Lindsay here blogging one more time while we have access to a computer. You should see where we are staying. For 40 bucks, we are staying in the best room in this love motel, which is pretty classy as far as love motels in Korea go. In fact we just met the owner, whose son lives in “Nuey Jerse”.
We are staying in the Korean countryside, in a motel that looks like a castle next to apple orchards. For some reason, it reminds me of France.
The people stare, but are much friendlier to us in the countryside. They don’t care about L.A. Galbi (what Koreans call U.S. beef). They don’t care or probably haven’t heard the news yet that the U.S. is not supporting Korea against Japan’s claim that Dokdo is not Korean land. All they care about is that you are in their village. Eating their food. Sleeping in their hotel. And they love you. Simply because you are different. You are their guest. As if they invited you themselves into their lives.
There is not much here in the way of restaurants so Whit and I went by our general rule of thumb: Pick the restaurant with the most people inside. It always works. But this restaurant, we soon discovered with the help of our handy pocket Korean-English dictionary, served goat soup.
Whit and I looked at each other. A tractor went down the road. A train whistled in the distance, just over the hill.
So we went into the only crowded restaurant in town and ordered their speciality. I mean it’s not like we haven’t strange meat before. (Over the past year, we may or may not have tried the food that Korea is known for.)
We ordered our goat soup and chowed down. It was pretty good, as far as goat goes. I swear I’ve had it before. Somewhere. Some other time. And the side dishes as always were rocking.
As I chewed on my cucumber kimchi (my absolute favorite), Whit smiled and bowed his head to the table of men next to us, who had taken great interest in our patronage at the goat restaurant. They smiled, raised their soju glasses.
And befor we know it, there was a Korean man sitting next to me in complete conversation about his trip to America. He knew not one word of English so this is what I got out of it: Washington. New York. Eisenhower. Truman. Lincoln.
And before we knew it, he had paid for our goat soup.
We left as Whit raised his glass and tinked it to his one more time. (Pictures to follow when we return home)
We are learning that sometimes you just don’t need words to understand, appreciate , and be thankful.