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The Vomit Diaries

If you've never seen me vomit, you either A.) are not my real friend or B.) had better look out because it will happen soon.

What follows are merely a few examples of my vomit experiences. And no, this blog post is not unsolicited. Believe it or not, someone asked for this—multiple someones on multiple occasions, in fact. If you've got it, flaunt it. And I've got vomit problems, apparently. So look out, everyone.

Let's begin with the flight from Chicago to Seoul in August of 2013. Nothing quite takes the thrill out of adventure like incapacitating, turbulence-induced nausea. Nothing quite triggers vomit impulses like one's very first smell of Korean octopus. And nothing quite effectively blocks one's path to the bathroom like a food cart serving said octopus. High five to the water cup I was holding that volunteered as tribute and was just large enough to neatly contain all of the vomit. And a bigger high five to the Korean man sitting next to me on the plane who didn't even throw up once, but merely gagged and mentally noted never again to sit next to an American girl on an airplane (and also didn't eat his octopus). 

I later realized that this had been important training for me. I quickly learned the art of being resourceful when it came to vomit receptacles. 

During my brief stint in Taiwan this past May, I consumed just enough glistening food products to raise my gastrointestinal confidence to unprecedented heights. Whether slicked with syrupy glucose or slippery meat textures, the food in Taipei truly shines. Having passed two full vomit-free days in this dietary state, I boarded a hot, crowded train without a care in the world. "Nothing can do anything to me!!!!!" was my completely unwarranted mindset. 

It was only 20 minutes into the journey that I discovered I did indeed have a care—and that a thing could indeed do something to me, that thing being a sudden, warm lurching in my stomach. I began to wonder if the rising heat inside me would reach my face before the vomit would reach my mouth. The race was on! 

Unfortunately, all the train seats had been filled, so I was standing on the swaying train. Fortunately, I was standing by the bathroom. Unfortunately, another woman was in the bathroom at this particular moment and had decided that it would be a great time to set the world record for longest time spent on a tiny train toilet. Fortunately, I had the good sense to buy a cup of coffee (buying a cup of coffee is always good sense), and therefore had a contingency plan in place for vomit receipt. 

I began counting in my head, having decided that if the woman did not exit my Plan A for Vomit Receipt within thirty seconds, I would yank the door open. The good news is, I didn't even need to get to thirty, as the vomit beat me there. Three cheers for coffee cups as vomit receipt contingency plans. Though I must say, holding a warm cup of vomit for an hour on a train isn't the most fun game I've ever played. 

The best part about my gastrointestinal struggles in Thailand this past August was that finding vomit receptacles was never even on my radar. I just threw up all over God's green earth whenever the need arose. When the tropical gut bug takes hold, you lose any semblance of control over your stomach's impulsive actions. The vomit diary entry for my time in Thailand would look something like this: 

"Dear Vomit Diary, Today I threw up literally whenever and wherever I felt like it, with no warning whatsoever. On an unrelated note, I think I've yet to eat fully cooked chicken in this country. Also the milk here is delicious." 

Far and away, I have thrown up more in Korea than in any other country. I blame the mountains and the octopuses. I haven't the time, nor the energy, nor the fortitude of stomach (I know my limitations) to list all the incidents here. But one vomit session in particular—indeed, my pride and joy—go cannot go untold. 

Needless to say, bus routes that wind through the mountains are the bane of my existence. But it takes a truly special convergence of circumstances to create this brilliant disaster. First, a sweltering heat. Secondly, particularly sharps curves in the road. Thirdly, a remarkably violent driver, who either had one too many bad days in a row or felt like playing games with an American girl's vertigo. Fourthly, an utter lack of vomit receptacles (SURELY, I am not the only person who is regularly aware of and concerned with vomit receptacles?). 

The good news is, the bus windows were open. The better news is, I am awesome at physics. By which I mean, I knew that since I was sitting on the left side of the bus, I needed to wait until the bus swerved right before I hurled out the window. Which I did. I can proudly say that not a flick of vomit touched the side of the bus. Ok, actually I'm not sure about that, because I deliberately did not look at the bus afterwards. But yeah I'm clearly good at physics. 

Oh, even better news. The bus swerved often, giving me multiple occasions to stick my head out the window and throw up. This is a true story, and I hope it improves everyone's opinion of me. It ought. 

And my return to America? Did this mean a return to stomach stability? Well, the 14-hour flight from Doha to Chicago was a fun-filled venture of me scuttling back and forth between my seat and the bathroom and concluded with a dramatic arrival in the USA, consisting of sprinting to the airport facilities to vomit even more—my first activity on American soil. So, you tell me. 

Southeast Asian Adventures

One week before leaving Korea, we decided weren't going to be flying enough, so we made a last-minute trip to Thailand and Cambodia. In the span of one month, we traveled 17,240 miles (70% of the way around the world) via 7 airports (Seoul, Bangkok, Krabi, Phnom Pehn, Siem Reap, Shanghai, Doha, and Chicago). And yes, I took the time to calculate it. What else was I supposed to do when I needed to procrastinate on packing and writing final lesson plans? 

The first stop was Bangkok. We spent scarcely 24 hours there, but it was cool, and mostly looked like this:

Well, that plus a bunch of tourists and reptiles and amazing street food. 

From Bangkok we headed to the real deal: Krabi. 

The presence of wifi in our bungalow nearly discredited its identity as a "bungalow," but the large monitor lizard that waddled past us on the abandoned jungle trail reinstated some of its validity. Upon arrival, the bungalow's owners offered us a neon green beverage that probably glowed in the dark. I'm not sure what it was, but my only realistic guess, of course, was lizard pee. It was delicious.

Weirdness aside (or perhaps because of the weirdness), Krabi, Thailand is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been and possibly will ever go. I won't be silly enough to describe it with words, so....... 

The beauty could be trumped by nothing, even the tropical gut bug that violated my body the second day (WAS that chicken cooked?!?). After about an hour of wallowing in self-pity, I realized that there were worse places in which I could suffer an illness than paradaisiacal beaches. So I shut up, found a good spot to sit, and took it all in (except food.... my body didn't take any of that in very well).

That night, as I lay in the jungle bungalow, I repeatedly chanted to myself, "If I make it a whole night without puking, that means I can handle sea kayaking tomorrow." Surely no good thing has ever begun with such a sentence, but little did I care. Early the next morning, having passed a sufficient number of vomit-free hours, I found myself stepping into a kayak at the edge of Phangnga Bay.

I need to make known a few things that will hopefully elicit some sympathy from the audience: 1. I cannot swim at all. 2. I spent my entire pre-Korean life landlocked. 3. I was not wearing a life jacket on this particular morning.

So, with the absence of a buoyant device, swimming abilities, and any other human beings, we embarked. The splendor of the cliffs and the spirit of adventure drowned out any paranoia I may otherwise have had, but it wasn't long until I notice holes in the bottom of the boat. Any experienced kayaker — or even any reasonable human being — would probably have been aware of the concept of scupper plugs, but I was not. My mini sea voyage ended in a flurry of flailing and paddling and more hysteria than I'd care to admit. Give me mountains, give me forests, give me reptiles, give me terrestrial danger, but do not ever give me waves or holey boats or any other aquatic nightmares.

To redeem myself and assuage my bruised ego, I climbed a cliff and even pretended not to care about the precipitous edge.

The next morning, we took a long-tail boat to Krabi City, a songthaew to the Krabi airport, and then a tiny airplane plastered with Taylor Swift's face to Siem Reap, Cambodia.

For reference:

Long-tail boat

Riding in a songthaew

Taylor Swift airplane

(I didn't take a good photo of the songthaew, so just imagine a pick-up truck with some benches thrown in the back.)

As we walked out of the Siem Reap airport into the humid darkness, we were met by an all-too-eager tuk-tuk driver, thus marking the beginning of an endless stream of solicitations from the locals. More on that later.

Our first night in Cambodia involved "Asia's best Mexican food" (I was desperate, ok?), lots of lizards, $1 draft beers, and Nickelback emanating through the streets.

Proof that it WAS the best Mexican food

The weirdness didn't stop when we went templing the next three days:

Awesome, right?

But despite the incredible temples (some dating back as early as the 9th century), the exotic jungles, and the fact that Siem Reap has "Asia's best Mexican food," the thing that fascinated me the most was the Khmer people and their history.

A detailed Cambodian history was missing from my education (and, I am pretty sure, from most Western people's educations). So I knew little of Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge before researching it prior to our trip. I won't launch into a full explanation here, but I fully urge everyone to investigate it themselves. 

After the nightmare that was the 1970s in Cambodia, (approximately 25% of the population of Cambodia were slaughtered under the Khmer Rouge regime), the people have been slowly re-building and recovering. A five-day glimpse of this was enough to be utterly amazed. 

Poverty is widespread of course. Tourism has become a rapidly growing economic sector the past few years, hence the constant solitications referred to above. The money pumped into the country by Western tourists is so valuable to them they even use USD as their primary currency. 

One day, eager to see the Khmer people outside of the tourist setting, we rented a pair of rickety bikes and set out to the countryside. There we saw the people's homes and subsistence farms. It was also some of the loveliest scenery I've seen: 

The closest we could come, as naive outsiders, to understanding this brutal piece of history was to visit one of the killing fields and one of the prisons, both of which were prominent locations of the Cambodian genocide. I did not take photos, for obvious reasons, but the skulls, scraps of children's clothes, mass graves (pits in the ground in which they threw the bodies, dead or alive), tiny prison cells in what used to be an elementary school, and hundreds of photos of victims, were enough to make any heart heavy and stomach unsettled. 

Those five days spent in Cambodia were unique. The locals were some of the friendliest, cheeriest people I have ever met, despite their heavy past. As cliche as it may be, it was humbling and inspiring. I would love to return one day.

Also, it is the only Asian country I have travelled to but not thrown up in. I'm clearly not finished there. 

Home to orifice tourists; sustenance to the rest

Rice patties. They surround our apartment, line my running trails, and haunt my dreams. The standing water attracts those horrifying, humming clouds of mosquitoes, whom our friend Graham has rightfully dubbed "orifice tourists."

But most importantly, rice patties are the life force of Korean agriculture. 

Also, they are beautiful.

The latter I have believed since first moving to Korea. The former I did not fully appreciate until earlier this spring when the planting began.  

I have been surrounded by agriculture, specifically corn, the majority of my life. Combines raking through endless rows of golden stalks are a far more familiar sight to me than mountains, beaches, cities, the sea—just about anything I see here, in fact. 

Rice planting is much different, but no less intriguing. 

I'd like to understand the biology behind this. But for now, just gazing at the seemingly floating gardens atop still water is enough for me. Certainly enough for me to stop during my run every once in a while and appreciate both the aesthetics of the fields and the work ethic of the farmers and their manual tools. 

Dad took the above photos of the planting process when he was here in May. Earlier this week, I took a few updated shots of the fields: 

Beautiful.

Bungee jumping: A study in (my hatred of) gravity

A few weeks ago, I formulated the brilliant plan to go bungee jumping.

Yesterday, we set out for the town of Inje with a couple friends to bring this plan to fruition.

At the top of the 65-meter platform, I began to hate my former self. First of all, the sign lied. It was 6500000000 meters high in actuality. Second of all, I peered down to find not water, as I had anticipated, but JAGGED BOULDERS.

But somehow, I jumped.

The word "jumped" may mislead one to believe I simply leaped without hesitation. My jump was a bit more like this:

Bungee jump employee guy: "Ok, go."

Me: "Out there?"

BJEG: "Yes."

Me: "NO."

BJEG: "Ok, ready? 3.... 2......"

Me: "NOPE. NO."

BJEG: "Ok, now ready? 3.... 2..... 1......"

Me: "NO NO NO NO NO"

Then after the last "no," (or perhaps while saying "no"), I somehow found myself stepping off the edge, plummeting at full speed towards the earth, screaming my lungs out, and flailing my limbs in such a manner as to destroy any previous association of "bungee jumping" with "hardcore." 

Oh, and P.S. If you ever go bungee jumping, please note: After you bounce back up, you free fall AGAIN. And also again, and again, and again. I was an English major, so these kinds of scientific principles do not exist in my brain until I fully experience them with my body. I also came to understand gravity better after this experience. Such as the fact that it sucks you in a downward fashion with rapidity. 

My jump

Trevor's jump

After the jump, I became a bit pensive. Perhaps because I had believed I would die (ha!...but really), and a "near-death" experience often provokes contemplative thoughts, yes? 

One year ago, I would not have bungee jumped. To willingly free fall the length of a 20-story building was never quite my cup of tea. 

A large part of this, I believe, is that I've always been a bit of a control freak (don't laugh, siblings). In school, I studied like a maniac so I could feel in control of my classes and my grades. I didn't like any spontaneity because that meant I could not visualize a situation ahead of time. The unknown instilled more fear in me than anything, even bungee jumping. 

Do you know what is the opposite of control-freaking? Trusting. Moving to Korea, not knowing where you will live or what life will be like. Moving back to America, again not quite knowing what life will be like. Leaping off a 6500000000000000-meter platform and free falling all 650000000000000 meters. I have held zero control over any of these things. 

This is what my time in Korea has taught me. To choose trusting over control-freaking. I still try to control too much. But I DID bungee jump yesterday. And I call that progress.

And if I can trust a little bungee cord, I'm pretty sure I can trust my Savior.

Saylor reunion, Korean style

A couple weeks ago, my loving parents came to Korea, and nothing stopped them. Not mysterious white powder swirling in the cabin of their plane, not a flight cancellation due to a box of Kleenex jamming itself in the air ventilation system, producing said white powder, and not even the prospect of the six remaining Saylor kids left to their own devices in Ohio.

So, with their younger children "safely" at home, roof-climbing, fire-setting, and mud-rolling, Mike and Laura set off in pursuit of their older but no more mature daughter, Yours Truly, and embarked upon a series of adventures on this side of the planet. 

The trip nearly lost footing on the very first day, when Dad's foray into genuine Korean cuisine was less impressive than one might of expect of a man having eaten monkey and goat in Africa, but regained balance in the air conditioned comfort of a Mr. Pizza. 

To capture their week in Korea in a mere blog post is far beyond my abilities, so let us focus on these important points:

1. Dad befriends everyone.

There was the owner of Bob Dylan's bar, whom all Sokchoites have come to know and love. Despite the language barrier, Dad did his best to convey his enthusiasm for the impressive record collection. And the kind man played the record dad had been eyeing. Coincidence? 

Then there was this thing:  

And this thing:

Oh, and let's not forget the students! The day after Mom and Dad visited school and sat in on classes (and Mom crushed all my fifth graders in a class game, earning her very own sticker), I was greeted with shouts of "Mike-and-Laura! Where is Mike-and-Laura!" 

2. I beat Mom at bananagrams. I beat her. This does bear including in the list of most important points from their visit to Korea. Do any of you understand how rare this is? I beat her. 

3. Hiking! That is a whole point in itself because it's late and I'm tired and opted to write this at 2 am after a Friday night out with friends instead of at 7 pm after a normal workday. Also, because hiking in Korea is beautiful, and the Saylor family is one of hikers. The two people who taught me to hit the trails returned to them with me, and that was a wonderful thing. Also, mom still shushes me to listen for wildlife, exactly like when I was little, so it's nice to see that some things don't change. :) 

Taiwan: Enshrined meat, bamboo shoots, and a long-lost friend

My spontaneity, to use the word liberally, normally takes the form of "I chopped too many vegetables so now I'm making a frittata instead of an omelet." A couple weeks ago, however, it stepped up its game a bit and resulted in my hopping on a plane to Taiwan. The home of a dear friend and a mere two-hour flight from Korea, this visit was long overdue.

I met Serina Chao in the great state of Ohio during our early high school days. I was a 15-year-old midwestern girl who had once traveled as far as South Dakota. She was a 15-year-old Taiwanese girl whose eagerness to experience the rural American midwest led her to uproot her life and spend a year immersed its cornfields. With her presence, Convoy's Asian community increased approximately 100% percent, and my happiness 1000%. Our friendship was immediate, phenomenally easy, and long-lasting. To visit her eight years later in her own home on the other side of the world was one of the most wonderful things I have experienced.

The trip was a whirlwind. An intrepid tour guide, Serina led me to countless sights in and around the city of Taipei.

View of Taipei from a mountain bordering the city

Temple on the mountain

Jiufen Village

A quiet park in Taipei

Lanterns in a temple

Memorial for Chiang Kai-shek, my favorite place in Taipei

Awesome cat on a scooter

Ok, enough sightseeing. Let's address the crown jewel of Taiwan. The créme de la créme. The heralder of stinky tofu, sugar glazed strawberries, and glistening meat products. 

The food. 

A delicious, glistening meat product, replete with bamboo shoots

I will over-simplistically call this "mango ice cream." It deserves a better name.

I evaded stinky tofu in China. No such success in Taiwan.

Adorable Serina and the most delicious cake ever created

A proper Taiwanese meal and a random smiley dude we don't know

Some food did glisten in a good way — the glucose way 

Latte + Tea = Lattea

Little dumpling guy

More glistening meat!

Beef and noodles — I recognize these

Serina's wonderful family

11th meal or so of the day. My stomach is less delighted than my face. My taste buds are more.

Chinese pancake

__________________________________________

This joyful reunion of friends. This flurry of exploration. This gluttonous gorging on delicacies. All fall short of
the Meat-shaped Stone.

Serina and I were meandering through the halls of the National Palace, a reasonable enough tourist activity, when suddenly she remarked with alarming nonchalance that we must NOT forget to see the stone that looks like meat.

My reaction was less nonchalant. Excuse me? Why is there a stone shaped like meat? Why is it in the National Palace? What relation has it to ancient Chinese dynasties and their oriental tea sets? Also, does meat have a particular shape to which an item can recognizably conform?

Serina, a true friend, responded by laughing and dragging me into a mile-long line, filled with Chinese people who, she informed me, "want the meat-shaped stone."

"They want the rock that looks like meat?"

"Yes. It is special."

So, I waited, surrounded by tourists who seemed to think standing in an endlessly snaking line to see a rock that looks like meat was the most normal and obvious behavior for any reasonable human being.

When we finally entered the meat-rock's exhibit hall — it certainly had its own exhibit hall — a wave of awe swept over me, and the hallowed silence rung in my ears. There it was, enshrined in its glass case, in the very center of the room. The rock. It looked like...meat. And that was that.

Is there a back story? No. Not more than a guy who thought the stone's natural strata looked a great deal like pork cooked in soy sauce and therefore decided to manipulate it to reach its lofty lookalike potential (as all people who see a stone whose natural strata looks like pork cooked in soy sauce decide to do).

But when I looked at this Meat-shaped Stone with my naked eye, I understood. I understood in a way that I cannot explain here. I understand in a way that you will understand only if you make this pilgrimage for yourself, if you yourself bear witness to this glorious intersection of the natural and the man-created.

I now present to you an internet-procured photo of the Meat-shaped Stone, as countless enamored tourists pressed themselves to the glass case, prohibiting the view from my camera lens.

Tune in next time to hear all about its neighbor, the Jadeite Cabbage, which is exactly what you think it is.

P.S. Typically a devout hater of tourist trinkets in gift shops, I was brought to my knees by this display and purchased my own miniature version, which I shall cherish always. I dare each and every one of you to stand in its presence and not do the same.