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. . . .”

Calligraphy Lessons . . .

Today was my 3rd day of calligraphy lessons. Most of the day, Mr. Song left me alone to practice my lines. I’m working on both horizontal and vertical lines now. I feel like I’ve progressed. Although, he did move me to the afternoon session. I no longer get to hang out with the retired men. I’m with the 6 and 7 year olds. But he puts me in a room by myself. I feel like I’ve been demoted . . .

I obviously was doing something wrong. I’m not sure what. He demonstrated for me what I should do. I tried it. No, no, no. Big “x”es on my paper. He then held my hand and tried to guide my hand. I tried on my own. No, no, no. He then got behind me and tried to guide not only my hand, but my shoulder, too. Still, I wasn’t doing what he wanted. So he came in front of me and gave a lively lecture (all in Korean) on what I was doing wrong. I listened, wide eyed and smiling. Trying to pick up any words at all. After about 10 or 15 minutes, he said to me, “Understand?” I smiled, shook my head “no” and said, “Mian hamnida (I’m sorry).” He just looked at me, turned and left the room. I may be more than he bargained for.

Though, when I left, he pleasantly said good-bye and “Tomorrow – 2?” Okay! Bye!

The Bathroom Mystery

Have I mentioned the bathrooms here are freezing cold? No. Really freezing. The building design here is interesting. Efficient, but interesting nonetheless. Imagine a building. Each floor is rented out to one, maybe two, maybe three different tenants. Instead of each tenant providing bathroom facilities, there is a common facility in the hallway. Except that facility is not heated. In fact, the windows are always open. And it is winter here. Hence, very, very, very cold. This is a common design in almost all public buildings I’ve been in, including my own dear Kate School.

Most buildings have traditional toilet facilities, urinals for both men and women. The women’s are just horizontal. I’m a camper, it’s not a problem. However, Kate School, in its quest to be a true American campus, has installed “western” toilets. Did I mention it’s winter here? Porcelain is quite the conductor of cold.

Everyday when Chanta and I go to the bathroom in between classes, we notice the bathroom is not only cold, but it is wet. Everywhere. The floor, the toilets, the walls. Cold and wet – not a good combination. We attribute it to an overzealous cleaning lady. But we never understood why she would clean the bathrooms so many times a day.

Well, today we solved the mystery. In between classes, we rushed to the bathroom, almost breaking our necks on the slick floor. And there was one of our dear elementary students (the same student who voiced, “Good orangatang”), spraying the bathroom with a hose that had been coiled up under the sink. As soon as she saw us she turned the hose off, grinning sheepishly. “Water is fun.” Neither Chanta nor I are yellers. But we came close today. We’ve endured two months of freezing cold, wet facilities, all for the folly of a student. Yun-Soo, we don’t *ever* want to see you use that hose again. Do you understand? “Yes, teacher. Hee hee hee hee hee.”

The Irony of the Menu . . .

Last night, I went to dinner with Chanta and Tom. We tried to read the menu. It was exhausting. So many letters. So many words. I finally said, “Tonight, it’s going to be Korean roulette. I’m going to point. And that’s what I’ll eat.” Tom agreed. “Yogi-yo!” Please come here . . . We randomly pointed at the menu. One of these. One of these. One of these. Oh, the anticipation! What will arrive? What have we ordered? Minutes later we were met by kimchi rice, a chicken/cabbage/vegetable combination, and a squid omelette/pancake concoction. All were absolutely delicious.

Tonight Ted and I went out to dinner after class. We got the menu and started reading. Okay, this section is soups. Don’t want soup. Skip ahead. This section is chicken. Ted chose an entree from there. This section, I’m not sure what it is, but oh, look, here’s kimchi, kim something. Kim is seaweed, this ought to be good. Okay. “Yogi-yo!” We ordered. Moments later our food arrived. A platter of suspect looking fried chicken was placed in front of Ted. A platter of french fries and cut up hot dogs was placed in front of me. “Kimchi????” I asked in bewilderment. [insert very fast Korean phrase ending with kim-cha] Oh. I guess that vowell really does make a difference.

In the grocery store . . .

I’m starting to recognize vegetables. I can tell the difference between the spinach, the bok choy, the seaweed, the cabbage. This sounds easy. It’s not. It’s a skill. They are all green and leafy.

But I noticed something today that disturbed me. In between the paper towels and the ramen there was a special display for Pringles. The potato chips in the cannister. Special deal – 3 pack of Pringles. Special price. Here were the flavors included in the 3 pack: Regular, Hot Tamale, and Funky Soy Sauce. I’m not lying. Funky Soy Sauce Pringles in a bright purple cannister. That’s just wrong.

Lunch with Chairman Kim

Yesterday at school Mr. Kim (owner) had taken Chanta and me aside. We talked, or tried to, for about an hour. His English is about at the same level as our Korean. He’s the one who said hearing English makes him crazy. Though he runs an English academy. Go figure. How was our New Year? What did we do? Oh, next time we should stay at his condo. How are the students? How are classes? We asked him about his New Year. Chat, chat, chat. Then he said, “Tomorrow. One o’clock. Lunch.” But tomorrow is Sunday. “Yes. My house.” Okay.

Once again, I was faced with the dilemma of what to take as a hospitality gift. I know that Mr. Kim doesn’t drink, so alcohol would be inappropriate. A house plant. That’s always safe. I went to DongA. To where the plant section should have been. But wasn’t. I thought maybe I was in the wrong corner of the store. I walked around, looking, looking, looking. Finally, the employee at the Information desk asked me if she could help me. “Plants. (I pantomimed). Here?” Not anymore. Obviously. “Where?” Nowhere. Okay. So I set out to try to find a florist shop. And did, not too far away. The houseplants were pretty mangly looking, though. So I opted for the cut flowers. I chose a few bright yellow Gerber daisies, some purple iris, and a white lily. I asked the florist to combine them. Which he did. And proceeded to wrap them, and wrap them, and wrap them in an endless amount of tulle. Stop! You’re going to suffocate them! I left the shop using both arms to carry what should have been a modest sized bouquet, transformed into a monstrous web of net.

A few minutes before one Chanta and I arrived to Kate School. And there Mr. Kim was, waiting for us. We jumped into his car and he drove us to his house. “Me, best-a driver.” We laughed. His wife and two daughters, Ah-Ram (15) and Da-Som (12) greeted us. Chanta and I either have, or have had, both of his daughters in class. They are both very good students. Over lunch Mr. Kim would try to say something in English, would get frustrated, and ask his daughters to translate. They both would just look at him, smile, and remain silent. Chanta finally busted out with, “Daadddd. . . it’s bad enough we have to listen to them in school, now you invited them to our house . . . . we’re not saying anything . . .” At which point both girls burst out laughing, but still wouldn’t translate for their father.

I Love This Country . . .

I love this country. I love it. Everyday is a challenge. And so entertaining. I’m serious. Witness:

In one of my writing classes we had to read a passage about the Loch Ness monster (very relevant to Korean students, eh?) Before the reading I pointed to the picture and asked the students questions about the monster. Did they know where Scotland was? Had they ever heard of the Loch Ness monster? Student response, “No, but I’ve heard of this monster before.” What did I just ask?

After classes Tom, Chanta, and I went to our favorite sushi restaurant, Insung Tuna. I pass by the restaurant everyday and always wave at the hostess and the sushi chef. Not much conversation, but lots of smiles. We were seated at the sushi bar. Tom and I were trying to choose between soju or a bottle of what we thought was rice wine. But the word sake is not used here. We ask the sushi chef what the drink is, but he doesn’t understand our question. He calls over another patron, a member of his church who speaks English. Tom asks him if the bottle is rice wine. “No. No. It is very mild. Much smoother than soju. It is a wine. A wine made from rice. A rice wine.” We can only laugh and order a couple of bottles.

The meal, as always, is delicious. Platters and platters of food. Sushi, sashimi, side dishes, rice, soup, vegetables. Sushi rolls – service (the word used for “free stuff”). For almost two hours they bring us small platters of delicacies. A little here, a little there. So that by the end of our meal, we are definitely satiated, but not stuffed. We finish the rice wine. Chanta calls for the bill. It comes to about $20 US. Total. Not per person. Tom is in disbelief. He can’t believe how cheap it is. He mutters something about “pretty girl discount.” What??? “Yeah, if Peter and I were in here this would have cost us triple this. I saw how you smiled at the sushi chef. We’re definitely getting the pretty girl discount.” Noooo . . . . . . .

As we leave the restaurant we are saying good-bye to the staff. I bust out with one of my favorite phrases, “The food was delicious. Thank you,” and giggle. Chanta turns to me and says, “You are just as bad as the little girls who run up to us in the street and yell, “Hello!” then run away, giggling uncontrollably.” There’s something about communicating in another language that just makes me want to laugh . . .

I Just Want a Cuppa . . .

I now speak enough Korean so that people think I speak Korean well. This is a bad thing. I utter one or two Korean phrases and they rattle off phrases at machine-gun speed. This usually makes me feel like bursting into tears.

Case in point. Tonight, in between classes, I wanted to get a cup of coffee. I headed to the local bakery, Paris Baguette (really). I selected a bread and a Korean doughnut (a round, green, chewy, bean paste filled concoction). At the counter, “Ko-pee jushipsayo.” Cofee please. [insert very fast Korean phrase] Blank stare from me. The clerk rings up my order. I hand her a handful of 1,000 won bills. She takes two then hands the rest back to me with a smirk. I thought she said 9,000 won. My total was 1,900 won. Will I ever learn? She bags my treats and says good-bye. Ko-pee? [insert even faster Korean phrase] Another blank stare from me. The lady behind me in line says, “To go or for here?” To go, please. [insert irritated, very fast Korean phrase] “They don’t have any.” Oh.

On to the next bakery, Cake House. I am now determined to have a cup of coffee. “Ko-pee jushipsayo” and I point to the door, to go. Yayyyyyy. (Korean for yes, I understand) She pours a cup of coffee in a to-go cup. “U-hyuu jushipsayo.” Milk, please. She hands me the milk in a mini ceramic pitcher. Okay, if the coffee is to go, wouldn’t the milk be, also? She stares in horror as I pour the milk into my coffee. Where else am I going to put the milk?