Interesting . . .

On Friday the teachers had a field trips of sorts. We had to get our Korean id cards at the Immigration office. We went in shifts. I was in the afternoon shift, along with Ted, Glen, and Rob and Brian, Tom, and Pete from the Chil-Guk campus. Government buildings all over the world have the same feeling. Sparse, no nonsense, linoleum floors, void of color. We entered and were taken to the “Visitors Lounge.” In addition to providing the standard fare (name, address, passport number, height, etc.) we also had our fingerprints taken. Tom had gone to the restroom to wash the fingerprint ink off his fingers. When he came back, he motioned for me to follow him. We went outside. He pointed to the sign designating the building. I started to read the Korean. “No – read the English.” Office of Immigration. Office of Probation. Niiiiiiccccce. Let’s put all the foreigners and criminals together.

When Ignorance Is Bliss . . .

I am very scared. Bryan not only created this blog for me as a going away present, but he also attached a funny looking symbol at the bottom of the page so I could track visitors. Statistics interest me. It’s fun to look at numbers. So today I clicked on the funny symbol. So many options. So many ways to analyze data.

I decided to see where readers were coming from. Search engine search results were listed. My blog showed up in all of these searches, usually in the top 5.

Google: elvis daegu

Google: daegu nightclub

Google: way to kill teachers and destroy school buldings and the world

Google: booking korea nightclub

Yahoo: first web sites of girl photos wearing short mini skirts and black nylons

Yahoo: thai girls in go-go boots

Google: PYUNG CHANG SOFT TOFU HOUSE

Yahoo: chil porn

Google: beer hot sauce Scrabble Rob

Yahoo: caucasian hairstyle twist lock

Spa Lori-Ga

Today in my advanced writing class we began the chapter “Determinism Vs. Free Will.” Each chapter has a theme, I teach a relevant grammatical concept, we study sample essays, then the students write their own essays. Sometimes it works, other times, well, not so much. I’m trying to explain the difference between these two theories of thought to four amazingly silent high school girls. They’re not getting it. I draw pictures, we read examples, still – no light bulbs going off. “Okay. It’s like this. You all get an allowance, right?” Yes. “Do you decide how much allowance you get?” No. Our parents decide and give it to us. “Okay. That’s determinism. You have no control over how much allowance you get. It’s just given to you.” Okay. “What do you spend your allowance on?” Movies, snacks, hair ribbons. “Okay. That’s free will. You make the decision how to spend your money.” Ahhhhhhh – we seeeeeeeeee. Probably not the most technical analogy, but, it seemed to work.

Today was a difficult day. In all of my classes the students were particuarly tense and uptight. Tomorrow is the big “end of session, 4 hour, show us everything you’ve learned” test. All of the students were antsy. “Lori Teacher, what will be on the test? Will we have to write? We have to know *everything* we’ve studied?” They’re tired. I’m tired. We’re entering the fifth week of 12-hour school days.

I’m fed up with not being able to talk to people. Every night I come home and study. I can sound out signs, but have no idea what they mean. I’m learning the Korean equivalent of “See Spot run. Run, Spot, run.” Will I ever be able to hold an intelligent conversation? I’m tired of staring at people blankly, at the grocery store, at the bank, in the gym, having no idea what they’re saying to me.

On the walk home after school, I was feeling down. And what is one of my favorite things to do when I’m feeling blue? Take a bubble bath. And I can’t even do that. By the time I reached my apartment, I was in pretty sad state. I can’t talk to anyone, I can’t take a bubble bath, I can’t eat without splashing food all over my face, poor Lori-Ga. . . Then I thought back to the writing lesson this morning. Okay. This is what I’ve been dealt. But I’m going to make the best of it.

So what is my second favorite thing to do when I’m feeling blue? Go to the spa. Well, I can almost guarantee there’s no Claremont Resort & Spa here in Daegu (just a guess). As I entered my apartment, I realized what I must do. “Welcome, ma’am, to Spa Lori-Ga! What would you like to drink while waiting for your spa treatments? Ginger tea? What a coincidence, we have that right here. Just a moment and I’ll get it for you.” I sipped my tea as I waited for the shower water to warm. I may not be able to take a bath, but thanks to the wisdom of Chanta, I know how to turn my small bathroom into a steam room. It just takes a while.

“Ma’am, please change into this luxurious white terry cloth bathrobe and pink slippers. Someone will be right with you shortly to guide you to the treatment rooms.” Sade played on the periwinkle CD player. Listening to soothing music, sipping hot tea. I’m starting to relax already. “And what treatments will you be having today?” Let’s see, I think I would like a steam shower, a face mask, a deep hair conditioning, and a pedicure. “Wonderful. Right this way please.” An hour later I emerge from the steam room, scrubbed clean, hair shining and with purple toes glittering. I cuddle in my thick, terry cloth robe. As I sip my lemon ice water, I curl up with a mindless magazine. Life isn’t so bad after all.

So Easily Amused. . .

I guess I’ve never realized how much I laugh. At everything. And how little it takes to make me laugh. Sparkly lip gloss. No, sparkly anything. Picking up all of my dumplings from the pot with chopsticks and not bisecting any of them in the process. Eating with chopsticks. Reading a sign in Korean. Korean television commercials. Saying, “Ole!” Pink lingerie. Bad English translations (You Ill Pharmacy). Sneezing. Snack food packaging (my favorite so far is strawberry frosted mushroom crackers).

Miracles in the Modern World . . .

At the beginning of the term I was assigned 10 classes. 4 in the morning, 3 in the afternoon, 3 at night. I felt I was so lucky. I loved all of the children. Except for those in one of the morning classes. Four pre-adolescent students. Three girls, one boy. And they would just sit there and stare at me. Or mumble something in Korean then snicker. The first week I spent almost all of the class time trying to figure out if they couldn’t understand me or were just being sullen. It was the latter. I felt like I was the new kid in junior high school that no one liked. I dreaded going into that class. Everyday I would give myself a little pep talk then burst into the room with a huge smile and “Hi, class! How are you today?” And basically amuse myself while teaching the lesson. Whenever they would complain about the homework, I would smile and tell them, “Oh, but this is very special homework. Only you are getting it, because you are very, very smart.” Over the past 5 weeks, the students have begun to participate more in class (though that’s not saying much), even speaking to me in the hallways. Today, as I entered the lobby, the three girls were chatting animatedly with Eun-Joo, the receptionist. As I walked over to them, they started clapping, giggling, and saying “congratulations-a, teacher!” I asked, “Why?” They giggled hysterically. And spoke rapidly in Korean. Do I really want to know? Eun-Joo smiled. I asked her to please translate. She said they told her they had voted me the best teacher because I always smile and laugh in class and that they are very sad classes end next week. I guess miracles do happen . . .

Tales From Kate School . . .

In between classes Chanta and I were hanging out with several students in the lobby of the school. They were teaching us hand games, the chanting, sing-song, clapping games popular amongst little girls in every culture. They taught us the Korean version of slap-slap “Jingle Bells,” we taught them “Say, Say, My Playmate.” One of the Mr. Kims (we call him Little Kim, because he’s the youngest) walked into the lobby. Yun Soo, a student of both of ours (whose favorite answer to any question in class is, “I’m sleepy”) giggled hysterically. She kept saying, “orun tung” and laughing. After a moment, Chanta and I realized she was saying, “orangatang” and pointing to Little Kim. Chanta and I both put on our teacher faces. Chanta said, “Yun Soo, that’s very disrespectful. You must not call adults rude names like that.” At which point Yun Soo lowered her eyes, said, “Yes, teacher. I meant, Good Orangatang.” At which point Chanta and I both had to excuse ourselves to keep from bursting out laughing. It would have ruined the teachable moment. . . .

And from the Elementary class . . .

We were reading a selection about filling out forms. Ben, the character in our book, was applying to a sports club. Our class was discussing the various entries on the form. Name, address, birthdate, sex, marital status. I wrote the words “marital, marriage, marry” on the board to explain the meanings and to show the common roots. Ben’s marital status was “single.” I asked the class, “What is Ben’s marital status?” Ki Woon (a Korean 10/American 8 year old) who had been fidgeting all throughout class, perks up, smiles, and says, “Player. He’s a player. A multi-player.” Who put him in the elementary class. . . .

When Yes Really Does Mean No . . .

In a Korean conversation, after every statement, the listener says, “yes” to indicate he or she understands, not necessarily that he or she agrees with the speaker. This can cause great confusion in English. Witness:

Teacher: Please take out your homework. (comes to student who doesn’t have any papers out) You don’t have your homework?

Student: Yes.

Teacher: Okay, where is it?

Student: No.

Teacher: You didn’t do your homework?

Student: Yes.

Teacher: You did do your homework or you didn’t do your homework?

Student: Yes. I didn’t do my homework.

And Finally, From the Teachers’ Room . . .

Chanta received an email highlighting a word contest by the Post, whereby contestants chose any word, changed it by one or two letters, and gave it a new meaning. One she especially liked was “reintarnation” – the reincarnation in the form of a hillbilly. After she read it out loud another teacher replied, “I’ve got a better one. Koreincarnation – punishment for deeds done in a previous life whereby one returns to earth as an English teacher in Korea . . .”

Weather Folklore

Why is this a subject in ESL (English as a Second Language) texts? It makes no sense. This is the exercise. “Read the following statements about the weather. Decide whether they are true or false. Discuss your answers.” Number 1. Bees stay close to their hives when it’s going to rain. Seems simple enough. Key words to explain. Bees. Hives. Near. Rain. All very easy to draw on the white board. No one had better try to take me on at Pictionary after this year. I have drawn so many pictures; my talent even astounds me at times.

Next one. More difficult. You can count the chirps on a cricket to tell the temperature. Have you ever tried to draw a cricket? They’ve not heard of Pinnochio, so the Jimminy Cricket reference is null and void. And have you ever seen a cricket up close? And how do you explain “chirp?”

Okay, let’s try the Groundhog Day phenomenon. Explaining everyone watches as a groundhog comes out of his hole and whether or not he sees his shadow will determine whether or not we have 6 more weeks of winter. Sounds pretty silly when you take a step back. And looks even sillier when an amateur artist tries to capture it in pictures (and charades). All I can say is by the end of the class, we were all laughing hysterically.

Eating Chinese In Korea (Is This the Epitome of Fusion?)

Chanta and I went out with a Korean employee of the school, Mark. He wanted to take us to a very nice Chinese restaurant. The most famous in Daegu. I haven’t had Chinese in quite a while, so I thought, sounds good. We entered. Mark had an animated exchange with the maitre’d, we were led to a private room. We asked him what had occured (e.g. why were we in a private room?). Mark had told him we wanted a private room and the maitre’d looked us up and down (we were wearing blue jeans) and asked, “Are you planning to only order one dish to share amongst the 3 of you, or will you be ordering special dishes?” Mark explained to him we would be ordering many special dishes and told him who he was. The maitre’d ushered us to a private room right away. Guess in any society it depends on who you know.

And order special dishes he did. Chanta and I told him to order for us. The task of reading Korean, translating into Chinese, then trying to figure out what we were actually getting was just too taxing. We started with the side dishes. Kimchi (of course), pickled radishes, raw onion, miso paste, pickles, a hot sesame oil. The first dish. Seemed like noodles. Cold. Some seafood included. We ate it – and liked it. Mark asked us to guess what we were eating. That no American is ever able to identify what we are eating. Chanta and I exchange glances. Do we want to know? Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss. We guess. Radish. Noodles. No, it’s a seafood. We have no idea. Jellyfish tentacles. Okay. I can handle that. They’re kind of chewy. Not much taste. But edible.

The next course. Sea ginger. Kind of spongy. Looks like big fat octopus tentacles. “Mark, what does sea ginger look like?” He starts explaining – Oh! Sea cucumber! Chanta’s comment, “I always wondered what those things were good for.” For eating. And there was a semblance of beef chunk with the sea ginger/cucumber. Both Chanta and I had just finished eating it when Mark said, “Oh, I don’t think you should eat that.” Hmmmmm. . . just a little late, Mark. “But why? What is it?” “Well, I think it’s beef, but I don’t think it’s very good.” “Oh, no, we just tried it and it tastes fine.” “I think it is that part of the beef, what is it? The tongue. Yes. The tongue.” Oh. Well, it still tastes better than the liver.

And the dishes keep coming. Next. Jumbo prawns and mushrooms. But not any mushrooms. The finest mushrooms in all of Korea. So fine that almost all of them are exported to Japan. And they were tasty. A rich, woodsy, yet so delicate taste. Each mushroom I savored for as long as possible before chewing and swallowing. The taste was so unusual, I wanted to remember it forever.

The next course. Very slippery. Oh. I have done so well up to now. I’ve been able to use chopsticks and not drop anything. Not splatter sauces or chunks of food on my face. Not propel chunks of food across the room. But this is serious slipperiness. I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying. Mark asks us, “Do you know what this is?” No idea. Please tell us. “Shark fin.” And it’s good. I’m still attempting to eat mine when the next, and the next, dishes arrive. I have a plethora of bowls and plates around me. And then the soju arrives. But of course. How did I ever think I could have a meal in Korea without soju? My hand is cramping from trying to pick up the slippery shark’s fin. I put my chopsticks down, breathe deeply, try to become one with the chopsticks. I can do this. I can do this. The key is not to grip so hard. So I try the gentle approach to eating. Still doesn’t work. I’m wondering how I’m going to finish. I’m already 3 dishes behind. Nothing like a little pressure to make you perform.

The next dish. Abalone in the shell. Delicious. But the sauce is a concoction of vegetables diced into incredibly small bits. At this point, I’m choosing my battles. I eat the chunks of abalone. And put the shell to the side to be cleared. I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Or, attempt to pick up with my chopsticks.

Finally, the last dish. Noodle soup. This is the bain of my existence here. No matter how hard I try, I cannot eat this gracefully. I pick up the noodles with my chopsticks. If I bite them, the ends drop into the soup, splattering soup all over me. If I slurp them, I splash soup over me as well. I try to watch the others. They’re not making a mess. I feel like I was the only one not allowed into the secret club. How to eat noodles without making a fool of yourself. I eat the minimum amount of noodles to be polite, drink some broth, then push the bowl aside.

Dessert. Served with toothpicks. Finally. A untensil I can use. The rice ball with honey. Mmmmmmmm. . . A slice of pineapple. Mmmmmm . . . . A slice of the famous Daegu apple. Mmmmmmmm . . . . And a cup of green tea. I finish the meal with panache.

From the Mouths of Babes (highlights from this week at school)

In one of my intermediate reading classes we were reading a selection about Howard Hughes, the rather eccentric Hollywood legend who “led an exciting life.” We talked about the meaning of the word “exciting.” I asked my students what they thought leading an exciting life would entail. One of the students responded, “Studying very hard and getting a good mark on the test.” Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore . . .

From JunHo, another intermediate student, out of the blue, “Kate School is hell.” Well, the sentence structure is correct, he got his idea across clearly . . .

And in another intermediate class we were discussing the meaning of the word “daredevil.”

Me: “What are some things a daredevil might do?”

Student: “There were these children, who had really dirty clothes, and ate dirt all of the time behind the house. Their parents went went to the hospital to drink poison, but then they didn’t eat the bark.”

Me: “Hmmmm. Okay. Next question.”

Don’t even know where to begin with that one.

The “p” and “f” sounds are interchangeable in Korean. Several students were giving each other a modified version of the middle finger, saying, “Puck you!” and giggling uncontrollably, thinking they were saying “bad” words. One of the teachers turned to me and said, “Well, I have to go f now” and headed to the restroom. I almost fell out of my chair I was laughing so hard. No one else thought it was funny.

Woobung Tower Land

I’m not making that up. There really is such a place, right here in my new home town of Daegu. It’s an amusement park. Sort of has the feel of Walt Disney Land how I imagine it was in the 1950’s. “It’s A Small World” was even playing as we entered through the gates. And you would have thought Chanta and I were Minnie and Mickey Mouse. Children would stare at us as if they had never seen anything even resembling a white person before. They would point and say, “Wegug saram!” “Foreigner!” After the, oh, twentieth time this happened, I was tempted to point back and exclaim, “Hangug e!” “Korean!” But I didn’t. No need to start an international incident. We had so much fun. Roller coasters, rides that flipped us upside down, rides that spun us around. And the lines weren’t that long. This isn’t a screaming society, though. You could tell where the white girls were on the ride.

Interesting Things I’ve Noticed. . .

**You can only buy toilet paper in packs of 24 rolls

**You can only buy banannas in pre-priced bunches of 20

**“Cereal Milks” – a bottle of milk that is sweetened so that it tastes like the end of the bowl of Sugar Smacks

**The largest bill here is 10,000 won – the equilavent of $7.80.

**Tonic water and soju come in packaging that looks remarkably similar. That could be bad. Very, very bad.

My, What Big Feet You Have . . .

Something I’ve noticed over the past few weeks – Koreans have huge feet. HUGE. In proportion to height, huge. Noticably huge. Almost approaching clown feet huge. So, I’ve been noticing this, but thinking, “Oh, yeah, I’m going to be able to buy shoes here this year . . .” So, on one of my trips downtown, I stopped into Debec – the Saks of Daegu. Whose motto, in bright neon lights in English on the side of the 16 floor building, “White Debec, White Sense.” Which makes no sense. Anyway, once inside, a whole floor of shoes. Shoes and shoes and more shoes. A whole section of boots. Over the knee boots, boots with sparkles, red boots, black boots, I was in heaven. And all the salespeople are men. Several come up to me (I’m still feeling the Lori-ga charm), “May I help-a you? American? Shoes-see? You like-ka?” I point to one pair of boots. The guy pulls the sample from the shelf. Hmmm . . . I’ve never been able to wear the floor sample before. But okay. He pulls my shoe off, and tries to cram my foot into the boot. I smile politely and try to explain my foot won’t fit. It’s too big. “Ani-o. Ani-o.” No. No. Let me just push it harder and buckle your toes and then it will fit. (my translation) I finally pull what’s left of my foot out and start to put on my shoes. Another salesman arrives with another style. It looks a little bigger, so I once again try to slip my foot in. And it’s just not going to happen. I’m wondering, is this a modern day version of Cinderella-ga? The original salesman says, “Order-a! Order-a!” No, no, no. Khamsa Hamnidda! Goodbye! I was perplexed. Did they not keep other sizes in stock? Do they put the largest size out as the sample?

While having coffee with a Korean girlfriend, Eun-Joo, I asked her about the boot incident. She said, “Oh, they probably didn’t understand you.” Duh. “They carry different sizes.” I looked at her feet. I said, “Eun-Joo, what size do you wear? It looks like we are about the same.” “Oh, I am a 25.” She reaches down to pinch my shoe, kind of like the shoe salesman does to see if your toe reaches the end of the shoe. Except she started pinching on the middle of my foot. She looked at me surprisingly. She asked, “Where are the end of your toes?” I looked at her as if that was the silliest question I’d ever heard. “At the end of my foot” and I touched the end of my shoe. “Ahhh! Nooo!” She literally squealed and then started laughing hysterically. I fail to see why this amuses her. So I ask her where her toes are in her shoes. She points to half way on her shoes. I bend down and pinch the end of her shoes. They are empty. The last, oh, 2 or 3 inches are empty. Nothing there. Korean fashion. Wear big shoes. So the shoes are made as if they are a size, oh, 6 or 7, but with a few extra inches, kind of like a toe extension. There, but useless. No wonder my size 9 1/2 foot wouldn’t fit into any of the boots they had in the store. Eun-Joo laughed again and said, “I think maybe your foot is a size 35 or 40.” Hee hee hee. Thanks.

Feelin’ the Love

Okay – when it rains it pours. And it is pouring affection for Lori-ga here in Daegu. It’s the weirdest phenomenon. The first three weeks I was here I felt invisible as I walked down the street – wasn’t even getting a second glance from anyone. Male or female. And there aren’t that many non-Koreans here. So I kind of stand out. It all started on Sunday with the Miss America comment from George’s father. He was being charming. But then, on Monday, Mr. Kim (the owner) decided to take us all out to lunch for a traditional Korean meal. As we were preparing to leave Kate School, he motioned with his hand, “Lori-ga! Chanta! With me!” So we followed him to his car. Chanta, Rob and I in the back seat. Mr. Kim and Mr. Lee in the front. We settle in and Mr. Kim says, “Lori-ga, best sing-ga!” Chanta, Rob and I look at each other – what is he saying? And in what language? After a few tries in Korean, we realize he’s saying that I’m the best singer. The other Mr. Kim had shown him the video clips from karaoke on New Year’s Eve. Chanta leans over and whispers, “Not a bad compliment for someone who’s tone deaf . . .” At the restaurant, we slip out of our shoes, enter the room, and sit on the floor at the table. Chanta, Darla, me, Ken. Mr. Kim comes in and motions for Ken and me to slide one seat to the right. Okay. We do and he comes and sits in between me and Darla. He stares at me and speaks Korean very loudly. Okay, I’m not deaf, I just can’t speak Korean that well. But he’s using “Lori-ga” a lot. I turn to Mr. Pyong. He’s laughing. And won’t translate. Why do I feel I’m the butt of a joke? Mr. Kim taps my arm. Still loudly, he says, “Nannun” (I) then pats the table where he’s sitting. “Here.” Okay. You’re here. Then he points at me, “Lori-ga!” Okay, yes, I’m here, too. Then something quickly in Korean. Over and over. I’m guessing. “This is your favorite restaurant?” “You like to eat here?” “You own this restaurant?” “This is your first time here?” Finally, exasperated, he turns to Mr. Pyong. “He says, he’s sitting there because you are so beautiful and he wants to be by the beautiful teacher.” At this point the entire table is staring. My face turns bright red. “Taedan hee, khamsa hammnida” (thank you very much). Then the plates of food come. And come. And come. Oooh, a new dish. Almost looks like country ham. But it’s beef. In a thick sauce. Small slices still on the thick round bone. I watch the Koreans to see how they’re eating it. Okay, pick it up with my chopsticks, then gnaw on it until the meat comes off, then put the bone in my bowl. I can handle this. I pick up a slice with my chopsticks. Bring it to my mouth. Start gnawing. The beef is not coming off the bone. So I tug a little harder. And my chopsticks slip. I can’t bite the meat. I bow my head and try to pull the bone with my fingers. The meat comes off the bone, quite forcefully. Splattering the sauce all over my face. And my blouse. There’s no way to graciously handle this. I pull a kleenex from my purse (don’t leave home without them) and cover my face, trying to wipe off as much as possible. I’m mortified by the amount of brown chunks on the tissue. I look down, I’ve got juice all over my chest. I’m not feeling very beautiful at all. I decide, once again, that I’m done with lunch. I just can’t handle more than one culinary disaster per meal.

Back to the lovin’ story – so that afternoon on my break I was at the gym in the locker room after my workout, preparing to go back to school. The woman who works at the front desk was sweeping the floor (I’m telling you, the floors are spotless here!). She turned to me, “Hello.” I smiled, and spoke as graciously as I could while trying to tug my pantyhose up around my hips, “Hi. How are you?” “You very beautiful.” Wow. “Thank you.” Then she continued to vacuum. Have I changed my hairstyle? What’s going on here?

After work I had to get passport photos taken for my Korean ID card. I went to the local department/everything store. In broken Korean I explained I needed 4 passport photos. The woman ushered me to sit down, then started fixing my hair. A flip here, a twist there. Pulled a few strands to the front. Then, “Very pretty. Very pretty.” This must be the epitome of a good hair day.

But wait, there’s more. Tuesday I had to go downtown to pick up my computer. In the taxi on the way back home, the driver turns to me and says, “American?” Yes. “Speak Korean.” A little. “Very beautiful.” Thank you. “American eyes most beautiful. You so pretty.” Thank you again. In my best Korean, I say to him, “I like Korean eyes.” He whips his head around, looking at me quizzically. Well, I do. Except that I later learn that I told him, “I eat Korean eyes.” Will I ever learn this language? “My card. Let’s make friends.” I am in disbelief. This is the most that I’ve been spoken to since I’ve been here. Maybe it’s something in the water.