Feed Me…

That must be the vibe I’m sending out. During so-yae (calligraphy) lessons this morning Mr. Lee, the English teacher, asked me if I liked Korean food. “Oh, yes, very much.” What have you tried? “Let’s see, bibimbop, mandu, muul mandu, bulgogi, kimchi, dak kalbi, nang myeon,…” Have you ever tried raw fish? “Yes. Sashimi. Many times. In America and in Korea.” In America? White people eat raw fish? “Yes…” I don’t think so. “Really. Yes, they do.” How? “Well, I’m from San Francisco and there are many Japanese restaurants there.” At this point the other men stopped what they were doing and gathered around. “So I have tried sushi and sashimi. I like it.” We will all go out after lessons one day. We will feed you raw fish.

This is twice in less than 24 hours that an older man has told me he will feed me raw fish. It just seems a bit strange.

After so-yae I went to the gym. As I came out of the locker room, the guy that runs the gym motioned for me to sit down. There was something white and sticky and shaped like a fish on his table. Eat, he commanded. “What is this?” Fish cake. Eat. I picked up a piece. Very … glutenous. And chewy. Not unpleasant, though. It had some beans in it, I think. He put a cup of coffee in my hand. I smiled and offered a gracious “Khamsa hamnidda…”

I stopped by the school to pick up a package that had arrived for me. As I was getting ready to leave, Michelle came up to me. Here, for you! And put a cookie in my hand. I’m very grateful for all of these gifts of food, I just wonder why so many people want to feed me now…

All That’s Fit To Print…

Congratulations, Ev! A story about Blogging, with quotes galore from you, was in The Korea Herald! Unfortunately, the article wasn’t included in the online version.

Insha’Allah

Arabic – “as God wills it”

I was still feeling a bit bummed out about the events of the weekend today. I don’t teach on Mondays, so I decided to explore. I have seen many signs for Apsan Park, but have never been there. Lonely Planet describes it as such, “at 17 sq km is Daegu’s largest (park). The most notable attraction here is the cable car running 800 metres to the summit of Apsan, but you can walk up by following a 4 km trail. Bus nos 424, 750, and 910 head out to the park from the center of town.”

So I walked to the local N/S bus stop. No 424, 750, or 910 listed. Hmm. Let me try the E/W bus stop. Not listed. But, I can catch the 402 to downtown, then look for a sign that has 424, 750, or 910. How hard can that be, right? I carefully studied the transportation signs at each stop we made approaching downtown. No 424, 750, or 910. This may be more difficult than I thought. I decided just to get off the bus and wander. And lo and behold, there was a stop for the 424. I read the stops and Apsan was listed. I got on the bus and settled in, looking forward to a day of hiking. The bus circled around and started back towards my area of town. Hmmm. . . After a good 30 minutes it pulled into a terminal and the driver told me “bye. get off.” But, but, but, Apsan Park. He pointed to another bus. He was going on break. I got on the other bus amid stares from high school boys. The route circled in and around town, the warm sun beaming through the window, before I knew it, jerk! my head snapped up. I had fallen asleep. I quickly looked around. I had no idea where I was. The bus pulled to a stop and I thought I read “Apsan” in a blur so I hopped off. But I was on a major highway. Where was the park? I looked at my watch. I had been on buses for almost 2 hours. Ugh.

I stopped an elderly man. Apsan? Yaayyyyy. Odi? He pointed. So all I had to do was cross this major 6 lane highway, go up a hill, and I would be at the park. Okay.

I started up the trail and immediately felt better. Something about being on a mountain. Even if it’s a mountain beside a major city. The air seems fresher. The people seem nicer. Worries have a way of being, well, not so worrisome. The trail may have only been 4 km, but it was 4 vertical km. Straight up. I consider myself to be in good shape and I was panting. And noticed that I was, by at least 30 years, the youngest person on the trail. Everyone else was grandmother/grandfather age. Really. How are they doing this? I want to be doing this in 30 years. What’s their secret?

Two hajima were sitting on rocks by the path. As I approached I smiled and said, “Annyong ha-shimnikka.” The older of the two grunted and motioned me towards her. She held out a rice treat in her hand and placed it in mine. But it wasn’t just any rice treat. It was the Korean version of Rice Krispy treats, but instead of Rice Krispies, there were Sugar Smacks and instead of marshmallows, there was pure syrup. Jackpot, baby! I grinned, “Kamsa hamnida!” [insert very fast Korean phrase] “Miguk.” (I guessed she had asked me where I was from) [insert another very fast Korean phrase] “San Francisco.” She looked perplexed. “English teacher. Hogwan.” She nodded and smiled. [insert another very fast Korean phrase] “Lori-ga” She smiled again. “Kamsa hamnida. Annyong hi kay shipsayo!” and I was off.

Up, up, up. Pant, pant. Stop. Why didn’t I bring water? My legs were already burning. I hoisted myself up onto a level area. Oohhh. The view of the city. How amazing. How big. I had no idea Daegu had so many buildings and was so spread out. I stood there for several minutes, admiring the view, trying to locate landmarks.

I turned around to continue upwards. And there, sitting peacefully, was a man. I had not seen him before. “Annyong…” I started. “Hello,” he said. His English was quite good. He asked me how long I had been in Korea, why I was here, how did I get to the park, etc. Then, “Let’s continue.” We we walked on the trail together, continuing to talk. We live in the same area of town, but he works near Apsan. Import/export business. “Is your family in the US?” “Yes, mostly in North Carolina, but a sister and her family in Atlanta.” “But, your family. Your husband. Your children.” “Oh, I am not married.” “You are single? How can this be?”

I’ve never figured out how to address this. Is it just the family oriented Korean culture that makes people ask in disbelief how I’m still single? Or are they somehow implying there is something wrong with being single?

“Well, I was married. But now I’m divorced.” “Oh, I see. I thought so. I did not think you were not ever married. I think this is very common in America. Divorce.” “Well, yes. There are many divorced people. And in Korea?” “Oh, no. Not common. But becoming. As we get more westernized.” He pointed to a pile of stones. No, not a pile of stones, but a sculpture of stones. “Do you see that?” “Yes.” “One by one, hikers place a stone and say a prayer. And look how it has grown. Let us say a prayer.” So we each picked up a stone, placed it carefully on the stack, and said a prayer. Then continued up.

At what I thought was the top we rested. The best part of a hike. The summit. Sitting and reflecting on where you’ve just come from. How you’re feeling. Anticipating the trip back down. We talked a bit, then sat in silence. Then, we brushed ourselves off, stood up, and began walking. “Where are we going?” “Oh, there is the summit,” as he pointed to a rocky crag several hundred feet in the distance. “What? This isn’t the top?” “No, come on. We will go up over the top then back down the other side. It is better.” Okay. Only, once we got to the rocky crag the trail disappeared. Vanished. Nowhere to be seen. He started climbing the rocks, I followed. And I use the term climbing the rocks in the literal sense. Looking for a crevice to place your foot. Grasping for a hold for your hand. At one point I was flush against the rock, feeling, stretching, inching my fingers above me. There had to be another hold for me to pull myself up with. I glanced down. Okay. If I slip and fall, what is the worst that will happen? The fall won’t be so tremendous that I will die. I don’t think. I give myself a 98% chance of surviving a fall. But, I think I will have bruises. Yes, I definitely will have bruises. The chance of breaking a bone is very likely. Okay, where is that hold? As I pulled myself up and over the rock, he smiled and said, “You are very strong.” Yes, so are you. I wanted to ask him how old he was, but I’m not sure if that’s considered rude here. He has three grown children, so he must be at least mid-fifties? Early sixties? And he’s scaling rocks like a little mountain goat. At one point he offered his hand as I was approaching the final assent of a rock formation. “Thank you,” I said. “Oh, by the way, my name is Kim, Ki Hwan.” “I’m Lori.” “Ro-ri?” I smiled. Yes. Isn’t it odd that we had been hiking and talking for over an hour, and didn’t even know each other’s names?

We reached the real summit. So incredibly beautiful. Mountains in every direction. Ranges upon ranges upon ranges of mountains in the distance. Fading from blackish gray, to bluish gray, to silvery gray, to whitish gray, as the ranges got farther and farther away.

We started the descent. As we came down, down, down a mucky, slippery, leaf strewn path and rounded a corner, I heard laughter. They saw me before I saw them. Three shamans. In a cave. “Helllllll-lo!” I gasped. “Annyong…” and a woman ran out of the cave with a handful of candy. I received it with both hands and thanked her over and over. The two others came out to look at me. I smiled. Mr. Kim was further ahead on the path. I peeked inside the cave. To one side was a table where they were preparing food. To the other side were altars. Candles burning, dripping, flickering. Hundreds of candles. Tall, medium, short, nubs. Neatly in rows. The man gave me a last look, then went back inside the cave and started praying. The two women followed shortly thereafter.

I joined Mr. Kim. He explained, “They are shaman religion. They live in the cave. They pray to see the future.” Wow. There was a big sign outside the cave. “Oh, does this tell about them?” He let out a hearty laugh. “No. This cave is very famous. One of the very first leaders of Korea, many, many years ago, fled the Seoul area and hid here. His enemies never found him.” Cool. I offered him a piece of candy the shaman had given me.

We continued down, down, down. Close to the end of the trail we saw a temple. “Would you like to go in?” “Yes, I would. Thank you.” We crossed a small stream and approached the temple. Shoes off, we quietly entered the main hall. “Do you know how to pray in a temple?” “No, I don’t.” “I will teach you.” He showed me the proper order, hands folded together, drop to your knees, left palm down, right palm down, elbows to the floor, head bowed, palms facing upward. “You must do it at least three times. Everything three times.” As we were leaving the temple, he said, “You have prayed for many things today. Maybe something will come true.” “Maybe…” I began. “No, not maybe” and at that moment we both said, “Insha’Allah.” Our heads whipped towards each other. “Did you just say Insha’Allah?” I asked him. “Yes. Did you?” “Yes. But that is Arabic.” “Yes. Maybe your former husband was Arabic.” “No. I lived in Kuwait and Cairo.” Then he bust out with some serious Arabic phrases. Oh, oh, oh, schwaiya, schwaiya. I only remember a little. Back and forth, Arabic phrase upon phrase.

“How do you know Arabic?” I asked. It turns out before the Gulf War he had a very lucrative trading business not only with Kuwait, but with Iraq as well. He still does some business there, but not as much. He knew the neighborhood where I lived in Kuwait. We talked of hotels, of landmarks. We counted in Arabic.

When we reached the end of the path, he ventured one way, I another. “I want to feed you next week.” Sometimes translations come across in the strangest manner. “I want to feed you raw fish.” Okay. Next Monday. See you then.

I waited beside the road, trying to hail a cab. I popped another piece of candy in my mouth. It suddenly dawned on me. I was not following anything my momma taught me. Don’t take candy from people you don’t know. Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t climb the side of a mountain without someone spotting you. Okay. I added the last one. But it’s a good piece of advice. I pondered over this until I arrived home a mere 15 minutes later. It turns out Apsan is almost directly beside my neighborhood. But so much is in the journey…

Did you ever see the Truman Show? I think that was the name of the movie. Where Jim Carrey was the star of a series, but he didn’t know it. His whole world was constructed for tv. Sometimes, just sometimes, I think my life is like that.

Friday night I had been invited to go to a Korean nightclub with 3 Koreans from work. I was very excited. One of my favorite things to do in San Francisco was to go dancing – clubs, live music, anywhere. On Friday afternoon, one of the girls called me to tell me that their boss (technically my boss, too) wanted to join us. Mr. Drunk Dialer in the middle of the night. Oh. She also told me that she thought he liked me, but to be very, very careful, because he was a “wolf.” Then she had to go. I was angry. Over a month ago Mr. Drunk Dialer and I had gone to dinner. He said and did some things that upset me. I told him I didn’t want to go out with him again. And told him not to call me anymore. Especially at 1 am. And now he had heard I was going out with his employees, so he invited himself along. What to do? Not go? Miss dancing? I chose to go ahead with my original plans.

I met the two girls at 7 to catch the bus to go downtown. On the bus we were chatting animatedly back and forth, discussing this and that. Girl #1 again told me, “Be careful. Mr. Drunk Dialer is, English word? Playboy? Many women?” I seeeeeee. We had a delicious dinner with boy #1 from work and his friend from university. Noodles, mandu, soup, so good. Conversation back and forth, some English, some Korean, some Konglish. And no Mr. Drunk Dialer. Maybe he decided not to come. Boy #1 suggested we go to a bar to have a drink before going to the nightclub.

I had just settled into my seat at the bar, and I felt someone hit me on the back very hard. Mr. Drunk Dialer had arrived. Why do guys think that by physically assaulting a girl it will endear him to her? I’ve never understood this. The mood at the table immediately changed. There was still conversation, but it was stilted. Careful. Not free flowing. After a couple of drinks we decided to head over to the nightclub. Mr. Drunk Dialer announced he had to meet other people. Yeah! So the remaining 5 of us crowded into a taxi and made our way to the nightclub.

The nightclub, was, well, large. Rows and row of tables surrounded by couches, almost Las Vegas lounge style. Then a stage at the front for dancing. We chose our couches, sat down, and platters of fruit and drinks magically appeared. The music was Korean techno. Not bad. Girl #1 grabbed my hand, “Ji-Su (my Korean name), let’s dance! Yes!” So we three girls trounced up to the stage. And danced and danced and danced. Laughing because I actually recognized some of the songs and sang along. And tried to avoid the stares. Once again, I was the only non-Korean. And no one told me about the dress code for the dance club. Basically, office dress. The girls were in turtleneck sweaters, knee length matching skirts, hose and pumps. With tiny gold chains circling their necks. Very prim and proper. Many of the men were in suits. I thought I had dressed somewhat conservatively, but in my stretchy black pants and v-neck, purple velour spandex top, again, I stood out. Again. The two guys came and joined us. Smiles and laughter. Music booming, switching partners, singing along.

Then Mr. Drunk Dialer arrived. He decided to come to the club after all. He immediately cornered me against the stage. “You know, I’m really hot, I’m going to rest for a moment,” and I left to sit at our table. A few moments later a slow song came on. Everyone joined me at the table. Mr. Drunk Dialer grabbed my arm. “You will dance with me.” First of all, don’t tell me what I will or won’t do. Second of all, I don’t want to dance. “No, you will dance with me. Now.” He pulled me to the dance floor. Everyone at the table stared, but no one said anything. On the dance floor he, in a drunken slur, mumbled, “I like you so much. I fell in love with you the first time I saw you. Your smile. Your laugh. I want us to be very good friends.” Stop it. Now. This is completely inappropriate. I won’t go out with you. I can’t trust you. “You are so beautiful. It is fate that we are together.” We are *NOT* together. Stop. I left him on the dance floor and went back to the table.

The next song came on, another slow song. This time boy #1 from work said, “Would you like to dance?” Yes. Thank you. As we arrived to the dance area, he whispered, “Mr. Drunk Dialer cannot be trusted. Be very, very careful.” I feel like I’m in a Russian spy movie with everyone giving me secret messages. Back at our table, boy #1 and I were talking about sports. He was smoking. He dropped his cigarette on my hand. Ssssss . . . . My flesh was sizzling. Ow!ow!ow!ow!ow! I reached for an ice cube from a drink. He did, too. He pressed the ice cube to my hand as tears formed in the corners of my eyes. Just then girl #1 appeared in front of me and held up a handwritten note “I sorry. I must go. My mother angry.” Oh, okay. Let me get my coat. “No, no, you stay. I go.” No, really, it’s okay. The Girls Rule. Girls always leave together. We live next to each other; we can share a cab. With that I got my coat and purse, said goodbye and left.

In the cab, she almost started crying. “I so sorry. I so sorry.” What? What about? What are you talking about? “Boy #1. I so sorry. Please. He very drunk.” What are you talking about? “He, he, when talking, touched your arm.” Yes. Okay. “Please. He drunk.” What are you talking about? She covered her face with her hands. Sweetie, are you and boy #1 dating? Are you boyfriend and girlfriend? “NO. no. no. no. We friends. But what he did. Wrong.” Boy #1? Or Mr. Drunk Dialer? “Boy #1.” What did he do? She never would tell me.

Once home, I tried to process the night. What had happened? What had boy #1 done that was so out of line? I racked my brain, but couldn’t think of anything. The phone rang. I assumed it was girl #1, doing the “I’m home safely” call that girls do when they share a cab. “Lori, it’s Mr. Drunk Dialer.” Silence. “I wanted to make sure you got home okay.” I did. “ After you left boy #1 was so upset, I had to spend a lot of time calming him down.” What are you talking about? “Because he broadcast.” What? “Broadcast.” This conversation was going nowhere fast. Good bye. I hung up.

As if that weren’t enough, one of the teachers from the other school came over for dinner on Saturday night. He was describing how Mr. Drunk Dialer had taken his staff out for drinks, dinner, dancing, etc. on Thursday night. And that he got to meet his girlfriend. Girlfriend? “Yes, she’s really cool. But Mr. Drunk Dialer seems kind of sleazy.” Why do you say that? “Well, he took the guys aside and told them everything was on him for the night.” What’s sleazy about that – he sometimes does the same when he takes our staff out. “Does he offer to pay for the hotel rooms for you and Chanta?” What? “He told the guys he would pay for anything we wanted that night, cigarettes, alcohol, women, hotel rooms. Because he loves to f*ck, and wanted us to enjoy ourselves as well.”

This disgusts me. I wish it were only a movie plot.

Hell Hath No Fury Like A Woman Scorned . . .

Real time update (it’s 2 am here). Some shit is going down in my hallway. And I wish I understood Korean. Cause I am curious.

There’s obviously a woman. And she wants to get into the apartment above me really badly. It is her mission to get into that apartment tonight. For the past 15 minutes she has not only been ringing the doorbell continuously, but shaking the door and shouting phrases in Korean. The doorbells here play various nursery rhyme-esque songs. So far I’ve heard Clementine (3 times); Yankee Doodle (twice); Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star (4 times); It’s a Small World; Mary Had a Little Lamb (3 times) and various other tunes I recognize but can’t name. Our hallway lights are on self timers, so in between each ring of the doorbell the light must turn off, because she stomps across the landing, then returns to shaking the door. There’s something disturbing about hearing sweet nursery rhyme songs coupled with the violent rattling of a metal door. There’s obviously someone in the apartment, because he’s shouting something back, but he’s not opening the door. I’m not sure I would either. The joys of apartment living . . .

Lunch With Mr. Nam

After calligraphy lessons I hurried to DongA to meet Mr. Nam, my hiking buddy. He wanted to have lunch together. He, too, is a teacher at a hogwan (though he teaches math) so his days are free. This isn’t a bad life.

We went to the top of DongA to the Korean restaurant. We sat down at a table with a burner in the middle. The waitress came by, he ordered. This is an interesting thing I’ve noticed about eating here. Normally one person will order for the whole table. Sometimes that person will ask you what you want, but most of the time they won’t. Two of this. Three of that. I asked what he had ordered. He looked at me strangely and repeated what he told the waitress, “Shi-boo, shi-boo.” Yes, yes, I heard you, but what is it? “Meat. And rice. And I can’t remember the word in English.”

While we were waiting for the food to arrive, we chatted about what we had each done in the previous couple of weeks since our last hike together. His family and friends had come to town for sol-nal, I had gone to Po-hang, I had started calligraphy lessons. “Really? So-yae? You? You know Chinese?” No, but I’m learning. “Oh, I think this very, very good. For you mental condition, too.” Yes, I can always use something to help my mental condition.

The food arrived. A big pot of broth set to broil on the burner in between us. Two wooden trays of meat (maybe beef?) sliced paper-thin, rolled up like scrolls, stacked in a pyramid. Surrounded by lettuce cups filled with seasoned rice. “Like this, Rori.” He delicately picked up a scroll of meat with his chopsticks, put it in the bubbling broth, swished it around (it browned in seconds), shook the excess liquid from it, dipped it in a red sauce, placed it on a lettuce cup, then put the whole thing in his mouth. “You try.” Okay. I evaluated the various steps. Nothing new. Nothing I hadn’t done before. Just not all together. I accomplished all of the steps successfully until the very last. I had put the meat into the lettuce cup. In my right hand were my empty chopsticks. In my left had was the lettuce cup filled with rice and meat. Hmmmm . . . I needed both hands to put the lettuce cup in my mouth. Where to put my chopsticks? I tried to gently place them beside the tray of meat, avoiding the dozen or so bowls of sprouts, kimchi, spinach, etc. that had been placed on the table. Somehow, after placing them on the table, before I could get the lettuce cup to my mouth, something (maybe my elbow?) hit a chopstick, sending it catapulting into the air. No. No. Not another chopstick incident. It somersaulted through the air, I reached to grab it, missed, and sent it flying into the center burner. Under the boiling pot. To his credit, Mr. Nam didn’t look surprised at all. Or maybe that’s to my discredit. He pecked at my glowing chopstick (it was metal) with his chopsticks, pulled it out of the flame, placed it to the side, and offered me another chopstick from the box on the table. And continued the conversation as if nothing unusual had happened.

Ko-Ryo

I mentioned to Mr. Nam I had attended the concert on Sunday for the Ko-Ryo people. “Ko-Ryo? What is that?” Koreans living in Russia. “Oh, yes, yes. Good?” Yes, the dances were beautiful. But, why are there Koreans in Russia? “Oh, this is very difficult to explain.” Okay.

“Many, many years ago Japan did terrible thing. Overtake Korea. Very bad. 1910. Much fighting. You understand?” Yes. Continue. “Many Koreans fight back. Very bad. Japan won. Very bad. People who fight Japan, in trouble. Can’t stay in Korea. Understand?” Yes. “So they left. To China. To Russia. Lived there. Japan – in Korea for 36 long years. Very bad. Understand?” Yes. Go on. “So, in China, in Russia, make lives. Sometimes marry. Make neighbors. Economy in China, Russia, Korea, very bad. Yes?” Yes. “Now, economy in Korea very good. Economy in China, Russia very bad. But they stay. Maybe married. Maybe don’t know people in Korea. But hard life. So we send help.” Thank you, I understand now. Wow.

Dates, Dates, Dates. . .

After lunch he took me to the hog-wan that he owns. Mr. Nam’s Math Academy. He gave me a tour and we talked about students’ schedules (he thinks they go to too much school, too), the weather, hiking, then he pulled out a calendar so we could schedule our next hike. We decided on next Wednesday. There was a special notation on the date. Kyong Jik. What’s that? He laughed. “It’s frog day.” What? “Day when frogs no hibernate, come out, many, many frogs. Springtime.” Oh, so we will see many frogs on our hike on Wednesday? He laughed again. “No.” No? Why not? He laughed again. But didn’t answer.

Other interesting dates: March 1 – Independence Movement from Japan Day; April 5 – Plant Tree Day; May 5 – Children’s Day; May 8 – Parent’s Day; May 15 – Teacher’s Day; May 19 – Buddha’s birthday. I can’t wait until the last one. That sounds so cool. To celebrate Buddha’s birthday. We only got through May. Maybe on Wednesday we’ll finish the calendar. .

“Helloooooooo, Baby”

This has happened several times. And I still fail to see the logic in it.

As I’m walking down the street I see maybe one, maybe a group, of men on the sidewalk. Chatting, hanging, chilling.

As I get closer I hear a man clear his throat. Okay, not just clear his throat. Bring forth the most tremendous hawker/lougey/whatever you want to call it. And as I approach, spit. Right in front of me. I usually have to adjust my pace so that I am not the recipient of said projection.

But this is what kills me. As I walk by, carefully avoiding what has just been spit onto the sidewalk, he inevitably says, “Hellllllooooooooo” and the Korean equivalent of “How you doin’?”

Why do you think I want to talk to you after you just about bombarded me with your mucas and saliva? Maybe it’s a cultural thing, but I just don’t find that attractive. Go figure.

Over dinner, Tom, Chanta and I were discussing the interrelation of culture and religion. Chanta’s quote of the evening:

“Southern baptists are just crazy Catholics with a bad accent.”

This is what my friend Bryan had to say today.

“A life in which you have to choose, rather than construct, a journal entry is what I want.”

Amen.

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.