My decision had been made.  It was the late, crisp autumn of 2001.  Two heavy suitcases glared at me from the dim light of the hallway.  The tags attached to them, small white pockets of truth set against an apathetic dark mass, contained the following inscription:  STEPHEN McGUCKIN; DESTINATION: SOUTH KOREA.


These very words filled me with an uncanny feeling of excitement and fear, a feeling best described as the sensation of some unseen anchor tugging firmly upon the sinews of my heart, making breathing a slow, labored process.  Indeed, my decision had been made.  Deep breath.  For the next year, my home would be Daegu, South Korea.  No more family and friends, no more fish and chips and Irn Bru*, and most certainly no more Wellington Bar and its unique version of Tennents lager on draught.  Liquid refreshment, particularly of an alcoholic nature, was the last thing on my mind.  Besides, if all else failed, at least there would be Coca-Cola.


Like most recent graduates, I felt the pallid, alcohol strewn hue of student life still clinging to my flesh.  Korea was to be an escape from a previously hedonistic existence - a journey into the world of work and responsibility, and a much needed leap into a new and exciting culture.  I would be a man reborn: no more alcohol, no more greasy food, no more sleeping past noon.  I would be English teacher extraordinaire, purveyor of Scottish culture to the fine denizens of Daegu, and dedicated student of the Korean language.  After completing my first day of teaching, however, I made a quite startling discovery.  Alcohol (to my quietly pleasant surprise) was as central to Korean social culture as a hole in the middle of a Dunkin' donut.

Scottish people are known across the globe for their weakness to a spot of whisky.  Queen Elizabeth's husband, Prince Philip, has more than once playfully communicated his surprise that the natives of Northern Scotland were sober enough to rise from their drunken slumber and greet his arrival on a brisk Scottish morning.  On my first night in Daegu, I observed that Scotland and Korea perhaps weren't so different after all.  Not only were the narrow streets littered with soju bars, cocktail bars, and plain-old beer bars, but these bars, even on a Monday night, were bustling with customers.  As I gingerly stepped through the entrance of my first Korean bar - Mr Seven, I believe - I wondered whether it would bear any resemblance to a local Scottish pub.

Let's get one thing straight right away.  When you go to a bar in Scotland, you literally stand at the bar and drink your beer or shot.  You chat with your friends, or sometimes with strangers, flip some change into the juke box and shoot some pool if the fancy takes you.  In Scotland you go to the "bar": it's a completely casual experience and it doesn't matter if you go with your friends or by yourself.  You go there because you like the music, or maybe because you like the people who serve you, or maybe even because of the funny way your pint glass almost always slides off the slightly uneven, beer-saturated bar front.

In a Korean bar, however, the group of people you go to the bar with always comes first.  Drinking in a Korean bar can be a highly complex and structured social experience.  Nobody stands at the bar.  You eat, drink and converse with your group, and it's odd to get chatting with the other patrons.  Eating while drinking was the first thing that really surprised me.  In Scotland, you might have a bag of peanuts with your pint if you feel peckish, but in Korea you might well go through three or four side dishes before the drinking comes to a close.  I've never quite gotten used to the idea of washing down spicy octopus with a cool glass of Hite.      

I'm sure that I'm not the first person to liken the Korean drinking experience to a microcosm of Korean society at large.  Regardless of where you drink, social status still plays a part in the proceedings.  You should pour or receive drinks with a double-handed gesture when dealing with people older than yourself, and women will often sip their glass of soju while turning away from male companions as a mark of respect.  Although I'll never quite understand some of these customs, one thing remains clear.  The Korean drinking experience is based upon sharing a good time together.  The beer never runs dry, your plate is never empty, and the eldest people in your company usually foot the bill ( A great custom - at least when I first came to Korea at the age of 21!)

In Scotland, the bar remains more central to the drinking experience.  Most people have a "local", a place where they drink frequently.  Bars have a special character, a history.  They have stories to tell, and they are often the places where our fathers and grandfathers drank in their younger years.  And many of them still drink there today.  The British "local" is a place where differences of class, religion, age and gender disappear.  We go there to tell our own stories, to talk about the latest news, and to share our dreams and problems.  We go there because we like it, because it's part of our routine, and sometimes because we simply like the other people who go there.
 
I've been living in Daegu, on and off, for almost six years now.  People often ask me why I came here in the first place.  I can only answer this by saying that I've always had a terribly poor sense of direction.  I stumbled upon Korea at the beginning of my adult life, and I can't stop coming back.  Why?  Because of the people.  With my friends, both foreign and Korean, I often venture to a small Korean bar and order a pitcher of beer.  Sat together, we share our daily stories, our hopes and our fears.  Even though I love this atmosphere, I often find myself, on a dreary Saturday afternoon, dreaming of Scotland.  I see the Wellington bar in all its dilapidated glory.  Old men are huddled at the edge of the bar, quietly discussing the weather, while the young guys shoot pool with tiger-like ferocity.  Meanwhile, in some dimly lit corner, just in view of a television displaying Saturday's football results, I sit in perfect solace, with a uniquely fizzy pint of Tennents lager in my right hand.  Now that's what I call liquid refreshment.
 

* Irn Bru - a carbonated drink produced in Scotland.