One Thing After Another

A day at the Korean Folk Village should enliven the senses and provide its guests with an appreciation of the past.  My day at the village left me with soggy shoes, and a week-long cold. After hopping on the bus in Ansan and heading toward Suwon,  my co-workers and I snuggled against our seats for an undetermined amount of time.  A cold front had settled in the city bringing with it the unmistakable winter sky - muted gray nothingness that starts and ends in the same unknown place.  With combined navigational skills - and a stroke of luck - we switched buses at exactly the right time and ended up in the Folk Village parking lot.  

The entrance gates set the stage for what would typically be a step back in time. Cashiers and greeters were dressed in ancient, traditional garb, and the view of meandering dirt pathways tickled each guest's curiosity to enter.  Caught up in the moment, we splurged for the mid-level ticket price in order to gain access to the folk museum, and then passed through the magical gates to another time. Antiquated buildings stood out brilliantly against the backdrop of autumn leaves, as if arranged by a setting designer.  The perfect, fall foliage and brisk air sent a wave of nostalgia through my body and I remembered the familiar feeling - this was October. Bright colors, chilly winds, and the smell of wet wood were dancing all around us.  I was allowed five minutes to breathe in the realization of where I was before the screams of children bulldozed the imagery and jerked me back to reality.  Groups of elementary students were running at full-speed toward us, the foreigners, as if we were the final object on the list in a scavenger hunt.  Confused and frozen, we were verbally attacked with questions from pairs of Korean kids holding their scripts.  I barely understood every other broken, English word that left their fast-moving mouths, but concluded they were instructed to summarize a fact about the village in return for points.  I awarded them each 100 points, and turned to meet the rest of my bombarded friends.  Once finally together again, we strolled along the path past huts with grass roofs and thatched walls.  We took in the serenity and beauty of the korean history and admired its pottery house, vegetable gardens, and unusual livestock.  And then we were under attack again.  Before long, our day at the folk village became a game of escape.  Children would see us from a distance - somehow way before we ever saw them - and cry out, "excuse me, excuse me".  We began splitting up, weaving around the buildings, and ducking into museums for cover.  

At the exact time our frustration levels reached boiling point and our tolerance for young minds became questionable - it started to rain.  Cold, wet, "I can see my breath now"- rain. The rest of our day was literally a wash, and we slopped through the now muddy pathways to find shelter and sustenance from the village's restaurant.  Too bad luck was not on our side because for reasons still unknown by us, we were shooed out of the warm dining hall, where other people were happily eating, by a grumpy Korean lady dressed in period attire. With confusion and boiling annoyance, we found another restaurant and sat down to an unsatisfying meal.   After dining, a unanimous vote convinced us to skip the museum we paid extra for in exchange for heading home to our warm, dry apartments.  As we exited the folk village to dryer skies a greeter asked us what impressed us most about our day - anticipating, I'm sure, an intellectual response on the history of Korean pottery, resourcefulness of the long-ago villagers, or quality of the traditional dishes.  Feeling defeated, tired, and cold Andrea replied for the group.  "The trees were really beautiful."  

Lavon and Derrick couldn't even take a picture without the children chasing after them.

Once we finally exited the village it was time to catch bus #37 back home.  We arrived that day with luck on our side (transferring buses can be VERY confusing), and felt hopeful as #37 pulled up to the stop at the exact moment we walked up.  The driver opened the door, watched as all of his passengers exited, and then quickly closed the door before we could get onboard. Completely appalled and insulted we shouted and waved our hands furiously, but he pulled away and parked in the lot.  Hopping out of the bus, the driver ran inside the gift shop as we stood in astonishment.      

While we stood in the cold, waiting to see if the bus driver would return, a second #37 bus pulled into the lot.  We figured this must be our bus since the other one was clearly "off duty." Once again, bus 37 bypassed our group and parked.  The second driver mimicked the first and ran into the gift shop.  Ten minutes later, as flu-like symptoms began developing in the voids of our body left empty by broken spirits, the drivers returned and picked us up.  We were finally going home.