my trip to E-Mart

I was told, during my campus walkabout, that there was an E-Mart—a large store that isn't quite a big-box, large-volume discount chain like Costco, but is somewhere closer to a Target or Walmart, without the cheaper prices—close to Anshim Station, which sits at the very ass-end of Line 1. I had heard that the E-Mart was "right behind" Anshim Station, but I knew better than to take such talk literally.

So I lumber-waddled out of my place and went to the nearest convenience store to see about buying the local gyotong-kadeu, i.e., a multipurpose electronic "traffic card" like the kind that's popular in Seoul these days. The store didn't have any such card, but the girl working the counter told me where I could find one: there was another convenience store on the main drag that sold them. I thanked her and continued out to the main street. The shop, called CU (Catholic University?), was easy enough to find, and the guy at the register had a whole stack of traffic cards waiting to be sold. I bought one, charged it with W20,000 (a bit less than $20, US), then asked the guy where I could find a bus that would take me to Anshim Station. He said that, along this street, there were only two buses that didn't go to Anshim Station, so I could take my pick. I thanked him and trudged out to the nearest bus stop. As is true in Seoul, the bus routes are clearly marked on charts at the bus stops; the only skill you need is the ability to read hangeul. Everything else is just a matter of common sense. Here's a shot of some folks waiting at the bus stop this evening (around 6PM):


The skinny gentleman in the foreground, with his caved-in chest and his forward-thrust hips, reminded me strongly of one of my colleagues back when I used to teach French at Bishop O'Connell High School in the early 1990s. It's easy to imagine this guy walking in an effeminate way, as my colleague did, his fingers gently pressing against his sternum as he does a combination mince and hip-thrust down the hall.

The bus ride to Anshim Station took about ten minutes. I left Hayang Town and found myself on the wispy outskirts of Daegu. I'm not entirely sure, but I may technically have been in Gyeongsan City, a satellite of Daegu. I stepped off the bus and followed the crowd down into the underground level of the subway station, mainly because there didn't seem to be anywhere else to go. (Later on, on my way back home, I learned that wasn't true.) Not sure which way to point myself, I asked a subway staffer how to go to E-Mart. He told me to go out through Exit 2 of the station and just keep walking for about ten minutes ("right behind" the station, forsooth!). I thanked him and headed toward Exit 2, which featured as many stairs going up to the surface as I had taken going down into the underground.

After about ten minutes' walking, I found myself at E-Mart, that great temple of consumerism (as my buddy Dr. Steve would doubtless label it). I had hit the big-time: no small-town, we-don't-got-dat-in-stock nonsense here: E-Mart would have everything my heart desired. This E-Mart boasted not only a main shopping zone, but also a food court, a Starbucks, a laundry, a pharmacy, an optometrist, and God only knows what else. But before I entered the store, I had to take a picture of some fuh-hunky modern art just outside:


In my mind, I labeled these strange beings Knuckle Creatures, because that's what they looked like to me: giant, disembodied fingers of four-dimensional gods, their appendages poking intrusively into our three-dimensional realm.

Then I turned to face and pay homage to the temple:


I didn't have much cash in my wallet—maybe about $60 or $70. I was, in fact, waiting for several deposits to come through Stateside. Once those had gone through, I'd be able to access the cash from a global ATM here. For the moment, though, all I had was what I'd brought, and as I maneuvered my shopping cart among the shining aisles of E-Mart, I flinched at the prices. Comparisons with Walmart and Target fall apart once we start talking cost: E-Mart, it turns out, is goddamn expensive. The price for a coffee mug? Eight freaking thousand won. Some things were cheap: a 16-ounce bottle of Pepsi was only W1000.

The main thing I had come to buy was bedding. Since my arrival, I've been sleeping on a naked mattress, wearing sweatpants and a coat to shield me from the A/C's breeze, and using a shirt-stuffed laundry bag as a pillow. Time to get more civilized. I found the bedding (chim-gu) section on the lower level and started perusing the various blankets, duvets, yo* covers, mattress covers, sheets, pillows, pillowcases, and other forms of bedding. Call me superficial, but what was frustrating to me was the absence of mature color schemes: all the blankets were covered with unpleasantly infantile patterns composed of sickeningly cute animals very much in a Hello Kitty vein. Where were the solid colors—the navies and earth tones?

I hate cute stuff.

I finally found a cheap, simple blanket and a pillow that wasn't too garish. They didn't match, in terms of color, but I was beyond caring. I noted with dismay that the cost of the pillow and blanket alone totaled $65, which was almost enough to wipe me out. I tossed the bedding into my shopping cart, grabbed that bottle of Pepsi, and headed for the cashier.

On my way out of E-Mart, I wondered whether I might find a bus stop close to the store. As I walked, I scanned the street, but didn't find what I was looking for. By the time I finished scanning, I was back at Anshim Station, which is when I noticed that I could simply cross the street to get to my bus stop—no need to go underground at all. That was a relief; I'm not a fan of stairs, however healthy they might be.

After a wait of only a few minutes, a bus trundled over. I asked the driver whether he was heading to Hayang Station; he said yes. I got on and pressed my traffic card to the sensor. Another W1000 or so deducted.

So here's a shot of my bus's interior as I was riding home:


The yellow-backed seats are the noyakja-seok, i.e., they're reserved for the elderly. Korean society still places great value on its older citizens; it's rather gauche for a young, strong person to sit in those seats, although I've seen such bad behavior in Seoul and, as you see in the photo, here in Hayang. If you want to get into an older Korean's good graces, rise and give up your seat when you see a grandma or grandpa get onto a bus or into a subway. The oldster may return the favor by offering to hold your bags for you. One of the cuter perks of living in Korean society.

So that was my trip to E-Mart. Navigating the route was super-easy, and I now know how to get to the big city if I want to. Daegu's subway system is much more comprehensive than it used to be; back in the day, the subway consisted of little more than two pathetic lines that crossed each other roughly downtown like a drunken X-chromosome. Now there are four subway lines (see here), which together cover much more of the city. I have yet to ride the Daegu subway; part of me is leery, given the subway's tragic history. I'm sure I'll get over my leeriness as practical pressures—like seeing a movie in a real cinema—impel me.

Tonight, I'm looking forward to my first sleep under a genuine blanket, and with a genuine pillow.

---

*A yo is a Korean-style bedroll—very thick, very comfortable. Not for everyone, though, especially people who are sensitive to the hardness of the floor. However thick a yo might be, you're still aware of the floor beneath you. Nevertheless, Korean yo are very comfortable.


_