Family Matters

Written February 20, 2010:

So my sister Latessa, of whom I am extremely proud, recently visited my humble little home here in Korea. Planning ahead and staying up all night with the intention of sleeping on the plane, wouldn'tcha know it, her flight was canceled. As luck would have it, though, she ended up experiencing Business Class the following day.

After two days of crap sleep and a 16-hour flight that arrived at 11pm, I was shocked when she was not only awake but practically jumping around my apartment the next morning. Turns out she practices voodoo and gave me her jetlag. Either that or she is partly cyborg, allowing her to plug into the wall to speed up the sleeping process. I'm waiting for this month's electric bill before coming to any conclusion.

I had to work the following week, if you can call it work. This is hands down the most fun I have ever been paid to have. We are all pushing towards the common goal of a universal language here, and I'm having a blast doing it. During this time, my go-getter sister managed to teach herself hangeul (the Korean alphabet) in half the time I did PLUS a survival level of hangukmal (the Korean language), which she exercised at every opportunity.

That weekend we went to three markets, two museums, a palace, and one helluva mountain range called Bukhansan, of which we chose the highest peak, Baegundae. When beginning our vertical trek, we noticed several hiking shops with various hiking supplies, such as shoe-spikes, hiking sticks, and sundry winter apparel. In fact, we actually entered a few to peruse the selection. This is the foreshadowing of our ignorance.

Garbed in nothing more than jeans, jackets, sweaters, and sneakers, we began our perilous journey up, slipping and sliding along the way. We were not deterred.

Five-hundred meters. Fellow climbers let slip gasps and mumbles while pointing at our Wal-Mart sneakers void of spikes.

Eight-hundred meters. Anything resembling a path is nothing but a frozen memory. Sheer ice-covered rock stares us in the face with 2-inch thick steel cable mushing us onward.

Eight-hundred twenty meters. The wind holds the flag taunt, only the tip free to wave us upward.

Eight-hundred thirty-six and one-half meters above sea-level. A woman sharing the victorious moment of peak ascension stares disbelieving at our feet. She demands that Latessa take one of her shoe-spikes, which was well-appreciated and left at the bottom with a note of gratitude sketched into the snow. Hopefully her expertise allowed her to descend with one less foothold.

You can't fall off a mountain.