Yesterday I set out to find the local Catholic church, just to see how it's done here in Korea. City blocks here are roughly square, so on my map it was four blocks east and six blocks north. I apparently walked right past it, and only after another several blocks decided to go another block east and back down again, in case I'd miscounted. I did find the local Korean Methodist parish, but this holds low interest for me, just as it is low church. I walked into another church, but only saw what looked like a cafeteria with the addition of a pulpit, which I assumed couldn't be Catholic. Only when I reemerged onto the street I'd already walked did I see a sign, high up, saying, more or less graphically, Catholic church that-away. Turns out it was hidden off the road behind some buildings that doubled as a wall. Nothing particularly special: the same sort of blocky brutalist take on Gothic architecture that all the churches here seem to have—that is, those that aren't buildings converted from some other purpose. In case I'd misread the sign, the giant vinyl banner attached to the steeple with a waving Pope Francis cleared any doubts. Inside, the church had an almost Calvinist dearth of ornament. But there were fonts at the rear of the church, and kneeling rails, and an altar at the front, complete with a tabernacle, sanctuary light, an altar bell that looked like it was looted from a Chou-dynasty tomb. I took a kneeler for a spell, gave thanks, and walked back outside. Nearby was a statue of the Virgin Mary, attended by votive candles in a glass case to protect the flames from wind.
Feeling accomplished, I figured I'd press my luck. I'd seen a taxi stand down the street, and lots of signs pointing me to the Hyeonchungsa Shrine, the ancestral shrine and former house of Korean admiral Yi Sun-shin, so I hopped in a cab and took the 5,900-won ride to the north of the city. The thought occurred to me that it might not be as easy to catch a cab back, but there was a taxi stand there, too, so I put the thought out of my mind for the present.
Admiral Yi Sun-shin is the Korean Horatio Nelson you've never heard of before, but he's probably the biggest national hero here after King Sejong the Great. In the late 16th century, he rallied the naval forces of the nation to repel a Japanese attempt to conquer the peninsula, with a combination of brilliant tactics, derring-do, and innovations in technology, chiefly the Turtle Ship, a stout little frigate with it deck clad in iron plates and spikes, both to protect the ship from fire and repel boarders. In fact, this was the world's first iron-clad ship, more that 250 years ahead of its invention in the West. Like Nelson at Trafalgar, Yi Sun-shin was shot at the climax of his greatest victory, and bade his commanders to continue to keep his death a secret and to complete the rout of the Japanese by pursuing the fleeing ships.
Theoretically there is a 500-won entrance fee, but I could find no one to take it, so I walked in anyway and continued on to the museum. This was a very nice break, as it was well air conditioned and the weather had been particularly sultry. I saw cannonry, sails, incendiary arrows hung and arranged from the ceiling as if in flight, muskets, and various models of contemporary ships, including the famous ironclad turtle ships. There was an alcove with a tape of a naval battle playing, but the real interest was a diorama in front of the screen with waves and ships' sailed that were made to look as though they were moving by the application of various blacklights on dimmers. Moving on, there was a monumental portrait of the admiral, various antique books and scrolls (not labeled in English) and a collection of melee weapons, including some improbably long samurai swords, one bearing a marker that claimed it to be 197 cm, taller in fact than anyone I know. Seems like that would be a team-lift sword.
I then exited the building back out into the steam and sweat, and entered the shrine grounds proper through a large painted gate. I saw a largish pond with a sculptural bridge over it, full of large, dark, sleek carp. These were very gregarious and certain I would feed them, and gamboled a bit to increase the likelihood I would. Alas, I had nothing meet to mete for meat. Overhead and throughout the park were great squadrons of dragonflies, on silent patrol for mosquitoes and whatever other winged pests that dare to disturb the harmony of the place. I followed the windy paved path along past one ornamental tree after another, each twist of the path revealing a new triumphal tableau of Asian lanscaping. Finally I came to the grave of Yi Myeon, third and favorite son of the admiral, killed in battle at the age of 21, though to see it, I had to climb several flights of steep stone steps. It was, once I'd gotten to the top, a surprisingly simple grassy mound, with a memorial stele nearby. Off to the side, a little further down the slope and inaccessible to foot traffic were the the graves of others of the admiral's descendants.
Moving right along, I next encountered two giant 500-year-old gingko trees, as identified by botanical markers, which solved the question of what species these trees are, of which we saw several in Seoul and of which Laura is very fond. The trees are surrounded by a raised stone platform with a stone rail, from which the admiral liked to practice his archery. It is said he practiced from a distance of 145 metres, and to illustrate, the park has set out two archery targets at that distance. It seemed implausible to me, but then neither am I the Horatio Nelson of the East.
The next thing was his family house, of a traditional design called a "hanok," which is built around an open square, with sliding rice-paper screens, sheltered porches, rooms opening onto the square and neighboring chambers, and so forth. Particular care is given to the planning of the site, so that it takes advantage of the local scenery and is situated in propitious relationship to local bodies of water. Underneath the floor is an "ondol" system, in which hot smoke is forced under the floor, and out a chimney, thus heating the house. Having spent half this last winter back in New York, under-floor heating is one thing I miss about the house in Indiana.
Finally I approached the actual shrine of Yi Sun-shin. The whole thing is up a hill, and you have to pass successive gates and staircases to get to it. First gate one passes is a giant torii-like structure, painted red, which I gather is the color of memorialization (deceased persons' names are written in red ink; it's a taboo in Asian cultures, therefore, to write a living person's name in red), with a "samtaegeuk" three-lobed yin-yang symbol, mounted over it. Huffing and puffing further up the hill in 90/90 weather (90 degrees and 90 percent humidity), one at last comes to a large painted gate with a glazed tile roof. Here the doors are also painted with a samtaegeuk symbol, and it is guarded left and right by great three-legged braziers, one with the head of a boar, the other with the head of a gryphon. I passed beyond this into the inner courtyard and final approach to the shine, only to be heckled by some Korean women who had arrived around the time I did, and had been variously walking in front of behind me the whole time. "Anyeong haseyo!" one of them shouted at me. This violates the Korean prime directive of interacting with strangers, which is Thou Shalt Not Interact with Strangers. Their tone was in contravention of the literal meaning of the greeting, "Peace be with you." My peace not being with me, I regretted these pests were too large for the dragonflies. But then I reflected that in some places in the U.S., they would receive a similarly inhospitable reception. People, as it turns out, are much the same everywhere.
The shrine is a rectangular building with no other purpose than to house the admiral's memorial portrait, mounted on the back wall under a sculptural canopy. On the walls around are historical illustrations of various battles and scenes from Yi Sun-shin's life. In front of the door, which actually bars visitors from entering, leaving them to peer in from outside, is a low table with burning incense that visitors can add to, attended by a bored young lady engrossed in a smartphone. As I approached she got up out of her chair to shuffle off and play with her phone in peace, but came back when she saw me staring at the low table, perhaps thinking I was confused about the incense. When she saw me staring at the carvings, of a hibiscus and two turtle ships, she pointed to the hibiscus several times, saying "Mugunghwa, mugunghwa, Korean national flower," very keen that I should know what it is. I already knew that is was a hibiscus and that that was the national flower, but now I knew the Korean word for it. She was not impressed that I knew the flanking figures to be turtle ships.
I hoofed back down the hill, taking a side path away from the red torii and through a wisteria tunnel. The prospect of which, being warned by directional signs, was an exciting one to me, but alas, the vines were not in bloom. I got a few whiffs of grapey wisteria smell, however, when the breeze stirred. I took this path down to the original shrine, which formerly sat where the present shrine stood, but was deemed insufficiently grand for the man being memorialized, and replaced with the current shrine and dragged down the hill and off to the side, where it presently sits. Though smaller and plainer, true, it is nevertheless still a handsome building. At this point I made to leave the park, glutted on history and visual gorgeousness, but passing a tree I made another botanical discovery, thanks to the species markers. The tree with the yellow stone fruits Laura and I had seen on Saturday are in fact golden plums, ornamental in size, but edible.
Quitting the shrine and exiting to the parking lot, I found the taxi stand deserted. I waited 20 minutes, occasionally wandering close by to photograph various monuments, one given in the admiral's memory by the American Taekwondo Association—was he also a martial arts master, in addition to naval hero and champion archer? There were various buses lined up, but they were being swept out, with the drivers napping on benched under a wisteria-covered pavilion. I looked at the bus schedule and map, but it was entirely in Korean. After a few minutes more at the taxi stand, I decided to walk. Though I had probably already walked several kilometres that day, and my feet were already hurting, it turned out to be the right decision, as I wouldn't see another taxi until I was well into the city again.
The walk in total turned out to be 5.5 km, the first third of which was along a rural highway without sidewalk, only a narrow shoulder and a guard-rail running the whole length, with a precipitous drop to the rice fields below beyond it. Now, while the posted speed limit was 70 kph, only the most overburdened trucks were doing anything near that, with most cars probably doing 100, and a few devils, I suspect, doing 120. In South Korea, which has one of the highest rates of traffic fatalities in the world, speed limits (and most traffic regulations it seems) are taken more as suggestions than firm rules. I hugged the guard-rail as tight as I could.
As my feet were now in a murderous way, I picked some of the larger leaves off the gingko trees lining the road, and when I was finally safely off the road, I took off my shoes, lined the afflicted parts of feet with the leaves, and then put my shoes on again, taking care to lace them up tight. Back on the same road as the Catholic church, the sidewalks were still irregular, but at least the traffic was somewhat snarled and slow. After crossing the river, I was back into the city proper, and stopped at the first Sun-Mart I saw for a bottle of Pocari Sweat, which I downed in the space of a block with three or four gulps. At least now I was back in familiar territory (I had walked back on memory, having neither a map nor wireless access). Only a couple blocks away from the hotel I saw an older couple walking in hanbok, the traditional costume, the husband sporting a magnificent beard. Beards are not modern or businesslike, and therefore rare as tshikken's teeth in Korea. And though Korean practice forbids it, I gave him a bow in passing and he immediately returned it, with a smile. Two beard-wearers in a beardless land, acknowledging their fellow traveler. It was magical, and almost enough to redeem the sweaty, dangerous walk back from the countryside.
Laura being already in bed from her weird late-night until noon shifts, I wolfed down some instant noodles, took a bath to get the sweat and grime off and soak my blistered feet, and decided on an early night myself.
Today when Laura came home at noon, she was ravenously hungry, and I'd wanted to get back to the Sinpo Woori Mandoo myself, so we walked the two blocks for another filling and cheap meal. I had the same order as before, and Laura got the fried tofu in chicken broth with scallions and rough-cut noodles. Afterward, we stopped at the Sun-Mart next to the hotel to get a knife. The day before, before I'd set out to look for the Catholic church, I had went exploring on the hotel grounds and found a hidden area, surrounded by bamboo, disguising some functional structures. I'd also found a cat, with kittens, and a humane trap nearby. The cat was not at all interested in being petted, and fairly certain I'd come to eat her kittens, but on backing away I also made sure to upset the trap in case anyone else had the idea of eating kittens. [2021 edit: Koreans do not eat cats, though they are sometimes an ingredient in traditional medicine.] But this had given me the idea of how to replace my pipe tool, which the maids had accidentally thrown out. Now armed with a cheap knife, I selected a cane of the right diameter and cut it down, trimmed off the leaves, and took it back upstairs to the room with us. I cut one end at the knuckle, sure to trim it to a flat surface, and the other I carved into a pick/spoon shape, then hardened the cut surfaces over a match flame. It works well. Now I just have to hope the maids don't throw it out, too.
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