So much Seoul

I overnighted in Seoul for two weekends in a row, and after the summer of Pirates, that was just too much. I shouldn't have to do it again until the weekend of my departure, so I guess that's all right, but boy, it makes me feel old to have to say I'm not down with it. Here is my harrowing tale of adventure from the first of the two.

I'd planned to go to Everland (a big amusement park up near Seoul) on Saturday and just stay into Sunday for rehearsal, maybe burn a few DVD's of Pirates that night. As it turned out, the Everland trip kind of fell apart at the last minute (a bunch of people cancelled and it was going to rain), but I had a place to stay and I needed to go to a place in Seoul (Yongsan) to get double-layer DVD's so I could burn Pirates and get it off my computer for once and for all (calloo callay). So I took an evening train on Saturday, made it to Yongsan, got DVD's, had dinner with a friend, and went to my director's new apartment to stay the night.

Director R has a baby. Perhaps it is a toddler. It toddles. It does not speak coherently, so I call it a baby. The baby, like all babies, is the devil. Also, it hates me. I guess I could should call it a "she." We do not have a working relationship. She is definitely her father's child, as such small lungs could otherwise not possibly produce the mind-shattering shriek she lets out at the slightest provocation (read: none whatsoever). To add a shiny bow on this package of drooling charm, she bit me. I was trying to prevent her from first sticking her finger between the magnetically attached part of my power plug and my computer (which would have resulted in a shock, as the other side of it was still connected and electricity does not discriminate well between drool-soaked-baby-finger and other conducting materials), then from touching the very-hot transformer leading to said plug, and then from pulling a glass of wine off a shelf onto her head. Apparently, for frustrating her plans, my finger had to be sacrificed to the sharp-toothed demon of child entitlement. Next time, I'm just going to let her zap herself.  It will be educational. (Some day, I imagine I will have a better working relationship with children under 12, but at the moment, my plan is to donate all the ones I find to my sister, and she can ship me all the adolescents she doesn't get on with).

Anyway, Shrieky McShrieksalot All the Time with the Shrieking was up the next morning at what seemed to me the crack of dawn (I lead a very decadent lifestyle, as you know, dear reader), and she used her increasing mobility (which, at a walk, I must admit is way better than the creepy tripod crawl thing she used to do, during which I could only imagine her holding a cleaver and giggling maniacally) to walk over to the sofa on which I was sleeping, yank the covers off my head, and poke me with her frigid, razor sharp claws of death. (That child has no sense of personal space. Respect the bubble, kids).  I'm sure I was eloquent and distinguished and made my position on her actions clear in grammatically correct and stylistically enviable prose. Actually, I'm pretty sure I said something regrettable at that moment, but I don't actually remember the exact words. One can only hope the baby will not, either.

So that was my Saturday night into Sunday. I was not the most rested I have ever been during rehearsal, and afterwards, I helped a friend help another friend with an English thing he needed some help on, and he bought us dinner for our trouble, which was nice, and eventually I collected my things and escaped from the hellion with no further damage to my person or equipment. Huzzah!