You Are My Purple Magnolia…

Well, no wedding bells were ringing when I entered so-yae this morning, so I don’t think I agreed to marry Son-seongnim (I was informed today that Son-seong is rude, you have to add nim to the end to be polite – will I ever learn?) Song’s son. But I’m still not completely sure. As I entered, Son-seongnim Song exclaimed, “White-ta Day! White-ta Day!” Oh, yesss… And he proceeded to tell me that this was when men gave ladies flowers and candy. “Happy White-ta Day!” and with that we had coffee.

Mr. Lau (funny man) was practicing Chinese flower painting. “Ohhhhh, magnolias!” I exclaimed. They were amazing. A beautiful scroll of a branch and several blooms greeting the morning. Mr. Lee said, “I do not know what these are called in English.” Magnolias. “I do not know.” Magnolias. “Maybe I will look it up.” Magnolias. They are magnolias. We sat down to have coffee and Mr. Lee pulled out a Korean-English dictionary. He scanned the pages, using his reading glasses and a magnifying glass, then said, “Ahhhhh – mak-noe-leee-ahs.” Really? Mr. Lau looked at me, then said, “Blue?” What? “What (and pointed at my sweater)?” Well, technically, it’s periwinkle. But let’s start with purple. Purple. “You my pulpul mak-noe-lee-yah,” and laughed hysterically. I think it was a compliment.

To Teach or Not To Teach…

After so-yae I stopped by the school to drop off some papers. I saw Mr. Pyong. Hi! Mr. Pyong, can we talk? About yesterday’s talk with Chairman Kim? “Of course, of course.” Were you asking me to teach the mother’s class? “Maybe. If you like.” Well, every week? or just one time? “Yes. Wednesday, Friday. As you like.” Would I get paid extra? “No……” Well, I’m already teaching a maximum load. 30 classes. And there are many other teachers who are only teaching 10 or 15 classes. Maybe you could ask them to teach. “Yes…I just ask you. Chairman Kim ask you. No? No problem. Just ask-a.” Okay. Thank you. So I will not teach tomorrow, right? “Okay. As you like.” Okay, cleared that one up. I think.

Special Delivery…

Chanta was hanging out at my place this afternoon. Searching for chocolate and chillin’. We heard a sound. A song. I looked at her quizzically. What’s that? “It’s your doorbell, silly.” But, you’re the only person I know here. Who else would be ringing my bell? “Answer it.” I opened the door and was met by the biggest bouquet of red roses I’ve ever seen. Ever *seen,* not just ever received. What? I couldn’t remember the Korean words for “What is this?” Que es esso? kept running through my head. Wrong language, Rori. The delivery man, seeing my confusion, pointed to the card and said, “Card-a. You.” He passed the bouquet and a box to me, I thanked him and he was off.

I came back into my room. Chanta exclaimed, “Oh, my god. Please tell me they are from anyone except Mr. Drunk Dialer.” I don’t know. “Maybe they’re from your dad.” Chanta, this is a a made up holiday. No one outside of Korea has any idea it’s a special day. Had you ever heard of White Day before coming here? She nodded in agreement. Sure enough, they were from Mr. Drunk Dialer. “What’s in the box?” I don’t know. “Open it, girl!” Okay, okay. I unwrapped the paper and found a box of shrimp chocolates in my lap. Not shrimp flavored chocolates (thank goodness) but chocolates shaped like shrimp. Who thought this was a good idea? And do they still have a job?

Chanta was psyched. She had found her chocolate. I can mainstream sugar all day long, but don’t care for chocolate at all. So she knew she was getting the whole box. I was still in shock. She asked me how many roses there were. I had no idea. We started counting, but quit after we reached 50. We were nowhere close to completing the count. Flowers are one of my favorite things in the world, so I felt like I should have been happy to receive such a generous gift. But I wasn’t. If anything it just made me mad. Why is he doing this? Why won’t he just leave me alone?

To Bang or Not To Bang?

I had an appointment to get my hair cut tonight. It’s been 4 months since my last cut; it’s time. I rationalized that I haven’t seen anyone here with a horrible haircut. People are pretty stylish. How bad could it be? Michelle and Cindy accompanied me for moral support and translation services. Snip, snip, snip. Chop, chop. Measure. Pull. Hmmmm. Snip. Okay. Well. My hair is cut. And I have bangs. I haven’t had bangs since the oh, fourth grade. And now I remember why. In hindsight, I should have recognized a-everyone here has straight, fine hair and b-I do not. Oh, well, it’ll grow.

White Girls Can’t Dance

I made dinner for the girls tonight. After dinner we were chatting about this and that. School. University. Where we might teach next. Michelle mentioned DDR*. What’s that? “Oh, so fun! Game. Dance. Fun!” Okay, let’s try it one day. “Okay!” and she grabbed her coat. I guess there’s no time like the present – let’s go. We headed to the first arcade. DDR was down. To the next arcade. We walked in to a young teenager jumping this way and that on brightly colored flashing lights on the floor. It’s full body Simon! Michelle pointed us to a similar machine around the corner. We put in our 300 won (20 cents). First Michelle and I competed. Bright arrows flashed on the screen. We were supposed to place our feet on corresponding bright arrows on the floor. But wait, is red forward or backward? And when do you jump? Why is it saying I missed? What’s that symbol? Halfway through the song I gave up and just started dancing. It felt much better. And I think I actually got a better score than had I continued to embarrass myself jumping this way and that…

*I think it’s an abbreviation for Dance Dance Revolution, but I’m not sure.