Seoul, City of Love throws off northern ice

By DAVID MAY

Winter in Seoul can be tough on the soul. Grim-faced captains of commerce swarm on the snowy footpaths dodging squadrons of tense commuters, slippery ice and combative traffic.

Arctic gales howl down from Siberia, while North Korean leader Kim Jong Il is still toying with his detonators just 50km up the road.

But these are stoic folk, and beneath a sometimes miserable exterior throbs a passion for love and schmaltzy romance that blazes into action from the first warm kiss of spring until the last gasp of autumn. Love is so palpable here in the heart of Seoul.

Autumn in Korea is said to be the favourite time for weddings. Bulletins in front of the great wedding halls list the names of each weekend's marrying couples. Wedding cars speed through downtown with their "lovelights" flashing, tin cans in train, ribbons and bunches of coloured balloons with "I Love You" written in English.

Toksugung Palace (the Palace of Virtuous Longevity), across the road from city hall, began as a royal villa toward the end of the 15th century. The golden autumn leaves have fallen from the gingko trees that line its walkways into a deep-pile carpet on the ground.

And on the ground things are stirring. A photographer with a lens the size of a small rocket is followed by a light-man fumbling with a huge silvery reflector, another assistant carrying his bag, and a make-up artist.

Further back, a lady-in-waiting fusses around an exquisitely dressed bride and groom. And they're not alone. In every corner of the palace grounds dozens of these bridal teams dart between the maidenhair, searching for the ultimate romantic setting, the softest shaft of sunlight or the cutest combinations of colour.

Immaculately coiffed brides canter between shoots, some chattering urgently into mobile phones, others hoisting their long white silky trains clear of the ground to reveal designer jeans and Doc Martens underneath.

Mikyeong Kim, with dark eyes and ruby lips made up like a work of oriental art, is standing patiently under a maple tree, its once-green leaves now vermilion. She was married 11 years ago but at that time considered photos to be "too extravagant and not very Korean."

"I had a traditional Korean dress at the wedding," she says. "But for the photos I want to wear a Western dress. I guess this is more for the fun and excitement than anything else but, with all these people around, I do feel embarrassed."

A few blocks away, old men gather in Tapkol (Pagoda) Park to catch the last warmth before the winter curtain falls. It was here on March 1, 1919, that the Korean Declaration of Independence was read out followed by a series of peaceful nationwide demonstrations against Japanese rule.

Today the park is still a political forum, where mainstream and fringe groups gather to voice their views with a passion that sometimes gets even the old folk riveted. Many oldies speak a smattering of English, a legacy perhaps from the Korean War.

They quickly approach a foreigner and smile warmly. "Hello," they say. "Welcome. What is your name?"

But few Westerners ever turn up in this little park on Chongno St - and that's a pity. There aren't many places more genuinely welcoming straight through the barrier of language.

Across town in the touristy Itaewon district, where love has a different accent, language is no barrier at all. Recently designated a special tourist zone, Itaewon is a shopper's paradise. There's everything consumers ever need here - and everything they don't.

Away from the mainstream are back alleys full of little shops, eateries and Korean traditional takeaways full of frying chicken, dressed hams, vegetable pancakes, sizzling satays and a myriad of unidentifiable steaming morsels. There's also something called Country House, that advertises the presence inside of "fun ladies."

In the evening, a young Korean girl pulls away from the clutch of her boyfriend to dab at her lips in the faint mirror of a jewellery store window. Her lips are the colour of dark cherries, a popular tone for lippy in Korea, and they stand out like a beacon against her creamy, flawless skin.

Under the enticing bright lights pizza delivery girls balance piles of hot boxes on their shoulders with one hand as they weave small motorbikes dangerously through the traffic with the other, street food vendors fire up their charcoal cookers and, from an anonymous loudspeaker somewhere, Elvis is bleating out Don't be Cruel.

The Stardust Bar, just down from Burger King, is run by Miss Kim. She puts on a happy hour from 5 pm to 8 pm weekdays. Here you can rub shoulders with the likes of Alexander Bratersky, a Moscow journalist, Jackson Yuasise from the PNG embassy, Rene Fejl from the Czech embassy and Magic Mike, a Vietnam veteran turned engineer whose leg was shattered by a booby-trap.

"Ah jes' went home and got stoned for a while, then Ah got mahself fixed up and studied engineering," Magic Mike tells anyone who'll listen. "Now Ah jes' roam the world fixin' things."

What's so Magic about that? "Ah was like Radar in M*A*S*H*," he explains. "Ah had this sixth sense that kept me outta trouble. Ah even saw that goddam tripwire just as mah buddy tripped it. He lost his whole leg."

There's also the Nashville Club, Club Friend, Sol's Club ("where we don't shout, we whisper"), Lee's Red Door, promising "beautiful smiles and musics," and the Reggae Pub where a round of Alabama Slammers will do you more damage than two rounds with Mike Tyson.

Back at Tokaugung Palace, the brides and their retinues are still at it. Mikyeong Kim has finished her photo session and picks the golden leaves from her snowy white dress.

"I think this is a way of re-romanticising our marriage," she smiles, as she shivers slightly and draws her shawl a little tighter against a sudden gust of cold northerly wind.