I'm sitting at the gate at Incheon, waiting for my next
flight, and taking advantage of a power station with 110 volts and simultaneously charging up and winding down for the long flight home through Vancouver. They've been working
on re-issuing my boarding passes for some time now—I got them yesterday in
Hanoi—and I don't know what's up. I'll start getting nervous soon.
We arrived on separate flights around 5 am this morning from
Hanoi, and had agreed to meet at the Transit Hotel to see if we could check in
early (not!). It's on the fourth floor,
and is part of the “relax and enjoy” theme of the airport. There are
leather-look lounge chairs and flat couch-like surfaces where you can sleep stretched out, straight back and tub chairs with tables, curved chairs, battery-charging
stations, free showers, a manicure and pedicure salon, a massage service,
computer stations and free wi-fi, a book shop where used books can be borrowed
in exchange for your boarding pass, a big screen TV, and likely more that I missed. Where to start—she
could be anywhere! Everywhere there are bodies, cuddled alone or together,
under coats and blankets (for rent), ear buds hanging from iPods, luggage and
back packs piled high. I nose my way around the loungers, searching for a
familiar face. Not her...nope, that's not her either. I check out the coffee
bar, the only thing open at 6 am, but
she's not there either. I tip-toe my way around the TV area, complete with
home-theatre style chairs but nothing's playing and none of those bundles of
anonymity look like her. Hmm...maybe she didn't find the hotel. Maybe she
didn't get in on time. Maybe...she's waiting for me downstairs.
The info desk is very helpful. Her flight arrived before
mine, but at the opposite end of the terminal. As I explain that we are to meet
at the Transit Hotel, she tells me there are two: one at each end. OMG. What if
we can't get from one to the other. Fears unfounded. I start to walk the long
seemingly-endless line of closed duty-free, designer, and packaged goods shops. Travelers are scarce at this hour so if she's here I should be able to see
her. Margaret, of course, has patiently (or otherwise) waited for me at the
Transit Hotel at her end of the terminal, until someone told her about my end
of the terminal. Found. She approaches me, coffee in hand, a little sour at the
confusion, and the loss of quality sleep time.
Okay. Back to the hotel, where no, we cannot check in early
unless we pay double, and yes, after a forlorn look from us, we can leave our
carry-on there until our check-in time at 10 am. Breakfast next. We ask
directions for food, and are sent to the same food court we visited on the way
to Vietnam. No thanks. I ended up sick the first two days so we aren't going up
there. There has to be a restaurant somewhere. After a walk worthy of a morning
in Santa Cruz with Annie the hound, we give up on a western-style sit-down breakfast and settle for two mango shakes
and a banana at Starbucks, who BTW, don't serve green tea here in Seoul (huh!).
Shopping is next. Margaret has needed washing fluid for her
contact lenses for two days (she lost her glasses a couple of days ago in Siem
Reap), some cough lozenges, and a clean shirt to wear home; I need a book. We
have Fendi, Chanel, Mui Mui, LV, Coach, Burberry (Margaret tries on a 470 USD
shirt), Nike, Swiss Army—all the usual shops—but where is Hudson News when you
need it? Curiously, the English spoken here is barely understandable, despite
best efforts. What are all those Canadian English teachers doing here if not
teaching English (okay that sounds arrogant, but I obviously had high
expectations for a big-city Korean airport). We give up, check into our hotel
at 10 am, plug in all our electronics, shower, and crash until it's time to
check out and get to our gates. We agree to square up financially later,
congratulate ourselves on an “interesting” trip, say our final fairwells, hug,
and go our separate ways.
I head for the Concourse, a short train ride away, but as I
approach the escalator down to train level, preparing one more time to show my
boarding pass, the strains of classical strings reach my ears. Against a background of name-brand
commercialism and hundreds of travelers pushing, lugging and dragging spinners and bags, I look
up from my purse to see a young Korean woman playing at a grand piano. In all
there are four young women: the pianist, and a violinist, a cellist, and percussionist
on what I think is a dulcimer. Children sit on molded plastic seats,
their attention fully on the musicians. All around, heads sway like sheaves of
wheat in the wind. Toes tap. iPhones,
iPads and cameras go shlick-shlack. I take my place in the crowd, and relish this brief
but profound moment when music binds strangers in a collective artistic
experience. I'm in an airport. This shouldn't be happening but it is, and I am
happy for it.
 |
| Interlude at Incheon Airport, Seoul |
Down two escalators, a race to get to the train before the
doors close, out and up, and I'm in the Concourse. The Concourse is like the
infant child of the main terminal; everything's there but it's smaller and less
developed. There's the Korean cultural experience, the food court, the shops
(still no Hudson News) and the Starbucks. My gate is well within site, so I
have time for something to eat. I am tentative about the “international” food
court: Korean, Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, and hot dogs (North American?). On closer look I realize these are not your average
summer festival hot dogs: Hot Dogs On boasts home made dogs, and a variety of freshly baked
buns -- Fat Franks take note!). What's deterring me is that, like the food court
in the main terminal, each menu item, somehow embalmed in plastic, like limbs
in a Body World exhibition, is displayed in a glass case. I'm sure this is
meant to help the unknowing to decide on a sumptuous offering and to tempt the
appetite, but really, it's just gross. Really gross. But convinced that I need to eat, I
approach the clerk who is to take my order and he points me to the short list.
Good news: I know most of these items, and I opt for bibimbop. He hands me my
slip, circles the number of my order, and points to the Korean counter where my
order will come up. I sit, settle in to clear out some junk from my wallet, and
wait for my number to come up on the digital read-out above the food counter.
Unlike the food court in the other terminal this one is small, clean and
relatively empty. I can handle this.
 |
| Plasticized Food |
 |
| Gourmet North American fare at Hot Dog On |
 |
| What's a snow bom? |
Lunch exceeded even my best expectations. Here was hot,
steaming brown rice in a fired-up hot clay pot, meat clearly recognizable as
beef, mushrooms, cucumbers, carrots all deliciously seasoned, and (again) more veges I don't recognize.. As I poured the hot broth
over my bowl, the rice sizzled and the steaming aromas tickled my nostrils.
Condiments—chile sauce, kimchi, soy and another that I didn't recognize (A-gain)—were on the side; I could spice it up as much as I
wanted. And because the pot was hot, the rice was too, right to the very last grain
(which I ate). I thanked the server who insisted on helping me with my tray (grey hair means OLD here in Asia!), the cooks, the clerk and they all wished me a happy journey. Ahhh.
They speak English over here in the Concourse!
No comments:
Post a Comment