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?

Son-Seong Song

Today was my first day of Chinese brush calligraphy lessons. I’ve always been fascinated with writing, both in its practical and aesthetic forms. What better place to learn brush calligraphy than here? Chinese was used throughout Korea before King Sejong invented hangeul, the Korean alphabet, around 1441. Although today hangeul is almost universally used, there are still remnants of Chinese in the temples, on some signs, etc. It’s a beautiful system of writing.

My teacher is Mr. Song, Son-Seong Song. He’s an elderly man with a patient smile. And he speaks no English.

A Korean woman that works on the web team at school, Michelle (her English name, as she prefers to be called), took me to a couple of hogwans, or schools, for brush calligraphy yesterday. She acted as my interpretor, then recommended Mr. Song. She thought he was the best teacher. Good. She explained to me that I should come everyday for 2 hours. “Okay. When?” Whevever you want, Monday to Friday. “Okay.”

So I arrived a little before 10:30 this morning. There were 5 other men there. All retired. All in argyle. Is it a rule when you retire that you have to overhaul your wardrobe so that it includes all argyle? One of the other students was a retired English teacher, Mr. Lee. The hogwan has 3 rooms. A sitting room with a couch, a desk, and some chairs, and two art studios with large tables. I was sent to the room where there was only one other man. Mr. Nam. The retired director of Daegu Bank. I used two of my Korean phrases – I am very pleased to meet you. My name is Lori. Even though it was only two sentences, I felt like I was giving an address. He smiled. In broken English, he told me he had only been taking lessons for 3 months. But he was already writing beautiful Chinese characters!

Son-Seong Song showed me the paper used for calligraphy. Long, narrow sheets. With a smooth side and a rough side. We always write on the smooth side. And the brush. And the ink. And how to mix the ink and the water. And how to hold the brush. Then he showed me how to direct the brush. All the while speaking in Korean. I think I understood most of what he said. Not every word, but the meaning of what he was saying. First, we would practice lines. Starting at the left of the paper. Touching the tip of the brush to the paper, bending the bristles, then pussssshhhhhhhhhh across the paper. Pause. Circle, circle, circle with the tip of the brush. Then pussssshhhhhhhhhhh. And repeat.

This sounds easy. It’s not. The bristles of the brush separate. Somehow the line becomes different widths. The ink isn’t even. Son-Seong Song called Mr. Lee, the retired English teacher in. “Softly. Softly. Do not use power. Do not grip the brush.” Oh, it’s another chopsticks lesson. But he was right. I was trying to remember everything Son-Seong Song had told me about how to hold the brush, the angle of the brush to the paper, how wide to make the line, and I was tensing up. My right shoulder was aching. So in addition to everything else, I repeated the mantra, “Loose. Loose. Gentle. Pussshhhhhhhh. Gentle.” Several times during the morning each of the retired men would come in and oooh and ahhh at the lines I was making. “Very gooood.” “Wonderful.” For almost two hours I drew straight lines.

Then, like magic, at noon, they all stopped. Washed their brushes, cleaned up their areas. It was bizarre how synchronized this was. I continued to pussssssshhhhhhhh my brush across my paper. Mr. Lee came in. He explained it was lunch time. That normally I would wash my own brush, but today, they were ready to eat, so we would leave now. Oh. Okay. He also told me to come at 2:00 on Monday. 2:00? Okay. I’ll be here. Have a good weekend. Bye!

Valentine’s Day, aka Red Day

I didn’t think it was possible for Valentine’s Day to be more commercial than in the United States. I was obviously wrong. The Koreans put Hallmark to shame.

First, a little background on the way it is celebrated here. February 14th is known as Valentine’s Day, or Red Day. It is the day when girls profess their feelings to boys. March 14th is White Day. It is the day when boys profess their feelings to girls. April 14th is Black Day (I believe). It is the day when boys and girls who didn’t profess feelings for anyone or have feelings professed for them go to designated cafes. And hope to meet someone. May 14th is Yellow Day (I think – I may have the colors confused). It is the day for those who went to cafes on Black Day but didn’t meet anyone to go to another cafe, but just to meet a potential friend. So this whole business of sharing your most intimate feelings for a special someone is taken to a whole new level.

For the past two or three weeks, the stores have been filled with Valentine’s Day stuff. Stuff. Frilly baskets. Candies. Fake flowers. With tears on them. Let me go back to the frilly baskets. Like nothing you have ever seen before. Big, honking baskets covered in yards and yards and yards of tulle and ribbon. And small fake flowers. To be filled with stuffed animals, candies, drinks, etc. But I’m thinking to myself, “This is the day for girls to profess to boys, and give them gifts. Why all the frou-frou stuff?” But sure enough, I was downtown on Valentine’s Day and there were couples galore. Boys proudly carrying these baskets that look like a ballerina’s tutu, overflowing with cute Sanrio stuffed animals, flowers, and candies. Really. I can’t wait to see what’s available for March 14th.

A Student’s Perspective

One of my high school girls wrote this about Valentine’s Day . . .

The Valentine Day

Every month has the 14th but February 14th is so special day. Because it is the day that girls confess to boys who they like or they associate with and give them a chocolate. Of course, boys can give girls, but most people think Valentine Day is the proposal of girls. I went to store in the city with friend to buy chocolate. There were many people, so the store or street were very crowded. We could see many couple. I got some chocolate and my friend too. I palpitated all day without reason. Maybe, I think I am a girl. Anyway, I was so tired. (sign for pi -pi)

Now that I think about it, there are days when I palpitate all day without reason . . . Just never thought of it in that manner before . . .

The Day of Impeccable Timing

Our third day of vacation. We’re off to Gyeongju, described as “literally an open-air museum.” During the Silla dynasty, for almost 1000 years, Gyeongju was the capital city. There are still tombs, temples, remains of palaces, shrines, gardens, castles and Buddha statues everywhere.

We arrive to the bus station in Pohang. Chanta is off to the bathroom; I get in line for tickets. I get two tickets for Gyeongju, but can’t figure out what time the bus leaves. I try to ask the ticket taker and she answers, “Mola.” I don’t know. Chanta and I walk outside to the buses. We show our tickets. “Now! You! Go!” We get on the bus and it leaves within minutes. An hour later, we arrive at the station in Gyeongju. A small, one room station. We stash our backpacks in a locker. Chanta is hungry again. Surprise, surprise. I don’t know how someone so tiny can eat so much. We see hajima behind a counter. Hmmmm. Bet we could get soup there. We approach her. “Udong jushipsayo.” They serve us two bowls of piping hot noodles in broth. There are no seats, so we stand to eat our soup. This is a challenge. On so many levels. First, the counter comes to the top of my thighs. Have I mentioned that I’m taller than everyone here? So my bowl of soup is at my waist level. Sort of. I bend down as gracefully as possible and bring the noodles to my mouth with my chopsticks. I really am getting better with the chopsticks. I’m now only splattering the immediate area around me instead of the entire table. It takes me so long to finish my bowl of soup. Chanta is already off in search of chocolate. I finish (among stares from fellow travellers), offer my bowl back to the hajima, and thank her.

We decide to take a taxi to Bulkuksa, “the crowning glory of Silla architecture. The painting of the internal woodwork and of the eaves of the roofs should be one of the Seven Wonders of the World.” In my next life I want to be a travel guide writer. Everything is spectacular.

And indeed this was. Not only was the temple itself awe inspiring, but it was decorated with thousands of blue, red, and gold silk lanterns for sol-nal. Prayers fluttering from the lanterns in memory of ancestors. We walked through the temple grounds, entering each hall, admiring the Buddhas, reading the histories, basking in the calmness that enveloped this location. We perused the art gallery/gift shop, marvelling at the intricate pottery, fawning over the paintings on silk, handling the precious prayer bracelets. There were hundreds and hundreds of prayer bracelets – wooden, stone, jade, crystal. Chanta was telling me about the different healing properties/meanings of the various stones. She picked up a rose quartz bracelet and explained that the energy of the stone helped to heal a hurt heart and makes one more open to receiving new people in your life. She put it on me, and said with a tender smile, “Happy early Valentine’s Day.” Sometimes I truly wonder how I’ve come to be so lucky to have such wonderful people in my life.

We decided to catch the bus back to Gyeongju. We had to walk through a gauntlet of vendors to reach the bus area. The first vendor was selling the Korean version of corn dogs. Not surprisingly, Chanta was hungry. She ordered a corn dog. The vendor immediately prepared two. No, no, no, only one. So she put ketchup on only one. No, no, oh, okay, I’ll have a corn dog, too. We ate the corn dogs, which were surprisingly delicious. Chanta commented how it tastes so much better when someone else is eating it with you. Some type of weird logic that if you’re doing something bad then it’s not so bad if someone else does it with you.

We finished our corn dogs and started towards the bus area, perusing the souvenirs. Sand cast replicas of the temple, back scratchers, traditional Korean knick-knacks. Typical souvenir stuff. The last booth was another corn dog stand. Chanta wanted another. She walked up, ordered a corn dog, and the hajima immediately put two back in the oil to re-fry. No, no, really, I don’t want another. Especially a refried one. The hajima smiled and continued frying two corn dogs, singing “thank you, thank you, thank you . . .” Okay. I’ll have another. We should have stopped while we were ahead. The corn part of the corn dog (all 4 layers where it had been dipped, fried, dipped, refried, etc.) was warm. The dog part was cold. I’m a firm believer in not wasting food, but this was an exception. After two bites, I had to toss it. As I was returning from the waste bin, I saw a bus approaching. “Run, Chanta, run!” “But I have a corn dog!” ????? “Run with the corn dog!” We made it to the bus, paid our fare, and settled in by the windows. At each stop there was an electronic voice that announced the destination. After a couple of stops we heard “folk and craft village.” We gave each other a questioning look, then hopped off the bus. We walked up the hill to the craft village. Which was really a collection of shops, with some workshops, so our authentic Korean craft expedition in reality was a shopping trip.

Once in town we headed back to the bus station to get the bus to Pohang so we could catch our train to Daegu (this sounds like a travel version of “The Farmer in the Dell.”) Once again, as soon as we bought our tickets, the ticket taker exclaimed, “Come on! Now!” and moments after we boarded the bus we were Pohang bound. There’s something about just catching a bus, a train, a subway, that just makes you feel good. Even if another bus is coming along in 10 minutes, you feel like you’ve beat the system.

Chanta read, I studied my Korean on the hour trip back to Pohang. When the bus stopped at what seemed to be a major stop, most people got off. I asked the young girl behind me, “Pohang?” She nodded yes then slipped me a note and headed off the bus. A note! Seriously. A scrap of paper, folded into eighths. It has been years since someone has passed me a note. It’s a good feeling. Normally, however, notes are passed between people who know each other. So I was quite curious as to what the note would say.

“Excuse me. Sorry. I saw you that you’re studying Korean. I want I can help you. If you want study Korean more carefully. Send me e-mail. Ok. Thank you. Ok.”

I was elated. How incredibly considerate. Unfortunately, Daegu to Pohang is a bit of a commute for language lessons. But I’ll send her an email anyway.

We had 5 hours to kill before our train to Daegu. The midnight train to Daegu. Don’t think that didn’t inspire us to sing our own renditions all night long (my sincerest apologies to Miss Knight for butchering an otherwise delightful song). We hailed a taxi to take us downtown. Not really knowing what we would do once we got there. A movie! Yeah! Good idea! So we asked the taxi driver to take us to a movie theater. Except we obviously weren’t pronouncing it correctly. “What?” and quizzical looks were exchanged. I pulled out my pocket Korean guide and found the word in Korean script. I pointed to it. Oh. Oh. And he pronounced it. It sounded exactly like what we had said.

The theater was a theater. Not a multiplex. A room with one projector. One selection. Collateral Damage. It had just started. Chanta, this really isn’t my type of movie. I’m such not a violent film person. “Me, neither, but what else can we do for 5 hours? And besides, it’s cold outside.” Okay. So we watched Ahhhh-nold. At his best. Then we only had 3 hours before our train departed. Hmmm. . . Chanta was hungry. I’m telling you, I felt like a mother bird the whole trip. I was constantly pulling food out of my backpack and feeding her. But this time my supply of food was exhausted. So we swung into the local McDonald’s. Yes. McDonald’s. It was bizarro world. All the things I normally never do. I was doing them all in one night. My first venture to McDonald’s since arriving to Korea. Chanta ordered an ice cream sundae and we both had hot chocolates.

After we were sufficiently sated, we wandered back to the streets. We had seen a bar earlier, Bahia. Advertising live music. Which we assumed would be samba or salsa, given the name. We found the bar and entered excitedly. Three people were receiving dance lessons, maybe salsa? in the center of the floor. But the music was techno bad 80s love songs. We sat down. The waitress came over and wanted to know if we wanted dance lessons, too. No. Thanks. At that point a semi-rap, badly accented version of “Unchained Melody” blared over the speakers. It was just more than we could take. We thanked the waitress and left, preferring the cold of the streets.

We started in the direction of the train station. I wanted to get a bottle of water for the trip home. We saw a “Kim’s Club.” It looked like a convenience store, so we went in. It was an everything store! We spent the next hour wandering up and down the aisles. Not looking for anything particular, just looking. It was the perfect diversion. We shopped until 11:00 pm, then headed to the train station. We settled into two not very comfortable plastic seats and began reading. There was a family behind us with a sleeping girl (maybe 8 or 9) and a little boy toddler. At one point I could feel someone looking at me. I turned to the side and the toddler was staring, mouth open, at me. I smiled. He continued to stare. I was feeling a bit self concious. I said Hello in Korean. He continued to stare. I said Hello in English. He continued to stare. I smiled again. He poked me. I tried to talk to him, but he returned my questions with wide eyed stares. Chanta leaned over and said, “Do we really look *that* different?” I hadn’t thought so. I mean, I have the normal body parts, two arms, two legs, two eyes, two ears, a mouth, a nose. I have dark hair. Dark eyes. My skin’s a bit lighter than the average Korean. But maybe. His eyes were on me until we boarded the train.

I love a train ride. It feels like you’re in a lazy boy. But moving. It’s so easy to sleep on a train. But then again, it’s so easy for me to sleep anywhere . . . We finally arrived home at 2:30 am. Safe and sound. The best part about a vacation is returning home . . .