Neon nightlife in Seoul. Photo / Jill Worrall
Seoul is ablaze with azaleas... there are banks of them, candy pink and cerise, white and scarlet. South Korea's capital is greener than I expected, the air cleaner. There's also rather more fried chicken than I expected.
I've arrived in the early evening, and the memory of dinner on the plane lingers. I don't want to eat but I would love a beer. So, two companions and I leave our hotel in a non-touristy party of town and set off to find a bar. We find one eventually but only after passing by windows crammed with fried chicken: drumsticks glowing golden under heat lamps and breasts desiccating en masse on trays. We don't know what the word for chicken is in Korean but decide it might be a good idea to avoid ordering it by mistake.
In fact, for once I am completely at sea linguistically. What was supposed to be a one-night transit stopover in Seoul has turned into two nights downtown and I haven't had time to master any of the local language. I have no idea how to ask someone's name, let alone explain I don't want fried chicken.
Down a side street festooned with neon signs and where eels writhe in tanks outside small restaurants we spot a flashing sign featuring a beer tankard. A waitress, hair in long pigtails and sporting even longer legs in black tights and denim shorts, seems thrilled to see us. In this part of the city clearly we have novelty value. She finds us a table on the terrace and she smiles encouragingly. There is an almost complete language barrier.
She hands us a menu entirely in Korean, but with a range of photographs. We point to the beer.
Our waitress smiles and mimes glass size. We order what we think should be suitably dignified quantities for Western women frequenting what appears to be an otherwise all-male clientele establishment.
The beer arrives - in tankards large to serve as foot spas. Our waitress points to the rest of the menu. Would we like something to eat? We have a craving for hot chips which can only be a response to all the beer - any minute now we'll be asking if the league's on the telly. "Chips? Fries?" She looks puzzled but suddenly her face lights up "Potato skins!" "Yes", we cry.
Ten minutes later a vast platter of fried chicken arrives, our waitress flushed with success. Was this some of the chicken we'd seen simmering gently in next door's window display? Working on the principle that any bacteria will probably be drowned in an ocean of good Korean beer we eat it anyway. And we don't want to disappoint our waitress who has appeared unasked with dishes of sauce and extra napkins.
The chicken is hot, delicious and there are no side effects. Two of our fellow drinkers walk up and stop to welcome us to Korea and congratulate us on our choice of meal. Our waitress sails past to another table with a plate of golden, hot chips. We point at them and ask what she calls them. Misinterpreting us she makes off to the kitchen to get us some too but we head her off at the pass - we've each consumed about half a chicken and are awash with lager. There is no room for chips.
"You come back?" our waitress asks as we leave, her English a thousand times better than our Korean. We say maybe tomorrow. She smiles.
Next evening an even larger group of Kiwis heads down the street. Most are aiming for one of the Korean restaurants where people are consuming exotic bowls of noodles and stir fries. Once they have settled on their choice of eating establishment three of us slip away into the night. We know where we can order beer and chicken and now we have a fair idea how to get the chips too....