Today was the day. It might as well have been Christmas Day when I was eight years old. I couldn’t sleep last night. I woke up an hour before my alarm went off. I haven’t looked this forward to anything in quite awhile. And part of the reason I was so excited was I had *no* idea what we were doing today.

I met the men at the so-yae hall at the appointed time, 9:30 am. They were all already there, drinking their cups of coffee. I did a double take when I walked in. Everyday they dress. Most wear suits, three piece suits at that. The most casual I’ve ever seen any of them is in dress slacks and a matching argyle sweater. But, today. Whoa. Full on casual wear. Jeans, khakis, tennis shirts, windbreakers. And hats. Oh, the hats. They could have been extras on the set of Grumpy Old Men. A tam, a baseball hat, a floppy fishing hat. I couldn’t suppress my smile. Annyong Hashim-nikka!

We drank our coffee quickly. I think everyone was excited to get the day underway! We divided up, four to a car. Mr. Lau (funny man) was driving my car, Teacher Song sat next to me in the back and Mr. Lee (the former English teacher) rode shotgun. In morning traffic it took us about an hour to get to the other side of Daegu. They pointed out landmarks along the way. The military base, the large university, the industrial section, where each of their children lived. Then we were on the highway out of Daegu. Mostly I just stared out the window at the scenery while the men talked in Korean. I did ask once where we were going. Mr. Lee answered, “Maybe 300 miles away.” What? He just smiled. So I smiled back and continued staring out the window.

About an hour later I noticed we were ascending into the mountains. Hmmm… this looks familiar. Are we going to MuJu, I asked. “You go to MuJu?” Yes, I went twice this winter. To snowboard. Is that where we’re going? “No. No. Going to another place.” Okay, I’m going to stop trying now. They’re not telling me. I need to just go with it. Or them.

We passed a huge lake, Seong Joo Lake. Mr. Lee pointed to the left. “See – memorial. Dam make big, big lake.” Yes, it’s beautiful. “Memorial for primary school.” What? “Lake covered primary school. Memorial. There (pointing at middle of lake) – there primary school.” Silently I wondered if the drowning of the school was intentional, or just bad planning.

I looked up and noticed we were on the left side of the road. Whoa. What’s going on here? “Don’t worry. We rest a minute.” Oh. Okay. And with that we veered off the left side of the road, right beside the lake. The other car stopped also. We all filed out, stretched our legs, some smoked cigarettes. We looked at the lake, identified flowers, then, just like that, were back in the cars. Mr. Lee turned around in his front seat position. “Only ten more minutes. Then we arrive.” Okay. I love how old people drive. We drove very slowly, inching along, then suddenly sped up. We would pass an intersection or a fork in the road and the car would come to a halting stop. Fast discussion among the men about whether or not we should take the turn, then, errrrrrrrrr, reverse, and turn.

We turned up a small, winding dirt road, barely large enough for a car. Slowly we inched our way along. Finally, Mr. Lee told me our destination. “Very good restaurant.” Here? We were in the middle of *nowhere*. “Yes. Famous for pig. Very special pig. Black. Black… bristles.” Ohhhhh… Okay. The cars stopped. We once again filed out. “See, see pigs?” No – where? “There.” Those rocks? Are those the pigs? “Yes. Come.” And while the others entered the tiny restaurant, we walked to see the pigs. Big, slovenly, lethargic, sleeping hunks of pigs. I’ve never had black pig before. This should be good.

We entered the restaurant. There were approximately six other tables, half of them occupied. As soon as I walked in, the place was silent. All heads turned to stare. I smiled graciously and walked to the table where the men were. They made me sit by the new student, Mr. Noh. Ugh. I didn’t want to. He creeps me out. But Mr. Lee kept motioning to sit on the floor beside him. So I did. He kept trying to touch my knee, brushing against me as he reached for the kim chi. I finally mustered the iciest stare I could and under my breath threatened, “Stop. Now.” It seemed to work. At least for the moment.

The men had told me last week we would celebrate by eating pig meat and drinking wine. But the first bottle produced was not wine. It was scotch whiskey. Oooh. Shot glasses were poured. I nursed my shot glass through the whole meal. “Drink, Miss Rori. Drink.” I am. It just takes me awhile. Please, go ahead, have more. Don’t wait for me. So they did. And the dishes kept coming. Baskets of leaves – sesame leaves, lettuce, cabbage, and other leaves I couldn’t identify. Platters of thick slabs of pig meat, otherwise known as pork. Dishes of condiments. Platters of garlic and onions. Bowls of sauces. A bowl of the tee-niniest shrimp I have ever seen. Mr. Lee leaned over to me. “Eat one, two, maybe three shrimp. Now. So you not get sick when you eat pig.” I thought and thought – I couldn’t figure out (and still don’t know) why eating shrimp would prevent me from getting sick while eating pork. But I did as he said.

The table had a burner in the center. The owner’s wife, Kim Shay-Ree, heated the burner then tenderly placed the pork on the hot surface. Ssssssssss. As it began to cook she used scissors and tongs to slice, snip, slice, it into small bite size pieces. It smelled so good. Important point to note. I was a strict vegetarian for about 6 years. I still don’t eat a lot of meat. And red meat is a whole new ball game for me. But, I’m forgetting, pork is the *other* white meat. Anyway… it smelled delicious. I am now an observer. I carefully watch everyone at the table, seeing what utensils they use, what side dish they eat solo, which they add to the leaves and wrap the pork in. And mimic. And it was good. For over an hour we picked at the pork, talking, sipping whiskey, and eating.

Then Mr. Noh tried to open a bottle of wine. The old fashioned, wicker-encased, Chianti type of bottle. He had quite the difficult time with the corkscrew. I offered to help, but his reaction expressed to me: You are a woman. This is a man’s job. Whatever. He broke the cork. No, broke is not the apt word. He shattered the cork then used a chopstick to push the small bits into the bottle. When he poured the first shot glass of wine, many pieces of cork floated on the surface. He was not happy with this, so with each subsequent glass he poured he tried to strain the wine through a Kleenex. Wine was everywhere. I just stared in disbelief, making sure no streams of red liquid dripped my way. After a couple of glasses, he got impatient with the straining method, so proceeded to pour the remaining wine bottle contents into the empty whiskey bottle. Again, I just stared. And continued to nurse my first shot glass of whiskey.

Teacher Song had an announcement. His face was flush from the whiskey. He was giggling more than usual. He handed each of us a small box. “Welcome par-teeeee, Miss Rori!” We opened our boxes. Inside was a scarf with bamboo reeds silk screened on it, as well as a poem in Chinese. Mr. Lee explained Teacher Song had created these for the opening of his So-Yae lecture hall in 1994. Khamsa hamnidas all around, then Teacher Song cleared his throat. Lots of Korean, sprinkled with Rori-Gas here and there. Then he pulled out an envelope, opened it, and unfolded a long sheet of paper. Lining the left edge of the paper was line of Chinese characters, in the top center was a stick figure (with a soccer ball for the head), and at the bottom were the following English words:

Smile please 2002 World cup foot Ball Dai Goo Korea fiting! To Loli English Teacher. frome Chung Joung Lecture-hall by NJ Song

In broken English he explained the Chinese to me: One time smile, one time young. One time anger, one time old. He then proceeded to show us that the stick figure was made of the Korean letters for “Let’s smile!” He folded the paper, put in back in the envelope and handed it to me. On the envelope were the words “Today – The Only Female.” Mr. Lee translated for me, “He says, you always smile. Always, always, always smile. In Chinese, we say: Smile once, and become younger. Become angry, grow old. You very young. You only female. Very, very, very good.” Ooh. Teacher Song, Taedan hee khamsa hamnidaaaa. Thank you very much. He just giggled.

We finished the platters of pig and prepared to go. What a wonderful, wonderful experience. Once outside, they all lined up. “Picture, Miss Rori. Picture.” Okay, let me get my camera. I snapped a couple of shots then they called to a woman to take one with me in the picture. Mr. Lee came over to me and handed me a bag. What’s this? “We buy pig meat for you to take home. You cook at home.” I thanked him profusely while thinking to myself, “I have never cooked pork before. In my entire life. This is definitely a year of firsts.” Then we were back in the cars. We inched down the winding driveway. I settled into the seat, preparing for the couple of hour drive back to Daegu.

After a few minutes, Mr. Lee turned to me. “Are you hungry?” I laughed, thinking he was joking. What? “Are you hungry? We will stop for lunch now.” What? We just ate lunch. The pig. “No. No rice there. That not lunch. We eat lunch now.” And he wasn’t joking. We pulled over to what appeared to be a shack on the side of the road. We walked round the back and were ushered into what appeared to be a shed. We left our shoes at the threshold and filed in. The men started sitting around the table. I quickly positioned myself in between Mr. Nam and Teacher Song and sat on the floor. Almost immediately, the dishes began arriving. Kim chi, sauces, a platter of the purest white tofu I’ve ever seen.

Teacher Song took out a lined sheet of paper. He passed it around, indicating for everyone to sign their name at the top of a vertical line. They all laughed when I printed my name in big block Korean letters. He handed the paper to Mr. Kim, Mr. Kim began drawing horizontal lines, connecting the vertical lines at random. I must have looked puzzled, because he kept saying, “lad-dah! lad-dah!” Mr. Lee explained we would play the ladder game to determine who would receive the other scroll Teacher Song had made, one of chrysanthemums and a Chinese poem. Ladder game? What’s that? Once again, I was met only with smiles. Okay, I’ll just wait and see.

After we had all added lines to the paper, Mr. Noh began tracing the lines from each name to the bottom of the paper. The object was to reach the center dot at the bottom of the paper. But there must have been a prescribed method to follow. Because when they announced I had lost, with my finger I pointed out the route I would have taken to reach the bottom of the page and they all just laughed. So I settled back onto my cushion and watched. Mr. Lee won the game. He clapped his hands in elation and stood up to examine his prize.

Then the rest of the food arrived. A large metal bowl of a noodle type soup was placed in front of each of us. Oh my goodness. There is no way I can eat this. Teacher Song explained, “Buck-wheat-a paste-ah. Good. Eat.” Mr. Lee further explained, “These not noodles. Buckwheat paste, rolled out, cut with knife. Very good for you. Eat.” I ate as much as I could. And it was delicious. But I had just consumed a large portion of pig only moments before. They noticed my spoon resting beside my bowl. “Too hot-ta?” No, no, I’m just, well, really full. This is a lot of food. Thank you, though. It’s delicious. “More tofu. Eat. Good for you. Lots of nutrients. You need.” No, really… and with that Teacher Song took his chopsticks and started feeding me tofu.

We finished “lunch” then returned to the cars. Where now? I jokingly asked. Lots of Korean exchanged. Then smiles. “Okay, let’s go!” We were on the road for about 20 minutes when Mr. Lee turned around and said, “Change of plans. We go somewhere else.” Okay I laughed. No one up until this point has told me the plans, so I wouldn’t know whether they were changed or not. Okay and I grinned at him. We pulled over in front of what appeared to be a temple. Mr. Lee explained, “Old writing hall. Over 1500 years old.” We walked through the grounds. Through the trees just beginning to bloom with small white and pink blossoms. The “lecture hall” – a large building with one side open to the fresh air. Smaller buildings, all intricately painted with blue, orange and yellow patterns, so similar to the temple decorations. After half an hour, we filed back into the cars. And again, after about 20 minutes, Mr. Lee turned around and said, “Change of plans. We go somewhere else.” Again, I laughed.

This time we drove along another small and winding road up a mountain. Parked the cars and began walking along a stream, the men pointing out all the plants in bloom and naming each. We saw a waterfall, then came upon a small building. It appeared to be deserted, a layer of thick dust covered the floor. We walked in, examining the scrolls and scrolls on the walls, some wooden, some paper. Some Chinese, some Korean. Mr. Lee explained this was a memorial for one of the former Ministers of Science and Technology from the 1700s. After he retired, he built this so he would have a quiet place to study. After his death his family maintained it as a memorial.

We walked along the stream again, heading back towards the cars. Mr. Noh appeared before me, bowed deeply, and presented me with an azalea. He tried to kiss my hand as he gave it to me. I couldn’t even muster a smile as I monotonely thanked him then placed the flower on a rock. Only moments later Teacher Song appeared with a flower. “Miss Rori – Miss Rori. You American flower.” How could the same act produce such different emotions? As Teacher Song gave me the flower, I smiled warmly, thanked him, and placed it behind my ear.

Back in the car, I expected Mr. Lee to once again turn around and say, “Change of plans.” But he didn’t. We really were heading home. Along the road we passed rows and rows of makeshift greenhouses. Mr. Lee explained, “Seong Joo – famous for yellow melons.” And as he spoke, Mr. Lau suddenly pulled over. There, sitting by a greenhouse, was the most ancient Korean woman, staring blankly into the distance. Mr. Lee jumped out and ran to her. Moments later, he was back at the car, peeling one of the melons, offering us each bites. “Very, very sweet.” I tasted it. It was like a round, fat, yellow striped cucumber. Not that sweet, but sweeter than a vegetable. And oh so juicy. My hands dripped with the watery liquid. When Mr. Lee returned to the car he presented me with a large plastic bag of the melons, probably containing 20 or so. How would I ever eat all of these? I will have to have a melon party. “Welcome present. For Rori Teacher.”

We were on the road once again. Mr. Lau was driving and humming “What a Friend We Have In Jesus.” Teacher Song was entertaining me in the back seat, naming all the English songs he knew. His favorites are “Let It Be” and “Three Times A Lady.” He sang the refrain to both many times, over and over. It was quite the surreal experience. I think I may have agreed to go to karaoke with him one day. He was speaking so fast in Korean and I just smiled and nodded to everything. I was starting to be lulled to sleep by the hum of the motor combined with the heavily accented, “Once-sa, twice-sa, three times-sa a laaeeee-deeeeee.” And then we swerved to the side of the road. At once, the three men exclaimed, “Co-pee party!” and jumped out of the car. All I could do was laugh. We went into a small coffee shop, sat down, and had a cup of coffee. Half an hour later, we were back in the cars.

And with that, we were on our way home. We arrived back to Daegu at dusk. As we got out of the car, Mr. Lee said, “Coo-pee?” Thank you, but I’m very tired. This was a long day. I think I need to take a rest. The men smiled. “Yes, Miss Rori. See you tomorrow.” And I was exhausted. All day I had concentrated on their conversations, trying to pick up a word here, a phrase there. But it was a wonderful exhausted. As I laid down to nap, I truly felt welcomed to Korea.