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…

This Furnace Is Coooool…

Since spring, the school has promised they would install air conditioning in our apartments. By the end of May. By the first week of June. By the middle of June. By the end of this week. As hot as it’s been lately, the teachers were ready to stage a coup. I think the administration finally realized they needed to take action immediately or they wouldn’t have any teachers.

Four large men arrived at my apartment right as I settled down for lunch. I let them in; they began inspecting my tiny studio. After much discussion, they pulled out the power tools. This should be interesting, I thought to myself. My walls are concrete. Solid ce-ment. That did not dissuade them. As pieces of my wall flew through the air, they continued the drilling, the hammering, the finagling. An hour later, a small unit was installed over my sliding doors. Then there was the dilemma of where to plug it in. The cord didn’t even come close to reaching any of my outlets. A few minutes later one of the men returned with an extension cord. He wanted to move my wardrobe to plug it into the outlet behind that. I tried to convince him to run the cord a bit further to the outlet that was easily accessible. I don’t know what he said, but the end result was that two men moved my wardrobe a few inches and plugged the air conditioner into that outlet.

A separate fan unit was placed on my porch area. As they began connecting hoses, I noticed my closet doors would be permanently blocked once they finished (where my water heater and suitcases are stored). In pidgin Korean I asked them to wait a minute while I quickly removed everything from the closet. They resumed the assembly work. Everything in the closet now lined my walls. As they connected hoses and nailed nails, I noticed I wouldn’t be able to close my sliding doors all the way (because of the hoses running out to the porch). I pointed this out to them and they just shrugged their shoulders. I could hear my mother’s voice echoing through my head, scolding me when I forgot to close the door and the air conditioning was running, “What are you trying to do? Cool the neighborhood?”

They finished, I offered them juice, they drank and we smiled at each other, then they left. I began the process of putting my studio back in order. Okay, first, sweep the pieces of wall up off the floor. Check. Straighten suitcases. Can they be arranged in an artistic, deliberate fashion? Check. Clean the floor (with Pine Sol, no less). Check. Change clothes. I opened the doors to my wardrobe. I was met by an avalanche of clothes, knocking me down in the process. What the…..

It took me a moment to realize what had happened. When the men had not so gently moved my wardrobe, they broke the pieces that held the clothes rod in place. The rod had fallen, all the hangers (and clothes) had fallen, and when I opened the doors, they were freeeeeeeeeeeeee. I inspected the damage. Okay. Decision time. Do I call the school, and try to explain what happened, and ask someone to fix it? Or do I set out on my own, comb the neighborhood, and try to find this tiny rod holder thing on my own? Then I recalled how long I waited to have air conditioning installed. Okay, another adventure…

First was the problem of unscrewing the broken rod holder so I could take it with me (I wasn’t even going to attempt to look up the Korean word). No screwdriver. What else will work? Knife. Hmm. I only have sharp knives. I tried one, unsuccessfully. Bottle opener. Again, unsuccessful. Nail file. Hair clip. Random metal objects. Finally, I was able to pry the piece loose. Note to self: buy screwdriver. I set out, walking through the neighborhood, not sure where to go. I entered a dingy store that seemed to sell nothing but spare parts. Miraculously enough, they had a piece, while not exactly the same, appeared to be close enough. I bought that, a screwdriver, and a few screws. With a thank you, I exited triumphantly. A mere hours later, I once again had a working wardrobe, with clothes in order. And a cool apartment. Small victories are good. Very good.

A Walk In The Clouds

Today was a holiday here, to celebrate the Korean soccer team’s success. I awoke to a grey, dismal sky. It was hot, though. Very, very hot. Should I still go hiking, as I had planned? After much waffling, I set out. There is a mountain, Young-gi, within walking distance of my house. I’ve hiked to the top once before, in January, in a snowstorm. Today, as I started up the narrow path, the terrain looked so different from only a few months ago. Where then there had been hard sheets of ice and a dusting of snow, today there was a narrow dirt path, made slightly muddy by the oppressive humidity, bordered by thick green foliage. I climbed higher and higher, increasingly aware of the high humidity. What should have been an easy hike was requiring exertion. I finished the supply in my water bottle almost immediately. My hair, pulled back in a ponytail, began to resemble the curlicues of pigs’ tails. A moustache of beads of sweat formed over my upper lip.

When I finally reached the top, I sat on a rock and looked out. The scene was exactly as in January. I couldn’t see farther than a few feet in front of me. Then, snow clouds surrounded me. Today, rain clouds enveloped me. I knew that at the bottom of the mountain lay Daegu, but none of the buildings were visible. I knew to the north was Palgongsan, but couldn’t see even the most prominent peaks. I rested, feeling as though I was in lukewarm steam room. The air I breathed in was so moist, I could feel the dampness in my lungs as I inhaled. If I sat here much longer, I would melt into the mountain. I began my descent down.

As I came to the bottom of the first peak, I noticed I was literally in the clouds. Walking through ghostly formations of white wisps. As I walked, I felt rain. Not drops, per se. It was as if I was creating the rain by my motion. The rain wasn’t falling on me, I was walking into it. The effect was barely cooling. I began descending once again. I exited the clouds, but entered the shade of pine trees. I continued down the path, passing ajumaa with towels pinned on their heads to protect them from the sun, even though the sun had not made an appearance today. At one clearing an elderly couple was playing badminton. The heat seemed to slow the motion of the shuttle as it seemed to float back and forth, back and forth… As I entered my home a few hours later, the rain began. Steady, slow, fat drops, pitter pattering on the uneven walk outside my home. I left my sliding doors open, falling asleep to the steady, soothing rhythm…

World Cup – Korea vs. Turkey

Months ago I ordered tickets for the 3rd/4th place match of the World Cup, being played here in Daegu. I had no idea when I ordered the tickets I’d be watching Korea play.

The mood all week was one of controlled excitement. One of controlled disappointment. Kind of like being awarded Rice-A-Roni as a consolation prize on a game show. Thanks, but…

Nonetheless, when Saturday rolled around, the streets were filled with red t-shirts. I taught in the afternoon, then hurried home to get ready for the game. I donned a bright red Hiddink “Fighting!” t-shirt, tied a “Corea” bandana in my hair, applied Korean tattoos to my cheeks, and painted my toe nails like the Korean flag. We caught a cab to the stadium; I was overwhelmed by the sea of red that greeted us. We started towards the stadium. I snapped pictures of other people, other people snapped pictures of me. We went in and found our seats. We were in the top tier, but the seats really weren’t bad. We stood and cheered as the players practiced before the game. Shortly after they left, a military band and a traditional Korean band entered the field. The announcer asked everyone to stand for the Turkish national anthem. As people stood, a huge Turkish flag was rolled out in one of the sections underneath us. It covered an entire section. I turned to Sang Jae. That’s really cool. He replied, “Koreans have good manners. We welcome other team.” The Turkish anthem finished, the Korean traditional band began. The largest Korean flag I have ever seen was rolled out over the sections below us. It made the Turkish flag look like a small piece of confetti. It literally covered the entire north side of the stadium. I tried to take a picture and could only get a corner of the flag from where I was seated. Suddenly the gesture of rolling out the Turkish flag didn’t seem so grand.

After the anthems were over, a moment of silence was requested. Earlier in the day, North Korean and South Korean battleships fought in the West Sea. Already 4 South Korean soldiers had been killed. I asked Sang Jae if fighting between the two countries was the norm, or something unusual. He replied that they usually fought once a year, but this was the most serious attack in quite awhile. I felt familiar pangs of sorrow. Even though the countries are different, the empathy for the families of victims is just as strong.

The game began with an entire stadium bedecked in red screaming. Within seconds, Turkey scored a goal. No one could believe it. People turned to one another asking what happened. Sure enough, the Turkish player just zipped down the field and booted a goal before the Korean goalie even knew what was happening. I would venture to say it was the quickest goal ever scored in a World Cup match.

The play continued. Korea scored. It wasn’t counted. Turkey scored. Korea scored. Turkey scored again. I don’t think I sat the entire time. We were right above the cheerleading section. Constant cries of “Dae – Han – Min – Guk!” and “O! Pil-sung Korea!” as well as various other fight and folk songs, all to a funky double time beat, were played. We screamed, we sang, we shouted. We waved flags and twirled Korean scarves. But in the end, even the fanatical support of 64,000 Korean fans wasn’t enough. Korea lost 3-2.

After the game, the Turkish and Korean players interlocked arms and bowed to the crowd. A couple of Turkish players took laps around the stadium, carrying Korean flags. Turkish flags were thrown to them as they ran. It was quite a sight to see them running with the Korean and Turkish flags streaming behind them. I have to admit, I’ve never seen such sportsmanship at a major event. The two teams swapped jerseys, and seemed to pal around on the field while awaiting the awards ceremony. The official for the game was a very happy Kuwaiti chap, with each yellow card he pulled crisply from his breast pocket, he grinned widely. After the game he joked with the coaches. It seemed like everyone was one big happy soccer family.

There’s no more World Cup for Korea. It’s kind of sad. It’s been a fun distraction for the past month. It’s been great to see everyone so excited about a common goal. I’ll miss that.