Don't Mess with Korea.

I've been thinking of a clever way to write this blog for an hour now. I am still squirming with indecision of how to describe the event, and can no longer let the details latch on to my brain. I must pull the suckers off one by one as I explain what it is like to travel from one country to another in a matter of minutes.

So I will simply begin where it all began.

It was a pleasant Saturday morning. Laurie and I awoke after a good night's sleep, and decided to get some breakfast. We walked just down my street to the Starbucks, where we each ordered a bagel with cream cheese and some coffee. We people watched. We talked about everything- boys, politics, friends, student loans, babies, life. It was a nice conversation. After which we decided to ditch the idea of going to the "retro olympics" and spend the dreary day watching Eat Pray Love. The girl at the ticket counter spoke excellent English. The attendant telling us which theater to go to spoke excellent English. After the American movie (which was great by the way, but the book is a gazillion times better), we wandered over to a shoe sale so Laurie could buy some boots. American sizes? Korean salesmen speaking English to us? Check and check.

By this time, the American sized bagels had digested, and we were in need of sustenance again. But where to go?

Me: "There's this place near my apartment that I've been wanting to try. From far away, the pictures look like kimchi pancakes."
Laurie: "OK, I'm game for anything. Let's go!"

We confidently walk into the restaurant not bothering with those advertising pictures outside. It was raining, after all. We see other Koreans at their tables eating. We glance at them, but are just focused on picking a table. We sit down toward the back, and wait to pick out something from a picture filled menu.



On second thought, "point" is more appropriate than "pick."

She brings us the typical side dishes. The soup, the bean sprouts, the garlic, the onions, the sesame leaves, the kimchi, and the delicious red sauce.

I can't recall what we were talking about before the event, but I'm sure it was something about the American movie or the American Starbucks or the typical American vodka cranberries we drank the night before at the American (ok, it's actually Canadian owned but close enough) bar we went to.

Then she brings them out in a bowl, covered in red sauce.



(Laurie, I don't think we're in America anymore.)

Laurie: "Oh...oh no...ummm...I don't eat seafood!"
Me: "Oh shit, really? What should we do?"
Laurie: "I don't know, I don't know."

As we are saying this, the waitress has turned on the burner and has now dumped the bowl's contents onto the hot skillet.

She walks away.

I briefly look down and think, man this is not fried calamari rings from Macaroni Grill. These are whole baby octopuses.

Laurie: "Oh my god,


..................................................................."

Me: "WHAT?! omg...omg....OMG."

I can't even express the sheer terror and shock on both of our faces. My chair immediately scraped across the floor to the back wall. Laurie's hands didn't know whether to keep hugging her face or pull herself out of the chair and out of the restaurant.

As we both sat there, with nervous tears joining our eyes to watch, tentacles kept moving. Some gently twisted in the air. Some squirmed into the sauce. Others died honorably, hardly moving.

I could barely watch, but was also becoming more afraid that the aprons the waitress gave us would be useful for flying sea creatures trying to escape.

Laurie: "What should we do?"
Me: "I don't know...but it looks like we need to stir it now."

Obviously, neither one of us were about to touch the spoon let alone touch anything near the table, lest we scare the octopuses with sudden movement causing them to leap out and latch their suckling tentacles onto our faces, our eye balls, into our ear canals, and up our nostrils.

The waitress came back, and, seeing we both were physically unable to do anything but shake uncontrollably from nervous laughter and tears, she stirred them.


(After they have boiled to death...notice the one strong arm still slightly moving in the front.)

The tentacles were now mostly in their final resting place. Luckily they were easily separated from their bodies after being cooked. I say this because the arms are at least close to being like calamari. Because, in case you forgot, we were at a restaurant. What do you do at a restaurant after your order comes out? You eat it.

Me: "Alright Rach, you can do this. You have to do this. It's just a typical Korean wrap. Start with the leaf, add some onion, sprouts, garlic, and red sauce. Alright, good job. Now you still have to do it. Yes yes you do. OK, stop being a baby and do it already! Alright, alright...just another piece of calamari type seafood. No big deal. It's no longer alive...hopefully."

I somehow ate these octopus wraps. One after the other. Always being careful not to grab ones with bodies still attached. Always careful to chew quickly and focus on the taste of garlic. Meanwhile, Laurie helped eat the side dishes, always cheering me on.

After being thrown out of our naive American state of mind by Korea's live octopus arms, we decided there was only one thing we could do to make ourselves feel better.



And that, my friends (and fellow Texans) is why you don't mess with Korea.