Category Archives: Travel

The Tidal Basin…or: L’enfer c’est les autres

The cherry blossoms hadn’t quite popped yet, but the Cherry Blossom Festival was in full swing this weekend.

After lunch, we decided to go paddle-boating in the Tidal Basin.

Two people had to peddle in our four person boat. My three kids argued over who would get to peddle as if they were vying for seats on the U.S. Olympic rowing team. The man who was helping us into the boat solved the problem by suggesting that we return to the dock halfway through to switch positions.

“Remember! You’re not allowed to switch positions in the middle of the water,” he warned, “When you’re ready to switch, you have to come back here and we’ll help you do it.”

The boys took the first shift:

while my daughter and I relaxed:

Halfway through the hour, we returned to the dock so that my daughter could have a turn. My oldest son graciously gave up his coveted spot to switch positions with her…

Moments before all hell broke loose.

…and immediately transformed into a crazed martinet. “FASTER! Peddle faster, you maggots!” he shouted gleefully.

His siblings bore his strident orders with good humor at first, but the relentless nature of his hectoring soon began to pall. Undeterred by my dirty looks and increasingly forceful requests that he put a sock in it, he kept goading his younger siblings. We were like the characters in Sartre’s Huis Clos, who eventually come to realize that they are in hell, and that their punishment is being trapped for eternity with each other.

To distract the kids, I suggested that we go investigate some white rocks I could see in the distance. I didn’t recognize them and wanted to get a closer look.

The two kids got the boat fairly close to the rocks, but not close enough for me to make out what they were.

“I still can’t see what they are. Can you get a little closer?” I asked.

My conscientious eleven year old, our family’s own Jiminy Cricket, advised me against this unwise course of action. “It will take us too long to get back to the dock if we get any closer to the rock.”

“But I really want to see what they are. How about you get us just a little closer?”

Meanwhile, my eldest took this as a signal to renew his taunts.

“CLOSER! Get CLOSER! Peddle harder, you maggots! I want to see bubbles in our wake!!!”

Against his own better judgment, Jiminy Cricket steered us close enough to the rocks so that I could see at last that it was the new(ish) Martin Luther King, Jr. memorial:

“OK, let’s head back now!” I said, sneaking a peek at the time.

“How much time do we have left to get back to the dock? NO! Don’t tell me, it will just stress me out. OK, go ahead and tell me.”

“Ummm, well, we have about ten minutes.”

Now Jiminy Cricket was pissed. He started scolding both of us.

“You HAD to see the rock! And NOW we’re going to be late getting back to the dock. Don’t blame me if they make us pay more for the boat! I TOLD you it would take too long, but NO, you HAD to get closer.”

“Don’t stress out about it! If we have to pay extra, we’ll just pay extra. It’s not a big deal,” I tried to reassure him.

All the while, his brother provided a steady dose of maddening counterpoint: “Is that the best you can do? We’re not even moving! Come ON! Peddle for all your worth, Maggots!”

Jiminy Cricket lost it: “YOU peddle then. I’m not going to peddle anymore!”

“I’d be glad to peddle, but we’re not allowed to switch.” (For some reason, now my eldest son switched to a velvety, smarmy English accent dripping with evil).

For dramatic effect my second son stopped peddling, even though I know it was killing him not to be making any progress back toward the dock.

“Well somebody has to peddle…,” I ventured, as the boat came to a standstill.

At that point we realized the youngest was not feeling well.

“I think I might throw up,” she moaned.

“Just stop peddling. STOP PEDDLING! Take your feet OFF the pedals. I can manage myself!” shrieked my poor little Jiminy Cricket as he resumed peddling as fast as he could, “UGH! My back is KILLING me! My legs are killing me!”

“QUIT your whining, you maggot and peddle!” (I whacked the boy to shut him up – to no avail). “Don’t tell me that’s the best you can do. Peddle harder!!!”

The ridiculousness of it got to me and I started shaking with silent laughter.

“You think this is FUNNY?!” asked Jiminy Cricket, apoplectic with rage.

“NO! I’m sorry! It’s not funny at ALL!” I said trying to get a hold of myself, “I’m sorry, I wish I could help you peddle, but….”

Finally, we made it back to the dock, about fifteen minutes past the time we were due. Fortunately, they took pity on us, and let us stagger off into the sunset without any additional payment.

As we walked on, my sweet Jiminy Cricket said, “Thanks so much for taking us on the awesome boat ride, Mommy.” I looked at him suspiciously to see if he was mocking me, but he continued with earnest sincerity, “It was so much fun!” (That one’s a keeper, I’m telling you)!

The three siblings reconciled…

and we headed back to meet up with my sister for our ride back to Arlington.

National Museum of Natural History

Last week was spring break for all three kids, but not for my husband or for me. The older two boys were OK on their own, but for the first two complicated days, our youngest child alternated between sitting through her dad’s college lectures and my advising hours. We took turns ferrying her mid-day to a half-day soccer camp and then back home at the end of the day. After just the first day, it became clear that my vague plan to take some time off from work needed to happen sooner rather than later. I decided to take off Wednesday through Friday and to take the kids to Arlington.

On Thursday we hitched a ride into DC with my sister and I took the kids to the Natural History Museum.

Look! It’s me in a kayak!

(See: Kayaking: Or How I almost killed my P.E. Teacher)

The mummies were ghastly:

The animal mummies were kind of cute:

crocodile
cat mummy
group of crocodile hatchlings

The insect zoo is always a hit:

We caught the tarantula feeding…

We checked out the butterfly exhibit. The butterflies checked us out too:

And then we scoped out the gems. I took plenty of notes and photos to give my husband some ideas for my birthday…

Tucked way back in an alcove is a Korea exhibit!

Time for lunch!

Tomorrow: The Tidal Basin…or “L’enfer, c’est les autres.” 

Seoul Roundup

On our last marathon day in Seoul, my sister and I checked out another place that was right next door to our hotel in Gangnam. At the Seoul Center for Important Intangible Cultural Assets, we took silly pictures (see above)!, wandered through galleries, and checked out studios where master craftsmen produce things like norigae (decorative tassels) and calligraphy.

And then it was on to another part of the city to visit the university my grandfather founded. We saw this fantastic cart en route:

and stopped for lunch. It wasn’t exactly what we were expecting!

The last time I was in this part of the city about five years ago, this stream area was still under construction:

After a lot of aimless wandering, we finally found our way to the university, where my grandfather, an uncle, and our own father were presidents, and where another uncle is currently the president:

my grandfather
my dad

We finally ended our last day in the Bukchon Hanok Village. This is a residential area in the center of Seoul, between the palaces of the Joseon Dynasty – Gyeongbokgung and Changdeokgung. These traditional houses (“hanok”) were the residences of high-ranking government officials and aristocrats. They have been carefully preserved and are still used as private homes. Some have been converted into shops and restaurants.

There were so many other places I wanted to go, but didn’t have the time. It will have to wait until my next visit to Korea!

Busy days and nights in Seoul…

The next few days were busy from the crack of dawn to late nights with a reception, meetings at Seoul National University, and a conference…

In the evenings after work my sister and I roamed around the city together…

Dried squid vendor!

Once the conference was over, my sister and I had one more day to explore the city. It was a marathon!

Our hotel overlooked a group of Royal Tombs of the Joseon Dynasty. There are 40 different Joseon Dynasty Royal Tombs scattered around various locations in Korea. Collectively, they have been designated a UNESCO World Heritage site. Seonjeong-neung Park in Gangnam contains the tombs of King Seongjong (1469-94) and his wife Queen Jeonghyeon, as well as the tomb of King Jungjong (1506-44). On Friday morning we began our day by taking a walk around the park. The first stop was the jaesil, or “house of purification.” This was where officials would stay to purify themselves before presiding over the funeral rites.

Being here reminded my sister of visiting my paternal grandmother when we first moved back to Korea many years ago when she was six and I was a baby. Our grandmother lived in a house like this in the country. My sister remembers waking up in the middle of the night to see my mother compulsively glueing down edges of the waxed paper floor covering that had curled up:

IMG_7959

Traditional Korean houses were heated by underfloor heating called ondol. Smoke from a furnace would travel through channels covered by the paper. The paper would be the only thing protecting everyone from the real peril of carbon monoxide poisoning.

This T-shaped shrine is typical of Joseon Dynasty burial sites:

The sign on the left staircase says that only spirits are allowed to walk there. To the right is the king’s staircase.
The “spirit walk” – a pathway for the spirits to walk on.

A closeup view of some of the gargoyles perched along roof edges:

The tombs themselves are located in three different sections of the park. To reach them, you wind past copses of undulating pines:

The raised burial mound
Statues guard the tombs
A horse(?) stands guard

More tomorrow…

Tapgol Park

One of the things I like most about Seoul are the many parks scattered around the city. The elderly often congregate and exercise in these parks. Many parks and walking paths in Korea are equipped with a whole circuit of exercise equipment that’s available for anyone to use. Some just have enormous hula hoops and a wide-open space. It’s quite a sight to see little white-haired old ladies hula hooping with those oversized hoops! You often see elderly retirees lounging in the colorful shelters, socializing with each other.

My sister and I spent a few moments resting and wandering around Tapgol Park, a serene oasis located in the center of bustling Seoul:

The park’s main structure as well as some of the smaller satellite shelters are painted in the traditional Korean dancheong style, that is: wood decorated with patterns and symbols primarily in cinnabar and blue-green. You find dancheong on temples and palaces throughout the city. Handpainted by trained dancheong artists, the traditional style buildings provide a striking contrast in an otherwise modern urban landscape.

Korea, Pt. 1

A couple weeks ago I went to Korea for work. I badgered my sister into going with me, so I got to play a little too!

Things were still hopping when we arrived at our hotel in the Gangnam district in Seoul very late on Saturday night. The first thing I noticed was that there were foreigners everywhere and that I could hear a lot of people speaking English. They all seemed to be coming from a side street right next to our hotel. When we investigated the next morning we found this rather dramatic entrance to a nightclub:

The last time I was in Korea was about five years ago. At that time, it was still extremely rare to hear English being spoken or to see any foreigners. People would openly gape at my husband wherever we went, as if he were a space alien. The only English we ever heard was when children would run over to ours when we’d be hanging around playgrounds to practice saying “hello.” That was, in fact, usually the only word they could manage. Things have changed a lot in a very short amount of time.

Another thing I noticed this time was an overabundance of coffee shops:

and makeup stores. I spotted this at one of them:

ouch.

The minute you walk into one of these stores the saleswomen start plying you with free samples. Korean makeup is at the cutting edge, so those millions of little packets they press upon you are like pure gold!

On Sunday my sister and I wandered around Insa-dong, a neighborhood filled with antique shops, art, and handcraft markets. Weekends are a good time to go, because the main drag is closed off to vehicles and becomes a pedestrian thoroughfare. When you get off at the Anguk subway station, you have to go through a twisty rabbit’s warren of restaurants and inns before you finally reach the main shopping area.

She, Who Will Not Be Photographed

Of course, I had to stop and take photos along the way.

door handle with bat – a symbol of good fortune and longevity

We noticed that Insa-dong has become much more tourist-oriented in the last few years. It’s become a sort of Korean tchotcke strip. Apart from the many smaller shops and teahouses, there are a few larger souvenir stores dotted along the main street as well. There’s also a mall called Ssamziegil, which is fun to explore. It’s designed like the Guggenheim spiral, so you can go up to the top and hit every single store as you make your way down. Very satisfying!

For lunch we had tteokbokki, traditional Korean street food. There are pojangmacha, or street vendor tents all over the city. Many of them are open into the wee hours of the morning, so you can get your fix any time of the day or night. We took a seat on little plastic stools at a plastic table in a rudimentary tent. Armed only with a long toothpick, we ate tteokbokki, a dish made of cylindrical, super chewy rice cakes swimming in gochujang: a spicy, slightly sweet, fermented chili sauce. So delicious! Notice the plate is covered in a plastic bag for easy clean up.

tteokbokki

For dessert we got bobki:

My sister remembers getting one of these every day after school when we lived in Korea. It’s a sort of candy made of sugar and a little bit of baking soda. The vendor melts the two ingredients together and then pours it out onto a flat surface and stamps a design into it. My sister remembers that if you could break off the edges cleanly to leave only the star shape inside, you would get another one free.

To this day, my brother bears a scar on his arm from our secret attempts to make this ourselves when we were living in Pennsylvania. You can try this at home too! (Making the candy, that is. Not burning your little brother)! Put some sugar into a metal ladle and melt it over a burner, stirring all the while. Once the sugar melts into a clear liquid, add a pinch of baking soda. It will become a caramel color and the mixture will get slightly foamy. At this point, you pour the mixture out onto a plate or other flat surface. Press it with another flat surface to get a thin flat disk. That’s it! Easy and yummy!

More tomorrow…

Vox clamantis in deserto


I was scrolling through my emails on Friday when I noticed the name of one of my former Russian professors at Dartmouth. He was posting on SEELANGS: the Slavic and Eastern European Languages and Literature, a listserv for the rare breed of eccentric who makes a life of studying such things.

“Oh no!” I groaned out loud as I saw that it was an obituary he had written for Richard Sheldon, one of his colleagues and one of my beloved Russian professors. Lately, notices of their deaths have been coming with distressing frequency.

Vox clamantis in deserto is Dartmouth’s motto: A voice crying out in the wilderness. For four years, I was that voice crying out in the wilderness and I was crying, “WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING HERE?!” I was not white. My parents were not rich. I was not conservative. I was not athletic. I did not like being outdoors. I did not like to drink. I hated the cold weather. Further magnifying my sense of alienation was the fact that everybody else seemed to be delirious with joy to be there. Clearly, there must be something deeply wrong with me.

Here’s how I arrived:

It was September 1987 when my parents and I rolled into Hanover, New Hampshire for the first time like a raggedy tribe of Korean pimps in a grotesquely large, winged white Cadillac, vintage 1970. My parents had two daughters in college and a third about to start. There was not a dime to spare. Until very recently, my dad’s ride had been a brand new car, an unexciting, but eminently sensible, American-made beige sedan. It was the first new car he had in more than a decade. Shortly before I left for college, my sister got into a horrifying accident in which the car flipped multiple times and she was flung from the car into oncoming traffic on the highway. Miraculously, she walked away from the accident with a slight concussion. The car? Scrap metal. A friend of my dad who owned a body shop gave him the Cadillac to tide him over until he could get a new car.

It had been fun driving that car around Arlington, Virginia with my friends the summer before I left for college. They laughed out loud when they saw it for the first time and immediately christened it “The Batmobile.” It would take at least two or three 360 degree revolutions of the wheel to steer the car around a corner. When we finally did make the turn, everyone sitting in the bench seat would go sliding in slow motion for what seemed like an eternity until they ended in a scrunched up heap against the car door, laughing all the way. It was campy and fun then; now as my dad docked the hulking beast by the side of the pristine Dartmouth Green to consult a map, it made me feel glaringly, comically conspicuous. I may as well have landed on the Green in a space ship.

A white-haired gentleman dressed in a natty forest green blazer and a bow tie briskly walked up to our car to give us directions. I willed myself into oblivion, as I sank deeper into the depths of the car, which was lolling like a beached whale in that perfect New England landscape. I suppose it was fitting that I should arrive at this place in such an ignoble way. It was the first day of four of the most trying years of my life. I never felt more alienated, more like a fish out of water than I did at Dartmouth.

Eventually, I found my tribe. It turns out, they were all hanging out in the Russian Department. People who are attracted to Russian and Russian literature tend to be unconventional, maybe even slightly strange. THIS was where I belonged!

Professor Sheldon was one of the professors who made my four years in the wilderness bearable. His large eyes rimmed with thick lashes gave him an otherworldly, vaguely Dr. Seussian appearance. He habitually seemed to be staring off into some far distant shore. He was always slightly disheveled. His students would affectionately tease him for his sartorial choices, especially for his outlandish ties. He would smile bashfully and good-naturedly. We sensed that he returned our affection. We sensed that we were safe with him.

This is how I left Dartmouth:

On my last day at Dartmouth I processed across the Green. I walked flanked by classmates I didn’t know. The only thing we shared was that all of our names began with “K.” I knew my family was out there in the crowd somewhere, but I couldn’t see them. I walked with mixed emotions. I was elated to be finally graduating, but I also felt disappointed in myself for not having made more of my time there. I blinked back the tears that were forming in my eyes, feeling as lonely and vulnerable as I had that first day when I arrived with my parents. Suddenly, I heard my name being called. I turned my head to see all of my Russian professors standing in a cluster, benevolently smiling, waving, and cheering for me as I walked by.

I’m sad I never got the chance to tell those professors how much that meant to me at that moment. I never got a chance to say that because of them, I left that place feeling like I had belonged after all: to the very best, most civilized and humane corner of the wilderness.

Spasibo, Professor Sheldon, Professor Loseff, Nina Pavlovna, and Professor Scherr. You meant the world to me.

The Rivanna Trail

We took advantage of the beautiful weather on Saturday to walk an easy, quiet little stretch of the 20 mile long, mostly wooded Rivanna Trail that loops around the city of Charlottesville.

The Children’s Inn

I hope none of you will ever have to stay at The Children’s Inn, because if you do, it means that your child is receiving medical care at the National Institutes of Health. On the other hand, I wish everybody could experience this wonderful place.

The Children’s Inn is located on the campus of NIH in Bethesda, Maryland. It’s a place where children can stay with their families in a homelike setting, while receiving treatment or participating in medical research, free of charge. My daughter is one of  thousands of kids who come from all over the U.S. and from more than 80 different countries to stay there. It’s one of her favorite places on Earth.

Looking in from the garden.

To me The Children’s Inn is the physical embodiment of human love, compassion, and grace in the theological sense of the word. We stay there periodically for my daughter’s (routine) appointments at NIH, and every time, I feel a little guilty. I think, “We don’t really deserve to stay there. It’s too nice. She’s not really sick.” It occurred to me that this is exactly what grace is: a blessing that is undeserved and unearned, but freely given.

Fish tanks everywhere!
A huge Surface computer!

The well-stocked art studio:

There are special classes for kids, but also workshops just for caregivers as well, during which children participate in fun activities elsewhere.

On another visit, I saw a signup for free piano lessons for children:

The game room:

We pretended we knew how to play pool!

When we go to the Children’s Inn it’s only for one night at the most, but there are children who spend months there. The Learning Center, with its own tutor and volunteers, helps these kids keep up with their schoolwork:

This month’s newsletter says: January brings in the New Year along with midterms for many of our middle school and high school residents. Remember to bring your books so that you can get tutoring while you are staying at the Inn. The Learning Center is always open to help you do homework or study for tests…if you need any of your school supplies replenished please let us know. We will be glad to restock your backpack.

We saw a little boy braving the frigid temperatures to proudly take the house dog Viola for a walk…

Upon checking in, every child is given a key to his or her own mailbox. The staff make sure there is something in the box every single night. My daughter’s box hadn’t been checked in some time, so it was bursting with all sorts of surprises:

Her favorite:

It was freezing cold and already getting dark, but we just had to check out the garden:

BRRRRR!

The Children’s Inn cares for the whole family. While we were sitting by the fire in the main lounge, I saw managers offering warm hats and scarves to guests, who had just arrived poorly equipped for the freakishly cold temperatures. In the rooms there are notices offering gift cards to local grocery stores for families who may need help because they are struggling with medical bills and are unable to work. It can be stressful caring for a sick child…Adult caregivers can even sign up for 15 minute massages by a licensed masseuse!

Dinners are often prepared and served by volunteers. We happened to be there on Epiphany, or Three Kings’ Day, and a Feast of Three Kings was served:

I have to admit, my shy self was dreading going to the dining room for dinner. I fervently hoped no one would sit at our table, and my heart sank when someone did. Of course, it turned out to be a highlight of the trip. Chris is a college student who has been staying at the Inn on and off for six years, and has spent as long as six months at a time there. My daughter and he share a mutual love of Rick Riordan’s Heroes of Olympus series. He pulled House of Hades out of his backpack and my daughter assured him that she wouldn’t ruin the ending for him by telling him what happens in the end. She felt compelled to run back to the room to bring a copy of her own Rick Riordan novel to the table. (She’s read them all countless times, but always insists on traveling with at least one of the hefty tomes). We compared notes on our stays here and kept coming back to how grateful we are for the Children’s Inn. He said, “As soon as I’m making any kind of paycheck, I’m sending a portion of it every month to this place. It’s been a lifesaver.”

The Inn is a private, nonprofit corporation funded by private and corporate donors. I love that places like this exist as manifestations of the depth and breadth of human generosity and kindness.

Weekend Snapshots 10

When we get together, my family tends to do a lot of “sitting in the basement.” This is family code for sitting around the house all day long chatting with breaks for eating. Being an indoorsy sort of person, this inactivity suits me to a T. This weekend we would have carried on as usual but for the fact that the weather was so freakishly warm and that my best friend invited us over for a Christmas party. It turned out to be a busy but most wonderful, wonderful, and out of all whooping kind of Saturday.

Feeling morally obliged to do something outdoors with the kids, I took them to the National Zoo. My dad gave me a transformative piece of advice as we left the house: “It’s one long hill. Park at the bottom. When you’re tired after walking around, it will be easier to walk downhill to the parking lot.” This simple suggestion turned what usually is a Metropolitan Museum of Art sort of slog into an efficient Guggenheim sort of experience. We parked at the bottom and walked all the way to the top of the hill, not stopping at all until we got to where the pandas are housed. We made our way leisurely back down the hill, stopping off at the enclosures and exhibits along the way. At the Small Mammals building, the kids were captivated by the Golden Lion Tamarin Monkeys.

Golden Lion Tamarin Monkey

They were so enamored of the little creatures, they were ready to trade in their beloved dogs for a monkey. They got so carried away with their little fantasy that they started arguing about in whose bedroom their new pet monkey would live.

Their favorite spot was Amazonia, a building that’s all the way at the bottom of the hill. It’s somewhat hard to find, but it’s definitely worth the effort. The two-story exhibit is designed to be like a tropical rain forest. There are huge fish on the ground floor level.

The second floor opens out onto lush vegetation and birds and animals everywhere.

What makes this part of the zoo special is the fact that there is no separation between you and the animals. We spent some peaceful moment communing with a couple of older sibling monkeys who, according to the docent, used to get in trouble all the time, but in their old age now spend their days grooming each other and napping in the trees with their tails entwined. She told us to look out for the Roseate Spoonbill who had just woken up from her nap, and we were delighted to spot her just around the corner.

That evening we headed to my friend Janel’s house for the best Christmas party ever:

Pretty and yummy, too.
Earl Grey Tea cookies!!!

After dinner, we gathered in the living room, where I couldn’t tear my eyes away from this gorgeous display of origami birds swooping across the wall. Janel made it herself:

Wonder Woman also made Christmas crackers filled with crowns, riddles, lollipops, and some bling, too!

We sang Christmas carols:

Had a quickie photo session:

And then it was time for “Minute to Win It” games:

In the first game, a tissue box filled with ping pong balls is tied to the player’s waist. The player has to get all the balls out of the box, while keeping both feet on the floor:

In the dice game, the first person to stack six dice on the end of a popsicle stick held between the teeth wins:

The thrill of victory:

The agony of defeat!

The last game involved very attractive headgear made out of tights with a ball in the end of one of the legs. The object of the game was to knock as many filled water bottles as possible with the ball-in-tights-pendulum-hat, while keeping one foot on either side of the line!

The kids were having so much fun, they begged for one last bonus round before we headed home. For this game they had to start with a cookie on their forehead and move it down to their mouths, using only facial muscles!

T had a tough time of it:

…but her persistence eventually paid off:

It was a lovely way to start the holiday season. The only thing missing was Colin, who is still feverishly trying to finish an article before we set off for our travels to Princeton. We’ll be spending the holidays there with our family.

Tomorrow I’ll post our annual Christmas video, starring my daughter, and then I’ll be back here again in the New Year.