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.

Blood

Blood is one of those things that people have definite reactions to. Either it bothers them or it doesn’t. They’re queasy or they can handle it. Blood is not a neutral topic. I happen to fall into the former categories.

I live in a small studio. One wall is sliding glass doors that go to what I like to refer to as my “sunporch,” a 3′ by 12′ tiled enclosed balcony where my washing machine is at one end and my oil heater (in a closet) is at the other. I don’t have curtains; they are quite expensive here. So to create a sense of privacy I covered my sliding glass doors with a slightly opaque contact-paper-esque substance. Light still comes into my apartment, but outsiders can’t see in.

Every morning, the first thing I do after stumbling out of bed is open the sliding glass doors to see what the weather is like. Is it sunny? Raining? Yellow sandstorm?

This morning, I opened my sliding glass doors, saw it was sunny, looked down and saw a stream of blood trickling from the oil heater closet, across the tile floor, and into the drain in front of the washer. I screamed, slammed the sliding glass door shut, and jumped back into bed, pulling the covers over my head. “What is bleeding to death in my closet? Do I dare open the doors to find out? How did it get there? Is this really happening?” I looked around the room. It seemed like my room. There weren’t any bizarre features to make me think I was dreaming. I sniffed the air. It didn’t smell like anything was decomposing. Once again, I got out of bed. I tiptoed to the sliding glass doors. Slowly, I slid the end door open. Looked down. Yes, it looks like blood. And a lot of it. My stomach began to turn. I opened the closet door and peaked in.

I didn’t see a small child or dead animal. Which was good. But something was wrong. Gasoline, or oil, or water, or some liquid was dripping. A lot. And combining with rust, or something, I still don’t know what, to create a blood-like liquid that then seeped out from under the closet and across the floor. Good news. Nothing is dead in my apartment. Yet. Bad news. I have no idea what is covering my floor.

I haven’t posted in a few days. I didn’t think it was possible, but my life has taken even more bizarre turns. For the better? For the worse? I don’t know yet. Secret meetings with the owner of the school. I am now head teacher. A trip to Seoul where I think I rode every subway line in less than 24 hours. Homesickness. And I think I just lost one of my Korean friends. But I’m not really sure about any of this. My life now is shrouded in uncertainty. I never know if what I’m saying is what I’m intending. Or if what I’m hearing is the true meaning.

Secret Meetings

Wednesday night the owner of the school pulled me out of class (which *never* happens). “Lori-Ga, tomorrow. Lunch. Here. 12:30. Yes?” Okay. Sure. “Secret-a. No (and he put his fingers over his mouth).” Okay. See you tomorrow.

I arrived to school at 12:30 on Thursday, expecting to go to lunch with Chairman Kim and an interpreter, another Mr. Kim or Mr. Pyon. But instead I was ushered into his office. There was a lot of Korean, and only a little English. The first 10 minutes were “business.” They aren’t happy with the current head teacher. They want me to be head teacher. They will announce it on Monday. Okay, but why aren’t you happy with the current head teacher? What problems are there? I want to make sure that I don’t repeat them. “Monday. Talk-a Monday. Meeting 3:30.” Okay. What will my responsibilities as head teacher be? “Monday. Talk-a Monday.” Okay. “After this session (which ends at the end of the month) have-a 6 days work. Monday-Thursday, Tuesday-Friday, Wednesday-Saturday.” We need to talk about that. The original teachers were hired on a 5 day contract. They smiled, “Yes-a.” So, if you want them to work 6 days, you will need to write a new contract. “Schedule. 6 days classes. Monday-Thursday, Tuesday-Friday, Wednesday-Saturday.” I understand. But if you want them to work 6 days, you will need to compensate them. I do not think they will like this. Again, smiles, “Yes-a. You – problems with former head teacher, other teacher, ignore. Don’t worry. Tell us. We take care.”

I’m feeling a bit nervous. I think, under normal situations, I would do a good job. I have 7 years of teaching experience. I was a mentor teacher in San Francisco. I have experience as a leader. I have experience developing curriculum. I have experience developing tests. My people skills are pretty good. But for some reason, I’m apprehensive. Maybe because nothing has been defined?

The rest of the meeting (20 minutes) was spent asking about my personal life. Was I enjoying Korea? Had I made any Korean friends? Did I have a boyfriend? Then, the marriage talk. “Most Koreans your age, they are married. Parents want their girls married. Before 30. You? Why not married? You beautiful. You smart.” I was married. “Where you husband?” I was married. I am now divorced. “Ooohhhhhhhhh. How long married?” 6 years. “Children?” No. “Why not married?” I’ve never quite figured out how to answer this – to Koreans or to Americans who ask me this. Do you really want to know? Because if you do, it’s going to be more than 1 sentence. And, I’m not sure I want to go into that. You don’t need to know. So, I did what they do when asked a difficult question. I smiled and said Yes-a. And it worked. On to the next topic.

Seoul, 2nd Class

Friday was a holiday here. Tree Planting Day. Which meant no classes. Yeah. And since Thursday is my regular day off, that meant two consecutive days off (I work Saturdays and Sundays). I really wanted to go to Ullendo, a small island off the eastern coast. Wednesday morning Young walked with me to the travel agent. After many phone calls and lots of dialogue back and forth, I realized I wasn’t going to Ullendo. I’m not sure if the ferry didn’t run every day, or if the tickets were sold out, but it wasn’t going to happen. As we were walking back to the school, Young asked me to go to Seoul with him to visit his sister. I told him maybe. He told me he would leave Thursday after his university class. Okay. Okay, I’ll go with you. Would you like me to get tickets? No, no, no. I will do that.

I met Young downtown after his class on Thursday night.”Problem.” What? “No tickets for train.” What? We’re not going to Seoul? “Yes. Tickets for 11:30 pm.” Train? or bus? “Train. But only 9 pm now. Shopping?” No. I don’t want to shop (this was after my “no size-a” day). “Movie?” Sure. After the movie, we headed to the train station. Daegu Station. Which I had never been to before. I always leave from DongDaegu Station (East Daegu). When we entered, the marquis for departing trains only announced 2nd class trains. I looked at Young. What train are we on? He told me. Okay – this will be interesting. The price difference between first class and second class is minimal. But in reality the difference is huge. First class is like travelling in a plush LazyBoy recliner. With tvs, lots of leg room, very clean. Second class is not horrible. But, sitting in a non-reclining, hard, vinyl seat with less leg room than an airplane for four hours, well, let’s just say I’m a huge proponent of value add. And I generally will spend the money to be comfortable on a trip.

We arrived in Seoul at about 3:45 am. We wandered into the streets outside of Seoul Station. There were plenty of people milling around. People at the food booths, standing eating fish on a stick. People stumbling home after a drunken night of revelry. People hurrying to the train station. That’s one thing that I love about Korea. It’s definitely a night country. There is so much activity at night. Young and I discussed our situation. Even though in Seoul, his sister’s house was over an hour away by cab. Which would make us arrive there at about 5 am. The subway stops running from midnight to 6 am. Should we try to find a cab or just crash at a yog-wan for the night? Or hang out until 6 and take the subway there? Let’s crash now and head there tomorrow.

So, we walked a few blocks looking for a yog-wan. There weren’t any. Which is unusual. I seem to see them everywhere when I’m not looking for them. But isn’t that the way it always is. So we hailed a cab. Young asked the driver to take us to a yog-wan. He drove for a few blocks, turning down this street, turning down that one. He obviously didn’t know where one was. He was getting more and more perturbed. He finally stopped the cab and told us to get out. What? But, but… He wasn’t taking us any further. So, we got out. And started wandering again. Young complained he was hungry. He’s always hungry. I just looked at him. We were in the middle of nowhere. Where were we going to get food? Where were we going to sleep? After a few minutes we saw a C-Space, the Korean version of 7-11. We wandered in. Young got a couple of ramen and mandu and heated them in the microwave. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but all I could think was, “I am standing in a Korean convenience store at dawn eating instant ramen. I never would have imagined….” After our quick snack we found a yog-wan a few blocks away. Young complained that it looked old. Again, I just looked at him. Dude. We’ve been wandering for over an hour now. We’ve seen no yog-wans. Old or not, I’m tired. It’s almost 5 am. We got a couple of rooms. As I laid down to sleep I noticed something scurrying across the floor. I was too tired to even investigate.

The next day we traversed Seoul. Seoul is a big city. I think it has 10, maybe 11, subway lines. We did many things on Friday, ate at Young’s friend’s restaurant, went to Dongdaemun Market, ate dinner with Young’s sister and her husband, met friends for drinks, but what I remember most was the subway. Studying the map, making sure we were on the right line, heading the right direction. Transferring at this station. Running down the platform to catch the train before it sped away. Stashing our bags in lockers.

Friday night we met several of Young’s friends from Seoul at another’s friend’s restaurant. He had told me that these were friends he had attended English Institute with and that they all spoke English very well. I don’t expect Koreans to speak English to me. I realize I’m in Korea. I’m trying very hard to learn Korean. But it definitely helps when the person I’m speaking to knows a little English so I can supplement my elementary Korean. If Young’s friends did know English, they chose not to use it Friday night. I tried to follow along in the conversations, recognizing a word here, a word there, trying to string together the grammatical endings to make sense of the garble of sounds around me. Mostly, I sat there and smiled. Watched the interactions between the two men and three women. After a couple of hours we headed to a karaoke room. I sang along to a couple of the songs, but most were in Korean and I couldn’t follow the words quickly enough. After an hour or so, we all left.

In the cab, Young turned to me. “I’m sorry.” For what? “My friends. So arrogant. They know English. They just not speak.” No worries.

But it bothered me. Not that they wouldn’t speak to me. But that I just spent an entire evening in the company of 5 other people and maybe said 10 sentences the whole night. That’s not me. That’s not who I am. I then began to think of my friends back home. And how much I miss them. Young hit me on the shoulder. “What? Why you quiet?” Oh, I’m just thinking. I miss my friends. And at that point the tears slowly started rolling down my cheeks. I tried so hard to stop them. “Rori. Your friends. They good people. I see pictures. They be there.” I know. I know. And I had a good time tonight. I really did. Thank you for inviting me to Seoul. I just, I feel so, well, not like me. This isn’t who I am, Young. I don’t usually sit quietly and not speak. “My friend like you.” And I liked them. But, Young, I’m normally such a fun person. I like to talk to people. This feels strange to me.

We sat in silence for a couple of minutes. It was raining heavily. I watched the drops stream down the window, making paths here, tracks there. Young hit me again. What? “Lori….” I turned to him. “You cannot fall in love with me.” What???? Young is always joking with me, so I thought this was his attempt to cheer me up. I laughed and said, Joke, right? “No, I think you are in love with me. This will not work. You are American. I am Korean. I cannot marry you. It will be too many problems.”

Okay, so now I’m not only homesick. I not only miss my friends. I not only miss being able to talk to people. But I now have to explain to Young that I am *not* in love with him, that, truthfully, the thought of marrying him had never even entered into my realm of reality. And to try to do it in a tactful way. Though many times tact and subtlety are lost in cross-cultural communication. So, as simply as possible, I said, I know it will not work. I am not in love with you. Really. It is okay. Where he got this idea from, I do not know.

A Night Out With The Teachers

Saturday I returned to Daegu. Saturday is my longest teaching day. Seven hours straight. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but it is. Running from class to class, with only a couple of minutes in between each to collect the correct papers, books, student assignments, etc. In between classes, I saw Brian, a teacher who I really like from the other campus. Dude, what are you doing here? I’m meeting two of the guys (former head teacher and another teacher) for dinner and drinks. Come and join us when you get off. I’d love to, but I teach until 10:30. We’ll still be out. Okay. I really like Brian. He’s a good guy. We were on the same plane to Korea together. It was a bonding experience. Unfortunately, he teaches at the other campus, which is over an hour away, so we don’t see each other often. I had wanted to go home and sleep, but I also wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to hang out with him for a while. So I committed to meeting them out.

A few minutes later I saw the President of the school take the former head teacher into his office. I knew by the expressions that he was being told he was no longer head teacher. Oh. And I just agreed to meet them for drinks later. This is not good. I thought about it for a long time. Should I still meet them? Will I still be welcome? Okay, I’ve got to face him sometime. Maybe a less formal situation would be better. So, after my shift I gave them a call. They told me the name of the bar where they were. Okay, I’ll be there shortly.

I walked in, the three of them were sitting at a table together. I waved from across the room, then joined them at the table. The former head teacher went to the bar to get me a drink. The other teacher went to the restroom. Brian leaned over and whispered quickly, “Heads up. President talked to former head teacher. He knows he’s been fired and you’re his replacement.” I looked at him. I know. I saw them talking. “Wow. You’ve got balls. I wouldn’t have still come out.”

The two men joined us. This is the demographics at the table. Me. 33 year old American. Brian. 50-something Canadian. Ted, former head teacher. 40-something American. Other teacher. Early 50-something American. When we’re all at the table, the other teacher, who has obviously had a lot to drink, leans over to me and slurs, “Guess what?” I don’t know, what? “Every night I have a 19 year old waiting at home to f*ck me.” There aren’t many things that render me speechless. I looked at him, took a deep breath, and said, That’s really more than I need to know about your personal life. He started to explain more, at which point the other two guys cut him off. This is what I came out for?

Ted quickly changed the conversation. “I had a meeting with the President today.” Really? “You don’t know?” Yes, I do. I’m sorry. I hope there are no hard feelings. “Not at all. When he told me I was demoted, I hoped you would be my replacement. You’re the only one who is qualified. Good luck.” Wow. I wasn’t expecting that. At all. It definitely increased my respect for him. “So, did they offer you xx amount as well to take over the position?” No, they didn’t. They offered me about half of that. Very interesting. Thank you.

The rest of the evening was fairly uneventful. We talked about sports, weather, travels, life in Korea, basic things. And I discovered soju lemonade. Bad, bad, bad….

The Terrible Day

On Sunday afternoon Young called me. “It is the most terrible day.” Why? “I, in library. Wallet stolen.” No….. That’s horrible. I’m so sorry, Young. What a bummer. “My life. Gone. No keys. No money. Call you later.”

I taught until 10:30 again. At about 11 the phone rang. It was Young. “Come out. Meet us.” Who? Where? “My team (the web designers from school – him and two women) We at nightclub. Come dance. Me, terrible day today. Be happy.” I don’t know, I have to tutor in the morning. “Please, Rori. My day so terrible.” Okay, I’ll be there in a bit.

It was fun. The music was loud, but danceable. There were various live singers and groups. It was very entertaining. During a break, we were sitting at our table. The waiter came by. Young began to talk to him, then introduced me. He used a phrase I wasn’t familiar with. The waiter and I exchanged a few pleasantries then he left. I turned to Young. What did you say to him? I understood teacher, American, but what was the other? “Girlfriend. You my girlfriend.” Joke, right? He got a very serious look on his face. “No, serious. Really. You my girlfriend. You one of many girlfriends to me.” What do you mean, Young? (I was giving him the benefit of the doubt, sometimes words translate differently.) “Girlfriend. You. Me. Together.” Young, I’m not your girlfriend. “But you like me?” Yes, I do. But as a friend. You’re my friend. Not boyfriend. “But I like you. You one of many girlfriends to me.” See, that’s another problem. And here, I used conditional clauses, which are sometimes hard for native speakers to understand, much less non-native speakers. Young, if I *were* your girlfriend, which I’m not, but if I *were*, well, I’d have a problem with the “one of many” aspects. I don’t do that. I’m not “one of many.” “This, terrible day. Worst day.” And with that we parted ways. I’m sad.

Sum, Sum, Sum, Sum, Summertime…

It’s hot here now. I don’t know what happened to that thing called spring, but it’s gone. Just a month ago, I was hiking in a snow storm. Now, it’s hot. I leave my windows open at night, braving the mosquitoes, to encourage cool air to circulate through my warm apartment. The weather presents another problem. I only brought winter clothes. And a bathing suit. But I can’t wear that all the time.

So tonight I went to DongA, that department store that has everything. Nine floors of consumer goods, three dedicated to women’s clothing. I knew I would pay a little more, but I wanted the convenience of price tags and sizes. Or so I thought. All I wanted was a short sleeve top. That’s all. I wandered from department to department, looking at the fashions. Hmmm… not really my style. But it’s hot outside. So I approached the expedition with an open mind, my chance to discover a “new” look I otherwise might not try.

This was my experience tonight. Each floor is divided into about 20 or 30 different sections, based on the brand name of the clothing sold. I would walk into a section, start flipping through the racks of tops, the sales woman would walk up to me. “Annyong ha-sayo…” I would offer. She would return my greeting. Then look me up and down, cluck her tongue, shake her head and say, “no size-a” and motion for me to leave. After the, oh, fifth time this happened, I was almost in tears. I don’t want to wear wool throughout the summer. Then there’s the whole body image thing. I’m not fat. I’m tall. I’m athletic. I’m also curvy. Think Brandy Chastain meets Marilyn Monroe. Yet compared to the women here, I feel like an Amazon. And to have women tell me to leave their section of the store, well, it’s not a good feeling.

I was getting ready to leave the store, empty handed and dejected, when I stopped to look at one last rack of tops. The saleswoman came over and offered a cheery “Annyong ha-sayo.” I returned the greeting and smiled at her. She gave me the once over. No, not again. Please. She didn’t say anything, but left, and moments later came back with an armful of short sleeve sweaters, some medium, some large. I could have kissed her. I don’t know the word for “dressing room” but I pantomimed trying the clothes on. She looked around, then motioned me to a closet. Yes, a closet. I don’t know. Maybe they don’t have dressing rooms here. Hell, why do they need them – everyone wears a small. I tried on all she offered to me. Fortunately, two fit. She seemed so happy. She tried to get me to buy each of the two styles in the rainbow of colors they were offered. I didn’t like them *that* much, but I did appreciate her effort. I left the store with two short sleeve tops. It’s amazing how the littlest things can feel like the biggest accomplishments.

Playing Postman

Everyday there is mail in my mailbox at home. Most I recognize as junk mail. I think. But I’m a little paranoid. What if I throw away something important? So every week I have a ritual. I sort all my mail into piles. That which I think is junk mail, that which I’m not sure, and that which has my name on it (in Korean – not many of these). Then I take the piles to school with me and ask Little Kim to review them. Are these important? Can I throw these away? Up until now, he’s taken the bills out (I get a phone bill and a utility bill) and thrown everything else out. Today, however, he handed the bills back to me. What? What should I do with these? “Pay them.” How? (I don’t have a checking account here.) “Miss Rori.” Yes? “Take them to post office. Or bank.” Okay. Then what? “Pay them.” At the post office? Him, getting exasperated, “Yes.” As if I was supposed to know this.

So I went to the post office. I saw the digital number system, but I didn’t see the ticket dispenser. I looked and looked. I walked up to the counter where there was no line. The clerk said, from what I understood, take a number. “Odi?” Where? She pointed. I am such a dork. The number taker was right beside me. I took a number and started to sit down. She called to me. My number was up. Why did she just make me take a number when there was no one in line? Life tires me sometimes.

But I did pay my bills. I will continue to have electricity and phone service for at least another month.

OH MY GOD!

I just killed the largest mosquito I have ever seen. It was as big as a baseball. No one told me there would be mosquitoes here. This is not good…