To market, to market to buy a fat pig;
Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.
To market, to market, to buy a fat hog;
Home again, home again, jiggety-jog.
To market, to market, to buy a plum cake;
Home again, home again, market is late.
To market, to market, to buy a plum bun;
Home again, home again, market is done.
Annyong! Lindsay here (with Mom as my backseat writer).
As Whit wrote this morning, we woke up on Sunday to a white winter wonderland. The kind that leaves you running for your boots and gloves and hats just to go outside and see it. Mom threw a snowball, Dad asked about breakfast, and Whit went to the ATM. And then we decided we should probably stick around here instead of our planned trip to Gyeongju. As Mom says, the bus and taxi drivers are scary enough without contending with snow.
So we headed to Gwangju’s Yang Dong Market today, a mishmash of tents, canopies, old weathered women, fish on a rope, slimy stingrays and pig heads in buckets. I warned Mom and Dad: “Put on your strong stomach.” And they did. Mom only winced a few times as we walked down the isles of hanging fish and unidentifiable pig parts and guts.
The women occasionly glanced up from their tiny TVs blaring with the same Korean soap opera to look at us with curiousity and then amusement as we walked by each stall. Dad saying, “Interesting, interesting,” while Mom occasionally closing her eyes and looking away.
After a Korean lunch, it’s rest time here at the homefront and then it’s off for a walk around the local snow-covered lake and then dinner tonight at a neighborhood Korean restaurant.