Jeonju: I have no future in the world of golf

 After leaving Seoul, I spent the last day and a half in Jeonju which is a town of 650k folks, and therefore much much mellower than my previous stay. After bumming around for the afternoon post-bus ride, looking at an old Hanok (traditional Korean houses) village and wandering around a community built into a hillside where painting the houses colorfully and creatively and rooftop gardens were the norm as snow came down and the sun set, stuffing my face with my new fav, fried glutenous rice balls filled with red bean paste, I had dinner at a place where the ajumma who ran the show came out with my food and showed me how to make a dumpling in a steamed cordate+crenate leaf with pork, garlic, soy paste, and kimchi and proceeded to guide it into my mouth, like I was her child. We all (the ladies working there and I) laughed at the "feeding of the unknowing westerner." It was the second really good meal I'd had and featured zero reconstituted meat products.  You get what you pay for!  After fucking around at a PC bang for a while, I retired to my empty dorm room (this is the low season!) and awoke to strike out in search of the bike rental place I had heard about earlier at the information station. 

required a demonstration

 I walked for 20 minutes to the bike rental trailer which was situated in a parking lot along a scenic river path near an "ecological museum." I opened the door below a sign that said in Korean AND English "Jeonju Bike Rent," to find a man in his late 60s sitting at a desk with an electric space heater at his side and two rows of bikes, one mountain, the other folding. I said I wanted to rent a bike, pointing trying to be obvious and through our interactions found that we didn't have a common language. This didn't stop him from speaking to me in Korean trying to explain to me how to fill out the rental agreement. Finally, after a few minutes of me shrugging my shoulders and his unconcealed frustration I figured out that he wanted to know where I was staying and I showed him the listing in my guidebook that had a phone number. He called the hostel and had a conversation with the lady there and with my passport in his possession and my deposit of $1, he was satisfied to rent me the bike. We brought out a mountain bike, probably something that would cost $200 in the US, like a very high end sporting goods store bike. I rode it around and, satisfied, I rode off down the bike path along the river. 

An unreasonable (or very reasonable) amount of cabbage. 

 The map I got at the info centre the day before showed a velodrome on the edge of town and I had my fingers crossed that I would magically pop by and there would be a race that day full of professional Keirin racers and their adoring fans. I consulted my map as I rode down the river path, past walkers, the remnants of a beer and noodle party the night before on a riser under a bridge, and a lady selling produce on a blue tarp laid down next to the path. I exited the river path and rode down the street that led to the velodrome, what seemed like a few miles away. Riding down the sidewalk of a relatively major street wasn't that interesting, but it felt great to ride a bike instead of walk (everywhere!). I stopped at a 7-11 with the intention of buying some weird Korean novelty beverage and settled on a pine bud flavored can of deliciousness and enjoyed the hell out of it before hopping back on my ride. I gotta say, the bike rode really well, the shock shocking as it should have and everything moving smoothly, though the shifting under load was for the birds.

...on a tarp down by the river

 After a while I checked my map to realize that I still had a long way to go and decided to ask at a bike shop I spotted if it was even worth riding all the way there. I went in and to my surprise they had lots of nice MTBs and road bikes. Dude didn't speak any English so I motioned towards his computer and we had our conversation via Google Translate. He made a call to a friend and regretted to inform me that this was not the time of year for such races and that they were practicing inside these days. 

hell of a party

This was ok because down the street I spotted a giant green netted structure that I knew must have been a driving range, the kind you see in the movies. I hadn't hit a golf ball in at least 10 years and hadn't played since I was 13 when my aunt bought me a summer pass to the public course for my birthday.  I played with my grandpa's ancient clubs that only amplified my inability to square up a shot consistently.  All that aside, I have never not enjoyed bashing the fuck out of some golf balls.  I thanked the bike shop dude and rode down to the green monster where I locked my bike out front and paid the man at the front desk $10 for what I thought would be a bucket of balls and a club rental. I grabbed a 1 wood and headed to the greens. The guy came out and started the timer which counted back from 80. I figured I had a certain number of balls for my money and I started hacking away, missing the first stroke completely and then proceeding to slice just about everything at a 45 degree angle, occasionally hitting a brutal draw in the other direction.

 I was sanwiched between 2 middle aged guys who skillfully hit straight iron shots, showing mature restraint. I was sure they knew I was a total hack and had no business being there as I attempted murder on every ball that popped out of the green on the rubber tee. I figured as long as I didn't hit them or injure myself, everthing would be ok. Finally I straightened my shit out a bit and got a couple good whacks that sent balls into the net above the 250 yards signs before going back to my loose-cannon ways. My stroke counter kept going up and the balls kept coming when I realized that I had 80 minutes to hit all the balls I could. It turns out I can hit a LOT of balls in 80 minutes, but it also turns out that hitting golf balls as hard as you can is tiring and becomes painful after a short while.  Perhaps I should have taken a cue from the guy next to me who took a break and smoked a 100, taking it easy, aware that he was not 21 anymore and able to go on forever.   

I stopped at 150 strokes, with 60 or so minutes to go with sore hands, and got back on my bike to ride homewards, though town in search of some dumplings at a Korean place called "Veteran" that's housed in a traditional building but with an unfortunate (for no apparent reason other than to ugly-it up) grey metal facade. I waited at a crosswalk for the light to change when a older woman approached me speaking Korean (of course) and when the shoulder shrugging didn't do the trick I said "English?" to which she responded by rummaging through her shoulder bag and came up with a piece of paper that had an illustration of what looked like an RFID chip and some business about 666 and the mark of the beast. Later, when I had a chance, I read the paper which told of a time when the mark of the beast would be imprinted on the foreheads and in the right hands of people and that's how you'd know that shit was getting apocalyptic. There was some testimony of a clerk in the Phillipines who range up a couple German ladies who tried to pay with their palms (as though they did so all the damn time back in the Fatherland). She didn't know what to do and called her manager who came and used a hand-chip reader and they paid thusly. This all occurring in 1999. Another blurb warned of a time in the near future where all financial transactions could only take place through the aforementioned chips. Sooooo, get friendly with Jes's, cuz the man's about to tag you. Also from 1999. Though a bit out of date, I will still head the warning. 

 I stopped at a Catholic Martyr's Mountain and climbed it for a quick view of Jeonju before heading back to the bike rental place. After 4 hours of riding the nice old man only wanted $2 more which I thought was ridiculous and offered him $4 more. I looked at his fleet and they were all where they had been when I left. This dude say around all day for $3? That's goddamned insane, I thought. You can't even buy a bowl of noodles for that. He didn't look poor or anything. Maybe he had a pension or something and he did this just to pass the time or something. I can think of no other explanation. Clearly he and I had operate under different business models, as I try to make as much money as possible from every transaction so that I have to make fewer in the long run. I guess that we inhabit different points in our lives affects things. I'm sure there is at least one other factor in the mix.

 That night at the hostel (I was the only guest in my room thus far) I found a portly young Australian fellow chatting with a Korean lady at a booth in the front room. She asked if I would join them and I did. Ashley and Ben. Ashley was in town because she just signed the papers on a house where she was starting her own hostel after quitting her investment job in Seoul, and Ben who was here because he was Australian. As Ashley was the first interesting person I met who was not Australian or a hostel proprietor, I had lots of questions for her and was curious to hear about her life. Ben, on the other hand wanted nothing but to talk about Australia and to talk over Ashley. He got up to go to bed and Ashley and I had a good conversation about all things Korea and Portland and then Ben returned to re-dominate the convo. Eventually I irritatedly interrupted him as he interrupted Ashley after asking her a question and said, not terribly diplomatically, "Dude, let her answer your question." I wanted to talk more with Ashley and learn more about Korea, but didn't have the energy or the will to shush the guy with whom I'd share a room. Bad vibes are not what I'm after, on this trip anyway. 

Put that in your surprisingly-functional Skull Bong and smoke it.