. I think that some of the restaurants may contain other restaurants. And so many coffee shop franchises. With names like “A Twosome Place”. Mmm. Nearly.
It's a shame their love of coffee doesn't extend to loving the taste of coffee. Weaker than mermaid piss. Freshwater mermaid at that. I quickly cottoned on to the fact that I must ask for a double. Yesterday that became triple. They were a little taken aback but, being Korean, they were bloody lovely about it and got on with it.
Yes that's the other thing I need to mention. Koreans. Helpful. Helpful and polite. More helpful than Jesus at a wedding. Well. Jesus anywhere, pretty much. If the stories are true. Which, I understand, is a subject of not little contention in some parts.
Where was I?
Prostitutes. Meat. Pastries. Piss-weak coffee. The Messiah (...maybe...) ...
Samsung! The big, main, Very Important headquarters are not only here but also very near our accommodation. I think you can go in. I'm hoping it's exactly like Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. I'm sure it will be. Hope I'm not disappointed.
Anyway, that's enough to be going on with. I, and therefore you, are going to be in Korea until late April, so no need to cram everything Korea into this little blog. There are palaces and … other things to see and talk about. Can't wait.
Right now, I have to go on stage and arrive on a small island in Greece in Spring. In Seoul. In Korea. In winter.
Showbiz, eh?
Oh. And last night a lesbian from Wellington tried to cop off with me in a sports bar. For ages. Despite me telling her I was a card-carrying Spartan. Despite her Nebraskan girlfriend being next to us. And despite her being a lezzo.
Showbiz, eh?
Mamma mia. Here we go again.
