Going Away, or New Year’s Eve, Revisited

Last night was Rob’s going away party. He had been hired on a 3 month contract because he had already been offered a position to teach in Japan starting in April. So we all knew he wasn’t here for the year, but, man, three months has passed by so quickly.

I was told about the going away party at 2 on Friday afternoon. It was to start at 10 pm, after classes ended for the night. After getting over my initial frustration (advance notice – hello?), I accepted the fact that this was a work function and I was expected to be there. So I went. I can’t say it was the best night I’ve ever had, but it certainly wasn’t the worst, either. It was held at Bakkus (sic), a “salon room” establishment. I’m still not sure the implications of that. During one of the speeches, Mr. Drunk Dialer asked if we knew where we were. I answered, “Bakkus.” He wanted to know what kind of establishment it was. Since it had karaoke, I answered, “noribang.” No, no, no. This is not noribang, you silly girl. It is a salon room. I’m sure the men here know what I’m talking about… I looked around. Hmmm. There were, oh, at least 15 men present. And two women. Me and Darla, the female teacher from the other school. (Chanta was sick.) No one ventured to clue us in. Later, when a couple of the Korean women showed up, I meant to ask them. I forgot.

There were no more than 20 people present at any one time during the evening (people came and left). The room we were in was about 25 feet by 20 feet. Not huge. Very comfortable. A few couches. A few tables. A large tv/karaoke screen in one corner. Yet, whenever someone got up to make a speech, he insisted on using a microphone. We were all close enough to hear. I don’t know why microphones were used. The microphone added comic effect, though. I was quite entertained. Especially when one person would make a speech and the sound would reverberate, and another person would attempt to translate, adding more reverberation on top of the original reverberation. So basically, all we heard was unintelligible sound waves bouncing off the walls. And cell phones ringing. There are always cell phones ringing here.

We attempted karaoke. Interesting. The audio was the music to the songs, but the video was a continuous wet t-shirt and beach strip scene video. When Mr. Drunk Dialer began the evening with Unchained Melody (of course) and I saw the video, I thought to myself, “Hmmm. That’s an interesting art concept for that song. I’ve never quite thought of it in that way before. Kind of the white trailer trash rendition.” But when the buxom babes from California graced us with their presence for every song, I realized the video wasn’t queued to the audio; it was simply added value. How lucky can I get?

After a few rounds of karaoke, Mr. Drunk Dialer insisted on reading Rob’s letter of recommendation out loud to the group. Another very interesting tradition I’ve never witnessed before. Then he prepared everyone “Korean jungle juice.” Which the Canadians called boiler-makers. I’ve seen it before, but I don’t know the name. A shot of whiskey dropped into a large glass of beer, slammed on the table, swirled, then drunk in one shot. I did the obligatory one, then refused any refills. Since coming to Korea, I’ve become a sipper.

Peter, my snowboarding buddy from the other school, and I decided to sing a song together. Brown Eyed Girl. One of my favorites. And I’ve realized that it doesn’t matter that I can’t actually sing. People are impressed that I can say the words. Kind of like how I’m impressed when the Koreans sing along with Korean songs. Because I can’t. So we belted out the tune, laughing the whole time because our singing abilities are about equal.

Halfway through the song there was an instrumental part. We were dancing and giggling. I looked up at the rest of the group and realized that Mr. Drunk Dialer was videotaping me. I finished the song, then went over to him. “You, you are such a good singer.” Thanks. Listen, it makes me really uncomfortable when you videotape me. Could you not do it anymore? Thanks. He basically ignored me and started talking about the high school word etymology class he teaches. The phrase for this week: unrequited love. I just looked at him. I don’t know that that’s a phrase that’s going to be well, really helpful for high school seniors. See you later. And I left. And, didn’t receive a call in the middle of the night. This could be progress.