Though he had spent the previous fifteen years traversing through foreign lands, MyungBo was not a born traveler. But like all those who have poetry in their hearts, he was mesmerized by the wild stretches of the Mongolian steppes, dotted with shaggy ponies grazing upon the frosted grass. The nameless purple and yellow flowers swayed in the windswept moors, raising their plain little faces up to the open sky, and nothing could have been more glorious. As the train snaked around the shores of Lake Baikal, its unfathomably ancient and azure waters lapping against the cliffs, and the mountains
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