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?

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*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. 

Jogyesa Temple

The next day we found ourselves strolling down a narrow street flanked by nondescript office buildings, coffee shops and small boutiques. We were on our way to see Jogyesa Temple, the central temple of Zen Buddhism in Korea.

At first we joked. "Wow, what a gorgeous temple," Melly said to me, pointing at a bland, gray office tower as we walked down the alley. It just seemed like such an unlikely place to find a temple of Zen meditation. Yet, moments later, we rounded a curve in the road and glimpsed the structure for the first time. The flanked roof, the intricate blues and reds and yellows hand-painted on wood--the elegant design was almost identical to the palaces we had been visiting the past few days. This still boggles my mind; clearly an architectural design can be repeated easily enough, but the designs on the curved log beams could only have been painted by hand! And each design was uniform, as precisely reproduced as could be expected by a human, and each repeated itself dozens of times on each structure, framing each support column, accenting each corner. And by now we had seen hundreds, maybe thousands, of these designs covering the palaces throughout the entire city. Impressive.

Jogyesa was taller than the palaces, and even more intricately painted. We approached from the back of the temple. Construction scaffolding was erected by a bay door on the rear of the building. Korean people were hauling crates and bags in and out of the bay door, to and from a truck parked just outside. Some of the people were dressed entirely in gray--presumably individuals participating in intensive temple-stay programs, or perhaps novice monks. It was a strange juxtaposition--our first glimpse of the temple looked like the shipping and receiving bay of a grocery store. That, along with the gray urban backdrop of the city that surrounded it, made the temple seem lost in time, a little bubble of elsewhere accidentally plopped in the middle of the city block.

I suppose this describes Korea as a whole pretty well. Traditional thought and manic techno-industrial growth play an epic game of tug-of-war across the whole peninsula. Or do they walk hand in hand? I don't know yet.

We walked closer, past the truck and bay door. The temple was covered with gorgeous murals telling the story of the Buddha: Prince Siddhartha Gautama in his lavish palace, the discovery of the people's great suffering beyond the palace walls, the turn to asceticism, the meditation under the Bodhi Tree, the Enlightenment, the Teaching. We wandered around to the front of the building. An old woman was praying passionately to a gray statue of the rotund, laughing Buddha. I watched her as we walked around the grounds. Her prayers lasted at least ten minutes. You gotta hand it to the Buddhists: they may be a bit less ADHD than most.

The temple grounds were spotted with tall, terraced statues and fountains. Bottles of water, fruit, and flowers were piled up at the base of each of these--offerings to the Buddha. We wandered around. We were the only foreigners there. We felt extremely nervous and out of place, and really didn't want to cause any international incidents. Luckily, there was a little office on the far side of the grounds that said "Foreigner Services." Better to be safe than sorry, we went inside and talked to a friendly Korean man who seemed vaguely confused at our unease. But he reassured us, all was well. We could enter the temple as long as we took off our shoes and didn't take any pictures. Fair enough.

Man I wish I had some pictures of the inside of that building. Not for the first time since arriving in Korea, I found my jaw dropping. Inside, the temple was one large room with four thin support pillars. Three enormous golden Buddhas, probably 25 feet tall each, sat in the front of the temple on a shrine piled high with fruits and flowers and water bottles. Each Buddha exhibited a different mudra (sacred hand gesture), and all three sat in front of a dazzlingly detailed wall painted with thousands of different Buddhas, deities, spirits, people, and things I couldn't begin to understand. The ceiling ascended in a series of levels. Hundreds of small colorful paper lanterns with prayers dangling down from them covered the first and lowest level of the ceiling. Just above them, more towards the center of the room, large lotus-shaped lamps, 5 feet across each, glowed with soft and ghostly neon colors, and still beyond that, a grid of smaller lotus-shaped lights glittered high at the top of the building like stars. One wall of the giant room was golden from ceiling to floor and covered in Hangul characters and candles. The opposite wall boasted another shrine with a smaller Buddha statue, this one also piled tall with flowers and fruits. Candlelight and lamplight filled the room, which was already bright from the gray light of the wintery afternoon pouring in through the tall windows opposite the giant golden Buddhas. A feast for the senses, and a delight for the eyes. I could have stayed in there just admiring the decor for hours. My brain lapped up the lush colors and patterns like a dog laps up water from a stream.

The temple was full of people, all of them Korean. Surprisingly to me, there didn't seem to be any sense of hushed reverence at all. People talked loudly to each other, people talked on their cell phones. Middle-aged women chatted loudly with each other while others repeated bowing prayers to the Buddha statue at their own pace.

We wanted to meditate in the temple, at least for a few minutes before we left. There was a stack of square gray cushions by one of the support pillars. Cautiously, Melly and I each grabbed one, always checking for reactions from the people around us, making sure we weren't breaking any rules of etiquette or offending anyone. We sat on the cushions in front of the center window at the back wall, and closed our eyes. The meditation was deep and satisfying, and we stayed there for ten minutes or so. It was at that point that I heard some impatient whispering from the women next to us. I opened my eyes, and, sure enough, they were whispering at Melly and me. Apparently, we weren't supposed to be sitting there. Oh God, how long have they been trying to get our attention? They gestured for us to move, to go to the side, to get out of our spot. They spoke quickly and brashly in Korean, shooing us, and we didn't understand. It was scary; this is exactly what I had hoped to avoid. Did they want us to leave the temple completely? Or just scoot over? Well, so much for peace of mind.

We stood up. The ajumma (middle-aged woman) who had shooed us then bowed to us with her hands clasped in prayer position over her heart--the universal gesture of "Namaste"--even though she still had something of a scowl on her face. Confused and nervous, we wandered away and circled around the room, looking at the decor. No one else seemed upset that we were there, and no one else was sitting in the middle of the back wall. Maybe we were just sitting in the wrong spot? We decided to sit back down on the side, in an empty spot amidst many other Koreans, for a few more minutes. Just enough to calm back down, we figured, to shake off the sense of anxiety that had just accrued. Just a few more minutes of meditation.

We sat down. The women (probably 85% of the people there were middle-aged women, for some reason) next to us smiled welcomingly. Ah, no problem here. We'll meditate a few more minutes and be on our--

Everyone suddenly sat down and became quiet. We heard the rhythmic hollow tapping of a stick on a gourd and saw a Jogye monk, complete with shaved head and long colorful robes, walk gracefully down the center of the room where we had just been sitting. The monk was wearing a lapel microphone, and said something in Korean. His rich voice resonated through PA speakers in the corners of the room, and everyone stood up in unison, bowed their heads, and clasped their hands in prayer. Melly and I looked around, slightly panicked. We were smack dab in the middle of this crowd, the only foreigners in the room, and we didn't know at all what was going on. Out of instinct, we joined in the motions of the crowd, clasping our hands and bowing. We wanted to see what would happen next.

The monk began chanting and drumming on his hollow wooden gourd. The people began a series of bows to the Buddha. To do this, you begin from a standing position, then drop to your knees on your gray square cushion, touch your forehead to the ground and lift your hands to your head, then stand back up without using your hands to push off the ground. We were suddenly in the middle of a crowd doing this is unison, remember, so we had to very quickly figure out what to do. The monk would say a line of Buddhist scripture, and everyone would bow, touch their foreheads to the ground, and stand back up. Over and over, he would say a line of scripture, we would bow and stand, a line of scripture, bow and stand, scripture, bow and stand, scripture, bow, stand.

My legs started burning a bit. It was church and a step class at the same time. In front of me, thin middle aged women were doing this at twice the pace I was, and not even breaking a sweat. You go, ajummas. Well done. A little old lady saw Melly panting and sweating, reached over and gave her a bottle of water. Yes, we were getting completely dominated by small, old Korean women.

Over and over, on and on it went. The monk chanted out dozens of lines, each unintelligible to me save for the last word: "mianhamnida." I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Forgive me. I bowed and bowed, asking the Buddha to forgive me for my restless mind, my inattentiveness, my indiscipline, my impatience. Who knows what the monk was actually saying, all I could understand was "mianhamnida." Forgive me. So that's what I asked.

After perhaps fifty or sixty bows of "mianhamnida," the monk began ending his scriptural lines with another word: "gomapseumnida." Thank you. Thank you. I am grateful. And I bowed again and again to the Buddha, thanking him for his accomplishments, for punching through and seeing the true nature of reality, for adding something beautiful and important to the world. I thanked God that I had legs at all, that I could actually do this strange ritual. I bowed and thanked Life for bringing me into this utterly bizarre circumstance. I almost laughed out loud as I bowed and stood, bowed and stood amidst a congregation of middle-aged Korean women. Gomapseumnida. Thank you for all of this, thank you for every detail of this experience.

I think we did 108 bows, the number of beads on a Buddhist mala, but I can't be sure. It seemed to go on forever, especially since I was constantly and anxiously glancing around, gauging my environment, unsure of how to act or what to do. Finally, the chanting stopped and everyone sat cross-legged on the cushion. The monk began chanting. His voice was deep and hypnotizing and beautiful, and immediately lulled me into a trance. Then everyone around us began chanting along. It was such a strange and wondrous new sound, rhythmic and meditative, as different as could be from the hymns of western Christianity. Many seemed to have the chants memorized; others read along from a book of Hangul characters. I was enjoying just listening to the congregation chant together, but the kindly woman next to me decided it would be nice to lean over to me and share her book.

Now, I can phonetically read Hangul, but only at a toddler level. A slow toddler, at that. But lucky me, the woman was very nice and pointed out in the book our place in the chant, insisting I join in. Her finger bounced along the Korean script at a very brisk pace, and I, wanting very badly to be gracious and try to participate, did my damnedest to try to keep up. Disastrous failure. My eyes strained, my brain driven far beyond its capacity, I mostly murmured and hummed as the chanting went on and on and on. Page after page of chanting, often repeating large sections three times before turning the page and continuing. I didn't know how to politely say "No thank you, I'll just listen," so I mumbled and hummed and strained. Undeterred by my obvious inability to read her little book, the woman kept showing me our place, quickly moving from character to character, moving on long before I had had a chance to match up symbol to sound.

The chanting wasn't exactly monotone, but it centralized itself on one droning note, and occasionally moved up or down for a moment before returning to the main drone, and maintained a perfectly steady rhythm the entire time. I suppose if you knew what you were doing, or if you could, say, read Hangul, this might lead you into a lovely trancy meditative state. But if you were me, this would be the most maddening, straining, and God-awfully long song with no melody you'd ever heard in your life, and you'd be expected to sing along. Just like the bows, the chant went on and on and on and on, perhaps for thirty or forty minutes, and all the while, my friendly neighbor pointed out our place in the book, politely encouraging me to chant along.

When the chanting finally and thankfully stopped, by brain was buzzing as if I had just finished taking the SAT. Then the monk started tapping the gourd again and launched into another chant, this one so fast that, thank God, I was not expected to join. I was amazed at how the monk chanted out the Korean words with such speed, fluidity, and purity of tone. Any hip hop artist would've been humbled by the speed and endurance of his Buddhist flow. He chanted on and on, perhaps for another twenty minutes. The sound was truly beautiful, and when I didn't have to strain and participate, the service was really enjoyable. But by then, time was so stretched and distorted from the effort I had already put in that even this pleasant music seemed to go on for far too long, forever, would it ever end??? Would we be here late into the night, listening to this unintelligible droning chant until our brains dribbled out our noses??? Oh wait! He's slowing down! Yes, he's wrapping it up, surely this is the end---NO! HE STARTED AGAIN! HE'S STILL CHANTING! THIRTY MORE MINUTES AND HE'S STILL CHANTING! OH GOD!!! Buddha what have I done to deserve this???

But I wasn't about to leave. Impatient or not, I really wanted to see how this ended.

The service lasted over two hours, which isn't really that long when you're not in a constant state of anxiously imitating your neighbor, when you don't feel like an intruder trying to blend in, when you're not completely clueless of what's happening and what's going to happen next. For us, two hours felt like five. It's funny and sad; Zen meditation focuses the mind on the now moment, teaches detachment from the future, and encourages rejoicing in the way things are. In the Jogyesa Temple, I failed at all these things.

When it was finally over and the monk finally stopped tapping on his damn clickety little gourd and stopped chanting and walked out of the room, Melly and I stood to put our cushions away and collect our things. My polite neighbor, the woman who had been pointing along in the book, gave me some books to return to a shelf on the wall, as well as another book.

She had given me her personal copy of a Buddhist scripture, hardbound and written in vertical lines of Hangul characters from back to front. She spoke a few Korean sentences to me, gesturing to the book, and returned to her cushion. I didn't know if it belonged to the temple or what. I looked around and asked Melly, "Did she just give this to me?" A young Korean woman in the corner said in clear English, "Yeah, I think she just gave that to you." Dazed, Melly and I walked back to the door, out onto the porch and slipped on our shoes.

Our minds were mush. As soon as we were out of sight of the temple, we laughed and blurted out to each other "WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED TO US???" We had wanted to meditate for fifteen minutes, and instead we had been drawn into an entire religious service of the central temple of Korean Zen Buddhism. We were the only two non-Korean individuals there. We had experienced something apparently very few other foreigners get to experience, and we had done it completely by accident.

I looked at my new book. Unreadable. Mysterious. Something felt very special about it. How could I learn more about it? I didn't know.

The rest of the afternoon, we saw some old Hanok houses--Korean architecture from long ago. But we couldn't care. Our brains had been turned to pudding. For having gone to a peaceful, meditative service in a Zen temple, we sure were frazzled and exhausted. Nothing else was going to stick to our minds tonight.

We had dinner. We met our friend James and saw some cool Korean bands in a bar and drank beer. We returned to our hostel room at 2 am, only to find a raucous group of twenty college-aged Korean kids outside our bedroom door, laughing loudly and playing games. They said, "Sorry!" We assured them it was all right ("guenchunseumnida!"), closed our bedroom door, put in earplugs, and went to sleep. The group was riotously loud on the other side of our thin bedroom wall until 6 in the damn morning.

But what the hell, we were in Korea.

Wednesday, Feb 22nd

Scott and I successfully navigated our first subway transfer by ourselves after another late morning and breakfast adventure, wandering around our hostel until we found something we might be able to order with pictures. We had seen a small number of different subway stations by now. We were so impressed by each station's uniqueness--some had a new England brick style interior, while some had long rows of underground shops. Today's destination featured a pale, stone, more clean-lined, regal interior. And for good reason. The station steps exited directly onto the grounds of a striking and enormous royal palace.

Geongbukgung Palace is like nothing I've ever seen in the US. The flared rooftops and intricately painted colors absolutely scream out their Asian-ness, as if we had somehow forgotten how different Korea already felt. Scott was awesome and insisted on paying a little more for a digital audio tour. it was so much more meaningful to wander through the palace grounds hearing stories about Korean dynasties and royalty and becoming more familiar with the country's history. I think the pictures say it all- if you haven't already, check out our Facebook albums.

That evening we ventured up a small mountain to the North Seoul Tower. We had been doing a ridiculous amount of walking, so we took a cable car ride up to the base of the tower. Maybe next time we'll hike up the giant flight of stairs. At the top of the tower we watched as dusk fell and the giant city below started to twinkle with lights. Huge is not a big enough word. Yes, there were tall buildings, yes there were a ton of them, but what surprised us was that no matter what direction we faced the buildings kept stretching out towards the horizon and disappearing into the haze. The sheer enormity of Seoul finally made some tangible sense in our minds. It was breathtaking.

We ordered dinner, again by pointing at pictures, at some tiny hole in the wall place in an alley below the tower. Restaurants are everywhere in Seoul, one stacked on top of another. Yet each one has an intimate, mom and pop sort of feel. Except of course the millions of Outback steakhouses (we actually found two within 50 feet of each other), Fridays and Dunkin Donuts. We ordered soju- a sweet potato liquor like vodka- with dinner. The man's eyes bugged out and he said in English, "Soju? Really?!" Why this was so bizarre we still aren't sure, but laughed when he asked us what kind. He held out two bottles and says, "This one for man. This one for girls." So, challenged, I ask for the men's soju. Ick. The soju for girls I much prefer after all.

The next day we visited another palace, this one called Deoksogung Palace. Also incredible, and the buildings were painted exactly like the first palace. Its amazing how intricate and beautiful and yet how uniform the palace structures are. Afterwards, we went to an art museum with one artist featured. "This is my Home" by Yann Arthus-Bertrand was the focal point, showcasing photos of different places around the earth from above in a helicopter. Breathtakingly beautiful photography, but all the information was written in Korean. When we stopped to watch the film, it hit us with a devastating smack in the face. Despite their artistic beauty, these pictures showed us destroying our planet. We walked out feeling a little downtrodden, but determined to try and do our small part to be ecologically conscious. South Korea recycles almost everything…at least that's a start. The only thing that cheered me up was the collection of portraits of people with their farm animals. It was the most bizarre bunch of pictures…I can't even describe the hilarity. A cool exhibit, actually, when you really stopped to think about it, but I couldn't help giggling anyway.

Namdemeun market was our next stop. OMG. Street upon street filled with shops inside and tents outside selling everything under the sun. Blankets and traditional dresses, poofy coats and pots, cameras and handbags, seaweed and shoes….I could go on for hours. And it was a good thing I was exhausted or Scott would have been there forever- I was in shopping HEAVEN. Luckily we had way too much baggage to get back to our apartment, or I would have done some serious damage. As it was, we bought a giant asian pear and stopped for some street food when a middle aged woman, also known as an ajumma, grabbed my arm and ushered us into her eating area (which was a plastic tent). We are beginning to understand the stubborn, iron will of the ajumma. The meal was amazing, except for the bulgogi. Bones in every bite. Overall, pretty impressive street food. You just have to watch out for boney bulgogi :)

Our First Day

Tuesday, February 21st

Even finding a way to eat breakfast was an adventure.
Melly and I took our sweet time getting ready, shuffling our belongings in the tiny hostel room, getting dressed in layers to withstand the biting cold of the humid Seoul air. It felt good to be operating at our own pace. We walked out into our first glimpse of Korean sunlight and found ourselves in a gray wintery day in a gray urban megalopolis.
The buildings weren't as vertically staggering as I'd pictured--the city didn't even feel as intensely huge as New York City, even though the population was far larger. But the sheer DETAIL was overwhelming. Hangul signs cluttered the sides of every building, every floor and every doorway boasted a sandwich-board sign with unintelligible messages, pictures of food I've never even heard of before, coffee shops, restaurants, mobile phone dealers, mystery buildings everywhere. "KPop" (which sounds a hell of a lot like bland American pop sung in Korean, in my snobby opinion) and techno pumped out of shops onto the sidewalk while Korean women spoke quick Korean paragraphs into headset microphones, inviting every passerby to step inside their cosmetics shops and buy, buy, buy.
Lots of info to process.
So we wandered into a street packed densely with small shops and mom n' pop restaurants, stopping at every turn and taking careful note of the landmarks so we could find our way home. We wandered for a good thirty-five minutes, hoping to find a restaurant with some English next to the pictures (hell, we had to start somewhere). Finally, there it was, a noodle house with pictures of soup and dumplings outside with English translation! Thank God! Well, I still don't know what that is, but I can at least order it! Yeah, we got this! No problem!
As soon as we walked in and started towards the counter, the two Korean women behind the counter started yelling at us and waving us back towards the door. Oh God! What what what did we do??? Should we take our shoes off? Hang our coats up or something??? I don't understand I don't understand HELP!!!
And then we saw that they were gesturing us towards a machine in the corner, a machine the size of a small ATM with a large touch screen on its face with pictures of the menu items on it. Oh, I got it. Clumsily, we made our choices clear to the machine. Sometimes it would pop up a little menu with two options for a dish. Both options were in Hangul, so we just chose at random and damned be the consequences. We'll eat anything at this point.
That was one of the best meals of our lives. A delicious noodle/tofu/vegetable soup, a platter of stuffed mandu dumplings, a ball of seasoned rice with beef encrusted in seaweed. And a pot of complimentary kimchi, perfectly spiced, perfectly crisp! My God, I had no idea food could be this good. We secretly studied the local Korean people eating around us, trying to find out little subtleties in etiquette, how to slurp up the noodles without making a ridiculous scene, what to do with such and such dish of sauce or whatever. It was a very intense and vibrant experience.
On our way out, I consulted our guidebook and told the woman who had prepared our meal, "Mashi-iss-seo" which means "This is delicious." She was utterly delighted, and bowed to us and thanked us ("Gamsahamnida!") And sent us on our way. We left the restaurant feeling triumphant and proud.

We met up with James an hour or two later. He had the day off work and offered to show us around the city.
James is a flurry of vigor and passion, and has a way of rendering me speechless at least once every couple of minutes, either from the sheer random hilarity of his thoughts, or by his fearless way of cutting past the bullshit between people. He has a true gift for connecting with people, and always has a question to ask them, always is genuinely interested in learning more about the individuals he's with. He showed us how to use the subway (Seoul has a great public transit system, by the way), and amidst the frenzy of activity and flow of Korean people, he turned to Melly and me and asked, "I have a question for you guys. Have you ever heard of the prisoner's dilemma?"
We hadn't. He explained that the prisoner's dilemma happens between two parties who are locked in a cycle of bitter competition and forced cooperation. If you and I are enemies, but for the moment it is mutually advantageous for us to cooperate, then we will cooperate for now. But when will that trust be betrayed? When will the agreement to cooperate be broken? And who will break it? Is it better to break the agreement first, to act out of self-interest and survival while forsaking any notion of altruism or peace? Or is it better to bide your time, perhaps enjoy the benefits of the truce while always taking the risk that the enemy will strike first?
And is this, perhaps, what we all do all the time? Are all our alliances and agreements really born from selfishness? Do we only cooperate because we must to survive in our society? And, if so, what is our true nature?
Self-interest vs. altruism? Self vs. other? Connections between people, between nations, and the possibilities of peace? The looming threat of war? Where do I end and you begin? What is the Self???
The conversation was so involving that we missed our subway stop and had to catch the train in the opposite direction. As we walked out into a new section of Seoul, I contemplated my motivations in being here, I contemplated the ways I could relate to this new nation of people as a total outsider, I contemplated North Korea and the deep scars they've left on the heart of the world, I contemplated economics, politics, spirituality.
"Damn it, James," I said. "Don't you think I have enough to think about right now? We laughed and continued on into the street.
We met up with James's Korean friend Hayley, a native Seoul musician. And we went shopping. High-end posh boutiques pushing handbags for 250 bucks (250,000 won, that is), vintage used-clothes shops selling charming American jackets and shirts from the 70's, shoe shops, book shops, electronics shops, malls, street vendors. Korea is shopping PARADISE, I decided.
Hours later, we wound our way through densely packed alleys into a charming local restaurant. We sat cross-legged on the floor around a small table and feasted on spicy tofu soup, Korean blood sausage in broth (was actually quite tasty), rice-stuffed chicken in boiling broth, kimchi, pickled radishes, cabbages, pahjan, and more. The table was literally covered in perhaps two dozen dishes, each containing something strange and spicy and new. And DELICIOUS. Hayley and James helped us learn about the culture and language, and we laughed over shots of soju. Completely wonderful.
After dinner, we meandered to a lovely coffee shop on the second floor of some nearby building. I enjoyed a caramel affogiato--vanilla ice cream in a dish of espresso--and Melly sipped an iced peach tea.
We talked for a long time. We realized that we were all searching for something in our hearts, and we didn't know what it was and we didn't know how to find it. We realized that we were wanderers, gypsies who felt compelled to taste more than one dish from life's buffet. But we wanted to find our work. We wanted to focus and create something beautiful. We didn't know what we wanted our futures to be.
"The way I see it," James said to us, "is there are two kinds of people. There are those who keep the world running. Doctors, mechanics, construction workers--the people that actually make the system work, those who fix what's broken, and so on. And then there are those who evolve the world. And they may not fit into the system. They may be on the outside of it all, they may not even know what they're doing."
We realized that we all shared the same deep-seated confusion in the pit of our stomachs. The same fear. That same sense of searching. The feeling that everyone had a plan, a sense a purpose, except us.
But we laughed and smiled with each other that night, and we raised our glasses happily together. We were friends now. Life had brought us all here, to this little coffee shop in South Korea, and for one night at least we had found each other.
For now, that was enough.

Seoul

We Arrive

Sunday, February 19th to Monday, February 20th
We arrive:

When our alarm went off at a nauseating 3:30 AM in Salt Lake City, it actually took me a few seconds to remember what was going on. Then, something like a bowling ball dropping on my chest, the sleepy stupor shook itself off, and I remembered.
Oh God, it's actually happening. Melly and I are actually moving to South Korea.
Right. Now.
It was really a blessing that we had to be at the airport so God-awfully early. The terror and excitement that might've reduced me to a blubbering mess at any other time of the day was instead dulled to bleary-eyed resignation. My parents drove us on slushy snowy Utah freeways to the terminal. We didn't ride in complete silence, but it was close. After so many months and months of waiting and speculating, the moment of goodbye itself was surreal, almost anticlimactic. I couldn't emotionally access what was happening, so I just let it roll on by.
Man our luggage is heavy. We were ridiculously bogged down standing in the baggage check line, but thankfully we quickly dropped the bulk of it off and began a 24 hour process of waiting and flying. I was expecting the day to be pretty horrible, but actually, once we started walking around without giant horrible backpacks and luggage, finding our gates, going through security, making our transfers, sipping airport coffee and eating airport sandwiches was actually pretty fun. It felt good to be responsible for our own decisions, to not be able to defer to someone else's experience or expertise. And it felt good to be successful with that responsibility.
The flight across the Pacific (well, we actually flew over the continental coasts and across the Bering Strait--probably a better idea) was surprisingly pleasant. We flew with Asiana airlines, and the experience was GREAT. Delicious, high quality food, free wine, friendly staff. We had OCTOPUS on the plane, for crying out loud. And BIBIMBAP. And STEAK. And SALMON. And it was GOOD. I mean, seriously. Awesome. Fly with them if you can.
The relativity of time in that aircraft was interesting. I can't sleep well in planes, so I took a Benadryl to knock myself out. Maybe I got three hours of sleep, maybe I got six. In retrospect, I find it impossible to tell. Being on that plane was like being in a womb. Small, compact, comfortable. My needs were met before I had to think about them, and the world outside was just some vague suggestion on a screen in the seat-back in front of me. The birth that awaited us seemed impossibly distant, irrelevant. More wine, please.
The Seoul airport was a breeze. We didn't even have to stop walking to go through customs. Sweet.
Then we waited for about 2 hours for our buddy James to get off work and meet us. James was our saving grace (or saving Gracey, heh heh). He helped us with our luggage, walked us to the airport subway station that looked like some galactic space port, and helped us find the way to the hostel. We probably could've done it on our own with much effort and a lot of wasted time, but man oh man am I glad James Gracey lived in Seoul that night.
The walk to the hostel was not easy. For the first time since the airport that morning (24 hours earlier), we had to bear the full brunt of our luggage, navigate through crowded subway stations, walk up a staircase to the street that will forever live in infamy in my brain, and out into the strange and wonderful world of Seoul. A city block later, it was practically a miracle that we saw the small sign tucked down a side alley--"Mr. Kim's Friend's Guest House." Oh thank God, get these backpacks off of us.
We plopped the luggage down in our cramped little hostel room and headed back out into the streets. My jaw was completely dropped the next couple of hours as James led us down narrow streets clustered with small shops, restaurants, flashing lights, never-ending tunnels of blinking lights in Hangeul characters that may as well have been hieroglyphics or alien code, James pointing out little gems of clubs, bars, and restaurants stacked three, four, seven or eight on top of each other. We wound our way through a couple of corners, and I realized, not five minutes after we left the hostel, that if we suddenly got separated from James, I would have NO CLUE how to get back, that we would wander forever through the neon signs and stacks of restaurants until the sun rose, and maybe an English speaking somebody might take mercy on us, sleeping in a gutter somewhere, and also happen to know the way back to Mr. Kim's Friend's Guesthouse. Luckily, that didn't happen.
Instead, James took us to a charming little restaurant called "Jawsfood," with only 4 items on the menu, all of them completely unintelligible to me. James ordered for us, and soon we were laughing over a bowl of a delicious fish broth, a plate of perfectly fried tempura, and a bowl of little chewy rice cakes in a FANTASTICALLY spicy sauce. Our first Korean food, and it was amazing.
James led us through the streets for an hour and a half after that, pointing out Hongdae Park, shopping districts, bars and clubs, delicious hole-in-the-wall restaurants. We wound in and out of narrow alleys and wide city streets. I had no idea where we were, even relatively where the hostel might be, and my brain was operating basically as well as a bowl of bean noodles. It was too much. Just too much to take anything in.
So we made it back to the hostel. I would later realize that we never left a tiny little rectangle of streets in our immediate vicinity, even though it seemed we walked miles into a impenetrable labyrinth. It wasn't long before we collapsed into bed, completely overwhelmed and perfectly drained. We slept.
I woke up four hours later, at 5:30 AM Seoul time. My body was positive, it told me, that it was mid-afternoon and I'd better be getting up. I tried to explain the situation to it, but it wouldn't have it. My mind had joined the game and was trying to do the impossible--make sense of what was going on--so I was completely screwed.
I woke up and read a book until the sun came up.