“We’ve been waiting for you.”

These were the words I heard as I walked through the doors of so-yae this morning. I was greeted by the grandfathers wearing plaid shirts and baseball hats. Oh uh. We’re going on a trip.

They handed me a cup of coffee and watched as I drank. I smiled. They handed me an 8 page document, all in Korean. “Today. Trip.” I smiled. Then they ushered me out the door.

We took two cars, 4 and 4. In the car, Mr. Lee, no, Mr. Ju, handed me a sheet of paper with all the grandfathers’ names and addresses, in English and in Korean. It turns out that I’ve been calling half of them by the wrong names. Amazingly, there is no Mr. Lee. My translator is Mr. Ju. There are two Mr. Kims, Teacher Song, Mr. Na (not Lau, funny man), Mr. Noh, and Mr. Nam.

We began driving south. Mr. Ju explained we would first visit Dodong Seowan, the Confucian school founded by one of the Mr. Kim’s ancestors. Mr. Kim was in the front seat of my car. As we passed by fields he excitedly pointed out where he used to play. Where he wrestled with his brother. Where his uncle’s rice field was. Where his relatives live now. The mountains he used to climb.

We arrived to the seowan about 2 hours later amid a grey drizzle. A group of children ran around one of the largest, most sprawling trees I’ve ever seen. One of them saw me. The game stopped, there were whispers, then pointing. I smiled. A girl of maybe 10, maybe 11, ran up to me. She stared at me for a long time. I smiled. She said, “Hello.” Hi. How are you? “I’m fine. Where are you from?” San Francisco. She smiled and ran away. The other children ran towards me. They whispered, “San Francisco, San Francisco,” and pointed. They ran to their mothers and tugged on their arms. A lot of Korean, back and forth. One of the mothers organized a group photo, me, with several small Korean children surrounding me. Then they were gone. Mr. Na, funny man, had also taken a picture. After he snapped the shot, he gave me the thumbs up and said, “Ve-lly good!” I laughed and we walked up the hill towards the seowan.

A seowan is a traditional Confucian school, focusing on the study of Chinese. Hundreds of years ago, it was the school of choice for young men. It usually consisted of a large, open area lecture hall, one or two buildings for students who travelled long distances to sleep in, and a “resting hall.” First, they showed me the lecture hall. The grandfathers walked up the 7 stone stairs, I followed them. Mr. Ju turned to me. “Only men here. No woman. But for you, okay. You American woman.” Even today? Even today women aren’t allowed in the lecture hall? “Yes. Even today. Korean woman, no. Not here. Sacred place. But you, you American woman. You special. Okay.” Silently I wondered how many places I had visited that it wasn’t culturally acceptable for me to be. There weren’t any signs that said no women. Mr. Ju explained that everyone just knows. It’s part of Confucianism.

Mr. Kim talked to the groundskeeper. He motioned for Teacher Song to follow him. He gave Teacher Song a gray robe and a tall black hat. Everyone walked to the back of the lecture hall. The groundskeeper unlocked another building, then rolled a bamboo mat out in front of it. The grandfathers slipped out of their shoes and stood on the mat, facing the building. Mr. Ju motioned for me to step to the side. Teacher Song walked up the steps, said what sounded like prayers, bowed, then returned to the mat. In unison, all the men bowed, touching their foreheads to the ground. They stood and in a line walked up the steps. Upon entering the building Mr. Kim lit some incense, maybe some candles, and began talking. He pointed at pictures on the walls. I tried to get closer. I understood I couldn’t go in the building, but I wanted to get a better view. The groundskeeper kept a close eye on me. Mr. Ju motioned for me to come closer. I started closer, the groundskeeper stopped me. Mr. Kim said something to him and he turned his back. I was allowed to go up the stairs. Later Mr. Ju explained they were performing a ceremony to honor Mr. Kim’s ancestors.

We walked back to the main lecture hall, then to the resting area. From there, Mr. Ju pointed out the sprawling tree I had noticed earlier. It was a 400 year old gingko tree, supported by cement pillars. We got in the cars, on to the next destination.

After winding over a few kilometers of roads, we stopped at the grave of Gwak, Chae U and his descendents. He was a famous Korean general who led attacks against the Japanese during one of their invasions. I commented to Mr. Ju that the Japanese were always invading Korea. He nodded. “Yes, very, very bad. They try to destroy us many times. But we always send them back.”

We got back in the cars, on to the next stop. We had not gone very far when the car in front of us pulled over at a local mart, a convenience store of sorts. Mr. Ju turned to me, “Time for something to drink.” We all hurried into the small store. The grandfathers pulled up all available folding chairs around the sole table. I was confused. I thought we were going to get a soda, a coffee, and continue on our way. No, we were having a drink. Teacher Song bought 3 large bottles of mack-uh-lee, the traditional rice wine. He poured us each a dixie cup, we toasted, and drank. I sipped, unaccustomed to the strong liquid. The other men effectively did shots. They opened a package of spicy squid jerky and offered me some. As I chewed, I mentally took note. This has to rank as one of the top 5 things I don’t ever want to put in my mouth again. Even another cup of the rice wine didn’t alleviate the seafood-y, bitter taste.

After our quick snack, we got back in the cars, travelled a bit farther, and stopped by the side of the road. We were in front of a long building, with several red gates. The men excitedly hurried over to see. I stopped to read the sign.

“Daegu Cultural Property Material 29. During the Chosun dynasty (1392-1910), Confucianism was the fundamental code of conduct for the people from all walks of life, and particularly the families of the Yangban class was (sic) rewarded for their conformity to the Confucian manners and customs, specified in the book Samgang Oryun (Three Fundamental Principles and Five Relationships). …in order to promote Confucianism and encourage good deeds, the government rewarded the people who behaved in accordance with the Samgang Oryun by putting up a red gate, called Jeong-mun, or a monument called Jeong-nyeo, in front of their house or at the entrance to their village.”

We were at the monument for General Gwak’s family. They had received 12 red gates for good behavior.

We got back in the cars and continued into the mountains, going higher and higher. We finally stopped at a very small restaurant. Mr. Ju explained we would eat barbecue. We all filed into the restaurant, then quickly exited. They wouldn’t serve us because we had not made reservations. I looked around. The restaurant was not full. It didn’t seem like the type of place you had to have reservations. People sitting on the floor, picking with chopsticks at barbecue frying on the tables. Pretty much like all other restaurants in Korea. The owner, smiling, was adamant. We didn’t have reservations. We got back in the cars and left.

At the bottom of the mountain we stopped at another restaurant. We were led to a small room upstairs. The men talked among themselves then called for the ajumaa. An order was taken and shortly thereafter the dishes began arriving. Salads. Kim chi. Cucumber slices. Chile peppers. Bottles of soju. Then, two covered plates. The ajumaa removed the covers. I looked. Hmmmmm. It obviously was meat. But unlike any meat I had seen before. Maybe 5 different parts of an animal. Perfectly round circles. Fuzzy rectangles. Jellied hoof like pieces. Slivers. I turned to Mr. Ju. What is it? I asked, smiling. “Very special meat. Very, very high for health.” I smiled. I started to take a piece. “Very, very good. You eat. Cow. Yes. Cow, I think.” I tasted it, but it wasn’t particularly good. I ate a few pieces, then set my chopsticks down. That’s the beauty of common dishes. You don’t have to eat much. Someone else will.

Next, small bowls of noodles arrived. And steaming bowls of soup. As the soup was placed in front of me, I groaned to myself. A bowlful of the mystery meat made into soup. The grandfathers instructed me to dump the noodles into the soup. I did, then stirred. I began eating. The soup itself wasn’t bad, but the meat was not tasty. Even though I ate several pieces, there was still so much left at the bottom of the bowl. Mr. Ju turned to me and frowned. “You do not like? Oh. It’s very, very good for health. Eat. Eat.” The men drank their shot glasses of soju in one gulp, then passed their empty glass to a friend. The friend held out the glass, someone else filled it. Mr. Ju turned to me. “Korean custom. Give glass to friend.” I watched for a while. Empty glasses would be passed to friends, filled, drunk, then passed to another.

Throughout lunch, the grandfathers all, in various degrees of English, expressed how much they will miss me, their American flower. Oh, I will miss you, too. You all have been so kind to me. Thank you. “We really, really want you to marry Korean man. We want you to stay Korea forever.” I laughed. “Okay, no Korean man. American man. Marry. Have babies. Be happy.” Again, I laughed. “We all come San Francisco, visit you and babies.” I laughed again. “You come Korea. One time a year to visit. Okay?” At this point tears were streaming from my eyes I was laughing so hard. Okay, okay, okay. Thank you.

After lunch we drove for a while through rice fields, through the rain, still sprinkling from time to time. We started up another mountain. Mr. Ju told me it was Biesalsan, Biesal mountain. The one with all the azaleas? “Yes, yes.” I had climbed the mountain before, back in April, when the azaleas had just bloomed, but had never approached it from this angle. We stopped at a roadside cafe. We ordered coffees and root drinks. We sipped from our paper dixie cups, looking at the mountains. Teacher Song pointed to one range and said, in English, “Double mountain,” and began laughing. This was evidently the funniest thing the other men had ever heard. They all pointed, exclaiming, “Double mountain! Double mountain!” I looked around. I saw the mountain ranges, but didn’t understand what was so funny. I smiled and looked at where they were pointing.

Teacher Song turned to me and shouted something I couldn’t understand. What? He repeated it. I still didn’t understand. He began singing. In the most soothing, calming voice, he serenaded me with a perfect rendition of “Dannyboy.” I sat amazed. A man who speaks no English, yet can sing Irish folk songs and Lionel Ritchie like there’s no tomorrow. After his performance ended, we all applauded, met by his wide grin.

We got back in the cars. Just minutes later we pulled to the side of the road. We drove down a dirt road barely large enough for a car. I turned to Mr. Ju. Where are we going now? He didn’t answer me. We finally came to a stop. At what appeared to be a shack. “We will have snack.” Food? Again? We just ate lunch. “Only a snack. Very good.” Koreans must have the highest metabolism in the world. They eat constantly yet are amazingly thin.

We sat down outside, under a tarp. We were brought a plate of pa-jeon, the delicious pancake-y creation I love. A platter of tofu and greens was set in front of us, as well as a platter of mountain greens, mi-na-ri. Teacher Song showed me how to twist the greens then dip them in a soy paste. A bowl of mack-uh-lee arrived. Cups were poured. Toasts were made. I couldn’t believe I was eating again. I was sandwiched in between Mr. Ju and Mr. Na. Mr. Na ate a lot of the pajeon. Every last morsel. The other men laughed and laughed. Mr. Ju leaned over. “Korean custom. Never eat all food. Leave a little on plate. If eat all, hostess think she bad hostess. Not give enough food. But Mr. Na, he eat all. He says delicious and eat all. Very funny.” The men continued laughing and drinking. I laughed, too. Not at the words they were saying that I couldn’t understand, but at their laughter. All day long, peals of laughter. At the slightest thing.

After an hour or so we piled back into the cars. We actually headed to Daegu. All of the sudden, the car in front of us halted. Mr. Kim got out and ran into a store on the side of the road. The men in my car looked perplexed, then began laughing. “Hahahahahahaha. Wife say he have buy rice. Hahahahahahaha.” Sure enough, he came out of the store, carrying a 50 kg bag of rice with the help of another. They tossed it into the trunk then we were on our way again, amid waves of laughter.

I was amazed when we returned to the so-yae hall. It was almost 7 pm. We had spent the whole day together, mostly eating. I smiled as I walked home in the rain, knowing I will truly, truly miss the grandfathers.

Jung

This has been a difficult week.

I spent an entire day dealing with my computer. My synopsis. When I bought my computer (in Korea) I paid a good deal of money to have an English operating system installed. With a Korean option. That is, I could switch back and forth between Korean and English characters. Except, that never happened. Well, seeing that I’m leaving soon, I figured I might as well fix it. I might want to type an email in Korean. I might want to use these characters that stare from me every time I boot up my computer.

Sang Jae agreed to help me. We arrived at the computer store at noon. They gave me the run around. Even though I had a receipt, even though it was obviously a computer from their store, they said it wasn’t their business. I should have checked before I left the store. And besides, the owner’s wife was sick. I turned to Sang Jae. Will you please say something to them? I paid for a product – this is ridiculous. “I can’t. The owner’s wife is sick.”

At 6:30 pm I was still dealing with the computer issue. This time I was at a computer store halfway across town, near the army base. The computer store I had bought the computer from had outsourced the installation of the English operating system, etc., etc. They were charging me again to re-install “hangul”, or Korean capability. And they wouldn’t give me a copy of the English Windows XP they had installed. Even though I didn’t agree in principle, I agreed to pay what they were asking. I just wanted my computer back. We left. I was frustrated. Sang Jae was frustrated. We didn’t speak on the way home.

I still don’t have tickets to China. I spent 2 hours last weekend talking to the travel agent. Giving her the airport codes. The times. The flight numbers. Checking availability. The problem is, I can’t purchase the tickets until the Chinese airline confirms the tickets. And from what she told me, China doesn’t like Korea, so they will wait until the last minute to confirm the tickets, and even then, the tickets may not be valid. To me, this sounds like a bunch of bullshit. Sang Jae tried to explain it to me. The smaller travel agency that we went to can’t confirm tickets – they have to contact the larger travel agency. The larger travel agency calls China. They wait. And wait. No one will take my money until the tickets are confirmed and even then I’m told that China may decide not to honor the tickets.

I’m beside myself. I don’t understand why the tickets aren’t confirmed. I don’t understand why we’ve spent two days in her office and I have nothing to show for it.

Sang Jae says to me, “Let’s take a walk. Let’s hike. For a change.” Okay. It’s 100 degrees outside, but I don’t care. Maybe I can sweat all of the uncertainty and ill will out of my pores. We begin hiking. We climb up. I stop to stretch my legs. Sang Jae watches me.

“Lori. Lori. Do you remember jung?” I thought for a moment. I knew it was a Chinese word. A Chinese character I had learned in so-yae. I think so. Why? “What do you remember?” Let’s see. It’s how you relate to someone else. It’s how you treat them. Why? “Lori. You have to have jung. I think the English word – compassionate. Compassionate for someone. Be within the heart of them. In America. Egoist. Individualism.” Yes, Sang Jae. Individualism is very important in America. That’s the basis of our government. An individual’s rights. The right to worship as he or she pleases. The right to express him or herself how he or she wants. The right, the right, the right, to be. “In Korea. Small country. Many, many times invaded by others. Many people in small area. We help each other. We feel for each other. Jung. In another’s heart.” But only for other Koreans, right? I was playing the devil’s advocate and I knew it. “Yes,” he responded, as if there were no other answer. “Koreans have to help each other. Foreigners are bad. We always think of the other. We always in their heart. Jung. In America – jung?”

It’s different, Sang Jae. In America, there are many, many groups. Each group maybe is from a different country. Or has different beliefs. And I may not believe the way they believe, but my government protects them. My government says they can believe what they want to believe. I may not agree with them, but I respect them. Because that is our strength. The freedom of choice. When you would not speak to the computer store owner today, I could not understand that. You said his wife was sick. In America, that would not matter. I would not even know that. Maybe that’s a bad thing. Maybe it’s better that you think of the owner and his personal circumstances. But for me, that’s very difficult to understand.

“So in America, no jung.”

No, Sang Jae. It’s just a different jung. We have jung group to group, not individual to individual. I volunteer with a group. We help women whose husbands have beat them. We help prepare meals for people who have AIDS. When I was working in the US, I gave a percentage of my salary to help people who were homeless. Who had bad times because of a hurricane. An earthquake. A flood. But it is group to group. Not so much individual to individual.

We continued hiking. We reached the top of the mountain at dusk. We saw the lights of Daegu begin to flicker on.

“Lori.” I turned to face him. “Lori. I want you have the good memories Korea in your heart. Not the bad like today.” I know, Sang Jae. And I will. The bad memories, they will fade. I won’t remember them after I’ve left. I’ll remember the good. I promise. “Lori. Please. Please take the jung with you. You need the jung.”

I stared at the tiny pinpricks of lights in the distance. I thought. Yes. Yes, you’re right, Sang Jae. We do need the jung.

Tasty

I met Sang Jae downtown for lunch. “Let’s get sam-gae-tang,” he said. Sure, I replied, not knowing what sam-gae-tang was.

It turns out sam-gae-tang is a whole chicken (albeit tiny) stuffed with rice and ginseng then boiled in a broth and served in individual bowls. Chicken and rice soup, Korean style. But only eaten in the summer time.

We ordered. The drinks came. Soda for him. Barley tea for me. The side dishes arrived. Spinach. Kim chi. Pickled radish. And a dish I wasn’t quite sure of. I picked up my chopsticks, ready to delve into the new dish. Sang Jae asked me if I knew what it was. No, but it looks good. “Chicken ass.” Excuse me? “Chicken ass. Very, very good.” And with that, he picked up his chopsticks and began to eat said dish.

I was torn. It did look good. But, somehow, it didn’t seem as appealing after he gave it an identity. As daring as I am, I couldn’t bring myself to eat the chicken’s ass. Don’t know what that says about me. But I just couldn’t.

Brain Breath

The posters are everywhere. Plastered to doors, in hallways, on poles in the street. A serene, smiling Korean man, eyes closed. But his face is distorted, like a spoon’s reflection. Very, very wide. Adding to the distortion is his minute bodyand his tiny hands.

As we were leaving my apartment, I pointed at the one taped to my door and poked Sang Jae.

Hey, what is this for?

“Brain breath.”

Excuse me? I thought for sure I must have heard wrong.

“Brain breath.”

No, I had not heard wrong. What is brain breath?

“You know.”

No, I don’t.

“Brain breath.”

I heard you, I just don’t know what it means.

“Breathing for brain. Relaxing. What’s that word? Think good thoughts.”

Meditation?

“Yes. That’s it. Brain breath.”

Through The Looking Glass

It threatened to rain all day. The skies were a hazy gray. Drops would start, then stop. Late afternoon I decided I didn’t care if it rained or not – I needed to get out of the house.

I donned my hiking gear and started out. I’ve seen people disappear into a hedge not far from my house. It seems like there is a mountain there, maybe there are trails as well. I, too, slipped in between the hedge. A soft carpet of fallen pine needles greeted me. Even though I was mere feet from the busy street, I felt as though I had stepped into another world. I looked around. There didn’t appear to be any formal path. I walked around. I saw a steep ascent, with a rope strung beside it. I guess that’s the path.

I started up. I grabbed the rope. The few trickles from the sky had made the somewhat rocky, somewhat muddy path slippery. I continued with care. I was the only person in sight, yet I wasn’t alone. The chatter of the insects, birds, and critters was almost deafening. I swatted at the gnats and mosquitoes that attacked my damp face. I waved my arms, trying to dislodge myself from invisible spider webs I continuously encountered. About 20 minutes into my journey, I noticed a clearing to the right. Between swats, I saw a perfectly manicured garden. Rows upon rows of corn, beans, squash. What a strange place for a garden. Who would make the effort to climb this mountain, with tools, to tend a garden? Obviously someone, as the vines and stalks were flourishing.

I continued upward, still not another human in sight. The path became narrower. The rain became harder. It didn’t matter. The canopy of trees sheltered me from most of the drops and I welcomed the ones that got through, hoping they would cool my hot skin. As I grabbed hold of a tree and hoisted myself over a steep incline, I noticed a weight bench to my right. What a strange place for exercise equipment. Who would climb for a good 40 minutes, then rest upon a dilapidated bench, to lift weights? Odd.

The path finally leveled out. I more or less skipped along, enjoying the sounds of the forest. The sudden movements of animals unseen. My thighs burned from the upward trek. I took long strides, stretching my hamstrings with each wider and wider step I took. I noticed a glimmer to my left. I walked closer; it appeared to be a sign. I walked around it. No, it wasn’t a sign. It was a whiteboard. On top of a mountain. What a strange place for a whiteboard. At this point I spun around. This just didn’t make sense. Was this really happening? What were these strange things? To my surprise, no one was following me, preparing to laugh at my bewilderment. The items didn’t seem to have been planted. They really did belong there. In some strange way or another. I felt like I was in a Lewis Carroll story.

The trees became thicker, the atmosphere darker. To the right, to the left, were many graves, marked only by the mounds of dirt that remind me, for some inexplicable reason, of Hostess Snowball cupcakes.

I continued. The terrain took an upward turn. Up, up, up. Burn, burn, burn. Swat, swat, swat. More insects swarmed around me. I darted through a group of dancing dragonflies. Something else sparkled in the distance. I walked hesitantly. I still had not seen another human. All of the sudden I was upon a large clearing, filled with weight benches, mirrors, hula hoops, jump ropes – basically, an outdoor gym. Clocks were tied to the trees. I wandered in and out of the equipment, musing that if this were the States, there would be no equipment. Everything would have been gone the first night it had been left out.

The path started downward. I met an elderly man. Then a stout woman. Then a young couple. The path divided. I noticed there were quite a few cheap, plastic, dimestore clocks tied to trees. I had an odd sense that I didn’t quite know where I was.

I reached the end of the path. I peeked out through the hedge. I didn’t recognize the street or any of the buildings. I turned around and started to retrace my steps. I walked along the familiar path, coming to the outdoor gym, the tombs, the whiteboard. Somewhere after the whiteboard, I must have taken a wrong turn. I heard loud voices in the distance – people yelling? I continued. I came upon a larger garden than the one I first spied. The path seemed to lead me right into the center of the garden. I followed. The voices became louder. Drills? Protests? I was concentrating so hard on not slipping on the narrow, muddy descent that I didn’t notice where I was going. The path suddenly ended and I was at a opening in a wall. I bent down, ducked under, stood up. And froze.

I recognized where I was. The Daegu Metropolitan Police Agency. More specifically the Daegu Metropolitan Police Agency training grounds. Men were repelling down the side of the building. Men in formation were doing whatever men in formation do. Supervisors were supervising. I thought for a moment. Hm. This is a rather precarious situation. But I’m really not doing anything wrong. I just happen to be here. Where I probably shouldn’t be.

I began walking along the wall. I could tell I had attracted attention. Men were pointing. Someone was yelling in a bullhorn. Maybe to me, maybe not. I couldn’t understand the words. I briefly glanced up, mustered the most innocent look musterable, smiled the sweetest smile smileable. Then glanced down and walked as quickly as possible until I reached the safety of the sidewalk. With every step I took I expected to feel hands clamp my shoulders, questions shouted at me. But, no.

I kept my eyes focused on the sidewalk until I reached my apartment. As curious as I am, I had seen enough strange things for one day.

Fresssssssshhhhh….

This evening, Sang Jae and I were walking right at dusk, that perfect time of evening. The air wrapped us in a blanket of warm softness, not the oppressive heat so common during the day. The light slowly changed from amber, to a barely perceptible pink, to a deep lavender, before fading to a deep darkness.

“I want to eat pork.” Okay. That’s fine with me. We wound our way through the alleys, dodging small children on rollerblades, avoiding cars that drove just a little too close. We came to his favorite kalbi restaurant, the one with the jovial cartoon pig on the front. You wouldn’t be so happy if you knew what they were serving inside, poor little piggie, I thought to myself.

We entered, tossed off our sandals, and sat down at one of the tables only inches off the floor. He ordered. Pork for two. I like going to the kalbi restaurants with Sang Jae. He eats almost all of the meat. I eat almost all of the side dishes. There’s never any arguing over who gets what. I devour the tiny dishes of peanuty spinach, spicy kim chi, vinegary lettuce, chilled seaweed, sesameed turnips, all the vegetables he could care less about. As I was carefully maneuvering my chopsticks to clasp a few pieces of lettuce, I noticed something moving in my bowl. Upon further investigation, I discovered a small black bug. I’m not sure what it was, other than alive. Sang Jae noticed me examining the creature. “No problem. Eat.” I don’t know… “No. Very good. Bug in salad means very, very fresh.” I considered this logic. He’s got a point. As I continued eating the lettuce (avoiding spearing the bug) I thought to myself, This is what I’ll miss about living here. The oh, so original points of view.

Rat Tail

I’ve written before about the lack of rats I’ve seen here, despite the absolute opportune conditions. Today, I met my match.

The typhoons continue. Steady, solid rain. For hours that turn into days that turn into nights. I’m somewhat disappointed that they aren’t storms. No thunder, no lightning to spice it up. Just a slow, monotonous, continual downpour from the heavens.

I was walking to so-yae, my umbrella not really doing any good. As I stepped in puddles I couldn’t avoid, water splashed over my sandals, soaking my toes, splattering my bare legs. I was walking in perfect time with a small, elderly Korean woman in front of me. I focused on her unusually bright yellow umbrella scattered with bold red flowers, right at my eye level. For blocks I walked behind her, left, right, left, right. The rhythm lulled me. I wasn’t focusing on the rain, only the steady pace of the yellow umbrella in front of me.

Suddenly, I was startled by a movement on my right. The umbrella, and woman, had jerked to one side. I snapped out of my hypnosis. I looked down. I screamed, “Oh, my god!” There, only inches from my wet, bare toes, was a ferocious rat, baring his sharp teeth, his beady eyes glaring. Our eyes locked. Yes, logically I realize I am what, 100 times (if not more) his size. Nonetheless, my stomach was in my throat. I don’t like vermin.

I stared at the creature for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, I bared my teeth and hissed. It worked. He scampered off along the stone wall lining the sidewalk. The elderly woman looked me up and down and began laughing hysterically. I smiled. She started walking, I once again fell in step behind her. At the stoplight, we waited to cross the street. Another elderly lady approached. My friend with the bright yellow umbrella animatedly told her what had happened. They both stared at me, speaking rapidly in Korean, laughing the whole time. Not understanding anything they said, I smiled, then crossed when the green man appeared.

At so-yae I related my morning of terror. Mr. Lau, funny man, asked me where the rat was. I reiterated it had been on the sidewalk, just a stone’s throw from where we now sat. “No, no, no, where now?” I’m afraid I don’t understand. He then pantomimed picking the rat up by the tail, snapping its neck, and barbecuing it. All the grandfathers laughed hysterically at the look upon my face once I realized his meaning. I really hope this was their idea of a joke…

A Moskiter

“I live on the place neer the mountain. So there is many moskiters. A bad Moskiter. Today again I had stooted by moskiter. It is very ichy. I hate.”

From a student’s journal. I couldn’t agree more. Damn moskiters.

If You Say So….

From another student’s journal:

“… to eat the mak-chang. Mak-chang is a large intestine of cow and it looks like a chewing gum. Its color is white and so delicious.”

Makes me think twice about chewing gum.

The (sort of) Camping Trip

I came home from school last night around 9:30, exhausted after my turnaround trip to Pusan then a full evening of teaching. As I began to fix dinner, the phone rang. “Lori, it’s Sang Jae.” Hello, how are you? “Guess where I at?” I don’t know, where? “The lake. Yesterday.” You’re at the lake that we discovered yesterday? What are you doing there? “Fishing. Camping. I come get you. You outgoing. You love to go outdoors. So you come here.” I started to explain that that really wasn’t what outgoing meant, but decided against it.

Not too much later, he arrived at my house. Are you really camping? Do I need to bring anything? A pillow? He pointed to my sweatpants laying crumpled on the floor. “Those. Mosquitoes are bad.” I stuffed the sweatpants in my pillow, along with a small flashlight. I grabbed a bag of tangelos and we were off. As we drove up to the lake, I wondered where he and his friends had set up camp; I couldn’t remember any flat clearings from our walk on Sunday. I was just a little surprised when I saw they had set up a tent in the turnaround area at the lake, basically, on the road. And one small tent. Five people. I looked around. Where is the other tent? “Only this. No problem.” Hmmmm. Maybe I better reconsider this camping thing. Five people, one small tent, pitched on concrete.

I said hi to everyone there. One friend was playing the guitar, one was collecting rocks to build a campfire ring, the other was just hanging out. They had been there all afternoon. Sang Jae led me over the guardrail, down to the edge of the lake. He showed me the net of all the little fish they had caught over the course of the afternoon. Bright, shiny, silvery fish, no bigger than my hand.

We returned back up the slope to base “camp” where a fire was burning brightly within a circle of rocks. They threw a screen over the circle of rocks and began tossing chunks of meat on the screen. The smell was incredible. Sang Jae tossed me a pair of chopsticks and I picked up a piece of meat, blew on it, then popped it into my mouth. Delicious. Mmmmm…. Something about food cooked over an open fire that just can’t be beat.

During dinner and afterwards, the boys were playing the guitar, singing various songs, doing shots of soju. Soon thereafter, a couple of them climbed over the guardrail, stumbled down to the lake, stripped down to their underwear and dove in. I am a water baby. I love the water. To see others enjoying the chilled water on a moonlight night and me sitting on the sidelines, well, I just couldn’t stand it. But I also realized that shedding my clothes as they did wasn’t really an option either. I thought for a moment – ahh, I brought my sweatpants. I’m wearing a sweatshirt. I’ll swim in my shorts and sportsbra. When I get out, I will still have dry clothes to sleep in. And with that, I dove into the water. They all turned around, amazed to see me in the water. Sang Jae yelled to me, “You think like man. You cannot be controlled.” Maybe that was supposed to be a compliment, I’m not sure.

I swam far into the center of the lake, feeling the water get icier and icier as I got farther from the edges of the reservoir. Long after they got out, I was still swimming, turning round and round, over and over, in the water, loving the feeling of my skin parting the cool water, relishing floating on my back, gazing at the few stars in the darkness and perfect half moon shining brightly in the sky.

After I was satisfied with my swim, I sat on the rocks in the moonlight, listening to the chorus of frogs nearby. In the warm night I dried quickly. I picked up my tevas and made my way back up the bank.

At that point I think the effect of the soju was wearing off and the boys decided that five of us sleeping in one tent pitched on concrete probably wasn’t such a good idea after all. We began breaking camp. “Lori, did you drink?” No, I didn’t have anything. With those words, Sang Jae threw me the car keys. We packed everything in the trunk, then all five of us squeezed into his small car. Ugh. The odor of probably not so clean lake water, soju, and fish was overwhelming. At that point I was *really* glad we didn’t camp out. Being able to take a hot shower then crawl into my comfy bed was a perfect end to a perfect evening.