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.

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.