Searching for the Seoul of These Olympics

In the Olympic press village, two men ride an elevator. One is an American journalist, the other a dorm attendant from the army of young Korean men serving the housing units with unceasing hospitality and good nature.

The Korean takes a shot at American small talk.

“So, did you collect any good data today?”

No data today, pal. We data gatherers of many lands have been fanning out locust-like across Seoul to gather random impressions and mental snapshots. We’re trying in a few short days to capture the feel of a metropolis so big and sprawling it seems to make Los Angeles look like Barstow.

We are blind men and women touching various parts of the elephant. We are unscientifically collecting un-data.

We venture out. At the Namdaemun Market, I am in the heart of Seoul and far from the press village, where my entrance to the cafeteria this morning was signaled by a deep bow from a Korean woman in native costume. In Namdaemun, the wandering American finds no greeting, no smiles or bows, only blank stares and looks of suspicion from most merchants and shoppers.

This is the shopping place of the common people, the blue-collar Koreans, not the tourist. Little if any English is spoken here.

In the open-air stalls and tiny shops of the market’s many streets the merchants sell everything from shaved pigs’ heads--the eyes always tastefully closed--to blue jeans, live eels to eelskin purses, fake Rolex watches to bolts of brightly colored cloth. One man sells tiny puppy dogs from a shopping cart.

A few barkers in intentionally clownish costumes stand on boxes and try to shout and wave customers into their shops. Pungent cooking odors from food stands hit the American tourist like a slap in the face.

Next I head for It’aewon, the city’s famed tourist shopping street, where each merchant speaks English and offers me “rock-bottom prices” because I look like a nice guy.

This is the section of town where kimchi (seasoned and fermented cabbage) and bulgogi (marinated roast beef) meet Colonel Sanders and Baskin Robbins.

This street is the land of eelskin, leather, denim and silk, and world mecca for phony-watch shoppers. One American journalist buys an alleged Gucci watch for $18. An hour later the watch is running 10 minutes fast. She will miss no deadlines this Olympics.

Also for sale: Counterfeit Adidas, Reeboks and Nikes. Clever forgeries but for the sloppy glue work. Acres and acres of phony Louis Vuitton leather goods and other designer-label fakes. American basketball star David Robinson strolls the street wearing an ersatz Louis Vuitton baseball cap.

An hour of shopping here alters forever my faith in labels. Are those really Kellogg’s corn flakes in the village cafeteria?

I hail a cab to see more of the city. It’s wise to snag a taxi with “Best Driver” award wings mounted on the roof, or to get a driver with a yellow shirt decorated with safe-driving ribbons.

If you ride with an undecorated driver, you do so at your own risk. Motor travel here is not for the timid, and a relatively sane cabbie can make your stay here a healthier one.

Cars are new to Seoul. Five years ago, there were hardly any. Now, the streets are as crowded as a carnival bumper-car ride. But the locals have caught on fast, their reactions honed by constant close-order traffic drills.

They drive with all the skill and intensity of the L.A. driver, with none of the horn-leaning, bird-flipping hostility.

In a week here, I haven’t seen five women drivers. Korean women have not attained social equality with men. Either that or they’re too smart to venture into the chronically horrendous traffic.

Also seldom seen: bald men and fat people. Maybe it’s the ginseng , the root that is ground into tea and pills and powders and soft drinks, and is said to promote vigor and health. Korea produces the world’s most potent ginseng. According to one ginseng- drink ad, “The more the plant resembles the figure of a man, with arms and legs, the more valuable the root.” I vow to shop until I find one that looks like Sly Stallone.

Maybe it’s the ginseng that invigorates the army of elderly women who are sprucing the city for the Games. There are no Weed-Eaters, power mowers or street-sweeper trucks here. Instead, teams of elderly women bend to the tasks, wielding brooms and garden tools.

They sweep downtown gutters, water flowers and hand-cut the vast stretches of grass along the Han-Gang River, slowly, methodically making a clean city cleaner.

At a downtown university, a hotbed of student demonstration against the government, all is temporarily quiet. Most of the city has been designated a Peace Zone during the games, no student demonstrating allowed. This order alone will surely serve as catalyst for active protest.

The radical students, with their desire for reunification with North Korea and their anti-American feelings, are not likely to take a two-week coffee break now, not with the world’s media at their doorstep.

Mostly, though, Seoul seems glad the rest of the globe is dropping by for a visit this month. The greeting to the foreigner generally ranges from friendly acceptance, to profound politeness, even to flattery.

A Korean woman tour guide sees my press badge and bestows upon my humble labor the kindest job description I have ever heard.

“Ah,” she says, “you do the magics with the letters, no?”