Jess Runs Away from Home...

Jaws 5: Revenge of the Captivated Sharks

2010-10-05T00:01:00.005+09:00

There is something about living in a foreign country that causes me to "go with the flow" much more often than I ordinarily would back home. When someone asks me if I want to do something here, the answer is almost certainly, "O.K. Sound good," regardless of the activity. I rarely think about what I'm agreeing to do.

"Do you want to join an Ultimate Frisbee league even though you don't know the rules to this sport?"
"O.K. Sounds good."
Should we go to a teddy bear themed DVD bang that exclusively plays crappy movies that were made ten or more years ago?"
"Count me in."
"Let's go to a sex museum teeming with phallic statues, puppets bent into shocking sexual positions, and uncomfortably giggling Korean couples."
"That could be fun!"
"Are you interested in going to the West Coast of Korea to drunkenly roll around in the mud with complete strangers all weekend?"
"That doesn't appeal to me at all. But sure. Why not?"

My recently discovered carefree attitude has caused me to wind up in a number of interesting situations, but it has never actually put me in serious danger. Until last Saturday. About 3 or 4 weeks ago, this query was posed to me:

"Should we risk our lives by diving into a confined aquarium loaded with sharks and other dangerous sea creatures?"
"Sign me up."

Ironically, the friend who originally asked me this question ultimately pulled out of the event due to the recollection of her shark phobia, but two brave friends and I nevertheless found ourselves in wetsuits and oxygen tanks a few weeks later. As is usually the case, I had no idea what I was in for. The world according to my imagination is impossibly disconnected from reality. When I previously imagined what my experience of shark diving would be, I expected to show up at the place, say "Yo. I'm Jess. I'm here to shark dive," and about 30-40 minutes later, it would be all over. I was expecting it to be mildly scary, but I somehow did not expect it to be complicated. I don't know why I thought a touristy aquarium would willingly allow a completely inexperienced foreigner who can barely swim and who knows virtually nothing about dangerous water animals to rapidly and freely jump into a tank full of sharks without first receiving proper training, but welcome to the world of my warped mind. It didn't take me long to realize, however, that the technical aspect of the dive was actually going to be a lot more challenging than the mental one. While a few captivated, docile, well-fed sharks who don't particularly enjoy the taste of humans realistically pose little threat to me, I realized that my own incompetency in the water could potentially threaten my existence. As soon as our diving instructor began talking about equalizing our masks, checking our O2 levels, and inflating our backpacks, I suddenly remembered that when I was 8 years old, I required private swimming lessons because I was such an idiot in the water. Luckily, I made it through training almost incident-free, but it wasn't especially easy. Even with your mouth firmly cusped around an oxygen tube, it still takes a huge leap of faith to submerge your head under a pool of saltwater and inhale for the first time. On my first try, I started spastically flailing around and taking rapid, panicky breaths, but after a few more tries it started to feel much more natural.

Upon the completion of training, it was finally time to get in the water. Much to my surprise, I never felt fear, even though several sharks were swimming two feet next to and above me. The experience mostly just felt surreal, and in some unanticipated way, peaceful. The only sound that could be heard was the sound of underwater bubbles and fish swimming. My inability to communicate verbally or to hear what was going on in the world outside the tank amplified my sense of sight since so much depended on it. It's incredible some of the things you think about in such bizarre circumstances and when certain senses are strictly limited. I would like to say that I thought about the meaning of life, the beauty of the world, the anatomy of sea creatures, or the potential danger that I was in. At the very least, I would like to be able to say that I felt such an incredible adrenaline rush that I couldn't possibly think about anything. However, instead, I thought primarily about three things. (a) I am cold, (b) I am hungry, and (c) I need to urinate. Perhaps when you are stripped of certain senses, you are left to only feel and think about your instincts. This is the lie that I'm going to tell myself to detract from the fact that I'm not a terribly complex individual at the core.

A few of the sharks that we shared the tank with...

Unfortunately, I don't have any visual proof of my dive at the moment, although we did create an underwater video of it that will be mailed to us soon. However, several Korean tourists do have visual proof of my dive. Living in and walking around Korea as a foreigner often feels comparable to being a zoo animal, but diving into a shark tank and being pointed at and photographed by gawking tourists took this metaphor to an all too literal level. I felt compelled to wave back at them to keep them sufficiently entertained. Unfortunately, in order to get into the tank, you must climb down a rope attached to a glass tunnel through which tourists can walk. What this means is that I am confident several Koreans now have a photograph of my crotch. And that is the image I am going to leave you with...

Michael and I, shortly after the dive, feeling quite proud of ourselves.

A South African, a Brit, an American, and an Irish lass travel to an island in Korea...

2010-10-04T14:10:00.023+09:00

Nearly two weeks ago now was the Chuseok holiday in Korea. Chuseok translates roughly to "Harvest Moon Festival." It is essentially Korean Thanksgiving, a holiday which is meant to be spent with family. Chuseok is celebrated on the 14th, 15th, and 16th days of the 8th month of the lunar calendar during the full moon. This year, those days happened to fall on a Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Although we Westerners in Korea don't celebrate Chuseok in the traditional Korean way, we do celebrate the fact that we don't have to go to work during this time. And this is why three friends and I spent our Chuseok on Korea's holiday island, Jejudo. We covered a lot of ground on our brief vacation, and rather than talking at length about it, I'm going to allow the pictures to do most of the speaking.

We visited some cliffs along the shore that reminded both me and Shell, my Irish friend, of the West coast of Ireland.

We visited loads of pretty waterfalls...

We sat on the rooftop of our hostel and took in the view with a bottle of soju...

...before going to a sex museum...

The following day we went to a trick art museum...

And a teddy bear museum...

Then relaxed on a rooftop while sipping drinks at sunset...

The Banana Crisis

2010-09-17T00:36:00.009+09:00

Upon my arrival into this country, I expressed a rather excessive zeal about entering into my first grocery store. A dip back into the archives reveals that "I tried very hard to conceal my absolute exuberance as I walked up and down aisles of foods that I didn’t even know existed; […] The excessive variety of herbs, sprouts, seaweed, tofu, noodles, and slimy fish was almost overwhelming. Where you would normally find the section of artisanal meats and cheeses in an American grocery store, you would find soy products and various organisms that came from the sea. Where you would normally go to pick up a whole frozen chicken you would go to pick up a whole frozen octopus."

I am mildly disappointed to admit that my unbridled enthusiasm for mysterious sea organisms and soy products on the shelves of Korean grocery stores has plummeted quite dramatically. I've seen the interesting ingredients that grocery stores here have to offer several times now, and I still have no idea what to do with most of them. Back home I would find exotic ingredients to be thrilling, and would get pleasure from experimenting with them; but here, I merely find them puzzling and a little terrifying. So it is on this date, my nine month anniversary with Korea, that I am ready to declare that I've had enough of Korean grocery stores: I want my Western grocery stores back.

Let's s start with the problem of produce. The bananas here infuriate me. I never expected this seemingly uncontroversial fruit to produce such a powerful emotional reaction, but bananas have caused me more stress than I'm willing to admit, even though I did just admit it. The thing about bananas here is that they mysteriously ripen at twice the rate as they do back home, and if you don't eat them fast enough, they literally start to peel themselves without even the slightest provoking touch. They are extremely sensitive. I can put a perfectly ripe banana into my bag before work, and in the 5 minute walk there, it ages into a brown, mushy senior citizen that is only vaguely reminiscent of its former glory. But here's what really irritates me about bananas: you are forced by what I assume is the Korean Grocery Alliance to purchase bananas in enough bulk to feed a family of eight. It is apparently a social crime to simply break off the number of bananas you desire from the bunch. You're either stuck with 10 of them, or you're forced to purchase a few single, heavily spotted nomads who are nearing the end of their natural life cycle. For me, the choice has become simple: stop buying bananas unless all the conditions for purchase are optimal.

Another issue I have with the produce in grocery stores is fruit flies. I've been to the grocery store on several occasions this summer in which fruit flies have been swarming around the produce section in heavy concentrations. Now, I've seen a few too many Monsanto documentaries to feel entirely comfortable eating genetically modified foods loaded with pesticides and other chemicals, but I'm not exactly crazy about ingesting rotten, bug-infested produce either. At least I can't see the chemicals that I'm putting into my body.

But while I may complain about the quality of the produce in grocery stores in Korea vs. America, at least a good portion of that produce is still available. There are several longed for foods, however, that are almost completely unavailable to me: Greek yogurt, proper bacon, palatable sandwich meats, kuchen, frozen pizza that doesn't include sweet potatoes and corn as a topping, and the most sorely missed item, quality Mexican ingredients. I can walk down entire aisles that exclusively sell ramyeon noodles or soy sauce, but I am unable to locate a bottle of ranch dressing within the perimeters of Daegu.

While I do miss a lot of foods from home, I have discovered some new staples. Hot pepper tuna is phenomenal!

Perhaps I'm being a little hasty to judge. After all, there are far more Western foods in Korean grocery stores than there are Korean foods in American grocery stores. Perhaps the larger issue at hand involves my lack of a kitchen. What good are 20 varieties of good quality, inexpensive mushrooms when you scarcely have the facilities with which to whip them into a tasty pasta or stir fry? My kitchen is, in a word, tiny. Furthermore, it has a triple function as a kitchen/laundry room/cat food and litterbox area. I have a two burner gas range, a microwave, and a toaster oven. My gas range and dish drying rack take up the entirety of my counter space, meaning if I need to chop something, I have to do so on my living room floor while my cat undoubtedly plunges at the knife. As if these harsh working conditions aren't bad enough, I am strictly limited in cooking options, not only by lack of ingredients, but also by lack of an oven. It's hard to remain passionate about cooking when so many forces are simultaneously working against my success. The act of cutting an onion back home used to give me pleasure; in Korea, the logistics of completing this simple task only cause me stress and anxiety.

Upon my brief arrival home in January, I plan to have a massive bake-a-thon, just because I can...

This is my oven, which is actually part toaster. Note that it is forced to reside on the floor.

Lost in Translation

2010-09-11T13:06:00.013+09:00

One of the more amusing aspects about living in a foreign country in which English is scarcely spoken but widely used for marketing purposes is that I am in a unique position to make fun of the misuse of my native tongue. The average Korean wouldn't recognize a comb by the brand name of "The Cock" to be comical or perhaps even controversial, but for someone as immature as myself, the discovery of such interesting phrasal choices that aren't intended to be facetious is one of the primary reasons why I like living in Korea.

By far one of the most interesting moments of mistranslation that I have witnessed occurred a few weeks ago on a journey downtown. In downtown Daegu, there is a stage that acts as an axis point, connecting voracious shoppers to an number of potential streets on which to spend cash. It is at this centralized location that Koreans and foreigners alike habitually meet up with friends. For this reason, the stage acts as a multi-purpose venue for performing a number of different rallies, concerts, benefits, etc. On the particular day that Tim and I wandered downtown, we were halted at the stage by a rally that we assumed was promoting AIDS prevention, but to a native English speaker, it appeared to only be promoting AIDS distribution.

The "Free AIDS" slogan has a double meaning in English that certainly does not call for the termination of AIDS. On the one hand, "Free AIDS" could mean that it is being given away for no cost, in the same way that free samples of cheesecake are given away at Costco and free shipping is given to orders of over $200. (i.e. "Excuse me sir, would you like some free AIDS?") On the other hand, "Free AIDS" could also mean that it should be released and uncontained, in the same way that captive animals should be freed to their natural habitats or our imaginations should be freed from the stupidity of Stephanie Meyer's insults to literature. (i.e. The land of the free, and the home of the AIDS!)

If receiving free AIDS or spreading AIDS to the general public seemed a little rash, it was also an option to simply "Hug AIDS," which doesn't seem like the smartest idea, but it's still probably safer than freeing AIDS. I'm a little unsure what the creator of this sign was intending to communicate, but since it was an option at the rally to hug a few men in condom suits, I assume it meant "Embrace the prevention of AIDS."

While the English signs and slogans provide ample entertainment in Korea, the people of Korea themselves are like walking advertisements of hilarious English confusion. T-shirts bearing English expressions are extremely popular here in the same way that tattoos of Chinese or Japanese symbols are extremely popular back home. And in the same way that these tattoos often carry little meaning to the person who puts it on his or her body back home, the English t-shirts here typically register little meaning to the person who is wearing them. And that is precisely why it's so funny.

One day at work, my friend Hannah spotted one of her students wearing a t-shirt that said, "Olde English: 40 oz. of fun." For those of you unfamiliar with Olde English, it is a malt beverage sold in the U.S. that is consumed almost exclusively by minors and/or the homeless. It is typically not consumed by 12-year-old Korean children. Feeling a certain nostalgia for the glory days of late adolescence, Hannah purchased the shirt off the student's back for 20 bucks.

I, too, have witnessed some interesting apparel choices in my classroom. One tiny, smiley-faced girl routinely wears a t-shirt that says nothing more than "American Red Indian." It shocks me every time I see it, not only because of the racist connotations, but also because of the futility of the message. It's kind of like wearing a shirt that says "The Green Bananas," without offering any picture or further explanation. What about the green bananas?!?! Just yesterday, one of my brightest and most likeable students wore a dark gray t-shirt with bold white lettering that said, "Talentless but Connected." At home, people would wear this sort of shirt ironically, but 11-year-old Korean girls rarely have the same sense of humor as 20-year-old American frat boys. I didn't have the heart or simplified syntax to inform her that her shirt essentially claimed she was Paris Hilton. I am confident that if Amy knew she was offending a group of people, and if Yuri knew she was offending herself, neither of these girls would wear these shirts ever again. But if their enlightenment would detract from my own amusement, then I'd prefer they remain in the dark...

A few more misunderstandings...

Perhaps more hilarious to the British, as "bin" in the U.K. is the equivalent of "garbage can" in America. Probably not the preferred location where I'd like to get my spaghetti and wine...

It is truly amazing how simply altering one letter of one preposition in a phrase can so drastically change the meaning of the sentence. Notice the phallic connection between the elephant's trunk and...errr...nevermind...

I seriously don't understand how this could get misconstrued...

It's Too Late to Apologize

2010-09-03T11:49:00.003+09:00

One of the first phrases that I learned upon arrival in this country was "Mi-an-ham-ni-da," which translates to "Excuse me/I'm sorry." I assumed that this would be one of the most useful phrases I could learn when moving to a foreign country in which I scarcely spoke the language. I imagined myself constantly apologizing to strangers for my inadequate Korean linguistics and for my innate clumsiness and poor depth perception. However, it didn't take long to realize that my efforts at implementing this phrase into my everyday Korean interactions were almost completely futile. When I first got here and I bumped into someone, it was a natural reaction to apologize. However, every time I tried to offer the "polite" gesture of apologizing with a pseudo-sincere smile, I was aghast to discover that my attempt at forging a short-term amiability between strangers had been completely disregarded. There was never any hostility about my incompetent mobility; it was just that the stranger failed to even notice that I was attempting reconciliation for doing something socially unacceptable by the standards of most Western countries.

Initially, it angered and confused me when someone would nearly run me over with their scooters without acknowledging that they had done something wrong, even if it was an innocent mistake. However, upon months of further contemplation I realize that it's just as natural for Koreans to not apologize for an accidental boob graze as it is for Westerners to apologize for this same offense. The idea of personal space is just different here than it is in most Western countries. I suppose in a West Virginia sized country with a population of nearly 50 million, you can't get too comfortable with your personal space. A movement into someone's personal bubble here is less of an invasion and more of an expectation. Nevertheless, this doesn't entirely explain why someone would fail to care when they sever your pinky toe with the wheel of their cart. Truthfully, the only Koreans that I think I've ever heard say "excuse me" or "I'm sorry" are my Korean co-workers, and I have exclusively heard them say these phrases in English. It makes me wonder if "Mi-an-ham-ni-da" is reserved only for social misdemeanors of the most severe variety. It seems that apologies are meant to occur exclusively between friends and acquaintances in Korea. Apologizing to a stranger appears to be unnecessary and perhaps even inappropriate.

This isn't a judgment on Korea; it is merely an observation. The truth is that I'm not exactly sure that our incessant apologizing back home is exactly healthy either. The problem with our apparent politeness is that it is rarely sincere. Back home, someone could cut me off with their shopping cart and step on my big toe with a 3-inch stiletto, and I'd still be apologizing all over the place while writhing on the floor in pain, as if it were somehow my fault for perceivably being in the way. Servers apologize profusely when their guests find a hair in their food, customer service workers tell you they're sorry when they inform you that the damaged merchandise that was sold to you can't be returned, and faceless automatons working for credit card companies mechanically announce through the receiver that they're sorry you've been on hold for the last 45 minutes. None of these people are truly sorry, and why should they be? It's not their fault. While you may deserve an apology from someone in all of these situations, you're getting it from the wrong person. Does it really offer any form of reassurance when someone scarcely connected to the grievance at hand tells you with vague indifference that they're sorry they can't find the hotel reservation you made a month ago? Does their scripted apology leave a less bitter taste in your mouth?

So which is weirder: a bicyclist who fails to apologize for splashing a puddle onto a pedestrian, or a pedestrian who apologizes excessively for standing next to the puddle through which the bicycle was moving?

Do You Know the Muffin Man?

2010-08-25T03:23:00.002+09:00

Working in an English language school in which the curriculum and lesson plans are neatly and rigidly laid out for teachers has its ups and downs. The major advantage is that it minimizes my preparation time for class to under 30 minutes a day. The major disadvantage is that I often disagree with the lesson plans, which focus more on memorization than on comprehension, and which stifle my creativity almost entirely. On an average day, I don't really feel like a teacher. I feel like an automaton. An English-speaking automaton with the ability to saunter through the day on autopilot, thoughtlessly correcting grammar and requesting that students cease speaking in their native tongue. My job is not particularly taxing, but it can be quite boring at times. Case in point: I wrote roughly 27% of this blog post during my first four classes of the day. It can often take a powerful catalyst to lift me out of my self-inflicted bout of lethargy. And today, that catalyst came in the form of a melody.

Having just successfully taught the extremely basic concept of "like," "love," and "hate," to students of a lower than average English proficiency, I was now content to listlessly walk around the classroom in a trance, my eyes scanning the pages of the students' workbooks to ensure that they indeed understood the simple concept that they learned long before today, while my brain was slowly retreating into my fantasy world. It wasn't long before my attention was roused by a brighter than average student who began singing, "Finish-ee, Finish-ee" upon the completion of his workbook activities. The lyrics of this song were unsurprising, as many Korean students tend to proudly and habitually celebrate the accomplishment of their brisk translation skills with a "finish-ee" jingle of their choice, but it was the tune rather than the lyrics of this song that successfully jolted me from my catatonia. It took a few runs through the chorus before I could place it, but before long I was teleported back to my living room in Mobridge, watching my nephews and niece running towards their Grandpa's leg, requesting an encore performance of a "ride" known to them only as "Pony Boy."

For those of you unfamiliar with the short tune, "Pony Boy," I'm sure you aren't alone. To the best of my knowledge, "Pony Boy" is not an especially popular song in modern times. However, this isn't the first time that a student has spontaneously begun singing a seemingly obscure children's song that happens to be extremely relevant to my former life. One of my students with undiagnosed ADHD routinely relieves his burning need to speak by screaming the lyrics of "Do You Know the Muffin Man?" Every time he breaks into the chorus of this song, I experience an almost painful nostalgia to be sitting in my eerily silent home in Mobridge when my mother suddenly bursts into an excessively sonorous version of this same tune for the exclusive purpose of causing me to wet my pants. While this may seem like a strange memory to feel nostalgic for, especially considering the ear damage it causes to my cochlea, it is nevertheless an integral part of what it means to be a resident at the Deacon home.

Although Seon Woo, my muffin man student, can sing the song with almost perfect enunciation, I am convinced that he doesn't, in fact, know the Muffin Man, nor does he know where to locate Drury Lane. Nevertheless, while I am fairly certain that his comprehension of the song differs from my own, and his personal experience with the song most definitely differs from my own, I still find it perplexing to conceive that a 10-year-old Korean boy in 2010 regularly sings the same children's song in English that a 10-year-old American girl used to sing in 1995. I don't know what I expected Korean children to be like prior to coming to Korea. I've been here for too long now to recall all of my initial preconceptions. But what I do know is that I didn't expect my childhood self to have much in common with a modern day Korean child. As is usually the case, my assumptions, however seemingly logical in this instance, have proven to once again be inaccurate. I will concede, of course, that there are plenty of differences between 1990s American children from the Midwest and present-day Korean children from Daegu. I never ate kimchi and rice for breakfast. I never began learning a foreign language at the age of four. I played with my dog after dinner rather than ate my dog for dinner. But while the specific experiences of Korean children may be different than those of American children, their personalities are strikingly similar. Throughout the world, girls and boys of a certain age are convinced that the opposite sex has coodies. While the pop stars of various countries may differ, students everywhere are obsessed with catchy pop music sung by disposable androids. While the content of tests may differ, kids still get stressed out over exams. Although the amount of free time kids have may differ, students still spend most of it playing computer and video games. While they may follow different sports, they still have excessive admiration for sports celebrities. While some things in their respective societies are more humorous than others, poop jokes are funny…always.

My intention when I started this post was to briefly and casually mention that a student began singing "Pony Boy" today in class and it made me deliriously happy. Naturally, I failed at the basic task I set out to accomplish. I had no idea it was going to spawn into a reflection about children of the world. Having now gone too far to turn around, I feel as though I need to wrap up with a profound and enlightening concluding statement. But instead, I'm going to leave you with a cliché that I only partially believe: Kids are the same wherever you go.

Easy Peasy Lemon Sqeezy

2010-08-13T04:02:00.004+09:00

It is Thursday evening and I have just returned from a greasy food/drink joint by the name of Beer Cabin. It is not my typical habit to go out for either dinner or drinks on a Thursday evening, but an impending September mini-vacation to Jeju Island (Korea’s holiday island) prompted the event. Drinks were not an original part of the agenda, but some particularly annoying students today led me down the inevitable path of intoxication, and now I find myself home alone at 1 a.m. in a highly problematic position. You see, there is only so much a person can do when they are (a) alone, (b) awake, and (c) slightly drunk. I can’t read my book because it requires too many brain cells, I can’t watch a movie because it requires an attention span, and I can’t do report cards because it requires unhazy judgment. This leaves me with approximately two options: cleaning my apartment, or writing a blog post. For reasons that don’t warrant an explanation, I have chosen the latter.

Of course, I don’t have a clue what I’m about to reveal to my nonexistent audience. Spontaneous blogging is not exactly my forte, which at least partially explains my infrequent posting. I’m more of a premeditated thinker, and I’m already having second thoughts about this idea, but since my only other plausible option involves rubber gloves, sponges, and chemical cleaners, I’m going to attempt to stick this out until the end.

Before I go any further, I feel like I need to clear something up. My earlier claim that I am alone is not entirely accurate. You see, at the present moment, there is a sexy, naked, young woman tenderly nibbling away at my fingers. Her name is Chamchi (참치)...her nickname is Chommers...her English name is Tuna. She is not human. She is Siamese. Those of you who visit my facebook page with even a minimal level of frequency have already been thoroughly introduced to the feline Korean terrorist living under my roof, so I will spare you too much unnecessary prattling here. However, I will say this about my little monster: kitten ownership in Korea is a lot more difficult than it is in America on so many levels. Part of this stems from the fact that kittens are not popular household pets in Korea. Then again, household pets are not popular in Korea in general. What this means is that finding the necessary provisions to please little Chommers can often be a small challenge that occasionally requires a translator. Additionally, the abundant trips to the vet for shots, vaccinations, and emergency eyeball care have proven to be anything but simple. The two-way 30-minute taxi rides bearing a squirming, meowing cat have not exactly been comfortable. Luckily, my incredibly sweet and helpful Korean friend, So Young, has been kind enough to meet me at the vet for some heavy-duty translation regarding Chommers’ various ailments.

Believe it or not, I am driving at a small but significant point with my ramblings, and my point is this: Living in a foreign country is hard. Of course, a large part of this general statement has logical fallacies in it, so allow me to clear those up. My present lifestyle is not hard. My present lifestyle is impossibly easy. Sometimes I find myself thinking about my future self looking back on my present self, and I end up feeling nostalgic and envious towards my present self. I hope that makes as much sense to me tomorrow as it does right now. Anyways, the point is that it’s a Thursday night, it’s well past 2 a.m., I am still mildly intoxicated, and I am not even slightly concerned about this fact. I don’t go to work until almost 4:00 p.m. tomorrow. I finish work at 10:00 p.m. I work 6 hours a day, 5 days a week, and I scarcely spend a moment outside of this time doing work-related activities. I make as much money as an average first year teacher in America, I work half as much, and I don’t pay rent. I have made close friends from no fewer than 7 countries, I drink like a fish almost every weekend, I go on random international vacations frequently, and I am still somehow financially in the green.

Contrary to obvious appearances, it is not my intention to boast. It is merely my intention to highlight the stark difference between my lifestyle and my everyday life. While my lifestyle (at least on the surface) may appear to be lavish, extraordinary, and ever-so-slightly surreal, my everyday life could not provide a greater contrast. When I refer to my “everyday” life, I am referring to those commonplace, mundane occurrences that happen to you every day that you fail to even notice because they are so ingrained into your daily routine. A trip to the hair salon. A take-out order via telephone. A dinner table reservation. When these situations arise in a country in which you fluently speak the language, they are merely tedious chores; when they arise in a country in which you barely speak the language at all, they become sources of severe anxiety. It’s easy to forget how easy the simple things can be back home. I have grown used to my grocery store interactions consisting of three phrases in Korean: “Hello,” (anyeong-ha-se-yo), “bag, please,” (bong-tu ju-se-yo), and “thank you” (kam-sa-ham-ni-da). Any variance in this routine causes my personal cosmos to realign in highly unfavorable ways; I simply cannot function if a cashier throws out a phrase I don’t know the answer to…I avert my eyes southward, smile bashfully, and blush uncontrollably while exhaling a quiet “a-ni-o,” never to learn exactly what it is that I am saying “no” to. Just tonight, a situation arose at the restaurant in which my friend ordered a chicken salad but was brought a salad containing a mystery meat that was clearly not chicken. In an English speaking country, this would be easy to resolve: “Excuse me, ma’am, but I ordered the chicken salad, and it seems that you’ve mistakenly served me a salad containing a few vertically cut Oscar Meyer wieners. Could you take this back, and bring me the chicken salad, please?” Unfortunately for Shell, between the four of us, we only knew how to say the word “chicken” and "please" in Korean. The situation was “resolved” when they cooked the mystery meat for a little longer and put it back on the salad. And this, in a nutshell, is why it is occasionally difficult living in a foreign country. It’s kind of like that dream in which you struggle violently to say something but the words refuse to come out, and the curious bystanders struggle violently to try to understand you, and in the end, you both fail abysmally at this most basic level of communication. Only it’s not a dream. It’s my everyday reality.

And the incomprehensible part is that I’m completely content with this arrangement.

The Perpetual Discomfiture of Existence Abroad

2010-07-26T23:36:00.003+09:00

It’s been nearly three months since I’ve written a blog post. A lot of interesting/noteworthy things have happened to me in this time span that are certainly worth mentioning. The reason that I have failed to mention them is partially due to unrelenting laziness, but mostly due to the fact that the longer you live in a foreign country, the less foreign it seems. All of those things that confused and amused me initially now seem so common that the urgency of talking about them seems less necessary. The maniacal swerving of taxi drivers, the unapologetic disregard for spatial awareness when walking anywhere, and the dried squid sold as a snack in convenience stores have all come to be expected, and it would now only seem abnormal if these realities didn’t exist. The feeling of awkwardness that was previously ubiquitous now only comes along in short-lived, fleeting moments. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt profoundly awkward for longer than a few minutes…until last Saturday. It was on this fortuitous day that I was reminded of exactly how weird it is to live a foreign existence.

It started off with a sleep-deprived trip to the hair salon. This was my first haircut since October, and my first haircut in Korea. I’ve been putting it off for quite some time. You see, I belong to that miniscule demographic of straight women who don’t enjoy having their hair done. While most women find special head treatment to be relaxing and pampering, it usually just causes me to feel immensely guilty and depressed. Guilty for the thick mass of tangles atop my head. Guilty that the colorist has to go back to mix more color two or three times due to underestimation. Guilty that the person who comes in after me always has to wait 30 minutes even though I warn the stylist in advance that this will probably be an issue and she should pencil me in for extra time. Nobody believes it. Nobody believes it until they see it. Furthermore, I feel guilty for my almost complete lack of social etiquette. I am fiercely repelled by small talk, particularly the variety of small talk that typically takes place in hair salons. I feel like I always bore my stylist to death with my one word answers and insufficient concern about who got the boot on “The Bachelor” last night. I always try to remedy this issue by forcing myself to do an unreasonable amount of smiling so as to suggest “It’s not that I don’t like you, it’s just that I’m socially inept!” Additionally, there is something disturbing about sitting in a chair and being compelled to stare at yourself for long intervals. You are never forced to focus on your head so much as when everything below your neck is covered in towels and your hair is covered in goop. It isn’t until then that you realize just how huge your head is. (I mean that in a literal, not metaphorical, sense.) Everything on your face becomes amplified. Your eyebrows look uneven, your nose looks obese, and your jaw line looks masculine. Your double chin suddenly looks like an unfortunate tumor that has been present since birth. The mole on your cheek that you used to think added character now just looks extremely unbecoming. The dark circles beneath your eyes look more pronounced under the unflattering lighting. Roughly 95% of the time, I hate what any stylist does to my hair, but I will never admit this to the hairdresser. I always act as though I am profoundly pleased with their work because (a) I don’t want them to feel bad, and (b) I already feel guilty enough for having merely stepped into the salon. They could probably shave me bald and I would respond with a resounding two thumbs up.

For these reasons, I found it incredibly difficult to pick up the phone and make an appointment, but my damaged split ends finally provoked me into just getting it over with. I opted to go to the same salon that roughly 90% of the foreign population goes to, which is run by an English speaking Italian/Australian man named Roberto. Because the salon gets so much business from foreigners, I wasn’t expecting this trip to the salon to be all that different than it would be back home, and apart from the translator who communicated between me and my colorist, it really wasn’t…until Roberto began cutting my hair. The moment I sat down to begin the haircut, a group of 4-5 Koreans who worked in the salon crowded around my head, observing the Australian protégé working his miracles on an impossible head of frizzy ringlets. I don’t know if it is the typical policy of the salon to have this many assistants helping out with one head, or if they were just seizing the opportunity to see how one goes about cutting hair of a certain volume and texture, but in any event, it felt just a touch excessive. Frankly, I don’t know what could possibly go so awry with my hair that Roberto would need the assistance of 4 people, but unless he inadvertently cut a gaping hole into my temple, I will never feel comfortable with that much special attention.

After my hair appointment, I embarked on a mission to find black flats, as I ruined mine last weekend at the mud festival, a giant party on the west coast of Korea which is inhabited almost entirely by foreigners who are looking for any excuse to get drunk and half-naked while playing in the mud. I spotted one shoe store that looked promising from the window, so I waltzed in. I knew it was a mistake immediately when I stepped into the store and I was the only customer facing a crowd of four smiling salespeople in a confined space. They all decided that they desperately wanted to try to speak to me in my native tongue while simultaneously trying to sell me a pair of grossly overpriced flip flops that suffered from the triple misfortune of being unattractive, uncomfortable, and too small. They succeeded in both missions. After unwillingly trying on four or five pairs of shoes that I didn’t select for myself, I spotted some flip flops that weren’t hideous and looked cheap enough to make me feel less guilty about compulsively buying shoes that I didn’t need. I tried them on and my heel spilled an inch over the back of them. The salesgirl tried to convince me that they were a perfect fit, but when I looked at her dubiously she decided to send another girl off to the mystery shoe warehouse in another building to dust off the shoes reserved for big-footed people with special needs. As soon as she left, the other two girls jovially requested, “Let’s have a conversation!” If a native English speaker would make this same blunt request of me, I would find it profoundly challenging. When this request is made by someone with a limited grasp of the English language, I find it utterly impossible. For me, nothing feels more unnatural than being forced to speak on command…except perhaps being forced to speak on command to someone who doesn’t understand an overwhelming majority of the words coming out of my mouth. What does one say to someone with a limited English capacity? “What is your favorite color?” came to mind, as did “Do you like fruit?” After a few uncomfortable seconds, I eventually settled on “Have you always lived in Daegu?” She didn’t understand this. “Daegu. You live. Always?” I said. For reasons that remain a mystery, I presumed that if I reversed the order of this sentence it might sink in. It did not. “How old are you?” I tried again with a less complex but potentially rude question. “You think,” she responded after a moment. Having been here long enough now to understand the subtleties of minimalist language, I knew she wanted me to guess her age. “22?” I asked after staring at her long enough to pretend like I was scientifically gauging her probable age. “Ohhh!” she said, utterly delighted that I am clearly psychic. “22 Korean age. 21 your age.” Ages in Korea aren’t based on the calendar year with one’s actual date of birth. It’s somehow more complicated than that here. As soon as I begin to understand the complexities of Korean age, I will attempt to explain it to you. So after exhausting my one and only question, the girl fortunately came back with the sandals I didn’t actually want, and I have never been happier to see something I didn’t like in all my life. I would have gladly forked over 30 bucks just to get out of that situation; the footwear was merely a bonus.

On my way back to Chilgok, it began to lightly rain and I didn’t have the foresight to bring my umbrella with me. Standing at a stoplight, waiting for it to turn green, an older woman said something to me that I didn’t understand and then covered my head with her umbrella. We walked along together for a few blocks as she prattled on in a language I have a shamefully low proficiency in, while I smiled a little embarrassedly. After we parted ways, I found myself wondering if this could ever possibly happen back home. If a Mexican, Chinese, or Indian immigrant were walking down a rainy street in America sans protection, would someone casually lift an umbrella over his or her head, or would they walk by with bitter condescension, silently wishing that the aforementioned immigrants would just “go back to their own country?” The life of an immigrant is very different in Korea than it is in America. Foreigners in Korea are usually treated with curiosity. Foreigners in America are usually treated with hostility. While it can certainly be a bit irritating at times to be regarded as a particularly amusing museum exhibit rather than an actual human being, I would not exchange my foreign existence in Korea for the foreign existence of someone who comes to my country to live. I don't think anyone would...

A Potentially "Retractable" Thought

2010-05-07T02:15:00.005+09:00

Ten and eleven-year-old kids are highly predictable. If one kid in a classroom decides to make a sentence about eating poop, then every other kid will make sentences with this same theme. If one kid leans her chair against the wall on two legs, everyone else will soon follow. If one kid decides to wear his glasses upside down, every four eyed kid in the room will imitate this same style. This is why I’m never surprised when I walk into one of my younger classrooms and all of my students are balancing their writing utensils between their nose and their lips.

What does (sort of) surprise me is that I recall being equally amused by this trick when I was their age. I consciously remember seeing Justin Lipp do this same thing in the first grade, and I consciously remember that I respected him more because of it. At age 8, I thought that the concept of this pencil “moustache” was ingenious and original. While I like to think that my criteria for being ingenious and original have since evolved, I still do feel some level of childlike mirth when I see someone with a pencil on their face.

Here’s the thing that really gets me: Across cultures, and across generations, kids contort their faces for the exclusive purpose of holding a pen horizontally on their upper lip. Why? At what point in human history did we decide that it is hilarious to place a pen between your lip and your nose, and why is this such a tempting behavior to imitate? Who was the first person who looked at a pen and decided that the most obvious thing to do with it was to balance it beneath the nose? How is it that multiple kids who will never meet each other, from multiple cultures and across multiple generations can all pick up the same writing utensil and almost instinctively decide to use it as a facial accessory, as if it were the most natural thing in the world? Seriously, where did this idea come from, and why is it so common when it should seemingly be so rare?

People like to pride themselves on their individuality and uniqueness. We’re always looking for little ways to differentiate ourselves from the masses. We drive cars with individualized license plates, we order our coffee with unnecessary complexity, and we accessorize our cell phones to the point of ridiculousness, at least partially for the purpose of setting ourselves apart from the crowd. But somehow, the more that I see of the world, the less convinced I become that people are truly original in any meaningful way. When I look around a classroom, I can see pencils of varying shapes, sizes, and colors, some retractable and some wooden, but these details are unimportant, because the only relevant point is that I know these pencils are all going to end up on the same facial crevice. Sometimes, it takes a bunch of kids with pencils under their noses to make you realize that, at the end of the day, we’re all the same. We are all amused by incredibly simple and incredibly stupid things…and there’s comfort in knowing that…

Makgeolli Wednesdays...

2010-04-29T02:08:00.002+09:00

It is just past 2 a.m. on a late Wednesday night. Typically, on every Wednesday night, I go out for dinner with some friends, and this Wednesday is no exception. What makes tonight slightly different is that we went for makgeolli afterwards. This is also not all that different, because roughly 33% of the time, we will go for a few drinks after dinner on Wednesdays. But what makes tonight truly different is that I successfully came home at 1:30 or so rather than 4 or 5 or 6 a.m. Korea is a very bad place to try to abstain from alcohol.

Makgeolli, in a few words, is a Korean rice wine drink that tastes harmless going down but sneaks up on you pretty easily. I am currently in a state somewhere between soberness and intoxication, and I am comfortable in this state because it means that if I have a few glasses of water before bed, I will wake up fully functioning and able to be productive in the morn, and this is really all I want. A new makgeolli restaurant/bar just opened up exactly 44 steps (my friend Michelle counted) from my apartment. Having been open for a whopping two days now, we obviously had to check out the scene immediately. The makgeolli was among the best I've had in Korea, and this obviously horrifies me since, as previously mentioned, the place exists 44 steps from my residence.

I don't think that I actually have a point in writing this blog post. I think that I just have about 45 minutes to kill until the time that I naturally fall asleep in this country, so I need to fill the void by doing something, and since I don't trust myself reading Anna Karenina while semi-intoxicated, I decided that writing a semi-coherent blog post was a viable second option.

Tonight while four of my friends and I were engrossed in conversation, an intoxicated Korean gentleman decided to inject himself in our company. I wasn't bothered by this at all, but on the contrary was rather quite amused. He spoke slightly more English than I speak Korean. This made communication an obvious barrier, but as we were all merrily drinking, nobody felt especially frustrated with the challenge of not having a common language with which to communicate. Frankly, I was surprised that he lasted 30 or 40 minutes, and probably would have lasted longer had we not decided to skidattle...around the third or fourth time that he asked us all what our names were and where we came from, he apparently decided to give up trying to remember that my name was Jessica and I am from America, and instead decided to point at me excitedly and say, "Image-ee Amazon! Image-ee Amazon!" Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have been all that surprised by this, as I am quite used to people presuming that I am from South of the border, but there was interestingly something very strange about a Korean speculating about my ethnicity...I frankly thought that I just looked like any other foreigner in the eyes of a Korean; I find it very insightful to know that I evidently look like an indigenous jungle woman across multiple cultures...

And that's really all I have to say about that...

Coming Down with the Travel Bug...

2010-04-27T13:55:00.024+09:00

Just over a week ago, I returned from my first vacation in Asia: China. Four friends and I took eight days to explore two major Chinese cities: Beijing and Xi’an. Beijing needs no introduction, but for those of you who are unfamiliar with Xi’an, it is the city near which the 2,200 year old terra cotta army was discovered by a farmer in the 1970s. Both cities were unique and amazing in their own right, but I preferred Xi’an for its relative quaintness in comparison to buzzing Beijing. It seems unlikely to refer to a city of over 8 million as “quaint,” but the city wall that encloses central Xi’an as well as the small shops and street vendors that line the Muslim quarter indeed made Xi’an seem much less chaotic than sprawling Beijing. In any event, we covered a lot of ground in each city in just over a week. We hit up all of the predictable tourist sites: the Forbidden City, Tiananmen Square, the Great Wall, the Terra Cotta Soldiers, etc.

I have a very complex relationship with tourist spots, particularly tourist spots that are as grandiose and hyped up as the ones you’ll find in the Chinese cities we visited. It’s not that they disappoint me; it’s that they cause me to disappoint myself. While I recognize and appreciate the historical and artistic significance of these sites, I always feel slightly bitter that I have to share my experience with hoards of tour groups sporting identical fanny packs and baseball caps. What’s even worse is that I always feel like I’m supposed to have an almost spiritual moment of profundity and somber reflection when I visit such a monumental landmark. “I am climbing the Great Wall of China,” I imagined I would think, “and now I understand the meaning of life.” Instead, I spent a majority of the time huffing and puffing up and down treacherously ancient steps with the Fraggle Rock theme song stuck in my head. Now, don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed tobogganing down the Great Wall and getting trampled by tour groups running from one temple to the next in the Forbidden City. Really, I did. But sightseeing is far from my favorite thing about travelling. After all, I rarely have a moment of insight in the midst of an overcrowded tourist trap.

Katie and I have developed a somewhat embarrassing addiction to reenacting "The Circle of Life" scene from The Lion King in public places...

What I love more than almost anything about travelling are the unexpected surprises that shake up all of your preconceptions about a place and a people. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting to see when I came to China, but I wasn’t expecting to feel perfectly safe everywhere I walked. I wasn’t expecting to see multiple toddlers with a hole cut out of the seat of their pants so that they could squat down on public sidewalks and train stations to take a dump. I wasn’t expecting dozens of Chinese tourists to request a picture with my friend Katie because they had evidently never seen a person with blonde hair before. I wasn’t expecting to see blueberry, kiwi, seaweed, and aromatic crispy chicken flavored potato chips, and furthermore, I wasn’t expecting to enjoy them. I wasn’t expecting to see such a massive number of capitalist American chain restaurants and retail outlets in the heart of a communist country. I even saw a few Dairy Queens! Admittedly, these may not be very profound revelations, but they did challenge me to think about China, for better or for worse, just a little bit differently when I left than when I came. And if you ask me, that’s one of the most useful services that travel can provide a person.

Utterly confused about why a complete stranger would want her picture taken with us...

It might only be a painting, but I assure you that this image is an all too common one in present day China...

But perhaps what I enjoy the most about travelling are the fellow travelers you encounter on the journey. There is something enchanting and almost romantic about developing an extremely short-term friendship with strangers that you spend some time with for a few days before going your separate ways indefinitely. It’s always interesting to hear about where people are going, where they’ve been, and where they come from. Some people might be quiet and introspective while others might be nutty and eccentric, and anywhere in between…One night in Xi’an, we went out to a club with a large group of people from our hostel. Countries that were represented in this group include the U.S., England, Mongolia, the Netherlands, Switzerland, possibly China, and probably more. At the risk of sounding like a total hippy, I find it quite fascinating and rather beautiful that so many different people from so many different walks of life can discover that they have so much in common (and I’m talking about more than just a mutual love for beer). People are often so preoccupied with focusing on the differences between each other, that they fail to recognize the glaring similarities. “New Yorkers are arrogant,” we tell ourselves, “The Dutch are pot smoking peace/love types,” “The English are prim and proper,” and “Country bumpkins from the rural Midwest of America are backwards and ignorant.” And then you find yourself in a situation time and time again in which you are surrounded by people who usually break the stereotype and occasionally reinforce it. While you may never be able to completely relate to someone coming from such a different place who natively speaks a different language from your own, if you throw out all of your preconceived notions for just a moment and choose to focus on the things you have in common with a person rather than the things you don’t, you will be surprised to discover just how alike you are. At the end of the day, you begin to realize that, on the whole, regardless of who people are or where they are coming from, we are far more similar than we are different. The experience of being human, in many ways, is universal.

On a lighter note, street food in Beijing is, in a word, interesting...

For those of you interested in nostalgia or interested in hearing the noise that was present in my head while climbing the Great Wall, please click...

The Korean Easter Bunny Delivers...

2010-04-02T13:38:00.002+09:00

It might not be the most practical gift to give a complete stranger on the side of the road, but it's nice to get an Easter egg on Easter anyhow, even if it isn't in the form of the Cadbury's chocolate mini eggs that I am so desperately craving...Hope everyone has a great holiday!

P.S. I'll try to stop being a lazy pyle and write an actual blog post in the near future...one post in March; I am pathetic indeed...

Losing my Soul in Seoul...

2010-03-10T00:29:00.005+09:00

This last weekend, I took my first trip to Seoul. If I gave you a detailed account of the weekend, the size of this post would be epic. Also, seeing as how the frequency of my blog posts has been dwindling in recent weeks (due to laziness on my part, not due to a lack of topics to talk about), I’m not sure that I have the stamina inside of me to plug out a mass concentration of polysyllabic words. That being said, there are two things I have to say about Seoul that are definitely worth noting; the first is an unanticipated observation, and the second is a fortuitous encounter.

1. Seoul is big. This isn’t the part of my observation that was unanticipated, but I’ll get to that momentarily. While Daegu is also very large, it is still about 3 or 4 times smaller than Seoul. The other major difference between Seoul and Daegu is that Daegu isn’t a major international city whereas Seoul is. What this means is that there are a lot of foreigners living in Seoul, and the city is quite a user-friendly one in which to live a foreign existence: the signs and audio announcements are in English as well as Korean, a lot of people speak proficient English, the foreign districts are massive, Mexican restaurants exist in sufficient quantities as well as qualities, and I don’t get stared at with curious amusement every time I choose to leave the depths of my apartment. Of course, I was fully expecting that Seoul would be more Westernized (and therefore easier for me to function in) than other cities in Korea; but what I wasn’t expecting is that I would find this fact to be somewhat off-putting.

I've never been so happy about mediocre fajitas in my life...

I have been living here for almost three months now. I have grown acclimatized to my environment, and I am comfortable within it. When I go to a restaurant, a grocery store, or any other place that requires an interaction, I have come to accept that I will awkwardly fumble with the Korean language in order to get what I want; at the very least, I will point at things and grunt like a caveman. It might not be the most respectable method of getting what I want, and it might be altogether detrimental to my ego, but it yields results. So when I came to Seoul and I realized that I didn’t have to have incompetent interactions, I was thrown completely off guard. I wanted to speak fragmented Korean to cashiers, but they insisted upon speaking less-fragmented English. At a Mexican restaurant when we were served by someone who appeared to be from Mexico, I wasn’t sure if I should speak English, Spanish, or Korean. Not knowing whether to say, “mul, juseyo,” “agua, por favor,” or “water, please,” had never been an issue before, and I hated the uncertainty that came along with something so simple. Would I sound presumptuous if I favored one of these particular phrases over another? Should I have asked for “mul” because I was in Korea, should I have asked for “agua” because my server was Latino, or should I have asked for “water” because he spoke English to me first? It probably would have been easier to just hold up my glass and grunt...

The other unusual issue that I had with Seoul was that I quickly discovered that I didn’t like being surrounded by native English speakers. Because we were staying in Itaewon, a largely foreign/tourist district of Seoul, I would estimate that roughly 30% of the people we passed on the street looked like us. And for reasons that I cannot fully articulate, this annoyed me. Perhaps deep down, I really enjoy it when Koreans on various mass transit systems in Daegu indiscreetly point and stare at me while saying something about “wagokins” (i.e. foreigners) to whomever they are sitting next to. But this won’t happen to you in Seoul, because “wagos” exist in abundant quantities there. There was just something that felt both distracting and inauthentic about sitting in a Dunkin’ Donuts in Seoul. Distracting because I constantly felt the impulse to listen to other people’s conversations, just because I could. Inauthentic because I didn’t feel like I was in Seoul; I felt like I could have been in any city in America. At the end of the day, I enjoyed Seoul immensely and am looking forward to going back, but I’m ultimately glad to be living in a city that somehow feels much more Korean.

2. We met a North Korean. I refer to this encounter above as being “fortuitous.” I’m not so sure that the chance meeting was fortuitous for him, but I felt very fortunate to meet someone from North Korea, as I have a tendency to forget that just above the DMZ exists a completely different country with an authoritarian government and impoverished people.

We met him in a pub that was inhabited almost exclusively by white people. He was there with his girlfriend who was from Chicago. She was rather intoxicated, and I was approaching that state of mind as well, but because it was a fairly significant moment, I remember most details of the conversation quite clearly. He likes to hang out in “foreign” bars because South Koreans evidently don’t like him because he is from North Korea. They know that he is from North Korea because the accent is apparently quite different. He and his father tried (unsuccessfully) to escape from North Korea once before along the Chinese border. When they were caught trying to escape, they were sentenced to hard labor. His mother and sisters were murdered by the government because their family was trying to find a better life. One of his sisters might still be living, but he has no way to find out. He then tried to escape again through China, this time successfully, where he stayed for four months. When he was hiding in China, he didn’t have a place to stay, nor did he have food to eat…for four months. He managed to get to the Philippines, where he lived for six months, followed by Japan, where he lived for four months before sorting out the paperwork necessary for him to get into South Korea. If a North Korean wants to escape into South Korea, this roundabout method is one of the only ways it is possible…

Sadly, our new acquaintance’s story is not an uncommon one for a North Korean. I have seen a few documentaries and my friend Diana has read a book in which more or less this same plotline happened to different families in North Korea. But there is a certain level of desensitization that occurs when you see these stories through film or read about them in print, a desensitization that doesn’t occur when you sip a gin and tonic across the table from someone who can tell you this story firsthand because he lived through it. It was one of the most surreal conversations of my life, and I would be lying if I said that I didn’t at least briefly question the story’s authenticity. While I don’t know what possible motive two complete strangers could possibly have for fabricating a remarkable story to randoms in a bar, there was something about the outrageousness of the story itself that made it difficult to unquestioningly believe, even though I unquestioningly believe the same story when I see it through the secondhand source of a documentary. Perhaps my initial skepticism suggests that I am willing to believe harrowing tales if I can remain disconnected from them, but I am less willing to believe that the same harrowing tales could happen to someone who is sitting at a neighboring table in a bar…in any event, true or not, this young man’s story reminded me of just how lucky I am. It’s truly an injustice that the quality of every individual’s life is in many ways determined by geography…

Well, so much for writing a non-epic post. I should have known that my fingers have a mind of their own…

On a slightly lighter note, this is Diana and I at the top of what we later learned was known as “hooker hill,” where we stumbled upon our sketchy motel. We didn’t intend on sleeping amongst prostitutes and the men who love them, but I wasn’t all that surprised when I learned where we were since I routinely find myself in the midst of such farces.

Pride and Prejudice...Olympic-style...

2010-02-27T14:02:00.009+09:00

If you’ve been paying attention to the Olympics at all, and you’ve been watching figure skating, you probably don’t need to be told who Kim Yun-a is. But if you are a foreigner living in Korea and you don’t have cable at home, you probably don’t need to be told who she is either. It’s impossible to exist in Korea right now and avoid the ubiquitous presence of Yun-a. She appears to be the spokesperson for everything that is sold in Korea…Nike, Samsung, a particular brand of rameon noodles, etc. The other day, I purchased a jug of milk with Yun-a on the carton, and I must admit that it was tastier than regular milk. She is the face of the Olympic games here…she gets at least 10 times more exposure than any of Korea’s other notable winter game athletes. When I get onto a Korean search engine, I am greeted with Yun-a’s lovely, smiling face. When I walk into any of my twelve classrooms, it has become an expectation that a Yun-a related comment will invariably be made. Even though I didn’t see any of her performances live, they replay them so often that I can watch them more or less whenever I feel like it. She is to Korea in 2010 what Michael Phelps was to America in 2008. I am quite happy that she won, if for no other reason than because there was an unreasonable amount of pressure on her to bring home the gold to her native soil. If she had merely won silver, I fear that yesterday would have been declared a national day of mourning in Korea…

You can even wear Yun-a on your feet in Korea. The socks say "Figure Queen Yun-a," aka "p'i-gyeo kkwin yun-a"...It only took me ten minutes to translate them. Yay me!

That being said, there is something slightly disconcerting about being an expatriate watching the Olympic Games in a different country. More specifically, there is something utterly disturbing about being an American watching the Olympic Games in a different country. While I do, in fact, love my country, there is a lot of baggage that comes along with the title of being an American. I could take this topic in a number of different directions, but I think I’ll stick with sports. When it comes to the Olympics, it’s us against the world. Nobody likes to see Americans win except Americans…it doesn’t matter who the athlete is, and it doesn’t matter what the sport is…people don’t like us. It doesn’t help our vulnerable situation when a number of athletes get busted for steroid use. Then the perception becomes that Americans are greedy, dirty cheaters who are hell bent on world domination (this perception can be extended to include more topics than just sports, but perhaps I’ll get into that at a later date). My point is that when someone like Apollo Anton Ohno wins a few too many medals, the contempt that people feel for Ohno inexplicably gets transferred to me, as if I am to be held personally accountable for the success of an athlete that I have nothing in common with except our nationality. Admittedly, a majority of the “contempt” that people have for American athletes and the people who love them is not meant to be taken seriously, in the same way that Vikings fans give a lot of shit to Packers fans. But occasionally, in the same way that a bitter Cheesehead might occasionally feel the need to beat the crap out of an unsuspecting Vike, I get the feeling that some people would genuinely like to beat the shit out of me for quietly supporting Team America. And that is really unnerving…

Last night, I went out to dinner with my Canadian friend Diana. We started talking about the Olympics, and she posed this query to me (I’m paraphrasing here): Why do people feel pride in the achievements of athletes just because those athletes happen to share their country of origin? Are those people successful because they are Canadian or American or Korean? No. They are successful because they are incredibly talented. It’s sort of a ridiculous and irrational phenomenon if you think about it. Before I get bombarded with rampant cries of anti-patriotism, I should clarify that I too, at times, feel bizarrely proud of my country when one person who happened to be born in said country achieves something spectacular. I’ll use the example of Michael Phelps. I don’t know anything about swimming. I don’t especially enjoy swimming. I took swimming lessons for long enough to learn how to stay afloat. I don’t think swimming is a particularly exciting sport to watch. I watch it once every four years during the Olympics. So why is it that, like most Americans, I followed Michael Phelps’ remarkable gold medal quest with rather excessive zeal? Why is it that when he stood at the podium accepting his 8th gold medal, a warm tear rolled down my cheek? Why did I feel pride that someone else excelled at a sport that I don’t even enjoy? Why does anyone?

Furthermore, why do regular people hate some sports superstars for being so athletically gifted that they cannot be competed against, even by the world’s greatest athletes? Why do people get pleasure out of watching greatness fall? I suspect that if, for whatever reason, Apollo Anton Ohno would be stripped of his medals, there would be a boisterous celebration throughout Korea. Why? Why do people feel happy and/or amused when a prodigy like Tiger Woods commits adultery and gets the back window of his vehicle smashed in by his wife with a golf club? Why do people feel pleased that his endorsements begin to drop him from their advertisements, one by one? Why do we, who have nothing to do with the situation, feel a curious sense of smug satisfaction when the personal weaknesses and imperfections of someone who was previously considered to be the epitome of greatness are exposed to the general public? Is it because it makes us feel better about our own self-imposed mediocrity? How insecure must we be to get happiness out of someone else’s failure?

Rampant Laziness

2010-02-26T11:12:00.002+09:00

I have a million things to write about: a Korean wedding, the Olympics in Korea, the world's potentially unjustified (or perhaps potentially justified) disdain for Apollo Anton Ohno, the unsatisfying taste of silkworm larvae, etc. I assure you, I will get to these things eventually. But for now I just want to very briefly tell you about how big of a pyle I am.

During the past few weeks, I have experienced unforeseen levels of incredible laziness. My laundry has been drying on the rack for five days, my gym sessions have been cut down to two per week, I haven't written a blog post for a week, and I can't even be bothered to go to the grocery store to get the basic amenities. I don't know what inspired these epic levels of unnecessary sloth, but I know that they must stop. The truth is, the only reason I am even writing about this right now is because it seemed like a more appealing option than going to the gym, doing report cards, doing basic prep for school, cleaning my apartment, etc. It is now early afternoon on Friday, meaning that any intentions I had about being productive will likely be put on hold until Monday. Perhaps I'll be inspired to write an actual blog post then...

"Do you guys give up yet, or are you thirsty for more?"

2010-02-19T02:07:00.007+09:00

There is a matter of grave importance that I’ve been trying to get to the bottom of since arriving in this country. After weeks of thoughtful reflection and evidence collection, I think I’m finally ready to present my bold and potentially enlightening thesis: Koreans have an unhealthy obsession with the movie Home Alone.

While I assume that most people have seen or at least heard of Home Alone, I suppose it is still necessary to offer a brief summary. Home Alone tells the story of an eight-year-old boy, Kevin McCallister, who was inadvertently left at home during Christmas while the rest of his family flew to Paris and somehow didn’t notice that he was missing until the plane landed. Due to a number of implausible incidents, no one was able to communicate with or reach Kevin for days. When some incredibly moronic and G-rated thieves attempted to rob the family’s home, Kevin was forced to defend his home from the burglars using elaborately constructed booby traps made from items that just happened to be conveniently lying around the house. In the act of protecting his home, however, he basically wound up causing more destruction to it than the burglars probably would have inflicted. It seems improbable that anyone with an imagination should like this movie, but it seems especially improbable that people living on the other side of the world who don’t speak English and who don’t really even celebrate Christmas should like this movie. But I assure you…they absolutely freaking love it.

Two months ago when I first arrived here, it seemed somewhat odd but very natural that Home Alone should be playing on cable all the time. However, two months later, it is no longer natural for this movie to still consistently play on television, even if it were playing in the United States. But this is not the only thing about the Korean love of Home Alone that is unnatural. It is also unnatural that some of Kelly’s students would mysteriously start shouting “Kevin!” when she merely mentioned Christmas. It is also unnatural that some different students would reenact the scene of the movie in which Kevin rubs aftershave onto his face and bursts into a wide-mouthed scream. It is also unnatural that on the train back from Busan, I noticed that the guy sitting in front of me was reading a full-page newspaper article that evidently had something to do with the movie, as the Home Alone cover photo was proudly displayed at the top of the article. It is also unnatural that when the name “Kevin” was used in a lesson I taught last week, one of my students looked at me, smiled brightly, and said “Ooooh! Kevin! Macaulay Culkin!” What is even more unnatural is that this same student pronounced the name “Macaulay Culkin” with perfect enunciation but is seemingly incapable of pronouncing almost anything else correctly in the English language. If you ask almost any modern-day American teenager who Macaulay Culkin is, he or she will probably just stare at you blankly. So how is it possible that a 14-year-old Korean kid can merely see the name “Kevin” printed in a textbook and immediately associate it with a childhood actor whose short-lived legacy ended before said Korean kid was even born?

Kelly watching Home Alone in her apartment on February 20th...

It’s bizarre, and it’s a question that I am not prepared to answer. But there is a different question that I’d like to briefly explore: What does the apparent nationwide fondness for Home Alone suggest about the Korean sense of humor? As previously mentioned, the film is basically G-rated slapstick humor that is dominated by completely illogical and ridiculous scenarios that require little to no sophistication from its audience. My intention is not to insult Home Alone nor is it to insult Koreans for loving Home Alone. The truth is that I, too, happen to love this movie, for I occasionally find myself in the mood to watch a mindless film that elicits nostalgic memories of childhood. However, I do, more often than not, prefer comedy that is subtle, witty, and hidden in the dialogue, to comedy that is based on wildly outrageous and improbable situations, and I would venture to say that many Westerners share this same preference. About a month ago, I went to see Sherlock Holmes with some friends from various parts of the U.S., Canada, and the U.K. Our row of 9 was the only row in the cinema that ever laughed, and we did so consistently. While the movie was mostly an action film, there was also a lot of subtle humor interwoven into the dialogue. I can’t decide if the humor from that movie was lost in translation, or if Koreans just don’t find movies funny unless an idiotic criminal gets his head torched ablaze by a Machiavellian 8-year-old…I guess I haven’t gotten to the bottom of this mystery after all…

For your viewing pleasure...I'm always a sucker for a good montage!

Three Days Gone in Busan...

2010-02-16T12:37:00.021+09:00

As aforementioned in the previous post, I spent this last weekend in Busan. Approximately 9% of this time was spent doing moderately cultural things, 7% was spent sleeping, 74% was spent consuming alcohol, and 10% was spent attempting to recover from the night before in Starbucks…Overall, it was a pretty great weekend. I could spend some time telling you about the things I remember, the things I think I remember, and the things that are merely hearsay, but because relying on my memory to convey this information is so problematic, I’ll allow the pictures to tell the story…

We got on a train...

We got to the hostel...

We were asked in awkward phrasing to not hold beer bottles or expose our nude bodies to the neighborhood...

We were slightly confused, slightly amused, and slightly disturbed by the slogan at RottiBun...

We went to a microbrewery that poured delightful German-style beers...

We attempted to dance...

We attempted to cure a hangover...

We made sand castles...

We rolled around on cold sand...

We went to a Buddhist temple along the sea...

We stared at Buddha's erect nipples...

We walked up some potentially dangerous steps...

We consumed more alcohol...

We played a drinking game and considered going to a norebang (though this picture does not accurately portray these actions)...

We tried to recover again...

We ate some fish that were moderately tasty but would unquestionably horrify most of the people I know...

The Curious Absence of St. Valentine

2010-02-12T23:43:00.010+09:00

Today is February 12th. However, it does not feel like February 12th. When I walk into any form of a retail store, I am not greeted with massive displays of pink and red hearts, prepackaged chocolates of all varieties and grades, flowers of all classifications and colors, and fluffy but meaningless stuffed animals of all shapes and sizes. When I turn on the television, I am not bombarded with occasionally clever but usually vomit-inducing advertisements that are all trying to get me to purchase a Norelco razor or a Rolex watch for my nonexistent lover. When I turn on the radio (even though I don’t have one), I don’t have to get invited to multiple bars for a “singles” party at which women only have to pay five bucks to drink all night long so that sleazy men can take advantage of this situation all night long. When I read the newspaper (even though I can’t read Korean newspapers), I don’t have to learn about how florists in the Mid-Atlantic U.S. are concerned that the epic levels of snow will “wilt” their Valentine’s Day sales.

It’s not that Valentine’s Day is entirely disregarded in Korea. I have indeed seen a few isolated pink boxes of what appears to be chocolate or candy tucked away in the corner at the 7 Eleven. In the liquor section of the grocery store, I have spotted a few wine gift sets that are packaged to vaguely hint at the notion of love. But the in-your-face displays, advertisements, and greeting cards full of googly-eyed lovers are completely absent from the aura of Korea, and I couldn’t be happier about this fact. In fact, the only reason that I remembered it was close to Valentine’s Day at all was because I still have to read about it on the facebook status updates of my friends back home.

I suspect that the reason that Valentine’s Day is played down so much in Korea is not only because it is a traditionally Western holiday, but also because February 14th marks a much more important holiday to Korean culture: Lunar New Year. I’m still trying to figure out exactly what is celebrated during Lunar New Year. Here is all that I (think I) know about Lunar New Year:

1. It is (probably) the most important traditional Korean holiday.

2. It falls on the day of the second new moon after winter solstice, which this year happens to be on February 14th.

3. It is a much more important holiday to Koreans than New Year’s Day (i.e. January 1st) or Christmas.

4. Koreans typically spend it in the home with family, whereas they are more inclined to spend Christmas with friends. Typically they will celebrate at the home of the eldest family member (or perhaps the eldest sibling).

5. I suspect that gift-giving might be involved since my students seem more inclined than ever to furtively sneak me a piece of candy, and my school gave all of the teachers a life-time supply of seaweed.

6. I don’t have to go to work on Monday.

Because of Lunar New Year fact #6, I am going to Busan this weekend. Busan is the second largest city in Korea, is situated along the southern coast, and is about an hour away from Daegu by train. I don’t yet know precisely what we intend to do when we get there, but Kelly and I have a friend who lives and works at the Busan branch of MoonKkang, so I imagine he’ll at least be able to show us where to drink.

I don’t yet know what to do with all of my seaweed. Koreans will wrap it around rice or perhaps throw it into some soup. However, I was thinking I might wrap my body in it and pretend to be a mermaid...

Skiing Sideways: The Wave of the Future...

2010-02-11T01:56:00.007+09:00

This last Sunday, I went skiing with my ordinary posse of friends. I could tell you at some length about the weirdness of skiing on a mountain on which not a single snowflake was produced in the sky. I could tell you at some length about the overcrowded slopes that were brimming with people who chose to sit down on the middle of a run for no apparent reason. I could tell you at some length about my scrape with death after running face first into a fence at treacherous speeds, getting my boot stuck in said fence, and being forced to play the role of the damsel in distress for five minutes until an older Korean gentleman came by and liberated my foot. I could tell you at some length about the aerial view I had from a ski lift of a child who, clearly in pain, was lying flat on his back for ten minutes after Kelly inadvertently plowed over him. I could tell you about all of these things, but I’m not going to, for there is really only one thing that I want to mention about skiing in Korea, and it’s this:

Couples’ outfits make me giggle internally…

How to Buy Groceries and Reluctantly Enter into Someone's Home...

2010-02-10T01:05:00.014+09:00

Several weeks ago, Kelly and I were approached by an extremely petite and extremely vivacious middle-aged Korean woman while wandering through the book section of a massive Wal-Martesque store called HomePlus. The woman, whose English name is Diane, prattled on for a good ten minutes about varying topics before transitioning to her primary motivation for striking up a conversation with us: she teaches an English storytelling class to munchkins and wanted some help with her English skills. At the time, neither of us had phones, but we took her number anyways out of politeness, although we really didn’t intend to call her. Then a few weeks later, still without a phone, Kelly ran into her again at the neighborhood grocery store, where she spent another ten minutes chatting animatedly and inquiring (rather desperately) about the possibility of a language exchange. She wouldn’t let Kelly leave the grocery store before buying her a large tub of strawberries. A few days later, I ran into her again while walking to the grocery store and I assured her that one of us would call her when we finally got phones. Fearing what would happen if we had yet another awkward run-in, Kelly called her a few days later. And this is how I wound up spending four hours on Super Bowl Sunday (i.e. Super Bowl Monday) in the home of an excessively generous and gregarious woman who happens to make me feel physically and mentally exhausted.

On the morning of Monday, February 8, I was in no mood to get out of my bed. I was running on empty from an eventful but physically taxing weekend of extreme wine, extreme skiing, and an extreme lack of REM sleep. Furthermore, the score of the Super Bowl was 16-17 in the third quarter, and this fact made it difficult for me to pry myself from my computer. Besides, it was raining, and even though it annoys me when people use the weather to justify their self-imposed laziness, I am, more often than not, guilty of this very offence. So when Kelly knocked on my door at 10:56 to go participate in a language exchange for an indeterminate length of time, I was in no mood for human interaction in any language, and I grumbled and moped about this fact the entire way to Diane’s apartment (much to Kelly’s annoyance, I’m sure).

When we knocked on the door, we heard a loud, cheerful, and completely indistinguishable shout come from within, and before long Diane opened the door and greeted us with her characteristic exuberance. We were promptly shuffled to the couch, where a large platter of organic strawberries was placed before us. Diane then went to the kitchen and returned with two large tangerine/orange hybrids which are evidently only grown on Jeju island, just south of the Korean peninsula. When the oranges were peeled, she went out to her balcony and returned with a box of apples that were roughly the size of bowling balls (that is only a slight exaggeration). They were ginseng apples that apparently came from a friend who has her own orchard. Fortunately for Kelly and I, they didn’t taste even vaguely of ginseng, a root which we have not yet acquired a taste for. While Diane sat cross-legged on the floor peeling apples, Kelly and I sat on the couch devouring the “fruits” of her labor. Ordinarily I would have felt extremely guilty about sitting on a comfortable couch while a 45-year-old woman sits on the floor, but in Korea, people traditionally sit on the floor when eating, regardless of age. In fact, an overwhelming majority of the restaurants I go to involve removing my shoes and sitting on the floor in front of a table that stands about a foot off the ground (but let’s leave that topic for a future blog post). When Diane finished peeling the bowling balls, she went to the kitchen and returned with tea service. She handed us each a cup of balloonflower root oriental herb tea that had been aged 21 years and was sweetened with honey…it was rather delicious in spite of the fact that a “balloonflower” sounds like something a clown would make at a seven-year-old child’s birthday party. Diane gave us each two packets of the tea to take home with us.

About midway through the peeling of the second apple, Diane’s middle school aged daughter returned home from school. It was only about noon, so I’m not sure why the girl was home so early, but I suspect it has something to do with middle school graduation (which some of my students have been excitedly talking about), and/or national exams. The girl was cute, smiley, polite, and a little shy (at least in comparison to her outgoing mother). Despite her relative quietness, she saddled up next to us and joined us in our fruit feast. I tried to put myself in her shoes. I tried to imagine how I would react if, at any point in middle school, I would have come home and found my mother sitting on the floor and chatting in a foreign language with two Koreans half her age who were seated on the couch. However, even my occasionally vivid imagination found this scenario too bizarre and improbable to fathom.

Anyways, upon the conclusion of the fruit and tea production which lasted well over an hour, once our voracious appetite for fresh produce and Diane’s voracious appetite for English conversation had been simultaneously satiated, we were whisked away into another room to begin our Korean lesson. We started with the basics of the basics: the alphabet. Kelly and I both had previously learned the Korean alphabet in hangul, but it was nice to get more practice and work on the pronunciation of vowels (as there are an abundance of them in the Korean language). My new favorite word is “baram bida,” which literally translates to “wind blow.” In Korean slang, however, a baram bida is a person who commits infidelities against his/her lover, commonly referred to in English as a “cheater.” I like the idea of using the wind as an analogy for adultery. When Diane was explaining the meaning of baram bida to us, she used none other than Bill Clinton as a prime example of a “wind blower.” Poor Bill will apparently never live down the legacy of his fifteen-year-old sex scandal, not even in Korea. Anyways, I think that one of the most interesting things about the Korean language is the difference in sentence structure between English and Korean. In English, we use a subject-verb-object sentence structure (i.e. I like that bag). However, in Korean they use a subject-object-verb sentence structure (i.e. I that bag like). This helps to at least partially explain why a lot of my beginner students struggle with forming simple sentences.

My Korean notes...

After our crash course in Korean, Diane and her daughter took us out for lunch at a galbi restaurant (because she evidently didn’t feed us enough already). Galbi is essentially flavorful pieces of beef that are grilled at the table and served alongside numerous side dishes. On our way to the restaurant, we stopped into a small shop that specializes in making a specific type of Korean sweet made with red bean paste because Diane wanted to buy some for us to sample (even though it sounds neither appetizing nor sweet, it was actually quite tasty). After leaving the restaurant and parting ways with Diane, she insisted that we borrow her extra umbrellas until we see her again because she didn’t want us to walk home in the rain (which was really only a light mist).

At the conclusion of the fourth hour of our “exchange,” I found myself feeling a nagging sense of guilt. I frankly just don't get it. Even though this isn’t a paid position, I couldn’t help but feel like Diane was getting the short end of the stick. What was supposed to be a language exchange ended up being a free for all in which Kelly and I were the ones who reaped all of the benefits. We essentially just walked into a stranger’s home, got fed for four consecutive hours, had a tutorial of the Korean language, and left with considerably more than we came with. What did we provide Diane with? Dishes to wash, a lesson to prepare, and a lunch tab to pay. I’d like to say that we provided her with some stimulating conversation, but the truth is that Diane did a majority of the talking. I’m still trying to understand what our role is in this supposed exchange. I can’t comprehend what caused Diane to so actively seek out our assistance when she seemingly doesn’t need it. I’m beginning to think she’s just bored. She is a housewife whose husband and children are out of the house all day, and she has an extremely high proficiency in the English language but no one with whom to converse. It seems as though she just wants someone to talk to in English...or perhaps she just wants someone to talk to in general...And I guess that’s where Kelly and I come in. We’re not really teachers or even assistants…we’re just conversation partners…and perhaps one day, we will become unlikely friends…

A Day in the Life of a Korean Student

2010-02-06T11:19:00.003+09:00

I realize by now, after scanning the titles of my last 20 or so blog posts, that I have completely neglected to talk about the one thing that brought me to this country in the first place. The thing is, I haven’t actually “forgotten” to talk about it…whenever I write these blogs, I always feel like I probably should talk about my job more, but my fingers tend to operate according to their own agenda. The problem is that I find the topic of “work” to be a boring one both to read about and to write about. Additionally, it’s such a massive topic that could be taken in so many different directions that it feels almost too overwhelming to write about. Nevertheless, I think that some things about school are worth mentioning…

And now that I’ve invited you in the last paragraph to take an inside look at my always complicated thought process, I’m going to tell you about the life of Korean youth, for it is an active and demanding one. Depending mostly upon the socioeconomic status of a child’s parents, children in Korea will not go home at the end of the school day and play Nintendo until midnight. If their parents can afford it, they will send their kids to as many academies as can be fit into their already busy schedules. An “academy” in Korea is essentially a private school that teaches kids a particular skill for a few hours each week. There are math academies, piano academies, science academies, Korean academies, basketball academies, and, of course, English academies. Korean parents don’t send their kids to 2 or 3 different academies a week because they hate their kids; they do it because they (a) want their kids to be exceptionally intelligent, and (b) want to boast to other parents about the exceptional intelligence of their kids. So by the time I get ahold of a kid at 9:30 P.M. (when my last class begins), he or she may have been going to school almost nonstop for 13 hours.

As if the ceaseless schooling isn’t taxing enough, kids also have to do vast quantities of homework for both public school and academies. I can’t say with certainty how much homework they have to complete for the other schools they go to, but at MoonKkang English Academy, it is no small amount. If they consistently fail to complete their homework or fail one of the tests that are given to them each week, they will get a jaeshi, essentially Korean detention. Jaeshi ranks #1 amongst the fears of all MoonKkang students, and it is the exclusive motivator that makes students do their English homework, for if they get a jaeshi, they will have to stay at MoonKkang redoing their homework or test for no less than an hour after class ends. As you can imagine, this is not a pleasant experience for them, and the mere mention of the word “jaeshi” often elicits a wide-mouthed and panicked gasp. “Teacher!” they plead, “No jaeshi! My mom is crazy. She will kill me!” As a teacher, I am at liberty to give students jaeshi for a number of offenses. However, bearing their arduous schedules in mind, I find myself often sympathizing with a lot of students, perhaps more than I should. It takes some serious naughtiness for me to inflict another hour of school upon an overexerted 12-year-old. There are, after all, less cruel methods of disciplining children.

Artwork from the most exuberant child I have encountered in my life...

Oh, by the way, have I mentioned that Korean kids also go to public school on Saturdays?

You Better (Not) Shop Around...

2010-02-04T02:16:00.005+09:00

Back home, retail workers will robotically ask if you “need any help finding anything” when you waltz into a store, and when you tell them that you’re “just looking” (even though the truth is that you are looking for something specific), they leave you alone (and in some cases neglect you completely) until you seek their assistance. There are advantages and disadvantages to this system, (as well as to the once-a-minute dressing room check-ups), but for the most part I have always been content with doing my shopping without much assistance from a salesperson, and I would venture to say that most Westerners agree with me. The thing is, we don’t want to be bothered when we shop unless our arms are buried in clothes and we are in desperate need of a dressing room.

In Korea, however, it seems as though people genuinely wish to be helped when they walk into a store, and the salespeople are more than willing to accommodate for this desire. What they fail to recognize, however, is that while Koreans evidently want special help when they enter into a store, Westerners just want to be left alone. Even if I had the verbal ability to tell a salesperson in perfect and polite Korean that I would prefer to just have a look around, I think said salesperson would still be utterly confused by my meaning. Having “a look around,” doesn’t appear (at least on the surface) to be a common practice. Mindless, aimless, therapeutic shopping is apparently not a popular Korean pastime.

What this means is that unless you’re in an exceptionally busy store, you are going to get followed so closely by a salesperson that if you make an abrupt stop, he or she will apologetically run into the back of you. Under normal circumstances, this person won’t say anything (presumably due to the language barrier), but it is always uncomfortable, and I always feel compelled to (a) look faster, (b) make a decision quickly, and (c) buy something.

And this is exactly what happened to me unexpectedly within my first week of arriving in the country. I was on a quest for a hair straightener, as I did not want to bring mine from home due to the voltage difference. It was my intention to “shop around” as Americans are wont to do before making an official decision about almost anything. There was a large electronics/appliance store near my school, so I decided that this might be a good place to begin my pursuit. When I waltzed in, I was promptly greeted by no fewer than six salespeople who were huddled together near the entryway; evidently I was the only shopper that afternoon. One of the six was apparently up for a challenge, so she broke away from the pack to try to help me, even though we had no common language with which to communicate. I attempted to explain to the woman through broken words, caveman-like grunts, and full-body gestures that I was simply looking. “Earphones?” the woman guessed in our 30th second of what felt like the longest and most exhausting “conversation” of my life. At this, I put forth my resignation and began straightening my hair with an invisible flat iron. The woman understood what I was seeking immediately and shuffled me up three escalators to the hair appliance section. Safely escorted to my destination, I expected to now be left alone to ponder my decision; I was not left alone, however, as the salesperson dutifully remained by my side like a loyal Bloodhound. After maybe 60 seconds of comparing products under pressure, a small Korean man appeared at my side, bowed his head, and handed me a cup of green tea. “Kam-sa-ham-ni-da!” I said as I took the cup with both hands and a head bow. Still under the surveillance of the salesperson and now having just received an overt gesture of hospitality, the pressure to make a purchase had mounted even further. At this point, I only had two options: 1) I could drop my tea, run down three flights of stairs, and hold on to a vague hope that Koreans think that all Caucasians look alike so that none of the salespeople would ever recognize me again, or 2) I could sacrifice my instinctive desire to compare prices/products and shell out 45,000 won (about 40 bucks) on a hair straightener in order to salvage what small amount of pride and dignity I had left. I chose the latter…

The fruits of my labor...

Having now grown accustomed to the practice of being followed whenever I enter into a shop, I have come to accept it as a part of my shopping experience. However, while you eventually get used to it, you never feel comfortable with it. Kelly, Diana, and I went shopping last weekend, and while I successfully managed to find entirely too many things I wanted to buy, the pleasure that normally comes along with the act of shopping was at least partially replaced with anxiety whenever we walked into a shop. It’s always awkward when I merely touch a shoe, and the salesperson immediately asks what size I want and demands that I sit down to try it on. Since I have neither the stamina nor the syntax to put up a fight, I submit to her demands, try on the shoe, leave it on my foot for long enough to feign an interest, avoid eye contact as I hand the shoe back to her while letting out a soft, guilt-ridden “a-ni-o,” bolt out of the store immediately, and enter into another shoe store so I can do it all over again…

Sometimes the shoe fits...

The Man in the Moon

2010-02-01T00:06:00.003+09:00

Last evening, as we were waiting to catch the bus downtown, I noticed that there was a full moon. I also remembered that there was a full moon at the end of the month in October and November in South Dakota. I found this to be curious, and I posed this query to Kelly, Diana, and Hannah: Can a full moon be seen anywhere in the world on the same date? None of us knew for certain, but we arrived at a mutual hypothesis that whatever you see in the Northern hemisphere will be the opposite of what you see in the Southern hemisphere, essentially that if there is a full moon in Seoul, there will be a new moon in Sydney.

We were kind of right but mostly wrong. The truth is that the phases of the moon are the same everywhere on Earth, meaning that there is a full moon right now both in Seoul and in Sydney. There is a difference, however, in the perspective of the moon between Northern and Southern hemispheres. If the moon is in a crescent shape and the ends of the crescent are pointing towards the right in Seoul, they will be pointing to the left in Sydney. I know this is going to sound obnoxiously sentimental, but I find it to be rather beautiful and remarkable and comforting and thought-provoking to know that the moon (for the most part) will look exactly the same in all places in the world on any given night. I also find it to be slightly depressing because to some degree it makes me feel very small and insignificant. Anyways, if you’d like a slightly more technical description of what I’ve just told you above, visit this site:

http://www.woodlands-junior.kent.sch.uk/time/moon/hemispheres.html

Jess's Blog - Now w/ Pictures!

2010-01-29T14:03:00.002+09:00

Now that I finally have the internet readily at my fingertips whenever I want it, I found the time to play around with some of the fuctions on my blog, and I added a few pictures to some previous posts to give a better sense of what I'm talking about...so if you're interested, have a look...I do have to warn you, however, that the picture on the "Lassie" post might make some of you uneasy...

A bangin' good time...

2010-01-29T12:48:00.006+09:00

This last Saturday, I did one of the weirdest things I’ve done since arriving in this country, and certainly the weirdest thing I’ve done soberly since arriving in the country. I went to a themed DVD bang. DVD bangs exist in heavy concentrations throughout Daegu, and I presume that they exist in heavy concentrations throughout most cities in Korea. Essentially, a DVD bang is a small room, consisting of a high-definition television and a few pillows, which can be rented out for private use. The reason for their popularity (I presume) is because most young adults here live with their parents up until the time that they marry, and since most homes are very small, there are few places to get some alone time with a lover. Thus the DVD bang was born. I understand the concept. However, there are a few details about DVD bangs that leave me befuddled. First of all, if the real purpose of a DVD bang is to watch a movie in privacy, then most places have failed to meet this basic goal. The DVD bang we went to basically consisted of a long corridor that was vaguely reminiscent of the corridor seen in The Shining, down which there were maybe 7 or 8 rooms on either side. The rooms had walls, of course, but they only went up ¾ of the way to the ceiling, and doors were replaced with curtains. What this means is that, although they put a cap on how loud you can have the volume, you can still quite clearly hear other people’s movies and conversations (the latter of which we wouldn’t understand anyways). Another strange thing about the DVD bang was the movie choices. For reasons that don’t warrant an explanation, we opted to watch an American film with Korean subtitles, but our choices were pretty much limited to movies that were made sometime between 1995 and 2004. For this reason (and because we felt guilty for taking too long to make a decision because the DVD bang guy didn’t trust our level of competency enough to leave us alone with the remote), we ended up watching A Knight’s Tale, a really bad Heath Ledger film that seemed really good the last time I watched it at age 14. When we finally decided on a movie, we put it on pause and went out to the lobby to get some snacks. Most snacks (except beer) were included in the room rental fee, so we took full advantage of the ice cream, stale microwaved popcorn, Nesquik, Kool-aid, hot chocolate, tea, and toast. But there is one thing that makes eating toast and watching A Knight’s Tale in a semi-private room in Korea more bizarre than it already is. The thing that set this DVD bang apart from the others was its theme. Not every DVD bang in Korea has a theme, but every once in a while you’ll stumble across a precious gem that adds an extra layer of weirdness to an already weird concept. And in the case of Suu Café, this precious gem is teddy bears.

The rooms, rather than being painted in eggshell white or earth tones, were plastered with floor to ceiling hot pink wallpaper, which was sporadically dotted with brightly colored beach sandals and sunglasses. Decorating the walls was a white-framed oval mirror that looked like it came out of Snow White, and on either side of said mirror was an identical framed picture of what appeared to be an 18th century curly-haired toddler standing next to an unusually large display of roses. On both sides of the T.V. (also framed in white), there was a pink wall lamp, the shade of which had dangling pink jewels hanging from it. Just beneath the T.V. there were two tiny pink tables which would have been an ideal place to have high-tea with my stuffed animals and my alter-ego, Mrs. Clockone, twenty years ago. The curtains and pillows were of a matching fabric of rose prints and pink frilly trim. Sitting in the corner of the room was a large, light brown, somewhat melancholy teddy bear. We did our best to cheer him up. Originally, I thought that perhaps our evening at Suu Café would make me feel nostalgic for childhood. However, it mostly just made me feel like a Byung Tae (i.e. pervert).

I heard that there is an African Safari themed DVD bang somewhere in Daegu…I won’t rest until I find it…

the irrational beliefs of a self-centered girl

2010-01-26T23:27:00.001+09:00

I spent a solid portion of the past week walking around with what I thought was a visceral feeling telling me that the Vikings were going to make it to the Super Bowl this year. Of course, destiny (arguably) can’t be changed, and unfortunately the Vikings are destined to be forever within the grasp of a Super Bowl victory only to be struck with an agonizing and demoralizing defeat in the final seconds of the final round of the playoffs. I realize now upon further contemplation that this feeling that I thought was instinctive had nothing to do with a belief that the Vikings’ unlucky legacy was about to be broken, but it had everything to do with the fact that I am an egocentric individual. Here’s the thing: If I were back in the States, I doubt that this seemingly instinctive feeling would have been present at all. Sure, I would have gotten my hopes up, but I also would have assumed that the Vikings would probably lose because this is what you always have to assume if you decide to become the fan of a team that perpetually chokes on its own success. But my belief that the Vikings had a shot this time around had less to do with a false sense of optimism and more to do with an egoistic belief that everything about a place changes dramatically when you leave it. Even though it is illogical, it is still tempting to imagine that the cosmos will not remain in order if you are removed from a particular situation…that my absence from the country will somehow cause the Vikings to become Super Bowl champs. While my head understands that an expatriate living on the other side of the globe has little to no influence over the outcome of a major sporting event, my heart refuses to acknowledge that my self-imposed removal from the country ultimately doesn’t make said country lose its identity. While I know that my mom will still play computer games that involve popping bubbles, and my dad will still go to poker on Tuesday nights, and Cindy Sue will still demand ice cubes in her water bowl, and one brother will analyze what went wrong with the Steelers this season while the other brother will buy and sell things related to fishing on eBay, it is still difficult for me to imagine that everything will go on back home exactly as it did before I left. Perhaps because almost everything about my world has changed in the last six weeks, it is impossible for me to understand that the world I left can remain unaltered. And the realization that everything is still the same makes me feel simultaneously happy and sad. Happy to know that some things will never change – and sad to be missing out on those things…

The thoughts that cross my mind on four hours of sleep...

2010-01-23T10:54:00.003+09:00

At the present moment, I again find myself in a coffee shop, as I still do not have the internet at my place. It will be at least another two weeks before I have my alien card due to the fact that someone somewhere screwed up my application and I had to re-apply. This really makes me jazzed, as it means that I can't have the internet, a cell phone, or a bank account for at least two more weeks. By the time I get them, I will have been here almost two months. But my school gave me a cash advance, so it will be fine. I'm just cranky because I'm hungover. I really do drink far less than all of my blog posts suggest...

This morning when I went to my preferred coffee shop at 10:13 a.m., I found that it was closed so I had to go to another one down the street. They opened at 10:00 a.m., I have been here for well over an hour, and so far I have been the only customer. I'm used to it by now, but it initially struck me as a bit odd that nobody in Korea drinks coffee at what would be considered peak coffee drinking hours in the States (approximately 6:00 a.m.-11:00 a.m.). Coffee in Korea is not treated as a drug; it's treated as a lifestyele. People don't speed through a pick-up window at Starbucks demanding grande frappacinos with a triple shot of espresso, no whip, and skim milk. Instead, they typically sit inside the coffee shop and languorously linger over a latte for a few hours with friends. It's more about social interaction and less about getting the jitters. While the coffee shops do open late, they also stay open late (usually until midnight), and actually have a pretty steady clientele up until that point. I don't know what point I'm trying to make...I don't know if I'm really trying to make a point at all...it's more of an observation...a rambling, incoherent observation that I make as I try to cure this hangover the Western way: with coffee.

Before I go home and go back to bed for a few hours, I want to make one more rambling, incoherent observation. Yesterday morning, I woke up singing the local television jingle of an ear, nose, and throat clinic back home. I only know the words in fragments, but I know the beat well. It goes something like this: "We're the best da da da da da everything you do da da da da discover a healthy new you da da da da Midwest, ear, nose, and throat!" I have been here for well over a month now. I am on the other side of the globe. I am constantly being distracted and introduced to new things. I am hearing a different language being spoken all around me all the time. There is a lot of noise. I therefore don't know whether to be frightened or amused by the fact that I can wake up in South Korea singing a local advertisement jingle to a health clinic in South Dakota that I will likely never visit. What does this imply about the apparent effectiveness of seemingly outdated advertising techniques such as the annoying jingle? What does my own memory and recital of said jingle imply about myself as a human being? What does the existence of an advertisement for an ear, nose, and throat clinic imply about society in general? Am I supposed to feel inclined to go get an earwax cleaning in the same way that I am supposed to feel inclined to go buy a cheeseburger?

Anyways, I need to go. They seem to have decided to play American hip-hop music to please me. Little do they know, I am no Chris Brown fan...

Lassie Come Home...

2010-01-19T22:58:00.003+09:00

This last weekend, aside from drinking too much alcohol yet again, Kelly and I went to Seomun market in Daegu, which is the third largest market in Korea. Like most markets, it sold a lot of cheap goods (“cheap” meaning both inexpensive and poorly made), a lot of fish and produce, and a lot of curious cuisine from food stalls (“curious” meaning that there is a 30% chance it will be tasty and a 70% chance you will get food poisoning). But there was one thing being sold at this market that set it apart from every other market I have been to, and it was one thing that my virgin eyes were not prepared to see…Dogs…My astonishment at seeing these animals in the market has less to do with their presence and more to do with their purpose, for these were not dogs that were intended to take home to play with. These were dogs that were intended to take home and throw into a bubbling cauldron of stew.

Before I go any further, I feel the need to defend Koreans for slaughtering innocent puppies for dinner (this is already sounding like a weak defense). The thing is, a vast majority of Koreans don’t have pets, mostly out of practicality because a lot of homes (particularly in urban areas) are too small to justify owning and caring for a pet. This doesn’t mean that pet dogs are obsolete in Korea, but they are uncommon. Furthermore, if people do own a pet dog here, they generally don’t treat it as a valued member of the family. While you may see people dress their dogs in ridiculous outfits, you will never see them babbling on with sincere affection about their dog’s unique sense of loyalty and camaraderie. There is no Korean equivalent to one of my cousin Annie’s frequented websites, www.doodlekisses.com, a facebook-style website for Golden Doodles and the people who love them. Pet dogs and cats in Korea are pretty much the emotional equivalent of goldfish in America. If they become too high maintenance, we might flush them down the toilet, and we have really no problem chowing down on a nice fish sandwich afterwards. However, chowing down on a hot bowl of dog stew is not really as common as I seem to be making it sound. Dog meat is considered something of a delicacy item here, and it is quite expensive from what I understand. Additionally, there is about a 0.1% chance that I (as a Westerner) will inadvertently order such an item. Apparently the restaurants that have dog on the menu exclusively have dog on the menu, and you will know if you enter into one such establishment. I’ve also heard that most Koreans will be rather hesitant to serve dog to Westerners because they know how we feel about such animals and assume that we don’t have a clue what we’re about to put into our bodies.

I feel somewhat ashamed to admit that, until seeing the palm-sized puppies being sold alongside chickens and roosters in the market, I dabbled with the notion of eating dog at some point while here. I previously imagined that only old, ugly mutts nearing the end of their natural lifespan would be sacrificed for human consumption. I’m not sure why I thought this, and I’m not sure why I thought this would somehow be better. I suppose it is a natural human tendency to create less haunting fictions of the realities about which we would prefer to remain ignorant. When I saw the animals huddling together in their cages, I tried to convince myself that they were intended to be sold as pets, that surely nobody would heartlessly murder man’s best friend for a tender and juicy kebob. Of course, my heart knew that the remnants of these pups would eventually end up in the feces of humans.

I am not a terribly emotional individual. I used to weep for hours at movies like Old Yeller and Homeward Bound, but adulthood has stripped me of my childhood innocence and has turned me into a cold, callous old turd. But for just a fleeting moment at the market, I felt a spontaneous surge of emotion, and it was at this moment that I knew I could never willingly consume dog while in Korea. As I stared at the tiny, adorable dogs, shivering both from the cold and from fear, I was reminded of all the good times I had with my dog Scrappy (deceased) and my cat Cindy Sue (living) back home…the stupid pet tricks, the photo shoots, the endless hours of playing “catch the laser light,” the long conversations in which I did a majority of the talking…I thought about how these dogs would never have the opportunity to grow up and help the blind see, help a fire fighter extinguish flames, help a police man bust a drug dealer for smuggling cocaine, or help a rescue worker save a child trapped beneath earthquake rubble in Haiti. I thought about how these dogs would never have a chance to catch a burglar, make a small child giggle, chase a mailman, or rescue a drowning boy from a hole in a frozen pond. In the midst of these thoughts, it occurred to me that I wanted to be a hero. I wanted to purchase all of the puppies in every market in Korea and set them free. At the very least, I wanted to write a Disney movie based on this premise, starring myself in the lead role. Perhaps I’m being overly sentimental…In any event, it makes no difference, for my powerful impulse to set the puppies free occurred too late. Before leaving the market, we walked by the cages again. Two animals had disappeared. I’m sorry, Cindy Sue…I am so sorry…

Happy Anniversary!

2010-01-15T14:42:00.001+09:00

Today is my one month anniversary with Korea. My shower helped me celebrate this morning by giving me hot water for the first time since arriving in this country. You see, my shower has been putting me through a rigorous series of cruel hazing rituals for the last month. Not only has it forced me to put up with extreme discomfort in tight quarters, a general lack of water pressure, and partial hypothermia, but it also greeted me with a whopper of a clog that even three bottles of Drano could not cure. While I (sort of) fixed the drain issue, the hot water issue proved to be a crippling challenge which I approached with a new method of attempted repair every day…and every day, I failed abysmally. But today, I finally defeated the cold water demons (I won’t bore you with how I accomplished this unremarkable feat). Not surprisingly, a few hours after I relearned that personal hygiene doesn’t have to feel like a mild form of torture, someone finally showed up to my apartment to help me fix my hot water; it looks like the shower got the last laugh.

But alas, I have learned more in the last month than how to deal with a perpetually unpleasant bathing experience. Here is a brief, bulleted list of some of the other things that Korea has taught me thus far:

1. How to routinely escape the untimely death of getting run over by a motorcyclist, a taxi driver, or an elderly but feisty pedestrian

2. How to never be disappointed when the breads and sweets that looked so delicious in the display case fail to taste even remotely similar to the way they appear

3. How to eat cow spine soup and enjoy it immensely

4. How to waste 10 minutes of class time by measuring your eyelashes with a ruler

5. How to get a Korean guy with a Kate Gosselin haircut to tell you repeatedly without inquiry that he is, in fact, not a homosexual

6. How to inadvertently get a Korean co-worker to put random notes and gifts on your desk every day

7. How to get store proprietors and food vendors to inexplicably give you significantly more than you paid for

8. How to unintentionally annoy the entire British population with your accent, vocabulary, and removal of the “u” in the words “colour” and “favourite”

9. How to tell a stranger in Korean that you would prefer it if he didn’t clean your ears (Kwi-so-je-neun ha-ji ma-se-yo)

10. How to get a taxi driver to take you anywhere in three words or less

11. How to feel tall by being yourself

12. How to drunkenly convince yourself that you are, in fact, in the women’s bathroom even though you see men using urinals

13. How to use metal chopsticks with only a moderate amount of incompetence

14. How to take thirty minutes to read a non-phonetic word in Korean (and feel proud of this accomplishment)

15. How to do almost anything with a hangover (and feel proud of this accomplishment)

A bit of random weirdness...

2010-01-12T14:39:00.002+09:00

Every day on my way to work, I pass a lifeless but smiling lego jedi that is trying (unsuccessfully) to direct traffic. Every day I chuckle inwardly (and sometimes outwardly) at the concept of using a life-size version of an inanimate children’s toy to fulfill the duties of a traffic cop. Today, for the first time since being here, I did not chuckle. I’ve been in South Korea for almost a month now. What this means is that the things that initially struck me as hilarious, bizarre, or hilariously bizarre, are now beginning to feel normal. I don’t really want this to happen; I want to feel permanently amused, and I don’t ever want the reverse swastikas [which are a Buddhist symbol that (I presume) is unconnected to Nazi Germany] to seem “normal.” But alas, I am no longer fazed when the complimentary snack that the bartender places in front of me looks strikingly similar to minnows that accidentally became shriveled and dried in the mid-afternoon sun. So before I become entirely too comfortable munching on something with its head still intact, I should probably mention a few other Korean oddities that might eventually become mundane a few months hence:

1. Bus Salesmen – Occasionally while on the bus or the subway, a salesman will hop on and try to sell people a product that is typically related to the prolongment of one’s own life. In and of itself, this is not terribly unusual, as pesky salesmen throughout the world are consistently trying to sell various products in places where there are mass concentrations of people who have no choice but to remain in the proximity of said salesmen or throw themselves out the window. What is unusual, however, is that the salesmen here appear to not be considered “pesky” by the general populace. If you go almost anywhere else in the world, nobody is going to buy something from a quack on the subway, even if the product he happens to be selling is something which you genuinely wish to buy. This is why I was rather stunned when I witnessed one such quack get on a bus, give a presentation that people actually listened to, and rake in the cash for a product that I don’t even think my mother (QVC’s most important customer who has, at various times, purchased a quesadilla maker, a “perfect pancake” pan, and a taco warming station in the design of a miniature food cart) would have purchased. Basically, he was selling patches that had the appearance and texture of sandpaper, which were cloaked in the scent of ginseng (definitely an acquired scent, and an even more acquired taste). By placing the patches on your skin, your body will allegedly be rid of toxins. Unless I completely missed something, that is the miracle which this ginseng sandpaper promised to perform. I may have miscounted, but I’m fairly certain that the only people who didn’t buy the product were the six ungrateful Caucasians in the back of the bus. I have three potential theories to explain this unusual occurrence. 1. Koreans are profoundly gullible. 2. Ginseng sandpaper is a hot commodity that Westerners simply cannot comprehend. 3. There is some sort of cultural obligation to support local bus salesmen in a way that there is a cultural obligation to support local businessmen back home. Mark my words: I will crack this mystery before I return to America…

2. Adult Jungle Gyms – Playgrounds for children exist in relative abundance in Korea. But strangely (or perhaps predictably), playgrounds for adults exist in almost equal numbers. On one of my first days here, I got lost, wandered around aimlessly, and stumbled upon a woman who appeared to be using a Gazelle at the edge of the sidewalk while looking at the beautiful scenery of traffic. I presumed at the time that I had hit upon gold and that this would be the exclusive place in Korea that I could go to see public outdoor gym equipment. Of course, this was only the beginning. I soon discovered that you will not only find a random machine in isolation at the edge of the road, but you will also occasionally discover an entire fitness club in the center of a public park. Upon first glance, the brightly colored, deadbolted equipment looks like any other playground. But upon closer inspection, it becomes obvious that these non-electric Nordic Tracks, Gazelles, and elliptical trainers are intended to appeal to the audience of adults. And if wear and tear is a suitable indicator, they do appeal to adults. Or perhaps the wear and tear is just the result of natural erosion…

3. Couples’ Outfits – In America, many a joke has been cracked about couples who have been together for so long that they begin to take on each other’s physical characteristics. Their haircuts, their glasses, and their outfits have been expertly choreographed to symbolically announce to the world that they would prefer to sacrifice their individuality for the endless benefits that come along with coordinating wardrobes. After all, nothing says “we are one soul” like a matching sweater vest. But in Korea, the concept of wearing matching outfits is no laughing matter. When couples here consciously decide to dress identically, the gesture isn’t meant to be taken as a sarcastic practical joke. It’s as serious as global warming (which, depending on who you are, may be interpreted to mean that it is either (a) profoundly serious, or (b) the biggest practical joke to ever be played on humanity…aren’t similes fun?) In any event, I couldn’t help but stare in awe and wonder when, a few weeks ago while shoving my 17th consecutive piece of low-grade conveyor belt sushi down my throat, I witnessed the notion of couples’ outfits being taken to an all too literal level. Generally, when I think of couples who dress alike, I think of a couple who is perhaps wearing blue jeans, a similarly styled sweater, and a coat and shoes in the same color. But in Korea, couples’ outfits are as indistinguishable as Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen. In fact, they are packaged and sold this way in clothing stores. They even package lingerie this way. The woman mannequin will be wearing a silky black number with tiny pink hearts, and her mannequin boyfriend will be proudly donning boxers in an identical fabric and pattern next to her. But I never saw a couples’ outfit on actual humans until I saw a couple leaving the sushi restaurant, hands in each other’s back blue jean pocket on which there appeared to be sewn a navy blue butterfly. A somewhat sheer white shirt hung just below the belt, and a black puffy coat ended just above the belt, leaving a one inch strip of white fabric hanging out in a consciously disheveled fashion. Their shoes may or may not have differed in style, but both were black, and I can only assume that if I would have gotten a good look at them from the front, each would be sporting a pair of thick-framed black glasses. There is no doubt in my mind that undergarments of black silk and pink hearts completed the final layer of textile synchronization…

A Brief Observation...

2010-01-10T16:00:00.003+09:00

At the present moment, I am sitting on an unreasonably comfortable couch in a coffee shop called "Coffee and Free Time." I just had a lovely latte, the cream of which was shaped into multiple tiny hearts. I felt guilty about demolishing its artistic perfection. This is my favorite coffee shop in Daegu, not only because it has good coffee and comfortable furniture and is five minutes away from my apartment, but also because they always play an incredibly good selection of music. However, the latter fact is one that kind of bothers me even though it probably shouldn't. You see, I am sharing this coffee shop with 17 Korean customers and 2 Korean baristas. Most of the time, when I go to a PC Bang, grocery store, or bar, I am the only Westerner there or I am there with a few other Westerners. But every time we enter into really any business, the music immediately switches from a Korean pop song to something American or possibly British. I suspect that this isn't a coincidence. Of course, American music is listened to throughout the world, but I would surmise that they probably listen to far less of it than their establishments suggest. And the notion of going out of the way to accommodate to Western desires can be broadened further to apply to a number of situations. I have noticed that, while people are extremely friendly and welcoming, they tend to heavily pour on the over-the-top top gestures that typically just make you feel weird. For example, my friend Katie was walking one day with her shoes untied and a little old lady was practically grabbing at her feet in the middle of the street trying to make sure that she knew her shoes were untied. While walking up a mountain gloveless (because I was hot, not because I didn't have them), a Korean couple insisted that I take their gloves until I showed them that I indeed had my own. The other day, a Korean co-worker asked if I had had dinner yet, and when I informed her that I had not, I found a sweet potato on my desk the next day along with a note informing me that I should have dinner. And while I love the generosity involved in these gestures, it makes me feel guilty. I don't want to be accommodated for; I want to be forced to accommodate. And this is why I am mildly annoyed about the fact that this coffee shop is playing music that I happen to love...

Intellectually Inferior

2010-01-10T15:54:00.001+09:00

One of the things that I am finding the most striking about living in Korea thus far is the extremely high percentage of excessively intelligent Westerners who live here. Of course, you will stumble across an occasional idiot or an attention-seeker who insists upon doing something loud and obnoxious in public, but for the most part, the people who choose to come here to teach are rather shrewd and scholarly. Amongst the group of friends that I have fallen into, I am intellectually inferior. I consider myself to be a relatively erudite individual who possesses an above-average vocabulary and is fairly well-read on most significant classical texts. At least this is how I viewed my pre-Korea self. But I am slowly beginning to view myself as nothing more than a naïve ingénue with a formerly massive ego. While it took me an indolent four months to finish the last novel I read, my friends are reading Charles Dickens’ lesser known works because they have presumably blown through his more famous ones, and they read complex philosophical essays for pleasure. As I plug away at this blog, they are writing poetry and novels. Despite the damage that these facts have inflicted upon my sense of self-worth, I find their company to be immensely enjoyable and their extracurricular reading and writing endeavors to be inspiring. Their particular variety of cultural refinement is anything but pompous, and it frankly feels refreshing to discover mass concentrations of people who love classical literature and loathe the Twilight series. It also feels refreshing to be able to connect with people on a level that goes far beyond social conventions and superficial chit-chat. A few friends from a different part of Daegu came to Chilgok yesterday with the intention of exploring the area with me and Kelly. However, we never really got around to embarking on our intended expedition, as we started off the journey by stepping into a coffee shop and not leaving for three hours. The conversation was just too engrossing to leave it unfinished. Admittedly, I contributed to maybe 10% of this discussion, as I am not particularly well-versed in the language of existentialism, psychological experiments of the mid-20th century, and the racial and socioeconomic implications of demographic shifts in the neighborhoods of urban areas. But existing in an environment that nurtures such topics of discussion, I think I might ultimately get there…

The Underground English Trade, etc.

2010-01-10T15:48:00.007+09:00

Koreans on the street don’t generally approach me or casually say “hello” in a way that they periodically do back home. This isn’t viewed as being cold in this country, and it doesn’t particularly bother me as I used to routinely make fun of my father for waving to random passersby who were zipping by on the highway at 70 mph. If a Korean approaches you out of the blue, it is usually for one of four reasons: 1. They want to sell you something. 2. They are 5-years-old, recognize instinctively that you are not Korean, assume (correctly) that you speak English, and say “hello” to you to make their parents or friends giggle. 3. They want you to come to their homes to teach them English. 4. You are sharing a mountaintop with them, the endorphins have effectively kicked in, and they want nothing more than to give you a bag of oranges.

Situation #3 has occurred twice now, and both times were within the span of an hour. I’ve heard that this sort of scenario is not uncommon: a person who speaks moderately good English wants, for various reasons, to speak better English, and they would prefer to learn it privately from someone who speaks the language natively. Occasionally they might want you to teach both them and their children. Or even in some cases, they might want you to teach multiple children whose parents cannot afford to send them to a proper hagwan. I’ve heard that this is a pretty easy way for teachers to make extra money during the day or on the weekends…of course, it is completely illegal. My visa allows me to come here to earn money from one specific job…if it was discovered by the government that I was making an extra income from elsewhere, I would be slapped with a fine and would probably get sent home. The Korean government also rewards people for tattle-taling. If a person is caught violating the rules of his/her visa, the person who tattled will get half of the money from the fine. Therefore, if (hypothetically) I were to illegally distribute my English language ability, I would have to be extremely clandestine about the exchange. I’ve heard that it’s probably safer to get recommendations from another foreigner than it is to accept a proposition from a woman who approaches you in the grocery store. The two women who approached me and my friend Kelly both seemed very honest and sincere, but since I am a terrible judge of character, there is no way to know for sure. They both gave us their phone number and home address, and begged us to call them when we finally get phones. I have no intention of doing so at this point. For now, I am content with my above average income and 30 hour workweek.

Situation #4 happened to me last Sunday. Daegu is basically surrounded on all sides by mountains. Therefore, there is no lack of places to go hiking. On a frigid day in December, I was not expecting to face a traffic jam atop a mountain. As is usually the case, I was wrong. Koreans evidently love their hiking, and they prove it by decking themselves out in high-tech gear and titanium climbing poles. I felt both ashamed and amused as a middle-aged Korean woman walked up the mountain backwards at a pace that was faster than the one I was moving at forwards. I don’t know what it is about the mountain air that makes people so damned happy, but the Koreans you encounter in nature take on a different persona than the ones you encounter on the subway. Perhaps it was the sense of community that comes along with taking on nature’s beast in unison, perhaps it was the feel-good energy that comes along with extracting sweat, or perhaps it was the fact that I smelled soju on the breath of a lot of fellow hikers. Nevertheless, roughly 50% of the people we passed greeted us with an “Anyeong-ha-se-yo” or a rapid, smiling sentence in Korean that I did not understand but responded to by smiling widely, nodding rapidly, and making a random noise that suggested “I don’t have a bloody clue what you just said, but I like you…” If they weren’t trying to verbally communicate with us, they were likely trying to communicate by feeding us. Here’s a tip: If you are ever broke and would like some fresh produce, go climb a Korean mountain. Apples and oranges were being hurled in our direction all day, and the Koreans wouldn’t take no for an answer, so we had no choice but to squeeze them into our pockets and backpacks. It was amusing right away, but after awhile I began to feel like a zoo animal. “Here’s an orange, Jin Hyeok,” I imagined they were saying. “Go see if you can get the American with the jellyfish-like hair to eat it from the palm of your hand…it’s o.k.; it won’t bite.” Before long, whenever I would see people get that crazy look in their eyes like they wanted to give me something, I would instinctively try to take an alternate route. I wasn’t intentionally being rude…I just have no use for three pairs of gloves…

Irish names are easy...

2010-01-10T15:46:00.001+09:00

When I was student teaching in Ireland I had a small but significant percentage of students who had Irish Gaelic names like Caoimhe (pronounced “Queeva”) and Tadhg (pronounced “Tyg”). It was challenging at that moment to remember these names. In comparison with what I’m forced to try to remember now, Irish names were almost disgustingly easy. I have 19 separate sets of students, 11 of which I see twice a week and 8 of which I see once a week. One kid’s name might be Sung Yun while the kid sitting next to him is Seung Yun; meanwhile, Su Jin and Jin Su are sitting on the opposite side of the room. To make matters worse, they frankly all look quite similar in that they all have the same color of hair, eyes, and skin. Unless a child is abnormally big, abnormally small, has a wild color of frame on his/her glasses, or looks like a tiny Korean version of someone I know from back home, there is really nothing that sets him/her apart from the rest of the students. Some students take up an English name like “Sandy” or a silly nickname like “No English.” One child decided to give herself the nickname of “B.O.” and I didn’t have the heart to tell her what this acronym stands for in English. Consequently, I never forget her name. It helps me tremendously when kids take up a name that I am familiar with, but I don’t like imposing nicknames on the students; it makes me feel like I am basically saying “You will conform to my way of life whether you like it or not!” So for now I guess I’ll just get giggled at when I mispronounce Eui Jin four consecutive times before tossing my hands up in the air in surrender…

reasons why I need to learn Korean...

2010-01-10T15:42:00.001+09:00

I desperately need to begin learning more Korean. I’ve been here about a week and have thus far only managed to learn to say “hello,” “goodbye,” “yes,” “no,” “thank you,” “excuse me/I’m sorry,” “Chilgok – Dong Pyung elementary school, please,” “tuna stew,” and “please don’t clean my ears.” It’s enough to get by for now, but I’m frankly growing tired of feeling a constant sense of shame and embarrassment every time I show my face in public. For the first three days of being here, I just smiled and nodded a lot whenever any non-English speaking person addressed me. I got laughed at by the sushi guy and the bakery guy for putting their respective products directly into my cart rather than into a small box to be priced. I got laughed at by the taxi driver for being too incompetent to form a coherent phrase in Korean. I got laughed at by a group of teenage boys who said “hello,” followed by an extremely rapid sentence in Korean, followed by a simultaneous burst of hysterical giggles. I routinely confuse the expression for “excuse me/I’m sorry” (mi-an-ham-ni-da) with the expression for “thank you” (kam-sa-ham-ni-da). What this means is that occasionally when I run into someone with my shopping cart, I say thank you, and when I have money transactions with the cashier, I apologize.

But the defining moment of my idiocy occurred when I was trying to purchase garbage bags. Waste removal in Korea is, in a word, complicated. You don’t just fill up trash bags and throw them into a dumpster whenever you feel like it. Waste in my part of the city is removed on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays between the hours of 8:00 P.M.-12:00 A.M., and if you put your bags out on the wrong day, you could potentially face a fine. Food waste is put into a red bucket that must have a prepaid ticket around the handle to be removed. Certain recyclables are put into a mesh bag (which I am yet to find). Other recyclables are bundled up individually. Everything else is put into a regular bag that cannot be purchased on the shelf of a store but has to be asked for specifically at the counter. And this is where my moment of idiocy occurred. I got to the counter and said “suregi bongtu juseyo.” The cashier understood “bongtu,” as she held up and pointed to a shopping bag. I attempted to explain through exaggerated gestures and a picture of a garbage truck that I did not want a shopping bag but instead wanted garbage bags. She did not understand, and she called over three coworkers to try to interpret my desires. Meanwhile, a small crowd of onlookers began forming around me, all of them trying to be the first to crack the code of what the strange and exotic white person wanted. I left the store with half of what I came for: food trash tickets. However, it took me three days to go back and muster up the courage to ask for trash bags again. Evidently I would rather wallow in my own self-imposed filth than willingly submit to mild forms of public torture and humiliation…

1st weekend out and new friends

2010-01-10T15:37:00.002+09:00

I just had an absolutely fantastic weekend. After school on Friday night (yes, children in Korea do go to school on Friday evenings…more on that later) I went out with my friend Kelly who started at my school at the same time as me. We met up with her friend Anthony and some of his friends in central Daegu. Almost all of the people we met up with work at some branch of MoonKkang and everyone was from various parts of the English speaking world – the U.K., scattered regions of Canada and the U.S., etc. We went to a few different bars/nightclubs and it felt bizarre how much I didn’t feel like I was in Korea. Most of the places we went were inhabited by a 10:1 Caucasian/Korean ratio, played American music, and sold some American beverages (I was quite delighted to have a vodka cran at one of the places we went). Quite clearly, there are a good number of ex-pat bars in Korea. Before long, it was 6 a.m. and we decided to have breakfast at an “orange shop” which is sort of like an inexpensive, small Korean diner. Bars essentially don’t close here. They close whenever people feel like going home. This may seem problematic, and I suppose in some ways it may be. However, in defense of Korean bars, I must mention one notable difference between them and bars back home: they do not endorse binge drinking. If you really wanted to binge drink in a Korean bar, you certainly could, but it is not necessary. Back home, everyone drinks as much as humanly possible in three or four hours in a race against the clock. When 1:00 rolls around, people drink twice as fast and start ordering shots. Everyone is constantly checking the clock to see how much time they have left to pour alcohol down their throats. But since the factor of a closing time is eliminated in Korea, people are encouraged to drink at a natural pace. You still get intoxicated, of course, but it’s a progressive, social, happy drunk. Much more pleasant.

And now that I’ve proudly made a distinction between different variations of drunkenness, I’m going to tell you about the even more pleasant sober day I had yesterday. You know you’re in good company when you enjoy the people you’re with even more when you’re sober than when you’re drunk. Kelly and I went into downtown Daegu at about 2:00 and did some exploring. I don’t know what exactly I was expecting to see when I came to Korea. I was, of course, fully expecting to see some golden arches in the shape of an M, one of the most obvious symbols of modern Western civilization. I was expecting to see a few random American chains that would give me an inner chuckle as I walked down the street and cheerfully said to myself, “Who would have thought that the first Dunkin’ Donuts I would ever enter would be in South Korea?!?” I was expecting that I would have to go out of my way to tucked away corners of the city to find some hidden gems that would provide me with a refreshing taste of home. As is usually the case, all of my preconceived notions about Korea have proven to be entirely false. Frankly, Korean shopping and eating appears at first glance to be more Americanized than America, or at least more Americanized than the America that I know. Coming from a small town in a small state, it seems bizarre to me that there are certain American franchises that I can go to in South Korea that I cannot go to in South Dakota. I haven’t yet decided whether I think this is a great thing or a terrible thing; right now, I just find it amusing.

In the midst of our exploration, Kelly and I spotted a coffee shop that had swings in the windows for customers to put themselves on display like exotic fish in an aquarium for all the walkers outside to gawk at. Never wanting to miss an opportunity to be gawked at, we decided to escape from the cold and leisurely sip a latte and have a chat on the swings. Two hours later, we finally left and met up with more or less the same gang that we were with the night before. We had some dinner at a pizza place, and it was decent although I generally disagree with the Korean belief that corn kernels make an appetizing pizza topping. We then had some more coffee and did some more wandering before going to see the movie Avatar in 3D. I had never been to a movie in 3D before, and I was pleasantly surprised to discover that even my defective Deacon eyes were able to appreciate the awesomeness of watching a film on a really big screen in three dimensions. The only somewhat unusual difference that I detected between Korean/American movie theaters is that the seats are assigned and there were a few interesting snack choices…I still don’t feel like I’m in South Korea, or at least the place that my imagination envisioned South Korea would be. Evidently that place only existed in my imagination. I basically feel like I’m living in a commune at a random location in Asia that was set up by a bunch of like-minded white people…and you know what? I like this alternative society.

the fun things I can put into my body...

2010-01-10T15:32:00.001+09:00

I just returned from my first trip to the grocery store, and I am going to need to learn to seriously pace myself. I tried very hard to conceal my absolute exuberance as I walked up and down aisles of foods that I didn’t even know existed; I doubt I succeeded. Generally speaking, I know my way around a produce aisle pretty handily. I have eaten my fair share of pomegranates, parsnips, golden kiwi, blood oranges, leeks, rutabagas, watercress, arugula, star fruit, and horned melons. Typically when I go to a grocery store in the States, the cashier has to ask me exactly what is in my produce bags because he/she frankly doesn’t have a clue. I used to pride myself on my vast knowledge of foods that were grown on a tree or in the ground. I lost that pride today; it has been replaced with deep and sincere humility. And it only begins at the produce. The excessive variety of herbs, sprouts, seaweed, tofu, noodles, sushi, and slimy fish was almost overwhelming. Where you would normally find the section of artisanal meats and cheeses in an American grocery store, you would find soy products and various organisms that came from the sea. Where you would normally go to pick up a whole frozen chicken you would go to pick up a whole frozen octopus. How do you cook an entire octopus, or even a partial octopus for that matter? Even foods that are common to all parts of the world take on a different taste here. I just ate a grape. It had slightly thicker skin and was not genetically modified to have the seeds removed. When I bit into it, I had to seriously question if it was a grape or not. I’ve never been fooled into believing that high-fructose corn syrup laden fruit snacks and juices taste even remotely similar to fruit. I guess the joke’s on me; these grapes are so sweet that they taste exactly like Welch’s grape juice fruit snacks. Even if I purchased one item I have never eaten before every time I went to the grocery store for the next year, I would still be unable to try everything. Of course, you can also find plenty of “western” foods in the grocery store, but they’re so much less exciting. In any event, I’m glad they’re there…I don’t think I can eat squid for every meal…

first night out

2010-01-10T15:29:00.001+09:00

I don’t know why I’m coming home at 5:45 a.m. on an early Wednesday morning, but I know that I am. I also don’t know why an embarrassed looking Korean woman just pounded at my door, said something to me that I didn’t understand, bowed and walked away, but I know that she did. I went out last night with three new friends from England, Wales, and Canada after my first night of observation at my school. Of these new friends, Chris has been in Korea for six years, Michael has been here just over a year, and Kelly, like me, is a newbie; I learned a lot. I had my first taste of Korean food, which consisted of kimchi [a traditional Korean dish (fermented cabbage) that is served at basically every Korean meal], various side dishes and condiments, and a peppercorn-laced pork substance that was grilled directly at our table. Basically, you are given a few burners on which to grill your food, and everyone digs into to these dishes family style, grabbing whatever you want with your chopsticks and putting it directly into your mouth rather than on a plate. It initially felt rather savage-like, but I soon remembered that I like feeling like a savage. The food was good and the conversation was better so I suppose this is the reason why I’m coming home at 5:45 on a Wednesday morning. We drank entirely too much beer and soju (which basically tastes like watered down vodka) at the Korean restaurant. We then went to a Japanese bar where we drank entirely too much sake. If I remember correctly, I had to squat down on the floor to urinate in this bar. It was difficult, but I succeeded. If I remember correctly, we had extended conversations about the following topics: religion, politics, our mutual appreciation for dry humor and sarcasm, the personality differences between Prince William and Prince Harry, the fact that I am a self-loathing American who constantly feels the need to apologize to the rest of the world for the war in Iraq, and the movie Dirty Dancing (because this topic invariably comes up in 100% of my drunken conversations). If I remember correctly, I inevitably began to speak with a British accent because, for reasons beyond my control, when I drink too much soju and sake and am in the presence of people who possess an accent different from my own, I involuntarily begin to take on their accent and vocabulary. If I remember correctly, at some point, we got onto the subject of roadkill and I blurted out a drunken confession about the fact that I inadvertently ran over a tiny kitten on the highway about 5 days ago; I am now known as the cat killer. I think I like Korea. I think I like it a lot.

The Arrival

2010-01-10T15:25:00.001+09:00

Upon my arrival in Busan, something incredibly strange and completely unexpected happened: things went right. The plane landed on time. I walked through an efficient line for immigration where a pleasant lady silently looked at my documents and stamped my passport. My bags were rotating around the belt when I went to pick them up. Nobody questioned me when I went through the “nothing to claim” line at Customs. Within five minutes of waiting in the arrivals hall, a guy around my age by the name of Hyung Tae approached me, asked if I was working for MoonKkang, and informed me that I looked much better than I did in my photo (which is a back-handed compliment that is sort of true since I did, after all, look like a middle-aged man in my photo). He spoke fluent English, and we drove the hour or so it takes to get to Daegu. We then drove through central Daegu so he could go to his office and pick up my apartment key before heading to Chilgok on the outskirts of Daegu, where I would be living and working. I moved into my apartment immediately, meaning that I don’t have to deal with the inconvenience of temporary housing and only partial unpacking. My next door neighbor is a teacher at my school. Another teacher at my school resides one floor below me. Mike is Canadian, and he will be leaving MoonKkang at the end of the month and will be replaced with a new guy; Nick is from just north of Chicago and has been here for 15 months. I met them last night very briefly and they seemed extremely friendly and helpful, as one of them carried my 65 pound bag up three flights of stairs while I carried his bacon and bread. I stepped into my apartment, which is a lot larger than I expected it to be. It is in a slightly older but highly secure building that houses maybe 12-15 residents. Other MoonKkang teachers live just a few minutes from my apartment. When I opened my bags, everything was intact, and I didn’t discover any tragically exploded bottles or stovetop stuffing remnants. My school purchased a few new things for me including some dishes, pots, pans, and utensils, as well as a brand new LG microwave and Electrolux toaster oven. They provided me with a rather modern 19” LG T.V. and a brand new Sony DVD player. They gave me brand new bedding in my favorite color, purple. My refrigerator is stocked with water, orange juice, milk, bread, jam, and a box of cereal (which I literally found in the refrigerator), so I need not worry about starving this morning. There is a 7 Eleven around the corner, and my new coworkers informed me that there is a grocery store about two blocks away. My bed feels like the equivalent of sleeping on a blanketed coffee table, but I will adjust. My favorite feature of the apartment is the floor…it heats up! This will be the first winter in recorded history that I can walk barefoot around the house and not get frostbite! My apartment also comes furnished with a small table, a few chairs, an entertainment center, an armoire, a washer, a drying rack, and a 2 burner stovetop. I still obviously have some things to buy, but we’re off to a great start, and there are two people living in this building who I can ask where to buy things when I need them.

I don’t know how to react to such a smooth transition and to my own chirpy optimism, and I don’t trust it. Something must go horribly awry, right? I’m still waiting…

en route - part III

2010-01-10T15:23:00.000+09:00

I just arrived in the Tokyo airport not long ago. I only have a few minutes before I get on the plane to Busan. I’m still not nervous. Is there something wrong with me? The weirdness of being in a different country still hasn’t set in, probably because all the signs and recorded messages are in both English and Japanese. In fact, it almost seems as though more signs and audio recordings are in English than in Japanese. The only semi-strange moment occurred when going through a security checkpoint. Unlike in America, you don’t take your shoes off when going through security. However, as I walked through the metal detector, my knee-high hooker boots must have set something off and they asked me to remove my boots, but when I did, they made me put on a pair of slippers. I was not particularly surprised by this, as I have read multiple times something about the Japanese and feet, but I can never recall exactly what the prejudice is that they hold against this particular appendage. It’s o.k. I don’t like feet either. But I must board the plane now to my final destination. I’m far too tired to feel even a vague sense of anxiety.

en route - part II

2010-01-10T15:20:00.001+09:00

At the present moment, I am flying over North Central Canada. I will give 10,000 won (about 10 bucks) to the first person who can tell me why we must go North over Canada and Alaska only to return South to Tokyo. Our flight pattern forms a perfect arch. What do these pilots and pilots in general (or perhaps airlines in general) have against a straight line? Would that not be more efficient? By the way, I won’t really give you 10,000 won if you can answer this question, unless you demand it, in which case you will have to wait a year to get it, and it will not accrue interest. I would just like to understand the purpose of this flight pattern. Does it have something to do with winds over the Pacific? I hope they have Wikipedia in Korea…

Anyways, it feels weird to be traveling back in time. Throughout this entire flight, I will never see darkness when I look out the window. As the plane heads west, we are slowly but consistently heading backwards in time. This will continue to happen until we reach an imaginary line in the Pacific Ocean that will magically erase a day in my life. In one instant, it will be Sunday afternoon; In the next, it will be Monday afternoon. I suspect that crossing this warp zone is the closest I will ever come to time travel.

I expect that my panic attack is going to set in any time now. It has to, right? #1: I’m sleep deprived. #2: I’m claustrophobic, sandwiched between two unexpectedly enjoyable specimens, and have about 8 hours left on this flight. #3: I’m moving to a foreign country which, even after exhaustive research, I still realistically know very little about. #4: What in the hell am I supposed to do when I get off this plane? I suppose when I get off this plane, I’m going to go to the gate of my next plane. But what do I do when I get off that plane? I asked this question to one of the foreign managers at my school about a week ago and she assured me that someone would be in Busan to pick me up and take me to Daegu. But that was really all she said. What does that mean exactly? Who is this person? What does he/she look like? How am I supposed to find him/her? How is he/she supposed to find me? What if he/she isn’t there? Who do I call? How do I get a hold of someone? Why am I moving to South Korea with all this uncertainty? Am I mentally ill? Even as I ask myself these questions, I cannot force myself to become panicked. I want to become panicked. I desperately want to become panicked. I want to become panicked so I can feel like a normal human being. But the panic has not yet set in, perhaps because I just indulged in a glass of complimentary red wine to accompany my Thai beef that I had for…breakfast? lunch? dinner? I have no idea anymore. I suspect that once the calming effects of this wine fade away, I might have a panic attack. Usually it happens at that first moment that you step onto the soil of a strange new land. I imagine that when I walk into the airport in Tokyo, I will be faced with a triad of questions. Where am I? What time is it? What am I doing here? I am the type of person who despises discomfort. I will go to absolute extremes to avoid uncomfortable situations. Why is it that the discomfort and awkwardness that come along with becoming an immigrant is somehow appealing to me? I don’t know. But I’d like to find out.

en route - part 1

2010-01-10T15:15:00.001+09:00

I am in the Minneapolis airport; I have not yet left American soil. I would like a beer right now, and this is evidently not a legitimate possibility. It should be, but it is not. The reason that it should be is because I was supposed to have a 5.5 hour layover. However, that layover is now nonexistent. I was supposed to depart from Aberdeen Regional Airport at 6:30 this morning. We did not depart until 9:30 due to engine problems. I was only mildly annoyed about the delay, as I had a rather lengthy layover and the extra time provided me ample opportunity to stare in awe and wonder at my interesting co-passengers. Roughly 50% of them were glued to the windows like snails in a fish tank, constantly checking to make sure that the plane was, in fact, still on the ground, and that the mechanic had, in fact, still not arrived. By the time he finally showed up, the percentage of curious onlookers rose to 70%, and everyone tried to interpret his movements, as if they actually understood what he was doing. “He’s moving the ladder…that can’t be good!” they cried. “He’s getting inside the plane…that must be good news!” they guessed. I understand that these people were nervous about missing their connections, but it never fails to amuse me when I see people try to play an active role in something over which they have no control. Amongst those who weren’t analyzing the mechanic from afar, 15% were playing with some form of electronic device, 10% were sleeping, and 5% (i.e. me) were trying to understand what possible motive could drive people to plaster their faces against cold glass to try to understand something about which they know nothing.

And this is why I would like to sip a beer before noon on a Sunday, or at least this is the reason I am going to present to you. But instead I am sipping a bottle of designer water and munching on an overpriced and only partially satisfying salad as my final American meal. This slightly depresses me, but only slightly, because it means that it won’t be much longer before I can get this dreadful 13 hour flight out of the way. I must go now. Just as Tiger Woods is about to take an indefinite leave of absence from professional golf, I am about to take an indefinite leave of absence from this country.

just a brief note...

2010-01-10T15:12:00.003+09:00

I still have not gotten the internet at my apartment (damn immigration!) However, it has taken me nearly a month to realize that I can access wifi from my computer via a lot of various wifi spots in coffee shops, etc. So, anyways, the following several posts have been written at various times in the past several weeks...

My Job

2009-12-03T00:01:00.005+09:00

I’ve finally decided to take on the monumentally boring task of explaining my teaching job and the education system of South Korea. If you enjoy learning random facts about other countries/cultures, read on. If you are hoping to be wildly entertained, I advise you to skip this post altogether.

In a broad sense, there are two types of schools in South Korea: public schools, and hagwans (a.k.a. private language schools). The public schools are run by the government while hagwans are run by private owners in more of a business model. English is taught in both public schools and hagwans, but a very high percentage of parents send their kids to a hagwan after school in the hope that they get a better grip of the English language. Therefore, the public schools run during normal school hours while most hagwans run from late afternoon until about 10:00 at night. As a foreigner coming to Korea to teach, I have the option of teaching in either model. If I were to teach in a public school, I would teach alongside a Korean co-teacher, I would likely have at least 30 students in a class, I would be the only native English speaker in the school, and I would probably be paid less, although I would get more vacation time. If I were to teach in a hagwan, I would teach my own classes (usually with a pre-determined curriculum and materials), I would rarely have more than 12 students in a classroom, I would most likely be teaching with co-workers from all over the English-speaking world, and I would probably get paid more. If you weren’t able to pick up on the obvious bias in the previous two sentences, I will be teaching in a hagwan.

Trying to find a hagwan I trusted, however, proved to be an interesting challenge. In order to get a job, you can either apply to a recruiter who will take your information directly to the schools, or you can apply to the actual school itself. Originally, it was my intention to find a school through a recruiting agency, my thought process being that if there was some discrepancy with my contract, I would have a middleman to help me sort things out. I quickly realized, however, that most recruiters work strictly for the motive of making money and don’t particularly care what happens to you once you are placed with a position. Additionally, after speaking to one recruiter who actually sounded less informed about the jobs I was seeking than I was, I decided to exclusively apply directly to the schools. After applying to a half dozen schools or so, I received three job offers. I didn’t take the first because I thought the salary and benefits were less than what they should be, and the interviewer sounded more interested in selling the school to me than I was in selling myself to the school. I didn’t take the second because they were clearly desperate. I sent them my résumé; they sent me a contract. The third school was the school that I was holding out for. Unlike the other schools that I applied to, I didn’t receive this job by answering a Help Wanted ad. The only reason that I even knew about this school to begin with was because my friend Charles, who taught in Daegu for over a year, told me that I should try to get a job with them because they are an ideal school to work for. Upon investigating, I found myself agreeing with Charles. MoonKkang (the name of the school, located in Daegu; population: 3-4 million) offers a higher salary for working fewer hours, offers more vacation time, and uses a structured curriculum, meaning that I won’t have to slave away for hours creating materials in my spare time. They also seem to go to greater lengths to ensure that teachers are adapting to the culture and the school…they offer free Korean language classes and, if the pictures on the website are in any way accurate, they evidently host a lot of parties that may or may not involve wrestling in the mud, dressing up like a Rubik’s cube, and drinking lots and lots of beer and soju (a Korean liquor that apparently tastes like vodka). If you’re interested in looking at the school itself, you can visit the website: www.mkeslteaching.com There are also some YouTube videos put out by my school that talk about culture/food/communication, etc. If you want to check them out, go to YouTube and type in “Moonkkang.”

I finally leave in a week and a half! Despite the fact that I’ve known for almost six months that I was going to do this, I’m somehow not prepared. The good news is that my almost complete lack of preparedness should make for much more interesting blog posts in the upcoming weeks.

Everyone Thinks I'm Going to Die

2009-07-17T00:24:00.005+09:00

I will comment on the details of my impending job status at a later date, but for now I need a moment to rant about a recurring problem that I seem to be having every time I tell someone that I am going to teach English in South Korea for a year. Almost everyone, regardless of how worldly and open-minded they may be has a universal reaction: “You’re going where? Oh my! Why do you want to do that?” Even when people try to say something positive, they usually say it with a question mark at the end and an inflection of the last syllable: “Congratulations? Good for you? That’s great?” One person even caressed my shoulders, looked deeply and sincerely into my eyes, and offered the encouraging words of, “It’s okay! You’re gonna make through this,” as if I have just suffered through an embarrassingly public divorce complete with an embittered custody battle. The most enlightened of the group cite a potential threat from North Korea as the reason for their skepticism…the most ridiculous think that South Korea is a third world country in Africa. While those who have been supportive have been overwhelmingly so, my psyche is inevitably beginning to feel weighed down by the throngs of nay-sayers who demand that I defend my clearly erratic and ill-conceived decision to temporarily exile myself from the country. The truth is that most people don’t know anything about South Korea, and they therefore presume that it must be a terrible, unsafe, undeveloped country. I’m not wagging my finger and shaming anyone for this because the truth, also, is that until I began to obsessively research information about every aspect of the country, I too knew very little about it. Allow me to enlighten you with a few findings:

1. South Korea is modern. – This is a relatively recent development. Immediately following the Korean War in the 1950s, the war-ravaged country was left with decimated land, broken families, and mountains of debt. The road to recovery was a long and hard one, and South Koreans paid for it by being forced to work excruciatingly long hours and suffering under one military dictatorship after another, but eventually they emerged out of it ahead in the 1990s and currently have the 10th largest economy in the world, a pretty impressive statistic for a country the size of Indiana. Korea now boasts being “the most wired nation in the world” with over 75% of the population connected to broadband at home, and internet cafes and gaming palaces an omnipresent reality in the cities. If you find yourself saying “so what,” I completely understand. I mention these facts for the exclusive purpose of dispelling the notion that South Korea is an impoverished country. It is not. Not even close.

2. South Korea is safe…honestly – I was listening to the local South Dakota news tonight, and the highlights were depressing but not unusual: rape, child sodomy, murder, armed robbery, domestic violence, etc. – Too many South Dakotans falsely believe that we hold a monopoly on safety. We don’t. If you want to play the comparison game and analyze the streets of Sioux Falls versus the streets of San Francisco, then of course South Dakota is safer. But that doesn’t exactly mean we have achieved a utopian society in this humble state. Do I feel safe here? Absolutely. Here’s why: I don’t hang out with drug dealers, I don’t go into neighborhoods that I know I don’t belong, and I don’t walk around late at night by myself when I’ve had too many vodka crans. This basic code of conduct may not completely eliminate the threat of potential harm, but it can significantly decrease it, in South Dakota as well as South Korea.

That being said, the “Dangers” and “Safety” sections of my Korean travel guidebooks are curiously bare. The reason for this is because there isn’t all that much to say. According to my friend Charles, who spent a year teaching in Daegu (a Korean city of 3-4 million), he never once felt unsafe walking around by himself and he never came across a neighborhood that he would describe as “sketchy.” Guns are illegal in South Korea, and reports of rape or civil violence are few and far between. As far as I know, no gun-wielding Korean has ever walked into a national museum and opened fire because he was pissed off that said museum was devoted to an event that he claims never happened. I might need to worry about inadvertently eating barbecued dog, but I won’t need to worry that the lack of metal detectors in my school will invite troubled students to bring weapons to English class. It seems that the worst thing that might happen to me is that a crazy driver might accidentally swerve maniacally into me on the sidewalk (evidently the stereotypes about Asian drivers are quite true).

3. The situation with North Korea is impossible to predict. – I know I can’t get around the issue of safety without talking about North Korea, and I won’t try to. Does North Korea talk a lot of shit? Yes. Do they possess nuclear weapons? Yeah. Do these weapons have the range and accuracy to hit specific locations in South Korea and/or in Japan? Yep. Will they use them for this or any other purpose? I believe it is unlikely, but I cannot say with certainty. Here is what I can say with certainty: North Korean leader Kim Jong il is rumored to have life-threatening pancreatic cancer and is not expected to live much longer. Unlike South Korea, the North does not have a thriving economy. They do not have the means and they hardly have the motive to wage war against another country at this point, particularly against a country that has more resources, more allies, and more intelligence than itself. Does this mean that I have nothing to worry about? Not exactly. But if I were living in the States, would a potential attack from North Korea still be a legitimate possibility? I’m afraid so. Like I said, I don’t think it will happen, but these things are not easy to predict. I plan to exercise caution while overseas and to pay close attention to the antics of the North, but I do not plan to suck my thumb under the covers of my tiny bed in my tiny studio apartment for a year. In the words of Forrest Gump, “That’s all I have to say about that.”

Another International Adventure Begins...kind of

2009-07-04T14:16:00.006+09:00

During the past several months since graduating from college, I’ve found myself in the same rut that many recent graduates typically experience upon the completion of their undergraduate studies: What do I do next? After completing a long-term substitute teaching position in April, I decided that I would go to graduate school in the fall, though I could not articulate my reasons for wishing to do so. As graduate school rapidly approached, I began to seriously question my motives for going back and realized that it was more about buying myself two more years of time than it was about driving myself towards some particular career goal. I began to panic. I frantically performed nationwide job searches for positions that were even vaguely related to my somewhat precarious English degree. At four in the morning, three days after my initial panic attack set in, things were about to take a serendipitous turn in my favor. When I saw the job listing, I immediately burst into boisterous, maniacal, sleep-deprived laughter because I somehow knew instantaneously that this was the solution to my dilemma: I would just remove myself from the country for a year…to South Korea.

There are literally thousands of opportunities for native speakers of English to teach the language in various Asian countries, and you only need a four-year degree to do so. As it so happens, my degree is in English Education, and I also have experience teaching in a global context (I completed my student teaching in Ireland last fall.) While I jest that I am only doing this so that I can put off making serious decisions regarding my future, the opportunity is actually much more practical than it may initially appear. The salary is at or above what first year teachers receive in the States, the cost of living is relatively low, and your employer not only reimburses your plane ticket, but also pays your rent. Not to mention the fact that I get to see, work, and live in another part of the world, which is always a bonus to me, even if it means giving up a few conveniences such as a car, an industrial sized jar of peanut butter, television stations that broadcast in English, and clothing stores that are not tailored to 5’, ninety pound Korean women. And since getting a job in America is not exactly the easiest thing to do right now, and since going blind-sighted into graduate school doesn’t sound like a good idea, it seems that the timing is right for me to run off to South Korea for a year.

Of course, there are a few little bumps in the road…I know what you're thinking..."They got nukes over there!" as my boss so bluntly put it when I told him the news. This was not a major concern when I was living in Ireland. Ireland is quiet. Ireland is humble. Ireland is well-behaved. Ireland is aware of what is going on in the world, but it does not preoccupy itself with interfering or meddling in the business of other countries. Ireland does not go on power trips. And while I can generally say the same about the country to which I am potentially moving, I cannot say the same about its neighbor to the north. North Korea, in plain English, is very, very naughty. I will be living in a country that has the most heavily guarded border in the world, a fact that is both comforting and scary. Comforting because it is secure...scary because it necessitates security. Of course, while the tensions between North and South Korea have never fully ceased to exist and have actually escalated recently due to some provocative missile tests in the north, it seems as though lately North Korea has been focusing most of its energies on hating my country of origin, so perhaps in a twisted sort of way I will actually be safer by living in closer proximity to North Korea. It's a story I plan to follow closely, which is not always easy to do since the American media would prefer to expend its resources interviewing people who met Michael Jackson one time forty years ago, as if this somehow provides profound insights into his life, his death, and his character. In any event, I don't think I'll be going within fifty miles of that border, else I run the risk of being sentenced to twelve years of hard labor.

The other problem that I have with hopping on a plane to Korea is that I haven’t been offered a job yet. As is usually the case when I become determined to do something, I have become prematurely excited. I only applied to the recruiting agency yesterday, and while I am confident in my likelihood of getting placed with a teaching position, I perhaps should have waited until I signed a contract before I impulsively quit my job and spent money that I don’t have on Korean travel guides. I guess while I may be the voice of reason, my behavior suggests otherwise.