When I checked in for my flight to Seoul at the Belgrade aerodrome, the desk clerk was bewildered. She had heard of Korea, she had even heard of Seoul. But: oh my god, she exclaimed, I do mix them up so, the north and south.
When I finally landed in Korea -- no visa required -- they had never heard of Serbia. I had to trigger that magic word "Yugoslavia," so that the Korean computer blinked in nostalgic approval and allowed me into the country.
The wild demilitarized zone between the two Koreas is a major tourist attraction: so I was told. Not for me it isn't, I said: I've seen too many of those borders, from Berlin, to Serbia, to the rest of the world.
The American Cold War propaganda is surely bad enough there, but in North Korea they are segregated so drastically from the rest of the planet that everything they say sounds shallow. South Korea wants to reach out to the North, to build cultural bridges, communications, diplomacy, finance, the usual, yet the North seems entirely uninterested. What must the people think? All this fanaticism without even the luxury of an ethnic division.
Until 15 years ago, in South Korea, women would get a driver's licences whenever their husbands got one. Women never had to take any driver's education courses, as it was presumed that women would never drive. Then women took the wheel and finally the law changed.
A huge, rapid transition for women, says a guest at the LIFT event in Seoul: I am an optimist. He is a foreign expert living as an optimist in Korea, he hopes his daughter will marry a Korean and that two Koreas will re-unite.
People are lively, hard working, and, I notice, strangely silent: this huge Asian metropolis of over 20 million is quieter than a small town in Italy. The airport is as clean and solemn as a hospital ward. The service in malls, restaurants, hotels is like something from a science fiction movie: everything is possible, just let me know from which planet you come.
The shopping malls are crammed with the usual Western luxury brands, and hordes of Korean women shopping: when the women meet for lunch, for once, they let themselves talk loudly.
The city never sleeps, but the workers are allowed to sleep at work if they have no urgent duties or customers to pester. Empty shops are manned by slumbering clerks. Unemployment is next to zero: everybody is doing his/her small task in the mighty chain of the big civil utilities, the Korean "chaebol" cartels.
Love hotels are rented by the hour, ten dollars for a bed in a tall shiny building without architectural glamour. The skyscrapers are as anonymous as the city's black and white cabs. Nameless buildings bear numbers in nameless streets which are also numbered...
Beauty shops, beauty clinics, medical anti-aging clinics, in a city where obesity seems almost unknown if not expressly forbidden.
What do they eat? The famous Korean dog-meat, live octopus hastily chopped into violently wriggling shreds, a putrid pink fish which reeks of ammonia. This pink fermented skate fish, stinking and crunchy with cartilage -- the natives of the Korean deep south long for this fish when they are in Europe, surrounded by stinking European cheeses. And hot Asian peppers, even big Korean garlic cloves that are searingly hot, as hot as hot can get; they might not cure cancer, but one bite of those obliterates culture-shock.
The farewell event was a champagne party, sponsored by the French, aimed at Koreans. Hundreds of beautiful Korean girls dancing to Brooklyn rap music, dressed in their silky local fashions and stiletto high heels, men in dark or silver business suits with long, pointed, narrow black shoes... One woman at the party told me how hard life is for a feminist in this very chauvinist male society. She wants her career: society wants her to have a baby. Perhaps that was why, after swilling much free champagne, she suddenly jumped into the discotheque's swimming pool, fully dressed. Her boyfriend jumped in after her and they lived there happily ever after.
Seoul's statue of the Maitreya, the huge Buddha of the Future, was built only 11 years ago. In downtown Seoul this Buddha Who Is to Come oversees the bland skyscrapers with his tolerant, easy worldly wisdom. In his towering concrete meditations, perhaps he will open the door to futurity for the one Korean people, so sadly divided by that military business they call the Past.
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Previous essays by Jasmina Tešanović on BoingBoing:
- "I heard they are making a movie on her life."
- Serbia and the Flames
- Return to Srebenica
- Sagmeister in Belgrade
- Jasmina Tešanović: What About the Russians?
- Milan Martic sentenced in Hague
- Mothers of Mass Graves
- Hope for Serbia
- Stelarc in Ritopek
- Sarajevo Mon Amour
- Killing Journalists
- Jasmina Tešanović: Where Did Our History Go?
- Serbia Not Guilty of Genocide
- Carnival of Ruritania
- "Good Morning, Fascist Serbia!"
- Faking Bombings
- Dispatch from Amsterdam
- Where are your Americans now?
- Anna Politkovskaya Silenced
- Slaughter in the Monastery
- Mermaid's Trail
- A Burial in Srebenica
- Report from a concert by a Serbian war criminal
- To Hague, to Hague
- Preachers and Fascists, Out of My Panties
- Floods and Bombs
- Scorpions Trial, April 13
- The Muslim Women
- Belgrade: New Normality
- Serbia: An Underworld Journey
- Scorpions Trial, Day Three: March 15, 2006
- Scorpions Trial, Day Two: March 14, 2006
- Scorpions Trial, Day One: March 13, 2006
- The Long Goodbye
- Milosevic Arrives in Belgrade
- Slobodan Milosevic Died
- Milosevic Funeral
Boing Boing editor/partner and tech culture journalist Xeni Jardin hosts and produces Boing Boing's in-flight TV channel on Virgin America airlines (#10 on the dial), and writes about living with breast cancer. Diagnosed in 2011. @xeni on Twitter. email: firstname.lastname@example.org.