Exploring Bogyeongsa

We decided to catch a bus to Bogyeongsa, described in our guidebook as a “gateway to a beautiful valley boasting 12 splendid waterfalls, gorges spanned by bridges, hermitages, stupas, and the temple itself.” It’s got everything. It’s the Wal-Mart of temples.

At the bus station we asked for tickets to Bogyeongsa. The ticket vendor pointed to the right. “Way-out! Way-out!” It’s a strange feeling when you follow someone’s directions, having no idea where you’re going or what you’re doing. There was an older building next to the bus terminal. Another bus terminal. The waiting area was large, maybe 50 feet by 50 feet, with a few old benches surrounding a broken kerosene heater. The room appeared larger because of the few number of people present. There was a small convenience shop off to the left, carrying snacks and emergency supplies. To the right was the tiny bus terminal office. We entered and asked about tickets to Bogyeongsa. Because it was a holiday, there was a limited bus schedule. Next bus, 1:00. Oh. We have an hour and a half. Hmmmmm. . . Chanta was hungry again (I’ve nicknamed her Ms. Pac Man because she is constantly eating) so we set out to find something to eat. We walked along the road, to no avail. Everything was closed. The streets were silent. We went back to the main bus terminal – surely there would be something to eat there. And there was. Another little mom and pop diner style restaurant. As we walked in, we saw someone eating soup. Mmmmmmm. The hajima (older women) asked us what we wanted. Soup. No. No soup here. But. . . but . . . we saw someone eating soup. No. No soup for you. ?????? We’re determined to have soup. So we walk over to the table where the man is eating and point at his bowl. The hajima says another word. Okay, okay, sit down.

The udong arrives. Very good. Very hot. Just what we needed to warm us up. We head back over to the old bus terminal. A few older people are sitting on the benches. I walk to the window, scanning the buses to see if one has a sign for Bogyeongsa. Even though the man told us the bus didn’t leave until 1, I’m wary. What if that’s not really what he meant? What if he meant there is only 1 bus to the temple today? What if he meant they leave 1 an hour? There are so many interpretations when you don’t know all the words. Chanta goes into the convenience store. One of the bus drivers approaches me. “Where are you going?” Before I can answer, all the old people, in unison, say, “Bogyeongsa.” How do they know where I’m going? The driver nods and motions to stay where I am.

At 12:50 I see a bus pull up that says Bogyeongsa in the window. I call Chanta and we walk outside. We start to get on the bus. The driver tells us, no, no, no and points to his watch. Not until 1:00. As we’re standing there, a Korean man walks up to us. “You go to Bogyoengsa? Me, too. We will go together.” On the bus Chanta and I sit in the very first seats so that we can see out the front windows. Our new friend, Jong Kuk, sits behind us. Chanta is talking animatedly about everything, what’s been going on at school, her family back in the States, what she plans to do now that our hours aren’t so long . . . At a stop, the bus driver turns around, commands, “Silent!” and makes a motion with his hands “talk, talk, talk, talk” and points to us. I was somewhat taken aback. Other people on the bus were talking. Not as loud as us, but they were talking. Then I realize he probably was asking us to be quieter, not to stop talking completely. Chanta is enraged. She gets defiant. “No one can tell me what to do. I wish I knew more Korean so I could give him a piece of my mind.” I point out that I think he’s asking us to be a little quieter. That it must be grating for him to hear two people talking in a language he doesn’t understand which probably sounds harsh to him. And he’s trying to drive. She’s not happy about it, but agrees to speak in whispers for the rest of the trip.

We arrive to Bogyeongsa. It’s a short walk through a tiny town then we reach the entrance to the park. First we walk around the temple grounds. The architecture is amazing. There are many similarities between temples, yet many slight differences as well. Every temple has a “guard house” where four figures stand, stomping on evil, protecting the temple. The four figures are the same at each temple, yet each artist depicts them differently. At Bogyeongsa the four figures appeared almost Balinese, with brightly colored, intricately patterned, swirling beards. And bulging eyes. And somewhat scary looking. We continue through the temple grounds. The buildings are amazing. Chanta and I ponder if the buildings were painted before being put together or after. The designs are so intricate, but how could they paint them after the buildings were constructed? And how are the colors still so amazingly bright?

We decide to hike the trails of the waterfalls and bridge-spanned gorges. Jong Kuk comes with us. I’m a fast hiker. Chanta is a slow hiker. But we have an understanding. We each go at our own pace and we’ll meet each other at the end. There’s no pressure to stay together. Jong Kuk had other ideas. He first stayed very close to Chanta. She wanted to have nothing to do with him. He was asking her questions, trying to make conversation. He asked her about Korean athletes in the US. Chanta’s response, “I don’t like sports. She does (pointing to me). Go talk to her.” Thanks, Chanta. So he caught up with me. We talked some, but mostly hiked in silence, enjoying the beautiful views. The waterfalls became increasingly bigger. One of the dichotomies of nature fascinates me – frozen water sources that still flow beneath the surface. Chunks of ice formed upon the surface of the stream, with fish or leaves slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, moving much deeper down. The sound of the water trickling, then bursting forth. The contrast of frozen ice and free falling water. For hours we hiked.

We finally came to the end of the trail. And were met by a magnificant waterfall, probably two or three hundred feet high. We ooohed and aahed, took some pictures, then turned around to hike back to the temple. Chanta bolted ahead. She had expressed to me that she didn’t get a good feeling from Jong Kuk. Jong Kuk and I walked along, marvelling at the beauty before us. Suddenly, he let out an exclamation of surprise upon meeting an old friend upon the trail. He introduced us, then we kept walking. They chatted in Korean. Amazingly, I picked up that upon meeting Chanta and me, Jong Kuk had called the friend, the friend took a taxi to the park, had hiked the trail looking for us, and they wanted to take us to dinner. Hmmmm. . . . Back at the temple, Chanta and I reunited. We walked the narrow street to the bus stop, the two Koreans following behind us, but not speaking. They immediately suggested we take a taxi back to town. “No, thanks, we’ll wait for the bus. It shouldn’t be long. You can take a taxi, though.” They waited with us. The bus arrived, with the same driver who “silenced!” us from the morning. We headed to the back of the bus. Chanta immediately fell asleep. I read for a few minutes, then joined her in a slumber. We woke up with a start about 45 minutes later. The bus was packed and we were met with stares from all around us. We wiped the sleep from our eyes and sat up straight, trying to figure out where we were. Jong Kuk and his friend still sat behind us. As soon as we woke up, they nudged us and said, “Come on – get off here.” We looked around. This wasn’t the bus terminal. No, no. We’re fine. Bye. But they didn’t get off.

A few stops later we arrived at the bus terminal. We got off the bus. They followed us. “We will introduce you to the beach.” No, that’s okay. We’re going back to our yogwan to take a nap. It was nice meeting you. Bye! “No, we will come with you to your yogwan.” No. You won’t. It was nice meeting you. Good-bye. With that, Chanta and I hailed a taxi and headed back to our beloved yogwan. In the taxi she went off. She claimed her “creep-o-meter” went off as soon as Jong Kuk introduced himself. That it’s not normal for people just to latch on to you and follow you around. All I could think was, “Chanta, maybe not in your world, but in mine, this happens all the time.”

We had a quick dinner then returned to our yogwan. Hot showers and a hot bed. Life could not be any better. We watched a Korean fashion show on tv (very interesting), read our books, practiced our Korean, then fell into a deep, deep slumber with the crashing of the waves echoing outside our window . . .

The Trip to Pohang

When I told my students where I was going for the Lunar New Year, I was met by blank stares, then the question, “Why? Do you know someone there?” Well, no, but I saw it on the map, and it looks like a nice beach community, and I miss the water . . .

Chanta and I were scheduled to take the 10:50 am train to Pohang on Monday morning. We figured we should leave our apartment about 9:30 am to allow for traffic to get to the train station. And, we weren’t sure if the train was like the airline, where you have to check in early (it isn’t). I called Chanta at 8:00 to make sure she was up. She mumbled something into the phone about getting up right away. When I knocked on her door at 9:30, she answered by saying, “I just need to put pants on and I’ll be ready to go, really.” The wake up call obviously didn’t work. We caught a cab with no problem and made it to the train station in half an hour. Which was a good thing. Because then we had time to eat before getting on the train. Hmmmm. . . . The Lotteria (which for the longest time we thought was a place to buy lotterty tickets but is actually a Korean fast food restaurant) or the no name, lots of Koreans eating there, looks like no one speaks English establishment. No question. We both head towards the latter.

I love a place that only offers 2 choices. Specialization is good. They can’t mess it up. Pre-packaged kimbop or udong. Choice 1: the Korean version of sushi rolls. Seaweed and rice rolled around a long piece of scrambled egg, spam (they love the stuff here), pickled vegetables, carrots. Choice 2: a piping hot bowl of broth with fat noodles, a raw egg, seaweed, tofu, bean sprouts. No question. Choice 2 it is. For both of us. We get our metal chopsticks and spoons and go to two empty seats. I’m getting better with the chopsticks and noodles. Even Chanta notices. Still haven’t mastered how not to splatter myself or the area around me, but haven’t slapped myself in the face with a wet noodle in quite awhile. Success comes in small steps.

We watch the person beside us as he finishes. Where does he take his tray? Does he separate the bowl and the utensils? These are things you think you know intuitively — until you move to a country where you don’t speak the language. We follow behind him. And do exactly as he does.

We enter the train station. It defines the word “bustling.” There were people everywhere. Sitting, standing, scurrying to catch their train. We walk around. We still have about 20 minutes before our train is scheduled to depart. We look at the bookstand. The books are all in Korean. We peruse the snack shop. The food is all labeled in Korean. We watch the tv. The shows are all in Korean. Basically, we can’t understand anything. I look up and notice the sign is flashing indicating our train is boarding. How did time pass that quickly? Chanta, come on! We give our tickets to the ticket taker, he points us to track number 2. We run down the steps and look for our car. We are in between two train tracks. There is a train on only one of them. We assume it must be ours. The conductor looks at our tickets. Shakes his head. “You, way out!” and points. Are we on the wrong track? I could have sworn he pointed this way. Chanta, hurry! It’s already 10:46! We run back up the stairs. The ticket taker stops us and asks for our tickets. We show him. He points back down the stairs from which we just came. What’s going on here? We run back down the stairs. The conductor walks over to us. Points to the other track (where there is no train) and says, “Excuse me.” We figure out that he had pointed us to the wrong track unknowingly. And was apologizing. Our train had not yet arrived. So we were in the right place. Although the phrase, “You, way out!” became one of our favorites for the holiday.

In Pohang

We exited the train. Mmmmmmmmm – smell the salt air. I love the beach. Even if it is freezing outside. We found a taxi driver. Or rather, he found us. An older man, who spoke English fairly well. In the cab, he asked us where we were from. San Francisco and Chicago, but we live in Daegu. “Oh, Daegu? English teacher?” Yes. “Married?” No. Are you? “Of course. But want to get married again. To foreign woman. That is my final dream.” hahahahahahaha. “That is a joke.” Oh, I seeee. . . .

We had asked him to take us to Bukbu Beach. And he did. Literally. Stopped on the side of the road, pointed, and said, “Beach.” Okay. We got out, amazed at how our spirits had lifted. There’s something about standing next to the ocean. Hearing the crash of the waves. Watching the horizon stretch on forever. We immediately set out to find a yogwan. Korean hotel. Aka Love Motel. To be rented by the hour, or by the night. We were opting for choice 2. We saw a sign for a yogwan on the outside of a building. We went in and went to the elevator. Where did it go? We looked at all the signs for businesses, and didn’t see “yogwan” anywhere. Okay, next building. We saw another sign for a yogwan. Okay, let’s check this one out. We walk into the lobby and it’s still under construction. Wires hanging everywhere. Dust an inch thick on the floor. Maybe not. We go another block. Look. It’s the MiSeaGull hotel. Okay – a hotel will be more expensive than a yogwan, but whatever. Let’s try that. “Yes, we have rooms. Please register.” Chanta fills out the paperwork then we head up to the 6th floor to our room. It’s decent. Your basic motel room. But it has wall to wall carpeting. Yuk. No heated floor. Oh well. Chanta is exhausted and wants to take a nap. I want to dig my feet in the sand. So I leave her napping in the room as I venture to explore.

The Beach at Bukbu

I walk along the beach. The longest beach on the eastern shore of Korea. 1.7 kilometers. Less than a mile. Beautiful nonetheless. A few fathers are out with their small children, flying kites along the beach. It’s amazing how entertaining kites can be. It’s really nothing more than a piece of plastic, or paper, on a long string. That the wind may lift, or plummet, to the ground. But children and adults alike are fascinated by them. I watch the happy people running, laughing, trying to keep their kites airborne.

A little farther down the beach a couple of dozen go-cart/dune buggy type vehicles are racing around. Spinning in the sand. Teenagers screaming, holding onto each other tightly. Down the beach, spin around, back. Around and around. I continue walking, off the official “beach” area to where the fisherman dock their boats. No one is at sea today. All the boats are ashore. I read the boats’ names in Korean, wondering who they are named after – a mother, a girlfriend, a mentor? Are there plays on words just like in English? That I’m not able to comprehend yet? I step over an endless web of fishing nets, spread over the sand to dry. I reach the point and turn around. But I’m not ready to return to the hotel room. I walk back along the beach, then turn inwards. I think I remember the way back towards town.

I walk and walk and walk. Meandering up and down streets and alleys. Almost everything is closed. New Year’s Day in Korea is a time to spend with family. A time to visit the eldest male and bow in respect to your ancestors. Even though the streets are deserted, there is a calm in the air. I happen upon a coffee house that is open. I stumble inside to warm myself before trying to find my hotel. I’ve walked for a couple of hours now. I order coffee with milk (my latest Korean phrase) and start writing in my journal. The coffee arrives. It’s the closest thing to a cafe au lait I’ve had in months. The coffee is perfect. And infused with steamed milk. It’s so good I order another.

I return to the hotel; Chanta is just awaking. We decide to venture downtown to seek out some dinner. We tell the taxi driver to take us to “Ogeori” – 5 Road Junction. And sure enough, there are people walking around, street vendors peddling their wares, shop signs lighting the night. We wander, wander, wander, in and out of alleys, looking for something to eat that is not fast food, Korean or otherwise. I giggle and point – “Look, it’s the Louis Vuitton restaurant.” They knock off everything here.

New Year’s Eve Dinner – A Second Time

We decide to try it. The menu is in Korean. Of course. But we don’t recognize any of the dishes. Or ingredients. So I try my new phrase of the day, “What do you recommend today?” The waitress points to the drink menu (headed by the title “Live Bear” – I’m assuming it was a misprint, but even so, what is live beer?). No, no, no, we want entrees. Yes, she explains, but her recommendation will be based upon what we are drinking. Okay. Soju. Lemon soju. She points to a dish. Sure. Then motions that it’s very spicy. Chanta is the queen of spice. She loves anything hot. So we order that. I ask what she recommends for me. Oh, no. It’s enough for two. Oh. I’m not a huge fan of the spicy, spicy, spciy; my nose runs enough on its own. But okay. She disappears and soon reappears with a tray laden with small dishes. She places the soju and shot glasses in front of us. The begins to arrange the appetizers. Kimchi (of course), a bowl of corn, a bowl of steamed mussels, something that looks like egg and spam?, a bowl of puffy styrofoam circle things, and a bowl of bugs. Yes, bugs. Grilled. Okay, not bugs exactly. Grubs. Beetle larvae. Chanta and I look at each other. “Are we supposed to eat these?” Chanta mentions something about it being a delicacy. Or something. Okay. I’ll try anything once. Chanta eats one. Comments that she doesn’t like the smell and pushes them closer to me. I pick one up with my chopsticks, turn it over, observe it, then pop it into my mouth. Chew it. Not too keen on the texture. Somewhat mealy. But crunchy on the outside. I swallow it. I don’t like it. I tell Chanta. I try to explain why I don’t like it and all that will come out of my mouth is, “I just don’t like it.” After saying that about 4 times, Chanta says, “Let me guess, you’re not too fond of it, are you?” We both start giggling.

Our main course arrives. A big pot of something boiling. We uncover the pot. It’s a soup. With lots of chicken on the bone. And vegetables. I ladle out bowls for both of us. I take one bite and realize it’s the spiciest food I’ve had since I’ve been here. Chanta is in heaven. I’m already reaching for my Kleenex. We finish the dinner and decide to walk around downtown for a while. All throughout dinner we had studied our waitress’ hairstyle. It’s quite common here. I’ve dubbed it the Korean Princess hairstyle. It involves either long bangs at the front, slicked to the side or pinned back with a sparkly barrette (of course), a teased poof on top of your head (sort of beehive-ish), then then rest of your hair swept up into a poof on the crown of your head, secured with a big ribbon or sparkly hair piece. I want my hair to do that. Chanta assures me we will make it work.

All That Sparkles . . .

We wander into a store called “The Fancy Store.” It is a girl’s dream. The front section is all hair accessories. And most of them with sparkles. Or Hello Kitty. I love living in Asia. Then a wall of jewelry. Equally sparkly. A corner of makeup. A wall of stationery. A wall of cell phone accessories. Aisles and aisles of candies (it is almost Valentine’s Day). We spend at least an hour mesmorized by stuff. Pure stuff. Nothing you need, but so much you want. We tried on purple glittery eye shadow. We bought face masks to do in our hotel room later that night. We were seized by fits of laughter over bad English translations on stationery (“I love you more than a mammy’s worm bosom . . .”). I purchased a notebook with my new signature phrase on it “Butterfly, Flowers, Clouds . . . . . And Me. What a Wonderful World . . . .” We only left because they were closing the store.

Back At MiSeaGull . . .

We entered the lobby and the desk clerk stopped us. “Excuse me, excuse me. I, English student. One question?” Of course. He pulled out a serious, heavy duty English grammar study book. There was a passage about television and the decline of standardized test scores. Then there were several multiple choice questions. He didn’t understand the difference between the phrases “affected” and “responsible for.” We explained the best we could, then went to our room. As soon as we entered, Chanta said, “I don’t want to stay here after tomorrow. Let’s find a yogwan to stay in.” Now? Yes. But it’s almost midnight. And it’s cold outside. Oh, okay.

We trekked outside. We saw a sign for a yogwan. We entered the building and went down one, two floors of stairs. The hallway got narrower and narrower. I turned to Chanta and said, “Do you feel like we’re in a horror movie?” Her comment, “I don’t like this, let’s get out of here.” Okay, but here’s a sign, wait. I sound out the sign in Korean (but don’t know what it means), then we turn and sprint up the stairs. As we’re sprinting, she turns to me and said, “I’m really glad you took the time to read that sign.” Smartass.

We tried another yogwan. But the desk clerk was asleep and we didn’t want to wake her.

We saw a sign for another yogwan. We sounded out the name – wha ka keeeee. Oh, the Waikaiki yogwan. Let’s check that out. We go to the 7th floor and ask how much the rooms are. Half the price of what we’re paying at MiSeaGull. The owner speaks English very well. He lives half the year in Vancouver, half the year in Pohang. He told us he had a special room, just for us. He took us up to it. A beautiful room overlooking the beach. One whole wall is rounded, and is all windows. He explains Koreans don’t like this room, because they think they will fall out. But Americans love it. And it had heated floors. We tell him we’ll be back in the morning to check in. He introduces us to his sister, who runs the yogwan when he’s not there.

As we’re leaving the building, a young Korean man says hello to us in English. We smile and say hello back. He mumbles something, we think in English, we think he’s drunk, and it includes the words “may I introduce you . . . slur, slur, slur” We laugh and say “sure” and keep walking. You would have thought he won the lottery. He screamed at the top of his lungs, “Oh, my god!” and then a bunch of Korean phrases. We’re not sure what we just agreed to, so we took off running.

Back at our hotel Chanta is transforming me into a Korean Princess. She’s slicked my hair back, teased the top, and is twisting and pulling like there’s no tomorrow. The phone rings. We look at each other in surprise. No one knows we’re here. She answers it cautiously. It’s the desk clerk. He wants to know if he can come up to our room to ask us another question about his English studies. Sure, come on up.

He arrives with a gift of a tangerine. From Jejudo island. Famous for their tangerines. He’s still confused about “affected” versus “is responsible for.” Chanta and I try to explain again. Because of the grammar of the question, the answer (fill in the blank) had to be “is responsible for.” Chanta argued that the meaning was the same otherwise. But I said, no, there was a slight difference. The desk clerk smiled and thanked us then left. Chanta and I got ready for bed, continuing to discuss the meaning of the two words. For an hour we bantered back and forth about the meaning, finally coming to the conclusion that variable a can only “affect” variable b if variable b is already in existence, whereas if variable a “is responsible for” variable b, it can cause it to exist. Oh, the folly of English teachers. . . .

Happy Sol-lal!

It’s the Lunar New Year – I’m off to Pohang, a beach community on the East coast – will post more stories in a few days . . .

Mount Palkong

Mr. Nam called me on Saturday morning. “We will still go to Mt. Palkong tomorrow, yes?” Yes, of course. I’ll meet you in front of DongA at 10:30. Bye! Bye!

Sunday morning I was in front of Dong A, trying to read street signs in Korean. Sounding out letters, putting together syllables, trying to piece together words. Mr. Nam appeared. “Hello, how are you?” Fine, thank you, and you? “Very well.” Let’s go.

We drove about 45 minutes to the outskirts of Daegu to Palgongsan Park. As we got out of the car, I noticed it was snowing. It had been beautiful and sunny at my apartment. Oh. I hate to be cold. Well, I thought, maybe as I start hiking I’ll warm up. We started up the mountain. For as tiny as he is, Mr. Nam can move. He was jetting up the mountain. Springing from rock to rock. I’m not one to be outdone. Or to ask someone to make accomodations for me. So I sprung as well. And tried not to breathe too heavily as I was doing it. About a fourth of the way up the mountain, Mr. Nam asked me if I would like to stop and take a rest. “No, no, no. Let’s keep going.” He said, “I think you have very healthy legs. And lungs. I think you are very strong.” Okay – so at least I was keeping up good appearances.

The park was beautiful. Even in the dead of winter. Pine trees for as far as the eye could see. And not the tall, straight pine trees I’m accustomed to. Beautiful, twisting, knotty pine trees. My eyes followed the wide, grooved trunk up and counted as the trunk split into one, two, three, four, five new trees. Which then branched out into a canopy of green needles and small, prickly pine cones. It was the closest thing to a giant bonsai I’ve ever seen. But there wasn’t just one. But thousands. And babbling brooks. With icicles where there once were flowing waterfalls. The thing that struck me the most was that everything appeared to be natural. Even though this was a national park, it didn’t appear that a trail had been forged by officials, but worn naturally by the thousands of people who had trekked it over the years. It wasn’t an easy trail, either. Lots of steep, stone inclines. Winding around trees. Jumping on stones over streams. But there were so many people hiking. Young children, maybe 3 or 4 years old. Teenagers, families, elderly people. But not another non-Korean. I’ve almost gotten used to the stares. Almost, but not quite. Most of the time I meet the stare with a big smile and a greeting in Korean. Other times I simply shift my eyes to the ground and pretend not to notice.

It took us about 2 1/2 hours to reach the peak. The final ascent was marked by 99 stairs. As we started up them, Mr. Nam told me to count. I did. At the top he asked me how many stairs I counted. I told him only 98. “I think you missed one.” Fortunately he didn’t make me start over from the bottom. The summit was so crowded. All the pilgrims enjoying the view. Some partaking of a picnic of hot ramen and kimbop (Korean sushi rolls). Others yodeling. Sort of. Not the Swiss Alpine, Sound of Music variety of yodeling. The Korean version. What sounded almost like “Yahoo!” but more like “Ya-hoe!” To me it sounded like the refrain of a bad rap song.

Mr. Nam and I found a remote overlook and he pointed out all the other mountains surrounding Daegu. So beautiful. And so cold. We started back down after a couple of minutes of reflection at the summit. We had gotten partway down when he said, “Follow me over this fence.” The man loves to leave the trail. We crunched through virgin snow, our boots sinking deeper and deeper. After a few minutes, he said, “Here.” The perfect picnic rock. Just the right height to sit on. And large and level. We sharedbean sprout soup his wife had made, kimbop, and tangelos. By the end of the short lunch my hands were numb. I tried blowing on them, sitting on them, folding them under my arms. Nothing would warm them. Mr. Nam noticed what I was doing. “Are you alright?” Yes, just a little cold. “You are very pink. Are you sure you are okay?” Yes. I turn this color when I get cold. “Really?” Yes, really.

Once we reached the car, Mr. Nam immediately left me. He said he wanted instant coffee and would be right back. A few minutes later, he returned empty-handed. Or so I thought. When he arrived to the car, he pulled two cans of coffee from his pockets. Steaming hot, sweet, milky coffee in a can. In a can. What will they think of next? And it was good.

As we started driving, his phone rang. It was his daughter, Yae Hwang. “Why have you been gone so long? I want to see Rori Teacher.” Upon our arrival back to Daegu, we swung by his apartment and picked her up. The epitome of little girl. Soft, fluffy, pink furry jacket with two pompoms for ties. Perky black pigtails. A never-ending, high-pitched giggle. We exhausted our conversational ability in about two minutes, between her limited knowledge of English and mine of Korean. Fortunately Mr. Nam was an enthusiastic translator. We ate dinner together at the Japanese restaurant atop DongA. After dinner we strolled through the pet section of the department store. Yae Hwang wants a pet so badly. So badly. But she has asthma. We oohed and aahed over the bunny rabbits, the turtles, the sleeping hamsters. Yae Hwang commented the hamsters were always sleeping when she came to visit. I pointed to her nose and started to say, “Sleepy-heads – just like you!” and at the exact same moment she pointed to me and squealed, “Sleepy-head!” We both giggled uncontrollably.

As much as I enjoy teaching, I didn’t want to leave the Nams to teach class. It had been such a good Sunday; I didn’t want it to end.

Dictation

In one of the advanced classes I was giving dictation. The passage was about exercise and why it is good for you. One of the words was “cardiovascular.” One of the students looked at me and said, “Card – E – Ovask- Killer? Killer? I thought exercise was supposed to be good for you.”

The Eyes Have It

Anyone who knows me knows I’m very sensitive about my eyes. After being all but blind for 25 years, I had lasik eye surgery performed in October. One of the best things I’ve ever done. I can see when I wake up in the morning. I can see when I play sports. It’s amazing. One thing that I had before the surgery, and continue to have, are “floaters” in my eyes. Small, black scribbly lines. That float around. You can usually see them more clearly when you close your eyes. And then they float away. Only now, my floaters take on the appearance of letters in the Korean alphabet . . .

And The Legs . . .

After class on Saturday night Tom, Chanta and I went out to dinner. At a nice Italian restaurant that played jazz. So relaxing. Over a bottle of wine we were debriefing from the week. I was lamenting the fact that the high school students are in regular school from 8 am – 9 pm, then go to hogwans (or private academies) from 10 – midnight or 1 am every night. Six days a week. They are driven to think school, school, school. The students are required to keep “journals” or “diaries” each day. We check them on Saturday, return them on Sunday. I was commenting on how the students whose diaries I check only write about how much homework they have and how hard school is. I feel sorry for them. The don’t know what a prom is. They don’t have footballl games. They don’t date.

Tom cut me short. Don’t you worry – they think about other things as well. “Really? How do you know?” Well, every student whose diary I collected wrote about you. “About me? What do you mean?” Well, they each started off my saying that you are the tallest woman they have ever seen. Then they continued their description by saying they can’t believe how long your legs are . . . They’re thinking about other things than just school, Lori. Don’t worry about it.

I’m starting to wonder if my ability to be so easily entertained is a good thing, or a reason to be committed to an institution. After tonight, I’m thinking perhaps the latter . . .

My method of learning Korean is quite eccletic. I’ve learned the alphabet, so I’m constantly reading signs. Or the lines that go across the bottom of the tv screen. Especially at the gym. The news is great for practicing. The anchor will be reporting the story and lines will flash across the bottom of the page. People’s names, quotes, locations, etc. As I’m pounding the treadmill I’ll sound out the syllables. Tttt . . . a . . no, ay . . .k . .no, ggg . . oooo. Oh, Daegu! Only once have I concentrated so hard on reading that I slipped and spun off the treadmill into the wall. I tried to avoid the stares of the Koreans in the gym, smiled, and resumed my run. The thing that hurt the most was my pride.

I eavesdrop. All the time. And mimic. If I’m standing at a street corner waiting for the light to change I listen to the people’s conversations around me. And repeat whatever they say. Even if I don’t know what it means. I do the same with the radio and the tv. I try to do it quietly, but sometimes it comes out louder than I mean for it to. Then I get the strange looks.

At home I listen to language tapes. Most of the tapes are the “listen and repeat after me” variety. But I have one set of tapes that includes dialogues. The dialogue (both speakers) is read once, then I take the part of one of the speakers. So basically I’m speaking to my tape player. After studying for several hours today, I noticed this behavior carried over into English. I was cooking dinner (a quite delicious concoction) and before I knew it, I was having a conversation with myself. And my other self. Mimicing the stale style of the language tapes.

A: These mushrooms look delicious.

B: Yes, they do. Would you like me to slice them?

A: Yes, thank you.

B: Where is the knife? Oh, here it is. I found it.

A: Be careful! That knife is sharp!

B: Yes, it is. It is an evil knife.

A: We must get rid of the evil knife . . .

I’ve got to get out more . . .

Drive By Bread Drop Off

I’m pretty happy with my work conditions here. The students seem fairly well adjusted, happy, and serious. No more than 5 pupils per class. And now I’m only working from 4:00 until 9:30 pm on Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, and 8:00 pm until 10:30 pm on Sunday. So I’ve got the majority of my days free. Not a bad schedule. My only complaint, which is not really a complaint, just a tinge of sadness, is that since I don’t teach on Mondays and Thursdays I don’t see some of my students from last session. Namely, George. The class he was in was so wonderful. George, Sandy, and Ellen. They all wanted to be called by their “American” names. They were all around great kids. It was the highlight of my day to teach them.

As I was walking home, through the narrow, winding streets with no names, I heard a voice call out, “Lori!” I was quite startled. Almost no one here calls me by my name. If I’m teaching, the students call me “teacher.” If I’m walking down the street I’m called “miguk” (American) or “wegug saram” (foreigner). I turned around, but didn’t see anyone. A large black car pulled up beside me. The back window rolled down. I was having flashes of being abducted and I haven’t learned the word for “help!” yet. (Note to self . . .) From the window comes a shopping bag. Should I run? What’s going on here? If the person had not called my name I would have been sure I was being confused for someone else (a drug dealer, perhaps?). The bag is shaken at me animatedly. “Take it, teacher, take it.” Okay, calm down, first of all, whoever is holding the bag is speaking to me in English. Secondly, he’s calling me teacher. It must be a student. But which one? Just then the front window rolled down. I saw the cheeky smile of Pil Sang. “Hello, Rori Teacher.” I took the bag. George, what is this? “Bread, teacher. American bread. The kind you like.” I laughed and thanked him and they drove off. I don’t know how they knew I would be on the street, or if it was a random coincidence. Sometimes I truly wonder if my life is real . . .

Bank, Baby, Bank . . .

I successfully conducted a transaction in Korean today. At the bank. Okay – it didn’t take *that* much vocabulary, but I was feeling pretty pumped when I left. I entered the bank, took a number, sat down (they have benches everywhere here) and waited my turn. These number systems are pretty popular – they are at the bank, the post office, anywhere a line might form. You take a ticket and watch the digital display over each teller/window. When one transaction is done, a new number pops up. But the numbers change so fast. You have to be ready to bolt up to the counter or you miss your turn. It’s quite anxiety producing. But then again, almost everything is anxiety producing here . . .

So I was sitting on the bench, anxiously watching the numbers change, 156, 157, 158, 159 – I was next. My eyes scanned nervously from display to display – which one would change next? I scooted to the edge of the bench, ready to bolt as soon as I saw 160. 160! There it was. I jumped up and scurried the 5 feet to the counter. She already had changed the number to 161. “Ani-o, ani-o, chom . . .” No, no, please . . . She smiled. Okay, good. I didn’t miss my turn. I placed my 5 inch stack of bills (really) on the tray and placed my pink bank book on top of the bills. I love a bank that issues pink bank books. And my ATM card has a picture of the World Cup Stadium on it. How cool is that? But I digress. . . So I place my items on the tray, smile and say, “EunYoungKoojwa-so.” Which roughly translates to “bank account – in.” Not polished. Not eloquent. But, it got the job done. She understood. Took the money, entered the deposit in my bank book, and handed it back to me. “Khamsa Hamnida! AnnongHiKaySeyo!” Thank you and good bye! With that, I spun victoriously and headed out the door.

Ramen . . . Nothing But Ramen

I never realized how good ramen was. Or how many varieties there were. I don’t think I had ever had ramen before coming to Korea. Seriously. A few weeks ago when I was not feeling so great Chanta made me a bowl. That’s some good stuff. So I decided to buy some to make at home. I walked into DongA, looking for the soup section. “Ramen odi?” Where is the ramen? The sales clerk pointed me in the right direction. A whole freaking wall full of so many different varieties of ramen. I was amazed. Hundreds and hundreds of different types of ramen. I spent over an hour trying to read all the packages. Looking at the pictures, trying to figure out the differences between them. I finally just chose 10 packages – all different. My favorite so far has been the blue crab ramen. What will they think of next . . .