“Who Got In A Fight This Time?”

Those were Chanta’s exact words as she entered the teacher’s room on Saturday evening to a table laden with fresh coffee, breads and pastries from the local bakery. Also on the table was a stack of tickets to a Korean traditional dance festival on Sunday afternoon. She picked them up, examined them, and said, “Wow – must have been a doozy.” She glanced at me, gave me a quizzical look, I nodded, then she smiled. Let’s just say this particular incident involved a female teacher being called by one of the staff members very late at night after many bottles of soju had been consumed. I’m telling you, that stuff is evil.

Sunday Afternoon Outing

I decided to take advantage of the tickets. I had planned to meet a teacher from another school, Mike, on Sunday for lunch. I let him know I had the tickets. He was psyched. After lunch we headed to “City Place Hall” where the event was being held. When we got out of the taxi we were surprised at the throngs of people standing outside. No lines, just people standing. Looking like they were going to go in, but not making any motion to. We wandered past them, into the hall. “Annong ha-seyo,” we were greeted by lines of women in the traditional Korean dress, han-bouk. Each bowed as we passed by them. I showed one woman our tickets and she propelled me down the aisle. Literally. I was at least a foot taller than her, probably a good 50 pounds heavier, and she put her tiny hand in the small of my back and pushed me down the aisle to the section of seats at the front of the auditorium. Mike followed a few footsteps beyond.

She sat us down in two seats – great seats. Center section, aisle seats, a few rows back from the stage. Mike and I exchanged surprised glances. Wow. Royal treatment. We looked around, checking out the other people already there. A lot of old people. Already sleeping in their seats. Some families with small children. A few university aged students. And not another single non-Korean. Mike and I were talking about our respective schools when all of a sudden we were blinded by an intense light. We looked up. The local television crew was less than a foot away from us, filming us. Right in our faces. Mike turned his head, but I looked straight into the camera and smiled. If I’m going to be on Korean tv, I want to look good. But then they stayed. For several minutes. We tried to resume our conversation, but it feels somewhat awkward when there’s a lens right in your face. When the house lights dimmed, the cameramen went to another location.

The Speeches . . .

It’s very interesting how the mind works. How you try to make sense of your environment. Relate a new experience to something familiar to aid understanding. The emcees introduced a man. Everyone clapped. He came to the stage. And made a speech. Mind you, we couldn’t understand anything. No, I take that back. Of his 7 or 8 minute speech I understood the words “people,” “hello,” “thank you.” He sat down. Another man was introduced. He gave a speech. Then sat down. A third man was introduced. He gave a speech. Even though we couldn’t understand the words, we could understand the third man was a better speaker. He had presence. And he spoke longer. Mike whispered to me, “I think maybe these are political candidates. This is the first time ever that Korea will hold primaries. Maybe they’re contenders.” After the third man was well into his speech, Mike leaned over again, “This guy has got presence. He’s either the forerunner in the race, or the “Ross Perot” character.” After about 15 minutes, he ended his speech. As he was walking back to his seat, the emcee made a comment. Obviously a joke. Mike and I both looked at each other and said, “Ross Perot.”

The Movie

The curtains parted to reveal a huge movie screen. The film rolled. Images of peasants. Hungry. With holes in their shoes. Sadness. Children with rickets. Shanties. Fields with nothing but weeds. Mike and I gave each other questioning looks. Was this a propaganda film supporting the reunification of the two Koreas? But look, that woman is wearing a babushka. They don’t look like they are wearing Korean clothes. What is this?

Then The Dance . . .

The stage went dark. The low beat of a drum. A spotlight focused dimly on the back of a figure, high upon a stage, clothed in all white beating a drum that was easily 8 feet tall. The addition of two more drummers on either side of the main drummer. The deep, strong beating of the drums reverberated throughout the auditorium. For several minutes this went on, faster, faster, faster, stronger, stronger, stronger, until it seemed the drummers would explode with frenzy. Then . . . Silence. The drummers turned around to face the audience. I gasped. They were the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.

Click, click, click, click, click. The lights came on fully. A line of eleven slender, graceful women entered clicking rhythm sticks above their heads. They were wearing kimono-esque robes of brilliant pink and blue, secured by bright yellow sashes. They clicked their sticks in front of them, to the side, above their heads, all the while smiling demurely. With tiny steps they made their way to hanging drums just beneath the stage on which the 3 beautiful women drummers were. In unison, they turned around, faced the audience, and smiled.

The three drummers began another beat. The eleven maidens began to beat their hanging drums. Each woman had 3 drumheads in a triangular shape directly in front of her, a drumhead to the right, a drumhead to the left. It was almost as though each was “boxed in” to her drum set. The beat was incredible. To the left, to the right, spin around. One, two, three, to the side, the other side. The choreography was dizzying. Even more amazing, they made it seem so effortless.

Then the entire line turned and faced the left. In a split second, they had dropped to their knees and whipped backwards. Each woman was bending backwards, playing the drum above and behind her head. Then the drum in front of her. Back and forth, back and forth. Slowly they arose, drumming the entire time. The beat grew more frenetic, louder, louder, louder – Silence. The line of women slowly turned to the audience, smiled sweet smiles, and with tiny, graceful steps exited the stage. It was as though they had done nothing more strenuous than pour a cup of tea.

Ribbons . . .

The stage went dark. From behind us, we heard drums. I spun around. Coming down the aisle were 5 men. In white with black tunics, again secured by yellow, and red, sashes. All were wearing hats. The first man’s hat had a huge white feather on it. He led the processional march. Behind him followed two men beating drums, two shaking tambourines. The four followers had hats with long, white ribbons trailing. They spun their heads every so slightly as they marched to make the ribbons twirl around and around, side to side. Up on stage they pranced. Around in a circle, ribbons twirling the entire time. The leader began soaring through the air. Flipping over and over, almost horizontal with the ground – in and out of the twirling ribbons. More twirlers entered from stage right and stage left. The circle became larger. One of the twirlers had a particularly long ribbon. In an instant, he was standing on another twirler’s shoulders, making his ribbon twirl in circles to the ground. Other dancers hopped in and out, in and out. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped. The stage went dark and they disappeared.

The Flute . . .

I think. It sounded like a flute. But looked fatter. Wider. With more holes. In a different pattern. But the sound it made. Oh. The first song he played evoked feelings of spring’s arrival. I could picture the trees blossoming. The birds flittering from branch to branch. The sun gently thawing the icy stream, causing the water to flow freely once again.

But the second song. The sadness. The pain. Of lost love. Of a lost country. Several older women around me hummed the words. When it ended there was a moment of silence, of reflection, before the applause began.

Marching Band?

The curtain parted to expose a full-on marching band, read and blue uniforms with gold trim, feathered hats and all. Probably 150 students. Clarinets, flutes, drums, horns, even a triangle. Yes, a triangle. And he was proud to play that triangle. He held it high above his head and rang it as though it were the most noble of all instruments. First, a Sousa-esque piece. The students stood up, sat down, stood up, stepped side to side. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a marching band per se, but a moving band. It brought visions of a Swiss cuckoo clock to mind as they played and stepped. One additional instrument that gave the band a truly Korean flavor, a huge gong. He started each piece. No matter what the tempo, the gong introduced the selection. It was a nice touch.

Next, five boys in white and black entered. One with a miniature gong, three with drums, one with a tin plate-ish type of hand-held instrument. They sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the first row of flutists. They began the next piece. Definitely Korean. The beat, however, was more intricate, more complex, than any classical piece I’ve ever heard performed. The band joined in. I counted at least 4 different simultaneous rhythms. It was difficult, though. Each beat blended in with the other almost seamlessly. On and on. The boys in front were leading the score. Harder, harder, harder they played, their heads bobbing and jerking with each beat. This went on and on. Until again – all at once – silence. From my seat, I could see the five boys breathing heavily, heaving to pull air into their exhausted lungs.

The Gospel Choir?

Five men and seven women filed onto stage. The men in austere black suits. The women in floor length black taffeta skirts and fitted black velvet jackets over high-collared ruffly white blouses. They began a song. It had a cheerful beat. But there was something about it. Something familiar. It hit me. I turned to Mike and whispered, “I think this is a church choir.” Yeah, he said, it is dripping with God-ness. The singers had the same moves, the same serene expressions, that you see on Sunday morning television evangelical programs. They held one arm high in the air as they sang. It reminded me of Jim Baker’s “Be heeeeeaaaaaal-ed!” stance.

The Fan Dance

Twelve women in black and pink han-bouk tittered out, led by one woman in a shocking turquoise and pink han-bouk. All had gold crowns upon their heads; they looked like china dolls. They lined up on the stage with their backs towards us. The music started and whoooooooosssssshhhhhhh – around they turned, splaying hot pink feathered fans above them. They reminded me of a snake; they moved so seamlessly, with such oneness. Wrapped into a circle, unwinding, fans out, fans down, fans flittering. All the while moving so gracefully and with such serene smiles. The line parted, half went to one side of the stage, half to the other, and then . . .

The Traditional Korean Wedding Procession

The clothing was exquisite. Layers and layers of silk and organza. Tiny golden embroidered flowers. Patterns of infinite intricacy. The most intense colors – blood red, sapphire blue, marigold yellow, shocking pink, seaweed green. The women’s hair teased and piled up, adorned with sparkly hairpieces and jewels. The women’s hands and arms hidden beneath scrolls of embroidered sleeves. The procession glided across the stage. I could not tell where one step ended and the next began. In pairs, they proceeded across the stage, moving with the presence of royalty. Slowly, and with purpose. The fan dancers surrounded them, though on bended knee. Flittering their fans as the procession made its way across the stage. When the bride and groom reached center stage, their pairs of attendants to either side, the music stopped. The beauty was so striking. The men so handsome. The women so elegant. Again, a moment of silence before the applause began.

And Then . . .

It was over. No. I want to see more. I don’t want to go.

A woman in han-bouk appeared beside us. “You enjoyed?” Oh, yes, very much. Thank you. Excuse me. What was this for? What does “ko-ryo” mean? (there were many banners with this word on it) “It is a benefit for our Korean brothers and sisters living in Russia. They have a very hard life.” Wow. So the introductory film was not for Korean reunification, but to describe the plight of Koreans living in Russia. I will never cease to be amazed while I live here.

Interesting Notes . . .

Another excellent use for the heated floors here – every night before bed I place my pajamas on the floor for about 10 minutes. When I put them on – warmth . . . ahhhh. . .

Garlic will mold.

On my two month anniversary here (2/19/2002) I finished my first bag of rice. 2 kg. It will be interesting to see if my consumption increases or decreases over the next 10 months.

I now crave rice and kimchi for breakfast.

I have made peace with my shower. My sink is the perfect height to prop my legs on while I’m shaving.

Where does dust come from? Everyday I sweep my floor, everyday I discard a dustpan full of dust. My windows stay closed. It’s a mystery.

I don’t think I ever cut my fingers while cooking before I moved to Korea. Now, I average one serious cut every two weeks. Don’t know why.

I Am Now A Legend . . .

On the playgrounds of Korea. Okay, of one playground in Korea. In a small neighborhood on the other side of town. But, still.

The teachers at the other campus play basketball every Tuesday and Friday morning. A couple of the guys invited me out to play. Oh, how I miss pick up games. I grew up in North Carolina. Basketball is a religion. I graduated from UNC-Chapel Hill. It’s a graduation requirement to know all the players, their stats, and the school’s NCAA record (not really, but it might as well be). But it’s been a while. Maybe a year? since I last played. But I was itching to get back on the courts. What was the worst that could happen? I could embarass myself (again). I’d live.

So I took the hour and 20 minute bus ride to the other side of town. Reading a book, trying to recognize anything familiar out the window. I finally saw the DongA department store (yes, my life now revolves around a department store as a major landmark . . . how sad is that?) and jumped off the bus. There were Darla, Peter and Tom waiting for me. As we came over the hill and started our descent to the park, we noticed there were many children on the court. Tom commented no one had ever been on the courts before. Ohhhh, it’s a middle school break today and next week. Well, we could just use one end of the court, no problem.

As we arrived, we received many stares. Four big white people. Peter is 6’6″, Tom is 5’10”, I’m 5’8″ and Darla came in at 5’6″. We started shooting hoops. Just warming up, messing around. Nothing serious. Four middle school guys (probably grade 9 or 10) were checking us out. We motioned to them – wanna play? Yeahhhhhh. We decided to mix things up. We shot for teams. Team 1 – Peter and 3 Koreans. Team 2 – Me, Darla, Tom and one Korean boy. Handshakes all around. Okay, let’s go!

It was a surprisingly good game. Lots of action. Just enough fouls to keep it interesting. And the teams were matched pretty evenly.

At one point, the other team had the ball. Up for a basket. No good. Rebound. Up for another basket. Miss. This time Tom got the rebound. Clap, clap! I’m open. Right as he passed me the ball, my guy was all over me. Dribble, dribble, dribble, my back to the basket. By this time, I’m not so close to the basket. Three point range, easily. No one to pass to. Moment of truth. I bend down, spin around, jump, and the ball leaves my hands. Arcs through the air. Closer, closer, closer to the basket – whoooooooooosssssshhhhhhhh. Nothing but net.

There were several young boys (maybe 5 or 6 years old) watching us play. “Ooooooooooooo – Miguk!” The American. The girl.

Tom high-fived me with the comment, “Must be something in the water. You definitely have earned the right to wear that North Carolina shirt . . .” Life is good.

The Year of Superlatives

I feel my life is one of extremes. I’m usually so incredibly happy, finding humor (sometimes inappropriately) in everyday life. And when I’m down, which isn’t as often, but does happen, I’m miserable. Today, however, I think I experienced my most mortifyingly embarrassing moment. Or one of them, at least.

I caught the bus to MuJu at 6 am. Slept the 2 1/2 hours there. Managed not only to buy my lift ticket, but also to rent equipment by myself. And tell them my shoe size in Korean. They didn’t believe me at first, but then I pointed to my shoes. Ooooh. Yes, tall American girl with big feet.

There weren’t many people on the slopes. I love that. I love having the mountain to myself. I love being able to zig zag across the mountain, not worrying about whether I’m going to crash into someone if they make an unexpected move. I’m also much more daring when other people aren’t around. I went to the slopes I wouldn’t go down with Peter and Han Youl. And took them on. With surprisingly few wipeouts.

There’s an interesting habit of snowboarders here. Instead of wearing their snowboard on the lift, they carry it, then run off the lift, sit down, and put their board on. I was having unusual success at getting off the lift with my board on (that’s where I normally fall), but I thought I’d “go Korean.” Just to give it a try. I was on a lift by myself. As I approached the dismount, I lifted the safety bar. As I got closer to the dismount, I put my feet down. I’m not sure what happened next. Only that I had tripped, the chair had hit me in the back of the head, and I was face down on the ice. My snowboard had gotten caught in between the seat and the back of the chair part of the chairlift. I reached up to grab it. It was stuck. Stuck. Not moving, stuck. So I was drug in the path of the chairlift, trying to dislodge my snowboard. I realized that I was on my way back down the mountain. I turned loose of my snowboard as the chair rounded the turn. I dropped to the ground. My snowboard was on the way back down the mountain.

I stood up. Brushed the snow off my pants and jacket and looked over at the lift operator. He was staring in disbelief. Speechless. I don’t think he’s ever seen quite a site. I walked over, smiled a big smile, shrugged my shoulders and said, “Mian hamnida.” I’m sorry. He continued to stare at me. He then radioed down to the lower lift. And pointed for me to sit inside the ski patrol hut. Inside there were two ski patrol members. One gave me a big smile as I came in. The other just stared. I flashed them both a huge smile, said hello and introduced myself in Korean. They wanted to know where I was from. And if I had ever snowboarded before. Yes, actually I’m quite good. Really. I’ve just never gotten off the lift like that before. One ski patrol member offered this advice, “Lift. Board on. Good. (motioned holding board) Korean way. Bad. Dangerous. No do.” Yeah, got it.

MuJu – Round 2

I’m off to MuJu Ski Resort tomorrow. To snowboard. By myself. I keep thinking to myself, “I think I can, I think I can . . .”

I had planned to go with Han Youl. My snowboarding angel from before. But he misunderstood me. He thought I was going on Saturday, not on Thursday. So he’s in Seoul right now. We talked on the phone today. He’s very worried. He doesn’t think I’ll be able to rent my equipment or buy a lift ticket by myself. Stay tuned . . .

First Things First . . .

Chanta and I had another session with Chairman Kim. He, trying to teach us Korean, us, trying to teach him English. He was explaining which system of numbers to use for counting. We were counting items in the room. One table. Two pens. Three people. Four chairs. He then pulled out money from his pocket. First, the bills. 1,000 won. 10,000 won. Then the coins. He would place various combinations on the table. Chanta was busting out with some serious figures! As soon as he would put the coins on the table, she said the number. I was still trying to count in English, then convert to Korean. I finally asked her how she knew the answer so quickly. “You always learn the words for what is most important to you. For me, that’s money.” Hmmmmm. Almost my entire vocabulary consists of food items . . .

Job-sayo!

That’s what Koreans say when they answer the phone. A few weeks ago, when I went to Seoul for the evening, I met a Korean man at a dance club. He introduced himself by coming up to me, taking my gin and tonic out of my hand, and replacing it with a beer. Our language abilities (his English, my Korean) were probably about equal. We had a fun night dancing. Our conversation, however, was somewhat limited. This is what I learned. I’m American, he’s Korean. He lives in Seoul, I live in Daegu. He’s 36, I’m 33. That’s about it. But, at the end of the night, he asked for my phone number. I kept telling him I live in Daegu (3 hours from Seoul). But he wanted my phone number anyway. So I wrote it down on a book of matches. How cliche, right?

So today, as I’m returning home from the gym, the phone rings. I hurry to take off my shoes and rush to answer the phone (no answering machine). Hello? Hello? “Jobsayo . . .” Oh, jobsayo . . . “[very fast Korean phrase] Lori?” Lori immnida. . . This is Lori. I recognized his voice. And thought to myself, “This is going to be interesting.” I give him credit, though. He was very patient. He repeated his phrases many times. The only one I understood was “Where are you?” At home. In Daegu. To everything else, I responded in Korean, “I don’t know” or “I don’t understand.” Yet, at the end of the conversation, he said, “Call again?” Sure. Yes. Though I thought to myself, “Only, I hope you wait a month or two so maybe I’ll have a chance of understanding anything that you say to me. . . .”

Calligraphy Lessons . . .

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

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

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

The Bathroom Mystery

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

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

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

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

The Irony of the Menu . . .

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

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