Pusatilla Koreana

I love going to calligraphy lessons. I am so happy while I’m there. There’s such a feeling of calmness and serenity. And this group of old men is hilarious. Although I feel like I’m seven years old again whenever I’m there. I have to consciously remind myself that I’m an adult. I think.

I arrived again this morning as Son-Seong Song was preparing coffee. Sit, sit, sit. We crowded onto the small couches. Lots of Korean talk back and forth. I think they were talking about the Olympics. Maybe. The retired English teacher, Mr. Lee, was there. He translated now and then. Mostly I just listened to the Korean.

Son-Seong Song pointed to the flower in the vase. “Grandmother flower,” I said. Laughter all around. Okay, that’s what they told me the name was yesterday, and now they’re laughing at me. No, no, no. The Korean word means grandmother, but it’s called “ho-moe-nay.” Which means grandmother. Something was lost in the translation. The rest of the morning was spent trying to find the English name for Grandmother flower. First, they got out the Korean English dictionary. I looked up the word in Korean. The definition said “pusatilla koreana.” I assume that is a Latin word for Korean flower. They wanted to see the dictionary. I passed it to them. They went and got their reading glasses. They still couldn’t see it. They used both their reading glasses and a super-sized magnifying glass. Ahhhhhhhh.

We finished our coffee and went to our work stations. I have graduated to circles. Yes. Not just straight lines any more. Not just boxes. Circles.

When my arm, shoulder, hand, wrist, would tire I would watch the other men. How they hold the brush. How they dip the brush in the ink. The movements they make. One man was creating flowers, not Chinese characters. Ohhhhhh, it’s so pretty, I said in Korean. Mr. Lee told me the name of the flower, then the Korean word for leaf. Ip? No, no, no. Ip means mouth. Ippp. Oh. This whole aspiration thing is hard for me. A word has a totally different meaning depending on if the last consonant is soft or aspirated. I’ll learn. I will.

I watched Mr. Lee create scrolls upon scrolls of Chinese characters. He explained to me it was a Buddhist prayer. Like the “Our Father.” He pointed to two of the men. “We – Christian. Others – Buddhist. Son-Seong Song – Buddhist.” Just then Son-Seong Song entered carrying a tin can and a stick. He tapped out a rhythm on the can. Mr. Lee turned several pages in the book he was copying from. Son-Seong Song began chanting. Mr. Lee pointed at the characters he was saying, turning pages when necessary. He recited the entire Buddhist prayer. Another student came in, joining him from memory. Even though I couldn’t understand the words, I could understand the emotion.

When they finished, I continued to watch another student make flowers, and leaves, and stalks, and stones, on a long scroll. There was a commotion in the other room. In Korean, of course. Mr. Lee explained to me: In Korea, when we see a beautiful woman, we say, “Flower.” We call you, “American flower.” I blushed. In Korean, I said, “Thank you very much.” Ahhhhh – the miguk speaks Korean. Very wonderful.

Just then Son-Seong Song re-entered. [very fast Korean phrase] to the man who shares my table. I could understand the words for “ink” and “water” and “black.” Were they talking about mixing more ink? Then, “Indian ink.” (in English) and a bout of laughter. “Miss Lori – Indian ink – you know?” Yes. Hahahahahahaha. “Black and white pictures.” Hahahahahahahaha. I’m not even going to attempt to understand this translation.

At the end of the lesson, the student who was painting the nature scenes took Mr. Lee aside. “Miss Lori. Miss Lori.” Yes? “You will be his English teacher. Yes? He will teach you Korean.” My pleasure.

The Dinner Party

Michelle, one of the Korean women who works on the Planning Team at school, helped me tremendously when I expressed interest in taking calligraphy lessons. She searched out different academies, walked me to each one, and acted as translator when I had questions for the instructors. That day, I offered to take her to lunch, but she said she had to get back to work. I expressed my gratitude over and over and asked what I could do to thank her. “I want – your house eat dinner.” Oh.

Normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal. In San Francisco, I threw dinner parties all the time. One person, ten people. Didn’t matter. And I enjoy it. Perusing cookbooks. Planning the menu. Shopping. Cooking. Setting the table. The camaraderie among the guests.

But I haven’t cooked for anyone other than Chanta since I’ve been here. I live in a true studio. It’s tiny. And I don’t have an oven. Only two small burners. So that eliminates lasagna, frittata, broiled fish, cookies, cakes, breads, most of my specialties. I’m a baker. I can’t even recognize half of the items in the grocery store here. And if I wanted to buy something I didn’t see displayed, I don’t know how to ask for it. Most spices and cooking items are not in the standard English-Korean dictionary.

These thoughts went through my mind in about half a second. “I’d love to have you over for dinner. What day works best for you?” Monday. “Great. Monday it is. I’ll meet you at Kate School at 7 and we can walk to my house from there.” (Giving directions here is next to impossible – street names aren’t used.)

To my surprise, I really enjoyed grocery shopping. I explored every aisle. Really looked at each item and tried to figure out how I could use it. I ventured into the meat section, something I had not done before. I discovered they have monstrous gift platters of raw beef. My hospitality gift issues are solved.

I spent Monday afternoon preparing. Which was incredibly relaxing. There is something about washing vegetables, chopping them just so, sorting them into neat mounds awaiting sauteing, that is therapeutic. I had my balcony sliding doors open, the cool, fresh air streaming in. I was wearing my favorite apron, listening to my favorite tunes. I finished all the prep work, quickly cleaned, then relaxed with a book.

A few minutes before 7 I walked to Kate School. Shortly after I arrived Michelle bounded out the door. She giggled, “Thank you. I so excite. Thank you, Rori.” No problem, ready? “I ask you.” Okay, what? “Young and Cindy come also. Okay? They upstairs.” Oh. Well. Now I know how my mother felt when I asked if a friend could spend the night, with the friend standing right there. It’s a bit awkward. Well, let’s see. I think I’ll have enough food. “Sure. No problem. That would be really fun.” Michelle made a phone call and minutes later Cindy and Young were with us. Oh, my god. I only have two plates. And three sets of chopsticks. I turned to them. “We need to stop and get plates. Where can we stop?” Young led the way to the local C-Space convenience store. They didn’t carry plates, but they did have tin foil pie pans. Close enough. And wooden chopsticks included with the purchase of to-go microwave food. Or tin foil pie plates.

When we entered my apartment, I took off my shoes. Young gave me a funny look. I looked at him with wide eyes and said as seriously as I could, “This is a Korean custom. Please take off your shoes before entering.” He burst out laughing, then took his shoes off.

They oohed and aahed over my tiny room. And all of the pictures. Of my family, my godson, my friends in San Francisco. While I was finishing dinner, they looked through my photo album. Last year was a great “photo” year – pictures of my friends and me skydiving, white water rafting, playing volleyball, sailing. And so many parties. Oh, the parties. Young said to me, “What was your major? Athletics?” No, no, no. “I think so. That is all you do. I see you come to school, you have just run. You snowboard. You play sports. You didn’t really study, did you?” “And what is this? (picture of me and several girlfriends in formal gowns) Were you also Miss San Francisco? What are you doing here? You are not really a teacher.” “And where are the pictures of your boyfriend?” I don’t have one. “I do not believe it. Where are you hiding them?” I smiled and said there were too many to take pictures of. He laughed and said, “Oh, the pictures are in your heart.” Yes, they are.

I suddenly realized I also only have two chairs. Hmmm. I put the kimchi on the table. “Ooooh. You have kimchi!” I prepared the “plates” of food: black rice, white rice, lemon ginger chicken, and sauteed mixed vegetables and set them on the table. When I turned around, Michelle, Cindy and Young had taken the plates and were sitting on the floor. “It’s better this way,” they said. So we all sat on the floor and talked and ate. Young’s English is by far the best. And he’s a smart-ass. I haven’t laughed so much in a long time. Since I’ve been here my conversations, whether in English or Korean, are pretty basic. Name, age, where I’m from, favorite this, favorite that. Vanilla. It felt great to banter back and forth, using plays on words, puns, silly expressions. Whenever Young and I would exchange barbs, Michelle would giggle then translate into Korean for Cindy so there were waves of laughter, first mine and Young’s, then Michelle and Cindy’s.

Chanta came up after she got off work. As she entered, she exclaimed, “I could hear you all laughing from outside the building. What’s going on in here?” And it continued. For a couple of hours. Young announced (for the fifth time) he was leaving. I laughed and said to him, “You have said that five times, but you are still here. Why?” Because you hid my jacket and won’t give it back. Oh. I had put his jacket in my wardrobe. I didn’t realize he was waiting for me to retrieve it. I laughed once again, but this time got his jacket for him.

Michelle sat on my bed and said, “I want to stay. I don’t want to leave.” Honey, I know how you feel. As any of my friends can attest, I’m always the last to want to leave a party, and always the first to suggest we continue the party elsewhere. Chanta and I told her that she could stay and we would walk her home. She said, “No, I want to spend the night here.” Oh. Young then said, “Me, too” and jumped on the bed. In cross cultural communication, sometimes it’s difficult to know when someone is being serious and when they are joking. I thought they were settling in for the night. Well, at least the floor is heated. I won’t be cold.

They then jumped up and headed towards the door. Thankyouvery mu~~~~~~~~ch. For some reason, that strikes me as the funniest phrase. Both Chanta and I giggled uncontrollably, then replied, in stereo, “You’rewelcomevery mu~~~~~~~ch.”

Why I’m Happy

Son-Seong Song invited me to join the morning calligraphy session. Score! I get to hang out with the retired Korean men. I love old people. I love how they talk. How they tell stories. How they interact with each other. As soon as I entered today, the four elderly men and Son-Seong Song stopped what they were doing, invited me to join them on the couches, made coffee, and we sat together, sipping coffee and talking. Son-Seong Song asked me if I knew the name of a flower he had in a vase. I looked; I wasn’t sure what it was. It looked almost like a crocus, but was more hardened, a darker, almost burgundy, purple, and it drooped, like it was sad. “Mola.” I don’t know. “Grandmother flower!” And the men exploded with laughter. All out slapping their knees guffawing. What did I miss? Son-Seong Song looked at me, pointed to how the flower drooped, bent over like he was walking with a cane, and said again, “Grandmother flower!” And the laughter began again. I asked, “Why not Grandfather flower?” The men almost fell off the couches they were laughing so hard. And it really was a question asked in earnest.

Spring has arrived. I didn’t have to wear gloves or a scarf today.

I made a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch. Which in itself is a perfectly good reason to be happy. But, I have finally found cheese (not a lot of that here in Korea). Yes, it’s processed, but it’s a high quality of processed cheese. If that’s not an oxymoron.

Masha (a student) gave me not one, but two plaster of paris dinosaurs she made. And they are painted with flourescent colors. I love a child’s sense of what looks good.

I bought fresh vegetables from the street vendor. I understood what he said. I handed him the correct amount of money.

As I was carrying my vegetables home, an old, very bedraggled, very stooped lady wandered towards me. She wasn’t walking in a direct path, so I was trying to anticipate which direction she was going to go to avoid her path. The only word I can use to describe the look on her face is “scowl.” As she came closer, I smiled and said, “Annong ha-shmnikka” (more respectful than annong ha-sayo) very quietly. She looked up at me, stared a moment with penetrating eyes, then flashed the largest, most toothless grin I’ve ever seen. And continued on her way.

“Who Got In A Fight This Time?”

Those were Chanta’s exact words as she entered the teacher’s room on Saturday evening to a table laden with fresh coffee, breads and pastries from the local bakery. Also on the table was a stack of tickets to a Korean traditional dance festival on Sunday afternoon. She picked them up, examined them, and said, “Wow – must have been a doozy.” She glanced at me, gave me a quizzical look, I nodded, then she smiled. Let’s just say this particular incident involved a female teacher being called by one of the staff members very late at night after many bottles of soju had been consumed. I’m telling you, that stuff is evil.

Sunday Afternoon Outing

I decided to take advantage of the tickets. I had planned to meet a teacher from another school, Mike, on Sunday for lunch. I let him know I had the tickets. He was psyched. After lunch we headed to “City Place Hall” where the event was being held. When we got out of the taxi we were surprised at the throngs of people standing outside. No lines, just people standing. Looking like they were going to go in, but not making any motion to. We wandered past them, into the hall. “Annong ha-seyo,” we were greeted by lines of women in the traditional Korean dress, han-bouk. Each bowed as we passed by them. I showed one woman our tickets and she propelled me down the aisle. Literally. I was at least a foot taller than her, probably a good 50 pounds heavier, and she put her tiny hand in the small of my back and pushed me down the aisle to the section of seats at the front of the auditorium. Mike followed a few footsteps beyond.

She sat us down in two seats – great seats. Center section, aisle seats, a few rows back from the stage. Mike and I exchanged surprised glances. Wow. Royal treatment. We looked around, checking out the other people already there. A lot of old people. Already sleeping in their seats. Some families with small children. A few university aged students. And not another single non-Korean. Mike and I were talking about our respective schools when all of a sudden we were blinded by an intense light. We looked up. The local television crew was less than a foot away from us, filming us. Right in our faces. Mike turned his head, but I looked straight into the camera and smiled. If I’m going to be on Korean tv, I want to look good. But then they stayed. For several minutes. We tried to resume our conversation, but it feels somewhat awkward when there’s a lens right in your face. When the house lights dimmed, the cameramen went to another location.

The Speeches . . .

It’s very interesting how the mind works. How you try to make sense of your environment. Relate a new experience to something familiar to aid understanding. The emcees introduced a man. Everyone clapped. He came to the stage. And made a speech. Mind you, we couldn’t understand anything. No, I take that back. Of his 7 or 8 minute speech I understood the words “people,” “hello,” “thank you.” He sat down. Another man was introduced. He gave a speech. Then sat down. A third man was introduced. He gave a speech. Even though we couldn’t understand the words, we could understand the third man was a better speaker. He had presence. And he spoke longer. Mike whispered to me, “I think maybe these are political candidates. This is the first time ever that Korea will hold primaries. Maybe they’re contenders.” After the third man was well into his speech, Mike leaned over again, “This guy has got presence. He’s either the forerunner in the race, or the “Ross Perot” character.” After about 15 minutes, he ended his speech. As he was walking back to his seat, the emcee made a comment. Obviously a joke. Mike and I both looked at each other and said, “Ross Perot.”

The Movie

The curtains parted to reveal a huge movie screen. The film rolled. Images of peasants. Hungry. With holes in their shoes. Sadness. Children with rickets. Shanties. Fields with nothing but weeds. Mike and I gave each other questioning looks. Was this a propaganda film supporting the reunification of the two Koreas? But look, that woman is wearing a babushka. They don’t look like they are wearing Korean clothes. What is this?

Then The Dance . . .

The stage went dark. The low beat of a drum. A spotlight focused dimly on the back of a figure, high upon a stage, clothed in all white beating a drum that was easily 8 feet tall. The addition of two more drummers on either side of the main drummer. The deep, strong beating of the drums reverberated throughout the auditorium. For several minutes this went on, faster, faster, faster, stronger, stronger, stronger, until it seemed the drummers would explode with frenzy. Then . . . Silence. The drummers turned around to face the audience. I gasped. They were the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.

Click, click, click, click, click. The lights came on fully. A line of eleven slender, graceful women entered clicking rhythm sticks above their heads. They were wearing kimono-esque robes of brilliant pink and blue, secured by bright yellow sashes. They clicked their sticks in front of them, to the side, above their heads, all the while smiling demurely. With tiny steps they made their way to hanging drums just beneath the stage on which the 3 beautiful women drummers were. In unison, they turned around, faced the audience, and smiled.

The three drummers began another beat. The eleven maidens began to beat their hanging drums. Each woman had 3 drumheads in a triangular shape directly in front of her, a drumhead to the right, a drumhead to the left. It was almost as though each was “boxed in” to her drum set. The beat was incredible. To the left, to the right, spin around. One, two, three, to the side, the other side. The choreography was dizzying. Even more amazing, they made it seem so effortless.

Then the entire line turned and faced the left. In a split second, they had dropped to their knees and whipped backwards. Each woman was bending backwards, playing the drum above and behind her head. Then the drum in front of her. Back and forth, back and forth. Slowly they arose, drumming the entire time. The beat grew more frenetic, louder, louder, louder – Silence. The line of women slowly turned to the audience, smiled sweet smiles, and with tiny, graceful steps exited the stage. It was as though they had done nothing more strenuous than pour a cup of tea.

Ribbons . . .

The stage went dark. From behind us, we heard drums. I spun around. Coming down the aisle were 5 men. In white with black tunics, again secured by yellow, and red, sashes. All were wearing hats. The first man’s hat had a huge white feather on it. He led the processional march. Behind him followed two men beating drums, two shaking tambourines. The four followers had hats with long, white ribbons trailing. They spun their heads every so slightly as they marched to make the ribbons twirl around and around, side to side. Up on stage they pranced. Around in a circle, ribbons twirling the entire time. The leader began soaring through the air. Flipping over and over, almost horizontal with the ground – in and out of the twirling ribbons. More twirlers entered from stage right and stage left. The circle became larger. One of the twirlers had a particularly long ribbon. In an instant, he was standing on another twirler’s shoulders, making his ribbon twirl in circles to the ground. Other dancers hopped in and out, in and out. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped. The stage went dark and they disappeared.

The Flute . . .

I think. It sounded like a flute. But looked fatter. Wider. With more holes. In a different pattern. But the sound it made. Oh. The first song he played evoked feelings of spring’s arrival. I could picture the trees blossoming. The birds flittering from branch to branch. The sun gently thawing the icy stream, causing the water to flow freely once again.

But the second song. The sadness. The pain. Of lost love. Of a lost country. Several older women around me hummed the words. When it ended there was a moment of silence, of reflection, before the applause began.

Marching Band?

The curtain parted to expose a full-on marching band, read and blue uniforms with gold trim, feathered hats and all. Probably 150 students. Clarinets, flutes, drums, horns, even a triangle. Yes, a triangle. And he was proud to play that triangle. He held it high above his head and rang it as though it were the most noble of all instruments. First, a Sousa-esque piece. The students stood up, sat down, stood up, stepped side to side. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a marching band per se, but a moving band. It brought visions of a Swiss cuckoo clock to mind as they played and stepped. One additional instrument that gave the band a truly Korean flavor, a huge gong. He started each piece. No matter what the tempo, the gong introduced the selection. It was a nice touch.

Next, five boys in white and black entered. One with a miniature gong, three with drums, one with a tin plate-ish type of hand-held instrument. They sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the first row of flutists. They began the next piece. Definitely Korean. The beat, however, was more intricate, more complex, than any classical piece I’ve ever heard performed. The band joined in. I counted at least 4 different simultaneous rhythms. It was difficult, though. Each beat blended in with the other almost seamlessly. On and on. The boys in front were leading the score. Harder, harder, harder they played, their heads bobbing and jerking with each beat. This went on and on. Until again – all at once – silence. From my seat, I could see the five boys breathing heavily, heaving to pull air into their exhausted lungs.

The Gospel Choir?

Five men and seven women filed onto stage. The men in austere black suits. The women in floor length black taffeta skirts and fitted black velvet jackets over high-collared ruffly white blouses. They began a song. It had a cheerful beat. But there was something about it. Something familiar. It hit me. I turned to Mike and whispered, “I think this is a church choir.” Yeah, he said, it is dripping with God-ness. The singers had the same moves, the same serene expressions, that you see on Sunday morning television evangelical programs. They held one arm high in the air as they sang. It reminded me of Jim Baker’s “Be heeeeeaaaaaal-ed!” stance.

The Fan Dance

Twelve women in black and pink han-bouk tittered out, led by one woman in a shocking turquoise and pink han-bouk. All had gold crowns upon their heads; they looked like china dolls. They lined up on the stage with their backs towards us. The music started and whoooooooosssssshhhhhhh – around they turned, splaying hot pink feathered fans above them. They reminded me of a snake; they moved so seamlessly, with such oneness. Wrapped into a circle, unwinding, fans out, fans down, fans flittering. All the while moving so gracefully and with such serene smiles. The line parted, half went to one side of the stage, half to the other, and then . . .

The Traditional Korean Wedding Procession

The clothing was exquisite. Layers and layers of silk and organza. Tiny golden embroidered flowers. Patterns of infinite intricacy. The most intense colors – blood red, sapphire blue, marigold yellow, shocking pink, seaweed green. The women’s hair teased and piled up, adorned with sparkly hairpieces and jewels. The women’s hands and arms hidden beneath scrolls of embroidered sleeves. The procession glided across the stage. I could not tell where one step ended and the next began. In pairs, they proceeded across the stage, moving with the presence of royalty. Slowly, and with purpose. The fan dancers surrounded them, though on bended knee. Flittering their fans as the procession made its way across the stage. When the bride and groom reached center stage, their pairs of attendants to either side, the music stopped. The beauty was so striking. The men so handsome. The women so elegant. Again, a moment of silence before the applause began.

And Then . . .

It was over. No. I want to see more. I don’t want to go.

A woman in han-bouk appeared beside us. “You enjoyed?” Oh, yes, very much. Thank you. Excuse me. What was this for? What does “ko-ryo” mean? (there were many banners with this word on it) “It is a benefit for our Korean brothers and sisters living in Russia. They have a very hard life.” Wow. So the introductory film was not for Korean reunification, but to describe the plight of Koreans living in Russia. I will never cease to be amazed while I live here.

Interesting Notes . . .

Another excellent use for the heated floors here – every night before bed I place my pajamas on the floor for about 10 minutes. When I put them on – warmth . . . ahhhh. . .

Garlic will mold.

On my two month anniversary here (2/19/2002) I finished my first bag of rice. 2 kg. It will be interesting to see if my consumption increases or decreases over the next 10 months.

I now crave rice and kimchi for breakfast.

I have made peace with my shower. My sink is the perfect height to prop my legs on while I’m shaving.

Where does dust come from? Everyday I sweep my floor, everyday I discard a dustpan full of dust. My windows stay closed. It’s a mystery.

I don’t think I ever cut my fingers while cooking before I moved to Korea. Now, I average one serious cut every two weeks. Don’t know why.

I Am Now A Legend . . .

On the playgrounds of Korea. Okay, of one playground in Korea. In a small neighborhood on the other side of town. But, still.

The teachers at the other campus play basketball every Tuesday and Friday morning. A couple of the guys invited me out to play. Oh, how I miss pick up games. I grew up in North Carolina. Basketball is a religion. I graduated from UNC-Chapel Hill. It’s a graduation requirement to know all the players, their stats, and the school’s NCAA record (not really, but it might as well be). But it’s been a while. Maybe a year? since I last played. But I was itching to get back on the courts. What was the worst that could happen? I could embarass myself (again). I’d live.

So I took the hour and 20 minute bus ride to the other side of town. Reading a book, trying to recognize anything familiar out the window. I finally saw the DongA department store (yes, my life now revolves around a department store as a major landmark . . . how sad is that?) and jumped off the bus. There were Darla, Peter and Tom waiting for me. As we came over the hill and started our descent to the park, we noticed there were many children on the court. Tom commented no one had ever been on the courts before. Ohhhh, it’s a middle school break today and next week. Well, we could just use one end of the court, no problem.

As we arrived, we received many stares. Four big white people. Peter is 6’6″, Tom is 5’10”, I’m 5’8″ and Darla came in at 5’6″. We started shooting hoops. Just warming up, messing around. Nothing serious. Four middle school guys (probably grade 9 or 10) were checking us out. We motioned to them – wanna play? Yeahhhhhh. We decided to mix things up. We shot for teams. Team 1 – Peter and 3 Koreans. Team 2 – Me, Darla, Tom and one Korean boy. Handshakes all around. Okay, let’s go!

It was a surprisingly good game. Lots of action. Just enough fouls to keep it interesting. And the teams were matched pretty evenly.

At one point, the other team had the ball. Up for a basket. No good. Rebound. Up for another basket. Miss. This time Tom got the rebound. Clap, clap! I’m open. Right as he passed me the ball, my guy was all over me. Dribble, dribble, dribble, my back to the basket. By this time, I’m not so close to the basket. Three point range, easily. No one to pass to. Moment of truth. I bend down, spin around, jump, and the ball leaves my hands. Arcs through the air. Closer, closer, closer to the basket – whoooooooooosssssshhhhhhhh. Nothing but net.

There were several young boys (maybe 5 or 6 years old) watching us play. “Ooooooooooooo – Miguk!” The American. The girl.

Tom high-fived me with the comment, “Must be something in the water. You definitely have earned the right to wear that North Carolina shirt . . .” Life is good.

The Year of Superlatives

I feel my life is one of extremes. I’m usually so incredibly happy, finding humor (sometimes inappropriately) in everyday life. And when I’m down, which isn’t as often, but does happen, I’m miserable. Today, however, I think I experienced my most mortifyingly embarrassing moment. Or one of them, at least.

I caught the bus to MuJu at 6 am. Slept the 2 1/2 hours there. Managed not only to buy my lift ticket, but also to rent equipment by myself. And tell them my shoe size in Korean. They didn’t believe me at first, but then I pointed to my shoes. Ooooh. Yes, tall American girl with big feet.

There weren’t many people on the slopes. I love that. I love having the mountain to myself. I love being able to zig zag across the mountain, not worrying about whether I’m going to crash into someone if they make an unexpected move. I’m also much more daring when other people aren’t around. I went to the slopes I wouldn’t go down with Peter and Han Youl. And took them on. With surprisingly few wipeouts.

There’s an interesting habit of snowboarders here. Instead of wearing their snowboard on the lift, they carry it, then run off the lift, sit down, and put their board on. I was having unusual success at getting off the lift with my board on (that’s where I normally fall), but I thought I’d “go Korean.” Just to give it a try. I was on a lift by myself. As I approached the dismount, I lifted the safety bar. As I got closer to the dismount, I put my feet down. I’m not sure what happened next. Only that I had tripped, the chair had hit me in the back of the head, and I was face down on the ice. My snowboard had gotten caught in between the seat and the back of the chair part of the chairlift. I reached up to grab it. It was stuck. Stuck. Not moving, stuck. So I was drug in the path of the chairlift, trying to dislodge my snowboard. I realized that I was on my way back down the mountain. I turned loose of my snowboard as the chair rounded the turn. I dropped to the ground. My snowboard was on the way back down the mountain.

I stood up. Brushed the snow off my pants and jacket and looked over at the lift operator. He was staring in disbelief. Speechless. I don’t think he’s ever seen quite a site. I walked over, smiled a big smile, shrugged my shoulders and said, “Mian hamnida.” I’m sorry. He continued to stare at me. He then radioed down to the lower lift. And pointed for me to sit inside the ski patrol hut. Inside there were two ski patrol members. One gave me a big smile as I came in. The other just stared. I flashed them both a huge smile, said hello and introduced myself in Korean. They wanted to know where I was from. And if I had ever snowboarded before. Yes, actually I’m quite good. Really. I’ve just never gotten off the lift like that before. One ski patrol member offered this advice, “Lift. Board on. Good. (motioned holding board) Korean way. Bad. Dangerous. No do.” Yeah, got it.

MuJu – Round 2

I’m off to MuJu Ski Resort tomorrow. To snowboard. By myself. I keep thinking to myself, “I think I can, I think I can . . .”

I had planned to go with Han Youl. My snowboarding angel from before. But he misunderstood me. He thought I was going on Saturday, not on Thursday. So he’s in Seoul right now. We talked on the phone today. He’s very worried. He doesn’t think I’ll be able to rent my equipment or buy a lift ticket by myself. Stay tuned . . .

First Things First . . .

Chanta and I had another session with Chairman Kim. He, trying to teach us Korean, us, trying to teach him English. He was explaining which system of numbers to use for counting. We were counting items in the room. One table. Two pens. Three people. Four chairs. He then pulled out money from his pocket. First, the bills. 1,000 won. 10,000 won. Then the coins. He would place various combinations on the table. Chanta was busting out with some serious figures! As soon as he would put the coins on the table, she said the number. I was still trying to count in English, then convert to Korean. I finally asked her how she knew the answer so quickly. “You always learn the words for what is most important to you. For me, that’s money.” Hmmmmm. Almost my entire vocabulary consists of food items . . .

Job-sayo!

That’s what Koreans say when they answer the phone. A few weeks ago, when I went to Seoul for the evening, I met a Korean man at a dance club. He introduced himself by coming up to me, taking my gin and tonic out of my hand, and replacing it with a beer. Our language abilities (his English, my Korean) were probably about equal. We had a fun night dancing. Our conversation, however, was somewhat limited. This is what I learned. I’m American, he’s Korean. He lives in Seoul, I live in Daegu. He’s 36, I’m 33. That’s about it. But, at the end of the night, he asked for my phone number. I kept telling him I live in Daegu (3 hours from Seoul). But he wanted my phone number anyway. So I wrote it down on a book of matches. How cliche, right?

So today, as I’m returning home from the gym, the phone rings. I hurry to take off my shoes and rush to answer the phone (no answering machine). Hello? Hello? “Jobsayo . . .” Oh, jobsayo . . . “[very fast Korean phrase] Lori?” Lori immnida. . . This is Lori. I recognized his voice. And thought to myself, “This is going to be interesting.” I give him credit, though. He was very patient. He repeated his phrases many times. The only one I understood was “Where are you?” At home. In Daegu. To everything else, I responded in Korean, “I don’t know” or “I don’t understand.” Yet, at the end of the conversation, he said, “Call again?” Sure. Yes. Though I thought to myself, “Only, I hope you wait a month or two so maybe I’ll have a chance of understanding anything that you say to me. . . .”