Oh Those Pohang Nights...

Let me tell you about a swell weekend. And may it entice you to visit scenic Pohang for yourself in the future.

Sarah "Bonecrusher" Kwon arrived at the Pohang bus terminal one cloudy, late Friday afternoon. She was greeted by Jon "Jung" Hung who had just been spared a $7 cab fare by an awkwardly silent ride from his unexpectedly generous host grandfather, which is nothing to sneer at if you convert from dollars to mandu.

After a tearful embrace and an Irish jig, Jung and the Bonecrusher went off to score some kimbap (think sushi without the sushi), but had to make it hasty due to a tight schedule. For that very night, they were to be transported to a magical world of scintillating symphony music and retarded children with ADD. These are both lies. The music was, for the most part, familiar and repetitive (Mozart) and the kids weren't actually retarded. But the experience was wholesome and also added another member to their party: Mariah "Mariah" Perrin.
(Music performed by the Pohang Symphony Orchestra, free tickets courtesy of host mom.)

Mariah and the Bonecrusher soon became fast friends (is that redundant?), and before long it was agreed that she would spend the night at Mariah's apartment to spare her the expense and experience of staying in a porn motel all by her lonesome. (Although we found a promising one called "Motel Hole-in-One" near the bus station.) Jung tried to tag along, but it was made clear that this would be a private slumber party. However, before all this occurred, there was much important business to tend to: heavy drinking, ice cream consumption, and noraebang! It was at this point that Traci "Stretch-It-Out" Kutaka also decided to join in the festivities. All three tasks were completed successfully with no loss of life, except when the women sang Superfreak and Jung died a little on the inside.

This pseudonym, third-person shit is too hard. The next morning, Traci, the Bonecrusher, and I met up with Rachel and had a pleasant lunch at I don't remember where. WAIT. TAKKALBI! YES! Wonderful, delicious takkalbi. We desperately needed a fix after being away from Chuncheon for so long. We shot over to the bus station after that and met up with George, who is quickly becoming top of my list in the "good sport" rankings. This guy is always up for anything. We wanted to work out where we'd be staying that night (obviously the 5 of us wouldn't all be crashing at Mariah's), so we went to check out a hotel recommended by my co-teacher: Hotel Valentine. Yeah, still sounded sketchy, but it's a step up from "Hole-in-One."

Turned out the hotel was REALLY nice, as far as cheap places to stay go in Korea. Fit 5 people easily... probably could have snuck in 3 or 4 more if we needed to. Floors were clean, bathroom was clean, complimentary bungee cord for XTREME EMERGENCIES because apparently what you do if there's a fire in Korea is throw yourself out the nearest window. (Ah... never in my life have I had a more opportune time to use the word "defenestrate." But honestly, there's no way to use that word seriously and not sound like a ridiculous literary douchebag.) Once we chucked our stuff, we headed down to the convenience store to get some snacks for the beach. Oh, did I mention the hotel was beachside? So who wants to visit Pohang now?

Don't start thinking marble sand and azure waves though. Pohang is, after all, basically one big steel factory. The beach is part of a bay and, in fact, looming dark and dirty on the opposite side of it is the behemoth POSCO itself, 3rd largest steel producer in the world, eternally spewing its putrid earth-bile into the air. Scrap metal washes up on shore, and the ocean is an ominous looking black tint, as if something large and unfriendly is lurking just below the surface. Nevertheless, us scrappy yanks made the best of things and parked our backsides on a nice patch of sand and got to work snacking and chatting. At a defining moment of the weekend, someone realized that we had 3 iPods between 5 people. Bear with me here. We decided to share headphones and have ourselves a little dance party on the beach. Now picture this scene: 5 foreigners in a circle on the beach, dancing to music that no one else can hear, and who are, in fact, not even listening to the same music themselves. Now, let's all say it together. They look... like winners! No, sorry, the correct answer was "ridiculous."

But we FELT like winners! And if that's not the most important thing in American society then send me back to the railroads and I'll build this country up right the second time. The iPod dance party was an important appetizer, whetting our hunger for boogie that would ultimately be satiated later that night. But before that could happen, we had another engagement: Soccer.

Not playing of course, but watching a professional Korean National League soccer game. I have a co-teacher that is rather obsessed with our city's soccer team, and he has since brought me to three of their games, all of which have been more exciting than the last. Well, we get ourselves to the stadium and realize tickets are a tad pricier than expected, $15 instead of $5. I didn't think this was a crippling difference, but the look of horrified despair on the Bonecrusher's face told me everything. Drastic measures had to be taken. I clenched my fists and silently begged the gods for a miracle. Yeah, ok, so my co-teacher shows up and pays for all our tickets. Extreme guilt follows and we try to force money on him, but he will have none of it. He's also brought soda and about a dozen rolls of kimbap for us to eat at the game. Crazy!

I'm losing steam here, the length of this post is out of control. Pohang was ranked second in the league last season while the team they played that night was ranked first, so you could say they were rivals. Tension was high, and Pohang ended up winning 3 - 2. It's been a while since I've been to a sporting event where things actually make me jump out of my seat with excitement.

So now comes the highlight of the weekend, or perhaps my life: my very first visit to a Korean booking club. What is booking, you ask? Well, let me paint you a picture.

Imagine a huge room, dimly lit. Tables take up roughly 80% of the space, and are bussed by well-dressed waiters in suits with earpieces and microphones. Ornate desserts adorn the tables as well as bottles of beer and soju. The other 20% is the dance floor, positioned at the very front, like a stage, and was completely empty upon our arrival. Borderline elevator music floats lazily in the air.

I was pissed off. There were flyers for this place all over the downtown area, and Saturdays are advertised as "Sexy Dance Night." I had psyched myself up for some god damned sexy dance and there was no trace of dance to be found, much less any sexy. Luckily, I was rolling with a fine crew, and the intoxicating taste of groove we got at the beach lit a fire in our hearts: we were determined to fill our bellies with funk that night, whether anyone else in that place was or not.

But wait, before we knew it, music starts playing, strobe lights start to strobe and we beeline it onto the dance floor. It's decent music, and we dance pretty hard, but something is strange. No one else is really dancing, just sitting at their tables watching us. Watching.

After a couple of songs it seems like some people are breaking out of their shells and coming down, but a majority of them are girls. Girls everywhere. Yeah, there are some Korean dudes trying to crip walk over in the corner, but mainly all the girls in the club have filed down to the stage. And the guys... they watch. Why do they watch?

Because every 12 minutes, the music cuts out, the house lights come up... and that mind-numbing, pansy-ass elevator music hums back to life. Everyone flees the stage like cockroaches seeking shelter when you turn on the bathroom light. Why? Because it's booking time!

The waiters descend upon the girls like birds of prey, and without saying a word, grab their wrists and lead them, docilely, to different tables. The men have been watching the stage and sizing up the women, deciding which ones they like. They can then summon a waiter and tell them which one they want once the dancing ends. I don't know the precise cost of booking a girl, but some guys had 5 or 6 at a time at their tables while others only had one. I assume this means they are the "high rollers" of the booking world, but it's all just pathetic to me. I think everyone in our group felt the same way, because the way we started behaving was a blatant display of our utter lack of respect for the establishment and everyone there.

Jumping around like fools, dancing on the raised portion of the stage, girls on girls, guys on guys, I was wearing a black beater and carrying a purse for a while. We were flipping off this exploitative behavior by being as flamboyant and unavailable as we could possibly look and, in my opinion, they got the message. Despite being some of the hottest girls in the club, and definitely the best dancers, not a single one of our group got booked.

So, didn't that sound like a splendid day and a half? If you have made it all the way to the end of this, then you deserve some sort of cash prize. But in the absence of cash on the internet, I'll compensate you with an e-card. Just leave a comment with your email address and how many times we've made out (I'm trying to get a total lifetime tally) and I'll send it right off.