Seoul Love

Last week something extraordinary happened.

I fell in love.

With a city.  OK, so it's ANOTHER city to add to my list of loves.  (I am already and forever smitten with Philly, Paris, and SF.)

Seoul, you took my scrill... and my heart.

I really needed the jaunt to Seoul.  It seems like I've spent the better (er, worst) part of the last 2 months in Shanghai.  Last trip, there was the stomach virus and now this trip a sinus infection.  By last week, I was pretty freaking sick of being in China and feeling terrible.  But when we got to Seoul, I felt like a new woman.  (Well, I still felt like sh*t, but I didn't care.)  I was in SEOUL!

We were picked up in a giant, macked out BMW sedan (businessmen have such a sense of pride about their cars in Korea) with all sorts of buttons and lights for Flora and I to use in the backseat.*  Then we got to the hotel, which was modern and clean and had an actual minibar and a thorough room service menu (compared to the clean but c-r-a-p-p-y hotel where I stay in Shanghai).  But on top of it all, the bathroom had a fancy potty!  I tell you, life without a heated toilet now seems positively barbaric.  I mean, how does the rest of the world manage?

* Side note:  I was careful not to push anything too "foreign" after my previous Seoul mishap of being trapped in a bathroom stall with a projectile-douching toilet spraying all over the front of me.  And then I had to go into a presentation and try to keep my cardigan constantly over my wet front.  So take it from me, the what-does-this-button-do? thrill is not worth it.  Stick to flushing and get out!

For a big city, Seoul is clean.  Most any casual restaurant on any random street is clean and safe to eat at.  You just may not be able to find someone to take your order in English... but if you don't mind trusting in your sense of adventure and have a good pointin' finger, you will get some food.  And you will likely not be disappointed.  Even the street food is clean... and good!  See below.

Seoul is a very shoes-off city.  It was nice to shuffle around in slippers at some of the suppliers' showrooms.  It was like looking at fabrics in my bedroom!  And even our hotel had pretty wooden and glass "shoe lockers" on each floor where you could store your shoes and put on a comfy pair of slippers so as not to muss your room.

There was also a radio-karaoke thing going on.  I mean, there was lots of live singing on the radio, and not just from professionals.  There seemed to be some competition-type shows where they would play a song and then random people would call in and sing the same song (in its entirety) over the background music.  It was interesting.

It can be a little tricky to get around as English is not so prevalent, but with a good concierge who doesn't mind writing your addresses in Korean, you're fine.

Essentially, I think Korea offers some of the best elements of Japanese culture (the shopping, the food culture, the cleanliness) without the downsides (crazy crowds, kinky/repressed sexual underbelly).

Other random stuff that's cool about Seoul:  Korean basketball on two channels on the telly, it was the World Design Capitol in 2010 (as voted by a fancy Industrial Design org), it has mobile tv and uses its own spritely CDMA cellular frequency so most outside phones will not work, K-pop is bananas, there's a big indie design emphasis with young designers making handcrafted jewelry and accessories, the AFN plays all the US television programs, kimchi all the time, they have cat cafes!

View from my hotel.

"BETTER TASTED, MORE LOVED"

Hello Simpson bar.

Fancy shoe locker on my floor of the hotel.




Let the cavalcade of street food begin...

So we were just standing there, admiring the street yums and trying to take a decision, when a sweet lady  turned and offered us her last 4 snails.  Of course, we protested ("Don't take free street food from a stranger" is a good rule of travel)... but the more the sweet Japanese lady gesticulated, we understood that she was generally full and wanted us to enjoy the snails.  So we shrugged and dug in.  At which point the nice tourist lady asked to take a (peace-signed) picture with us.  I will pose for a picture in return for free snails any day.

These are fishcakes on a stick.

Meat treats.

These are what I think to be ho ddeok, which are flour shells filled with cinnamon and sugar.  The guy fills the dough with the cinnamon mixture and forms in into balls (at the top of the griddle).  Then he presses them down for maximum fry-ability.  It was yum-yum-yum!  Crsipy with a gooey sweet inside.  But tricky to eat... one of them gooed hot cinnamon all over Flora's sleeve.

And one time, this old lady jumped into our taxi and insisted on being driven 3 blocks up the road.  She would not take no for an answer.  It was pretty awesome.  

Shanghai Mish-Mash

Here is a hodge-podge of Shanghai things that happened before I headed to Korea.

This is a filter-free shot of the low-lying smog on my walk into the office last week.  Blech.  I find myself thinking more and more of wearing one of those masks. 

I am fairly obsessed with what I like to call "scooter mitts".  Most all of the scooters are customized with what look like oven mitts or ski gloves to keep hands warm while zipping around.  Also of note is that the top scooter appears to be held together with some sort of tape.

Here's me being a sneaky sneak shooter to illustrate one of my airport pet peaves--unnecessary use of a cart.  This is not a problem in the US, as most airports charge you to use a cart.  So most people find a way to manage without one.  But in Europe and Asia, where the carts are free, everybody and his brother's got a cart or three. 

Europeans deal pretty well with the carts, so the epicenter of bad cart behavior seems to be in Asia.  (I mean all of Asia.  Years ago in Delhi, an older woman in a sari rammed me repeatedly with a cart while trying to get a better spot at the luggage carousel.  This got me all spread out flying-squirrel-style so I could stand as much ground as I could.  I am still bent out of shape about it.  I rarely get through an airport anymore without using an elbow or two.) 

I think my biggest peeve about the carts is that people take one when they don't really need one.  And then they throw some half-filled shoulder bag or purse on it and proceed to nip at the ankles and bump on the bums of those of us without a cart  who are trying to share the same space.  Back off, people!

So back to the picture above.  This women brought her stupid cart (full of one lightweight tote) into the ladies' room in the Pudong airport and bumped her way around until she found a sink she could gargle at.  The whole thing wadded me up enough to take a picture.  And the GARGLING?!  Yuck!  (Also, I hope the girl on the right got her white shirt all untucked before carrying on with her travel plans.  Dontcha hate that?)

Here's another shot from my lovely day transiting from Shanghai to Seoul.  I know I've described before how things can get a little nutty on a domestic China airline, but a new thing I've noticed is the standing on seats to access the overhead storage.  I snapped this older gentleman showing you how it's done. 

The other thing I must describe about China domestic air travel is what happens when the plane lands.  Now, I know that once the plane is down, most anyone is ready to unfasten his or her seatbelt and get the hell off.  But never have I seen this carried out with such frenzy and urgency as on China Eastern.  Most of us can manage to keep our seatbelts fastened until the plane has arrived at the jetway.  But when a China Eastern flight touches down, the first thing you hear is the metallic clank of 50+ seatbelts being undone.  And often, you will see someone springing for the overhead soon after.  (Like, while there's a fairly good clip of taxi-ing still happening.)  This person is often told to take his seat, but usually he is not alone in his urgenturgentURGENT need to attain his things.  I just don't understand the rush and the race and all of that.  You are just going to have to stand there waiting (and holding your things--ain't no carts here, buddy!) until they open the doors and we are allowed to ooze off. So why does it matter if you are the first to get your things down?  You're not going anywhere.

The disembarking of a Chinese flight vs. a French flight is a show of opposites.  Unless, of course, it's an Air France flight headed to Shanghai, when the two distinct camps are made to travel together.  And then things get interesting.





Left to entertain myself during the electronics-free periods during takeoff and landing, I picked up the China Eastern in-flight magazine (or Ugly Watches Quarterly, as I've started calling it).  The articles looked alright (there was one about Hamburng I was vaguely interested in), but everything was in Chinese save for the titles and a choice teaser in English.  Great.  So I found myself flipping through, looking at the pictures and noticing how many ads there were for really expensive and really grotesque watches.  It was a study in the often mutual exclusivity of money and taste.

I didn't even realize how many "luxury" watch brands there were.  And most all of them are "European" and blinged out in one way or another.  I'll be honest, I like the rose gold on this one, but the face is confused and gaudy.  I think it looks like a cyclops, but then I notice it has two "eyeball" thingies.  I wonder if the designer had eyeballs at all.

 But this one took the cake.  I hope someone throws it off a Caribbean Cruiselines ship to find its watery death, as is what I like to imagine is happening in this ad.  Where to start?  The flowers, the bling, the hands... even the maker's logo is offensive to me, with its stupid confused W.  (What kind of W has three valleys?  Or is it Delwitt?  Or Delviitt?  Or Dewiitt?)  But the worst for me is that the numbers are spelled out in French. Get over yourself, Delwitt (if that is your name).

The Pot is HOT!

As you know, I am an adventurous eater and have tried lots of things.  And considering how many times I've been to China, I am almost embarassed to tell you that I had not tried hot pot until last week!  (I should add however, that I once had an incredible nabe at Mari and Simon's and that's basically a Japanese hot pot, so I'm not a total brute.) 

I am sure most of you have had hot pot before, but for those of you who haven't, I'll explain.  You choose a flavored broth (or two), and then you choose your ingredients, and then you cook said ingredients in aforementioned broth.  You also combine elements like peanut sauce and soy sauce and spicy chilis and garlic to make your own customized dipping sauce.  My mom keeps relating to it as a Chinese "fondue."  Yeah, sorta.  But much spicier (if you're into that) and with zero cheese.

Turns out there is a swell (and clean!  I am big on "clean" since my last bout Shanghai tummy trouble.) hot pot place on the same block as my hotel.  I was lucky to have Flora and her boyfriend Gary to show me the ropes.  We had to wait for a table, but they brought us sweet corn crunchers, sunflower seeds, tomatoes, and some soy drinks--all in after-school-snack-style plasticware.  There was also a girl doing nails in the same waiting area.  While I admired her initiative, I really don't like nails being did anywhere near a restaurant.  But once we went upstairs for the hot potting, all was forgotten.

You choose all of your ingredients from an extensive list.  Of note here are the "Duck Guts."  Way not to class it up, Mr. Interpreter.  We got shrimp and pork balls, shrimp paste balls, beef balls, some other kind of shrimp ball filled with pork (what can't they ball over here?), beef, lamb, scallops, and all sorts of veggies including lotus root, black fungus, and my favorite the Chinese yam.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

We chose a non-spicy mushroom broth and a spicy chili broth.  You can tell which is which.

Some of our spread.  The oranges did not go in, FYI.

They give you a bag for your cellphone as it can get messy.  I like to live dangrously, however, and left my cellphone en plein air.  Yee-haw!

My customized dippin' sauce, pre-mixing.

I think this was about when I threw in the towel.  You can see that it gets a smidge messy.

Two girls full of hot pot!

Guess Where I Am!

Again.
Shanghai!
My home away from home...

Earlier tonight, room service called me back to tell me that my stir fry could not be served with white rice because they were "out."  But it's China, no?  I downgrade the food service at this hotel more for running out of steamed rice than I do for giving me a stomach virus last month. 

But you know the best part?  They offered to serve the stir fry with bread instead.  I wanted to say something snotty like, "If I wanted BREAD, I would have stayed in Paris!"  But bread or not, I would have stayed in Paris and, well, there's no need to get into it with the Chinese lackey made to give news of a rice shortage. 

So here are some (time-consumingly) uploaded photos that you no doubt have already seen if you are Instagram or FB friends.  Sorry about the cross-posting and even sorrier about the repeat captioning. 

Also, the girl who sits next to me at our office here basically spends all day with one headphone in watching Ally McBeal episodes on her laptop and not even trying to look busy.  She is a nice girl, a French girl, doing an internship in Shanghai, apparently gaining hours toward her Crappy American TV Dramedies major. I just want someone to know that I know because the rest of the office acts like this is what they're paying her for.  God forbid, she should pop out an earbud and file something!

Need to charge your Ally McBeal-era cellphone?  This guy's gotcha covered!

 

"Hey, Fire, you lookin' at me?"

 

Who likes wolfberry wine?  This guy!

 

Honestly, they had me at lobster.  So when they threw some cheese on top, I was powerless.  And, yes, they are good.  Stay tuned for when I finally try the "Cool Cucumber" flavored Pringles.

 

The blingin'est iPhone case ever, hand-rhinestoned by someone on my fabric team.  This thing is seriously blowing my game of inconspicuous photo-taking.  It was a gift...

On Turbulence

I used to love flying. I grew up with a father rife with airline miles (he had earned a lifetime membership to the Ambassadors Club… until American Airlines came along and spat on a lifetime of loyalty to TWA), who generously put them toward his wife and child flying (first-class, of course) all over the world on holiday. So of course I loved flying. I grew up thinking that all planes had spiral stairs up to an open bar where everyone gathered to play charades or that plane food was always special-order and involved delicious hamburgers. I don't remember being scared of flying or turbulence. In fact, I vaguely remember being emboldened by turbulence, of it making me feel more confident or powerful because it did NOT scare me.

But this all changed. Gradually, of course. By the time I was a young adult, the first class flights were a thing of the past. But my confidence in the skies was still there. I was so old-hat at flying by then that I was begging turbulence to bring it on. Whatever, I wasn't scared. Then I started flying more… and on more international flights… and in business class. And the thrill of fancy-flying returned: the warm cloths, the warm nuts, the chilled champagne. The entertainment options, the flat seats, the complimentary toiletries. (I could go on.) I was back where I belonged. And let's face it, things are pretty smooth on those big jets. (Especially after the champagne.)

I can't really put my finger on when fear crept into my flying, but I'm pretty sure it was in my early 30s, when I was living in Columbus or Philly and had to take those baby-sized commuter jets home. There is an inherent lack of confidence in a plane that doesn't have status enough to afford a jetway connected directly to the gate. A plane on which you can spread your arms and almost touch both walls. A plane that has but one attendant, who doesn't even have to recite the safety regulations but merely pushes a button to inform. A plane whose props are started by an industry nube, a guy who dreams of someday piloting one of those 747s to Europe or Asia or somewhere other than Cincinnati. A plane that only has one class--economy, and that's an over-statement.

It was the shakes, the bumps, and the jumps of these little planes that ruined air travel for me. I am well aware that this fear may also have something to do with my increasing age and with my growing up and coming to terms with reality and my own sense of mortality. (Yeah, I said mortality.  This is about to get deep.)

And so it started happening: the racing pulse, the gripping of the armrest, the jittery legs, the need for wine just to deal. But those are just the physical manifestations. What goes on in my head is much worse. If there's a movie playing, it is suddenly both the most and least important thing happening. Most important because it is the only thing happening that is not turbulence. I am depending on every word coming out of Brad Pitt's mouth, needing them to continue to keep my mind somewhere else… but I am not really hearing any of it.

Turbulence makes you take stock of your life. It all starts making sense… why you were so sad to leave your friends in Madrid, why the highway was closed on the way to the airport, why the plane was delayed, why your dad just wrote you a thoughtful email about things other than saving money or church. You were warned, you should have known that it would all end here, just like this.

I won't tell you that I am dealing better with turbulence the more it happens (because you should have seen my legs shaking on my last flight when they had to put off the dinner service for an hour because it was so bumpy), but I have come to terms with it.

I mean this in two ways. First, because I have experienced so many crappy flights… and I am here in my hotel room telling you about them, I am living proof that--though frightening--turbulence is really more irksome than fatal. (You can do some fact-checking on the interwebs to see how rare it is for a plane to go down because of turbulence. It claims something like one a decade.)

I have also become better at putting my thoughts in a more peaceful place and have stopped playing this morbid "bargaining" game, wherein I make promises to whoever is listening (God, is that you?) to do things like say "I love you" more, to tell everyone I know how amazing they are (ohmygod, what if they don't know how much I value them in my life???), to not be as judgmental or cranky about the little things (oh, what I wouldn't give to be put in a situation that would make me cranky… so long as it 's on the ground!), even to go to church (gasp!). And then I think of all of the places I would rather be than on a jumping plane--at the dentist getting a filling… no a root canal! Having surgery! Breaking a bone! Getting yelled at by my boss! Having a terrible stomach flu! Because all of these things take place on the surface of the earth, you see. And though they might not be entirely within my control, they are moreso than being stuck on bumpy ride in the air.

Essentially, why turbulence is so scary is because of the sense of entrapment it brings. There is simply nowhere to go. There is no driving the other direction to avoid the bus, there is no ducking down to avoid the swinging bat, there is no going to the basement to avoid the thunderstorm. There is no leaving your seat. It's just you and a bunch of other strangers trusting that those folks in the cockpit are going to get you through it. There's something awful about feeling stuck like that, like there is nothing you could possibly do but ride out your fate.

But wait, I was telling you how I had come to terms with turbulence.

It's true. Though my knees were wobbling when they reined in the dinner carts and Brad Pitt's performance in Moneyball took on a new level of brilliance, I couldn't help thinking that life is… pretty awesome. That I've got good parents, and amazing friends, and a super-duper boyfriend. I've eaten well and lived well and travelled well. If it were to end, hey at least I wouldn't have had to get old and (more) wrinkly and (more) curmudgeonly. If this is what is meant to be, well surprise, it's going to be and there's nothing I can do about it. And that's when I noticed they were wheeling the dinner carts back out and that champagne could be had and maybe I'll watch The Artist next and I hope they put me in a good room in Shanghai and geez could you quit with your seatback, sir...

It's important to appreciate what we have and who we have and where we've been. And it all counts the same on the ground.

Madridrigal

So, its true.  I have seen it with my own eyes now.  Spanish style is the pits.  The goofy strapped and buckled leather or '90s trainer-style shoes, the ill-conceived washes and grotesque detailing on the denim, the early aughts-style Chico's embroidery on everything, the wigs (I don't care if you're being "festive", a wig worn in the daytime should be on a cancer patient), and the "artfully" colored jacquard fabrics (again, Chico's, I know where you go for inspiration).

But wait, all of this is meant to announce that I went to Madrid last weekend!  My first time in Spain! 

B and I went to meet up with dear friends from SF, who had secured a well-decorated and -situated apartment there.  We spent Friday night at the epicurean mercado, then Saturday-day hit another mercado for a bubbly brunch, then it was the eve of the new year so we ate our grapes and went dancing (after some requisite tequila shots), then we had a proper sweatpanted new year's day that culminated in some late-night bacon cheeseburgers and a New Girl marathon. The next day involved a pop into the Reina Sofia (long story, but it really was a life-changing visit...), some empanadas, and a flight back. 

Here are some selected photos.

Churros and dipping/drinking chocolate.  Try to beat that.

You can't have the above without some plastic-backed naps from Pampi's.  We snagged a box and they served us well the whole weekend.

Adorable menu graphics from our Saturday lunch.  The pig is king in Spain.

View from above.  Mercado = heaven.

Even the cheese is pig-shaped in Spain!

Seafood party!

I will tell you that the nadir of the trip was when I was scolded at the grocery store for trying to take a photo of the largest piece of pulpo I had ever seen.  I wish I could have gotten ths pic because this guy was really something.

For the life of me, I can't find the name of these tiny, stringy fishes.  But I'm pretty sure I'd love them.

Bunny art!

Remember when I said that the pig was king?  Well maybe I meant octopus...  That one I didn't get a photo of at the grocery store could have taken down a pig, that's for sure.

Mellow kitchen times.

The scene of the New Girl marathon.

Lights everywhere.  And, look!  A race!  Definitely the opposite of how I would choose to spend my NYE.

Line 'em up.

Grapes and some H G-Ligh before heading out in the new year.

New year's day dessert treats.  (Note the centrally placed Pampi's.)

The recovery cava was well on at this point....



Eats

Oh rather, "Stuff I Made Well Before I Was Back on a Plane to China."

Look, it's my first molten chocolate cake.  It wasn't as oozy in the middle as I had hoped, but B still declared it to be restaurant-grade.  The recipe is not intimidating at all, and you can make it ahead and pop it in for a banging finish to your dinner.  (Just upon typing a "banging finish to your dinner", I pictured J-Lo popping out of a cake.  Now THAT would out-bang a molten choclate cake any day.  But I'm leaving it.)

We had boudin blanc, caramelized apples and onions, and mashed potatoes for Christmas Day.  Well, guess who was lying in bed, jet-lagged out of her mind, at 5:30 am the next morning thinking of all of the ways to reinvent the leftovers. 

(Side note:  I swear, I would have been amazing during the Depression because I have some freak obsession with using things on hand and generally maximizing ingredients.  Sometimes this means that I'll buy, like, 7 new ingredients just to make something awesome out of a lonely carrot that didn't make it into the previous day's pot.  Which is totally not Depression-style at all.  But still, no carrot is left behind!  I can feel good about that!)

So there I was, restive and debating between some sort of fried potato-cake or pierogis.  Oh course, the pierogi takes it every time.  So this has all just been a long way of showing you the homemade pierogis filled with mashed potatoes and boudin blanc and fried with caramelized apples and onions that I made.  Boiled and then fried, hey hey they were good.  Thanks for your time.

By the way, there's something satisfying about stuffing a pierogi, ravioli, samosa, or what-have-you.  Go on, get your counter all flour-y.  Your soul will thank you.

I did not eat one of these, but look how adorable an individually sized buche de noel is!

I did have a (good-sized) galette des rois individuelle on Wednesday, however.  I was going to share it with my deskmate, but she was in a really long meeting and I was weak and, damn, if the whole thing wasn't gone before she returned.  Of note is that there is no "prize" in an indiviudally sized galette des roi.  Unless I ate it.... hmmm....  Also, sorry Virginie!

And these are some carnitas that B made that were tender-yet-crispy in the best sort of way.  We were having a Parisian friend over for dinner, so there was no way I was making anything remotely French. (I am no fool!  She is the same friend I witnessed sink into the "smelling-the-poo-poo" face while I was describing Belgian cuisine.  We immediately started laughing about this, and she recovered her cute normal face right away.  She's just Parisian through and through, that's all.  And also, she asked!)  We served B's salsa, cabbage slaw, carnitas and corn tortillas (for which we had to make a special run to the left side), and ice cream sandwiches.  I think it was a (non-French) success!

These are the deelish tollhouse cookies B and I fatted ourselves on over the holidays.  Stuffed with some Haagen-Dazs, they also make a mean ice cream sandwich, fyi.