What happens when you are arrested by the Tourist Police

It seems I have become a little complacent of late. You know how it is, when there no longer seems anything new or exciting to discover and the daily routine takes over to the point where you get annoyed if there are any distractions along the way. Like how dare it be high yellow dust day on designated sheet washing day. These kinds of crises have lately become my focus and I was beginning to forget to be amazed, interested  intrigued and bemused by what I come across. This was until the Tourist Police arrested me. 

Here they are. Note that their rather spiffy uniform was designed by the stylist of Psy (Gangnam Style fame). 

They drive around in specially marked mini-vans. 

They exist (since 2013 that is) to further improve tourist satisfaction in South Korea, with their mission being to maintain law and order as well as "cracking down on overcharging merchants and taxi drivers." And, through their extraordinary ESP abilities and their cool confidence stemming from their slightly futuristic uniforms, they will also arrest you if they sense your excitement levels about Seoul and your exploration efforts in Seoul are beginning to wane. 

This is the gist of the conversation I had with them a few weeks back as they politely escorted me out of Starbucks. 

Tourist police to me: 

"Congratulations on: 

• Having eaten live octopus; 
• Starting love match dressing;
• Experiencing the humiliation of clothes shopping in Korea for a westerner (arms defiantly and authoritatively crossed by sales staff indicating their refusal to even let you try on their impossibly small sizes) along with make up shopping (is it really necessary for you to continuously tell me that my face is too dry, to continuously question why it is I don't take proper care of my skin, nails, hair etc. and then energetically sell me  product after product while gleefully stuffing enough samples into my bag to last a year);  
• Now owning several pairs of TOMS shoes; and 
• Cutting your hair into bangs (the latter two being my feeble attempt to assimilate (an easier option than learning the language))

But you have not done enough to warrant this confidence of having conquered the country." 

Me to Tourist Police, (perhaps a little too smugly):

"But I have travelled on every Seoul subway line and embraced crowded pubic transport along the way. I spend my weekends hiking up Mt Bugaksan in fluorescent pants, carrying a walking stick and a picnic mat. I can make my way around the maze of Namdaemun market and can fight off adjumas in the meat section of Costco. I now know how to pickle daikon and am (albeit rather slowly) eating my way through a container of kim-chi. I use traffic lights as a guide only and I also hand out lollipops to random children and comment on how cute they look. What could possibly be left?"

Ever so politely, the Tourist Police shook their heads in shame at my attitude. Somehow, through their glamorous uniforms and their dark sunglasses, they knew all too well that I had been actively avoiding some truly authentic Korean experiences (for reasons that shall soon become apparent). 

Tourist Police to me: 

"You cannot claim to have truly experienced South Korea until you have exposed yourself" quite literally as it turns out "to a foot massage, a noraebang (karaoke bars) and Korean saunas."


While, personally,  I think the Tourist Police could perhaps be more useful in rectifying, or at least explaining, some of the more bizarre things that I find on the streets, like at this toy shop, 

or this children's television show, 

because the Tourist Police were now demanding it of me (and possibly because it also provides me with some more material for this nonsensical blog), I  found myself in no position to refuse. So, somewhat under duress, here follows my account of partaking in three quintessentially Korean activities. 

Foot massage

There was an Amazing Race episode a few seasons back where contestants were made to sit through around 10 minutes of a foot massage without uttering a word. There were a lot of tears in that scene, coupled with rather intense hand gripping and towel squeezing as contestants bravely battled through. Oh come on, I remember thinking. It is not labour. How painful can a foot massage really be?

I wasn't anticipating any pain when I went in to my "local" (foot shops are on every corner) foot doctor shop, accompanied by two visiting friends, for a forty minute foot "rub." After changing into the requisite foot doctor uniform - a burnt orange short and t-shirt combination, three ladies emerged from behind a red velvet curtain and seemed to size us up before choosing their respective client (victim). They escorted us back behind the curtain to a room with three lounge like chairs where we sat, trying not to be alarmed by the repeated slaps we could hear from the room next door, as the ladies picked their weapons of choice. The fair, blond woman of our group was clearly in favour as she was massaged just with hand. The man of our group was not so well treated, being  massaged with a wooden triangle. Clearly, I was giving off an altogether different vibe - something along the lines of "wound me now" - because my masseuse, with ridiculously big orange hair and a piercingly intense stare, chose to wield a wooden triangle with the added bonus of a metal screw that sharply stuck out of it. 

My two friends, rather blissfully, closed their eyes and lay back relaxed and contented, a pose that they appeared to keep during the entire process. I, on the other hand, desperately struggled against the urge to squirm (and, at some points, to flee). The masseuse scarily worked on my feet while, very unnervingly, watched me the whole time, like she was silently demanding that I cry for her to stop. I came oh so very close. It hurt. A lot. There were moments of such intense pain that I felt I would never be able to stand on my feet ever again and I spent most of the time internally cursing my decision to not have a simple pedicure. I do have to say though that, two days later, when a really big bruise appeared on my thigh (at the end of the massage I got some extra attention on the upper leg - weird and I felt a little unwarranted), I actually felt rather good: my shoulders and neck seemed to have loosened considerably and the constant tension headache that follows me around these days (especially when my children talk) had lessened somewhat. I may try it again. 

Noraebang

Noraebang is the South Korean version of karaoke. But it comes with private rooms, tambourines, light displays and a song list that goes on and on and on. It is incredibly popular here and there are no shortages of places to indulge in your inner Mariah Carey. 

This was an entirely different experience to the foot scrub.  So much so, that I feel I must warn everyone - it would be best for  world peace that no-one ever come to a Noraebang with me. If you were thinking about inviting me to "Noraebang" with you: please don't. For your sake. Because it won't be pretty. 

It is not just that I can't sing (although points to husband who said I was better than he was expecting/dreading) but it is the combination of little singing ability mixed with an aggressive, over-bearing, determination to not give the microphone up. I would rather you take my firstborn child, in fact I would gladly hand her over, if it meant I could keep that microphone and the songs coming. That microphone must be in my possession at all times and I will make you listen to me sing, for example, Lionel Ritchie "Hello", Brittany Spears "One more time", ABBA "I have a dream", Bruno Mars "Just the Way  You Are."  There is no genre I won't go. There is no song I won't attempt. In fact, I plan on going alone and methodically working my way through the 100 or so pages of songs that are possible to sing. And then I will go again. And what about my rather energetic dance moves and enthusiastic tambourine slapping that accompany my performance?  All I can say is that it is lucky for everyone that another group was patiently waiting for Hotel Serok Seorana's private noraebang room number four (out of five) last Friday night at 8.15pm when our time limit expired. Because, if they weren't, things could have got ugly over the rights to that microphone. Yes, I will return. 

Korean sauna

A Korean sauna (not to be confused with a jimjilbang which is a clothed co-ed sauna experience) is the one Korean experience that I was never going to attempt. Like never. It involves public nudity and a lot of scrubbing - nude public scrubbing is not something I felt I ever needed to participate in. Mostly because nakedness has never been a favourite activity of mine (a fact which made childbirth difficult as, at first, I tried to do it with clothes on. Of course, this ended up changing as labour dragged on (I guess it had to) but still now, three children later, I am not ok with public nudity.) But, as the Tourist Police were insisting, I begrudgingly entered a Korean sauna with two friends, both of whom were freakily excited about the prospect of getting their kit off. 

These were my thoughts as I was taking off my clothes:

• Why don't I do sit ups every night?
• Why do I like bread so much?
• Would fat free in my daily coffee really make a difference?
• If I suck in my stomach and walk like I have heels on will my friends take less notice of my wobbly bits?
• I must remember to get milk on the way home.  

My friends seemed to have none of these thoughts (even the milk one) as they confidently ripped off their apparel, strode past the mirrored wall and down the stairs (with its mirrored ceilings) and, with conviction, entered the sauna. I sheepishly followed behind, feeling rather uncomfortable as I paused for a drink of water - naked. 

Upon entering the room of spas I tried to quickly take shelter in a deep, dark bath. Except it was too hot to stay in there for long. Eventually (sadly, sooner than expected) I was forced to get out and face up to the fact that, like everyone else around me, I was walking around a room full of spas and showers with other naked women all of whom had no clothes on. But, somewhat surprisingly to me and my anti-nude stance on life, after a little bit of time had passed, the scenario I was facing started to be ok and my mind began to move on from does my bum look big in this (i.e. my skin) to what shall I cook for dinner tomorrow night. I guess this is what happens when everyone around you is also nude and they appear perfectly nonchalant about it. 

Just as I was beginning to come to terms with my nudity  (comfortable may be too strong a word here and enjoyable would not be right either), I was shepherded me over to the corner of the room where three scantily clad and robustly built ladies stood waiting next to three beds covered in plastic wrap Their smiles were disarming. Before I knew what was going on, one lady had firmly forced me onto the plastic, covered me in at least a litre of milk mixed with baby oil and then commenced, with a vigour and zeal that belied her age, to scrub all the skin off my body - front and back. As the tempo changed from less of a scrub and more of a slap (apparently this increases circulation and promotes the renewal of the skin that is being removed) strawberry yoghurt was rubbed into my face followed by the skin of several cucumbers. I was then wrapped in what could have passed as an onion bag and made to lie there while the scrubbing continued. Seriously, the scrubbing, coupled with  intermittent slapping, goes on for a while but if the amount of dead flakes of skin are the indication of a successful scrub then clearly I (or she) was a winner: deftly sliding me from my front to my back on the plastic wrap (without letting me slide off the edge, as, by now, my body resembled in texture that of a very slimy slug), the scrubber proudly highlighted the flakes of dead skin surrounding me and patiently waited for my excited reaction and gratitude to flow forth (a smile was all I could manage at this point however. A naked jump for joy would have been going too far). 

Finally, the indignity was over and I escaped back to the way too warm, but calming and camouflaging, waters of the spa bath where I breathed a deep sigh of inconspicuousness (if such a sigh is possible). And I thought that maybe this was not as bad as I had imagined.  Maybe the Tourist Police were right to force me out of Starbucks and into this new world of foot scrubbing, singing and nudity. While I'm not currently planning a foot scrubbing nude noraebang visit, I can certainly see the benefits of each activity on its own. 

So yes, my temporary state of complacency in South Korea has been swept aside. Next on the list? I am enrolling in Taekwondo, a Korean martial art, and K-Pop dance classes. On Tourist Police orders I swear.