This Seoul Sells Itself

Who came first, the consumerism or the consumers?

As Morgan and I strolled through Seoul on the weekend, I could not help but constantly reflect on this question. The plethora of clothing, shoes, furniture, and electronics was like a constant flow of serotonin to our brains: “Wow, look at this!” “This is so awesome!” “This is ridiculous!” “Do you think we need this?”

Ummm. Doubtful.

With its several floors of pure gadgetry, I was especially nervous for Morgan when we entered the Electronics Market. Camera after camera perched on its tripod, accompanied by an irritating young man who was desperately trying to make a sale.

This country, if you are not used to its boundless commodities, can test your rules of consumption. I know that it continually forces me to reassess my needs and reconsider the self-discipline which I thought I had. It’s a funny thing: your needs very rarely fluctuate- it’s your wants that change and gradually empty the bank. Fortunately, although our wants and needs had a stand off in every store we entered, our needs ultimately won. All we walked away with was an external hard drive and the most remarkable kitchen knife. You know the expression “cuts like a knife”? This knife invented that saying.

Now, although I just spat in the face of overindulgences, there are just some that are difficult to resist… like Morgan’s suggestion that we should get massages. I’m pretty sure Gandhi would have said: “I’m down.”

I was more than down.

So, we looked up a place we’d heard about called Healing Hands. As we came in out of the cool rain and entered this Zen den of soft lights, warm colours, and worn wood, I was sure I’d be in for a treat. Well, let’s just say this place should have been called Steel Hands. Merciless Hands. Hell's Angels' Hands. Now, I’m not saying it wasn’t a good massage, it was just… ruthless. That petite, middle-aged woman found every knot in my back, every strain near my spine. I tried so hard not to wriggle or cry out, and I could feel this tense stillness in the air that let me know Morgan was fighting the same fight. After getting my feet dipped in hot wax without warning, I decided that we were probably near the end of the session. My pain tolerance would probably not go much beyond that without some sort of yelp coming out of me.

Will we be returning customers? You bet. We’ve decided our poor teacher backs will probably need a good rubdown at least once a month. Let’s hope frequency and anguish have a negative correlation.

After our massages, I was starving. Probably because my muscles had been zapped of all their energy and were looking for some source of nourishment. Well, thankfully, amid the sea of pork knuckles, we were able to lock down a yummy tofu burger at Kraze Burger. Oh, Kraze Burger. Next time you write English on your menu, give me a call so I can do some brief editing. Or don’t and let people have a good laugh: "Please, remove the color fork before taste the menu. It might cause the safe problem." Riiiight.

Since dinner had already landed us in an ex-pat zone, we decided to visit a place called the Rocky Mountain Tavern. The place reeked of hockey, men, and beer. A drink menu which included Mountain Lion Breath, Halifax Explosion, and Newfie Payday confirmed beyond a doubt that the people who ran the joint were former Canucks. Part of me was excited to see this niche of Canadian culture, but my other half was repulsed, just like in the Dugout a few weeks earlier. The place was obviously a common meeting ground for young guys from Canada and the U.S., and hanging off their arms were pretty Korean girls, giggling and smiling at everything. After people-watching for about half an hour, I was not smiling or giggling. I came to the realization that most of these guys would never pick up back home. Arrogance is not a becoming quality. In fact, it’s not really a quality at all. And the place was teeming with it. Anyway, when one guy came in and started strumming his guitar, I found myself lip syncing along, despite my apprehension. Covers of The Pixies, Tom Petty, and Radiohead floated through the tavern, and Fake Plastic Trees is just not a song you pretend not to know. While the next performer got his game face on, we took our cue and left. Nothing like a “rapper” from Washington State to let you know you’ve overstayed your visit.