Every Wednesday, Kiwi Teacher and Berry Teacher (me) teach science and cooking to the morning kiddie classes. These days are known in Banana Island as "B.I. Days." Certain recipes (i.e. pork meatballs or cookies) require advanced preparation and testing before we give them a go in class. Science usually does not require any sort of pre-class jump-start to allow the kids to complete the experiment during the allotted 30-minute class period. Wednesday is a different day of teaching than the rest of the days, and I usually feel beat at the end of the day. Today is Tuesday.
I went to teach morning math to Bana Star Class. The room lay empty with the light (as always) left on. "What!?" I hear Kiwi Teacher (Gena) exclaim. At this point, I knew today was "special." Maybe a video or some other group activity? She turns around, white as a ghost, mouth hanging loosely, eyelids nowhere to be seen, looking directly at me. I knew the scenario just before she began to speak. "We're doing B.I. Day today!?" She saw my heart thumping away in my eyes. It was 10:05. I needed to have cookies baked and ready for my first class at 10:30.
"Yeah, I told you guys!" says Jane, the Korean-American teacher from California who usually does translations for us when Mrs. Lee (the boss) wants to tell us something. I looked at Jane and Gena in disbelief. Then I ran to the office room/copy room/storage closet to grab my black apron with the yellow neck strap.
The previous week, Mrs. Lee had several times called us to talk after school about some intended schedule changes. She would tell us in English "schedule change," then explain to Jane in Korean, who would tell us in English "there is a schedule change." Gena rolled her eyes. "That tells us nothing." Jane would ask Mrs. Lee once again, who'd say "these classes are together" and explain to Jane in Korean, who'd tell us, "I don't know, I think these two classes are together now."
Headache. "Write the new schedule down for us, I have no idea what these pen circles mean," Gena told Mrs. Lee. It was the end of our shift, time for me to go catch the bus to my Korean class in Seoul.
At another little meeting two weeks ago, we were informed the B.I. Day had been moved from Wednesday to Friday to closer coincide with the the holiday, Children's Day. Mother's Day was supposed to be the holiday, we thought, but Mother's Day doesn't happen until the 13th. "Change," Mrs. Lee said. Korean Mother's Day happens a week earlier than Western Mother's Day, and Mrs. Lee wanted us to change for the Children's Day holiday, which happened the same week as Korean Mother's Day this year.
The curriculum has us celebrating Mother's Day, with special "I love you Mom" crafts the Korean teachers teach and heart-shaped Mother's Day cookies that Gena and I teach the kids to eat. So we shifted the Mother's Day B.I. Day to the week of western Mother's Day and we shifted the B.I. Day to Friday for Children's Day. Problem solved.
As it turned out (and we today found out), we also shifted the Mother's Day B.I. Day to Tuesday this week (today), in order to accomodate for the Korean Parent's Day holiday, which apparently also falls on this week. "Okay, this is the greatest short-term challenge you've faced in quite some time," I told myself. "Don't screw up."
In the kitchen. While I began mixing sugar, baking soda, flour and ginger, in a bowl, Gena started coughing uncontrollably while trying to grab all the necessary ingredients from the refrigerator and grasp the current situation. She managed to whisper "Asthma -cough- attack." She got up from her chair. I filled a cup of water.
In the copy room/cell phone lobby/office, Gena pulls her inhaler from her bag. I put the cup of water in front of her. Secretary Jennifer, Kate Teacher and Jane were in the office with her. "Can I help you get anything ready?" Jane asked me.
"Yeah, let me see what I can think of."
In the kitchen, looked at the instructions, mixed butter into the dough. "I told you guys before," Jane said again. "Put some flour on the cutting board," I responded. No use trying to argue over who should have done what and who messed up. At least not at the moment.
Gena recovered from her asthma fit, I followed the dough directions successfully and, through maintaining my cool, managed the surprise B.I. Day well. The gingerbread cookies were actually delicious. Intense situation resolved.
I'm still trying to think of at least some type of organization to implement that'll make stuff like this not happen again. I do now vaguely remember one time hearing something a couple weeks ago about a B.I. Day being moved to a Tuesday. There is no general whiteboard "Daily Calendar" with the dates written in, like at that horrible Wonderland where I worked last year.
Probably I took for granted that I'd hear about the schedule change again sometime within the next two weeks. Not totally unreasonable. But still... Jane is going to put a neon-yellow sheet of construction paper on our bulletin board, on which she (and we) will tack important memos.
At least, that's the idea.
08 May 2007
19 April 2007
Today, "99% CACAO" really did mean 99% cocoa
After tearing off three pieces and throwing them into my mouth, I wondered why anyone would ever buy this stuff. It's basically baking chocolate, with maybe a granule of sugar per rectangular morsel.
Two months ago a student of mine gifted me with"99% CACAO" chocolate. It couldn't match the mild bitterness of the Hershey's Special. It did, however, taste good enough to eat.
Two months ago a student of mine gifted me with"99% CACAO" chocolate. It couldn't match the mild bitterness of the Hershey's Special. It did, however, taste good enough to eat.
11 April 2007
Cherry Blossom Festival
The cherry blossoms blossom for only about two weeks every year. On Easter Sunday, I saw them in the first week of blossoming. The place: Jin Hae, a city further south than any in which I've set foot while in Korea, on the southern coast. The Korea naval academy exists there, first built as a Japanese naval base during their period of occupation in the 20th century.
Actually, the cherry blossoms were originally brought from Japan. The Koreans decided to keep the cherry blossoms, however, rather than boot them out along with the Japanese.
I wouldn't have been able to see any of this without Nathan. We hung out in the Rockies of Colorado during the summer of 2004. I took the high-speed train to see him down in beautiful Daegu, where the next day we took a bus to see the pretty flowers on the trees down south. I had a scare that night, as I checked on the internet the availability for high-speed train tickets back north to Seoul. It was approaching 7pm, and 70 of the next available tickets were for 9:45pm. Ten minutes later, the internet told me 60 tickets remained. Nathan took me to the main road, where I bid him farewell from the back seat of a cab.
The train station high-speed KTX train ticket booths were closed. I got in line for the general train ticket service and anticipated possibly arriving home after 3am. "KTX, Seoul yuck (station)" I told the ticket clerk. "Gate 7, thirty minutes" she replied.
I arrived at my apartment just after 11pm, having finished my homework on the train (while a curious Korean highschooler made no bones about watching me from the seat to my left). I would get my eight hours of sleep, ready to tackle the next day at work. Lucky that night. Another time may come.
Actually, the cherry blossoms were originally brought from Japan. The Koreans decided to keep the cherry blossoms, however, rather than boot them out along with the Japanese.
I wouldn't have been able to see any of this without Nathan. We hung out in the Rockies of Colorado during the summer of 2004. I took the high-speed train to see him down in beautiful Daegu, where the next day we took a bus to see the pretty flowers on the trees down south. I had a scare that night, as I checked on the internet the availability for high-speed train tickets back north to Seoul. It was approaching 7pm, and 70 of the next available tickets were for 9:45pm. Ten minutes later, the internet told me 60 tickets remained. Nathan took me to the main road, where I bid him farewell from the back seat of a cab.
The train station high-speed KTX train ticket booths were closed. I got in line for the general train ticket service and anticipated possibly arriving home after 3am. "KTX, Seoul yuck (station)" I told the ticket clerk. "Gate 7, thirty minutes" she replied.
I arrived at my apartment just after 11pm, having finished my homework on the train (while a curious Korean highschooler made no bones about watching me from the seat to my left). I would get my eight hours of sleep, ready to tackle the next day at work. Lucky that night. Another time may come.
28 March 2007
At the Gym
In a building two blocks from my apartment, I take one of four mirrored elevators to the third floor and turn to enter the Hanyang Fitness Center through two parallel glass doors. Inside on the right, perpendicular to the entrance, is a desk about four feet high. A cute, mid-20s (I think) Korean woman rises from her chair behind the desk smiles and greets me with "Ahnyong hahseo?" ("Hello", or literally translated: "Are you at peace?"). "Ahnyong hahseo," I repeat, but with a declarative tone: "Yes, I am at peace."
From my wallet I pull my gym membership card. She's already turning back around to face me, after grabbing one of many keys off of the wall. Into my hand, she puts the key. Into the key's cubby-hole, she puts my card. I give her a "Kahmsah hamnida" ("Thank you") and proceed to the mountains of gym-issued shirts, shorts, and towels on shelves.
On the top-left shelf are the larger orange "women's" shirts and shorts. On the top-right, larger grey "men's" shirts and navy shorts. The bottom shelves have the smaller size for each color, and the sky-blue towels. I grab a shirt, shorts and towel from the bottom rack, the only time in this country where I actually choose the smaller clothing size. 99% of the time, a "double extra-large" is equivalent to an American "large". At this gym, however, the 2XL shirt is too big.
Across from the shirts are the shoe-lockers. Nobody actually locks their shoes in; they leave the key in the lock. Locker two, about head-level, is where I always leave my shoes. Using the same locker is easier than remembering a different number every day. I, like everyone else, leave the key in the lock, and my shoes at the mercy of the few big-footed Korean men that exist.
Beside the shoe-lockers is another hallway, which I take. On the right side is a room with big glass windows. Usually, I see people playing table tennis. Sometimes, tai-chi class.
Straight ahead is a golf practice room. Golfing is very expensive in Korea, as vast expanses of non-concrete ground are almost non-existent. The practice rooms have hanging rubber-walls (a couple feet wide) that give a little when the ball hits. The ball then falls into a basket-catch. Having golfed only once in my lifetime, I am none-compelled to practice my swing (though many here practice their swings without ever having golfed). The locker room is to my left, so I turn from the people swinging, the clubs swooshing, the balls hitting, and enter.
Upon the floor lay many-a-pair of sneakers. I grab the cross-trainer shoes from my backpack (no dirty outdoor shoes in the gym) and leave them by the door. In my hand is the numbered key that the pretty woman at the desk hands me. I find the locker that corresponds to the key number, open it and throw my stuff in. Once changed into the gym-issued garb, I return to the door, put my shoes back on, and go do my workout.
When I return to the locker room, I throw my sweaty shorts and shirt into a basket under a counter of men's toiletries and hair-dryers. A large mirror hangs on the wall over the counter. Oftentimes I must dodge around and/or wait for other naked men drying/grooming themselves in front of the mirror before I can deposit the dirty laundry and lay my glasses down. Adjacent to the locker room is the shower room.
Before entering the shower room, I take the sky-blue towel and some dandruff shampoo (the air here is mean to me) from my locker. I take my key as well, and safely lock up my valuable belongings. In the shower room, I take my chances leaving the towel and key hanging on a rack by the door. This worked against me once:
I'd finished showering and went to the the towel rack by the doorway, only to find my key. No towel. Through the glass doors, I looked into the locker room at the many men drying themselves off with sky-blue towels. After dripping off for a couple of seconds, I opened the door and stood on the white floor mat by the shower room entrance. The hair dryers beckoned, but there were too many other naked men by the counter; too close for comfort, and I'd probably drip on them. So, I waited for things to clear up. One of the men saw me and handed me his (maybe my) towel, of which he'd finished using on his own previously-wet self.
I took the towel, gave a nod. "Kahmsah hamnida."
From my wallet I pull my gym membership card. She's already turning back around to face me, after grabbing one of many keys off of the wall. Into my hand, she puts the key. Into the key's cubby-hole, she puts my card. I give her a "Kahmsah hamnida" ("Thank you") and proceed to the mountains of gym-issued shirts, shorts, and towels on shelves.
On the top-left shelf are the larger orange "women's" shirts and shorts. On the top-right, larger grey "men's" shirts and navy shorts. The bottom shelves have the smaller size for each color, and the sky-blue towels. I grab a shirt, shorts and towel from the bottom rack, the only time in this country where I actually choose the smaller clothing size. 99% of the time, a "double extra-large" is equivalent to an American "large". At this gym, however, the 2XL shirt is too big.
Across from the shirts are the shoe-lockers. Nobody actually locks their shoes in; they leave the key in the lock. Locker two, about head-level, is where I always leave my shoes. Using the same locker is easier than remembering a different number every day. I, like everyone else, leave the key in the lock, and my shoes at the mercy of the few big-footed Korean men that exist.
Beside the shoe-lockers is another hallway, which I take. On the right side is a room with big glass windows. Usually, I see people playing table tennis. Sometimes, tai-chi class.
Straight ahead is a golf practice room. Golfing is very expensive in Korea, as vast expanses of non-concrete ground are almost non-existent. The practice rooms have hanging rubber-walls (a couple feet wide) that give a little when the ball hits. The ball then falls into a basket-catch. Having golfed only once in my lifetime, I am none-compelled to practice my swing (though many here practice their swings without ever having golfed). The locker room is to my left, so I turn from the people swinging, the clubs swooshing, the balls hitting, and enter.
Upon the floor lay many-a-pair of sneakers. I grab the cross-trainer shoes from my backpack (no dirty outdoor shoes in the gym) and leave them by the door. In my hand is the numbered key that the pretty woman at the desk hands me. I find the locker that corresponds to the key number, open it and throw my stuff in. Once changed into the gym-issued garb, I return to the door, put my shoes back on, and go do my workout.
When I return to the locker room, I throw my sweaty shorts and shirt into a basket under a counter of men's toiletries and hair-dryers. A large mirror hangs on the wall over the counter. Oftentimes I must dodge around and/or wait for other naked men drying/grooming themselves in front of the mirror before I can deposit the dirty laundry and lay my glasses down. Adjacent to the locker room is the shower room.
Before entering the shower room, I take the sky-blue towel and some dandruff shampoo (the air here is mean to me) from my locker. I take my key as well, and safely lock up my valuable belongings. In the shower room, I take my chances leaving the towel and key hanging on a rack by the door. This worked against me once:
I'd finished showering and went to the the towel rack by the doorway, only to find my key. No towel. Through the glass doors, I looked into the locker room at the many men drying themselves off with sky-blue towels. After dripping off for a couple of seconds, I opened the door and stood on the white floor mat by the shower room entrance. The hair dryers beckoned, but there were too many other naked men by the counter; too close for comfort, and I'd probably drip on them. So, I waited for things to clear up. One of the men saw me and handed me his (maybe my) towel, of which he'd finished using on his own previously-wet self.
I took the towel, gave a nod. "Kahmsah hamnida."
14 March 2007
Judgement: Rather insensitive
I used to wear a T-Shirt with Southpark's "Timmy" gracing the front. For those who need briefing: Timmy is the mentally handicapped, whellchair-bound character with ADD who can only say his own name. I considered myself conscious of the sensitivities of disability, yet I found Timmy's mental shortcomings hilarious. It is, after all, a cartoon. But after recently, I've rethought the humor of that animated situation.
What's brought about this wind of change? Several days ago, I was watching television with a Korean friend, an SBS (Korean TV station) news program. On the screen was a middle-aged man, raising his lips to further reveal already-protruding teeth. My friend translated for me. "He's 44 years old, but has the mind of an eight-year old," he snickered. I wondered if he would notice the total absence of amusement on my face. I also wondered why the hell the SBS program had laugh tracks playing when the mentally-challenged man struggled to tie his shoes. In an attempt to write his name, he failed. Laugh tracks. "Oh my God, he can't even spell his own name right!" Apparently, this man has achieved celebrity status. A movie has been made about him. He now attends an elementary school with eight-year-olds, because special education in South Korea is pretty scarce.
I also saw, a week ago, a news program featuring a Korean chef who went and cooked up some food for orphans with disabilities, sans laugh-tracks. It was something nice to see, in contrast to what I saw later. Some people (including TV programming editors) can be nice, and others can be jerks.
What's brought about this wind of change? Several days ago, I was watching television with a Korean friend, an SBS (Korean TV station) news program. On the screen was a middle-aged man, raising his lips to further reveal already-protruding teeth. My friend translated for me. "He's 44 years old, but has the mind of an eight-year old," he snickered. I wondered if he would notice the total absence of amusement on my face. I also wondered why the hell the SBS program had laugh tracks playing when the mentally-challenged man struggled to tie his shoes. In an attempt to write his name, he failed. Laugh tracks. "Oh my God, he can't even spell his own name right!" Apparently, this man has achieved celebrity status. A movie has been made about him. He now attends an elementary school with eight-year-olds, because special education in South Korea is pretty scarce.
I also saw, a week ago, a news program featuring a Korean chef who went and cooked up some food for orphans with disabilities, sans laugh-tracks. It was something nice to see, in contrast to what I saw later. Some people (including TV programming editors) can be nice, and others can be jerks.
27 February 2007
The Lobster Dance
A lobster restaurant just opened on the street-level in my apartment building . Outside the doorway of the new place, loud techno music blared. A makeshift archway of balloons and flowers ran from one end of the door to the other.
At both feet of the arch rested two huge speakers. In front of each speaker danced two young women with short mini-skirts. The dance was nothing to take lightly. Both women moved in synch, faces matching the intensity of the music.
As hungry for lobster as I was after viewing the scene, I went inside to my apartment and made some spaghetti with kimchi.
At both feet of the arch rested two huge speakers. In front of each speaker danced two young women with short mini-skirts. The dance was nothing to take lightly. Both women moved in synch, faces matching the intensity of the music.
As hungry for lobster as I was after viewing the scene, I went inside to my apartment and made some spaghetti with kimchi.
06 February 2007
Standing on an express bus for forty-five minutes...
... may be worth the 15 less minutes of travel (when compared with the subway).
During a non-busy time of night, the commute from Ilsan to the over-popular Gangnam area isn't too bad; if traveling from the former to the latter. The return trip, however, yields standing-room only on the 9700 bus. Thus far, I have yet to exempt myself from dinners with friends in the crowded district. Time will reveal whether I may continue to weather the harsh conditions, which shall only worsen as warm spring weather waxes while winter cold wanes.
I commute to that area to learn Korean once or twice a week from friend Gil, who lives there. Come April, I will begin taking Korean classes 3 nights a week at Ewha Women's University (I have yet to line it up; however, they gave me the go-ahead in December, before I turned down their too-intensive-for-my-schedule program.) The placement tests were the day before I arrived in Korea. So, I await spring.
Now, I must conduct a baking class. The recipe title: "Happiness Fruits." Little sausages arranged in the center of four cookie-cut circles of thick Texas-toast bread, simmered in the oven for five minutes, then glazed with syrup and sesame seeds. Enjoy?
During a non-busy time of night, the commute from Ilsan to the over-popular Gangnam area isn't too bad; if traveling from the former to the latter. The return trip, however, yields standing-room only on the 9700 bus. Thus far, I have yet to exempt myself from dinners with friends in the crowded district. Time will reveal whether I may continue to weather the harsh conditions, which shall only worsen as warm spring weather waxes while winter cold wanes.
I commute to that area to learn Korean once or twice a week from friend Gil, who lives there. Come April, I will begin taking Korean classes 3 nights a week at Ewha Women's University (I have yet to line it up; however, they gave me the go-ahead in December, before I turned down their too-intensive-for-my-schedule program.) The placement tests were the day before I arrived in Korea. So, I await spring.
Now, I must conduct a baking class. The recipe title: "Happiness Fruits." Little sausages arranged in the center of four cookie-cut circles of thick Texas-toast bread, simmered in the oven for five minutes, then glazed with syrup and sesame seeds. Enjoy?
27 January 2007
Pro Pee? Sure!
I'm waiting for my alien registration card, so that I may then await health insurance, so that I may then await an available Saturday appointment at the international clinic, so that I may then await a prescription for Propecia, so that I may then await possible hair regrowth on my forescalp. I need to take an hour on the subway to go into Itaewon, the foreigner district of Seoul. This is for the initial appointment.
Maybe the doc'll give me the prescription for the goods while I'm at the International Clinic, conveniently located across the street from Hooker Hill (catch an STD one night, get treatment the next day!). Maybe the Propecia will work after three months' use. Maybe the polluted rain in Seoul can cause baldness. It seems like an urban myth and I doubt its veracity, but I've heard that the rain here, if it falls directly on your forehead, may result in some hair loss. If there is even slight drizzle in the air, I notice that most men and women have umbrellas opened.
Many men and women in Korea experience thinning of the hair when they reach their thirties. I'm almost 24, and my hairline is receding even more. Why do I second-guess that letting the Seoul rain fall upon my noggin has something to do with my loss of hair? I took biology in high school, where Mrs. Jewett told me that baldness was hereditary, but I'd already learned that on Marc Summers' Double Dare trivia when I was 10. It's not like I didn't see it coming (going?); my hairline has been surrendering for years, looking more and more like those of my grandfathers'.
They've got a pill for everything now, it seems. The pills all do their jobs and everyone everywhere is happy because the pills work, right? Haha. Yeah, right. Propecia's been in business for long enough, though; they seem a safe bet. Might as well try the pill, eh?
Maybe the doc'll give me the prescription for the goods while I'm at the International Clinic, conveniently located across the street from Hooker Hill (catch an STD one night, get treatment the next day!). Maybe the Propecia will work after three months' use. Maybe the polluted rain in Seoul can cause baldness. It seems like an urban myth and I doubt its veracity, but I've heard that the rain here, if it falls directly on your forehead, may result in some hair loss. If there is even slight drizzle in the air, I notice that most men and women have umbrellas opened.
Many men and women in Korea experience thinning of the hair when they reach their thirties. I'm almost 24, and my hairline is receding even more. Why do I second-guess that letting the Seoul rain fall upon my noggin has something to do with my loss of hair? I took biology in high school, where Mrs. Jewett told me that baldness was hereditary, but I'd already learned that on Marc Summers' Double Dare trivia when I was 10. It's not like I didn't see it coming (going?); my hairline has been surrendering for years, looking more and more like those of my grandfathers'.
They've got a pill for everything now, it seems. The pills all do their jobs and everyone everywhere is happy because the pills work, right? Haha. Yeah, right. Propecia's been in business for long enough, though; they seem a safe bet. Might as well try the pill, eh?
22 January 2007
Pigeon on a stick
That wasn't chicken that Josh and I ate out on the corner by the subway many times last year. Gena, my Canadian coworker, informed me of this last week. To make sure, I checked with Korean friend Gil. "Yes, it is pigeon; street food is not good for you," he says, ordering from an outdoor avenue stand a plate of boiled pig-intestine filled with noodles and blood, along with some pieces of pig lung. I speared a couple of pieces and ingested them.
If several other people are willing to eat it and call it food, I'll allow at least some into my belly. My belly might get angry, however; if not then maybe someplace else in my digestive system. It's a bit of a game, where winning doesn't mean much and where losing means several days of physical anguish and/or death. Though, I think I'll put the fish bologna and pig tripe ahead of the pigeon. I ate enough winged, vomit-eating rats last year.
If several other people are willing to eat it and call it food, I'll allow at least some into my belly. My belly might get angry, however; if not then maybe someplace else in my digestive system. It's a bit of a game, where winning doesn't mean much and where losing means several days of physical anguish and/or death. Though, I think I'll put the fish bologna and pig tripe ahead of the pigeon. I ate enough winged, vomit-eating rats last year.
13 January 2007
"The Beverly Hills of Korea"
Last year, before going to see Amber and Kate's Daechi area apartment for the first time, they explained that their adult students had told them Daechi was "the Beverly Hills of Korea."
Amber and Kate smiled and explained it was a bit of an exaggeration. The sewage smell in the air aided their explanation, as did the presence of many apartment buildings in place of large houses and mansions, as did the concrete covering 100% of the non-existance of hills.
Ilsan, South Korea, where I arrived on Wednesday, actually is probably more befitting of that nickname; yes, I did read it described with those same "the Beverly Hills of Korea" words in an article. It's easy to conclude that this is a cliche expression used by Koreans to describe an affluent area in Korea in this way. But Ilsan is similar to Beverly Hills, in that the city government works to keep it separate from Seoul. It is also one of the most affluent areas in the country, with several parks and upscale shopping centers. It's grown much in the past 10 years.
Newsweek magazine, in fact, listed Ilsan, South Korea, as one of the world's 10 most dynamic cities.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/13528949/site/newsweek/page/9/
After a year of living in and travelling to places in Korea, I felt skeptical about the inclusion of a Korean city on a "most dynamic" list. Koreans seem traditionally rigid and conservative, holding on to confucianism, some say moreso than even do the Chinese. Judy, a Korean co-teacher last year, told me "Korean men want to be tough guys, always holding their pride close and arguing, exercising any 'superior' power over 'inferiors' simply because they are in a position to do so." The men want to "be tough," and the women want to "look pretty." Friend Seon clarified one of my wonders: "Korean women wear short skirts in the cold winter because they are very fashionable." Upon observing these cultural trends, "dynamic" never came to mind.
Ilsan doesn't feel like real Korea, but after a year of living in Bongcheon, I'm not too disappointed about living in a less-traditional culture; where the ground and air are clean, the people don't spit all over the sidewalks, the hotels aren't the "heart-shaped bed" variety, and where most of the pizza-delivery drivers realize that driving on the sidewalk is stupid. In my opinion, if traditions are preventing a society from progressing in important areas (i.e. average citizen physical and mental health) then people in the society should question the traditions'
importance. The organizers of Ilsan are doing something different, and it landed the city in a popular worldwide magazine's top-10 list.
I don't agree that all rich people should start up their own communes and keep all the poor people out, and I don't know if that is the major motivation behind Ilsan's fight to keep its population down. Perhaps more Seoullites will begin to move to smaller towns and expand their economies, creating new jobs, as they might realize that everyone cramming into the big city isn't for the best. But what do I know about sociology and economics and foreign cultures? Not enough, but maybe if I'm interested and thinking, I could learn a thing or two.
Amber and Kate smiled and explained it was a bit of an exaggeration. The sewage smell in the air aided their explanation, as did the presence of many apartment buildings in place of large houses and mansions, as did the concrete covering 100% of the non-existance of hills.
Ilsan, South Korea, where I arrived on Wednesday, actually is probably more befitting of that nickname; yes, I did read it described with those same "the Beverly Hills of Korea" words in an article. It's easy to conclude that this is a cliche expression used by Koreans to describe an affluent area in Korea in this way. But Ilsan is similar to Beverly Hills, in that the city government works to keep it separate from Seoul. It is also one of the most affluent areas in the country, with several parks and upscale shopping centers. It's grown much in the past 10 years.
Newsweek magazine, in fact, listed Ilsan, South Korea, as one of the world's 10 most dynamic cities.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/13528949/site/newsweek/page/9/
After a year of living in and travelling to places in Korea, I felt skeptical about the inclusion of a Korean city on a "most dynamic" list. Koreans seem traditionally rigid and conservative, holding on to confucianism, some say moreso than even do the Chinese. Judy, a Korean co-teacher last year, told me "Korean men want to be tough guys, always holding their pride close and arguing, exercising any 'superior' power over 'inferiors' simply because they are in a position to do so." The men want to "be tough," and the women want to "look pretty." Friend Seon clarified one of my wonders: "Korean women wear short skirts in the cold winter because they are very fashionable." Upon observing these cultural trends, "dynamic" never came to mind.
Ilsan doesn't feel like real Korea, but after a year of living in Bongcheon, I'm not too disappointed about living in a less-traditional culture; where the ground and air are clean, the people don't spit all over the sidewalks, the hotels aren't the "heart-shaped bed" variety, and where most of the pizza-delivery drivers realize that driving on the sidewalk is stupid. In my opinion, if traditions are preventing a society from progressing in important areas (i.e. average citizen physical and mental health) then people in the society should question the traditions'
importance. The organizers of Ilsan are doing something different, and it landed the city in a popular worldwide magazine's top-10 list.
I don't agree that all rich people should start up their own communes and keep all the poor people out, and I don't know if that is the major motivation behind Ilsan's fight to keep its population down. Perhaps more Seoullites will begin to move to smaller towns and expand their economies, creating new jobs, as they might realize that everyone cramming into the big city isn't for the best. But what do I know about sociology and economics and foreign cultures? Not enough, but maybe if I'm interested and thinking, I could learn a thing or two.
20 February 2006
skiing
I went three weeks ago. I fell on my face five times, not once did I roll, so I did rather well. I went down some "Black Diamond" courses. I doubt they were real Black diamonds, since there were only a couple lumps resembling moguls and considering that I didn't have a rough time on any of them.
I didn't know about the trip until the night before, in a "pub" with some buddies.
Josh gets a phone call from friend Grant, asking if we wanted to go skiing. We finish our beers, go home and start packing, get up at six, onto the subway, and we're on a bus off to someplace in Korea that has mountains and skiing on those mountains. Grant didn't come because he had diarrhea.
The snow is melted away, Spring will bring smog and my parents for 10 days, and I may start running soon. I joined a gym this morning, I've been sedentary my entire five month stay. Time to move.
I didn't know about the trip until the night before, in a "pub" with some buddies.
Josh gets a phone call from friend Grant, asking if we wanted to go skiing. We finish our beers, go home and start packing, get up at six, onto the subway, and we're on a bus off to someplace in Korea that has mountains and skiing on those mountains. Grant didn't come because he had diarrhea.
The snow is melted away, Spring will bring smog and my parents for 10 days, and I may start running soon. I joined a gym this morning, I've been sedentary my entire five month stay. Time to move.
25 January 2006
A morning conversation with mr. che, Josh and me
mr. che: did you know all Korean teachers at wonderland are not married?
Josh and Me: oh... yea?
mr. che: yes, yes. they are all not touched. {walks over to Josh, rubs his arm} like this. No skinship. Skinship.
Josh and Me: {nervous and awkward laughter}.
mr. che: { did you know that, um, the no touched Koreans also, um, no sexing?
Josh: {turns head away, eyebrows raised, lips pinched and curling up on the sides}
mr che: {approaches me, wide-eyed, brings his face close to mine} have you heard of sex?
Josh: {pinching the inside of his thigh in order not to laugh in mr. che's face}
Me: Sex? Ah... yeah, I've heard of it.
mr. che: all Korean teachers, except Carrie... no sex. You must watch for Korean women with many {rubs lips, indicating lipstick} red and many . They look like lion. rarrrr. { They will follow you and you must stay away. Koreans with no are okay.
Josh: Yes...? Are you talking about makeup?
mr. che: yes, yes.
Me: {silent}
Josh: {silent}
mr. che: {silent}
{the female korean teachers come into the teacher's lounge, and mr. che points at them}
{the female korean teachers come into the teacher's lounge, and mr. che points at them}
24 January 2006
On Thursday I get my wisdom teeth pulled.
It'll take between 15 and 30 minutes. Today the dentist looked at them. "Simple extraction." I plan on teaching a Kindergarten class with gauze in my mouth. After that, my two hours will have expired, and I can spit the gauze and go about my business unhindered.
Maybe I'll get laser eye surgery within the next seven months.
Maybe I'll get laser eye surgery within the next seven months.
09 January 2006
New Years
Instead of a big ball dropping from the sky like in Times Square, a bunch of men battering-ram a huge bell. Then the fireworks explode. Everyone has a delicious time with beebimbap and soju, and then the next thing you know, you're waking up on someone's floor where a dog's resting his sleeping head on your crotch.
20 December 2005
Speaking of Weddings...
I attended the wedding of Weon Chun last weekend. I first met Weon's sister, Seon, in Juneau last summer while on an Alaskan boat cruise. Seon and Weon both attended the University of Iowa, where my aunt lives. My aunt met them through some education conference, and I met them through my aunt.
I met Weon for dinner once in October, and she invited me to her wedding. Last weekend was the second time in my life I saw her. It was the second time I saw Seon, too. Two busses took the wedding party out of Seoul and south to some other town. Luckily, Seon sat next to me on the bus and accompanied me at the wedding. There was one other white guy there, a Frenchman. Seon and Weon were the only ones there who spoke good English.
Weddings are held in wedding halls, not in chapels. Machines blew bubbles in the air when Weon walked down the aisle to the traditional wedding march song. Seon and I got there late; we were eating dinner in the dining hall beforehand (they had us eat before, not after the ceremony). The pews were full, and there were many of us standing in the back of the hall looking out at the bride and groom. Everyone in the back was talking throughout the whole ceremony, which was funny. There was a quartet of girls who sang a couple tunes. It was almost identical to a ceremony like that in America. A friend marries the couple, though, not the preacher.
After the ceremony, I witnessed the traditional Korean fertility blessings, which took place in a special room. Weon and her husband changed into beautiful exotically colored dress and knelt, bowed before their parents, who also were dressed in the tradional Korean garments. Between the two groups was a table of fruits and nuts. The newly married held a sheet between them, and first Weon's parents gave blessings and threw nuts and berries into the sheet. Then the husband's parents gave their blessings, then all the elders of the husband's family (the wife's parents are her only family members allowed to give blessings, "traditional sexism," as Seon put it).
Seon also introduced me to the one Korean at the wedding who was around my age, and who also happened to be a beautiful female student at a university not too far from where I live. "You look tired," she told me. I get tired when I'm nervous. Instead of getting antsy and hyped, my brain just shuts me down, maybe overcompensating for the energy a normal person should be feeling. That was the end of that.
What a fun day
I met Weon for dinner once in October, and she invited me to her wedding. Last weekend was the second time in my life I saw her. It was the second time I saw Seon, too. Two busses took the wedding party out of Seoul and south to some other town. Luckily, Seon sat next to me on the bus and accompanied me at the wedding. There was one other white guy there, a Frenchman. Seon and Weon were the only ones there who spoke good English.
Weddings are held in wedding halls, not in chapels. Machines blew bubbles in the air when Weon walked down the aisle to the traditional wedding march song. Seon and I got there late; we were eating dinner in the dining hall beforehand (they had us eat before, not after the ceremony). The pews were full, and there were many of us standing in the back of the hall looking out at the bride and groom. Everyone in the back was talking throughout the whole ceremony, which was funny. There was a quartet of girls who sang a couple tunes. It was almost identical to a ceremony like that in America. A friend marries the couple, though, not the preacher.
After the ceremony, I witnessed the traditional Korean fertility blessings, which took place in a special room. Weon and her husband changed into beautiful exotically colored dress and knelt, bowed before their parents, who also were dressed in the tradional Korean garments. Between the two groups was a table of fruits and nuts. The newly married held a sheet between them, and first Weon's parents gave blessings and threw nuts and berries into the sheet. Then the husband's parents gave their blessings, then all the elders of the husband's family (the wife's parents are her only family members allowed to give blessings, "traditional sexism," as Seon put it).
Seon also introduced me to the one Korean at the wedding who was around my age, and who also happened to be a beautiful female student at a university not too far from where I live. "You look tired," she told me. I get tired when I'm nervous. Instead of getting antsy and hyped, my brain just shuts me down, maybe overcompensating for the energy a normal person should be feeling. That was the end of that.
What a fun day
Speaking of plastic surgery...
I went to a wedding last weekend, and the woman who accompanied me, Seon (the bride's sister) had had some freckles removed the week before. Seon is a professor in Pasadena, and she flew over for the wedding and for some touch-ups on her already barely blemished face. I must have changed my facial expression a little, because after telling me of the freckle removal, she explained how looks are so important to Koreans. She showed me her Gucci watch her ex-boyfriend had bought her. "At least you got something out of the relationship that lasts," I told her. She said she's going shopping for a Gucci bag soon, or a fake Gucci bag (fake labels made in Korea are still good quality, apparently).
Many women receive breast implants from their parents as a graduation gift. Others receive nosejobs, or the combo. Children get the bottom thing on their tongues cut so that they can speak English better (it's a crock, the thing under my tongue prevents me from sticking it out and curling it, but I speak it pretty okay).
Another surgery I forgot to mention is "double-eyelid" surgery. Koreans, like the Chinese and Japanese, have more skin on their eyelids, unlike non-East-Asians. "Double-eyelid" surgery removes some skin, giving the patient a Westernized look. The Korean Prime Minister had his eyes done "to enhance his vision," a myopic excuse which many of the older Koreans don't buy. The younger ones, those getting the surgery, find his statement plausible, like the annorhexic American girls (and their boyfriends) who nod their heads and laugh when they hear that being fat is unhealthy. They probably didn't laugh if they heard the latest news that having a little fat in the thighs may be healthier for the heart. Maybe they just give that news the same treatment they give to the news on the alarming trend of annorhexia.
Somebody also told me of "re-virginization," a surgery to make it look like a woman still has her hymen after she's lost it. The man wants a "virgin" wife, I guess. This seems like something that would only happen in the highest society; my Korean coworkers (aside from my boss) aren't pinched-up stress-bombs whose shit doesn't smell. I don't know how common "re-virginization" might be, the news obviously wouldn't report much on it here. Image importance may get a little ridiculous in Korea, as it does in the US.
Many women receive breast implants from their parents as a graduation gift. Others receive nosejobs, or the combo. Children get the bottom thing on their tongues cut so that they can speak English better (it's a crock, the thing under my tongue prevents me from sticking it out and curling it, but I speak it pretty okay).
Another surgery I forgot to mention is "double-eyelid" surgery. Koreans, like the Chinese and Japanese, have more skin on their eyelids, unlike non-East-Asians. "Double-eyelid" surgery removes some skin, giving the patient a Westernized look. The Korean Prime Minister had his eyes done "to enhance his vision," a myopic excuse which many of the older Koreans don't buy. The younger ones, those getting the surgery, find his statement plausible, like the annorhexic American girls (and their boyfriends) who nod their heads and laugh when they hear that being fat is unhealthy. They probably didn't laugh if they heard the latest news that having a little fat in the thighs may be healthier for the heart. Maybe they just give that news the same treatment they give to the news on the alarming trend of annorhexia.
Somebody also told me of "re-virginization," a surgery to make it look like a woman still has her hymen after she's lost it. The man wants a "virgin" wife, I guess. This seems like something that would only happen in the highest society; my Korean coworkers (aside from my boss) aren't pinched-up stress-bombs whose shit doesn't smell. I don't know how common "re-virginization" might be, the news obviously wouldn't report much on it here. Image importance may get a little ridiculous in Korea, as it does in the US.
09 December 2005
"Andrew Teacher, why no black hair?"
"Why don't I have black hair? Because (I have European ancestry? No, too complicated for kindergarteners. God made me that way? No, not good enough for Clara.), I am from
"New teachers? Yellow hair?" Kids asked when Amber and Kate visited wonderland yesterday. The children at the school haven't seen so much blonde hair before. They screamed in excitement and ran into their classrooms, peering through the windows at the two American women in the hallway. Chris, a Gustavus grad staying at Amber and Kate's, a full beard on his face, walked behind them. No screams, just looks of wonder at another foreign man. The kids might be used to the facial hair - I'm trying a goatee at the moment. They ask to pet it sometimes.
"Give Peace a Change"
Appears as a quote on a John Lennon poster I saw in Seoul. Funny, but I'm more taken by the fact that they care about his legacy out here.
28 November 2005
Wonderful wonderland
Josh just had two classes dropped from his Thursday schedule - parents keep pulling kids out of the school - they don't like our director, according to our supervisor. I don't think us teachers are in trouble. wonderland is a corporation - they have other schools across Seoul. We'll see how long our current school can stay afloat, then if shit finally hits the fan, excitement!
16 November 2005
Severe Throat Infection
"I have one?" I ask the doctor in the clinic.
"Yes."
I look over at his computer screen: the program is in English, and he's typed in all of the symptoms I told him. A list of conditions follows the symptoms, including Severe Throat Infection. Remember that Simpsons episode with the virtual doctor program?: "You've got Herpes."
I'm lucky the doctor knows English. The aides at the front desk did not. They ran and got him after he finished treating a woman for an ear infection. The clinic is set up so you can see into the examination room right when you enter. There is no door to the examination room - it's wide open. The patients in waiting could hear me gag when the doctor swabbed my throat.
He also sprayed a menthol-smelling mist into my throat, then air, then menthol, then air - he went back and forth about five times. Then he pulled out a different little metal tube and some tweezers. He pulled on my right nostril and put the little tube in, releasing a spray that made my eyes water. He went to the left nostril, then back to the right, then left again. I smiled nervously the whole time - it's pretty different from what the doctors do to me back home.
After the chair sequence, an aide showed me to another room with a bunch of tubes. It reminded me of the assisted-suicide room they showed on the news during the Kevorkian debacle. The aide put a tube in my hand and told me to say "aghh." A mist flowed from the tube, and I spent six minutes sitting and breathing in vapor.
I wasn't finished, though. The same aid showed me to the other side of the room, where she had me stick my face in a light gun (it's about as big as a cop's radar gun). At the bottom of the barrel was a red light bulb. It's super hot, but the barrel isn't wide enough for anyone to touch face to the bulb. Three minutes breathing in hot air from the light, maybe there was more herbal stuff coming from the light gun - it had a soothing smell.
That was it, though. I paid eleven bucks (I don't have insurance), took a sheet of paper downstairs to the pharmacy, and paid fourteen bucks for twelve individually wrapped bags of multicolored pills of all shapes and sizes.
Who knew being sick in Korea could be this much fun?!
"Yes."
I look over at his computer screen: the program is in English, and he's typed in all of the symptoms I told him. A list of conditions follows the symptoms, including Severe Throat Infection. Remember that Simpsons episode with the virtual doctor program?: "You've got Herpes."
I'm lucky the doctor knows English. The aides at the front desk did not. They ran and got him after he finished treating a woman for an ear infection. The clinic is set up so you can see into the examination room right when you enter. There is no door to the examination room - it's wide open. The patients in waiting could hear me gag when the doctor swabbed my throat.
He also sprayed a menthol-smelling mist into my throat, then air, then menthol, then air - he went back and forth about five times. Then he pulled out a different little metal tube and some tweezers. He pulled on my right nostril and put the little tube in, releasing a spray that made my eyes water. He went to the left nostril, then back to the right, then left again. I smiled nervously the whole time - it's pretty different from what the doctors do to me back home.
After the chair sequence, an aide showed me to another room with a bunch of tubes. It reminded me of the assisted-suicide room they showed on the news during the Kevorkian debacle. The aide put a tube in my hand and told me to say "aghh." A mist flowed from the tube, and I spent six minutes sitting and breathing in vapor.
I wasn't finished, though. The same aid showed me to the other side of the room, where she had me stick my face in a light gun (it's about as big as a cop's radar gun). At the bottom of the barrel was a red light bulb. It's super hot, but the barrel isn't wide enough for anyone to touch face to the bulb. Three minutes breathing in hot air from the light, maybe there was more herbal stuff coming from the light gun - it had a soothing smell.
That was it, though. I paid eleven bucks (I don't have insurance), took a sheet of paper downstairs to the pharmacy, and paid fourteen bucks for twelve individually wrapped bags of multicolored pills of all shapes and sizes.
Who knew being sick in Korea could be this much fun?!
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