Sunday at the temples

George, one of my favorite students (okay, okay, I know I’m not supposed to have favorites, but I do), gave me a Buddhist prayer bracelet last week. It’s beautiful. Amber colored beads on a stretchy string. He told me that Buddhists use it when they pray. Each time they bow and say a prayer to Buddha, they rub one of the beads. When the entire bracelet has been rubbed, the prayers are finished. I was overcome by his thoughtfullness. He told me his father is a professor of comparative religion at the university here and invited me to go to temple with them one weekend. I said I would love to, not expecting to go anytime soon.

On Friday during class he asked me for my phone number. I was somewhat taken aback. “You know, teacher, to go to the temple. We will go this weekend to visit my uncle, who is a monk. Would you like to come?” Well, yes, I do, but is it really appropriate to give a 13 year old my phone number? What the hell. I write down my name and phone number in purple glitter ink on Hello Kitty stationery (yes, I really am in Asia), fold it, and give it to him in the hallway during the change of classes. I feel like I’m in 6th grade again. And I still tower over all the boys.

Another student grabs the paper from his hand and taunts him, “Ooo-oooo – George has got a date . . . George has got a date . . .” Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. George gets the paper back and tells me very respectfully that he will call me this weekend.

And he does. I love a guy that keeps his word. At 9 am on Sunday morning. I’m still asleep but try to shake off my morning voice. He asks if I was sleeping. “Oh,no, I’ve been up for hours.” He then says, “I tried to call you from 9 pm until midnight last night, but the phone rang and rang and rang. Where were you, teacher?” Fair enough question, but I don’t feel comfortable sharing that much with one of my students. “I was at a movie, but I’m so glad you’ve called this morning. How are you?” “I’m very well, teacher. Would you like to go to temple with us this morning? We will meet at Kate School at 10 am.” Okay. So after a quick shower and a bowl of cereal, I’m off. Except I forgot to ask what to wear. I have a feeling we’ll be on the floor at some point during the day, so I want to wear pants, but is it appropriate to wear pants to a temple? I settle on a long, black skirt instead.

I arrive at Kate School at 9:55. George is there with his mother, father, and little brother. We get into the car, the father, Yung Hay, driving, the mother, Chang Hyang, in the front seat; the brother, Pil Sang, then George, then me in the back seat. Pil Sang, the younger brother, is adorable. Absolutely precious. The fattest cheeks I’ve ever seen on a 12 year old. Except I can’t believe he’s 12. I know that Korean age is usually 2, sometimes 3, years ahead of American age, but he doesn’t even look 9. When Korean children are born, they are automatically 1. Then, if the Lunar New Year passes before their birthday, they turn 2. Then, when their “first” birthday arrives, they turn 3. It can be confusing. Pil Sang looks 5. The cutest child I’ve ever seen. And pretends to be shy. But I soon learn he’s not.

We drive an hour and a half to Yung Myung Sa temple, where George’s uncle is a monk. It is a small temple on a mountain. During the ride there, I talk with George and his father (who speaks English very well). It seems that the mother understands everything we are saying, but doesn’t speak. And Pil Sang is constantly poking George in the cheek, pulling his hair, just being annoying, but in such a cute way. And George never gets annoyed. He is so gentle with him. He rubs his hair, pokes back at him; they don’t fight the entire day we are together. At one point George turns to me and asks if I have a boyfriend. I tell him, “Still no,” and smile. He asks me this everyday in class. He then says, “But teacher, why aren’t you married?” I smile and tell him I used to be, but not anymore. “Used to be? What is this?” Oooo – bad choice of verbs. “I was married, but not anymore.” At which point his father sternly says something in Korean, George blushes and says, “Teacher, I am very sorry. That was an impolite question.”

We arrive to the temple. Fresh air. Beautiful mountains. Even though it is winter, the sun dances on the trees void of life. Yung Hay points out the buildings. The orphanage. The mess hall. The lecture hall. The offices. The house of prayer. And behind the house of prayer – ah! I gasp. An outdoor ampitheatre of Buddhas. Thousands and thousands of Buddhas. All different sizes. Arranged in a semicircle in amazing symmetry. Rows upon rows of Buddhas. Yung Hay explains there are 3000 Buddhas. This temple is dedicated to look after those people in hell. He then goes on to defend idol worship, saying it is not worship of the idol, but of the spirit of the idol. And he realized Christians do not believe in this, but . . . I explained that I found the different religions fascinating, and enjoyed learning about the customs of each, and did not think my way of worship was the best, or even the correct way. He smiled. I think he thought he might have to defend Buddhism all day.

Our attention turned back to the Buddhas, where George and Pil Sang were giggling. Pil Sang said something and the father laughed. He turned to me, “Pil Sang said that normally there are 3000 Buddhas here at Yung Myung Sa, but when he sits down among the statues there are 3001.” And it was true, he did look like a colorful laughing Buddha among the rows and rows of white statues.

The uncle had not realized the family was coming today, so he was at another temple giving a lecture. So we went to the mess hall and had lunch – rice, bowls of vegetables, soup, and, of course, kimchi. Everything was delicious. Chang Hyang was surprised I could use chopsticks. I made it through the meal without embarrassing myself. Milestone! Halfway through the meal Pil Sang snuck away, then came back. With a mischievous smile, he pulled something from behind his back. A tiny cocktail fork. He laughed and set it on my plate. It made me even more determined to use the chopsticks.

After lunch we went to the uncle’s office. We sat on the floor and Chang Hyang poured tea and prepared fruit and cookies. Wonderful, steamy, earthy green tea. And the coldest, freshest apples, tangerines, Asian pears (is it redundant to call them that here?), and persimmons. As we were drinking tea, George’s father started a story. “Many days ago, my son came home and told me he had the most beautiful English teacher. And that she wanted to visit the Buddhist temples. I have met many English teachers before, both here in Korea and in England, and have not found any of them to be attractive.” And I’m thinking, where is he going with this? “So I told my son that he could invite the beautiful English teacher to attend temple with us. And when I met you this morning, I thought, “My son was telling the truth. There really is a beautiful English teacher. I did not think this was possible.” I blushed and thanked him (in Korean). He continued, “I do not believe you were a teacher in the US. I think you are really Miss America.” I couldn’t hold back my smile. We all laughed and enjoyed some more tea. Chang Hyang commented, “And you know how to sit.” ???? Yung Hay explained, “Most westerners cannot sit on the floor. They are not comfortable with Korean ways. You have been sitting for a while, and still appear comfortable.”

Pil Sang had been working on his uncle’s computer. Yung Hay directed my attention there. “Do you see what he is writing?” Yes, I saw, but it was all in Korean, so it didn’t mean much to me. “He is writing in his diary about the trip with Teacher Lori.” And I looked again, and recognized my name in the title. Rori Teacher. When he heard his father say that, he switched the title so that they were in English letters. Then gave me a cheeky smile.

After a while, Yung Hay announced we would visit another temple. I never got to meet the Uncle Monk. George commented the uncle would be so disappointed he did not get to meet me; that he had lived in England for many years and spoke English very well. I was sad I didn’t get to meet the monk either.

We drove for awhile to the next temple, Chick Chee Sa. Maybe 45 minutes. Up another mountain. Along the highway, George would point out signs in Korean and say, “Can you read that?” I would sound out the syllables and he would laugh with delight. At on point we entered a toll plaza. He said, “Teacher, what does that say?” The words were in English and Korean, but I ignored the English and sounded out the Korean characters. “Sss… . . Saaa . . . San San!” “Yes, Teacher!” Then Pil Sang said something in Korean. I knew by his tone he had said something to the effect of, “Duh – it’s written in English. She just read that.” I turned to him and smiled and said, “No, Pil Sang, I didn’t read the English, I read the Korean.” His eyes got so wide. Everyone else in the car began laughing and exclaiming, “She understands Korean. It’s amazing.” Pil Sang smiled sheepishly and said, “Sorry, teacher.”

Chick Chee Sa was much larger than the previous temple. While walking through the grounds, Yung Hay explained the significance of the idols, the paintings, the architecture, the different houses. What a priceless experience. And what beauty. He explained he loved to come to the temple grounds and walk around, that he enjoyed the peaceful atmosphere. Me, too. Even though there were many, many people there, the atmosphere was one of the utmost peace. Children were running around, playing with Buddhas, playing in the streams that ran through the temple grounds, couples were walking arm in arm, mothers were carrying those too small or too tired to walk. Even with George and Pil Sang throwing snowballs (aka ice balls) at each other, there was a feeling of complete safety. Of calm. This is how life should be.

Chang Hyang and I strolled through the gardens arm in arm. She would point to the seemingly lifeless trees, asking if I knew what this one was, what that one was. I would draw a picture of the leaf of the tree in the sand, ask if this was the leaf of that tree, then say the name in English. She would then say the Korean name. Some of the trees were difficult to recognize; without seeing the leaves, fruit, or flower, I wasn’t sure of some names. At one point she pointed to a tree. I recognized it as a persimmon tree. We had been eating persimmon earlier; I immediately said, “Kham.” Her eyes grew wide, she exclaimed something to her husband. He translated with a large smile, “You are very smart. How did you remember the Korean word?”

After strolling up the mountain, Yung Hay announced we would go back to the city. That there might be a traffic jam, so we should get going. There wasn’t a traffic jam, but it did take a couple of hours to return to Daegu. On the return trip, George suggested we play “Scrabble.” ????? The first person would say a word, the next person would have to say a word that started with the last letter of the previous word, and so on. Rose, Early, Yellow, Wolf, Flower, Radio, Ostrich. “Ostrich? What is this?” I would act out, explain, make noises, or draw on the steamy windows to explain the unknown words. Can you imagine how many words end in “e”? And how few begin with “e”? We played for almost an hour. Explaining pronunciations, explaining definitions of words not familiar. Eggnog. Enoki. Entertainer. Eradicate.

Once back in Daegu, Yung Hay announced we will go eat traditional noodles. Oh, no. Not noodles. I have very recent memories of slapping myself in the forehead with wet noodles. And I’ve done so well today. Haven’t had any major cultural faux pas. We sit down, the waitress brings soup to the table and starts to cook it. And the endless supply of little bowls. And uncooked noodles and mandu. When the soup begins to boil, the waitress arrives and carefully puts the noodles and mandu in, along with kimchi and fresh vegetables. It simmers in front of us. And looks so good. Pil Sang waved his hand over the boiling pot, wafting the aroma closer to him. Chang Hyang whispers something in his ear. He giggles. He looks straight at me and says, “Teacher Lori, promise me you won’t leave Kate School until I am able to attend.” How can I refuse a request like that? “Of course, Pil Sang. I will wait.”

The noodles finish cooking. Chang Hyang serves everyone a bowl of noodles with vegetables, seafood, and broth. I hold my chopsticks, prepared for battle. Yung Hay tsks at me. No, no, no, that’s not the way to hold chopsticks. Oh, boy, here we go again. He shows me how to hold the chopsticks. I position the chopsticks in my right hand using my left to get them just so. I’m gripping them, prepared to face the noodles. He laughs. Relax. And a saying something to the effect of you can get more noodles with a relaxed hand than a tight one. I think something got lost in the translation. But I do relax and, to my amazement, it is easier to eat. I pick up a noodle as long as the Bay Bridge and hold it, wondering how I’m going to get it in my mouth. Yung Hay instructs me to hold my chopsticks in my right hand, my spoon in my left, and gently coil the noodle onto the spoon, then put the spoon in my mouth. I am so happy. I’m not going to make a fool out of myself. And it still takes me a long time to eat, but the food is going in my mouth, and not on my clothes, my face, the floor . . . After I finish my bowl, Chang Hyang takes it to fill it up. I tell her no, I’m full (I was). Yung Hay comments that westerners say they like Korean food, but then don’t eat much. I looked at him incredulously. I assured him I loved the food, it was delicious, but I really was full. George tugs on my arm and says, “Teacher, it is normal to eat 3 bowls of noodles for one serving. You have only eaten one.” Three bowls?!?!? First of all, if I were to eat 3 bowls, we’d be there til midnight. Secondly, I was full. I apologize, but I really can’t eat any more. Yung Hay accepts this and everyone else has another bowl. After dinner, they drive me home. “Bye, teacher, bye, teacher!” I climb the stairs to my apartment, exhausted, but a wonderful exhausted.