Pusan, Take ?????

Once again, I awoke to my alarm clock ringing at the ungodly hour of 6 am. Ugh. I am so not a morning person. I threw a book in my purse, made sure I had my passport claim slip, and headed to the train station. I felt a drowsy sense of deja vu as I said to the ticket clerk, “Pusan ju-ship-shee-yo.”

I boarded the train, noticing it was unusually cold in the car. As the conductor passed through, several people commented to him how cold it was. He went to a control panel at the front of the car, adjusted some knobs, then continued into another car. At each stop the same thing would happen. The car would stop. Passengers would exit, enter. The cold air would once again blast down upon us. The conductor would eventually walk through the car, people would complain, he would open the control panel, make adjustments.

About halfway through the trip this climate control battle was accompanied by a new passenger’s screams. He probably was 3 or 4, and was completely unsatisfied with everything. And very vocal about it. In the 6 months I’ve lived here I’ve been very surprised at how quiet children are here. The babies generally don’t cry; the children I’ve seen in public seem to be very quiet and well-behaved. This terror compensated for all the others.

Sleep was impossible. Reading was impossible, due to the fact I was using my hands to vigorously rub my arms to try to warm myself. I was very happy when the automated voice came over the loudspeaker and announced, “Next stop. Pusan. Please collect your valuables and have a safe trip,” in 3 languages.

This time getting to the Chinese consulate was, proverbially speaking, a piece of cake. My “taxi talk” is quite good. As I entered the consulate, I noticed only 3 of the 4 windows were open. Window #3 had a very long line, but everyone in line held the visa application form I had completed so hastily last week. There were a few people in line at window #2, so I pulled out my passport claim ticket and walked up to window #1. The lady smiled, took my ticket, and said, “Sam man o chun won, jushipshee-yo. Thirty-five thousand won.” What? Ugh. I should have known better when the English speaking man on the telephone told me there was no charge for the visa. Nothing is free. I opened my purse and pulled out 4 10,000 won bills. Then gasped as I realized that was all I had with me. Oh, no. I didn’t have enough cash to purchase a train ticket to get back to Daegu. Now I’m going to have to find an ATM. That either has pictures on it, or English subtitles. This could be an adventure.

The kind lady who took my last won motioned for me to get in line at window #2. Once there, another smiling lady offered me a receipt and my passport. I looked at the visa. Oh, no. They had issued the visa under my married name, not my current, legal maiden name.

After I got divorced, I started the process of changing all important papers, licenses, etc. back to my maiden name. It was a pain. Do you realize how many relatively important documents contain your name? Your driver’s license. Your credit cards. Your hotel frequent stay programs. Rental car accounts. Frequent flyer accounts. Telephone bills. Utility bills. Car titles. Your passport. For each I had to submit a name change application form, a “legal” copy of my divorce decree, and usually, a fee. I was very surprised when I applied to change my name on my passport. It was one of the easier changes to make. Download the form off the internet, complete it, mail it, along with my passport, to a passport agency, expect it back in a couple of weeks. No fee, relatively little hassle. What I didn’t realize is that my passport looks exactly the same, except at the back, on page 23, in very small type, someone typed, “This passport was amended on Jan. 26, 2001 to change the bearer’s name to read Lori Alison McLeese.” No one ever looks at page 23. In hindsight, I wish I had just said I had lost my passport, paid the $75 fee, and gotten a new one. It would have made things much easier. Over the past eighteen months I’ve constantly had to explain to airline personnel why the name on my ticket supposedly doesn’t match the name on my passport (as I said before, no one looks at page 23). And I’m usually trying to explain in another language. I don’t know any Chinese. It’s going to be an interesting trip.

Luckily, I found an ATM with relatively little hassle. Just a few attempts at machines I *couldn’t* figure out how to operate, desperately pushing the cancel button, and praying my card would come back out.

The return trip to Daegu was scream-free, normal temperature. As I entered my apartment and realized I only had a few minutes before I had to get ready for work, I felt I had already put in an entire day. But, I have a (hopefully) valid visa for China and will be on vacation soon. Life’s not so bad.

The Typhoon

Supposedly a typhoon was coming through today. It’s been on the news. It’s been in the papers. The umbrella salesmen have been out full force. So, unlike most Sundays, I planned to stay inside. I rented a few videos; I dusted off a couple of books I’ve been meaning to read. I spent all morning doing “indoor” things, waiting for the typhoon. Every so often, I would go to my sliding glass doors (covered by opaque material), open them, peek outside. Yes, the skies were definitely ominous, but no rain, winds, or destruction in sight. Finally, by early afternoon, I was completely restless. I called Sang Jae. Let’s go somewhere. Let’s go hiking or something. Anything. I want to get out of the house. “But Lori, typhoon.” It’s not raining yet. “Okay. We will go. But only in car.” This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but it was a start.

He arrived soon thereafter and threw me the keys. “You drive.” Where? “Anywhere. Let’s go.”

We headed towards the World Cup Stadium, a relatively undeveloped area of town. We passed the stadium, where many children were at play – rollerblading, flying kites, chasing each other. We continued up a smaller, more winding road, barely wide enough for two cars to pass. As we drove higher, I wondered what could possibly be at the end of the road. All of a sudden, a lake came into view. A beautiful, dammed, greenish blue lake. We both drew in breaths of shock. I didn’t realize there was a lake up here. “Me, too,” Sang Jae replied. We drove to the other side of the lake and parked along side the now dirt road.

The road continued up the mountain. We began walking. A stream was to one side of us. Several people had spread picnics along the water’s edge, mostly groups of elderly women. The soil was slightly muddy due to the heavy moisture in the air. A syrupy stickiness surrounded us. We avoided the puddles formed by random trickles crossing the road. We stopped to try to identify the various lush green plants alongside the road which was becoming more and more like a path.

Finally, the road ended. There, in the shadow of the mountain, a temple was being constructed. I started forward. Sang Jae stayed put. Come on, I said, Let’s go look. “I don’t want.” I shrugged and continued. The temple was unusual in that it was made entirely of cement. Every last detail. The form was the same as other temples I’ve visited, the intricate eaves, the beautiful carvings, but instead of being constructed from wood, it appeared concrete was poured into a mold then left to set.

I walked around a bit then headed back to where Sang Jae was standing, watching me. We started back down the path. “Do you know why I don’t like?” No, why? “Because. At the temple, they want me bow. I’m Christian. I don’t want.” But, Sang Jae, I’ve never been asked to bow when I enter the temple. “It’s different. I’m Korean. They expect from me. I don’t want.”

We walked for a few more minutes in silence, enjoying the gray day, wondering how long it would be before the typhoon arrived.

“Do you think that Buddha comes true?” What? I don’t understand. “Say to Buddha, what’s that?” Prayer? When you bow to Buddha and ask for something? “Yes, that. Prayer. Do you think it’s true?” Wellll, I think that when Buddhists pray to Buddha, they believe in the power of prayer. Just like when you pray to God, you believe. It’s just about the same. “No. Not same. God is alive.” Sang Jae, Buddha was alive, too. He was a person. He was a spiritual leader. And technically, God as a person isn’t alive today. Only his spirit is alive. “I still don’t want the temple.”

As we walked along the stream, I realized that this was the most in-depth, meaningful conversation I’ve had since arriving here. And it lasted all of 5 minutes. As we reached the car, the drops started. We stopped by the lake to watch a fisherman checking his poles. The drops started slowly at first, then continued more and more rapidly. We scurried back to the car, escaping the deluge by moments.

To Russia, With Love

I tutor a young Russian girl, Masha. She’s 5 (Russian/English age) or 7 (Korean age). For the past 5 months, every morning, I’ve gone to her house and we’ve read books, sung songs, or played games in English. It’s been quite enjoyable.

She will be going back to Russia for a long summer vacation in a couple of days. When she comes back, I’ll be gone. I’ve resigned from my teaching position. From Korea.

There is a lot I don’t write about on the blog. LoriLoo was created by a good friend, Bryan, as a going away present when I left San Francisco. A way to let friends and family know what’s going on. A way to record my memories. I’ve wanted to share and remember the good things about my time here, not focus on bad. I absolutely don’t regret my decision to teach in Korea. But it’s time to move on.

Masha and I talked about her upcoming trip to Russia. We drew pictures of the plane. We discussed what she would do in Moscow. I gave her a going away present. Today was my last day tutoring her. She greeted me with a bottle of chilled Russian vodka. Oh. I looked at her mom. Surely I wasn’t expected to break out vodka shots at 8:30 in the morning? No, no, she assured me, it was for me to enjoy later.

After our lesson, Masha’s mom and I exchanged addresses, telephone numbers, etc. I said good-bye to Masha and gave her a big hug. It was at that point she realized something was different. She spoke quickly to her mother in Russian. Her mother answered her. Masha turned to me with a look of astonishment. Then sadness.

It seems she thought I was going to Russia with them. I would stay at their summer house with them. We would return to Korea together. I apologized and said I would try to visit her in Russia one day. I promised to write. To send her English books.

As I walked away, she ran down the walk, on the other side of the fence, blowing me kisses. Good-bye, Loooooooooori!. Good-byyyyyyyyyyyyyyyye…

Son Of A Buddha

This morning the grandfathers and I were enjoying our cups of instant coffee, fanning ourselves with fans inscribed by Teacher Song. The temperatures have steadily climbed over the past few days – it’s now a miserably tolerable very hot. The conversation was sluggish. We were too hot to exert the energy pleasantries required. Most of the grandfathers leaned back in their chairs or on the sofa, eyes at half mast, legs stretched out in front of them. Suddenly, Mr. Lau, funny man, leaned forward. He asked Teacher Song for a scrap of paper. He began scribbling slowly, trying to remember Chinese characters. He wrote one, after consideration crossed it out, wrote another, amended it, shook his head, attempted it again. He began speaking. The other grandfathers slowly opened their eyes, then leaned forward. I leaned forward, too, even though I couldn’t understand what was being said. I watched him write, trying to explain. The other men listened carefully, cocking their heads to one side and making tsking noises. Teacher Song pulled out a massive dictionary. He flipped from page to page, eventually finding the entry he wanted with the assistance of a huge magnifying glass. He spoke, nods all around, reclining positions resumed.

I had no idea what had just transpired. I hadn’t recognized any of the words. I turned to Mr. Lee.

He began: Buddha. Once a prince. In India. Married. Wife had son. But Buddha left. Became Buddha. Son, very, very bad. Troublemaker. Lahoorya.

Me: Lahoorya? Is that a Korean word?

Him: No. Indian. La-hooooo-rya. His son. Very bad. Troublemaker. Son of a Buddha.

He said it with such contempt. He wouldn’t say what the son did that was so bad. Just that it was very, very bad. I really tried not to laugh, but to me “Son of a Buddha” sounds like an insult gone awry…

You Can’t Miss It

I hate it when I ask someone directions and they reply with the above phrase. Because obviously, I can miss it. And usually do.

That’s what the English speaking man at the Chinese consulate said to me. “Oh, we’re about 500 meters west of the Paradise Casino. Right beside the Grand Church. You can’t miss it.”

Famous last words.

The day began more or less according to schedule. Up at 6 am. Okay 6:30. Headed to the street to catch a taxi by 7. No taxis in sight. Oh, yeah, this is a night society. I waited patiently. Finally a taxi appeared. At the train station by 7:35. Damn. Just missed the train to Pusan. Next one at 8:05. No problem. It’s only an hour or so trip.

It wasn’t the express train. I deboarded in Pusan at 10:00. Still not worried. The consulate didn’t close til 11:30. I hopped on the subway, bound for the end of the line, Gwangan. Exited the subway at 10:30. Okay, still have an hour. No problem.

Hailed a taxi. Asked him to go to Hay-Un-Dae Beach. To the Chinese embassy. He understood the beach part. Not the embassy part. I got out my phrase book. Embassy. China. Jong-gu. Still no recognition. Okay, okay, okay, Hay-Un-Dae Bee-cheee kajushipsayo. My train of thought was, if I can get to the beach, surely I can find the consulate. How hard can it be? Here’s where the problems begin.

We made it to Hay-Un-Dae without incident. He drove slowly down the main road while I searched for a big Chinese flag. Didn’t see one. We drove until we reached the Paradise Casino. Okay, now I just have to go west and we’ll find it. I didn’t know what way west was. Neither did the taxi driver. Neither did four of the hotel employees I asked (in Korean). I glanced at the clock on the taxi’s dashboard. 10:58 am. Oh.

I asked the hotel employees if they knew where the Grand Church was. They didn’t, but they disappeared with my paper with notes scribbled on it and my phrasebook. They returned what seemed an eternity later. They returned my belongings to me, said something to the taxi driver, and we were off. 11:07 am. Oh.

We backtracked. Took the exact same road we came in on. More than 500 meters. The taxi pulled off to the side of the road, into the parking lot of a huge, shiny blue-green glass office complex. He stopped. I’m about to hyperventilate. I really want to get to the Chinese consulate today. He pointed. The office complex was the Grand Church. I saw a cross way up top. I ran into the lobby and asked where the Chinese consulate was. The elderly man at the information desk smiled. I guess they get this question a lot. He motioned with his arm. Out, to the left, to the left, hop, hop.

I sprinted. And sure enough, there it was. I entered at 11:22 am. I scanned the room. There were lines. And no English. Okay. First thing to do. Form. There’s got to be a form to fill out. There was. I completed as much as I could, then picked a line. I had no idea what the four lines were for – each had a different sign above the plate glass window. I chose the line farthest to the right. Chinese writing is read right to left, maybe that’s how they process lines, too.

There were 3 groups in front of me. Two groups. One. I got to the window at 11:28. Whew. They’re not kicking me out. I handed my form, my passport, my itinerary, and my picture to the lady behind the glass. She smiled as she looked everything over. She nodded, gave me a slip of paper, and told me to come back next week. That’s it? I don’t have to pay? You’re not going to interrogate me? But that really was it.

I exited the consulate as they were locking the doors. This was cutting it a little too close, even for me.

Worry, worry, worry…

The grandfathers at so-yae enjoy teaching me a different aspect of Korean language/culture each day. Sometimes I learn how to prepare and serve tea, sometimes I learn names of flowers, many times the conversation centers around political discussions. Today, however, I learned how to call a dog. In Korean. “Worry, worry, worry,” and a motion of clasping my hand. Somehow, I don’t think this will come in handy….

It’s About Time…

I guess you could say I’m quite an accomplished procrastinator. I know I have things to do, but they just don’t seem to get done in a timely fashion. I’ve finally posted pictures from the past two months at www.loriloo.com – random adventures, Ida’s visit, World Cup. Enjoy!

What About The Monkeys?

I teach writing classes. Almost exclusively. And I truly enjoy it. Getting the children to express their thoughts, their feelings, their ideas in another language. In one of my more advanced classes, I was trying to get across the idea of writing “with your senses.” Describing the sights, the smells, the sounds, the taste, the feels, of an experience. The assignment was to imagine you were one of the original Spanish explorers to North America. Upon your return to Spain, you had to explain “corn” to the queen. We talked about what corn tastes like, what it looks like, what it smells like. As the students were busily scribbling away, one of the students suddenly looked at me. “Miss Lori?” Yes? “What about the monkeys?” Excuse me? “What about the monkeys?” I don’t understand. “The monkeys. What about them?” What do you mean? “Well, we can’t forget the monkeys.” I thought for a moment. I had no idea where this train of thought was coming from. You’re right. We can’t forget the monkeys. Why don’t you write about them as well. He smiled, nodded, and continued.

Independence Day

It’s July 4 here. Here, a day like any other. Nothing special. It’s funny – I became much more aware of my country’s policies and beliefs once I no longer lived there. Happy birthday, USA.

Around The World In 80 (or so) Days…

My cool retiree parents have planned an around the world trip. When I say plan, I am not using the term lightly.

After travelling a bit in the US, with a romantic week in Hawaii, they will arrive in Korea in August. They seem to plan their vacations around wherever I happen to be living at the time. It works out quite well. They have extended an invitation for me to join them while in Korea, as well as when they travel to China. Having never been to China, I figured this could be quite a fun adventure.

My first order of business was to see about obtaining a visa to China. I visited the Chinese embassy in Korea web page. Of no help. The web site was in Chinese and Korean, as expected. Phone numbers were listed, however, so I called. The first day I called, someone answered in Korean. In Korean, I asked if anyone there spoke English. I was met with a loud click.

Day 2. I researched elementary Korean phrases. I am an American. I live in Daegu. I want to go to China. I called the number again. In Korean, I got as far as Hello. I am an American. Click.

Day 3. Ever persistent, I tried again. This time, I was able to say I am an American living in Korea before hearing a loud click and the line go dead.

Frustrated, I called Sang Jae. Please come over. It’s important. Because so many misunderstandings have happened during our telephone conversations, we try to limit them to under a minute. It’s just easier to talk face to face.

Once he arrived, he asked, “What’s the problem?” I explained my situation. Please just call the number, and ask what an American living in Korea who wants to go to China needs to do to obtain a visa. Thank you! He dialed the number. I sat on my bed, waiting expectantly. After a couple of phrases, he motioned for me to come to the phone. I went over. He said to me, “Only English.” Huh? I picked up the phone. Hello? Sure enough, the person on the other end of the line spoke perfect English. Go figure.

The helpful government employee told me I only needed to bring my passport, a photo, and my parents’ itinerary to the consulate in Pusan. Leave everything with them for 4 days, come back, and wal-la, I have a visa. I made him repeat the information three times. Really? That’s all I need to do? He told me where they were located in Pusan. In Hay-un-dae Beach. Oh, near the Paradise Casino? He responded with, “Near the Grand Church.” Sorry. “By the way, our hours are 9:30 to 11:30, Monday to Friday.” Wow, I thought to myself, those are long hours. Talk about service. Just to confirm, I said, You’re open til 11:30 at night? He laughed. “Oh, no. We’re open from 9:30 until 11:30 am. In the morning.” I couldn’t help myself. I blurted out, You’re only open 2 hours a day? What kind of business are you running? He chose not to respond to my outburst. I thanked him and hung up.

I emailed my parents, told them the good news, and asked them to email me a copy of their itinerary. The next morning, I awoke with a message from Dad in my inbox. He had attached the file. I noticed it was quite large. I opened it and couldn’t believe what I saw. At least, *at least*, 50 pages. Every detail of the three months they’ll be away from NC was planned. Flight numbers. Reservation numbers. Where to stay. How to get there. What to buy. When to reconfirm flights. My first thought was, “How am I a product of this union?” My idea of being well prepared for a trip is having a book to read and a tube of lipstick. I felt a tad better when I talked to them later in the week and Dad explained that one column was merely “suggested” or “backup” activities. But still…