I was excited that I had dragged my lazy self out of bed on Thursday to visit Beomosa on Buddha's birthday. I had missed the festivities the year before because I was sleeping. A Hagwon job can be very taxing. I needed my rest. So this year I put my manual, disposable and Super 8 cameras into my backpack. I had extra film, in colour, black and white, and at various speeds. I was not going to miss one shot of perfect buddhaness that day. So my friend and I boarded the free luxury coach that was headed up the mountainside to the most famous temple in Busan.

I was ready to hear monks in prayer and to feel spiritually serene. I would be at one with the cosmos, and I would refresh my karma. We got out at the bottom of the stone stairs that lead to the temple. We passed by stalls selling wooden bracelets, plastic toys, and monk stuffed toys with sequined jackets. Ajumas beckoned us to their makeshift metal tables in the woods, like tempting spirits. We avoided eye contact, but they still pulled on our arms, trying to lead us to eat with them in the forest.

Escaping the persistent ajumas, we walked along the concrete path, which opened up onto the main courtyard. Like Lotte on Saturday, people rushed around while I stood still. Monks were hunched over, walking beneath the multi-coloured lanterns, their gowns billowing around them. We looked at a wish scrawled on a piece of paper, hanging from the bottom of a lantern. Below the wish was the latern's price of 30 000 Won flapping in the wind.

Closeby there was a choir of ajumas in white dresses singing and people slipping out of their shoes to kneel before statues and paintings of Buddha. We watched those praying, from the doorways, feeling like we would be trespassing if we entered. We quickly grew tired of the hordes of people and were ready to leave, when one monk stopped before us.

"Where are you from?" He asked in Korean.
"Canada," we returned.
We continued to have a Konglish conversation of which we understood about 5%.
"Green tea, like?" He tried in English. "Want Green tea?"
"Yeah...I guess so." I looked at my friend for some kind of assurance that this would be safe. We shrugged our shoulders. There couldn't be any harm in tea with a real seunim. At least it would be a great email to send home to Canada.
"Good, good. Come, come," he waved us to follow him, as he sped off into another courtyard. I fumbled for my Super 8 camera in my backpack. He was already gone. My friend and I jogged to catch up with him. A small cable TV crew and some guy I had never seen before tagged along for this Waygookin-Seunim cultural exchange.

Looking at the seunim disappear through a doorway ahead of us, I suddenly lost my balance and fell down a rock step, my super 8 flying out of my hand. I let out a yelp. My friend and the camera crew pulled me up. My ankle ached when I put weight on it. I bent down to retrieve my camera. The seunim appeared out of the doorway with a plate full of fruit, unaware of my tumble.

"Come, come," he said like he'd been waiting for us forever. And again he hurried away from us. He led us through a back gate, which opened on a narrow alley beside a building. We rounded the corner and followed a path that led past the monks' sleeping quarters.

"My room dirty, dirty." He the closed door of his room, on the right. I looked over the stone wall to my left to see the tree covered mountains. Mist floated at their tops.
"Here, here." He opened a rice paper covered door to reveal a small room, with a wooden table, low to the ground, covered with teacups. He sat at the head of the table and brewed green tea in his plastic thermos. He poured tea into each cup. He removed his jacket and laid it beside him.

"Room dirty, dirty," he repeated. There was silence.
I didn't know what to say to a monk. "What would I say?" I thought. "How was prayer today? Are you and Buddha close?" So I just sat and sipped my tea. The cameraman filmed us as we drank.
"Soju, Mak-ju like. You like?" We nodded.
"Were monks supposed to drink? Were they heavy drinkers or social drinkers? " I wondered.
"Handphone?" He showed us his cellphone. "Handphone have?"
My friend looked at me. "Does he want our numbers?"
"I guess so. Should we give 'em to him. He's just a monk."
"I'm not going to give it to him. I don't know him."
"Handphone, handphone?" We didn't answer.
I didn't know if I could talk to a monk on a handphone. Could I put a monk on my speeddial? Could I text message him?

Soon a translator appeared in the doorway. He had telephoned her while we drank our tea. She sat beside me. The monk spoke to her in Korean.
"He wants to treat you to sangyupsul."
"Sangyupsul?" I was suprised, I thought monks were vegetarians.
"He said not to tell anyone." My friend and I exchanged knowing glances.
"Maria, Maria," he called loudly. "Handphone, no?"
"Yes," his persistance had broken me down. I didn't want to be rude to a monk. I didn't want to screw up my karma, even if I was a baptized Catholic. So I read the number to him and watched him as he saved it into his cellphone.
"Angela, no phone?" He wouldn't give up.
"No,"she said blankly.
I told the translator that I had a Korean friend who could come with me the next time I came to visit him, to translate the conversation. She spoke to the seunim.
"Is it girl?"He leaned in closer.
"No it's a man," I said.
"No good," he said laughing.

He poured more tea into our cups. By now I'd had about 10 shots of green tea. It was making me sleepy. The seunim sat back and began talking in Korean. The translator spoke his words about Buddha's beginnings in India, and the different levels of being. He spoke of how people with better Karma wouldn't have to be reincarnated many times before reaching Nirvana.

"Ah Kant, Spinoza, Hegel." He looked past us out of the doorway at the mountains. "What life is. Who I am? This Buddhism. Fall I look at the trees." He made a noise of satisfaction in his throat. "Beautiful." He pointed to the mountains behind us.
"Maybe I could talk to him about philosophy, even if he is a little weird. He could teach me about Buddhism," I thought.
"Married?" he looked at my friend and I.
"No," I said hesitantly.
"Teacher?"
"Yes."
"Money."
I wasn't sure if he was asking about our salaries. I didn't answer.
"How old?"
"Mulegeseyo." I knew that this was a rude question in Korea.

This was no longer a serene Buddhist moment. It felt more like a gross ajeossi staring lewdly and making me feel uncomfortable moment. I leaned over to the translator to tell her that we had to go. She told the seunim what I had said. He spoke in Korean instructing everyone to leave the tearoom. We shook hands and said thank you. I regretted having given him my phone number. Everyone filed out of the room before My friend and I and the seunim. The seunim was waiting behind us to leave the room. Everyone had already disappeared back down the alleyway.

My friend was just about to exit through the doorway when she let out a loud "Awohhhhhh," I turned my head and saw the seunim's hand near her bum. Before I had time to be shocked I could feel his monk paw slapping my bum too.
"Hagima," I bellowed. Adrenaline rushed to my heart. My friend had run out of the doorway and she was already down the alley. She had escaped quickly not stopping to put on her shoes, holding them instead in her hands. I still stood beside him. I couldn't run very fast, as my ankle was still in pain. I limped as fast as I could down the stone stairs. My friend had stopped just ahead to put on her shoes. She was bent over, her bum exposed.

"Be careful," I yelled as I saw the seunim pass me, quickly walking towards my friend. He passed by her without hitting her. We were safe. I slipped on my shoes and caught up to her.
"I knew something was strange about him," she said.
"We just need to get outta here."
When we came out of the gate he was there with his uniform grey jacket and monk tuke on.
"Come, come." He motioned for us to follow him up a hill. "Korean rice cake give."
We backed up away from him. "No we really have to go," I told the translator.

She spoke to him in Korean. He responded "No go, I treat you." We ran down a nearby staircase.

"No rice cake?" he tried one last time.
"Bye," I said over my shoulder waving, trying not to look behind me, running down the stairs towards the exit. My friend and I ran underneath the lanterns, through the courtyard, past the ajumas waving us to their tables, and the stalls selling souvenirs of Buddha. We looked back to see if the seunim was chasing us. He had not followed us, we would be safe from the seunim. And I would be skeptical of any friendly monks in the future.

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