Here is a picture of some mist or rain along Gangseonno, walking to work earlier today.
My umbrella broke. How many umbrellas have I broken?
I am a child of the redwoods – of the perpetual dim winter rains of California's far northwest. It is a place where, like in the Pacific Northwest in general, it rains so much that the inhabitants take a dim view of umbrellas as being strictly for visitors and for the weak-souled. Umbrellas are an alien custom. Use an umbrella? Why bother?
I never used an umbrella until I came to Korea. But here in Korea, if you walk in the rain without an umbrella, you might as well be walking down the street naked. People will look at you in alarm, and they will express concern about your mental health. Your friends and acquaintances will insist you're taking your life into your hands by going without an umbrella in even the lightest sprinkle. People in Korea open umbrellas when the sky is gray. And that's setting aside the class of people who open umbrellas when it's sunny, too, because the sun is nearly as fearsome as the rain.
So living in Korea, I decided it's better to just use an umbrella, to avoid the solicitous and saccharine advice of friends or strangers. It wards off overreactions. Sadly, a cheap Chinese-made umbrella doesn't live very long: maybe a dozen or so deployments before a rib breaks. Further, I've found zero correlation between price and life-span: a $30 umbrella lasts the same as a $5 umbrella. So I buy $5 umbrellas at the 7-11 or other convenience store. Frequently. It feels like wasteful consumerism. If someone could tell me what sort (i.e. brand) of umbrella doesn't die after a dozen uses, I would buy it, and not be such a "throwaway" consumer – but I have no idea where or what.
