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 . . .

We Do It Your Way . . .

While in the Seoul train station on Sunday, I decided to get some breakfast before boarding the train. That in itself is an oxymoron. Breakfast in Korea? Rice, kimchi, pork cutlet, etc. There really isn’t much differentiation between foods served at each meal. I walked into Burger King, dreaming of hash browns, biscuits, orange juice . . . And saw the lunch menu. Okay. Meal number 5. Chicken tenders and french fries. But I could get orange juice. One out of three ain’t bad . . . As I was waiting for my order, I started reading the sign on the counter. Advertising the “Chicken Sandwich Festival” in March. I didn’t realize chicken sandwiches now warrented their own month but I’ll go with it. Anything for a celebration. And here was the caption, “Take a bite of the mouse-watering, tasty Chicken Sandwich, Take a lot of benefits along with it!” I don’t know about you, but the thought of a mouse in my mouth doesn’t make anything water . . . . And I hate to think what kind of benefits I would derive from that . . .

Some Like It Raw . . .

Interesting perspective. In one of my reading classes we were reading a selection on Sonja Henie, the Olympic skater. One of the paragraphs detailed Henie’s work schedule – she worked 12 hour days, worked very hard, etc. And she was fanatical about her diet. Eating raw eggs and raw meat. While discussing the reading, one of the students said, “I think she was very lazy.” Hmmm. Okay. Maybe there is a misunderstanding about a definition of a word. Why do you think that? “She wouldn’t even cook her food. She just ate it. That’s lazy.”

PayDay!

Today was our first payday since arriving here. Payday is a good feeling in any country. Remember how I mentioned that the largest bill here is the equivalent of $7.80? Think about how that translates into 5 weeks’ worth of salary. I was feeling pretty damn rich as they handed me an envelope bursting at the seams with 10,000 won bills. One of the other teachers commented this was the first time he was truly a millionaire. I corrected him, “You are a mill-won-naire.” No one here seems to appreciate my humor.