Heading home (just for a bit)

After two years in Korea, I am heading home for a few weeks. Rather excited about it, particularly because it is freezing here in Seoul now (minus 8 in the morning makes for a very difficult beginning to the day, especially when one of your children refuses to put on a jacket and insists on walking outside in her underwear) and in the other hemisphere that I call home it is currently Summer.  

While I am a little concerned that my fashion sense might  need some readjusting when I get to Melbourne (friends, please don't be shy about telling me that I am not supposed to wear anything other than black and that I really should take off the leopard prints that I have mixed with tiger print that is mixed with some fluorescent colour that is topped off with a good bit of bling and an oversized sun visor and that when I go for a walk in the park that may have a small hill I do not need to wear my hiking pants or boots or to bring my poles) I am totally excited to:

• buy some shoes for my ridiculous gigantic feet that apparently no Korean women have;

• eat a sausage (sorry Korea but the sausages here just don't compare to the Sausage King in Ringwood); 

• drive a car on a road where drivers (mostly) know how to use a roundabout. I almost died yesterday because I have always been under the impression (well, once I passed my driving test and realised that you are not meant to drive up onto roundabouts) that you have right of way when you enter a roundabout. Apparently bus drivers do not know that rule; and

• stand on an escalator and listen to the conversations around me and actually understand what people are  saying (although I suspect that novelty will wear off rather quickly as maybe I don't want to hear other people's conversations. It has been kind of nice to exist in my little bubble).

But, as I am starting to pack, it is becoming apparent that there are things that I don't want to leave behind. Some of it just won't fit into five suitcases, four day packs and one ridiculously huge handbag. Some of it might not actually be allowed in by Customs and some of it can't be packed at all. 

This is my top ten list:

1. Bags of frozen dumplings: "Mandu, Mandu, Mandu" has become a very constant (and sometimes annoying) cry from the children at least once a week, one child would probably live off dumplings if she could. We have tried every frozen packet variety out there, encouraged by the local supermarket that always has mandu taste testings on offer (nothing better than free mandu),  and they are all delicious!  

2. Kim, kim and more kim. No, this is not a person that I am attempting to smuggle in (although I have met many, many very nice Mr and Mrs Kim's). Kim in this case refers to dried, salted seaweed and we love it almost as much as (or, if you are my middle child, then even more than) mandu. 

3. Hot packs and cold packs that you simply rip open and pop into your pocket for instant heat or cold. It is like walking around with your own hot water bottle only it fits in your pocket like a square bean bag. A secret pouch of happiness that is just awesome. 

4. Instant shaved ice from a shaved ice machine. I want a shaved ice machine. And I want it with red bean and coffee powder. And I want it all the time. 

5. Watermelon sacks. Imagine if these had been around when they were filming Dirty Dancing. It would have totally altered the classic "I carried a watermelon" line to something like "I carried an orange and yellow recycled plastic bag sack that snugly and firmly held a watermelon which made it a lot easier to climb up all of the steps to get to this forbidden dancing den." This may not have the same ring to it as the original line but at least, because of the watermelon carrying sack, Jennifer wouldn't have been so out of breath when she locked eyes with Patrick.

6. Mosquito electrified tennis racquets. Oh my goodness people. I never knew that killing a mosquito could be made enjoyable, so incredibly enjoyable, when you get to fry that little sucker with a battery operated electrified tennis racquet. Husband lays claim to what was an inspired shot across the bed one night, zapping the mosquito with a powerful forehand and a leap vertical to the bed (we won't talk about the shoulder injury he suffered upon landing). I have a bit more of the John McEnroe/Lleyton Hewitt in me and have been known to shout "Come on!" in rather angry tones as I search for those elusive wing buzzing insects. But when I smack one down and hear the satisfying zap of the racquet (and, if it is the middle of the night you even get to see a spark of blue electricity) I go to sleep just that little bit happier. (Word of warning: racquet does not work so well on husband's head)

7. A wonderfully efficient public transport system and  fantastically cheap taxis that are easy to catch when you have had enough of wresting with your kids on the public transport system.

8. Car parking attendants. I am now very used to men (it is always men) instructing me on where and how to park. I don't think the car park men feel the same way about me however. While I have got so much better, it still does take me a little while to park precisely (why the Shinsegae (fancy Korean department store) car park men force me to repeatedly drive my car in and out until I am as close as physically possible to the pole without hitting it I don't know but I do it. And there is no need to take offence when I don't go into the first park you point me to (especially if that parking space is between a Porsche and a Ferrari - I feel I can only push my parking luck so far). 

8. All Korean BBQ restaurants. For my children, this is now their second favourite meal (after mandu that is). I fear for them, and for me, as to how we will cope with possible withdrawals from this amazingly scrumptious meal. In the altogether too scary an idea that we may not be able to partake in nn. for the next three weeks, I will be packing a few boxes of the special red pepper paste to get us through the break from bbq. 

10. The smell of slightly burnt rice in the morning accompanied by roasting coffee and sesame seeds. My nose tells me that this is what I can smell around my local neighbourhood every morning. I quite like it.

But wait, there is one more - because every top ten list needs a number eleven. (This is the sappy part - we all knew that I was going to get here eventually.) My number eleven is the one that I want most of all to pack but, sadly, just cannot: My new friends and the friends of my children. At the thought of going away again, even just for a holiday our family broke down: middle child cried and cried (and is still crying) at the thought of not being able to play with her friends for three weeks (she is the well-adjusted middle child); oldest child is sad about leaving her secret diary club behind and not doing any homework with her friends (the conscientious one); youngest one is worried that her teacher might forget about her and the school might close down without her (the one with the rather healthy self-esteem); and Husband - well, he  not worried about anything. (But then he doesn't really have any friends unless you believe that i-pads and i-phones have actual personalities. I don't.) As for me, I find it ironic that the worst part about travelling is meeting new people (I get it that me saying don't talk to me until I have had my first coffee can come across as rather rude) and the best part about travelling is meeting new people (when you do try to talk before that first cup and they don't care that you are making no sense at all and then they bring the coffee to you!). Two years in and my little family has kind of hit our groove.  But, because I am rather desperate to see old friends and family, have run out of vegemite and, having now come to terms with the fact that I don't have a Korean shaped body and most likely never will, I would really like to buy some new jeans (and I think the rest of the world would probably also like to see me in jeans that actually stay up, especially when the rest of me sits down), home I shall come, red pepper paste, kim, dumplings, mosquito tennis racquets, ice shaving machines, watermelon sacks and all!! (I agree to leave the men, the buses, trains and taxis behind for now.)

True love - South Korea style: Part 8. Love match goes on a double date

The lengths that I will go to to photograph a love match couple obviously have no boundaries. Here is a picture of my scraped knee from falling off my bike while chasing a couple wearing matching sneakers on matching skateboards along the Han River.

Here is the picture. Totally worth it. 

(The quality is a disaster here. Slight issue with computer to computer sharing going on in my house)

I have sent an email to this couple requesting an interview. 

They run a website called Ggumddakji (best website ever). It sells all the love match clothes you could ever want in your life: Winter, Summer, Fall, honeymoon, social occasions - you name it and they sell it. They also make, as part of their marketing campaign I assume or just because they are awesome, the best videos ever about their love matching exploits. Check this out!

I want to be their friends but as yet they have not responded to my email requests for an interview so I have not got very far. I am not giving up. (Let me know if  you have any burning questions of them that you want me to ask).  

At least I know they are alive though, unlike this couple whose heads are unfortunately missing. 

And this couple, with heads, who live in the New Balance window in Hongdae and are mysteriously able to change outfits every few weeks.  

I expect this couple is alive somewhere but I cannot confirm if they really are a couple or what the pink arrow means).

One might think that, with the sore knee, the quite possible and most probable rejection from the love match couple and the fact that I am now stalking life like models with no heads that it might be time to move on. For starters, perhaps I could focus my energies on finding a job, child rearing and/or exchanging my collection of colourful sneakers for a slow cooker or something equally practical. The younger me would never have imagined the older me doing any of these three things (the younger me was clearly a little delusional as not entirely sure why younger me thought I would not need to search for a job). The younger me also had some very firm views on my future life and swore, at around 18, that the older me would never do the following:

• have kids or get married
• if I did have kids never be an over protective parent, never make my kids wear what I said they should wear and never force them to brush their hair.

But times change. And you change. Before you know it, you are married, with three children and you are channeling your mother in the morning when you yell for the umpteenth time, in the evening when you worry about why they are two and a half minutes later than usual, when you force them to put on a singlet and to wear the pink and red striped jacket that you love even though they want to wear the brown, ripped jacket with avocado and pumpkin mash stains all over it, and when you ignore their screams as you rip that comb through their hair and pin up that loose hair from around their face.  

But the biggie, the one that I swore no matter what I would never go along with, is double dating while in love matching clothes  (ok, I may have never sworn not to do this because I never knew it existed before moving to Korea but if I had of known about it then I would have certainly sworn off it). Would you, could you imagine double dating wearing same clothes? Generally, I don't even like single dates (just ask my husband) so I usually struggle with the concept of double dates which means that you would be right to assume that it would be inconceivable that I would willingly go along on a double date with another couple who had also decided to experiment with love matching. You can guess where this is going can't you? I have no doubt that my 18 year old self would be mortified if she met me now. 

Husband and I have friends that you could call couple friends - as in friends that we made as a couple that are also a couple so they are therefore couple friends. We all like each other, have similar parenting styles, similar interest in Shaun T, American exercise guru (although their interest is a little more committed) and all really like thai food. A reasonable base for a couple friendship. I take credit for their fascination with love matching. But they have run with it, much to my delight. This is not them but is a family shot that they snapped for me when in Thailand. 

One night we had all arranged baby sitters and had decided to head to Hongdae for some dumplings. Without any suggestion from us, nor any convincing (in fact absolutely no encouragement was needed) the couple decided that the night would be much, much better if love match made an appearance for all of us (having witnessed our efforts only a few weeks before). So they went shopping.

Apparently (I am believing them here as I was not stalking them in the aisles of H & M and because their relationship is clearly more advanced (substitute that word for mature if you want to be completely honest) than the one I have with husband, largely thanks to my subjugation issues with the whole concept of marriage) their shopping experience was fun. This couple calmly made all decisions together, in a loving couple way.  

They turned up at our house wearing dark blue adidas trainers, light khaki coloured pants (he was in shorts and she was in long pants) and a blue t-shirt with what looked like a concert t-shirt like print on the front.

You could sense their excitement as we opened the door when they arrived. He, your quintessential enthusiastic American, was really feeling the love. Standing side by side with us, the seasoned love match couple, I think all four of us did feel a little weirded out, but we went with it anyway. We wanted to know what the Hongdae crowds would say. 

you all know what I look like but the others were a bit more camera shy...

Conversation at first was slightly strained and only focused on our clothes and who was desperately trying to hide under an umbrella (it was raining - I was not using it as camouflage) and a jacket (that could have been me) but, as we got closer to Hongdae, the weirdness of our dress sense (or lack thereof) went away. We were just four people out on a Sunday night for dinner (which was still weird for me anyway as I generally never get to escape my house and/or my children at nighttime). But then we got dumplings. And then we got ice-cream. And no-one looked twice at us. No-one cared. No-one thought we were strange. No-one. 

In the end, the only reactions came from our kids. Their 12 year old daughter, although still thinking her parents were funny, albeit it in a very odd way, said she would not go out in public with them. My kids, a lot younger and clearly not quite cool yet (with a mum like me their chances of ever attaining that status are rather slim) thought it was awesome and that we were all looking good and they cried (not an usual occurrence in our house) because they desperately wanted to join in! My much younger self would have probably thought the same thing. But this would have been my 7 year old self and not my 18 year old self who had sworn that she would not do most of the things that I have since done and who, if she knew then what would have become of us now may have started arranging emancipation proceedings from her older self (if such a thing could be possible).  

It appears that, in-spite of my growing collection of colourful sneakers and my non-existent purchase of a slow cooker, I am clearly not at all what I thought I would be like when I was 18: the getting married part along with three children - two of whom I (forcefully) brush their hair and chose their clothes (I have had to admit defeat with the third) really let the 18 year old down. And I cannot give up on my fascination with love match, now taking it to new levels with couple love match dressing. But, based on my kids' reactions, I have a feeling that my 7 year old self would have been deliriously happy with the way things have so far turned out. So, instead of fixating on what my 18 year old self would have thought, I am returning to the 7 year old - who I think I would be great friends with if I met her today. She liked to read a lot, she made up really funny stories, she loved sausages and she had great fashion sense that I now chose to channel - as I put on my hot pink leg warmers, my Miffy tights and my red knitted jumper with white snowflakes (Christmas is coming). And she would have really, really loved to love match with her mum, dad, sister, brother and, most definitely, her dog. Bring it on. 

Blog post spoiler alert: If you are predicting a Christmas family love match blog post and accompanying photo shoot you may just be on the money. 

Releasing the inner artist one small fluffy white dog at a time

I have been attempting to draw lately. Which has been a little depressing as it has reinforced something I have long known about by myself. I have no talent. My first sentence should really be rewritten to, more accurately, state that I have been attempting to improve my scribbles lately. Here are two pictures. One is mine and one is from my five year old. The one at the top is way better, yes? It is not mine. 

Despite my incredibly obvious lack of ability, I am continuing to persevere because: it serves as a life lesson for my kids (if at first you don't succeed); it provides an excuse for me to continually avoid all housework; I can't afford any real art so have to make my own; and I dream to one day illustrate my own book. But I have to say that it is a little dispiriting attempting to draw here in Seoul: as if my own awareness of my limitations regarding artistic talent was not enough, I am attempting to conquer the coloured pencil in a city that just seems to be exploding and oozing prodigious talent. 

Art can be found on every corner here in Seoul, ranging from the usual pictures on paper to cleverly designed flower pots, green gardens, prettily designed corners, meticulously thought out shop fronts and stationery galore in an organised world. Even Daiso - the 1,000 won shop is a pleasure to be in with its ridiculous number of coloured plastic baskets (I challenge you to leave Daiso without purchasing another hot pink basket). Because art is everywhere, it got me thinking about a possible escape cause. Maybe I am being unfairly harsh on myself and I really do have artistic talent - I have just not expressed myself in the right medium to date. So, in an attempt to redeem some hope I decided to expand my artistic pursuits from the coloured pencil and embarked upon a week of art experimentation to find my inner artist.

First, I decided to design an iPhone case or some sort of stationary item. Koreans, in general, take immense pride in the little things. Like stationary, pencil cases and phone covers. The choices are endless here. Here is my attempt. I call it: "Taking your bag to the shops." No phone company liked it.

I moved onto the idea of designing the interior of a cafe. There are no shortage of artistically designed cafes, with carefully considered shop fronts, an abundance of greenery and just that little dash of cuteness, not kitchness, that Koreans do so very well to make their spaces so inviting. Examples. 

 

even the plumbing store looks artistic...

Having bought duvet covers for three girls and put up pictures in their rooms, feeling house proud of my personally designed pink striped cushions and having taken lessons in patterned dressing from adjumas (one should never be afraid to mix leopard with zebra) surely this was going to be my calling. No. It was not to be. Apparently, it is a good idea to own a cafe, or perhaps even work there, before you start rearranging its furniture and accentuating with your own soft furnishings and and cat paraphernalia (apparently every good cafe needs a cat statute. I hate cats).

So I moved on to the more overt: performance art. Over in Seongbuk-dong, I have occasionally walked past run some fancy looking young men who chose to stand still on a street corner for a while. It looks like a magazine shot from the 1920s. Surely I could do this. 

Turns out that I can't. Well, I did for around 5 minutes on a street corner down the road by the park. But it kind of got weird. For starters, standing still is really hard for me. As is keeping my face motionless. But when people started offering me money, food, drinks, pointed to a seat, motioned the policeman nearby and then the adjumas conferring in front of me decided to call an ambulance followed by the US Embassy I thought I had better stop. Maybe I should have aimed a little lower to begin with and joined in with these guys. 

Or these. They were singing. 

I thought about sculptures next. Seoul already has a lot of these (Seoul sculptures blog post) but, surely, you can always have some more. My three favourites so far are:

1. The big dog (I am partial to anything that is made out of recycled materials). 

2. The coloured cubes. 

3. And the man and dog walking out to greet the towers of Seoul.

This is what I came up with. 

I hung it up just down the road. But it got taken down by the local cardboard collector as I walked away.

Knitting was my next idea. I used to be totally into knitting when I was in primary school. We had a gang of knitters that would meet before school started and sing songs like "Kumbaya" as we knitted (these were my rebel years). I came across this in Jung-no recently.

But then I couldn't find any knitting needles. When I eventually located some I discovered that knitting without my Grade 5 gang just felt wrong (that, and I have actually forgotten how to do it). So I abandoned the idea.

Graffiti. Hello! Surely a winner. I grew up in an area where there was quite a bit of tagging (the writing of one's name or code name in a special script) -  as in you can't see the train carriage for all of the tagging - so surely this put me in an advantageous position for this particular art form. But, here in Seoul, even (or especially) the graffiti is beyond brilliant. 

My bear does not compare.

Just when I was beginning to lose all hope, I stumbled upon the "Annyeongdeulhashimnika?" poster art movement, started by a university student last winter (it has since died down). Annyeongdeulhashimnika translates as "How are you, guys?" (I think the literal translation from Korean to English is "Are you tranquil?") The posters  mostly handwritten, were put up at universities mostly but also around train and bus stations and recorded people's concerns, worries and un-happinesss.

I particularly loved the fact that people consciously considered their thoughts, put pen to paper and then stuck up their reflections in prominent positions for others to know what their worries were. Surely this has to be an astronomical cathartic experience. 

So with that in mind, here is my own poster.

I taped it to the green charity clothes bin just near our apartment yesterday. It had gone by the afternoon. I made another copy and took it up to school this morning. But the Principal caught me, said it was a bit strange and thought it best that I take it home again. Sigh. 

So where does all of this leave me? While it could be true that in this great city, art, in any form, would be best left in to the ones who live here and that I should just be happy with the fact that at least I get to experience it and, in some small way, feel connected to a world that is not my own, I feel that it would be remiss of me to not at least try to master some form of public expression. Korea has a lot of dogs that get carried around in handbags. I like dogs. I found a really friendly dog the other day when walking back home from a disappointing graffiti attempt. I think the dog's owner was inside yet another cute Seoul cafe and had, conveniently, left the dog outside. I may have found my creative muse in this dog. Either that or I just went crazy with the cans of spray paint I had in my handbag. The owner was speechless. I told him no thanks was required and went on my way, with a spring in my step:  graffiti dog artist extraordinaire. Who would have thought? 

I had friends but then I got in the car with them...

Recently, things were starting to look like I might have some sort of a social life. After a ridiculously long summer vacation dealing with three small children, school was back, the kids were finally gone, I had time to have a shower (uninterrupted no less) and I thought I was making some new friends. Apparently, when you don't smell and make time to wash and brush your hair, these things can happen. My new friends and I were buying coffees for each other, sharing a meal of salmon sashimi in a non-violent way (I usually struggle with any kind of food sharing, especially salmon sashimi sharing, so this is no mean feat), openly discussing our issues related to child rearing and husband training, comparing ridiculous leg hair length as Fall closed in and had even managed to do Costco together - something you should not do with just anyone as, not only does it result in showing others exactly what you feed your family for the next week or so (there goes the illusion that your family lives a completely organic, unprocessed, non-artificial flavours and colours, carbohydrate free and carbon neutral lifestyle) but it necessarily involves your friends witnessing your Costco rage that unfortunately but inevitably rears its head as you elbow off the adjumas for that last remaining beef tray). But something went horribly, horribly wrong. 

I have lost friends before. Although terribly sad and painful, the reasons have been mostly understandable: best friend chooses another best friend; love interest interrupts friendship and friend and her new "special friend" ride off in the sunset together; parents intervene and successfully ruin your friendship because they don't allow you to go to that uber-cool after party; or, you simply grow apart. But, when young, you can usually rebound from the loss and, relatively easily, make a new friend. I watch my kids seamlessly cement their friendships over monkey bar moves, cartwheels on the oval, swings on the playground and endless games of toilet tag (the latest craze my 8 year old plays - when tagged, you must squat down until someone comes along and "flushes" you. Then you are able to rejoin the game). 

When you are old(er) and have much, much less time on your hands (and maybe not as much talent on the monkey bars), making a friend becomes a little more challenging. You are forced to talk with children (often random ones) climbing all over you, without significant eye contact and with little to no ability to sustain one conversational topic for longer than two minutes. You assess not just each other but also each other's parenting styles and whether or not prospective friend gives her child another cookie before dinner becomes a matter of incredible significance.

My new friends and I had successfully made it through the playground tests and I had kept showering, with chemical free soap from Costco so I was confident things were looking good. In fact, on the day our friendship ended, we had also successfully shoe shopped together at the insanely epic market of shoes in Dongdaemun, buying love match shoes  no less (more on that story later). But, when we realised what the time was, things started to rapidly unwind. Here is what happened.

Having got slightly distracted by shoe shopping (to be expected when you are faced with shop after shop after shop of innumerable sparkly and neon numbers that my wardrobe desperately needed), an experience made even better because my friends could easily translate to the shoe shop sellers that I do not have a foot deformity and it is quite common in the land that I come from for ladies to have a shoe size greater than 7.5, all of a sudden, we realised that we were running rather late for school pick up. Really late. Like, There Is No Way You Can Get To School In Time To Pick Up Children late. I was driving.

I like to think I have mastered driving in Korea, on the wrong side of the road, in crazy traffic and where there are essentially only three road rules, never make eye contact with someone else driving, back off from buses and red stop lights are there as a guide only. Before coming to Seoul, I used to patiently wait until there were no cars on the road before pulling out (easy to do when you live in a city where there really are no cars), I would always stop at the traffic lights (sometimes even when they were green) and I would drive around and around the carpark of the department store until I found a space all by itself with no neighbouring cars (much less parking pressure that way). Now, after two years driving in Seoul, I am certainly more pushy on the road, I can change lanes in less than five minutes (although not yet with the speed of taxi drivers who   believe they have magical powers that make cars next to them disappear) and I can reverse park, with cars on either side of me, like a champion. And I have stopped: gripping the steering wheel so tightly that I lose all circulation in my hands; assuming the crash position when a bus approaches;  and closing my eyes when driving through tunnels.   

But my driving is, apparently, not as Koreanised as I thought it was. As I started the journey back to school my friends, the passengers in the car, were politely quiet for the first second then this question was posed:

Friend 1: "Is your horn broken?"

Me: "No."

Friend 1: "Then use it. You need to use your horn. Use your horn. Now!" 

(I had never thought of myself as particularly shy with the horn. I do like to use it occasionally to remind people that it is best for everyone, me especially, if they think about sticking to the road rules. But this was a new level of horn usage.)  

This exchange was followed with this advice:

Friend 2: "Drive in the bus lane." 

Then this:

Friend 2: "Don't stop for the policeman. He will get our of your way." (Which he did, same for the school children that we bypassed a little further on).

Friend 1 and Friend 2, in voices very much louder than usual: "Change lanes. Change lanes", two words that continue to haunt me today. For added emphasis, the backseat passenger window was wound down with Friend 2's arm outstretched, directing all cars behind, beside and in front to stop as I, slightly manically and definitely not completely in control, weaved (more accurately, swerved) in and out. 

Little more than five minutes into our 45 minute journey and my armpits were sweating. The radio was off for extra concentration.  One hand was on the horn, the other was on the wheel (no need for a spare hand to hit the indicator when Friend 2 has her arm out of the window). I was wishing I had access to a stack hat (Australian iconic helmet from the 80's) to put on and I was trying to ignore a sudden and desperate need for a bathroom. 

"Change lanes. Change lanes" continued the call, getting louder all the time. Meanwhile, Friend 2's child was calmly sitting in the car seat in the back watching tv. Obviously, this was a normal everyday driving occurrence for him. 

My friends stepped up the intensity. 

Friend 1: "Don't stop. Don't hesitate. Why are you hesitating. DRIVE. DRIVE. DRIVE."  

Me, beseechingly: "Bus in front." 

Friend 1 authoritatively: "It will move. Move bus. MOVE." (Bus moved).

Friend 2: "Just gun it. Faster. FASTER." (I keep sweating).

Friend 1 and 2, in unison and at a level that was beyond yelling: "Change lanes. CHANGE LANES! CHANGE LANES!"

Friend 2, the one demonstrating some issues with speed, paused her  helpful instructions to enquire, ever so politely, about the speed limit in my car (no, not on the road but in my car - as in what speed is your car capable of?). Friend 1, also perfectly courteously,  enquired about my insurance policy. Put these two questions together and the inference clearly is: Julie, you cannot drive. I sweated some more - my insurance policy is not applicable to third party drivers and I have never done more than 70 km/h in Seoul (actually pretty much anywhere). 

Trying not to cry, I kept driving, endeavouring valiantly to obey their instructions but, having not trained with Nascar or Monster Trucks  I was (am) clearly ill-equipped for driving in Seoul. But somehow, I did it, arriving at school in record time, just a few seconds after the bell had rung and, surprisingly, accident free. My knees were weak. My armpits were wet. My friends were laughing. They re-did their hair, straightened their tops, put their new shoes on and appeared like everything was normal. But I could see it in their eyes. They looked at me with pity. My driving skills were not up to scratch. I was weak behind the wheel. And I was (am) scared of them. Sigh. It's back to the playground for me. 

Stalking celebrities on metro line number 5

My eldest daughter has started K-Pop dance classes. I am not sure who is more into it - her or me. Ok, so it is probably me. Is it weird that I force her to teach her routines when she gets home from class or that I am trying desperately to get her into some sort of matching tracksuit number and wear shiny sneakers and an oversized baseball cap as we dance (no need for me to change outfits as I already have all of the necessary apparel on)? I admit to (desperately) wanting to be her because she can dance and she has years of potential stardom ahead of her (I am not being pushy but when your child steals the microphone from the MC at the school's fete last weekend and refuses to give it back until she has exhausted her repertoire of songs from Frozen there must be some sort of future on the stage for her?). But, unless I can recreate the magic used in the movie Freaky Friday (where Jamie Lee Curtis (mother) and Lindsay Lohan (daughter) switch places), I am sadly coming to the realisation that I am just me - much, much closer to 40 than 20, with a bad knee and no talent (a point made very clear by me being the only one of my friends not to make it into the high school production in Year 12). My dreams of K-Pop stardom (and that of Australian Idol also, if I am to be brutally honest with you) are perhaps over.

Lucky, then, for the maxim, if you can't sing, stalk. Because, what I have lacked in real talent, I have made up with successful celebrity stalking over the years.  

I have five rules for successful celebrity stalking. They are: 

1. Best to engage in this sort of behaviour while single because your fiancé will not share your excitement as you hysterically ring him at work in Australia while you are in London to tell him all about you meeting Pacey from Dawsons Creek (TV show from the late 90's). (Most certainly do not mention on that phone call just how devastated you are for not having the courage to ask Pacey out for a drink). 

Oh, Pacey...

(I managed to find Pacey after accidentally finding the stage door exit after completely inadvertently watching a play that he just happened to be starring in (with Star Trek Patrick Stewart).  I may, or may not have, fought off kids ten years younger than me, stole a pen from someone and a piece of paper from someone else and tussled with some very tenacious Trekkies to be rewarded by Pacey's autograph).   

2. Celebrity stalking when you are a teenager can be a little weird because you don't actually know what to do should your stalking be successful. Actually, this could probably be the case for all ages of celebrity stalking: always have a plan for what happens after.  I have vague recollections of stalking Todd from Neighbours (that iconic Australian TV show) on a bus in Vermont (outer eastern suburbs of Melbourne, just near where Neighbours is filmed). We spotted him on the street, followed him to the bus stop, jumped on the bus behind him and then we did not know what to do next. For that reason I did not join my friends in going to the hotel where New Kids On The Block were staying during their Melbourne tour, not because my parents grounded me. (And that is the reason why I never got to marry Donny Wahlburg). 

3. Children are usually more successful at stalking: I managed to get the autograph of John Farnham (an Australian singer who was huge in the 80's) three times when I was around 10. Watch his classic hit here - You're the Voice - and try to tell me that you don't want his autograph. (Now that I think about it how did I happen to be in the same place as John Farnham such a lot when I was in primary school? Mother?)

4. While children are generally more successful at stalking, carrying children around with you when older and stalking will be a hindrance and not a help. Here is a clip of a K-Pop group at a basketball game between Korea and New Zealand: K-POP at the basketball. I don't know who the crazy woman is that is screaming way too loudly in the video clip.  

Still shot of the K-Pop group just before they explode into action

And here I am after the basketball game, having successfully stalked a member of the group. 

I am happy!

Problem. Despite my beaming grin, I was at the game with my three kids. I had no idea where they were when this photo was taken (I did find them later) and it really wrecked my chances of getting to know this dude a little better. Being forced to chose between your offspring and your celebrity stalkee of the moment is a choice you should never be forced to make.

This brings me to the fifth and final rule. 

5. If you are serious about celebrity stalking, move to South Korea. It just seems so much easier here. For starters, the various goings on are reported in dedicated page(s) of daily newspapers. Popular movie and TV drama locations around the country are clearly signposted (in Korean  English and Chinese). There are the K-Pop tour buses and you can easily access the various management groups of the K-Pop stars in Gangnam to patiently wait for your star of the moment to visit. But the real bonus of celebrity stalking in South Korea is that the celebrities may just come to you. Meet Mr Sung. 

I met him on Metro Line number 5 the other day. Clutching his silver sparkling Ajoshi (Korean for older man) jacket under his arm, he told me how he is an older K-Pop star (and part-time model). 

I was not stalking him. 

Mr Sung seemed really happy. He drew my child a picture of a song bird flying out of a barred window (a metaphor for something perhaps) and then Mr Sung sang us a song as the train rolled home. We liked him. Maybe we should have been stalking him? Which got me thinking. Ignoring talent for a moment, age should be no barrier to pursuing my K-Pop dreams. Just because I may be a little older and not as nimble as the Crayon Pop chicks in helmets, I can still bring something to someone, including on a train (and, if you had seen me in the Noraebang (Korean karaoke) the other night,    surely you would also agree). So, watch out oldest child, I may just join (take over) your K-Pop class after all.