Shopping

I am not a one-stop shopper anymore. I used to be. I used to prize convenience above anything else. But now, I’ve established relationships with vendors. Not very deep ones, but enough so that they will smile as I approach them, and usually throw in an extra something something after weighing my intended purchase. I buy my rice and eggs from the lady on one corner (whose daughters always rollerblade in the street and say “Hell-llllo” as I pass), my fruit from an old man outside the video store, my vegetables from the old women outside the bank, and my liquids from the corner store less than a block from my home. Even though beverages are more expensive there, it’s worth it not to have to carry them very far.

The elderly man who sits behind the counter is perplexed, though. He’s never seen me buy solid food. I stop in about every other day, usually purchasing two or three bottles of water, plum juice, orange juice, “refreshing water” or soda. And everyday, as he calculates how much I owe, he laughs and says, “You! Wa-tah pa-ty!” and laughs hysterically. At first, I didn’t understand. I guess I still don’t. But now I laugh along with him.

Beggars Can’t Be Choosers

It’s amazing how the smallest tasks can render me paralyzed from ignorance. Completely unable to function. I have now been living in Korea for four months. I have been collecting small gifts for people over those months. A postcard here, a trinket there, a souvenir. I’ve been meaning to send them, but… well, somehow they always end up in a pile in the corner of the Pink Palace.

Upon realizing I *still* had not mailed Emily’s birthday present (her birthday was in *January*), I decided it was time to act. What has deterred me from mailing these things you might ask. A simple answer: I don’t know where to buy packing materials. Envelopes, tape, boxes, normal stationery store supplies. My stationery store here carries 412 different varieties of Hello Kitty pens and pencils, but no mailing envelopes.

Every time I’m out shopping, I glance around, thinking I’ll find packing materials in the most random place. That’s how I normally discover things here. To no avail. I asked the Korean staff at school. “Stationery store.” Okay, maybe I overlooked them. Back down to the stationery store. I searched every aisle. I tried to ask, and was met by confused looks. I found something that resembled mailing envelopes, but they were quite thin. They were brown, though. Brown usually indicates it’s acceptable for postal use. So I bought them. Lots of them. I figured I would double, or triple, them if necessary.

But what about boxes? No luck. So I started searching alleys. There is a sporting goods store near the school. There were a few shoe boxes behind the store. I surreptitiously glanced around, didn’t see anyone, picked up a few boxes and casually walked away. Someone once told me you’ll never get caught doing something if you act like you’re supposed to be doing it. So I acted as if carrying discarded tennis shoe boxes was the most normal thing in the world.

Back in the Pink Palace Operation Mail Korea began. I spread out the items and began constructing mailing containers, using rolls of scotch tape, cardboard from the boxes, and leftover bubble wrap from my packing of fragile items on my journey here. And postcards. I didn’t realize how many postcards I’d bought, and intended to send, since I’ve arrived.

I loaded everything into a bag – boxes, envelopes, stacks of postcards – and headed to the post office. As I locked my door, I remembered my bills. I bolted inside, gathered my bills, and made my way to my final destination. I entered; there was no line. I took a number anyway. The clerk called me to the counter. I handed her my bills first, then the stack of 50 or so postcards, then the boxes. She gave me a look as if to say, “It’s bad enough I have to deal with someone who butchers my language, but this????” I smiled. She started counting, punching numbers into her calculator, weighing boxes, instructing me to complete customs forms, checking weight charts, then when it was all done, handed me a piece of paper with a number on it. Good god. I didn’t realize I could spend so much at the post office. But then I subtracted my bills, divided by four (for the amount of time I’ve procrastinated) and decided it wasn’t so unreasonable after all.

I paid her the money, exact change. I was putting my receipts into my bag when she called for my attention. I looked up. She handed me a box. Oh, no, this isn’t mine, I started to explain. “Service-a. Service-a.” What? I get a free gift at the post office? No way. It was even wrapped.

Once home, I shook the box. Hmmm. If I was a post office, and wanted to give a free gift to customers, what would I give? Stationery would be the obvious choice. Or pens. Or pencils. Something to encourage customers to use more of my services. But it didn’t feel like any of those things. Hmmmm. It was fairly heavy. Maybe spam? I’ve seen many gift sets of spam lately. No, not heavy enough for that. Candy? Maybe. I finally couldn’t wait any longer. I tore off the paper.

Soap. Three bars of peach flavored (? – can something be flavored if it’s not intended to be eaten?) soap. Whitening soap. To make my skin even whiter than it currently is. Just what I need. Well, it was free. And it smells kind of nice…

The Argument

I was writing peacefully today, practicing the Chinese character for “goodness of the heart.” All of a sudden, the grandfathers were in my room in the art studio, arguing back and forth. I stopped, looked up, turned around on my stool and watched. Korean, Korean, Korean back and forth. Louder and louder. One would say something, grab someone’s work, and write a character on it. I couldn’t figure out what they were so passionate about.

After about 7 or 8 minutes, Mr. Lee turned to me. He was quite flustered. “Chon-ha!” Chon-ha, chon-ha, chon-ha, chon-ha. Mentally I went over all the words I know. That wasn’t one of them. Mola-yo. I don’t know. “Chon-ha. King. Chon – big palace. Chon-ha, person who lives in palace. King.” Okay. “Old times. In court. People appeared before king, bowed, said, Chon-ha! King. King’s words were law. Words from king’s lips law.” Okay. “Now. Misuse. All the time. People call generals, important people, Chon-ha. This is wrong. Must stop.” Okay. “Must tell people, not say Chon-ha. Only for king.”

At this I pondered. Is he appointing me the messiah of this message? Because I really think that there could be a more effective choice. Namely, anyone but me. I looked around. They were all staring at me. Okay. And with that utterance, everyone calmly returned to their work tables, once again concentrating on the Chinese characters in front of them…

“But, How…

…do you learn so-yae if teacher doesn’t speak English? Because you not *really* speak Korean,” a Korean friend asked me.

Well, I understand enough Korean phrases. Like, well, Ee-row-kay. Like this. And he shows me what to do. And if I do it wrong, he says, Ani-o. No. Or, if I do it right, he says, Cho-ha-yo. Good. Or Chaaaaal Sa-shee-mee-da! Good writing.

As I exclaimed this last phrase my friend stared at me in disbelief. Then burst into hearty laughter.

What?

“Don’t say that again.”

Why?

“That is so country. That – dialect. You sound, you sound, oh. Don’t say it.”

But, how do you really say it, then?

And he told me. But I can’t remember. Because everytime I think of “good writing” I hear all of the grandfathers exclaiming heartily, “Chaaaaal Sa-shee-mee-da!”

I even have a country accent in Korean.

It’s been a hectic week. Final exams for the students are upon us. I’ve spent an unbelievable number of hours helping to write final exams. I’ve spent even more hours in meetings. I’m having second thoughts about this whole head teacher thing. I may be coming down with something. My throat has that ticklish, scratchy, not-quite-sick, but soon-will-be feeling. And at the end of the day, when confronted with the choice between sleep or writing, sleep usually won out. But I’ve missed writing. Really, really missed it. I’m beginning to think it is as important for my health as sleep is.

Lessons at So-Yae

No matter what else is happening in my life, I know I will be so entertained for at least 2 hours a day during my so-yae lessons. I knock on the door, enter, announce my arrival with a loud, “Annyong Hashim-hikka!” and all the grandfathers glance up from their writing tables, offering “Wel–come!” “Good morning!” “Annyong Ha-sayo!” “Annyong Hashim-nikka!” “Hell–lo!” I usually have enough time to prepare my materials and complete a sheet or two of characters before I hear, “Ko-pee time!” and we all gather on the small couches for a cup of coffee and what I can only imagine is thoroughly entertaining banter back and forth between the old men. I catch words here and there, but mostly just enjoy observing them.

Mr. Lau, aka “Funny Man,” had yet another joke. He told it and all the men just rolled. Tears streaming down their faces. He hit Mr. Lee (the translator) and pointed to me. “Tell! Tell!” This is what I heard: Why is a mermaid part fish? I asked Mr. Lee if this was a joke or if he really wanted me to answer. He told me, no, no, joke. Okay, then, I don’t know. Why is a mermaid part fish? “Because she’s not a pig!” I’m assuming something was lost in the translation. But for some reason, it struck me, too, as very funny. Maybe just seeing the men laugh so hard, and repeat the joke over and over. But I couldn’t stop laughing. And when the men saw me laughing, they started again.

Teacher Song got up and announced something. All the men got very quiet. Teacher Song walked over to his radio/cassette player. He motioned to me. “Music-a.” Okay. “Music-a appreciation.” Okay. I assumed he would put in a Korean music tape. Maybe traditional dance music. Maybe music using the traditional instruments. He pressed play. This is what I heard: “Thanks for the times that you’ve given me…” Yes, Lionel Ritchie. Himself. And Teacher Song singing along. Everyone listening in awe. “Once-a, twice-a, three-a times-sa ladyyyyyy.” I tried to be reverent, I really did. But I couldn’t help but giggling. At which point Teacher Song came over to me, and said, “Sing-a, sing-a!” No, really, you don’t want me to sing. Really. “Nori-bang. Nori-bang.” Okay. Maybe so. Maybe one day we’ll go to nori-bang (karaoke room) and sing. After the music ended, we all rose and returned to our writing tables.

As I was practicing the Chinese character for autumn, thinking to myself how much it looked like a boy and girl running through a field, Mr. Lee turned to me. “Appointment, today? Lunch?” No, I don’t have an appointment for lunch. “Let’s go. Korean food.” Sure. Thank you.

After our lessons we all walked a few blocks to a local Korean restaurant. I’m getting used to (sort of) attracting attention whenever I enter an establishment. But the looks on people’s faces were even more curious as I walked in, a young, tall white woman, towering over 6 post-75 year-old Korean men. We sat down on the floor around the low tables with burners in the center. Mr. Lee turned to me, “You like bibimbop (rice mixed with lots of vegetables)?” Oh, yes, it’s my favorite! He ordered for everyone at the table. Glasses of water arrived, followed by endless trays of tiny side dishes. Green beans, kimchi, seaweed, dried fish, turnips, spinach, mushrooms, broiled fish, potatoes, more turnips, potato salad. Then the platters of raw meat. Slabs of meat. Oh. I guess I won’t be getting bibimbop after all. Oh, well. The men placed the meat carefully on the burners, I used my chopsticks to strategically place the raw cloves of garlic so they would roast, not burn. They expressed amazement that I could use chopsticks. “Where did you learn?” Here. In Korea. “Oh, proper way. So good.” As they grilled the meat, I picked at this side dish and that one, so happy to eat the vegetables no one else was interested in.

Then the soju arrived. “Here, soju!” But, it’s the middle of the day. “Yes, soju!” Okay. Toasts all around. To this. To that. I was still on my first shot glass, sipping with each toast. “Rori-ga! Drink-a.” I smiled. Yes. Yes. I am. No, no more. Thank you. I was almost full when the waitress arrived with more platters. What’s this? “The rice.” Good god. Why can’t I ever remember the rice rule? That it’s not a meal until you’re eaten rice.

A covered stone bowl was placed in front of me. Mr. Lee showed me how to remove the lid with a cloth, then scoop the rice from the stone bowl to another bowl. But, why can’t I just eat it from the stone bowl? “No. Look.” He then emptied his stone bowl of rice, but a layer of burnt rice clung to the sides of the bowl. He picked up a big teapot, poured a milky liquid into the bowl, and covered it. Okay. I followed suit. I ate my rice. So delicious. Fluffy, steaming white rice, with just a few jujubes, a few chestnuts, a few nuts in it. Mmmmmm…. Mr. Lee motioned for me to uncover the stone bowl. I did. He instructed me to eat the liquid which now looked like dishwater. Really? “Yes…”

It was delicious. Subtly sweet. Still hot. The rice had come unclung from the sides of the bowl, mixing with the hot liquid, but still retaining some of its former crispness. “You like?” Yaaaayyyy. Ma-chi-dda isso summnidda. They all laughed. “Korean – very good!” We finished the meal with coffee and green tea. As we left the restaurant, the sun shone warmly, causing us to shed our jackets. What a wonderful morning….

We’re Not In Kansas Anymore, Toto…

Okay, I said I would be selective about what I posted, but this is unbelievable. I have to put it out there, just to confirm it really happened. Because when I wake up tomorrow morning, I’m sure I will be doubting.

I had a business meeting tonight. To go over some of my responsibilities as head teacher. Or so I thought.

We started with a couple of beers downtown. Pleasantries exchanged, back and forth. Discussion about allocation of teachers, vacation time, new textbooks for the high schoolers. A few awkward silences, but overall tolerable. After the second drink, my colleague suggested we go somewhere else. Sure, where to?

“I am going to give you a geography lesson of Daegu.” Okay. Sounds good. “Where are we now?” Downtown. “But what is the street’s name?” It doesn’t have a name. No streets in Korea have names. There are no addresses. “Right. But we call it Rodeo Drive. Because all the young people shop here.” I started to protest, then thought better. Okay, thanks.

We arrived at the restaurant and sat at the bar. Three women bartenders came and stood in front of us, handed us a menu, and continued to stand there. Korean, Korean, Korean. Menu closed. Two of the bartenders leave, one continues to stand at attention in front of us. “Well, I hope you like tequila.” Yeah, it’s okay. Why? “I just ordered a bottle for us.” And with that a bottle, a huge bottle, arrived. Jose Cuervo Especial. Dude! What’d you do that for? There’s no way I’m drinking a bottle of tequila. Or half. “Oh, we will talk about many things….” I looked around, took a deep breath, and settled into my seat. It’s going to be a long night….

A platter of fried things arrived. One of the bartenders (all three were back in front of us) took scissors and began cutting them. I picked at the pieces with chopsticks. Korean, Korean, Korean. My colleague turned to me. “She says you use chopsticks very well. She asks you how long you have been in Korea.” In Korean, I said 4 months. I thought. My colleague turned to me with a strange look on his face. “You have not been here 4 years. You’ve only been here 4 months.” Oh, yeah. What he said. More Korean back and forth. “She says you are very beautiful.” I turned to the bartender, Khamsa hamnidaaa. “And that you have many lines on your face and a high nose.” What???? “American’s noses. Very much higher than Koreans.” Okay. To me, this doesn’t sound like a compliment. But, okay. “And the lines on your face.” Wrinkles? “No. The lines. Your face is very defined. It is a compliment. Really. Koreans envy this.” I still don’t know what he was talking about.

A familiar song came on, a bluesy, jazzy laid back melody. Oh, I really like this. “What is it?” I don’t know the name, but it’s a Korean song. I hear it on the radio all the time. He snapped his fingers and a man in a suit appeared. Korean, Korean, Korean. The CD cover was brought over. My colleague examined it. “Lori-ga, it’s an American song.” No, I hear it in Korean all the time. “Maybe. Maybe a Korean version. But it is the theme song from Mo’ Better Blues.” Oh. I guess that would be American. Some more Korean exchanged and the man in the suit disappeared.

We talked some more business. He then wanted to know if I had read about the airplane crash today. No! What? Where? These words inspire fear in me. He explained that a Chinese airline had crashed in Pusan, that over a 100 were confirmed dead. Oh, my god. That’s horrible. So many thoughts were going through my head. “Lori-Ga, do you believe in fate?” I just stared. That’s such a loaded question. Already he has told me that fate brought me to Korea for us to be together. Welllllll. Yes and no. Yes, I do think there is a higher power. And that there is a direction, a plan for us. But, we also have the power to alter that plan. Why? “Have you seen the movie Final Destination?” No, never heard of it. Is it Korean? “No, American. From 2 years ago.” Hmmm. No. He then proceeded to tell me the plot. From what I gathered, some teens are on a plane, one has a premonition that the plane will explode, they get off, the plane explodes, then they all are killed in different ways because it was their fate to die anyway. A phone call was made and minutes later the video was by my side. What’s this? “I thought you might like to see it.”

We continued to drink tequila, me sipping, he doing shots. The three bartenders were still in front of us, doing occasional shots and picking at the fried food in front of us. My colleague turned to me. “What do you miss most about San Francisco?” Oh. The question. That makes me remember my life back there. My life that was so different. My friends. My friends. Definitely. “Who do you miss the most?” My girlfriends. “Tell me about them.” Well, there was Emily. We used to joke that if we were lesbians we would get married. We were that compatible. I went on to explain some of our exploits together, cycling through Cuba, seeing U2 in Miami, the bike rides through the park. “May I have her IM ID?” Excuse me? “I think she would like to hear from me. About you.” No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. But thanks.

He received a phone call. Korean, Korean, Korean. Then turned to me.

“And what else? What else do you miss?” Well, my life is just different here. Not bad. But different. In San Francisco I would go to the gym in the morning, go to work, go to happy hour with friends, meet someone for dinner, then either play sports or go on a date. Every night. I wouldn’t get home until 1 or 2. I used to be very social. “Okay, I will be San Francisco for you.” No, you don’t understand. It was different people. Always different. Many, many people. That I could I talk to. And understand. But thanks for offering. “Well, I know how it feels to be lonely. So whenever you need physical comfort, you can call me.” I just looked at him. No. Not the ‘I will be your sexual partner talk.’ Good god.

Okay, do you know what the term “heart-to-heart” means? “No.” It’s when two people talk very honestly. We need to have one. Now. Can you ask the bartenders to leave? They’re making me very uncomfortable. “They can’t understand you.” I sighed. Okay. Listen. We’re going to have to work together closely over the next 9 months. And to do that, we have to trust each other. I think you’ve lied to me. I don’t like it. “What?” But I could tell, he knew what I was talking about. Remember when you told me that in Korea men only date one woman at a time, and you kept asking me out? “Yeah…” And then you took the other teachers out to the nightclub? “Ohhhhh.” Yeah. They told me what you said that night. And, that you showed up with your girlfriend. Weasel, weasel, weasel, weasel. “Misunderstanding, words don’t translate the same, blah, blah, blah. But we’re friends, right, Lori? I can talk to you. You are so, so, so….” We will only be friends if you are honest with me. Cut out the bullsh*t.

The man in the suit arrived by my side again. He placed a CD beside me. What’s this? “I sent him to get the CD that you liked. But he couldn’t find the exact CD so he got another one that had that song on it.” I was dumbfounded. Thanks. Thanks.

After some noodles (which I ate all of them without splashing – victory!) we decided to go. It was almost midnight. We walked outside, into a steady rain. We made our way to the street, where we tried to hail a cab. We couldn’t, so we ran across the street to get one going the other direction. I started to protest, But, this is the wrong way. The driver will tell us to get out (this has happened to me several times). “Don’t worry. Have I ever given you my other business card?” No. A cab pulled up and we quickly slid in. He handed me the card. “If ever a taxi driver gives you a tough time, just show them this, I have connections. Everyone knows me.” What kind of connections? He made some references that made my mouth drop open. I’m from rural North Carolina. I thought that only existed in the movies.

As we got near my home, I told the driver which way to turn, left, right, left, left. The driver stopped and I began to get out. So did my colleague. Dude! What are you doing? “I want to walk you to your door.” You are *not* coming in. “No, no, I just want to be a gentleman and walk you to your door.” We got to my door. Thanks for dinner – good night. He looked dumbfounded.

I came in and immediately turned on my computer to start typing. Is this a dream? Did this really happen?

Ring, ring, ring. Who could be calling me? “I’m still outside your door. Aren’t you hungry?” No, we ate at the restaurant. “No, that wasn’t dinner because we didn’t have rice.” Oh, yeah, the rice rule. I forgot. “Let me bring you some mandu, or bibimbop.” No. You cannot come in. Not to bring me food or for any other reason. “But I’m so hungry.” Then go to a restaurant. “But all the restaurants are closed. Please let me feed you.”

This is my life in Korea in a nutshell. People offering to feed me. Drunk men behaving badly. And me, not knowing whether I’m really living life or whether I’ll wake up in a year and have Auntie Em by my side, stroking my hair.

I’ve spent the last few days thinking about what has happened. A lot of thinking. Really trying to clarify my values and reflect on my actions. Reading the emails and comments from friends, family, and, hmm… “friends of the blog” for lack of a better term. Thank you to everyone who has offered advice.

When I first read the suggestion to implement cookies, I thought, “Yes. That’s what I’ll do. That way I can continue writing whatever I want and people I interact with on a daily basis won’t know my true thoughts, about life in Korea, about my (mis)adventures, about how homesick I am at times.” But the more I thought about it, it just didn’t feel right. I don’t want to write worrying about if someone will accidentally (or intentionally) “discover” my blog. I don’t want to feel like I’m in “hiding.”

I don’t believe in censorship. There are certainly subjects/topics/ideas that I find offensive, but I like having the choice whether to read these or not. I believe we can learn as much from people we disagree with as from people we share common views with, if not more. So, basically, I would be a hypocrite if I blocked access to my blog. A big one.

With this said, I also like to consider myself a practical person. Sometimes. At least I try to be, not always successfully. So, the stories on the blog may become a little more “G” rated. Not that there was anything worse than “PG” on there before…

And, I won’t use real names anymore. If you’ve been reading since my arrival, you’ll recognize the characters, but the names will be changed “to protect the innocent.” Or whatever that phrase is they always use in Cosmo.

So B., you’ll have to find someone else to round up the late night troops in San Francisco, at least for another 9 months…

With that said, time to start another story…

I Knew It Would Happen…

But I still wasn’t prepared for it. I suspected that someone from school would stumble across the blog eventually. Probably another teacher, doing a search for things in Daegu. Or maybe the administration, but probably not (they usually search in Korean). Didn’t think the students would. Just wasn’t thinking. So I’m taking a few days to re-evaluate.

Drivin’, Drivin’, Drivin’

What have I just done? Tom and I both have Thursdays off. We want to take a trip. We were perusing the Lonely Planet, seeing where was close enough, yet interesting enough, to travel to for one day. Somehow we decided we should rent a car. So I have. Tomorrow, I will be driving on the roads with Koreans. I really didn’t even drive in the States. I walked everywhere. This will definitely be an adventure…

Karaoke Compliments

I like going to karaoke with Tom. We argue about who sings worse. I, of course, think I do. He, of course, insists he does. Truthfully, I think we’re about even.

Last night, after hitting the batting cages (best deal in town – 15 fast pitch balls for only 23 cents) we decided to sing a few tunes. We were ushered into our own private room. We began flipping through the song book. As I was looking, he went to get a couple of beers. I tasted mine. It tasted, well, unusual. I looked at the can. It was my first meeting with malt liquor. Being from the rural south, I consider that quite an accomplishment, that it took me 33 years before becoming acquainted with it.

As we were trying to distinguish between songs that we liked and songs we could actually sing, we decided to embrace the notion of karaoke. Let’s just sing. And we did. Peter, Paul and Mary. The Carpenters. Dawn (sans Tony Orlando). Chubby Checker. Billy Joel. 4 Non Blondes. And, of course, the Righteous Brothers. I can’t decide which of Tom’s compliments I liked best.

As I was dreadfully trying to sing along to Tony Bennett’s “I Left My Heart In San Francisco” he turned to me and said, “You know, you almost sounded like a real lounge singer just then.”

Or, as I was finishing Tammy Wynette’s “Stand By Your Man,” he said, “You sing bad enough to be a good country singer.”

Life is good.