I take a sip from the frozen daiquiri, then offer it to my friend. She takes a long pull from the straw that was just in my mouth. It is the first evening of our New Orleans trip and we’re at a crowded barbecue restaurant with the friends who are hosting us. The pink concoction seems a fitting way to kick off a NOLA vacation. It’s colorful, boozy, and goes down easy.
During the day, we see the sights. We kayak across swampy waterways, cutting through the glassy reflections of cypress and tupelo. We take a tour at the Whitney Plantation, the only museum in Louisiana exclusively dedicated to the lives of the people who were enslaved there. We sample beignets and go through the line at a lunch buffet—twice. On Sunday after church, we go to a small sports bar to watch the Saints play. The restaurant has set up snacks for everyone to share: we join the line for pulled pork sliders. Whenever the Saints score, we high-five everyone and the restaurant sends around a tray of free vodka shots.
At night, we squeeze ourselves into bars that are so crowded that we hand our crumpled bills to strangers who pass our money to the bar, then deliver drinks to us the same way, passing our beers hand-over-hand.
At another crowded bar, my friend gets into a discussion with a friend-of-a-friend about how race impacts education inequity. For a reason no one understands, the man she’s talking to gets offended. You know how those conversations go, right? You’re not even disagreeing and yet you find yourself getting more and more worked up?
This is what I remember about that conversation: not so much of what was said but how they stood. The term “social distance” has not yet entered our vocabulary. The man leans in to make his point; my friend is polite but stands her ground. They shout to be heard above the din. Their faces are inches apart, their invisible breaths aerosolizing in the air between them.
I love nature: hiking, camping, backpacking, and cross-country skiing—I enjoy it all. I also have a rather poor sense of direction. This means that for most outings, I end up relying on someone else (usually Wes) to do the navigating. I’ve traveled miles upon miles, blissfully tuned in to the view, the trees, the birds, and my own peripatetic thoughts whilst utterly tuned out of tracking where I’m supposed to be going.
Which is all well and good and yet a wee bit disempowering, no? So for our last cross-country ski day of the season, Wes decided to power up the trail in one direction and I decided to go in the other. This was the gentlest of “solo” skiing: I was on trails. There were signs. And other people. And cell phone coverage. I had a map. I was going to ski in a big loop.
We need the tonic of wildness…At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, that land and sea be indefinitely wild, unsurveyed and unfathomed by us because unfathomable.
― Henry David Thoreau,
I skied and found myself reveling in the solitude and the pristine beauty of freshly-fallen snow. It turned out that I could be alone in nature and enjoy myself. I traversed out a trail marked Yuba for about 45 minutes until it met Palisades, then started back toward the lodge.
At a fun spot called “Marty’s Hill,” I even took a little detour to practice my downhill turns. I then checked the time and my location. Google maps told me I was .7 miles from the lodge and that it would take me 20 minutes by foot to get there. Perfect. I was set to meet Wes in half an hour. I figured skiing was faster than walking, so I had plenty of time.
I kept going until I came to an intersection and this sign: Big Dipper to Palisades. Ah, good. I planned to stay on Palisades all the way back to the lodge. I zoomed down Big Dipper and kept going, expecting to see the turn for the lodge at any moment.
After about 20 minutes, I took out my phone. Google maps said I was .7 miles from the lodge and that it would take me 20 minutes to get there by foot. Uh-oh. I looked up. And there was the sign for Marty’s Hill. I had somehow managed to double back in a classic groundhog-day-type maneuver.
So, what do you think? Am I ready to backpack solo through Big Sur?
Where: Yosemite (Grand Canyon of the Tuolumne) + Ten Lakes When: First week of August 2019 Who: This seems as good a time as any to introduce our hiking names – Jake (Wes), Hot Lunch (Bora), Tricky Kate (Kate), Mountain Pup (Anna), and Positive Pierre (Tate) Overview: 5 nights, 45 miles, 10,000 ft overall elevation gain. Info on Yosemite back country permits can be found here.
Every backpacking trip is a some mixture of pleasure and difficulty.
Our first day of backpacking aka our last clean day. My go-to backpacking outfit is definitely functional more than fashionable.
In the “difficult” or “annoying” column are as follows: being dirty, sleeping on the ground (and therefore not sleeping well), mosquitos, having to carry all your food, peeing and pooping in the woods. (Depending on your perspective, hiking several miles with a 20-40 lb pack on your back could also be considered “not enjoyable”).
We hiked down from White Wolf campground toward the Tuolumne River canyon.
Nobody likes mosquitos or a bad night of sleep, but the “hardships” of backpacking are part of the appeal. In addition to seeing beautiful places — and we really did see some beautiful places — there is something restful about being reduced to the essentials. Some people hate camping or backpacking because it takes so much effort to do the simplest things (eg cook dinner). But that’s why I like it. Far away from cell service, a backpacking day consists of walking, eating, sleeping. Rinse, repeat. It’s gloriously simple.
Jake and Tricky Kate look happy here and they are. But they are also cold. Very, very cold.We found a spot to camp above the river. Do you see Jake in his red shirt going down to fill our water bottles?
And of course, we did this in the company of friends. This group was a good one–intrepid and good spirited. Sometimes we talked. Other times, we hiked in silence. There was grace for those (usually me) at the back of the pack or for the one (definitely me) who suffers from a bit of vertigo and is apt to panic at heights.
I knew nothing bad could happen to me crossing this non-bridge. The water wasn’t deep or fast. But I still felt dizzy so Jake helped me out.The view from Glen Aulin. Photo credit: Tricky Kate.
There was even grace when we realized that we had under-calculated the supplies and that the food would run out before the trip did. On the last morning, Wes ate a handful of dry oats, I skipped breakfast, and each of the young people had a few dried blueberries, three almonds, and some broken bits of peanut butter pretzels.
A very paltry breakfast. Tricky Kate wearing the highly fashionable mosquito net.
Then we hiked seven miles out to the car…and headed directly to a deli for sandwiches. Then we got some ice cream. Then we ate burgers and fries.
Where: Santa Cruz Island, Channel Islands When: July 4-7, 2019 Who: Bora, Wes, Anna, Kate, Aaron, Angus Note: make camping reservations via Recreation.gov and boat reservations at Island Packers. (To get dropped off in one harbor and picked up at the other, you can’t use the online reservation system. You have to call).
The biggest factor in planning our 3-night/4-day backpacking trip to Santa Cruz Island (part of Channel Islands National Park) was water.
We planned to get dropped off at Prisoners Harbor and spend two nights at Del Norte backcountry campground before hiking to spend our final night at Scorpion Ranch Campground and getting picked up at Scorpion Anchorage. There would be potable water at Scorpion but until then, we’d have to bring all the water we’d need for drinking and cooking. So how much water would that be?
Given that it was the July 4th weekend in Southern California (read: hot), we opted to be conservative and planned on 4-liters of water/person/day. We knew we could technically get by on much less but since this was a pleasure trip and not mean to be a feat of survival, we decided “more is more.”
A liter of water weighs 2.2 lbs (sorry for the uncouth mixing of metric and imperial measurements). Budgeting 4-liters/person/day meant — that was a lot of water weight to carry. Since we would be backtracking and returning to Prisoner’s Harbor for a guided hike the next day, we decided to cache (aka hide) the bulk of our water and “only” carry 6-liters per person to our campsite.
If you’re feeling like I’m kind of going on and on about the water situation, that’s how much it was on our minds.
Del Norte campsite is three miles from the harbor and 1,500 ft above sea level but getting there involves going up and down and up and down and up, in and out of two canyons. The outstanding views and trail mix with M&Ms kept us going until we reached our destination.
Del Norte campground is a gem, with only four sites and breathtaking views. (1 & 2 are exposed but have a view; 3 & 4 have tree cover).
For dinner, I had brought dehydrated refried beans but had forgotten the ratio of beans-to-water. We ended up with bean soup instead, but–and this is one of the beauties of backpacking–we were hungry and nobody cared. The next morning, we woke up and realized that I had left a bag of the aforementioned trail mix with M&Ms in my daypack (instead of storing it in the food box) and that enterprising bluejays had opened the pack and absconded with our favorite trail snack. Doh! We were all sad about that one. #rookiemistake
The next day, we hiked back to Prisoners and met up with a friend who is working as a carpenter for the Nature Conservancy (which owns the two-thirds of the island that isn’t a part of the national park). Colin was a great host and took us on a hike onto conservancy land (You have to go with a “conservancy guide,” which you can do via the boat company, Island Packers). On the way, we swam at a deserted Tinkerbell Cove (so lovely!) and at Pelican Bay, we had the rather odd experience of enjoying the aqua blue water and the tidepools in the presence of a large yacht flying not one, but two, Trump flags. #peopleareweird
Our host Colin told us to keep an eye out for a rare succulent found only on Santa Cruz Island called Dudleya nesiotica, aka Santa Cruz Island Live Forever. I was eager to see this rare plant, but no luck.
On our way back to our campsite, we picked up more water and — realizing we had plenty — dispatched what we didn’t need to good use.
The next day was our long (10-12 miles, depending on whom you asked) hike to Scorpion. We woke to a heavy fog, but since we would be hiking all day along an exposed ridge, we were grateful for the cover as long as it lasted, which turned out to be until lunchtime.
“Ridge walking” still meant lots of up and downs and we arrived at Scorpion tired but satisfied.
On our final morning, we took a short stroll to Potato Harbor before packing up and catching the boat back to Ventura. Once I got home and downloaded all my photos, Kate pointed out that I had inadvertently captured the rare succulent in a photo without realizing it. I texted this photo to Colin who confirmed that, indeed, this was the rare Dudleya nesiotica. Ah, so much for my power of visual observation.
Thankfully, even I couldn’t miss what happened on the boat ride back.
The drive home from Ventura was long but punctuated by one of the most enjoyable aspects of camping and backpacking: that first large meal after the fact. For us, it was Mexican food in Salinas. Yum.
This trip, costly both in time and in treasure, is now over. I’m grateful for rich time with my family (nuclear, original, extended) and for all the sights, tastes, sounds and…more tastes that made up our three weeks here. Three weeks in one city give you a chance to settle down a bit and get your bearings. I remember trying to find a place to buy a subway card (7-Eleven or any other convenience store), wandering around trying to get a new SIM card for my phone (easiest to deal with at the airport) and scrutinizing the subway map. That was just three weeks ago but I feel so much better oriented to Seoul now–that’s a nice feeling.
The trip brought up other feelings, too.
The house where my mother grew up, soon to be demolished.
My parents are in their early eighties. Also, my aunt just passed away, making my mom the last of her generation. All this conjured a this is it feeling around many of our visits and activities. This was it. My parents probably weren’t coming back to Korea again.
Mom paying her respects at the graves of her parents.
This would be the last time my mom would visit her hometown and the graves of her parents and siblings.
This would be the last visit with her nieces and nephews, especially those who don’t ever travel to the US.
When we were visiting my mom’s hometown — once a literal village, now a mini suburb of Icheon that is booming due to silicon chip manufacturing — my mom ran into one of her former classmates. As they were parting, he said, “when will we see each other again?” No one said it but “you won’t” hung in the air. This was it.
Holding the hand of a childhood friend.
The intensity of this is it was lightened a bit near the end of the trip when my mother said she’d like to come back, maybe with a tour group to see parts of Korea she wanted to visit. She had given and received all the family-related greetings. She had said the blessings and given and received gifts. Now she wanted to come back and sightsee. I’m not sure if that’s realistic or if she was also saying that to sidestep the burden of saying goodbye for good.
All my life, I have leaned on my parents to navigate visits to South Korea in general and my extended family in particular. This trip, I realized that one era is closing and another is beginning. Now it’s my turn to help my daughters connect with this part of their heritage and their Korean family.
Each morning and evening here in Seoul, my parents watch the news. As you might imagine, more than 50% of each broadcast is about the latest twists and turns in the drama between Kim Jong Un and Trump.
TV shots like this one are fairly typical.
Hearing the news from a South Korean perspective, one does note certain similarities between the two men.
My uncle laughs and calls Trump and Kim “brothers.”
Our Korean guide who led our visit to the DMZ commented that he wished the US would lean on the South Korean expertise gleaned from decades of relating to North Korea. (Yeah, don’t we all?).
My father is happy that the June 12 meeting is on (as of this writing) but wonders where China is in all this. A peace agreement between North and South would need the sanction of North Korea’s “big brother.”
In other Seoul news:
The ongoing prosecution of former Korean President Lee Myung-Bak for graft.
The case of the wife and daughters of the CEO of Korean Airlines, who are in trouble for throwing tantrums and abusing their staff, bringing some of that staff from the Philippines under false pretenses, importing goods under false pretenses to avoid paying taxes, and on and on. Korean Airlines employees are protesting, too, against poor working conditions. They wear masks to hide their identities.
The #MeToo movement is making waves here, too. Female college students, a YouTube star, and others are speaking up.
Meanwhile, local electioneering has officially begun.
The news this morning showed a shot of a local candidate promising that on election day (June 13), Korea will be transformed!
Who do you admire? And what does the object of your admiration say about who you are and what you value?
My father, Kate, and I traveled 350km south of Seoul by high-speed rail to visit Bongha Village, the hometown of former South Korean president Roh Moo-hyun and one place my father particularly wanted to visit during our trip here.
Roh was president from 2003–2008. He was born right after World War II into a poor farming family. He did not have the means to go to college or law school but he passed the Bar on his own and became a renowned human rights attorney, specializing in the rights of students who were agitating against authoritarian rule.
The support of young people via emerging technologies like SMS messaging brought Roh to the presidency. He represented a new generation of Korean politicians who favored a good relationship with North Korea, even at the expense of the displeasure of the United States. He was also known for passionate speeches against political corruption.
He was an idealistic leader with slogans like (loosely translated) “a liveable world for all.”
Unfortunately, he doesn’t appear to have been a very effective president. Constant pushback from the opposition party, an unhappy US, and his own failings as a leader made him deeply unpopular. He served one term and then retired to his home village where he started up an eco-farming enterprise.
About a year into his retirement from public life, allegations of bribery were raised against his administration and his family members. While he denied any knowledge of the transfer of funds, he apologized and said that he had lost the moral cause against political corruption.
On May 29, 2009, he jumped off Bueong’i Bawi (Owl Rock) and died a few hours later.
Bongwa Village has now become a memorial site. You can see where Roh was born, visit a museum about his presidency, see his grave, and even visit Owl Rock which is fenced off with barbed wire to discourage copycats.
President Roh’s suicide put an end to the corruption investigation against him and his family and colleagues. For that and for other cultural reasons, his death is at least partially seen as noble, a drastic gesture from a proud man.
Whatever you think of the man, his presidency, or his death, President Roh Moo-hyun activated a younger generation into political engagement and played an important role in South Korea’s herky-jerky journey toward democracy.
Seoul is a modern, global city with mega malls and supermarkets but we are lucky enough to live around the corner from a “jae rae si jang,” a traditional market.
At Mangwon market, you can buy any of the following and more: fresh seafood, socks, cereal, Korean rice cakes (dduk), many varieties of meat displayed under red lights, dried fruit, vegetables, fruit, side dishes galore. There are also innumerable stands where you can pick up (or eat in) kim bap, cold noodles (neng myun), blood sausage (soondae) and on and on.
The market makes my parents feel nostalgic and if we’re home for lunch or dinner, they enjoy strolling through and deciding what they want to eat.
Our favorite stand and dismayingly irresistible discovery has been a stand that serves up fried pastries made from chap ssal (rice flour). Basically, it’s a stand full of mochi doughnuts.
The ajussi who runs the place has started to recognize us, which isn’t hard when you’re a biracial family and you come by once or twice a day!
When I was in my early twenties, I got caught up in the fanciful notion that I would learn to properly cook a Korean dish or two. I figured this would take me–what–a few hours, perhaps? My 이모 (maternal aunt) had always been a fantastic cook so when she and I were both at my parent’s house for a family event, I asked her to teach me.
“I’m going to learn to cook Korean food, okay?” I said. I figured I could be her sous chef for the family gathering.
She nodded without comment.
The next morning, I woke up and stumbled into the kitchen. It was early but it was obvious that my aunt had already been up for hours. Washed and prepped vegetables were piled into large bowls. My aunt sat crouched on the floor, hard at work. She moved steadily, assuredly, without ceasing.
In that moment, I realized how presumptuous it had been for me to think I could learn how to cook Korean food in a day. My aunt had been working in the kitchen since she was a small child. She had the 10,000 hours for mastery described by Malcolm Gladwell, and then some. I, on the other hand, was an impatient youngster brought up short by my own hubris. I turned around and went back to bed.
My aunt, ten years ago.
My aunt passed away five days before we arrived in Korea. She was genial and relentless about feeding the people she loved delicious morsels of perfectly seasoned tastiness.
Even when she was battling the last stage of stomach cancer, she insisted that when we visited her she would cook for us. When my mother objected, my aunt scolded. “Are you saying you’ll come to my house but refuse to eat even one bite of my cooking?”
When she had to move to hospice, she still insisted on feeding us. She left instructions for her daughter, my cousin.
“Make oi sobaegi for Bora, because cucumber kimchi her favorite. Your aunt can’t eat very spicy things, so you need to make water kimchi for her. For Wes and the girls, you need to make a batch of regular kimchi.”
My cousin protested that she couldn’t both care for my (at that point very, very sick) aunt and make kimchi.
“Do it,” my aunt said. “You can leave me alone while you do it.”
When we met her grieving daughter in Seoul, she greeted us with homemade kimchi.
We arrived in Seoul in the middle of a record rainfall. Fighting off jetlag felt a bit challenging when our options were staying in our very small AirBnB home or venturing out into the downpour.
The rain was a drag but brought a side benefit of clearing away the “yellow dust” aka air pollution. The days that followed have been perfect: sunny, clear, and not-too hot. We’ve been running around mixing touristy fun with seeing family.
Seoul has changed a lot since we were last here ten years ago. The most obvious difference is the number of foreigners in the city. Ten years ago, my tall white husband and my biracial children were a novelty, especially in the smaller neighborhoods. People stared. Now, no one — not grandmas, not school children — even cast a sidelong glance. We are just a few among many foreigners.
On our first morning here, Wes and I witnessed an accident: a small car ran a red light and crashed into an older man on a bicycle. Strangers rushed to help. Police and paramedics soon arrived. While the situation was serious, the bicyclist seemed unhurt. The driver was apologetic and candidly admitted her fault. The police officers were courteous. The paramedics were as well. They took the bicyclist to the hospital for evaluation. I’m not saying that every accident in Seoul resolves itself this peacefully, but I couldn’t imagine any accident in the States getting worked out so cheerfully.
Later that same day, while sitting on a stoop in the rain outside a cell phone store, Wes and Anna were handed an umbrella by a lady walking by (she had two). She clearly had taken pity on these two foreigners who were dumb enough to step out into the rain without umbrellas. (We have rain jackets but this is definitely an umbrella-not-rain-jacket culture).
We decided that the theme of that day was the “kindness of strangers.”
