How We Rang in the New Year

     Our last day in Malaysia was New Years' Eve. It had been a life-changing vacation, and we weren't done yet.

     We all know how important it is to arrive at the airport several hours early for your flight, especially for an international flight from an unknown airport. Melly and I sure knew this, and we arrived at the Kuala Lumpur International Airport with two and a half hours to spare. We were relaxed and confident.

     We changed our clothes to prepare for the Korean cold, took out our contacts, and got ready. We mulled along at a leisurely pace, since we clearly had so much time to spare. 

     Then I noticed that our flight wasn't on the board.

     Hm, maybe it's down that escalator in the international terminal, I thought. Made sense. We walked toward the stairs, and handed our itinerary to the guard at the top. He furrowed his brow, and mumbled disconcertedly to a co-worker. He looked at us and, in halting English, said, "This is wrong place. This flight…different airport."

     Gasp.

     As it turns out, Kuala Lumpur has TWO airports, the Kuala Lumpur International Airport, and the LCCT, which stands for Low Cost Carrier Terminal. I suppose I was just ignorant and foolish to assume my international flight departed from the International Airport, instead of some unintelligible acronym. My printed itinerary made no mention of this detail.

     We had really wasted some time getting to this point, remember. Trying to control the panic that was rising up in my voice, I asked, "Okay, what do we do?"

     "Well," he said, "there is a bus that goes to the other terminal. You had better hurry. I do not think you will make it."

     Melly growled, "Fine, where is the bus???"

     He pointed us to the bus stop. We paced around for several agonizing minutes, waiting for it show up. Finally, it showed up at 11:50 PM. We scrambled on. The bus departed at 11:55 PM, a scant 35 minutes before our flight was set to depart. We weren't sure at the time, but the bus ride would take twenty-five minutes.

     Pulsing drums and a haunting flute pounded out an exotic car-chase tune through the bus speakers as we rolled along the empty freeway toward the LCCT. All we could do was sit and breathe.

     On the road, I watched the clock on my phone, and when the time was right, I announced to the other passengers, "5…4…3…2…1…Happy New Year."

     No one acknowledged me. I sighed. The car-chase music thumped on.

When the bus pulled up to the terminal, Melly and I had our packs on our backs, and dashed out like madmen when the doors slid open. We bounded madly through the terminal, which was showing all the telltale signs of being closed. As we passed, an employee called to us, "Where are you going?"

     "AirAsia!!!"

     "That way!!!"

     We spun round a corner and saw the counter. Our flight would leave in ten minutes. Boarding should be closed by now. The velvet ropes that make up the little line-maze were pulled to a close. I ran and jumped over them (not easy, with my giant pack on my back). Melly ran and…well, tried to jump over them. Her feet caught the ropes and down she went, giant backpack and all. The metal posts toppled like dominoes. I had no time to be chivalrous. I raced up to the counter, Melly hastily putting the posts back up behind me.

     I said as calmly as I could, "Hello we're very late we accidentally went to the International Airport please can we get to our flight????"

     The man stared at me, as if to say "…really?" He typed quickly on his computer, and then shook his head and said, "I'm sorry…you're too late."

     We slumped in defeat. What would this mean? Hundreds of dollars lost? Would we make it back to work on time? Where would we sleep tonight? Good lord we were exhausted!

     "All right," I sighed, "all right, what can we do?"

     The man typed. He didn't say anything for a moment. The knot in my stomach clenched.

     "Wait," he said, "wait!" 

     We held our breath.

     "You're very lucky," he said. My eyes widened. The man, focused as a laser, said to us, "When I hand you this ticket, you are going to have to run as fast as you can. Gate 11."

     "Yes, sir! Yes, that's fine! Thank you!!!"

     We waited like sprinters for the opening gunshot of a race. The man typed furiously. The boarding passes slid out of the printer.

     "Here you are," he said," now GO!"

     And we were off. Bounding through the halls of the empty terminal. We madly tossed our bags through the security check and picked them up without hardly missing a step, we ran down corridors and through halls, past gate after gate of empty seats, heaving breaths, sweat pouring off our faces in the hot Malaysian air.

     The line of passengers was still slowly filing through the door at gate 11. Apparently, boarding had been delayed by a few short minutes. We jogged up to the line, panting and heaving and sweating like animals. It was 12:28 AM.

     We had made it. It was a New Year's Eve we would never forget.

How I Proposed: The Great Malaysian Engagement Vacation

     Melly and I had been dating for 4 years exactly when we moved to Korea. I knew that she was everything I could ever hope to find in a woman, and that I was madly in love with her, and that if I were ever going to hop on the wedding bandwagon, it would sure be silly not to propose during our year-long adventure in Asia. But the process still intimidated the hell out of me.

     During our year's work at the hagwon, we got two weeks of vacation time: one in the summer, and one in the winter. We initially had hoped to travel to the Philippines during our winter vacation, but those plans were thwarted time and time again by various circumstances (airline website nonsense, mostly) so we had no idea what to do or where to go. That's when we saw an inexpensive ticket bound for Kuala Lumpur.

     Kuala Lumpur is one of those cities that I had always classified as so impossibly remote, distant, and exotic that I could never in a million years reach it or understand it. I didn't even know what country it was in (Malaysia, it turned out). And then suddenly I had a plane ticket booked there. Crazy.

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, as viewed from the Menara Tower.

     I had a couple of months to figure the proposal out, and even then I only got everything together by the skin of my teeth. 

     First, and most importantly, the ring:

     I'm a REALLY lucky guy, and Melly is REALLY smart. A few months earlier, she sat me down and said, "If you ever are curious, these are the sorts of rings I would be interested in," and she showed me several pictures of beautiful rings. She had no idea I was planning on proposing, mind you, she was just smart enough to avoid letting me clumsily blunder my way through the process, and end up picking out some tacky piece of garbage. You know, just in case one day I did want to go shopping for a ring. Good job darlin'.  So I had a head start there. 

     A friend who had recently become married recommended shopping online for a ring. BUT, it turns out Korea has really steep import taxes and customs on diamonds. Like, 30% of the total cost of the thing added on. So that option was out.

     Luckily, I had ANOTHER couple of friends who had just gotten married in Korea (Melly and I actually sang at their wedding, but that's another story). The husband of this couple was a Korean fellow (still is, I imagine), and he was generous enough to help me out. 

     I told Melly that I was playing music with some buddies, but in reality I was sneaking off to Seoul's jewelry district with my aforementioned Korean friend. My friend--named Jong Eun--was absolutely VITAL to this whole process. The jewelry district in Seoul is called Jongno, and it's MASSIVE. City block upon city block packed full of small jewelry shops, stretching on and on for miles. You could spend weeks there searching for rings, and end up so overwhelmed with options that decision-making would be nigh on impossible.

     Oh, and no one speaks English.

     So I was following Jong Eun like a frightened kindergartener through alleys and around corners, past countless jewelry shops to the place where he bought his own wife's ring. Jong Eun and the shopkeepers would have long conversations about me in Korean, occasionally looking at me and chuckling. It was intense. For such an important purchase, it was really difficult to be so incapable of communication. But Jong Eun was a hero, and translated brilliantly for me. 

     I shopped around at a few shops, and just wasn't satisfied. That's when the woman behind the counter of one of the shops pulled out a black velvet box she had secreted away, and opened it for me. 

     "She says this is very high quality," Jong Eun translated for me.

     The ring inside was gorgeous. Brilliant, floral, radiant. Perfect. 

     I had it sent away to be set. It would be hopefully be ready with about two weeks to spare before the trip to Malaysia. And all the while, Melly had no clue.

     The ring arrived in time, and I hid it in a bookshelf upstairs. It's really difficult to keep a secret from someone when you live in a tiny shoebox apartment with them, and work with them, but I managed it. 

     The day finally came, and we were off to Malaysia. We arrived in Kuala Lumpur, and stayed for one night. The next day, we BARELY caught the train that would carry us for 7 hours to Butterworth, in the north. From there we rode a ferry to Georgetown on the island of Penang, from which point we took a bus to our destination, the small resort town of Batu Ferringhi. 

     We stayed at the pitiful Batu Ferringhi Inn & Cafe, whose service was so bad that I shudder even thinking about it. For example, the second day of our stay there, our room ran out of toilet paper. A fairly urgent issue, really. We asked politely for some more, and were assured that some would be brought up in a moment. None arrived. We asked again a few hours later, after having been out and about, and the same thing happened. The next morning, we asked again, and the manager rolled his eyes at us, clearly quite bothered to be interrupted by people so trivial as his hostel's only guests. The toilet paper never arrived, and we ended up buying our own from a local convenience store. Don't stay at the Batu Ferringhi Inn & Cafe.

     DESPITE all that, our time on Penang and in Batu Ferringhi was heavenly. The beaches were clean and soft, the tropical foliage was lush and lovely, the weather was clear and perfect, the food was delicious.

     I had the ring box tucked away in the bottom of a day pack, and I had no idea when exactly would be the right moment to whip it out. I decided on the second day. Thursday, December 27th, 2012. 

     Timing was the issue. I wanted dinner, followed by the beach at sunset. Perhaps Melly was a little puzzled why I was suddenly stressing a schedule so much, perhaps not. Either way, it worked out nicely.

     I took her to a delicious restaurant, where we enjoyed a Thai green chicken curry dish, and an Indian red vegetable makhani, and some drinks. Things were going well.

     Afterwards, I led her out to the beach. This was a little tricky, because the light was fading fast and we had to pass through the night market that sprung up every evening on the sidewalk. Anyone that knows Melly knows that it's not easy to rush her through a market. But I managed somehow.

     We got to the beach. The light had faded significantly, and it was getting pretty dusky. I had hoped and dreamed for a brilliant orange and yellow sky, but this was beautiful in a different way, and I figured it would do just fine.

The beach, where and when I proposed.

     I told her as we walked how grateful I was for her presence in my life. About how I felt completely safe with her, and free to be my strange, goofy self. I told her how great I felt about our relationship, and how wonderful it would be to grow old together. We were sitting on the sand, watching the sky grow dark. It was now or never. I pulled the box out of my pocket and spun onto one knee. 

     "Melly, will you marry me?"

     Her reaction was priceless. 

     "Yes!" she blurted out instantly. Then, "….What?!!! WHAT??? Yes!!!"

     I had succeeded. She had had no idea it was coming. It was wonderful.

     The next day was idyllic. We took a private bout tour to a place on Penang Island called Monkey Beach. The turquoise blue waters were the perfect temperature to play and splash around in. Monkeys were climbing and jumping around in the trees, and we had the most amazing Malaysian barbecue served to us: grilled chicken, fish, and shrimp, with watermelon, cucumber, and drinks. Amazing. I could've stayed there for days.

Monkey Beach, Penang

     We got back from Monkey Beach, and immediately embarked on a car tour of the island. We took a walk through the lush rainforest of the Spice Gardens (where I saw the biggest spider I've ever seen), we toured a Batik printing factory (and bought some awesome fabrics), we went to a tea factory, and we rode the Penang Hill train. 

Penang Hill Train (note how very...uphill it is)

Top of Penang Hill

     This train was really something. Set at about 45 degrees up the mountain said, the train car itself was built like a large staircase. It zoomed uphill and downhill in a most dizzying way. It was awesome. At the top, we enjoyed a spectacular view of the whole island, and the cities thereon. Monkeys swung through the trees, and luscious tropical flowers and plants fought for space wherever there was space to be had. On the way home, we stopped at a Hindu temple and watched a family receive a blessing from a spectacularly painted priest wearing only a loincloth. Very interesting.

     We collapsed in bed that night, exhausted from such a full day. We were both wonderfully happy.

     The next day, we made the long return journey to Kuala Lumpur. As we alighted from the monorail to walk a block to our hostel, a most spectacular tropical rainstorm suddenly struck. We ran laughing through the torrent to our lodgings. We were only outside a few minutes, but we may as well have jumped into a swimming pool.

     We hung out on the balcony, watching the rain and drinking beers. We met some other young couples staying at the hostel. One couple was from Denmark, the other from Finland. We spent hours talking about life, government, education, traveling, and such. It was wonderful to speak to people from another culture and be able to understand each other.

     The next day, we took a local train to the spectacular Batu Caves. These caves are a sacred Hindu pilgrimage site which house several small shrines. Monkeys crawl around the staircases in great numbers, and snack on bananas that visitors feed them. They crawl like Spidermen down the cliffs into the caverns.

Batu Caves

Batu Caves

     After the caves, we went to the largest open-air aviary in the world. Bizarre and beautiful birds were flying and hopping all over the place. It was incredible.

Us holdin' a bunch o' birds.

     We left the aviary and walked down the street to the Islamic Art Museum, and marveled at the gorgeous calligraphy and craftsmanship. 

     Then, it was time to fly back to Seoul. It was New Year's Eve, and our flight left at 12:30 AM that night. I'll never forget the wacky way we rang in the New Year that day, but I think that story will have to wait for another time.

     I couldn't believe it. We were engaged now. 

The Worst Meal I Ever Ate

        Korean food is delicious. Know that, first and foremost. Korean food is really delicious. But some of it is, well, different from what I'm used to.
For example, I ate a silkworm pupa in Busan. It tasted pretty much like you'd expect an insectile pupa to taste: acrid, earthy, crispy like an autumn leaf and yet squishy and pulpy inside. I had to gulp back some water and swallow it like a pill, because I couldn't quite bring myself to swallow it. People buy these things from large vats on the side of the road, and eat them out of a big paper cup. Like popcorn.
The worst meal I ever ate was served to me in a local barbecue restaurant near my apartment in Suwon. But before I tell that story, I need to explain a little cultural background first.
Korea isn't satisfied with one Valentine's Day. They hold a succession of holidays over a few months. The first holiday, on February 14th, is called "Valentine's Day," and it is a day for girls to give chocolates to boys. The second holiday, on March 14th, is called "White Day," and it is a day for boys to give chocolates to girls. Boys do NOT give chocolates to girls on Valentines Day. They wait for White Day.
April 14th is "Black Day," a day for single people to eat black bean noodles.
On a tangent, Korea also celebrates "Pepero Day" on November 11th. A Pepero is a long, thin chocolate-dipped cookie made by the Lotte Corporation. It is somewhat expected that you buy a box of Pepero cookies to give away for Pepero Day. One of my more precocious and irritating students informed me that this is simply "a plan for the Pepero company to make more money." I agreed with him. It seems like you might as well celebrate "Dorito Day" or "Kit Kat Day."
But I digress.
The worst meal I ever ate? It was White Day. March 14th, 2012, and I was looking to take Melly out to a nice dinner, as a meaningful and memorable celebration of our love. I really wanted to get it right.
We had eaten Korean barbecue several times since we had arrived almost a month earlier, and man, it is AWESOME. You get a little charcoal fire-pit right there in the middle of your table, with a dazzling array of side dishes spread over the table in dozens of small bowls--kimchi of different varieties, steamed egg, radish, all sorts of wonderful pickled and spiced treasures to delight the taste-buds.  Then you grill the meat yourself, right there at the table. Strips of marinated pork or beef, charcoal grilled to perfection and served wrapped in a lettuce leaf with rice, garlic, kimchi, and pepper sauce. Astoundingly good.
So when White Day rolled around, I figured "I've pretty much got this Korean barbecue thing down. Maybe we could wander around and try someplace new?"
So we did.
We identified the restaurant as a barbecue joint by the telltale metallic vent-hoses hanging from the ceiling, sucking the smoke away from the charcoal pits in the tables. "Oh boy!" I thought. "This place looks good!"
We walked in and took a seat. The menu was in Hangul only, and written on the wall. Luckily for us, the waitress spoke English fairly well.
"What's good here?" Melly asked her. "What do most people get?"
She told us in halting English, "It is…pig…and…cow."
"Great!" we said. "We love barbecued pork and beef." And we ordered for three people (we had invited our friend Sam along for the White Day festivities).
As usual, the side dishes arrived first. Excited for another delicious Korean meal, I picked up a mysterious beige square with my chopsticks and popped it in my mouth. I chewed, and was surprised at the lack of spicy peppery flavor that is so common among Korean food. I chewed some more, and some more. And some more.
This was the moment I began to become concerned.
The chewy beige square tasted like the grease-trap of a Foreman grill. I swallowed with a bit of effort.
"What is this?" asked Melly.
"Oh, skin," the waitress replied cheerfully. "Skin of pig."
It was at that precise moment that our meal arrived. I could only say with certainty that it was a PILE of something. Whatever it was, there was plenty of it.
There were now multiple Korean waitresses helping us, wanting us to have a wonderful dining experience. They picked up the bits from the pile and put them on the grill for us. When they were ready, the waitress helped us roll the bits in a spice mixture, and, despite our polite refusals, FED the pieces to us.
There were three different varieties of pieces. The first piece the woman politely helped me eat was a white-pink, shiny, puckered little corpuscle of jiggling flesh. It was as chewy as fresh squid, and tasted like the napkin you use to blot bacon with. The second piece was a rectangular, white-pink, puckered little corpuscle of jiggling flesh. It tasted like gristle. The third piece was also a rectangular puckered little corpuscle of jiggling flesh, only it was a slightly different shade of white-pink. I don't remember what it tasted like, because by then I had erupted into a cold sweat, and I just took it with water like a pill. There was not a vegetable or a grain of rice to be seen.
Melly, Sam, and I stared at each other across the table, aghast. What in God's name were were going to do with this PILE of inedible corpuscles???
I really hate wasting food, but by the third bite I was gagging. Sam and Melly didn't even get to the third bite.
We waited for a long time. The waitresses had let us alone, but were standing across the restaurant, watching expectantly.
There was no avoiding it. After a queasy couple of moments, I waved the waitress over and said, "I'm sorry. I don't like this. I don't want it."
She looked a little hurt, but hid it well. "Oh, it's okay. This is…difficult for foreigners."
"Yes, yes it is. I'm sorry. I'm…so sorry." We paid the 30,000 won and left in a rush, ashamed. We ran to a nearby restaurant and ordered a vegetable pahjon (a tasty pancake) and tried our best to forget the horrid pile we had left behind. Our stomachs didn't unclench until the next day.
We found out later (though we sure suspected it at the time) that the pile was composed of pig intestine, pig belly-fat, and cow back-fat. A large, greasy PILE of fat and intestines. A PILE, for God's sake!!!
Korean people LOVE fat. They eat it all the time, and claim it's good for the complexion. I claim it's gross.
Well, that's that. I don't really have a clever ending for this one. Korean food is really delicious, I promise.

Waygooken

"Waygooken"

     Suni sits across the small table from me. She is preparing green tea for me in the traditional Korean fashion. Her English is quite good, quite conversational, really, but there is still a significant language barrier blocking free communication between us. With Suni, though, it doesn't seem to matter. Her spirit is buoyant and sweet. It is easy to spend time with her.

     We are chatting. It's quite a different process than chatting back home, of course. I must choose the simplest words possible, speak slowly and exaggerate my enunciation, without accidentally condescending to her. I just want her to understand easily. 

      I compliment her English. Lord knows it's miles (or kilometers, in this case) beyond what pitiful scraps of Korean I've picked up. "English is such a hard language," I joke. "There are so many rules, and we break them all."

      She smiles. "It doesn't matter," she says. "I think…people communicate more by feeling than words. So it doesn't really matter."

      Her words strike me as terribly important. We grin at each other across the table, sitting cross-legged on the floor and sipping green tea. We say nothing for a moment, but the communication continues. A warm ribbon of vibration, a glow of mutual respect and fascination and friendship, passes between us through the air. 

      Just me, a 27-year old English teacher from Salt Lake City, and Suni, a 47-year old yoga teacher from Suwon, sitting and grinning and speaking only with our souls.

      Panic!

      The clock reads 9:27--thirteen minutes before classtime--and we're still at the bank. 

      The bank's an important place. It's where all yer money is, after all. So when information about such a place is scrambled and masked behind the smoke screen of a foreign language, one can get…anxious. Especially when it doesn't open until 9 AM, and one works at 9:30. Especially when one is stuck there, late to work, and one's little students are expecting a teacher to walk through the classroom doors in a mere ten minutes. They have our passports, our alien registration cards, our money; we can't simply walk out.

      The man behind the counter is very friendly. He smiles and says, "나에게 주소와 전화 번호를 알려 주시기 바랍니다."

      Nope, didn't get any of that…

      The goal: international remittence. In other words, transfer a sum of money from our Korean bank account to our American bank account. The problem: we need to fill out a FORM. The friendly teller is kind enough to circle the necessary blank spots on the form that (we assume) require, in some order, our names, addresses, bank address, account numbers, and so on. What order? We're not sure. What is that box there? Couldn't tell ya. Ah, this box is where I write my "계좌 번호". Gotcha. The friendly teller apologizes for being unable to speak English. We apologize for being unable to speak Korean.  We then play charades.

      We dash out the bank doors and onto the street. The clock reads 9:42. Class started two minutes ago. 

      The banking issue works out fine. We were eventually able to make all the necessary transfers, thanks mostly to our friendly teller's grasp of a few key words of English. 

      We jog around corners and through no-walk signals (looking both ways first, of course) until we arrive at our building and gallop, panting, into the school. 

      "I'm so sorry, Michelle," I say to my Korean boss. "We got stuck at the bank and they had all our documents, I promise it will never happen again."

      "It's okay!" she says cheerfully. "I told your students you were stuck in the bathroom, and couldn't stop going poo-poo."

      "….you…you told them I couldn't stop going poo-poo?"

      "Yes. So no problem!" She is truly not upset.

      I walk into the classroom, a full twenty minutes late. A tiny Korean boy wastes no time in standing up, pointing at me and shouting, "Teacher! You were doing poo-poo???"

      An unusual quiet moment in the classroom as the children eagerly await my response. I sigh.

      "Yes, Jason," I say, as diplomatically as possible. "Yes I was. Let's start the lesson." 

      Well, I think to myself, I guess that makes more sense than trying to explain to them that I was having communication delays with the bank teller facilitating my international remittence. 

      Those sorts of things tend to get lost in translation. 

      It happens a dozen times a day. The simplest exchange. I give you money, you give me food. A smile, and a light shines in our eyes; what  a miracle we can even manage THAT.  The simplest exchange. That place where the language completely fails, and all you can do is send out "I mean no harm, only respect. Hello and thank you and I wish you well"  in all the subtle silent ways you instinctively know how. 

      It feels somehow purer, more genuine than all the hours of small-talk back home ever did. There is no wall between us, because we can't really get close enough. All we can do is reach and reach and celebrate when we connect. We bow to each other and we smile and we go on our way and we will probably never see each other again.

      My students must occasionally wonder, "Why is that strange-looking man making all of those HONKING and BARKING noises?"

      Except they would wonder it like this: "이유 이상한 모양의 사람이 그 빵을하고 소리를 짖는입니까?"*

      We walk through the subways or through the streets and we're submerged in a vast ocean of conversations, a shimmering city-sized circuit board of relationships and communication and connections, boyfriends and girlfriends, mothers and daughters, families, grandparents, bosses and underlings, college buddies, all talking and chatting and going on. 

      I tune most of it out.

      Of course I do. I can't understand it. It becomes a background noise, like the buzz of your fluorescents, or the hum of your furnace. Just a sea of honking and barking noises, with the occasional decipherable "no," "it's okay," "really?" or "where is it?" thrown in there.

      Humans are strange animals. We have this mysterious ability to make honking and barking noises with our mouths and throats, and shape and use those noises to illuminate a entire universe and craft an entire reality.

      It's all layers. 

      There's a surface layer of labels: I'm an English teacher, I'm from Utah, I'm 27, I studied this and this at such n' such University. Small talk. This is what strangers talk about when they feel obligated to speak to one another. Here, in Korea, I cannot share most of this. I do not know how to say most of these words.

      There's another layer underneath: things we all share. I love delicious food, this place is beautiful, I need to use the bathroom, I like this, this makes me happy. Childlike communication. This works for a pleasant exchange, but without much vocabulary, the conversation ends pretty quick.

      There's another layer underneath: cultural identity. Most of this you probably haven't directly thought about, haven't questioned. It's in your DNA, and it's in your conditioning. Your country has a history, a style, and it's a huge part of who you are. Some things you can share. A lot, you just don't know or understand. You can read a Korean history book, but you can't know what it is to BE a Korean. I barely know what it means to BE an American.

      There's another layer underneath: personal psychology. Philosophy, belief systems, attitudes and opinions. Deeply held ideas about why the world is the way it is. Lots of people can't even get to this layer in their OWN language.

      Then, somewhere way down in there, there's another layer. It's silent, and it's love, and it needs no words and makes no distinction between people.

      There's one Korean sound that everyone can understand: the hock. 

      The hock is the sound of a human loudly freeing his or her throat from an irritating accretion of post-nasal mucous. In other words, hocking up a loogie. 

      In Utah, where I come from, it's fairly indelicate to loudly hock up a loogie in public. One might even be so bold as to label it rude or offensive. In Korea, however, not only is it acceptable, it seems to be encouraged. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that there is some sort of subtle social competition going on to see who can hock the loudest, most phlegmatically productive loogie of all. Perhaps it's a display of male dominance. But what about all the she-hockers? It's a mystery to us Americans.

      The street is a gooey minefield. Loogies lurk around every corner, beside every curb. 

      It logically follows, then, that it is culturally expected of you to take off your shoes before entering most buildings.

      Why haven't I learned their language?

      A lot of my answer will sound like whining excuses. Maybe that's exactly what it is. Maybe not. I dunno, I've tried my best at life here.

      I work full-time at a "hagwon"--a private English-immersion school. "Immersion" means that the children and the teachers are NOT SUPPOSED to speak Korean at school. Of course, they do when necessary, but the whole idea is that the children will only truly command the language if they need to USE it. It's a really good idea, and it works really well to teach these kids a second language at the perfect time in their development. 

      So, even when I KNOW how to say something to these kids (and I do know a handful of things), I consciously choose NOT to. Being as small as these kids are, hearing the English teacher suddenly speak some broken Korean--and thus break a RULE--launches them into an uncontrollable fit of giggles, running around, Korean-speaking, and shouting "Scott Teacher said KOREEEAN!!!" It just ain't worth it, folks. (Although there's no greater disadvantage a teacher can have than a classroom of mischievous children with their own language that he can't understand). 

      Learning Korean has to be on my time. Quite frankly, after a long, draining day of teaching these kids, hitting the books isn't first on my wish list when I get home. Lazy? Perhaps. Or maybe I've just chosen to play music, and write, and draw, and explore instead. But probably lazy.

      Another huge factor: it has so far been unnecessary. Helpful? Admirable? Empowering? Definitely. But necessary? Not quite. I can fulfill all my needs, I can get whatever I want, and to wherever I want, without being fluent.  I can even send money home at the bank.  Necessity is a fine motivator, and in its absence results are questionable.

      And lastly: I'm coming home in 4 months. If this were my new home, if I were looking forward to the next decade as a resident of Korea, then you bet your bottom dollar I'd be studying and practicing and doing my best. But as it stands…

      I know it's lazy, and I know I could do much better. In my defense, I've learned a fair amount more than many others in my situation. And I do try to use it when I can. I think it's culturally inconsiderate to come to a country and not even TRY to learn a few phrases. I've tried my best to lead a life that makes me happy, and that is considerate to those around me. So far, though, commanding the Korean language hasn't been a part of that. 

      One last thing I'll say is this: I know I'm not fluent, but I haven't QUIT. I will still learn new words and phrases until I leave. And I'll try to use them as much as possible.

      We are Waygooken. "Foreigners." We try to cross the communication barriers, but most of the time, we are outsiders. It is a humbling perspective.

      My Facebook post from July 13, 2012:

I had a fairly disturbing experience this morning:

At 5:50 AM, I was awakened by the hysterical shrieking of a woman. The sound was very close--just upstairs in my small apartment building--and it sounded like this woman was being severely beaten or threatened by violence. I pulled on some shorts and a t-shirt and ran out into the hall. From upstairs, the voices of two women and a man were viciously SCREAMING at each other--the kinds of screams that could easily turn into punches and kicks at any second. I tried to think fast. How could I help? Then I remembered:

Damn. I don't speak Korean.

At least, not anywhere NEAR well enough for this. My next-door neighbor came out into the hall. I turned to her and said, in Korean, "I don't speak Korean," and made a hand gesture of a phone call to her. She backed into her apartment and started dialing on her cell phone, hopefully the police. I paced back and forth at the bottom of the stairs for a few minutes, and listened to the fight escalate. 

After a few minutes, the woman was still shrieking, and I realized that, with no language to understand the situation, or to communicate with those involved, I was completely powerless to help. I went back to my room, the screams still filling the building. 

After about 20 minutes, the fight migrated downstairs and into the street, and disappeared. I'll never know what happened, or what the whole thing was about.

      I walk through the streets, and smile as I look at this wonderful place I find myself in. The Korean people are beautiful, and kind, and helpful. We are safe walking the streets. The people are trusting, and trustworthy.

      I think, not for the first time, about how similar we humans are to each other. I also think about how wildly different we are. 

      I think about our planet as a sphere falling through a vast space, and I laugh at the silly creatures that swarm on its surface. 

      Most of the strangers I pass on the street avert their eyes. We never meet.

      Occasionally, however, someone looks at me and I look at them and we smile before we pass, and a little glimmer of something beautiful flashes behind their eyes. 

      What else needs to be said?

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*A bit of trivia: I used Google Translator to produce the Hangul for the "honking and barking noises" question. But then I translated the Hangul back into English, and apparently it says: "Barking sound of the bread and the reason for the appearance of a strange people?"  Just thought you'd like to know.

 

Teaching, Month 4 (from Melly's Perspective)

                Teaching in South Korea has been—at once—exactly the same as, and completely different than, teaching at home. I’m pretty sure everyone who either has a child or has worked with one knows the ridiculous ups and downs involved.  I have been working with elementary age kids…well, most of my life.  Most recently, working as teachers and aides, I have begun to understand the ins and outs of working in a classroom and working under the direction of a school district.  I am so passionate about travelling, but part of the point of coming to Korea (nerdy- I admit) was to expand my knowledge of how different societies educate their children.  My goal is to learn how to better face our education challenges at home. 

So here we enter our first Korean teaching experience.  As Scott mentioned, we LOVE our school.  We were blessed with kind and generous coworkers and bosses, beautiful facilities, and new books, curriculum and materials.  We got a crash course in teaching (a few hours of observation, a “thrilling” video presentation, and a stack of books) and jumped right in.  Honestly, I was terrified.  I knew I could wrangle my special ed classrooms into some semblance of order- but this seemed totally out of my realm of expertise.  Unlike special ed, there was no team of English speaking teachers in the classroom, and I had work books, projects and deadlines expected of me.  But unfortunately I still had the same old setback- these tiny, adorable, chubby cheeked kids could not understand a single word I said.  I was assigned to the 5 year old class, meaning they are really 3-4 years old by American standards. They have never before been to school, let alone been asked to figure anything out in a foreign language.  Kindergarten is traumatizing enough at first for a lot of kids, and I could see the terror in their eyes as their mommies left them with some crazy lady who spoke gibberish and danced around a lot. 

I stressed out quite a bit during that first month.  Am I doing this right?  Do my kids understand anything I am trying to act out for them?  What on earth are the parents going to say when number worksheets come home a complete mess of scribbling?  Honestly, what got me through the lack of confidence, expertise and sanity were the cultural differences.  I was told as I was meeting the children for the first time- “make sure to touch the children.”  Hug them, kiss them, hold their hand, pick them up- otherwise you appear standoffish and cold and uncaring!  I honestly had to shake my head and make sure I heard right.  You don’t even give a kid a pat on the back at home for fear of a lawsuit!  It was the most beautifully refreshing thing I have seen in any classroom.  Probably for that exact reason the toddlers under my care hopefully understood one thing only at first- that I loved them.  I say (and mean it) every year- I have the cutest class ever.  And yet, these kids are the most beautiful, adorable little tykes that ever crossed my path.

A few short months later, it’s hard to remember how different things were at first.  This has been my first experience seeing students really learn and progress.  You see amazing things in special ed, but changes are slow to come, and progress can sometimes be devastated by sudden regressions.  Now I see by example the genius of immersion programs at a young age.  I couldn’t possibly prepare myself for how amazing these tiny kids would be.  They are learning the excruciating art of sitting at a desk, looking at the teacher, recognizing shapes and letters and numbers- and all in a foreign language!!!!!  They sing songs with me, consistently laugh at my “hilarious” sense of humor, and risk the fury of the Korean teachers when they scream my name and jump into my arms for a hug.  I am so impressed with my kids and how much they have grown already.  I have learned maybe six essential Korean phrases (hideously pronounced), during which time they have mastered writing their English names, identifying shapes, numbers, letters, etc on top of all the other learning you do as a small child. 

Now don’t misunderstand me:  it’s not all dancing and daisies.  Sometimes I swear there is a vein in my forehead threatening to burst at the end of some days.  There are definitely times when I am counting down the minutes to the end of school.  And it seems like in every classroom there is that one kid that challenges your ability to love.  But, if you can REALLY think outside the box, those kids usually end up being the ones I love most.

Some days I swear I am still teaching special ed with a few of my kids.  Most days, though, I giggle my head off and wipe out exhausted but full of gratitude for the overwhelming adorability factor that fills my days here.  Thanks, Sun Class,  for reminding me why life is awesome.

Teaching, Month 3 (from Scott's Perspective)

May 24th, 2012

Teaching, Month 3 (from Scott's Perspective)

*Note: Any student names I use in this piece have been changed.


         "Perhaps it is a human failing...Perhaps, someday, our ability to love won't be so limited. "
                                                           -Dr. Beverly Crusher
                           from Star Trek: The Next Generation: Ep. 4.23 "The Host"


    We've been living in Suwon for three months now. Time is pulling its usual paradoxical nonsense--days are long, but months are short. During our time here, we've been teaching kindergarten and early elementary at a hagwon (private school), and it's been a very interesting experience. I say that with ambivalence intended.
    Make no mistake and do not misunderstand me: when it comes to hagwons, we hit the jackpot. Our facilities are new and clean, our teaching materials are high-quality, and the Korean teachers and administrators we work with are some of the most wonderful people you could ever hope to meet. They have gone out of their way to help us more times than I can count. The Immigration Office, for instance, is usually a 3 to 4 hour ordeal for foreigners like us. Thanks to our Korean staff, however, we had an appointment and breezed in and out of the place in a cool 20 minutes. They've helped us with apartment maintenance, all of our paperwork, they've even helped us to arrange inexpensive flights to Vietnam for our vacation in August. Beautiful people, and I'm honored to work with them.
    Children, though. Children.
    Children tend to reveal the most extreme emotions in you, positive and negative. It's just the nature of it.
    These Korean kindergartners are, perhaps, the most beautiful children I've ever seen. Their smiles are like the sun, and when they hug you, innocent and adorable, it is an answer to your every prayer.
    Why, then, have I spent so many nights crying in despair? Wanting only some sort of escape?

    When we arrived at the school, the day after the Subway Move of Death, we were fortunate enough to receive a couple of days of training. This is not always the case with hagwons. I've heard stories of foreign teachers literally walking off the plane, jetlagged and disoriented, and then being driven to the school and ushered into the classroom to start teaching (here's your book, have fun!). We work at an awesome hagwon, though, so that wasn't the case for us. We even got to sleep in and come in late the first two days.
    The training was intensive. A mountain of information being steadily crammed, as if by plunger, into my brain. So many books. So many classes. So many new protocols and criterion to follow. We had to get through it fast, too; we started teaching on Friday.
    Part of the training--the first part actually--was observation of the previous teachers. I was lucky and actually spent the observation time with the students I would be teaching the entire next year. I tell you, friends and fam, these little kids were so adorable my jaw literally dropped. I was stunned by the disarming rays of their cuteness and charm and happy little voices. It took all I had not to just shout out "Come here, you!" and wrap those kiddos into big bear hugs all day. Refrain, I told myself, we're professionals here.
    ***A brief tangent to explain a interesting tidbit of Korean culture: in Korea, when you are born, you are automatically and immediately one year old. Birthdays are not viewed the same way here as in the U.S.A. Rather, everyone turns one year older on the lunar new year (in January). So, if you happened to be born in late December, for instance, you would be considered two years old in February, despite the apparently overlookable fact that you've only been alive for a few weeks. Hm.
    That having been said, I was observing my future students, who were 5 and 6 years old, Korean age. That means they were 4 to 5 years old, international age. That's a cute age. They're talking and smiling and singing little songs in their little voices with their chubby cheeks and glimmering eyes and MAN I JUST WANTED TO SQUEEZE 'EM! I was so happy. This is going to be a dream year, I thought to myself.

    Children reveal the best and worst parts about ourselves and about humanity. When a child laughs, she laughs in delight, in pure wonder and delight and joy. It (usually) isn't yet marked with the cynicism and irony of experience. It isn't yet filtered through some wall or dimmed through some shade. When a child hugs you, she hugs you fully and fearlessly. She doesn't know any better. She simply loves, and she simply expresses that love. It comes naturally to her. A child will giggle about a silly face or lips that go "pthbbbpt!" A child will hop around and laugh for no reason. She must. There is an enormous energy of excitement overfilling her, driving her to wiggle and twist and laugh and yell. A child will SCREAM in delight at the simple act of running. Life floods through a child like a network of lightning bolts, and you can see their faces shimmering with it, shimmering and radiant with LIFE. The world is beautiful, and colorful, and every drawing is full of smiley faces and flowers, and every shape is rainbow-colored .
    This is the part of the child that our hearts long for. We watch them, and somewhere in the bottom of our souls we feel that they must see something about this strange and difficult planet that we've forgotten.
    What about, though, that part of the child that takes a communal toy and screams "MINE"? That is willing to hit the face of a friend over an eraser? What about the manipulative part, who masterfully plays the role of the "cute one" or the "smart one" or of the "victim" just to get its whims indulged? What about the part of the child who will think of the cruelest taunt it can and shout it over and over at the girl across the room, until she cries? What about the part of the child that really doesn't give a damn about anything, or anyone, except himself?

    Imagine, if you will, a classic scene from a classic cartoon in which the bumbling main character is in front of a tall set of shelves filled with priceless vases, china plates, and other such treasures. Some cataclysm or another has set the shelves a'wobbling--maybe an earthquake, maybe a clumsy turn in a dog and cat chase sequence, whatever--and one by one, those delicate treasures are falling fast to the ground. What follows? The bumbling main character is scrambling left and right, to and fro, catching every plate, every vase, the crystal glasses, until the fragile stack in his arms is comically high! And there's more coming!
    Usually, everything ends up breaking anyway.
    This is the best metaphor for my first two months of teaching kindergarten that I could possibly come up with.
    It didn't take long for my adorable, adorable children to reveal their demonic sides. For the most part, the children weren't willfully defiant or malicious (with one bratty exception), they were simply SO full of energy that nothing I could say or do could possibly convince them to calm down and listen to me. There are always exceptions and it's always a spectrum, but in general my class was full of single children or older brothers/sisters who were still unused to the notion that there was anyone else in the world to listen to other than them. That there was anyone else to pay attention to other than them.
    It also didn't help that, being "6" years old, they were largely incapable of anything. Sharpening pencils, for example, was an OUTRAGEOUS process, lasting fifteen, twenty minutes, and almost always ending in a whining, bickering fight. And then, crack, almost every pencil would break instantly, the children having yet to understand much of their subtler fine motor skills, and the whole circus would start over. Could erasers be passed out fairly and efficiently? Of course not! "His eraser is bigger than mine, Scott Teacher! Why did I get one so, so small?" Well, truth be told, probably because Mr. Eraser-Passer-Outer is engaged in an elitist scheme to pass out all the good erasers to his best friends only, and then make a point to rub in the fact that "Oh, you're LAST" to the whiny little brat who asked the question in the first place. Vicious! Could we share the surface area of the tables with our table-partners fairly and reasonably? Of course not, Scott Teacher! Could anything at all be done to quell the shrieks of "Don't DO THAT!" that followed almost every stupid little interaction between the whiny little students? Of course not, Scott Teacher! Could we write a small letter "a" in our phonics books without tearing the pages to shreds with our needlessly sharp pencil points? Of course not, Scott Teacher! My job was to scramble around the classroom, like that classic image of the Headless Chicken, frantically picking up the pieces.
    Oh, and the tattle-telling! Dear Lord the tattle-telling! "Scott Teacher," one would say, near to tears, "Brian said my name 'JasIN,' not JasON, like this, 'JasIN!'" Oh the injustice! Or "Scott Teacher! Kelly did to me like this!" And then demonstrate a light and accidental brushing of a shirt sleeve as if it were an armed robbery.
    Ten tiny voices always yelling over each other "Teacher, help me! Teacher help me!!! Teacher help me!!!" "Sally did this!" "Brian did that!" "Teacher help me!!!"
    Even the good kids, when asked to pass out the crayons (as is the "Crayon Leader's" sacred duty) would invariably drop them all in a clumsy flailing of chubby little kid limbs, resulting in at least 10 minute's delay, a swarming of eager little kindergartners to the spill site, a shrieking of "NO! I'M THE CRAYON LEADER!!!" whenever someone tried to help pick them up, and of course another flurry of passionate tattle-telling ("Scott Teacher! She said, 'No I'm the crayon leader!' Like this, 'No I'm the crayon leader!' She said that!"). All the while, poor Scott Teacher--the real victim in our cartoon here--throat hoarse from yelling all day (not in anger, just as a desperate attempt to be heard above the shrieks and yells of the children), would try his damnedest to wrangle the energy back, to get them back in their seats and quiet, to reestablish what shred of order seemed possible in this Horrid Pit of Chaos.
    The stakes are so HIGH, I thought to myself. I'm meddling with these children's lives, for God's sake! How many of the world's neuroses are caused because of some stupid mistake made by a kindergarten teacher during the most delicate period of development? Oh no, the fate of the future is hanging in the balance!!!
    And we had deadlines! The parents need to see progress, they want to see those workbooks full! We're on a schedule here! And we're BEHIND!!! The anxiety!!! How can I get these children to fill up a worksheet when they can't even write yet?!?!
    One problem solved, another one sprouts in its place. One Ming vase caught from the wobbling shelf, a whole set of China on its way down.
    More than once, at about 6 pm when the day was ending, I would let a big deep breath into my lungs, a big satisfying sigh that would flood into locked little alveoli way down in my chest, and muscles in my neck and back would unclench for the first time that entire day, and I would realize, a bit concerned, that I hadn't taken a single deep breath in over 8 hours.
    This went on for a while. It was…tiring.
   
    What happens to that part of us that sees the world in pure and joyous wonder?
    When does that light that shines so brightly in the eyes of a child go out?
    We go to school. We have our teacher who tells us, hundreds of times a day if necessary, that it's not okay to laugh out loud. You can't stand up. Get to work! Stop that! BE QUIET. The teacher will use any means necessary to accomplish this. She HAS TO, or she'll go out of her mind! She HAS TO, or these kids will not be able to function in any meaningful way. The teacher HAS TO. So the teacher will take away everything that you want, until you comply. The teacher will punish you with scorn and raised voice, with humiliation, with fear and reproach, until you comply. The teacher MUST. MAKE. YOU. BEHAVE.
    We play with other children. The other children don't understand what they are doing, the other children don't understand empathy or consequences. The other children are just as maniacally young and emotional and driven by desire as you are. And so one day, because of their own childhood mania, they say you are ugly. They say you are stupid. They call you a stupid face, a meanie, and a liar. They don't know what they are doing, which makes them capable of almost perfect cruelty. And, even though a child like you can bounce from sobbing hysterically to laughing and running in a matter of seconds, a voice will always be echoing somewhere in the underground caves of your subconscious: "You are ugly…ugly…ugly…"
    Then puberty hits, and obviously that can't be good.
    We hear the news on the TV station. We see our first movie with a graphic murder scene. We get yelled at by our parents. Little by little, one by one, tiny little twigs of innocence crack in half. We are so steadily and constantly manipulated by a system of reward and punishment that tells us who we should be, what we should act like, what we should look like, that by the time we're in middle school, all that's left in our eyes is a dull glaze. 
    The fire has been stomped out, or turned into idiotic, reckless rebellion.
    It was all necessary. What choice did anyone have?

    There were days when I didn't want to see any of them ever again.
    When it took all I had to refrain from screaming at them, or just breaking down and sobbing.
    Frustration and irritation squashed the love I felt for them. Dulled its fire to a smoky coal.
    What kind of love is that, anyway?
    Oh yeah.
    "Conditional."

    Don't be fooled: with every yang comes its yin.
    The first two months were NOT, as I made it seem, all bad.
    For some reason, even though I often needed to yell at the children, take away their stickers, or make them cry, they seemed to really like me. No, they loved me.
    Even when I had forgotten how to love them.
    I have a small sense of what the Beatles must have felt like, getting in and out of limos and jets to throngs of screaming fans. Every time I arrive at the school after the kids do, they squeal in delight when they see me approach. "Scott Teacher! Scott Teacher!" they yell, jumping up and down and waving with both hands, grinning ear to ear. If I get close enough, they'll straight up dash at me and give me a full-body arms-and-legs hug, the kind of hug that's so packed full of love that you'd think it could only exist in the Care Bears universe.
    And it's not just in the morning or the last part of the day; it's all day. Brief 10 minute breaks between class periods. The kids go to the bathroom, then come back, see me, and start squealing "Scott Teacher! Scott Teacher!" And wham! another Care Bear hug. With fervor! FERVOR!
    That love sustained me when I was sad and tired, and didn't know how to serve these children. And I got a lot of it.

    Not every fire gets stomped out, of course. Not every light is swallowed by the darkness.
    There are those beacons of light in our lives that remind us of who we really are, that help us remember that life is beautiful. You know them. Those few, special teachers throughout school that helped you learn more than was written in the textbook. Those teachers that ignited a spark in you, instead of extinguishing one in you.
    How about those musicians that played that perfect song when you were in middle school or high school? That song that filled you up with something that felt like God and made you want to dance or sing or scream or laugh or cry?
    Or the actors that told that perfect story on the silver screen?
    How about the athletes with their superhuman skills, inspiring us to greater and greater possibilities?
    The martial artists who seemed to defy all physical laws and who left you wondering "How do they do that?"
    The dancers? The cooks? The singers? The authors?
    Maybe you were lucky like me, and had an amazing family of beacons who nurtured your evolution. Maybe you were lucky like me, and had friends who were all powerful beacons, and helped you grow beyond yourself again and again.
    The beacons are always more powerful than we think.

    So what am I trying to say here? I'm not really sure anymore.
    Maybe love is when you accept someone for who they are. Even when they're a little 5 year old who doesn't yet understand the difference between speaking and shrieking, who doesn't want to sit down when you ask them to, and who doesn't know how to stop taking things so personally. Hell, I know a lot of adults pretty much like that.
    Maybe love is also knowing how to let a situation be what it is. The only part of myself that was shriveling and wilting in that classroom was the part that needed. to. make. it. different. No, little kids! Grow up! Stop being a rambunctious kindergartner and be a well-behaved college kid on the honor roll! NOW!
     Of course, that doesn't mean I won't try. It doesn't mean that I'll stop caring and read a book in the corner while the kids tear the room apart. I'll do my best. I HAVE been doing my best. But I don't need to define my happiness based on whether the kindergartners are quiet or not.
    I've gotten better at the job since those really difficult starting months. Yes, I still have frustrating days--I doubt I'll ever meet a teacher who doesn't have frustrating days--but things are really getting better and better.
   
    On a final note, we reflect each other. Humans, I mean. We reflect each other.
    Nowhere is this reflective quality of reality more clear than in the classroom. When I enter a classroom with enthusiasm and optimism and an intention to have fun, the class goes great. The kids are engaged and responsive and better behaved, because they're reflecting my energy back to me. However, when I enter a classroom downtrodden and depressed and frustrated, the class goes down the tubes. The kids are restless, prone to fighting, and eager to be anywhere other than there. Because they're reflecting my energy back to me. I AM the source, and MY choices determine how my life feels.
    This is true of all relationships and all work.
    If I can choose what I send out, the reflection will adjust accordingly.
    It's a skill, and it's not necessarily very easy. But it may be the only skill worth mastering.
    At any rate, here's to the hope that we can shine a bit more light, and be beacons to someone whose light has gone out.
    Cheers!
   

  

We Move to Suwon

Scott and I spent our last day of our vacation in Seoul at the Korean War Memorial Museum.  Like the other museums we’d seen so far, there was an overload of very interesting information.  Out front of the mammoth structure is a very powerful sculpture called “The Statue of Brothers,” in which two enormous bronze figures, dressed in the fatigues of the Korean War, are locked in a tight embrace. One figure has been weakened or injured; the other is helping to support his weight. It is a poignant moment of homecoming and reconciliation.

Korea is a nation split in half, and the wounds of the split are still fresh. North Korea is generally regarded by the world as a ludicrous and irresponsible country, guilty of causing widespread suffering and starvation, of reckless and despicable violence. But for the people of South Korea, this is not stuff just for the World News page of the paper, to be scoffed at and kept at a distance. The border between the two countries is really only a handful of miles from Seoul. The people trapped on the other side are family, cousins, grandparents.  The Statue of Brothers expresses the deepest hope of the Korean people. It is not revenge, it is not punishment. It is the reunion of lost brothers, it is forgiveness, it is moving on together, in love and harmony. We stared at the statue for some time.

We saw some incredible monuments paying tribute to the people involved in the Korean War and to all the foreign aid provided during such a tumultuous time for this country.  Not being well versed in ancient Korean dynasties and history, a lot of information went a bit over our heads.  It was overall a beautiful museum experience, but by the end all I wanted pictures of were the gaggles of overwhelmingly cute Korean kids running around.  Oh- we had no idea what was coming our way as we tried to look at the kids and figure out about how old our students would be in comparison.

  

We packed our insane amounts of luggage (please refer to our facebook picture of us leaving the Salt Lake City airport) out of our painfully tiny and loud hostel and began to make our way to our new hometown of Suwon.  I had been keeping myself going for months, by imagining our new place- small, but a place of our very own!!! Our new boss suggested taking a bus…but seeing as how we only knew how to ride the Seoul subway system, we opted to travel by train instead.   As soon as I was onto the sidewalk outside our hostel I knew I couldn’t manage it.  But by that point it was too late- we had no idea how to catch a taxi or how to tell them where we needed to go, so we were stuck to our train fate.  It was a day I will never forget as long as I live.

Scott and I each had a large backpacking pack on our backs (50 pounds or so), a normal sized backpack on our chest (15-20 pounds), and a purse of sorts on one shoulder.  If that wasn’t enough, Scott also had his guitar (20-25 pounds) and I had a large piece of luggage on rollers that Scott quickly had to take over (30-40 pounds—poor Scott). 

We were screwed. 

I was already sweating by the time we reached the subway station a few blocks from our hostel…a bad sign.  Then there were the stairs.  Huge flights of them, first to get down to the tracks and of course to transfer from line to line- which we were lucky enough to do three separate times- and then back up to ground level.  Seoul uses an electronic debit card to use the subway system called a T-money card.  You swipe it, it subtracts a fee and you walk through the turnstile…unless of course you are Scott carrying four too many bags to fit through the Asian sized walking space.  So he swiped his card, got stuck with his bags and then got locked out.  Meanwhile, I’m on the other side of the gate, trying to ignore the angry lines of people building up behind us.  Luckily a couple somehow got though a handicap entrance, so I ran and grabbed the gate before it closed and grabbed poor Scott and his stuff and tried our best to blend into the crowds.  Like two white people dressed like pack animals in a sea of bustling Koreans could be at all inconspicuous.  To put it plainly, people were not pleased to see us.  Ajummas were scolding us in Korean as we pushed our way onto to the subway car.  Surprise, surprise- no seats left for our hour plus ride to Suwon.  We stood in the crowded train car, beads of sweat forming on our brows, the straps of all of our packs slowly and persistently digging into our shoulders. Every time the train lurched to a halt or suddenly sped away from a station, it took all we had to keep from falling down. And again and again, giant flights of stairs with every line transfer (where do these people hide the elevators???). It was easily one of the most difficult things we’ve ever done.

Finally, thankfully, we arrived at Suwon station. Late, sweaty, defeated and exhausted, we found our new employer looking for us outside the turnstile.  We were so embarrassed to make such a first impression on our new boss. 

After a short reprieve in a car with our bags loaded into the trunk, we arrived at our new apartment.  We understood that only one of our two apartments would be available to us for the first few days.  We walked down a small road, shimmied past cars parked by what looked like a pizza place into an alley that featured the entrance to our new apartment. 

The place was filthy.  And this is coming from a girl who struggles to be tidy.  Literal dirt all over the bed, dirty rags in the bathroom, a handful of dirty dishes and cups in the cupboards (yes, in the CUPBOARDS) and a microwave that probably had grown the cure for cancer.  Dear Lord.

If there had been a moment’s peace then, we might have broken down and cried, but we were instantly introduced to our head foreign teacher Kate, an American from Minnesota, who had been living in Korea for a year and a half, and the other foreign teacher Samantha (also from Minnesota) who had got off the plane from the States just hours earlier.  Kate whisked us off to a store called Home Plus, which is sort of like Wal-Mart if Wal-Mart had six floors. ENORMOUS. And bustlingly crowded. We stared slack-jawed as were led from one aisle to the other, buying sponges, towels, laundry detergent, cereal, water bottles—all those things that were imminently important and necessary but that we NEVER would’ve thought of on our own at that point. We wound through the aisles of this mega-store for two hours, gathering necessities and home supplies. My brain was so overstimulated by the flood of new products and the crowd of Korean people chattering in Hangul and the sheer exhaustion of the day, that I hardly could process the idea that, hey, we live here now.

Funny thing about shopping when you don’t have a car is that whatever you buy, you CARRY home. So Scott and I had to haul a couple giant and overloaded shopping bags three city blocks back to the apartment. When we finally got there and said goodnight to our new co-teachers, we plopped down, shaking and exhausted, into our filthy, filthy room (thanks, previous tenants). 

Of course, the night wasn’t over yet, because we realized with a grimace that, amidst all our effort and hauling of heavy bags here and there, we had forgotten how hungry we both were. So we walked back into the streets of our new neighborhood, surly, angry, and tired. There was a restaurant that might’ve served some sort of meat on a skillet, really hard to tell from the picture; over there was another restaurant with a mysterious pile of red spiced stuff in a bowl surrounded by unintelligible Hangul. Over there was a KFC. “I don’t want to go to KFC,” Scott told me, “they’re not an ethical company.” So we walked for another ten minutes through the streets, looking for something that we could at least order without an ordeal.

“You know what,” Scott said a few minutes later, “I don’t care. I really don’t care. Let’s go back to KFC. I’m too tired to figure this out right now. Just don’t tell anybody.”

“It’ll be our little secret,” I said.

So we ate chicken sandwiches on the floor of our new apartment, and despite the strain of the previous 6 hours, we actually chuckled a little bit.