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.

Sunday at the temples

George, one of my favorite students (okay, okay, I know I’m not supposed to have favorites, but I do), gave me a Buddhist prayer bracelet last week. It’s beautiful. Amber colored beads on a stretchy string. He told me that Buddhists use it when they pray. Each time they bow and say a prayer to Buddha, they rub one of the beads. When the entire bracelet has been rubbed, the prayers are finished. I was overcome by his thoughtfullness. He told me his father is a professor of comparative religion at the university here and invited me to go to temple with them one weekend. I said I would love to, not expecting to go anytime soon.

On Friday during class he asked me for my phone number. I was somewhat taken aback. “You know, teacher, to go to the temple. We will go this weekend to visit my uncle, who is a monk. Would you like to come?” Well, yes, I do, but is it really appropriate to give a 13 year old my phone number? What the hell. I write down my name and phone number in purple glitter ink on Hello Kitty stationery (yes, I really am in Asia), fold it, and give it to him in the hallway during the change of classes. I feel like I’m in 6th grade again. And I still tower over all the boys.

Another student grabs the paper from his hand and taunts him, “Ooo-oooo – George has got a date . . . George has got a date . . .” Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. George gets the paper back and tells me very respectfully that he will call me this weekend.

And he does. I love a guy that keeps his word. At 9 am on Sunday morning. I’m still asleep but try to shake off my morning voice. He asks if I was sleeping. “Oh,no, I’ve been up for hours.” He then says, “I tried to call you from 9 pm until midnight last night, but the phone rang and rang and rang. Where were you, teacher?” Fair enough question, but I don’t feel comfortable sharing that much with one of my students. “I was at a movie, but I’m so glad you’ve called this morning. How are you?” “I’m very well, teacher. Would you like to go to temple with us this morning? We will meet at Kate School at 10 am.” Okay. So after a quick shower and a bowl of cereal, I’m off. Except I forgot to ask what to wear. I have a feeling we’ll be on the floor at some point during the day, so I want to wear pants, but is it appropriate to wear pants to a temple? I settle on a long, black skirt instead.

I arrive at Kate School at 9:55. George is there with his mother, father, and little brother. We get into the car, the father, Yung Hay, driving, the mother, Chang Hyang, in the front seat; the brother, Pil Sang, then George, then me in the back seat. Pil Sang, the younger brother, is adorable. Absolutely precious. The fattest cheeks I’ve ever seen on a 12 year old. Except I can’t believe he’s 12. I know that Korean age is usually 2, sometimes 3, years ahead of American age, but he doesn’t even look 9. When Korean children are born, they are automatically 1. Then, if the Lunar New Year passes before their birthday, they turn 2. Then, when their “first” birthday arrives, they turn 3. It can be confusing. Pil Sang looks 5. The cutest child I’ve ever seen. And pretends to be shy. But I soon learn he’s not.

We drive an hour and a half to Yung Myung Sa temple, where George’s uncle is a monk. It is a small temple on a mountain. During the ride there, I talk with George and his father (who speaks English very well). It seems that the mother understands everything we are saying, but doesn’t speak. And Pil Sang is constantly poking George in the cheek, pulling his hair, just being annoying, but in such a cute way. And George never gets annoyed. He is so gentle with him. He rubs his hair, pokes back at him; they don’t fight the entire day we are together. At one point George turns to me and asks if I have a boyfriend. I tell him, “Still no,” and smile. He asks me this everyday in class. He then says, “But teacher, why aren’t you married?” I smile and tell him I used to be, but not anymore. “Used to be? What is this?” Oooo – bad choice of verbs. “I was married, but not anymore.” At which point his father sternly says something in Korean, George blushes and says, “Teacher, I am very sorry. That was an impolite question.”

We arrive to the temple. Fresh air. Beautiful mountains. Even though it is winter, the sun dances on the trees void of life. Yung Hay points out the buildings. The orphanage. The mess hall. The lecture hall. The offices. The house of prayer. And behind the house of prayer – ah! I gasp. An outdoor ampitheatre of Buddhas. Thousands and thousands of Buddhas. All different sizes. Arranged in a semicircle in amazing symmetry. Rows upon rows of Buddhas. Yung Hay explains there are 3000 Buddhas. This temple is dedicated to look after those people in hell. He then goes on to defend idol worship, saying it is not worship of the idol, but of the spirit of the idol. And he realized Christians do not believe in this, but . . . I explained that I found the different religions fascinating, and enjoyed learning about the customs of each, and did not think my way of worship was the best, or even the correct way. He smiled. I think he thought he might have to defend Buddhism all day.

Our attention turned back to the Buddhas, where George and Pil Sang were giggling. Pil Sang said something and the father laughed. He turned to me, “Pil Sang said that normally there are 3000 Buddhas here at Yung Myung Sa, but when he sits down among the statues there are 3001.” And it was true, he did look like a colorful laughing Buddha among the rows and rows of white statues.

The uncle had not realized the family was coming today, so he was at another temple giving a lecture. So we went to the mess hall and had lunch – rice, bowls of vegetables, soup, and, of course, kimchi. Everything was delicious. Chang Hyang was surprised I could use chopsticks. I made it through the meal without embarrassing myself. Milestone! Halfway through the meal Pil Sang snuck away, then came back. With a mischievous smile, he pulled something from behind his back. A tiny cocktail fork. He laughed and set it on my plate. It made me even more determined to use the chopsticks.

After lunch we went to the uncle’s office. We sat on the floor and Chang Hyang poured tea and prepared fruit and cookies. Wonderful, steamy, earthy green tea. And the coldest, freshest apples, tangerines, Asian pears (is it redundant to call them that here?), and persimmons. As we were drinking tea, George’s father started a story. “Many days ago, my son came home and told me he had the most beautiful English teacher. And that she wanted to visit the Buddhist temples. I have met many English teachers before, both here in Korea and in England, and have not found any of them to be attractive.” And I’m thinking, where is he going with this? “So I told my son that he could invite the beautiful English teacher to attend temple with us. And when I met you this morning, I thought, “My son was telling the truth. There really is a beautiful English teacher. I did not think this was possible.” I blushed and thanked him (in Korean). He continued, “I do not believe you were a teacher in the US. I think you are really Miss America.” I couldn’t hold back my smile. We all laughed and enjoyed some more tea. Chang Hyang commented, “And you know how to sit.” ???? Yung Hay explained, “Most westerners cannot sit on the floor. They are not comfortable with Korean ways. You have been sitting for a while, and still appear comfortable.”

Pil Sang had been working on his uncle’s computer. Yung Hay directed my attention there. “Do you see what he is writing?” Yes, I saw, but it was all in Korean, so it didn’t mean much to me. “He is writing in his diary about the trip with Teacher Lori.” And I looked again, and recognized my name in the title. Rori Teacher. When he heard his father say that, he switched the title so that they were in English letters. Then gave me a cheeky smile.

After a while, Yung Hay announced we would visit another temple. I never got to meet the Uncle Monk. George commented the uncle would be so disappointed he did not get to meet me; that he had lived in England for many years and spoke English very well. I was sad I didn’t get to meet the monk either.

We drove for awhile to the next temple, Chick Chee Sa. Maybe 45 minutes. Up another mountain. Along the highway, George would point out signs in Korean and say, “Can you read that?” I would sound out the syllables and he would laugh with delight. At on point we entered a toll plaza. He said, “Teacher, what does that say?” The words were in English and Korean, but I ignored the English and sounded out the Korean characters. “Sss… . . Saaa . . . San San!” “Yes, Teacher!” Then Pil Sang said something in Korean. I knew by his tone he had said something to the effect of, “Duh – it’s written in English. She just read that.” I turned to him and smiled and said, “No, Pil Sang, I didn’t read the English, I read the Korean.” His eyes got so wide. Everyone else in the car began laughing and exclaiming, “She understands Korean. It’s amazing.” Pil Sang smiled sheepishly and said, “Sorry, teacher.”

Chick Chee Sa was much larger than the previous temple. While walking through the grounds, Yung Hay explained the significance of the idols, the paintings, the architecture, the different houses. What a priceless experience. And what beauty. He explained he loved to come to the temple grounds and walk around, that he enjoyed the peaceful atmosphere. Me, too. Even though there were many, many people there, the atmosphere was one of the utmost peace. Children were running around, playing with Buddhas, playing in the streams that ran through the temple grounds, couples were walking arm in arm, mothers were carrying those too small or too tired to walk. Even with George and Pil Sang throwing snowballs (aka ice balls) at each other, there was a feeling of complete safety. Of calm. This is how life should be.

Chang Hyang and I strolled through the gardens arm in arm. She would point to the seemingly lifeless trees, asking if I knew what this one was, what that one was. I would draw a picture of the leaf of the tree in the sand, ask if this was the leaf of that tree, then say the name in English. She would then say the Korean name. Some of the trees were difficult to recognize; without seeing the leaves, fruit, or flower, I wasn’t sure of some names. At one point she pointed to a tree. I recognized it as a persimmon tree. We had been eating persimmon earlier; I immediately said, “Kham.” Her eyes grew wide, she exclaimed something to her husband. He translated with a large smile, “You are very smart. How did you remember the Korean word?”

After strolling up the mountain, Yung Hay announced we would go back to the city. That there might be a traffic jam, so we should get going. There wasn’t a traffic jam, but it did take a couple of hours to return to Daegu. On the return trip, George suggested we play “Scrabble.” ????? The first person would say a word, the next person would have to say a word that started with the last letter of the previous word, and so on. Rose, Early, Yellow, Wolf, Flower, Radio, Ostrich. “Ostrich? What is this?” I would act out, explain, make noises, or draw on the steamy windows to explain the unknown words. Can you imagine how many words end in “e”? And how few begin with “e”? We played for almost an hour. Explaining pronunciations, explaining definitions of words not familiar. Eggnog. Enoki. Entertainer. Eradicate.

Once back in Daegu, Yung Hay announced we will go eat traditional noodles. Oh, no. Not noodles. I have very recent memories of slapping myself in the forehead with wet noodles. And I’ve done so well today. Haven’t had any major cultural faux pas. We sit down, the waitress brings soup to the table and starts to cook it. And the endless supply of little bowls. And uncooked noodles and mandu. When the soup begins to boil, the waitress arrives and carefully puts the noodles and mandu in, along with kimchi and fresh vegetables. It simmers in front of us. And looks so good. Pil Sang waved his hand over the boiling pot, wafting the aroma closer to him. Chang Hyang whispers something in his ear. He giggles. He looks straight at me and says, “Teacher Lori, promise me you won’t leave Kate School until I am able to attend.” How can I refuse a request like that? “Of course, Pil Sang. I will wait.”

The noodles finish cooking. Chang Hyang serves everyone a bowl of noodles with vegetables, seafood, and broth. I hold my chopsticks, prepared for battle. Yung Hay tsks at me. No, no, no, that’s not the way to hold chopsticks. Oh, boy, here we go again. He shows me how to hold the chopsticks. I position the chopsticks in my right hand using my left to get them just so. I’m gripping them, prepared to face the noodles. He laughs. Relax. And a saying something to the effect of you can get more noodles with a relaxed hand than a tight one. I think something got lost in the translation. But I do relax and, to my amazement, it is easier to eat. I pick up a noodle as long as the Bay Bridge and hold it, wondering how I’m going to get it in my mouth. Yung Hay instructs me to hold my chopsticks in my right hand, my spoon in my left, and gently coil the noodle onto the spoon, then put the spoon in my mouth. I am so happy. I’m not going to make a fool out of myself. And it still takes me a long time to eat, but the food is going in my mouth, and not on my clothes, my face, the floor . . . After I finish my bowl, Chang Hyang takes it to fill it up. I tell her no, I’m full (I was). Yung Hay comments that westerners say they like Korean food, but then don’t eat much. I looked at him incredulously. I assured him I loved the food, it was delicious, but I really was full. George tugs on my arm and says, “Teacher, it is normal to eat 3 bowls of noodles for one serving. You have only eaten one.” Three bowls?!?!? First of all, if I were to eat 3 bowls, we’d be there til midnight. Secondly, I was full. I apologize, but I really can’t eat any more. Yung Hay accepts this and everyone else has another bowl. After dinner, they drive me home. “Bye, teacher, bye, teacher!” I climb the stairs to my apartment, exhausted, but a wonderful exhausted.

The trip to Osaka (or the Visa trip from hell)

To make our trip to Japan more relaxing, we decided to break the trip up – travel to Seoul on Sunday, spend the day there, then fly to Osaka Monday morning, nice and relaxed. Isn’t there some quote about even the best laid plans . . . .???? The flight to Seoul was relatively uneventful. We boarded the plane for the 35 minute flight, had the longest taxi period I’ve ever experienced (the teacher sitting next to me on the plane at one point asked if we were driving to Seoul), went up, came down, and we were in the capital city. One of the reasons we decided to spend a day in Seoul was that the head teacher, Ted, had lived there for a year and a half and told us he would show us where to go, the fun places to hang out, etc. From the airport we caught a bus to COEX, a large department store/mall area/hotel owned by Samsung. Picture this: Ted and Glenn disappear, saying they’re going to look for a hotel room, Mr. Pyong meets some business associates from Seoul, Chanta, Rob, and I are waiting for Ted and Glenn to return, so Mr. Pyong and friends take pity on us and take us to Popeye’s for dinner. Hot chocolate and fried chicken. Ted and Glenn return much later, hotel rooms secured. So then Ted goes to meet friends in Seoul (read: ditches us), Glenn takes us the most roundabout way back to the hotel – through underground tunnels, turning down alleys, crossing major roads. Chanta and I are trying to mark every landmark so that we can find our way out later that night. We get to the hotel, Chanta and I decide to share a room, we drop our overnight bags off, then decide to head out and explore. Rob wants to come with us. We head back over to COEX. As we’re leaving our hotel, I say, “Isn’t that COEX right there? Next to the really tall building?” We were 3 blocks away. Straight shot. Once there, Rob suggests going to another part of town that is supposed to be really hip and happening. It’s three subway transfers away, but he does a good job convincing us – we’re in a new city, let’s explore. What he fails to mention is that it’s the red light district. We have dinner at a yummy Thai restaurant then hit the streets. It’s Sunday night, so there isn’t a lot going on. We stop at the first bar, the Rock N Roll cafe. Second floor of the building, dark corners, bright neon signs in the window, smoky. As we enter, the female bartender says in perfect Engligh (no accent whatsoever, which is unusual), “Come in, perhaps you would like the table by the balcony?” and points to the booth in the corner, overlooking the window. Great – we head on over. As we sit down, we take in the scene around us. A couple is playing pool, a man and a woman. Man in business suit, getting his ass kicked by the woman. He appears surprised to see us and occasionally turns to Chanta and I and makes flirtatious comments in English. His partner is pulling off shots that seem physically impossible. And doing it while wearing a tight dalmatian fur tank top, tight black mini skirt with rhinestones, and stillettos that won’t stop. Many women sitting at the bar, dressed to the nines. Another American in a booth with a Korean woman, with their backs towards us. At one point it appears her head is in his lap. And there are whifs of a familiar odor that arise suddenly. Baby powder? After a drink or two Chanta turns to me and says, “We’re in a hooker bar.” Suddenly everything makes sense. Men (mostly American) were coming in, buying a woman at the bar a drink, then leaving together. The pool shark was an employee of the bar. We were the only female clients in the bar. No wonder we were getting funny looks. We turn to Rob, “We’re outta here – you can stay if you want or come with us.” He came with us.

So on to our next stop of the evening. We had heard about a reggae dance club, thought it would be fun to check out. No such luck. Couldn’t find it. So we are walking the streets, looking for fun on a Sunday evening in Seoul. This could be the start of a song. We see bright red neon signs for the “Twilight Zone.” Seems appropriate. We enter. Again, mostly females, but this time they are all blond. And not Korean. The waitress (straight out of the 80’s – Tammy Faye makeup and some serious height on the dyed hair) brings us a menu. It’s all in Russian. Yes, Russian. I decide to try the lemon soju. Even more dangerous than regular soju because it is so sweet it tastes like liquid candy. After listening to several renditions of Russian pop music, we decide it’s probably time to head back to our hotel.

Upon entering the hotel room (shoes off) Chanta and I start dancing. Literally. The floor is so hot we can barely stand it. We jump to the bed, but can’t find any room temperature controls. We get ready for bed; I’m ready first. I crawl back into bed and lay down. Ouch. The pillow resembles a puching bag. Really. That’s how hard it is. To test it out, I punch it. Thud! Chanta is in the bathroom, hears the thud, and asks what the noise was. I tell her our pillows. She comes into the bedroom, looking perplexed. She touches the pillow and exclaims, “Oh, my god. You’re telling the truth. What is in this, anyway?” Don’t know, but our heads did not move all night.

5 am – Monday morning, we get our wake up call. Which we had requested for 6 am. We decide to sleep a bit more, but know we have a flight, so we’re drifting in and out of sleep. Chanta gets up, turns the shower (hand held) on in the bathroom, comes back to bed. I ask her what she’s doing. “Just wait, you’ll see.” Smart girl. We had a true shower that morning. She let the water run until it got hot, so the bathroom got nice and steamy. So even once we turned the water off, we were still warm. What a great way to start the morning. Ahhh, it’s the simple pleasures . . .

Back to COEX – where there was an airline check-in area. Chanta and I check in, go upstairs to clear immigration. Ted and Glenn are already there. They’ve booked seats on the 8 am bus to the airport (we’re about an hour away – our flight is at 10). We go to book seats on the same bus, it’s full. All buses are full until 8:25. No worries – we’re checked in, we’ll just take that bus. Rob arrives; they won’t let him check in at COEX. Evidentally the check-in closes 2 1/2 hours before the flight; Chanta and I were the last ones to check in on our flight. Ted and Glenn leave on the bus to the airport. Rob is panicked. He doesn’t think he’ll make it to the airport in time to check in if he takes the 8:25 bus. So we get a refund for our bus tickets and get a taxi to the airport. Weaving through Seoul morning traffic, a gray, dismal day. Small snow flurries, lots of slush on the ground. And winds. Gusty, blustery winds. Each time we pass over a bridge, the winds seem to pick up.

We make it to the airport, Incheon. Chanta and I leave Rob at the check-in counter. We see a sign that says “Special – City Terminal passengers only”. It’s like magic. We pass through, avoid all the lines, clear immigration in no time. We arrive at our gate, but don’t see Ted or Glenn there. And Ted has all of our paperwork for our visas. He thought it would be better if he kept it all together. They start boarding. Still no boys. Chanta and I look at each other. Do we board the plane? Even though it’s pointless for us to go to Japan without our paperwork? As the gate crew is making the final boarding call, Ted and Glen stroll up. They had been buying cigarettes and liquor at the duty free. But still no Rob. We get on the plane, settle in. Right before take-off, Rob comes barrelling down the aisle. Whew. We’re all on the plane.

This is what I remember of Japan. Long lines at immigration. Catching a bus to travel over an hour to the Korean consulate. Photo booths to take passport photos. Dropping off our passports. Drizzly rain. Cold, but not as cold as Korea. Eating at the first place we saw – which happened to be an American restaurant with a picture menu. Macaroni and cheese with shrimp in it. Rushing back to the consulate. Getting our passports, running to the bus terminal to catch the bus back to the airport. Trying to use up all of our yen coins in the airport. Buying strawberry frosted Koala animal crackers. Comparing the different koalas with Chanta was the most fun, the least stress, of the day. The flight back to Seoul. Served spam and cheese sandwiches for dinner on the plane. Why do other countries love spam?

The Seoul airport. The third time I’ve been there in 36 hours. (Daegu to Seoul, Seoul to Osaka, Osaka to Seoul) It’s 9 pm and I’m exhausted. I’m so glad we’re being picked up by one of the Mr. Kims and being driven home. It should only take 3 hours to get home. 9:15 pm. Still no Mr. Kim. No problem, I buy a paper and start doing the crossword puzzle. 9:40. I finish the crossword, start the Jumble. Ted makes a couple of phone calls. “Mr. Kim left Daegu at 3 pm; he should be there any minute now.” At 10 pm we find each other. Evidently there has been snow and ice and the roads are bad. So we’re looking at a 7 hour trip back????? “Oh, no, I think the roads are much better now.” I think he was just saying that to get us into the van.

The trip home. The driver, well, let’s say, he was somewhat directionally challenged. Not a good trait for a driver. We had been driving for an hour, going through tolls, doing u-turns (not usually a good sign), driving, driving, driving. I look out the window and see the sign “Welcome to Incheon Airport.” We haven’t made any ground at all! We’re right back where we started from. Chanta and I noticed that everytime we went through a toll stop, the driver would ask the toll taker for directions. At this point, we are punchy. We’ve had no sleep, we just want to be home. So we do what any normal former girl scout would do. We start singing camp songs. Or, in this case, road songs. Gone awry. First we butchered sitcom theme songs: “Here’s a story, of the Kate School teachers, who were trying very hard to make it home. There were 5 of them, all together, they were on their own. Till the one day when they flew to Incheon airport, and they knew it was much more than a hunch, . . .” “Now listen very carefully, to these plans gone awry, Kate school teachers set out one day for a three hour tour . . . a three hour tour. . .” We were singing almost in whispers because the guys were trying to sleep. But after each song we would burst into a fit of giggles. After we exhausted our knowledge of sitcom theme songs (me, from first hand knowledge, Chanta, from Nick at Nite), we moved on to movie scores. “Somewhere, . . . in the country of Korea, we have a home. A very loving home, a very special home, which we’ll never see again.” After depleting our repertoire of movie scores, we moved on to popular songs, “The long and winding road . . . . leads back to the airport. The Incheon airport.” “I try to leave the airport and I cry, I try to leave Seoul and I crumble, can’t you stop for a map? Oh, please do this for me. . . ” Did I also mention, that in addition to being directionally challenged, the driver was tired (he had been driving for almost 10 hours at this point) and his head would occasionally bob, bob, bob, then jerk awake. And the roads were indeed icy. And there were gusty winds. And big semis that would rush past us and almost blow us off the road. In short, we all thought we were going to die.

We arrived to the city limits of Daegu right before 4 am. At which point the driver stopped. He said his leg was tired and he wasn’t driving anymore. What???? We were still almost an hour away from our houses. So Mr. Kim flagged taxis (I can’t imagine why there were any out at that time of the morning) and we continued the journey. I finally got home, got into bed, and was falling asleep close to 4:30/5 am. Knowing I had to be bright and cheery for my students at 9. Ohhhhhhhhh . . . .

Dining 101

I think my memories of my year here will be punctuated by embarrassing eating experiences. It seems like almost everyday there’s a new one to add to my repertoire. In between our afternoon and evening teaching sessions, Chanta and I decided to try a local restaurant, Insang Tuna. From the outside it appeared to be a sushi bar; we were in the mood for some good sashimi and miso soup. Little did we know . . .

We entered the restaurant and were the only patrons. We asked if they were open, “Yes, Yes, sit down.” We took two seats at the bar. The manager (?) and chef greeted us as well. They brought the menu. Oh, no. Most menus here are picture menus. Literally. They have photographs of what is offered and the prices. So it’s very easy to look, make a decision, and point. Insang Tuna had a traditional menu. Words and prices. All in Korean. So Chanta and I started sounding out the letters, trying to see if we would recognize any of the words. We must have looked like a couple of kindergarteners. “Ssss – oooo – no, that’s the letter for aaaa – oh, look there’s the symbol for ng. Okay, so if we put it together, saaang – gu. No, no, oh, this says sushi. Duh.” On to the next line. We finally just picked the first two items on the menu, thinking we had ordered sushi and sashimi. All tuna. As the name suggested. We forgot that everytime we’ve been to a restaurant here we not only get what we’ve ordered, but tons of extras. So first they brought a green salad with a yummy sesame dressing. Then a salad with shredded root of some type and raw tuna and a spicy sweet sauce. Then bowls of miso. Then a sizzling bowl of rice that the waitress mixed lots of other things into. Then a seaweed soup. Then tempura. And sizzling mushrooms on a hot plate. Chanta and I just looked at each other – how were we going to eat all this? And then the sashimi and sushi. And small pieces of seaweed to make individual rolls, as well as bowls of additional ingredients – ginger, onions, and other things we didn’t recognize. Everytime they would bring something to us, they would smile, nod, and bow. We would do the same back. When they brought the actual sushi and sashimi, the manager stood there until we tried it, I guess to make sure we liked it. Chanta picked up a piece of sashimi (rice with tuna over the top) with her chopsticks and dipped it in her soy sauce. The manager about had a fit. “Ani-o, ani-o . . .” then a lot of words in Korean. We stared at each other. Then it dawned on me. A friend had told me that it was considered rude to dip your rice in the soy sauce, that you’re supposed to turn the sashimi over and only let the fish touch the soy sauce. I explained this to Chanta. She just looked at me like, “You have got to be kidding.” No, I’m not. Try it. She tried it, but then the fish fell off the rice, landed completely in the soy sauce, splattering it everywhere. The manager had another fit. And told Chanta just to use her fingers. Okay. So then he turned to me. And showed me how to put a piece of the raw fish on the small seaweed pieces, add an onion or ginger, wrap it, then dip it in another sauce. Okay, simple enough. My turn. I picked up the seaweed with my left hand, picked up a piece of tuna with my chopsticks, was bringing it to the seaweed, and – splash! It slipped from my chopsticks and landed in the seaweed soup. At this point I think the manager was glad no one else was in the restaurant. The positive aspect of all of this? Chanta and I learned a new phrase, “Mi an hamnida.” I’m sorry. And the waitress gave us her phone number, because she said she wants foreign friends. And, the next day when we passed the restaurant, the manager was outside and he said hello and smiled. So I guess he wasn’t that upset with us.

Getting Sick in a Foreign Country

As if I don’t have enough problems just figuring out how to eat here, I recently had the added experience of trying to figure out how to get medicine. After New Year’s I came down with a nasty, nasty cold and cough. The cough continued to get worse, so on Wednesday evening I went to the pharmacist. Smiles, hello, how are you? Then the charades begin. 1st word. Me. 2nd word. Sick. So I start coughing. Pantomiming runny nose, sneezing, more coughing. Oh, yes, yes, he nods. He disappears and returns with a sheet of capsules (they look normal enough) and a row of foil packets. Okay – haven’t seen anything like that before, but, I’ll work with you on this one. He tears off two of the capsules and one of the foil packets. And pantomimes to take them together. Got it. Two capsules, one foil packet, take until all medicine is used, I’ll be better. I pay him, thank him, and leave. I get home, pour some orange juice, take the capsules and open the foil packet. Oh, my goodness. There are about 20 tiny pellets – like little bbs – in the packet. And they kind of smell funky. Am I supposed to swallow these? All at one time? A few at a time? Or make a tea? Hmmmmm . . . So I decide to swallow them all at once. Then drink a lot of hot water. Just in case they were supposed to be a tea. Then I realize I don’t know how often to take the medicine. He only gave me 5 doses, so one a day for five days? Morning and evening? Morning, afternoon, and evening? The next day I take everything to school with me. I show Eun-Ju the medicine and ask her how often I should take it. Morning, afternoon and evening. So he only gave me enough for two days? Yes. Okay. Maybe it’s a miracle drug and will work quickly. I then ask her about the foil packets, if it’s ok to swallow them. She laughed. Of course. I asked her what they were. She laughed again and said she did not know the word. And, surprisingly, by the end of the day, I was feeling better. My cough is not entirely gone, but has diminished incredibly.

Random Observations

I don’t know what it is about whenever I’m in a foreign country, but I’m obsessed with keeping my apartment clean. Really. I sweep my floor every morning, always wash my dishes (all 4 of them) right away, put away my clothes as soon as I take them off. Why doesn’t this behavior translate to life in the US?

Another observation. They love hair color here. Everyone. Grandmothers, babies (yes, babies), children, teenagers. Both men and women. And it is cheap. The stripe look is definitely in. Not just blond stripes. Hot pink, electric blue, shades of green. One of my students has the finest, most precise hot magenta streaks in her hair. I want them to make that part of the Kate School uniform.

Okay – I’m about to fly to Seoul for the day. Tomorrow we head to Osaka to get our work visas. Supposedly then everything will fall into place. I can get a phone, I can open a bank account – we’ll see . . . .