Feelin’ the Love

Okay – when it rains it pours. And it is pouring affection for Lori-ga here in Daegu. It’s the weirdest phenomenon. The first three weeks I was here I felt invisible as I walked down the street – wasn’t even getting a second glance from anyone. Male or female. And there aren’t that many non-Koreans here. So I kind of stand out. It all started on Sunday with the Miss America comment from George’s father. He was being charming. But then, on Monday, Mr. Kim (the owner) decided to take us all out to lunch for a traditional Korean meal. As we were preparing to leave Kate School, he motioned with his hand, “Lori-ga! Chanta! With me!” So we followed him to his car. Chanta, Rob and I in the back seat. Mr. Kim and Mr. Lee in the front. We settle in and Mr. Kim says, “Lori-ga, best sing-ga!” Chanta, Rob and I look at each other – what is he saying? And in what language? After a few tries in Korean, we realize he’s saying that I’m the best singer. The other Mr. Kim had shown him the video clips from karaoke on New Year’s Eve. Chanta leans over and whispers, “Not a bad compliment for someone who’s tone deaf . . .” At the restaurant, we slip out of our shoes, enter the room, and sit on the floor at the table. Chanta, Darla, me, Ken. Mr. Kim comes in and motions for Ken and me to slide one seat to the right. Okay. We do and he comes and sits in between me and Darla. He stares at me and speaks Korean very loudly. Okay, I’m not deaf, I just can’t speak Korean that well. But he’s using “Lori-ga” a lot. I turn to Mr. Pyong. He’s laughing. And won’t translate. Why do I feel I’m the butt of a joke? Mr. Kim taps my arm. Still loudly, he says, “Nannun” (I) then pats the table where he’s sitting. “Here.” Okay. You’re here. Then he points at me, “Lori-ga!” Okay, yes, I’m here, too. Then something quickly in Korean. Over and over. I’m guessing. “This is your favorite restaurant?” “You like to eat here?” “You own this restaurant?” “This is your first time here?” Finally, exasperated, he turns to Mr. Pyong. “He says, he’s sitting there because you are so beautiful and he wants to be by the beautiful teacher.” At this point the entire table is staring. My face turns bright red. “Taedan hee, khamsa hammnida” (thank you very much). Then the plates of food come. And come. And come. Oooh, a new dish. Almost looks like country ham. But it’s beef. In a thick sauce. Small slices still on the thick round bone. I watch the Koreans to see how they’re eating it. Okay, pick it up with my chopsticks, then gnaw on it until the meat comes off, then put the bone in my bowl. I can handle this. I pick up a slice with my chopsticks. Bring it to my mouth. Start gnawing. The beef is not coming off the bone. So I tug a little harder. And my chopsticks slip. I can’t bite the meat. I bow my head and try to pull the bone with my fingers. The meat comes off the bone, quite forcefully. Splattering the sauce all over my face. And my blouse. There’s no way to graciously handle this. I pull a kleenex from my purse (don’t leave home without them) and cover my face, trying to wipe off as much as possible. I’m mortified by the amount of brown chunks on the tissue. I look down, I’ve got juice all over my chest. I’m not feeling very beautiful at all. I decide, once again, that I’m done with lunch. I just can’t handle more than one culinary disaster per meal.

Back to the lovin’ story – so that afternoon on my break I was at the gym in the locker room after my workout, preparing to go back to school. The woman who works at the front desk was sweeping the floor (I’m telling you, the floors are spotless here!). She turned to me, “Hello.” I smiled, and spoke as graciously as I could while trying to tug my pantyhose up around my hips, “Hi. How are you?” “You very beautiful.” Wow. “Thank you.” Then she continued to vacuum. Have I changed my hairstyle? What’s going on here?

After work I had to get passport photos taken for my Korean ID card. I went to the local department/everything store. In broken Korean I explained I needed 4 passport photos. The woman ushered me to sit down, then started fixing my hair. A flip here, a twist there. Pulled a few strands to the front. Then, “Very pretty. Very pretty.” This must be the epitome of a good hair day.

But wait, there’s more. Tuesday I had to go downtown to pick up my computer. In the taxi on the way back home, the driver turns to me and says, “American?” Yes. “Speak Korean.” A little. “Very beautiful.” Thank you. “American eyes most beautiful. You so pretty.” Thank you again. In my best Korean, I say to him, “I like Korean eyes.” He whips his head around, looking at me quizzically. Well, I do. Except that I later learn that I told him, “I eat Korean eyes.” Will I ever learn this language? “My card. Let’s make friends.” I am in disbelief. This is the most that I’ve been spoken to since I’ve been here. Maybe it’s something in the water.