Ma Vie en Rose

Beating the bus

2010-05-08T07:25:00.000-07:00

Being as I am from a small town in the land of cars, buses have always loomed as an especially terrifying way of getting around. When my friend Cameron left the Washington Heights neighborhood of New York City and moved to Woodlawn, I nearly fainted when her directions ended with “and then you cross the street and wait for the bus”. Wait for the what?? Get on the who?? Press the stop button when??! Oh my God. I would wind up in some murderous crack alley for sure.

Buses are without question the most intimidating form of public transportation. On subways and in taxis, it’s perfectly acceptable to stumble about, studying maps and asking inane questions. But buses leave precious little room for error. In fact, to be successful on a journey by city bus, you need to know where your stop is before you even get there.

When I lived in Aix-en-Provence during my third year of university, I lived just far enough outside the city for getting to and fro to be a mild hassle. In retrospect I am amused that I found both the walk I endured and the prospect of conquering local bus routes perplexing (Aix was small and manageable), at the time it was a new experience. I took the bus maybe twice- a relatively foolproof route as the lines by my homestay were more or less in a loop. But the tiny little bus intimidated me so much that I walked to and from downtown at all hours, in every manner of footwear. By the time I completed my 5-month study abroad, I had mastered the art of walking great distances over cobblestones in heels.

Confidence in my bus-route navigational skills hadn’t improved much by the time I moved to Boston, and so I carefully selected an apartment within walking distance of the T (subway). Occasionally I was forced to do the unthinkable and take the bus to visit a friend who lived in Brighton or Watertown, but the ordeal was made simpler by their living in easily recognizable areas or (most mercifully) at the very end of the line.

Avoidance can only go on for so long. Before I knew it, in an attempt to escape a heinous roommate, I was agreeing to live in Medford. The locale posed two transportation options: walk 20 minutes to the T or walk across the street to catch the 101 bus, which linked up to another T station. It was simple enough really, to walk across the street and wait for the thing. And on the rare occasion that I took the bus back home, I obviously had sense enough to know where to get off. My confidence in bus usage increased immensely, if unjustifiably. I found myself giving directions via bus in cocky tones along the lines of “really, you can’t possibly miss it.”

My puffed up chest would soon deflate.

After conquering Boston’s MBTA, I moved to Daegu. South Korea. I was on another planet. With an indecipherable alphabet and local populace that could tell with one glance that I wasn’t a local, my sense of ease with urban public transport came to a grinding halt. The subway was easy enough, as it consisted of only two lines and listed the name of every stop in both Korean and English. But buses… whoa.

The first person I met in Korea was my colleague and friend Courtney, who as far as I could tell was intimidated by absolutely nothing. She rolled through the city with ease, throwing around what seemed to me an impressive amount of Korean. That she could read Hangeul positively blew my mind- particularly on buses! With Courtney to hold my hand, I rode the bus to and from our friend Cheri’s and out to Daegok where her boyfriend Mark lived. I relaxed on these occasions and paid little attention, promising to start listening to her in time to remember the routes and stops for myself.

The next thing I knew, my babysitter had abandoned me. And I sort of knew which buses went where… but was I sure? Could I really handle it? Eh, best not to chance it and take a taxi, I reasoned. And so went the next 9 months of my time in Korea.

Sometimes it takes a sudden, surprising event in your life to make you realize you’ve been a total chickenshit about something ridiculous for an inordinate period of time. In my case, it was the breakup of a romantic relationship. I was “on my own again”, as the feeling goes, and it was time to reclaim my confident, invincible single self. How better to go about that, I decided, than to tackle this city bus business once and for all?

And so I did. On Wednesday, I walked over to the bus stop near my apartment and painstakingly glared at the routes of the two different buses that stop there, all in Hangeul of course. (Which, unlike during the Courtney days, I can now read for myself.) Aha- there it was! Kyung-day Kyo- Kyungpook University bridge- what I always told the taxi driver to get to Cheri’s apartment! I stood on the sidewalk and waited, tapping my card against my thigh and feigning impatience at waiting for that darned bus. When it arrived I climbed on as if it were the most natural thing in the world, something I do- la ti da- every day really. As our surroundings began to look familiar and I recognized Cheri’s neighborhood, I pressed the little stop button and hopped right off with the greatest of ease.

My second opportunity to conquer the bus came earlier tonight, as I made plans to leave my friend Ashley’s apartment. She lives in the same building where Courtney’s boyfriend Mark once was, that is to say, along another route I once tackled (avec babysitter) via bus. As I was leaving tonight she asked if I planned to go home by bus/subway, which I did want to do in an effort to avoid an expensive taxi ride. She told me where to go, and for a moment I panicked. “Which ones can I take? Which numbers?”

“The 406, the 703, the xyz, the 123….” I began to feel dizzy as she listed them all. I was about to reach for a pen and write them all down when she restored my confidence by reminding me: “You’ll be alright, you can read the sign. Just avoid the ones that don’t go to Sangin subway station.”

Goshdarnit, she’s right! I can read Hangeul! At least enough to decipher “Sangin” and the Korean word for “station”! And besides, I’ve been to there a hundred times, if not by bus. I’d totally recognize it. Truthfully, the fact that she so breezily believed in my navigational abilities made me feel quite proud and determined not to prove her faith ill-placed.

I made my way down to the bus stop and sure enough, was able to see which routes visited my desired stop. I also realized that only the “express” buses didn’t, which made the whole mess infinitely simpler. I took the first one that arrived, popped in my ear buds, and gazed out the window at landmarks that were surprisingly familiar.

As it turned out, I actually missed my stop. But I realized this immediately and only went about a block beyond where I’d originally intended to get off. I was amazed at never once feeling stressed or worried. It had only taken me 15 months, but I had managed the unthinkable- the Daegu bus system was mine. Expensive taxis be damned.

Stuff Students Say

2010-04-27T04:34:00.000-07:00

I can’t take credit for this one- these are excerpts from my friend Cheri’s fabulously funny blog. But for the record, my experience is same-same. Minus the love for Transformers, zombie movies, and being Canadian.

STUDENT Teacher, you know Kimchi?
ME: Yes.
STUDENT: You like it?
ME: No.
STUDENT: That’s why foreigners fat.

ME: What is your favorite food?
STUDENT: I like cock!
ME: What?
STUDENT: Cock! I like chicken!

ME: What are some habits that are healthy to have?
STUDENT: Beans.
ME: Any more healthy habits?
STUDENT: No, just beans.
ME: Okay then.

STUDENT: Teacher, you like Transformer?
ME: Yes.
STUDENT: You like Dark Knight?
ME: Yes.
STUDENT: You like zombie movie?
ME: Yes.
STUDENT: You like dinosaur?
ME: Yes.
STUDENT: Teacher… you boy.

ME: What are some scary animals?
STUDENT 1: Lion!
STUDENT 2: Tiger!
STUDENT 3: And bear!
ME: OH MY!
STUDENT: (blank stare)
ME: Never mind.

ME: What do Canada and South Korea have in common?
STUDENT: Nobody find us on map, and both have neighbors people don’t like.

ME: Did you finish your homework?
STUDENT: No, difficult.
ME: Why didn’t you ask for help?
STUDENT: Not THAT difficult.

ME: What are some CULTURAL differences between Canada and South Korea?
STUDENT: Koreans are skinny, Canadians are fat.
ME: That’s not cultural… (Explain the word again)

STUDENT: I don’t need to be here teacher, I speak English already.
ME: Really? What does educational mean?
STUDENT: Spider.
ME: Sit down and study.

ME: (reading from the book)…"I have always gazed at the stars."
STUDENT: Teacher you gay for stars? Do you know gay?
ME: Actually its gazed… G-A-Z-E-D. Gazed means, "I have looked at the stars."
STUDENT: Oh... you know gay?
ME: Let’s just keep reading.

STUDENT: Teacher, if I no do homework you hit me?
ME: No.
STUDENT: Then why I do homework?
ME: Because if you don’t, I’ll be sad.
STUDENT: Don’t cry teacher, I try.

STUDENT: Do you like boys?
ME: Which boys?
STUDENT: All boys!?
ME: No, not all boys.
STUDENT: Why teacher? Are you lesbian?
ME: No, some boys are just stupid.
STUDENT: Yes. My brother stupid.

Me: Who can tell me the days of the week?
STUDENT: ME TEACHER!!! Oneday, Twoday, Threeday, Fourday, Fiveday, Sixterday and no school on Sevenday!
ME: Awesome.

STUDENT: Teacher who are you typing to?
ME: My friend.
STUDENT: Your boyfriend?
ME: No, just a friend.
STUDENT: Teacher, if you get more pretty, he maybe your boyfriend?

STUDENT: Teacher! On the Sunday, I went to the Jew.
ME: The Jew?
STUDENT: Yes the Jew, I saw a elephant, and a bear…
ME: Oh, the Zoo!
STUDENT: That what I say! The Jew.

(This was one of my advanced students)
STUDENT: Teacher do you have a boyfriend?
ME: No Jim, I don’t.
STUDENT: You know, the English teacher at my school is single.
ME: That’s nice.
STUDENT: He is handsome, and funny, and kind.
ME: Okay?
STUDENT: If you want I can show him your picture.
ME: (Oh my god) No, thanks Jim, that’s sweet though.
STUDENT: Sigh, okay teacher, but you should get boyfriend.

ME: Who can tell me what a verb is?
STUDENT: Action word.
ME: Very good. Can you give me an example?
STUDENT: Kill!
ME: Okay… anything else?
STUDENT: Bleed!
STUDENT: Die!
STUDENT: Shoot!
ME: Wow. Ummm, okay, who can use a verb in a sentence?
STUDENT: ME TEACHER! “I kill enemy, because I shoot him, and he die!”
ME: Wow. You get an A+.

What's love got to do with it?

2010-04-11T19:51:00.000-07:00

My boss William is generally a breath of fresh air in the tricky business that is my existence in Korea- he’s friendly, talkative, candid, and has a wonderful sense of humor. And best of all, he speaks to me as both a respected colleague and a bit of a parent. He is a wonderful window into the Korea that I can’t easily access for a variety of factors- the language barrier being the most prominent.

Tonight a former colleague who has just been married joined us for dinner, so the topic inevitably turned to dating, marriage, and all manner of relationships between the sexes. (Well okay, not all manner- this is still conservative Daegu!) Those present who had already taken the marriage plunge took it upon themselves to advise my 30 year-old colleague as to why he hasn’t managed to have long-term success with a girlfriend. Many of the tidbits were, in my opinion, quite reasonable. But then the conversation took a most unexpected turn when my boss suggested that perhaps he was placing too much emphasis on love.

“What?” I thought. “Is that possible? How can one place TOO much emphasis on love… isn’t that the main, central thing?”

As it turns out, my boss’s marriage was arranged. And despite being well aware of Daegu’s conservatism (in comparison with other parts of Korea), this genuinely surprised me. This is perhaps because from what I’ve been able to gather, from an admittedly limited perspective (that darn language barrier again), he and his wife have an amazing partnership. I can tell that they respect one another, amuse one another, and work well in both business and general life situations. They have vastly different personalities, but seem to balance one another out. And I have always thought that such a balance, coupled with love, is key to making a relationship work.

William explained that love is something that, in his experience, evolves naturally as the result of an effective partnership. His parents and his wife’s parents chose them for one another because they felt the two had very similar values, if not interests. They shared a certain work ethic and positive attitude. They came from similar backgrounds. These things, they felt, were the ingredients of a successful marriage. Love was barely even a consideration. They “dated” for 6 weeks, got married, and discovered love years later. As he so beautifully put it, “love was like an appetizer that came late in the meal. It was wonderful and important, but it wasn’t the main course.”

In the course of this discussion, my boss asked me about my own experience with relationships. “Do you think that you are able to have a long-term relationship, one ultimately leading to marriage?” he asked me. I surprised myself by answering, without hesitation, “Yes, I certainly do.” But I went on to explain that geography seems to be my greatest enemy. I have the desire to go to school, travel, pursue a career that engages my brain, soul, and passport. And all these things generally stand in direct opposition to the possibility of a long-term relationship.

I told him a little about Jack and the challenge facing us. I explained that he loves Korea and is here until at least February of 2011, while I'm over the moon about France in September. We want to be together, but neither of us wants to give up our respective dreams and goals. And while we are more closely aligned than any previous relationship I’ve ever had in terms of values, personalities, and interests, it seems that geography will ultimately come between us.

William then asked about our ages. I am almost 2 years older. He then seemed rather disinclined to believe in our long-term prospects: “Women mature at a faster rate than men,” he said. Quite right, in my experience. “For this reason, it would be difficult for the two of you to come to the same place at the same time.”

Was this an oversimplification of a relationship between two human beings? I am inclined to think yes. And on the opposite end of the spectrum, were I to really get into a conversation about the deeper elements of my relationship, a person of William’s mindset would likely dismiss it as being overly complicated! The thing is, Jack and I are in an emotional place that William probably didn’t reach until quite some time into his marriage. And what a bizarre thought that is! Which begs the question- who of us is going about relationships the wrong way? Am I investing too much, too soon? Would it be wiser to base these initial days, weeks, months on the more “practical” elements of a partnership?

Though dating does of course have its practical elements in my thinking, it is- for me- primarily about the search for love. Do I feel that special je ne sais quoi with this person? Does my heart rate double when he walks in the room? Am I overwhelmed by the urge to kiss him when he’s talking about Star Trek or some such other geeky thing? Yes I notice that he makes dumb jokes when he’s nervous, and odds are he'll never master the art of putting the toilet seat down. But, I’m great at booking hotels, while he’s a map guru. He buys me flowers to celebrate the fact that it's Tuesday.

If these elements fell together with zero emotional spark, they’d be meaningless. In the context of love, they’re pure gold.

William may very well have a point in suggesting that by placing love at the forefront of my priorities, I’m setting myself up for a serious challenge. Putting my heart before the connected dots on paper complicates my route to happily ever after. But with all of its challenges, frustrations, and heartbreaks, I’d take it to some coolly orchestrated marriage any day. I want to live in love- not sit around waiting for it to evolve in some distant corner.

Airlines and Amour?

2009-12-22T22:34:00.001-08:00

I read two news articles recently, completely unrelated, that I thought complemented one another nicely.

The first was about major airlines and how they have dealt with changes in service in response to the worldwide economic recession. American airlines, for the most part, have responded with cuts in every possible sphere. Less routes, less staff, and fewer comforts for travelers. Many things that were once included such as drinks, snacks, and lunches, are now "available for purchase". In some cases, even the scratchy blankets and odd-sized pillows in coach are only available to the traveler if he's willing to cough up a few dollars. Terrible though it all may seem, I am able to understand it in one vein of truly American culture.

Our forefathers brought with them a notion of working hard and forging one's way to the New World, and they didn't expect it to be easy. Roughing it and seeing the tough times through to the other side was an admirable feat, something understood to forge character. American life has long preached that we are to look out for number one- few expect to be catered to by friends, family, government, or certainly airlines. This sense of individuality can go a long way to explain why certain ideas- a state-controlled healthcare system for one- have taken such a long time to take hold in public consideration.

Asian airlies, on the other hand, have had a completely different reaction to the recession. Instead of cutting back, they have sought to increase quality! Korean Airlines serves organic meals, the products of which are grown on a farm the company owns on Jeju island. Singapore Airlines has upped the quality of their seats. And the employees of virtually all airlines in this region of the world have been required to undergo additional customer service training. The theory here is that more- not less- will maintain customer morale and encourage future business.

The second article was about a student group at Harvard that is discouraging promiscuity, reminding women that (as they put it) "they're worth waiting for". Its campaign has drawn fire from feminists on campus, who accuse it of advancing an ardently religious agenda behind a veil of female empowerment. The one side argues that women have lost the power that comes with the choice to say no in today's "hook-up culture", while its adversaries insist that the freedom to choose whether and with whom to have sex is a particularly hard-won prize of the feminist movement.

In my estimation, both are correct. Sexuality is a powerful thing- about that there is no question. The granting and/or withholding of the act itself has created historic events of immeasurable significance: Cleopatra's sway over Rome. Henry VIII's break with the Catholic Church. Hugh Hefner's media empire. Arguing over which is MORE powerful or commendable- giving it away or denying it- is in my mind a nonsensical argument. Because in reality, both are equally so.

You might wonder how I've managed to see a connecting thread between these vastly different stories. For me, both come back to a question of empowerment and individual expectation, and how varied such concepts can be. Is a person or a business exhibiting strength and/or confidence by being more open and giving, more willing to take a chance on customers/lovers? Or is it more admirable to hold back, always keeping the person on the opposite end of the table on edge, wanting more? What sorts of options- and which of them we ultimately choose- are the most empowering? Who and what should be priority #1?

Forgive my Carrie Bradshaw-esque manner of composing a blog mostly of questions... it is actually a literary pet peeve of mine! But as I found some of these notions rather to be rather thought-provoking, thought I'd spread the... provocation?

Next Steps

2009-12-21T23:38:00.001-08:00

With my 1-year teaching contract in a Korea rapidly drawing to a close, I have been asked to blog about my thoughts on "next steps". Despite what my lack of mentioning it thus far might suggest, this is something that is constantly on my mind!

So what do I want to do? An exhaustive amount of soul-searching, analyzing, and pouring my heart out to friends and family has lead me to feel that graduate study is what is next in the cards for me. Or at least it is what I would like to be! Before arriving at this conclusion with a respectable degree of confidence, I thought it wise to begin the paper trail as though I was already there. Over the past several months I have sought out recommendation letters, wrote countless essays and news pieces, purchased additional transcripts from my alma mater, and filled in many an online form. The process became so routine and monotonous that I got lost in it, slightly forgetting why I was doing it in the first place. I have applied to schools that interest me greatly and schools that I find only mildly interesting, for little reason beyond avoiding having all my eggs in one basket. Truth be told, my undergraduate grades leave quite a bit to be desired, and I am terrified that they will hold me back from the dream that seems to grow in intensity by the day!

I want to be a journalist.

It's a thought that first occured to me at the age of 18, when I sat down at my mom's kitchen table with a mound of forms for USC in front of me. Despite that, I shied away from the idea, initially ticking the "English major" box instead. Feeling a bit braver one day, I went to my advisor and changed it to "broadcast journalism". On a more timid one, it became "advertising and public relations". And finally, it evolved into "French, with an advertising/public relations minor".

I'd never dare suggest that I regret that final transformation, because without it much of my life as I know it wouldn't be same. Learning a foreign language has opened innumerable doors and presented an idea of just how small this world is. Traveling and living overseas has increased my confidence tenfold, as there's nothing much like navigating a tiny Korean town to convince a person that she can handle whatever life dishes out! If anything, pursuing the study of French has pulled me in a circle that was vital to arriving at the realization of what I want to do.

The notion that this whole thing might indeed happen- that I might get into graduate school and have an opportunity to learn the craft of journalism- finally occurred to me last Friday night, at 1:00am Korea time. After a bit of a nervous breakdown, which I pulled myself out of by realizing that I might as well get used to this inconvenient time difference thing if I'm at all serious about becoming a journalist, I had an admissions interview with CUNY via Skype. I was nervous but pulled myself together as best I could, candidly explaining who I am, what my experiences have been, and why I want to pursue this challenging profession. And I managed to ask two well thought-out questions (which followed an admittedly sloppy first!)- the answers to which actually increased my sense of hope!

Interested as I am in pursuing international reporting, the interviewer commented on my strengths in that area as an applicant. She commented that many people apply to the program simply thinking "ah, this will give me an opportunity to travel!", while giving little real thought to what traveling, living, and reporting overseas might entail. "You already have an understanding of this- you're doing it now!" she said.

It was something I never considered before. Sure, life in a foreign country can be a challenge- that goes without saying. But I love it, crave it even. Most of the time when I am living in the United States, I am already daydreaming about my next trip or opportunity to live overseas. The background picture on my Iphone is of the Eiffel Tower by night. (And during the holidays, it changes to one of an Eiffel Tower Christmas ornament.)

I won't go into too much detail about my first choice of graduate program, because I am beginning to want it so badly that I don't want to risk jinxing it! Suffice it to say, being accepted would open many doors and fulfill the desire to do many things I've long wanted to: live in New York, go back to school, pursue a real career that will challenge and invigorate me, and last but never least- get back to France! Should it all work out, it'd almost be too good to be true!

In the meantime, I am trying my best to be patient and responsible- saving money and filling out all of that tiresome paperwork! I am looking to extend my teaching contract in Korea by a minimum of 5 months, so that I will be financially prepared to take that next step as it presents itself. By April, I should know what that next step will be.

Stay tuned...!

Reconnecting

2009-12-07T06:26:00.000-08:00

In the whirlwind that was the years of my adolescence, there were plenty of unpleasantries- my parents’ divorce, best friends turned catty gossips, acne, braces, and the embarrassment of puberty. But even through the clouds there were powerful rays of sunlight that at times managed to burn away all the negative.

One such ray was a boy, who I won't refer to by name out of respect for his privacy. A pure and honest soul, he was able to engage my heart and mind in a manner far different from any other childhood friend. He was Southern and country to the bone, preferring the drone of a tractor to urban neon buzz any day. Through him I was able to indulge a part of my personality that lost direction after my parents’ split, engaging the country bits of my heart in a way that was happy instead of painful. Our time together was spent in the yard outside his rural home, or spinning the merry-go-round on the church playground. It was an innocent but deep friendship, and perhaps because of that depth always bordered on feelings of a different sort. I think we were both terribly romantic in our way, preferring letters to phone calls and able to talk freely about our thoughts, hopes, and dreams. But I never seriously considered dating because I knew we were just too different. That was what made our friendship so great- I am romantic, flighty, want to see the world, love things like poetry and wine and French cheese. He is a good ol' Southern boy who is kept sane by “tractor therapy”, loves living a quiet life in the country, and has an amazing mathematical brain. I always suspected that though I adore him, day-to-day life as his girlfriend would be hopelessly dull. I'd have never dared say so out loud, but in my heart of hearts this was how I felt. And I certainly never dreamed he'd have any interest whatsoever in traveling, let alone do it.

For years I kept his letters in boxes and drawers, though we lost touch after college. I often thought about trying to revive our friendship, but when I heard through the grapevine that he had gotten married, I wondered about the appropriateness of that. Being single and so far removed from the world of married couples, I wasn't really sure of the protocol. So, in an effort to err on the side of propriety, I did nothing.

And then one day, out of nowhere, he was back.

I received an email from him via a professional networking website, on which I created a profile a couple of years ago and promptly forgot about. I was shocked and exhilarated! For two solid weeks, we wrote one another at a feverish pace.

As for mister homebody-non-traveler… He travels to Boston regularly on business. My home of nearly three years! He had no idea I'd been living there, and said he couldn't believe we never spent time together while he was in town. What a waste! And, he also goes to the UK and- wait for it- FINLAND. He gushed to me in one of his emails about how beautiful Finland is, much in the way that I have written about places I love. Reading his words was such a profound moment of connection for me... in a place where I never imagined finding such. He told me that he often changed planes in Paris, and always kind of wondered if I was living there. Though he knew it was a far-flung possibility, but he always "kept an eye out" in Charles de Gaulle airport. Just in case.

This whole reconnection was a strange sort of epiphany, one that I couldn't quite put my finger on. It was an event so full of meaning, and yet I still don’t understand what I am to draw from it. Why didn't we ever connect in Boston? What drove him to suddenly now, after all these years, search for my name and hit the "send" button on an email? I thought I had such a clear idea of this guy, who he was and what his life was going to be like. And though I don't doubt my being right as far as personality, character, and day-to-day lifestyle, I was so grossly off the mark with many other things. In the corners of his heart, where I always thought I understood him best, I seem to know nothing at all.

I have no idea why he came back into my life. All I know is that I’m happy about it! Since reconnecting with him, my eyes seem to have reopened to the many things for which I should be thankful. I look around myself here in Kore and see... wonderful friends. A good job with pleasant co-workers and a boss who looks out for me. Endlessly amusing students. A comfortable apartment (that I don't have to pay for!). An entire fascinating country at my fingertips. On the other end of the spectrum, I also see more clearly the things that are to be avoided! My dear friend serves as an example of a caliber of man that, while rare, does exist and is well worth waiting for. In the land of beer-soaked 20-somethings looking to "just have fun" for one year, it's not a bad thing to remember.

South Koreans Struggle with Race (NYT article)

2009-11-05T18:03:00.001-08:00

An interesting follow up to a previous blog, "Colorful Daegu":

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/02/world/asia/02race.html?_r=1&scp=5&sq=south%20korea&st=cse

Jimjilbang Jamboree

2009-10-04T00:01:00.000-07:00

There are things in life that you just can’t rush. Going to college, getting married, buying that first house… such epic events must happen on their own time frame, when you’re truly ready for them. If you approach them too soon, they will probably overwhelm you with their unfamiliarity, their strangeness. It is also important to take on groundbreaking experiences with a solid support system in place. With the awkward uncertainty shouldered by multiple explorers, the shock is lessened and the excitement heightened.

Such is also the case with that most uniquely Korean of all experiences: the jimjilbang, or public bath house.

When I came to Korea, I was deep in the throws of a book called Tales from the Expat Harem- a collection of short stories and anecdotes written by female Western expats living in Turkey. As stories about uniquely feminine experiences Turkey, they included more tales of the ḥammām, or bath house, than nearly other aspect of the Turkish experience. I was captivated by the idea of this gender-segregated retreat, a place where women go to relax, soak, and scrub away the cares of a frantic outside world. It was also presented as a time of female bonding in its purest form, away from prying male eyes and the pressure to be costumed in fashionable clothes and make-up.

When I first heard of the Korean jimjilbang, I was intrigued. I learned that my female colleagues go once a week, generally as a mother/daughter excursion. I wanted very much to experience it for myself, but shied away from the idea of “public” nudity in such an intensely foreign land. Koreans stare at me every day when I walk down the street, especially now that I’ve dyed my hair strawberry-blonde. Though they strongly approve of the color choice from an aesthetic standpoint, its strangeness nevertheless draws stares. With my belly button ring and tattoo, both a bit taboo in conservative Korea, in full view inside the jimjilbang, surely the curious eyes would be too much to handle. I decided that the only way to tackle it would be with a solid posse of girlfriends at my side- preferably with at least one Korean in the gang. I knew I’d be here for at least a year and felt no rush. I’d wait for the perfect moment.

Perfect moments have a way of sneaking up on you. The past couple of months have been a time of rapid, unstoppable change, which in Korea means many old foreigners out and many new ones coming in. I’ve made amazing new friends and become ever closer with the old, and we have all assembled into a beautifully diverse group of personalities. Sex and the City-esque in our togetherness, we’ve become quite the crew. When my friend Robin mentioned the idea of hitting the jimjilbang together with her Korean friend Bo Hae, I jumped at the chance. It was time to get naked and go for a dunk in Korea.

As is the case with so many great plans, something inevitably went a bit awry. The first weekend in October is the Chuseok holiday in Korea, something that most closely resembles Thanksgiving in Western culture. It is above all things a time to be with one’s family, and Bo Hae was no exception to this rule. Obligated to attend familiar gatherings on our designated jimjilbang day, she reluctantly jumped ship. After an early afternoon lunch together, she packed the weigooks (foreigners) into a taxi, gave the driver rapid fire instructions in Korean, and sent us on our way.

Making our way into the building and handing over the 8,000 won (less than $8) it costs to spend as long as we liked in the jimjilbang, I began to feel a bit uneasy. I followed my friend Cheri’s lead, pretending to know what I was doing. We removed our shoes at the first entrance, and placed them in lockers. At the second, we picked up towels and a set of loose orange “jimjilbang clothes”. Then, gulp, it was time to disrobe by our lockers. For the first time, the unease was palpable. We took a collective deep breath, laughed nervously, and shed our comfortable layers.

There we were, in all our glory, with nothing but our locker key bracelets around our wrists. We all laughed at the seeming ridiculousness of just hangin’ out with your girlfriends, completely naked. As we walked through the locker room and into the room with pools, saunas, and showers, I commented: “I think I’m beginning to get the sense of what living in a nudist colony must be like.”

Fortunately, our unease was short-lived. The moment we entered the main room, we ceased to be Cheri, Ashley, Robin, and Julie, and just became… women. Everyone was completely nude and completely engrossed in the process of scrubbing, soaking, and relaxing. All these women, from elderly, hunched-over grandmothers to bouncy young children, were enjoying their day at the jimjilbang and virtually indifferent to the fact that a bunch of foreigners had just entered their midst.

We made our way to the showers, rinsing off before entering the first pool. As a Celsius-impaired American, I didn’t think to look closely at the temperature, and jumped back with a squeal from the cold water! So much for not being noticed! This was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg however, as Cheri then took us to the ice-cold pool of water.

The grotto was complete with faux stalactites and icy waterfalls, big enough that we could all get in and swim around freely. Our resident Canadian plunged right in, while the rest of us hung back. Gingerly making my way, I splashed a little water here and there, finally deciding to face the dragon and dump a chilly bucket over my head. With a gasp for breath, it was now or never, and I was in. I felt little more than shock at first, swimming around in a trance-like state, but over the course of the afternoon hopped back in multiple times. I was surprised to eventually discover that the cold pool was my favorite!

Next was the extremely hot pool, as it is advisable to switch back and forth between hot and cold. This was far more to our immediate liking. We relaxed and stretched out our legs, pouring water over our hair and faces. Adjacent to the hot pool were two slightly cooler ones- warm and warmer. I never made it to all, but the other girls bounced around a bit over the course of the day.

From there it was a smaller pool with slightly stinky water that we never managed to properly identify. As we figured the warm water surely was filled with a miraculously beneficial mineral of some kind, we spent just enough time soaking to feel confident of having obtained its benefits. After that, it was on to the “Dead Sea”.

A bright blue pool encased in clear glass promised the beautifying benefits of a float in the Dead Sea. Keeping my freshly dyed blonde hair well out of the sapphire waves, I wiggled around a bit and splashed the water on facial blemishes.

Once we had conquered all of the various pools, it was on to the sauna. Truth be told, I have never really been a huge fan of saunas. And I now realize several reasons for this. The first is that I have always gone alone, near a pool or in a gym locker room. The second is that I’ve almost always tried to go after a heated workout, or after baking in the summer sun by a swimming pool. And the third is that I’ve always been wearing some type of clothing, usually a bathing suit. These factors had previously worked against me, convincing me that saunas were suffocating, unpleasant, and utterly pointless. As with so many things that day, the jimjilbang would change my opinion of time spent in a sauna!

The sauna felt glorious after an hour or so of soaking, the hot air seeming to pull out toxins that the minerals couldn’t reach. It was relaxing to sit and chat with my girlfriends, and amusing to watch the Korean variety show on TV in the next sauna over, through a glass. We sat for just a few minutes, then giddily decided to make another round of visits to our favorite pools.

Once we had soaked to the max, it was time to finish off the day with a shower and “scrub”. Being unprepared however, Cheri and I dashed out to the locker room to purchase shampoo, soap, and (for me) a pumice stone. Having perhaps read one too many ḥammām stories, I was of the opinion that a visit to the bath house wasn’t a proper one unless you sloughed off all your dead skin from head to toe.

Of course, this is not the purpose of a pumice stone. For what I was after, a nice exfoliating glove is in order. Nevertheless, three of us pumiced one another’s backs. It seemed harmless enough on Ashley and Robin, but on my way back under the shower head I felt a sharp sting. Ouch! No matter, this was to be expected, I thought. Later in the locker room as I was changing, I noticed long red lines up and down my back that stung upon coming into contact with my clothing! Ah well, lesson learned. So go the adventures of a jimjilbang neophyte.

As independent, intelligent, self-sufficient Western women, my friends and I sometimes find ourselves annoyed with our perceived girlishness of Korean women our age, but not that day! As we changed back into our clothes, dried our hair, and prepared to re-enter the outside world, we relished sitting in front of the mirror and applying make-up. We traded various tidbits of beauty know-how, patting our cheeks with pink blush and thoughtfully applying red lipstick. I suspect we all felt particularly beautiful in those moments, relishing the tiny details of what it means to be a girl. We were at ease in a way that one can be only after an afternoon with her girlfriends in all their natural glory.

Insurance Interchange

2009-09-10T01:32:00.000-07:00

I hold no degree in Political Science, Economics, or any subject even remotely related to the health care field. I know little about how health insurance is currently run in the United States, nor can I speak with authority on the history of government-run programs like Medicare or Medicaid.

I can however speak on a practical and human level.

There is absolutely zero excuse for there to be American citizens without access to proper health care. Period. That residents of one of the most economically prosperous countries in the world should have to worry about becoming destitute in order to properly treat a serious illness is positively inexcusable. I have been horrified in recent months to realize that many of my fellow Americans do not share this view, not believing health care to be an inherent right. Apparently, having a certain quality of life, or in this case even surviving, is something you only deserve if (in their eyes) you are of a certain economic means.

To this camp, I frankly don't know what to say. I am incapable of understanding such coldness, and feel quite certain that should misfortune befall those who presently hold such selfish views, they would be quickly singing a different tune!

Obama has chosen to make access to government-funded health insurance a serious priority, and for this I applaud him. At the same time, I am unable to understand why the Republican camp finds such an option so alarming. In practice it would be, after all, an option. Those who prefer to stick with independent insurance providers would have every freedom to do so, and I fully understand the appeal of this. If you can afford to buy a BMW instead of a Ford, why wouldn't you?

The point is that this new program would level the field in terms of insurance, and therefore health care, being available to everyone. Just what, I ask the GOP, is so terrible about that? Are we really so threatened by the possibility of a new service provider that, let's face it, most anyone reading this (thanks to your socioeconomic status) is never going to use in the first place?

Additionally, I am not alarmed by the idea of health insurance being mandatory for every citizen. Why? Because I've already experienced this. The state of Massachusetts requires that every resident have some type of health insurance. Proof of insurance must be provided when filing state income taxes. If this cannot be done, individuals are fined. This was no major issue for me for the majority of my time in the state, as health insurance (and rather fantastic insurance at that) was provided by my job. But when I was laid off in November of 2008, I did worry about the ramifications about taking too long to get myself covered (and managed to take care of things quickly enough to avoid any penalty). All things considered, I can't deny that the law ensured that I scrambled to get myself under some sort of plan- something for which I would have been endlessly grateful had serious injury or ill health befallen me.

And from a financial perspective, particularly during these unremarkable economic times, wouldn't the creation of a government-provided health insurance option create a serious competitor for private insurance companies? Could this not, by windfall, push them to reevaluate their prices and/or the quality of their services? It seems to me that according to the most basic principles of supply and demand, they would have to make themselves increasingly attractive in order to pull customers away from a government/"budget" option. Surely this could prove incredibly beneficial to the consumer.

Perhaps I am oversimplifying the whole matter. I fully appreciate that such a groundbreaking creation demands a tremendous amount of analysis and evaluation, and that there is surely plenty of bad with the good. But I cannot see enough negative, at least in terms of this bill's intention, to warrant a complete disregard for constructive dialogue. That so many in the GOP camp refuse to even sit down at the table is baffling to me. Is it not, after all, the job of government representatives to speak up with informed, thought-provoking responses when they feel a piece of legislation is not in the best interest of the citizens they serve? Though I am not a Republican (bet you didn't see that one coming!), I do wish they could find a mature, productive way to voice their opinions- preferably along with suggestions. They are no less a representation of my country and therefore, indirectly, me, than any other political camp. And for that reason, I would love to see them look as respectable, productive, and genuinely concerned for the well-being of my fellow citizens as possible.

Colorful Daegu

2009-09-07T23:50:00.000-07:00

"Teacher, they are scary," says Ken, a student in a class of 11-12 year olds.

I look up.

"Who is scary?"

"They are," he says, pointing to a picture of a black couple in our textbook.

Sigh.

"Why are they scary?"

"Because... their faces," Ken says reluctantly, beginning to realize his mistake.

"How are their faces different from anyone else's on this page?" I ask, indicating photographs of Asian and white couples. "Because their skin is black?"

"No..." says Ken hesitantly.

"Well, what then?"

Awkward pause.

"A person's skin color has nothing to do with the kind of person they are," I articulate slowly- wanting to ensure that the class understood me. Or at least that they understood the gist of my message.

So goes yet another battle to open the minds of this homogenous society, via its impressionable youth. I can't even begin to know exactly how many times now I've listened to my students laugh and make fun of an African-American boy in a textbook, or say "ooga booga" in reaction to a black African. It's truly disturbing. As much as I am stared at and occasionally discriminated against in Korea, I can only imagine what the experience must be like for a person of color. And the darker his or her color, no doubt the greater extent of the reaction.

While inexcusable, it is understandable. Korea prides itself on its ancient, homogenous culture. There is astoundingly little diversity here compared to other parts of the world, and the perception of foreigners sharply reflects this. The fact of the matter is that most of my students have probably never even seen a person with black skin, let alone talked to one or gotten to know anything about him. As a result, children occasionally shriek with fear in reaction to a big African-American army guy walking down the street, and giggle at textbook pictures with a mixture of amusement, fascination, curiosity, and blatant racism.

Their negative perception is not helped by the image they most often receive of black people from the Western media. Gangster rap videos and crime shows featuring drugs, sex, and violence go a long way to exacerbate the negative image a race so foreign South Korea. I have found that particularly among the young, everything presented to them on television, in some form of writing, or in the classroom is fully absorbed and believed. In truth, this is another corner of the problem- little is done to encourage young students to think for themselves. Rote learning is the name of the game until late high school or even university, and so many students balk at the mention of opinions, ideas, or imagination.

It will take much more than my (seemingly) liberal ideas to introduce my Korean students to the idea that people are just people. That there isn't a vast gap in character, culture, or intelligence between one ethnicity, nationality, or religious background and the next is a concept more strange than my pale white skin that sunburns easily. But I do feel it meaningful that I can at least introduce a new idea that they will perhaps consider. All a teacher can do after all is plant a seed of curiosity. The extent to which a student feels compelled to explore further is something that only time will tell.

Me, Myself, and I

2009-08-24T22:09:00.000-07:00

Life in Asia comes with a multitude of challenges for a Westerner. These vary a certain amount from person to person of course, as does the intensity of the various challenges. The harshest for me has become the inability to get things done 100%, or even (at times) 10% on my own. Thanks to the language barrier and my utter ineptitude with regard to understanding the culture, the things I accomplish often come to pass as a result of the kindness of Koreans. Though I'm deeply appreciative of such kindness and generosity, the need for it can become rather tedious.

Call it the only-child syndrome. I'm a fiercely independent, willful young lady who is used to being able to go her own way and do as she likes. Korea doesn't curb this completely of course- a spirit as strong as mine isn't so easily crushed. But the practical manifestations of interdependence in a foreign land are many, and unavoidable. I can't, for example, go to the doctor without an interpreter. Though I've only had to go once thus far and am only just needing to plan a second appointment (with an eye doctor), I always squirm at this need. Thank heavens I haven't had an embarrassing gynecological issue! As long as my malfunctions remain north of the hips, I'm at least spared that sort of humiliation.

Having to depend on others to take care of my own body feels like the greatest of all surrenders. Not being able to manage my own person without assistance is a deep and painful blow to my independence, as it makes it impossible to ignore just how helpless I truly am in this country. When these thoughts occur to me, I often mumble my symptoms in French- curious about how I'd fare in a small Provencal town under similar circumstances. I usually end the exercise feeling confident that I'd be able to communicate the general idea of the problem, if not perhaps the difference between "sharp pains" and "achy" ones.

I also can't seem to get comfortable with the notion that when I do visit the doctor, I am already a novelty. As a white Western girl, I am automatically scrutinized in a different way. In the USA I often resented doctors' offices that made you feel like you were just a number- at this point, such a scenario sounds kind of refreshing. There's something to be said for the comfort of not being particularly different from anyone else. (These are words I never dreamed I'd think- let alone write!)

And so, I trudge along somewhat blindly, my feminism and independence a bit shaken by the whole experience of living in Korea. It has often been said that one of the greatest benefits of travel is its tendency to make you better appreciate home. Korea accomplishes this in great bundles! I yearn for the day that I can communicate the exact color, shape, and size of my odd bug bites, describe my pains with great literary flourish, and grumble in the waiting room over receiving the exact same treatment (or dismissal) as every.body.else.

Surviving South Korea

2009-08-20T00:36:00.000-07:00

Korea is sometimes like a boyfriend that you know isn't quite right for you, yet for whatever reason it's in your best interest to stick it out a while longer, and so you do. Don't get me wrong- Korea isn't a bad guy. There are certainly plenty who are a whole lot worse. But if love were easy to come by and happened every time you turned around, it wouldn't be such a big deal now would it?

Anyway, my "Korea funks" generally happen when I'm 1) low on cash and therefore staying home more in an effort to be thrifty, 2) unable to exercise for some reason (this week my knee is killing me and it's boiling hot outside), and 3) I've just had a disastrous encounter with someone of the opposite sex OR am feeling general frustration at my lack of lovelife. Today is no exception. And though I always long to be in France, the pangs become especially painful during these funks, as I'm inclined to praise l'hexagone for being everything Korea isn't.

And like a boyfriend beginnig to sense that he's on the verge of getting the boot, Korea has a tendency to go all sweet and charming on me when I'm finding myself exasperated by it.

Case and point:

This afternoon around 2:00, I set out on a mission. I had promised Navy class (a gaggle of delightfully adorable 10ish year-olds) a "snack party" today, as is customary when we finish a textbook. I shuffled to a "new" market just down the street from my house, pouting that I had to go there instead of my favorite Home Mart (which recently closed). Imagine my surprise to walk into 3 old ajummas (old Korean ladies) sitting around the counter, chatting and laughing up a STORM with their friend, who was running the shop. Though I of course couldn't understand a word, their banter was obviously that of dear friends just sitting around acting up. When I came up to the register to pay for my kids' snacks, the head ajumma gave me a little plastic cup and poured some milk for me, which they were all already drinking. Surprised, I smiled and thanked her. Then, one of her friends implored me to take a giant green tea ricecake the size of my fist! I had just eaten lunch and was so full that the thought of eating the filling treat made me nauseous, but there was no way I could decline. They were being far too kind and generous for me to run any risk of being rude! I smiled gratefully and spent the next 15 or so minutes munching on my ricecake, feeling amused by their cheerful spirits and trying to get my stomach to work with me. I left feeling rejuvenated, my confidence in the kindness of Korea restored.

It's impossible to explain the challenge of living in a foreign land, particularly one in which you feel like an outsider in virtually every respect- skin color, body type, language, culture, etc. A Westerner in Asia garners lots of stares, which alone can be enough to drive a sane person nuts! There's something to be said for being under the radar, going unnoticed, and that virtually NEVER happens in Korea. I often miss roaming around Paris, where I am presumably French until I open my mouth to speak. But the attention garnered can also sometimes work in one's favor, as was the case with the ajummas at the market. As with all things, life in Korea is all about maintaining a delicate balance!

Leveling the field

2009-08-18T01:09:00.000-07:00

It takes a while to settle into a place- this probably goes without saying. I've been waiting a long time for life to click in Korea, and am pleased to report that it finally has. I had hoped for a defining moment, a sort of epiphany of "phew, I live here now!", but such a thing never happened. But somewhere along the rolling days of the last month- Hannah's contagious enthusiasm for discovering Asia, friendships settling into confident, mutually trusting relationships, meeting cool new people (and thus soothing the wounds left by the dearly departed), and even *gasp* scoring a date (!), life seems to somehow make sense. I've even purchased a couch, and spent last night pouring over (budget) design ideas for my apartment with Cheri. Needless to say, they are her ideas and not mine. Despite my somewhat artistic sensibilities, I am pretty worthless when it comes to home decor. All I know to do is say... "um, I like these colors... hate those... and for the love of God no Degas".

The strangest thing about coming to feel comfortable in Korea is that it skews all sense of direction for the future. I know, for example, that I want to go to graduate school. I am 98% sure of what I want to study, and I know that nabbing a more advanced degree is important to me. But as is perhaps the case with too many things in my life, I'm in no rush. My mom is a supportive, sound source of support and advice- neither here nor there in terms of making me feel like I MUST do this or that. She seems to have far more confidence in my life choices than I in do! (Thanks mom- this is without question the parental quality I love most about you.)

So what if I put off graduate school for another year? I might extend my contract in Korea by 6 months, in an effort to save a bit more money. (I'm not particularly wild about the idea of devoting more time to Daegu than that.) From there, who knows? Teach in another country? Travel until my money runs out, then come back to Korea to earn more? Move to France cold turkey and try my luck as a freelance teacher/writer/editor? I don't know. All I do know is that I don't feel quite ready to "grow up", and until I do the possibilities are endless. As a high school friend's father used to say, "there's always work to be had if you're willing to do it". Great Depression era aside, I think he's pretty dead on about that. Most surprising for me is that being a native English speaker can in fact be one's meal ticket.

I used to be terrified of the idea of being a world wanderer, but as Kirsten Dunst's character says in the film "Mona Lisa Smile", "not all who wander are aimless". I don't feel that I'm running from or searching for any one thing in particular, except for perhaps more and more meaningful relationships. (Like fluffy, comfy pillows, one can never have to many of those!) And my desire to see and experience as many different places, cuisines, and cultures as possible is vast. Surely at some point I'll find myself a bit fatigued- I feel that way from time to time even now. But ready to throw in the towel just yet? I'm not so sure...

Korean kilos

2009-07-20T19:18:00.000-07:00

The freshman 15 is a phenomenon known and feared throughout the United States. The demon pounds are generally brought on by cheap, nutritionally empty meals (easy mac, ramen noodles) and free-flowing beer. Though I'm sure I did gain some weight my freshman year of college, the full 15 evaded me thanks to a rigorous schedule of dance classes and rehearsals.

There is a lesser known, equally formidable foe that I have encountered over the course of the past 5 months. The diet, setting, and even measurement system are different, but the end effect is the same: the Korean kilos.

The dreaded fat is brought on by a variety of factors, many that differ little from those that cause the freshman 15. First and foremost is beer. It's plentiful, cheap, and for the first time in (many of) our adult lives, we can afford as much as we please. Throw in the fact that we English teachers aren't working a huge number of hours and generally start our work day at noon or later, and you've got a recipe for disaster on the fattening beer front.

Second and closely related is the food. Many of us made the mistake of thinking "ah, Asia! if we go there and eat as they do, we'll return home as thin as an Asian girl!" WRONG! I confess I don't know their secret. Maybe we don't eat enough kimchi. Maybe they don't go out as much because they all still live at home with their parents. Maybe our hearty Western stomachs just respond to the food differently... I don't know. But at any rate, little of the food is healthy and light. Swimming in a sea of galbi, rice, salty stews, and fried everything, I find myself yearning for decent salads for the first time in my life.

Third, and particularly unique to me, is the general lifestyle. My last Boston apartment (Medford, really, if you want to split hairs) was a solid 20 minute walk from the closest subway station. I could be lazy and take the bus to a different subway station, but I seldom did and even with that I inevitably did a fair amount of walking to get wherever I was going. Throw in the slowing effects of snow and ice in my final months there, and you have a recipe for a significant default workout. I also attended yoga classes on a semi-regular basis, and did more active activities with friends than I do here. (Most of my Daegu socializing revolves around food and drink.)

But the tide is turning. When my friend Courtney was preparing to leave Korea, I offered to buy her bicycle. As she got it for free (and it's a rather old, squeaky thing anyway) she wouldn't hear of it, and just passed it along. I've ridden it a bit here and there to get the lay of the land and adjust to the contraption. This morning for the first time I took her on a decent ride- along the river a few blocks down from my apartment. It felt great to ride for a longer time, and it was quite a refreshing place to be in this sometimes daunting maze of concrete and neon. Figure in the task of getting her up and down the stairs that lead down TO the river, and you've got quite a decent morning workout.

I also have ballet shoes en route from the Turning Pointe, and am determined to find a dance class. No sooner did I post a note mentioning my desire to find such a thing, than a new friend chimed in excitedly. Who knew- a fellow dancer in my midst! One of the best things about ballet is that it's the same, or at least fundamentally the same, all over the world. If the instructor speaks not one word of English it won't matter. It may even improve my Korean a bit.

So there you have it, my account of waging the battle of the bulge. It's easy to get depressed and feel like giving up when the jeans get tight, but I refuse to do it. I am also nervous about my health to be gaining so much weight, especially hot on the heels of a nasty week of the flu. There are plenty of active, fun things for me to get involved in if I just open my eyes. As of today, I am going to start take advantage of them!

Doctor Lee

2009-07-16T20:20:00.001-07:00

First and foremost, I am happy to report that I have the "regular flu"- not swine flu.

Five days of coughing, chest congestion, headaches, nausea, and diarrhea inevitably began to worry me, particularly as they were accompanied by a flurry of emails and news articles about the ever growing number of swine flu cases in Korea. (Apparently there were 600 as of Wednesday.) Last night when I felt too ill to go see the new Harry Potter movie, I knew enough was enough.

I woke up this morning and called my boss/savior William, telling him about my symptoms and fear that it might be swine flu. Apparently one need only utter the name of the infamous disease to be swept away to the doctor's office! We went to see Doctor Lee, who maintains a clinic in the same building as our hagwon.

Doctor Lee was a kindly, middle-aged man- the older Korean uncle I never had. He was a small man- even sitting I towered over him. His head was bald in the middle and encircled by a ring of thick black hair. He looked me in the eye with great sincerity and concern every time he asked a question, though he knew full well that I couldn't understand Korean. Being all too used to servers and shopkeepers deferring all questions to the most Korean-looking person in the group, I appreciated the gesture. He questioned everything- how long I've been in Korea (I was more likely to have swine flu if I'd only recently arrived from America), what I eat, how much sleep I get in a night, whether I'm under any stress (a slightly embarrassing question in front of my boss!), whether I had a fever (yes) and if so how high, exactly the type of cough I had, how I would describe the nausea (sharp pains? dull pains? are they in my intestines or stomach specifically?). After getting all the details and having a nurse take my temperature, he called the government office in Daegu that is responsible for handling swine flu cases. He spent a great deal of time on the phone with them, sprinkling the conversation with more specific questions to me, translated of course by William. Any time Doctor Lee did know how to pose a question (or part of it) in English, he did. And any time I could respond in Korean, I did, always careful to address him with the respectful "yo". (Roughly the equivalent of being sure to "vous-voyez" in French.)

After much investigation, it was concluded that I do not in fact have swine flu. Doctor Lee motioned me into a side room to "receive shot", and I was more than a little mortified to realize that it was a lift-the-skirt, shot-in-the-buttocks situation. (The shot was of course administered by a female nurse, in a room out of view of the two men. Thank goodness for that- discussing the frequency of my diarrhea in front of William was quite enough embarrassment for one morning.) Afterward I returned to the main office to discuss diet. Translating through William, the doctor explained that the rainy season makes people particularly susceptible to sickness like mine, and that it is important to eat certain types of foods and avoid others. Because the temptation is so great to cool ourselves in every way possible during the hot, sticky weather, it is important to ensure that the stomach "is warm". It is best to leave the air conditioner off, particularly at night as I sleep. I should eat plenty of hot soups (chigaes, ramen), hot teas, and avoid gim bap. I eat cham chi gim bap for lunch nearly every day, so this was an interesting revelation! Apparently it is a common cause of mild food poisoning! The base of gim bap is a square-shaped sheet of seaweed, onto which rice, vegetables, and (in my case) tuna is spread. As the seaweed is never really boiled or cooked, and often spends the better part of the day lying out on the counter of the gim bap chon gook (restaurant), it's like a fly strip for germs- particularly during this hot, sticky season.

I bowed respectfully and thanked Doctor Lee in Korean, which made him smile. I paid 5,000 for the visit (less than $5 US) and walked down the street with William to the pharmacy. While we waited for the prescription to be filled, William confessed that he noticed all was not well with me this week. "But I resisted the temptation to ask you," he told me. "I knew there was a possibility that it could be period- women's troubles- and I did not want to embarrass you. I have made that mistake before!" We both laughed.

The pharmacist quickly filled my prescription, and William translated her instructions on taking the medicine. I was to take 20cc's of a liquid and a smorgasbord of 7 pills 3 times daily. (2,500 won, or less than $2.50 US.) Thanks to my medical woes, I've now learned the Korean for "breakfast", "lunch", and "dinner".

Now I'm home, AC off, sweating profusely after eating the recommended hot soup for lunch. I'll pop some pills, and then sleep until my middle school class at 5:40. William covered my afternoon classes without issue, but doesn't really have anyone to teach my evening ones. So thankful am I for his generosity in everything that I'll struggle through those three without complaint.

Free Times gets in on the Guvnah debate

2009-07-02T06:22:00.000-07:00

This reader response was posted in this week's Free Times (www.free-times.com)- my media link to the goings-on in the greater Columbia area.

Issue #22.26 :: 07/01/2009 - 07/07/2009
Don’t Bash Sanford

Plus: Don't Bash Clemson or Action Council Either

BY FREE TIMES READERS

Gov. Mark Sanford has done so much for South Carolina. He managed to block the police-state Real ID program that the feds tried to force upon us. He has saved the taxpayers millions and millions of dollars. He has fought the jaded, vampiric, destructive, irresponsible majority in the Legislature. For these reasons and others, Gov. Sanford should remain in office to serve out the term that the people of South Carolina elected him to serve.

Also, whoever stole Mark Sanford’s personal emails and whoever publishes those emails are scum. I am assuming that there will be investigations into possible criminality in regard to the theft and publishing of these emails, as well as investigations into the political motivations behind these offensive actions. I would also encourage Gov. Sanford to take whatever legal action he so desires regarding these vile and reckless invasions of his privacy.

Mark Syverson
Columbia

And the following is the response I emailed to the editor of the Free Times this evening! Fingers crossed that they publish it next week!

The professional issue is not that Governor Sanford had an affair. Let’s be honest- a high-ranking political official having an extramarital dalliance is hardly a novel concept. This one just happened to be handled with significantly less discretion than these things usually are. His marriage is his business, and [in my opinion] has zero bearing on the duties of his job as governor.

And I cannot even begin to imagine that he really and truly “fell off the radar” in this post-9/11 era of travel. That his passport wouldn’t be scanned, stamped, and reviewed any number of times in the process of going to and from Argentina is flat out impossible. 30 seconds in Homeland Security’s database (or Delta’s, for that matter) would have easily and quickly spilled to the beans to anyone who cared to know.

The real problem is that he was dishonest about his travel plans from the start and left state affairs of his responsibility unattended for an irresponsible length of time. From what I understand, and my understanding is of course as limited as any that of any other civilian, no one was left at the helm to run the show in his absence. I take no personal issue with his affair, and the details of it do not interest me in the least. But if it has become a force powerful enough to distract his focus from the awesome responsibility he has to the state of South Carolina, I call upon him to be realistic and honest about his competence in the job.

And if indeed taxpayer funds did finance any part of his trip, we have an entirely separate issue!

It is not my intention to diminish accomplishments he has achieved while in office. Anything he has done to benefit the state of South Carolina garners my true appreciation and respect, as I love my home state and see an ally in anyone dedicated to its well being. But his past record, however negative or positive anyone feels it may be, does not undo his recent carelessness. It may very well be a blip, and he’ll now prove to be even more diligent than ever. Indeed I hope this is the case. But at the very least, it would be irresponsible of us all to dismiss his mistakes. As citizens we are called upon to keep a sharp and watchful eye on those we place in office with our votes. If we are to respect the office, as I was always taught to do, it is my belief that the office should in turn deserve that respect. This does not make me a vicious, bloodthirsty monster- it simply makes me a responsible citizen.

Julie Strickland
Taegu, South Korea by way of Newberry, SC

Meigook Manners

2009-06-24T02:11:00.000-07:00

A new country, culture, and language can make for a fascinating experience. It is also a veritable minefield. As an ignorant Meigook (American) with zero experience of Asia, let alone Korea specifically, I am fraught for choice with the number of ways to go wrong when it comes to manners. I will probably never even know that I've committed most such faux pas, but there are some that I recognize immediately.

Even so, I can be like a train barreling down the tracks- there's no hope of stopping me. Such was the case yesterday at around 1pm.

My Tuesday schedule is pretty luxurious, and my favorite part of it is the lengthy lunch break. Sometimes I head home and nap, write emails, or do my laundry, but most of the time I like to sit in my neighborhood gim bam chun gook with a book. Essentially a Korean diner, it's open 24 hours and serves fabulous Korean comfort food. It is also run by the two nicest ajummas (older, married ladies) in Korea. We are able to communicate very little, but they're always kind, helpful, and really excited when I order something new.

Yesterday I walked into the chun gook and, upon scoping out the table scene, noticed my boss sitting alone at one. It was one of those awkward moments in which I couldn't quite pretend to not see him, or vice versa, and so we greeted one another politely. I started to sit down at my own table and was instantly torn between the dictates of my culture (walking over with a big smile and saying "May I join you?") or leaving him alone and sitting my myself, which Korean culture would most assuredly deem more appropriate. The situation was further complicated by the fact that William is an incredibly nice, friendly, funny guy, and that he has lived in the USA. I knew he would understand my cultural tendency to be friendly and chatty over lunch. But this is Daegu, not Cleveland. In Korea, junior employees don't just plop down and make social banter with a boss- especially not when he is an older male and she is a young female.

I had about 5 seconds to run all of this through my brain. And I went with my American side.

William was visibly a bit uncomfortable, but he was his smiling, good-natured self. I rationalized my actions by thinking that because he has experienced enough of my culture to know that this would be the polite course of action, he might think me intending to be rude or standoffish if I hadn't come over to join him. I decided it would be worse, in this particular case, to be rude according to American manners than it would to break the code of Korean ones. If I make a social slip in Korea it's understandable- it can be dismissed as ignorance. I am simply bumbling through Korea with the best intentions. But if I do something against the good Southern manners that have been drilled into me since birth, I don't have that excuse. Being rude in a way that I am conscious of is truly being rude.

At times, Korea's rigid Confucian social system can be stifling. I've been to a few dinners with co-workers since my arrival, usually festive occasions to celebrate someone's arrival or departure. It didn't take me long to see that these can be awkward affairs for my Korean colleagues, all female and in their late 20's/early 30's. At each dinner, they avoid William like the plague. Not because he is unkind or difficult to be around- quite the contrary! Especially after a little soju, he's a hysterically funny storyteller. (Remind me to recount the one about the alligator at the Cincinnati zoo...) The foreign teachers always act as a sort of buffer, sitting between the Korean teachers and William. They just can't quite get around their "Koreanness" enough to know how to behave around/react to their boss. I guess it's much the same as me being unable to not talk to him at the restaurant.

And so, alas, this is the story of my first conscious Korea faux pas. And truthfully, it is probably one that I will commit again.

GOP Gorilla

2009-06-15T18:40:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up to see a You Tube video regarding a tasteless comment made by a GOP activist in South Carolina, likening Michelle Obama to a gorilla. A friend of mine here in Korea had posted the video to his Facebook page, and of course a stream of comments ensued. I jumped on the bandwagon.

I have to say that embarrassed/disgusted though I was by the activist's comment, I was quite impressed to see that long time Columbia major Bob Coble responded with a lengthy condemnation of the tasteless words. No doubt his response was politically motivated to some extent, given that he is up for reelection this year and runs on a Democrat ticket. Even so, speaking out so strongly was perhaps a bit of a risk in conservative, ultra-white South Carolina- a place where Obama is no doubt significantly less popular than he is in other parts of the country. Coble himself is a somewhat controversial character, having served five terms and currently seeking a sixth. Under him there have been a number of meltdowns in Columbia, as well as some tremendously popular and successful projects. Many voters in the capital city now find themselves weighing the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Coble's confident stance against the gorilla comments went a long way to once again remind the world that South Carolina is not a dismissable rural backwater filled with ignorant, racist Bible thumpers. It is a fact that, as a Southerner, I find myself obliged to defend again and again and again. It can get EXHAUSTING, and irritating.

A few friends of mine responded to the video post with comments valiantly defending Southerners- "I know that all Southerners are not racist", "I have friends in the South who say/think/do this", etc. And while I appreciate all that, it bothers me endlessly that they felt the need to say things that I understand quite naturally. Is it really such an incredible shock that- gasp- we Southerners are capable of openness and intelligent thought? More bothersome to me than the facts of ignorance and racism is the apparent reality that those of us on the opposite end of the spectrum must struggle to remind the world that we even exist. How many degrees, languages, and stamps on my passport must I aquire before the negative image will begin to fade?

This is a tremendous challenge for the South, a part of the world seemingly condemned to be regarded as a rural place of stagnant thought. It even bothers me that conservative religious thinkers come under so much fire, despite the fact that I couldn't disagree more with most of their social and political views. In other parts of the country, such stances aren't met with instant disregard- they are given more thorough consideration and often even understood to be powerful political forces. It is this kind of engagement that I would like to see become more the norm in the land from whence I came.

I am a strong advocate of everyone's right to believe what they want to believe, and say what they want to say. Disgusted though I am by the Michelle Obama gorilla comments, I am proud of our freedoms that give us the right to communicate such tasteless ideas. It is the root of these ideas and the belief systems behind them that I want to see treated with consideration. Open-minded, intelligent individuals are not obliged to agree with or even respect the ideas of others. But they do have a responsibility to consider them.

Sunday funday

2009-06-06T22:26:00.000-07:00

Sunday funday- the time to rest and reflect on the week. It’s a fragile peace on this day of the week. One runs the risk of feeling disappointed, let down by the lack of excitement in the week before. Mostly it’s a question of being content, stable. And at this stage in the expat experience, it can be a delicate thing.

This time last week, I hit my lowest point thus far in Korea. All of my friends and colleagues assure me that it’s “normal”, that I’m on the usual downward turn on the graph of happiness in the one-year Korea teaching experience. In the beginning it’s pure joy and excitement- new place, new people, new apartment, new everything. The giddiness is such that it blots out the small negatives like rude locals and missing folks back home. One attacks everything voraciously- going out, learning the language, giving 150% at work, meeting new people. Every encounter is deeply fulfilling.

Around the 2 month mark, the rosy hue begins to subside. It is an exotic, interesting country, sure. But life has settled into a routine. Aside from the facts that everyone on the street is speaking Korean instead of English and cheese is a novelty, it’s business as usual. You get up, go to work, and come home exhausted. The week is punctuated with occasional beer, coffee, and movie outings. On the weekend you drink a little more beer than you did on the weekday, and maybe do a day trip to Busan or Gyeongju. It’s less exciting, but not unhappy.
Then comes month 3. Life sucks. It doesn’t really, but good luck to anyone who tries to tell you so. Your initial enthusiasm for studying the language wanes- it’s ridiculous how little you’ve mastered in three whole months. The rate at which you meet new people comes to a virtual halt. The open arms have closed off a bit, because you’re no longer the “newbie” that everyone feels obliged to care for. You’ve been here long enough that you should know the city and have some friends. If anything, people are a little shy and embarrassed to pursue your friendship too passionately. They figure you’ve already got your circle and don’t want to impose.

Everything that used to be interesting and exciting now gets on your nerves. The stares, the language, the music on your Ipod, taxi drivers asking whether you’re “from Russia” (code for “Are you a prostitute?”), the tiny clothing sizes, the weight gain. Even the things that are positive, encouraging steps forward (my work with Daegu Pockets, for example) lose their luster.
It was at this point that I broke down last week, quite unexpectedly. On the way to Busan last Sunday, I was surprised by the wish to be heading in the opposite direction- Seoul- to board a plane to the States. When I reached Haendae Beach, my spirits momentarily lifted. Something about the ocean and the warm sand always calms me. But then, overwhelmed by thoughts of the beaches in South Carolina and Massachusetts, and my heart sank once again. I held it together, distracted by the company of friends, until I got home. But when my mother made her weekly phone call to me that night, I completely fell apart.

The weight of depression pushed down on me for three solid days, despite my efforts to connect with work and friends. I couldn’t stop daydreaming about coming home, even though I knew full well that I couldn’t do a damn thing at home without a reasonable amount of money. Surprisingly, it was this knowledge that gradually lifted me out of the funk. When my contract terminates at the end of February, I will be able to go where I want to go and do what I want to do. This seemingly small realization proved to be incredibly empowering.

It also didn’t hurt that a friend in South Carolina bought her plane ticket for Korea! Her visit at the end of July couldn’t be better timed- at exactly the halfway point, it will go a long way to help me recover my initial energy. There is nothing like seeing your home through the eyes of a visiting friend to revive your affection for it. I never loved Boston so much as I did when I was showing it off to friends and family.

So, la vie continue. My therapists (aka friends) tell me that the next step in the “Korea curve” will be a plateau. I will find myself happier than I am right now, but not quite as euphoric as I was initially. That midway point between my frame of mind in the beginning and the way it is now will hold steady through the rest of my stay. It will inevitably be punctuated with exceptional highs and another couple of lows, but it will give me a strong, grounded sort of peace. In short, it will be real life. In Korea. Which is pretty incredible, regardless of how normal it may seem to become.

Blue Planet Politics

2009-05-23T22:10:00.001-07:00

Being a teacher is like any job in that it has good days and bad, perks and annoyances.

When I worked in sales, the name of the game was pleasing the client. I could write volumes about the ridiculous expectations of travelers, and the idiotic lengths to which the company would sometimes go in an effort to maintain their happiness. We apologized profusely for flights that were cancelled because of blizzards. We expressed our regrets when buses got stuck in Parisian traffic. We moved fussy group leaders into new rooms, stopping by to leave champagne and chocolates on the pillow, when they found their 4-star French digs too cramped. When high school kids barely touched their dinner because fish with bones was too “exotic”, we took groups to McDonalds.

Disappointed though I was to leave a job that was an incredible opportunity in many ways, I shed no tears over the opportunity to step away from the ridiculous hoopla of pleasing bratty clients. It was so exciting to discover the possibility of teaching in Korea, a job that would be far more straightforward in terms of my role. There was little chance that I’d find myself apologizing to parents for the inconvenience of words like there, their, and they’re.

Or so I thought.

My first complaint rolled in around the 2-month mark. The mother of a darling kindergarten student raised Caine when she discovered an error in her son’s workbook that I had failed to slash with a red pen. She wasted no time showing this to the head Korean teacher and to my boss, complaining that I was careless and unprofessional. The school director reluctantly explained the situation to me one afternoon.

“I realize of course that you do check the students’ answers, and that it is not difficult to have one answer on one page go unnoticed. But this mother is an influential parent who spends a great deal of money here, and for this reason we must ensure that her disappointment is thoroughly and respectfully dealt with. She is upset, and is even questioning your own command of English.”

My command of English?? Pick apart my abilities with French grammar, sure, but English?

“I know, “ he shrugged. “But I must ask you to write a letter of apology to her.”

“Of course, “ I nodded. “It’s no problem, I understand. I’ll write it for you now so that you can look over it before I leave today. If there’s anything you want me to change, please let me know.”

He gave me a grateful smile. One thing’s for sure- whatever my feelings toward this mother, I respect and admire our school’s director a great deal. To make life easier on him and the Korean teacher, I would happily do whatever he asks. But I did take care to write with excruciating formality, in an effort to include as much vocabulary as possible that she’d be unlikely to know (though too proud to admit it).

Despite having successfully weathered my first overzealous parent, the wind was knocked out of me with equal force when my second came to call.

About a month later, I began using a fun, new textbook with one of my most capable classes. Blue Planet is a children’s science workbook that deals with basic biology and geology. The exercises are simple but fun and interesting, and the book includes lots of small projects. For our first such endeavor, we were to make alligator dioramas with shoeboxes, construction paper, glue, and magic markers. I asked the students to each bring a shoebox to class, and I took care of rounding up everything else. As is often the case with young students, not everyone remembered. So, I put the kids in groups of two to work on their dioramas. It went beautifully, as they all contributed pretty evenly to the drawing, cutting, and pasting. They did a wonderful job, and I was quite proud of their teamwork and the dioramas themselves.

Imagine my surprise when the next day, the Korean teacher tells me she received an angry phone call from the parent of a student who forgot to bring a shoebox. She was outraged to be asked to provide such a thing, as she “is extremely busy”. She then went on to question why we were doing such projects in class, instead of working on reading and grammar. This mother, coincidentally, is an English teacher.

I rather didn’t know how to respond to this one. But the thing that really got me was the Korean teacher’s request that I not do every project in the book, only some. (The diorama was the first one.) She asked what I had planned for the next class, and I told her about the underwater habitat we were going to recreate with cutouts and contact paper. I had already promised the kids, and they were looking forward to it. She told me that we were going to have to skip this.

I was heartbroken. I had promised, and I am not in the habit of breaking promises to young children. I was incensed that one parent could hold such sway! All of the other parents, she even said, had been thrilled with the project! And as I pointed out, it was also a wonderful exercise for their English. I had explained the instructions in English and not allowed the students to speak Korean to one another while they constructed the diorama. Though the Korean teacher agreed with me on all of these points, she felt we had no choice.

The incident proves that no business is completely free of politics. In educational travel, one bows to teachers from wealthy schools that bring big groups. In education itself, one graciously accepts the whim of parents. Bending a little every now and again hardly breaks apart all professional integrity, but it is frustrating at times. It’s important to find the balance between conducting ourselves the way we want to and making sure we don’t bite the hand that feeds us. As my command of Korean language and culture is less than stellar at present, I at least do not have to deal with angry parents directly.

Heavenly Haendae

2009-05-09T01:49:00.001-07:00

Monday May 4, 2009

Monday afternoon on the beach in Busan- about as dramatic a departure as one could hope to have from 216 bows in a Buddhist temple! The spring sun is a bit fickle, which I suppose is just as well for my fair, sunburn-prone skin. Sweta, Jen, Steven, and I are relaxing on our respective towels, sipping yummy red wine out of paper cups. Ever the prepared beachgoer, Sweta is armed with fruit, veggies, bottled water, and wine.

The water is a beautiful blue-green and the orangey brown sand reminds me of Plum Island in Newburyport, Mass. In place of the standard seagul, pigeons hop and fly around the beach. I'm not really sure what that's all about...

I'm giddy with excitement to be browsing American magazines- Cosmo, Time, and Travel & Leisure. At 20,000 won (roughly $15 US) a pop they were insanely expensive, but whatever. sometimes a girl needs her guilty pleasures!

216 Bows

2009-05-08T20:51:00.001-07:00

Nine o’clock on Friday night. This time three months ago I was behind the hostess stand at Grafton- taking a deep breath and saying a little prayer that I wouldn’t screw up the Saturday night dinner seating. Tonight I’m sprawled on my stomach on a bunch of blankets, on the floor of a girls’ dorm in a Korean Buddhist temple. Harvard academia has given way to a hodgepodge of Western backpackers, world wanderers like me. Exactly why we’re here or what we’re looking for, Buddha only knows.

I arrived in the town of Gyeongju this afternoon at around 2 pm, following an hour on a crowded local bus from Daegu. In Daegu there are two major bus terminals- one for express (e.g. longer distance) buses and another for vehicles traveling shorter journeys. After conferring with ticket sellers on both sides, my friends and I concluded that our bus was departing from the express side. Several sprints back and forth across the crosswalk eventually convinced us otherwise. Thanks to an unnecessarily kind driver, the 12:10 bus was held until 12:15 for the hopeless weigooks (foreigners).

Upon arriving in Gyeongju, I was immediately struck by the small town atmosphere. Saturated with temples, the town is also quite accustomed to dealing with tourists. My friends and I had at least three offers of assistance before we’d even left the bus terminal. We made our way across the street to catch city bus #100, which would take us as close as Gyeongju public transportation gets to Golgul Temple. The bus wound through town, fields, and eventually began to loop around windy mountain roads. The scenery was incredible- emerald green as far as the eye could see.

At the Andong bus stop we climbed off. We had quite literally been dropped in the middle of nowhere, and found ourselves on a country roadside deep in the Korean mountains. Our only company was a small building selling street food to locals. Our appearance drew a few curious grins and twinkling eyes from the vendors. From there we headed left along the road, beginning our ascent. After about 20 minutes, the lanterns celebrating Buddha’s birthday made their first appearance. My heart lurched- this was real! We were going to spend the night in a Buddhist temple!

The isolation of the country roads gave way to cars and crowds of people as we ventured through the main entrance of the temple grounds. Everyone, it seemed, had made the trip to Golgulsa to celebrate the big guy’s birthday on this warm spring day. On our first detour to the ladies’ toilet, a sign instructing us not to flush tissue down the commode greeted us. Though this is a fairly common sight in Korea, the proclamation that the penance for disobedience is 1,080 bows is not.

After checking in, the magic carpet ride began in earnest. We began the afternoon by watching a sunmudo demonstration in front of the main shrine. To the uninitiated onlooker, the martial art is a fascinating, curious blend of yoga and tae kwon do. Most surprising was the Frenchman performing with the Korean monks, and the Head monk seated in observance… with a monkey in his lap. The monkey, understandably unnerved by the crowd, clung fast to his monk. From time to time he would rub his monk’s belly with a nervous paw.

After the sunmudo demonstration, we settled into our living quarters. Six women were to share the sleeping room (the men were housed in separate quarters), a large empty area with customary ondol heat. (Most Korean homes, my apartment in Daegu included, are warmed this way. The floors are heated, and from there the warmth works its way up into the rest of the room.) The shower room housed two showerheads and a Western toilet. Our beds were to be fashioned out of a pallet of blankets and a few pillows. I thought of it as summer camp, Korean Buddhist temple style.

Dinner at 5:30 was much welcomed. The food was typical, traditional Korean fare- essentially be bim bap. We helped ourselves to rice, bean sprouts, kimchi, greens, noodles, chili paste, and a dessert of fruit and rice cakes. I was careful to scoop small portions into my bowl, as in Buddhist tradition it is very important to not waste any food. As our sunmudo instructor would explain the following day, the monks eat what is essential for the body to function- no more, no less. How many weight loss companies and gyms would go out of business if the regular populace caught on to the truth of this basic Buddhist concept?

After dinner, I experienced my first Buddhist meditation. First on the agenda was learning how to bow, as one must do this three times before sitting down comfortably on his or her cushion. A young monk with broken English and an infectious smile took to the task of instructing the bewildered weigooks. We put our hands together in the fashion of a praying devotee, and bent down to our knees. From there we leaned forward with our upper bodies, placing our palms on the mat, on either side of our heads. We flipped our hands and lifted our palms by our ears, and then returned them, palm back down, to the mat. As we rose back to our knees our hands returned to their praying stance, and we rocked back onto the balls of our feet to rise completely. This was done exactly the same way a second time, and on the third we touched our “praying hands” to our foreheads to complete the gesture. From there we were free to sit Indian-style and chat with our neighbor until the ceremony began.

The sound of the wooden fish, called a moktak in Korea, signifies the beginning of the ceremony. Following the lead of the monks, we executed several half bows to show respect to the Buddha and the high-ranking monks leading us. We then had the opportunity to exercise our newly acquired skills, bowing all the way down to the ground. Shifting to a seated position, we floated away on a sea of musical chants. Unintelligible to Western ears, the sound is nonetheless beautiful and mesmerizing. I found it difficult and distracting to try to hang on with my paper indicating the sounds in English lettering, so I gave up early on and allowed myself to float away on the hum of more experienced voices.

Following the chanting, a lead monk turned to give us basic instruction in meditation. A Korean-American teenager translated his words for the English speakers. He suggested looking at our noses during the 20-minute meditation, to give wandering eyes a focal point. The monk also said that if we had trouble concentrating, it is often helpful to count from one to five, and then six to ten repeatedly. From there, meditation began. After 20 minutes of unsuccessfully attempting to silence my mind and harness some sort of spiritual energy, I bowed my way up from the mat- tired and a little bit frustrated.

Bedtime came early as we were all a bit tired from the Buddha’s birthday festivities, and in anticipation of our early wake-up. The night passed with little sleep, as it was difficult to relax on the hard floor while brushing off the occasional cricket and a symphony of snores. As soon as I closed my eyes, my ears perked up to our alarm clock- the sound of our trusty moktak and chanting monks. At 4am, we dragged ourselves off the pillows and blankets and out into the damp morning air. Our sleeping quarters were at the bottom of a steep hill, while the main shrine was at the top. With every step of the climb, I cursed my decision to seek spiritual awakening at such an ungodly hour.

Morning meditation passed in much the same way- with one huge difference. The 20 minutes of attempted focus and quiet were followed by 108 bows. At first I tried to count, thinking a sense of direction would make the task feel less taxing. But this proved to only exacerbate the challenge, as it made the time pass in slow motion. I finally let go and lost myself in the rhythm of the movement. My body began to operate on autopilot- I had no sense of what I was doing, how long I’d been doing it, or how many bows were left to go. Much to my surprise, the mental cacophony gave way to stillness and quiet. All energy was directed to my muscles and joints, as if getting down to and up from the mat was the only thing that mattered in the world. When the leading monk indicated the end of our bows with a couple of clangs on the moktak, endorphins flowed through my veins with surprising vigor. I headed to the dining hall for breakfast with an awakened, refocused body.

After breakfast, I returned to our sleeping quarters for a couple of hours to nap and allow my meal to digest. The real experience was soon to follow- my first sunmudo training. I scribbled furiously in my notebook, determined to remember my Buddhist mountain quest with as much detail as possible!

My roommates and I set out for sunmudo class, mercifully held in the building next door to our sleeping quarters. We began by laying out thin yoga mats and warming our bodies with stretches. As we twisted and turned through splits, backbends, and leg lifts, I gave Buddha a little wink of thanks for my years of classical ballet training. The expressions on the faces of my friends were considerably less positive.

After more than an hour of warm up, we learned our first set of fighting stances, punches, and kicks. Who knew my brief stint as a high school cheerleader would serve me well in my execution of sharp, precise sunmudo punches? The first few felt easy and comfortable, but this sensation quickly gave way to exhaustion. Our instructor kept time for our multiple punches with claps and sharp counting in Korean- il, i, sam, sa, o! The strength of my punches quickly collapsed, and the height of my kicks was dramatically reduced by the end of class.

And of course, there is no better way to follow and exhausting 1 ½ hour sunmudo class than with- you guessed it- another 108 bows. During this session I learned something very important about doing so many bows at once- speed. Our morning monk had moved us through the motions quickly, barely giving us time to think about the fact that we were indeed executing 108 bows. Our leader following sunmudo class took her time, milking every bend to its fullest potential. By the time the moktak signaled the completion of our bows, my legs felt like Jell-O.

The pure bliss that can be drawn from simple things like hot showers and meals after pushing one’s body to the limit is truly amazing. Despite the fact that I was dodging spiders and crickets in the bathroom, soaking under the showerhead felt incredible. My muscles perked at the warmth, assuring that they would carry me back to Daegu without collapsing. Our simple lunch of rice and vegetables calmed my grumbling belly, giving my body the energy it would need to walk back to the bus stop. In fact, the downhill hike felt more like the quiet réverance at the end of ballet class than another test of my body as a whole. My friends and I enjoyed the last few breaths of fresh air with great satisfaction, bracing ourselves for the smog and yellow dust of Daegu. On the bus home, I munched on a Twix chocolate bar and sipped a Coca Cola. I felt it a fitting snack to transition me back to the vices and temptations of the real world.

Loving Love Hotels

2009-04-30T07:08:00.001-07:00

Young travelers on a budget sing heartfelt alleluia choruses to inventions like youth hostels. These properties are simple and basic, but generally clean and comfortable. Many have cozy bars in the lobby where expats can gather to swap stories of their overseas adventures. In truth, there’s very little practical reason to shell out the extra cash on an actual hotel in Europe.

In Korea, the budget hotel scene is somewhat different. Though hostels exist, they aren’t as popular here as in many places. And anyway, there is a much nicer and equally budget-friendly option:

The love hotel.

The love hotel is exactly what it sounds like. Located throughout Korean cities, they are actually quite snazzy and comfortable. The beds are soft, the décor modern and hip (if sometimes a bit Austin Powers), and some even have Jacuzzi bathtubs! The cost is reasonable, and there is no need to book ahead. You actually couldn’t even if you wanted to- love hotels don’t accept credit cards as discretion is the name of the game when it comes to a “night of love”.

If you’re unsure as to whether a property is a love hotel, have a glance at the parking lot. You’ll notice a colorful drape hanging between the street and parked cars- it looks a bit like the entrance to a car wash. The idea is to hide cars and their license plates, so that locals driving by won’t notice the car of a friend or business colleague (or worse, spouse). Odds are you’ll also notice a double barber’s pole- two red, white, and blue rotating helix- nearby. While one barber’s pole signifies a salon, as in the West, two indicate a brothel. A love hotel is not a brothel in and of itself (an important distinction!), but the two cannot quite exist without one another.

Sex in Korea, or rather the attitude toward it, is strange and difficult to reconcile in Western consciousness. Prostitution was made illegal in 1947 and this law re-confirmed in 1948, but it has never been taken seriously. In Korea, men and women live at home until they are married, and the latter are expected to be virgins when they do. The closest a young couple can get to having pre-marital sex is making out in a dvd bong, an establishment that houses movies in individual rooms. (Bong means room in Korean.)

Outside the confines of polite discussion is the oft-accepted fact, in Korea and elsewhere in the world, that young men will and should “sow their wild oats”. But how is a young Korean man to go about his sexual escapades when the chastity of his peers is so carefully guarded?

The answer is simple. Prostitutes.

Confucius, who shaped much of modern Korea’s cultural mindset, took a rather practical view on male sexuality. While acknowledging the rationality of desire, he taught that it should be managed in a context that coordinated a balance between society and the individual. He affirmed that the gratification of basic desires, like sex, is crucial to the contentment of the state as a whole. It is within this context that the existence of brothels, while perhaps at odds with formal law in Korea, can be understood on a philosophical level. While Confucius certainly does not deny the reality of female sexual desire, its presence takes a backseat to women’s roles within the confines of traditional relationships. In Confucianism, human relationships are defined as being one of the following:

1) Ruler to subject

2) Father to son

3) Husband to wife

4) Elder brother to younger brother

5) friend to friend

Within this context, a woman’s role is one of service, obedience, and management of household affairs. The question becomes more one of maintaining the balance of a healthy society than satisfying the needs of the individual.

Coming from a society that values independence and personal identity above all else, it is difficult at best to understand such a mindset! Modern Western society is filled to the brim with freedom of expression and experimentation, and there is little sense of responsibility on the part of the individual for society’s ebb and flow. It is every man for himself in work and play- a notion that must strike the average Korean as incredibly strange.

Of paramount importance in Korea is also the notion of “saving face”. In matters of business, friendship, sex, or any other rotating gear of life, preserving your dignity and that of your fellow man is crucial. Koreans shudder at the idea of confrontation, as it leaves someone embarrassed. In this context, the odd duality that exists on the relationship front- sexual and otherwise- is perhaps better understood. More important than the fact of a gentleman patronizing a love hotel is that he is able to do so discreetly, without incident. This way, no one is hurt or embarrassed by his satisfaction of something even Confucius regarded as a basic human need. The wheels of society then keep on turning.

Robinson, Martin; Bartlett, Ray; and Whyte, Rob. Korea. Melbourne: Lonely Planet,

2007.

“Confucianism.” Open History. 18 September 2006. 30 April 2009.

< http://www.openhistory.org/jhdp/intro/node35.html>.

Yan, Wang. "Conception of Moderate Desire in Confucian Thought." ConfuChina. 04

December 2003. 30 April 2009. < http://www.confuchina.com/03%20lunlizhengzhi/Conception%20of%20Moderate%20Desire.htm>.

Korean Food Unwrapped.

2009-04-20T08:17:00.001-07:00

The first time I ever tasted Korean cuisine, I was near the University of South Carolina campus in downtown Columbia. The Blue Cactus restaurant (www.bluecactuscafe.com), a long-time frontrunner for the establishment with the best vegetarian options in the capital city, is an undisputed gem. And the prevalence of Korean dishes goes a long way to show the growing curiosity about this type of cuisine in the West.
Many Americans know their sushi, sake, dim sum, and Tsing Tao beer. I’m willing to bet you’ve also had pad Thai. But how fluent are you in gim bap, bibimbap, mandu, galbi, and soju?

Gim bap

Gim bap can perhaps most closely be likened to sushi rolls in Western consciousness. Raw fish is common and extremely popular on the Korean peninsula, but it goes by a different name here: hoe (pronounced ho-hwe).
Gim bap begins its life as a sheet of dry seaweed, which is covered with cooked rice and topped with pickled radish, carrot, spinach, cucumber, and the meat of your choice (or lack of, if that is your preference). My personal favorite is cham chi gim bap- cham chi meaning tuna, gim the dried, pressed seaweed, and bap- rice. It takes mere moments to make, and travels well. I often grab a gim bap en route to the train station, or in the afternoon before a long schedule of back-to-back classes. The slices make for perfect snacks during quick breaks.

Bibim bap

This Korean comfort food was the first sample of the country’s cuisine that I ever tasted. Written as bee bim bap on the menu at the Blue Cactus, it was a favorite of my friend Amanda’s. And I can’t dispute that it is nicely complimented by sweet tea.
Needless to say, the accompanying drinks and side dishes in Korea are ever so slightly different.
Bibimbap is a rice dish, served in a bowl, topped with chili paste and steamed, lightly seasoned vegetables. They generally are julienned cucumber, zucchini, mushroom, spinach, and soybean sprouts. An egg is served on top, and the guest also has a choice of meat topping (if you so desire). Most popular are chicken, seafood, or beef. Tofu is far less popular in Korea than it is in the west and many other Asian countries, so I generally keep my bibimbap simple with just the bed of simple, delicious vegetables.

Mandu

Mandu is the Korean take on the world-famous Asian dumpling. Smaller and lighter than many of its Chinese counterparts, it makes for a fabulous appetizer or street food snack. Unique to Daegu is bibim mandu, a tasty little dumpling filled with cabbage and meat. Ordering this in Seoul would inevitably win you a quizzical look in response.

Galbi

Galbi has been famously reincarnated in the West as “Korean barbecue”. The only Korean restaurant in Boston, Koreana (www.koreanaboston.com), makes this it’s focal point. The potential oversimplification of this country’s food notwithstanding, galbi is a truly fantastic tidbit of this carnivorous culture.
In practice, galbi refers to pork and beef short ribs (galbi literally means “rib”) that have been marinated in Korean soy sauce. The result is a succulent, sweet and salty flavor. As the diner grills the meat in front of himself on a round “grill”, it is cut into thin slices across the bones. This renders it more chopstick-friendly, and makes it possible to enjoy galbi as intended- wrapped in a flavorful leaf.
But the galbi experience isn’t all about the meat.
Side dishes are a popular and omnipresent part of Korean dining, and in no place is this more apparent than in a galbi restaurant. Every establishment offers different dishes, which is part of the fun. I have had everything from noodles to potato salad to crawfish to bundagie (silkworm larvae).
Also, no galbi experience is truly complete without…

Soju.

Soju is to Korea what vodka is to Russia, whiskey is to Scotland, and sake is to Japan. Many a weigook (foreigner) has fallen victim to its haze, as undoubtedly has many a Korean businessman.
Traditionally made from rice, this liquor is nowadays often supplemented with other starches. Its alcohol content varies from 20% to 45% by volume, with the former being the most common. In truth, a bottle of your favorite Bordeaux likely has a significantly higher alcohol volume than a bottle of soju.
Which is why we mix it with beer…

Gunbae! (Cheers!)

Vices and Vacancies

2009-04-18T01:14:00.000-07:00

I sat down to compose this blog while suffering from an acute caffeine craving. This is something that, at around 4:00 in the afternoon, I would usually tend with a can of diet coke. Imagine my frustration upon realizing that, this being Korea, I’ll be having no such thing. The realization served to further deepen my mood into one of spoiled Western annoyance.

My vices of the beverage persuasion do not end there. The worst of these are coffee and wine… not necessarily in that order! Both are easily accessible in this country, but not quite in the way I would prefer them. Coffee-obsessed though Koreans are, their take on the beverage is satiated with sugar and milk. He who can detect the flavor of the actual coffee beans beneath all this has truly gifted taste buds! I long for carefree mornings kicked off with a cup of my favorite blend from Trader Joe’s.

Wine, though popular in Korea, takes a backseat to soju. And expensive though it can be in the United States, in Korea it is even more so. Back home, we do have access to somewhat less expensive varieties from within our own borders. Korean wines are of a more fruity variety, and imports are pricey- even from relatively close countries like Australia.

In keeping with the spirit of grumpy longing, a few more things I miss, would like more of, or dislike the Korean “version”:

cotton underwear.

In Korea, it is difficult to come by Julie’s Holy Trinity for panty selection: 1)

comfort, 2) style/cuteness, 3) a reasonable price. Cheap options abound, which often means they are poorly made using itchy, scratchy fabrics. At the other end of the spectrum are expensive designer brands, in which I can’t bring myself to indulge.

Tampax pearl tampons.

Korean girls customarily use pads instead of tampons, so the selection of the latter is

small and lacking in the comfort offered by the many Western brands.

Baths.

My shower and bathroom are one in the same. A showerhead is mounted on the wall slightly west of my sink, and it is from thence that I bathe daily. It works fine actually, though I must strategically place the soap dish to avoid it melting prematurely. The floor dries quickly- usually by the time I get home from school in the evenings.

But, I desperately miss having the option to take a bath! In my opinion, there is no life problem that cannot be solved, or at least soothed, by soaking in a nice hot bath. Adding bubbles, candles, and a glass of wine to the mix only makes the occasion that much more meaningful.

Pointe Magazine

Even if there is a fabulous Korean magazine devoted entirely to ballet, I

can’t read it. Yet.

American Vogue

“When I first moved to New York and was totally broke, I would sometimes buy a Vogue instead of dinner. I just felt it fed me more.”

-Carrie Bradshaw

This is a choice guilty pleasure of any fashion-loving American girl.

Barbecue- the noun, not the verb.

I have been coping with this loss for nearly 3 years now, but it is acutely felt

nonetheless. This hole in my life that is the absence of barbecue is made that much larger by a lack of fried okra, oyster roasts, banana pudding, and sweet tea.

mint chocolate chip ice cream. ‘Nuff said.

2009-04-18T00:35:00.000-07:00

www.slate.com

Tasting Taegu

2009-04-12T01:24:00.000-07:00

In traveling the world, there are many things to worry about. Money, language, making friends, getting from A to B. But there is one thing that never worries me in the slightest:

Going hungry or thirsty.

If there is food to be had, you can rest assured that I will try it. Thus far in Korea I have become quite fond of kimchi, am able to turn and cook the galbi like a pro, can guzzle soju with the best of them, have developed a higher tolerance for hot chili paste, and have learned where to get the best cham chi gim bap in my neighborhood. I’ve even tried bundagie- silk worm larvae. It was a regrettable decision, but I suppose at least I can say that I am embracing the culinary aspects of my Korean experience with willing taste buds.

My Canadian friend Sweta is a kindred spirit of the gourmand persuasion. And fortunately for me, she is very open to trying new things, despite the limitations imposed by her vegetarian lifestyle. In the beginning we were somewhat shy about venturing out into the Daegu restaurant scene, but we have recently spread our wings and begun to explore Samduck Subongsa (the hip and happening downtown area) in earnest. The result? A culinary Mecca.

Cafés abound, many with outdoor seating or huge front windows flung open. In these first delightfully warm days of spring, the open air is welcomed and shutting oneself inside away from it is unthinkable. On Saturday afternoon, we selected an open, airy Italian restaurant with gray concrete floors and white everything else. The chairs, tables, walls, and plates were sleek and simple. We felt giddy in our stylish setting, temporarily forgetting that we were in Daegu and not Manhattan.

In keeping with the delicious simplicity, we ordered a light lunch of bruchetta and veggie salad to share. I sipped my first sparkling water with lemon in Korea- one of my favorite things on a hot spring day. When our lunch arrived, we were again excited by its lovely presentation. As is often the case in Korea, portions were plentiful and varied. Having expected a simple bruschetta composed of bread, tomato, olive oil, and a little basil, I was blown away by the classic’s companions- tangerine and shrimp, cream cheese and almonds, arugula and calamari, and strawberries with cream cheese. I wasn’t crazy about the calamari option, but otherwise enjoyed everything.

Our salad was, in a word, mushroom-palooza. I can’t even begin to explain all the cousins of the Portobello, the only familiar fungus. But most were tasty and went nicely with the tomato, onion, and arugula that made up the rest of the light, warm day treat.

Later in the evening, we happened upon a French restaurant, aptly called Dijon. It is a bit pricey by Korean standards, but I am already lured by the promise of lamb, chèvre, olive oil, and red wine in abundance. Birthday dinner anyone?? Or perhaps an un-birthday party à la Alice in Wonderland… ?

Happy in Hanbok

2009-04-12T00:58:00.000-07:00

Strange though it may seem, there are times that I forget I’m in Korea. Anywhere in the world there is a certain degree of daily grind- especially when you’re working for a living, as most of us do are obliged to do. I get up, grab some gim bap, head to school, teach a few classes, break for coffee, teach a few more, and then come home and cook dinner. Sometimes I get a little crazy and mix things up. I might head out to a movie, where I’ll have the choice of munching on “sweet” (caramel) or “salty” (the usual Western movie stuff) popcorn. I may go out for galbi and the ubiquitous kimchi. On an especially ambitious evening I’ll go out for beers and the infamous soju- a decision I’m bound to regret while teaching kindergartners first thing the next morning. If I happen to be feeling fiscally irresponsible, I’ll go shoe shopping, where I purchase the second-largest size available to women in this country (260).

My life, you see, has settled into a regular pattern. The danger of this is that life loses its luster- the exoticism of my home begins to fade into the background of work, friends, and comfortable life. Startled by this realization, I set out to explore my city Saturday afternoon.

My friend Sweta and I met at our regular rendez-vous point in Samduck Subongsa, a downtown neighborhood. Determined to center our day on an “only in Korea” experience, we ventured to Gukchae-bosong Memorial Park. This one of few green spaces in Daegu was built to commemorate the Gukche-bosong, a national movement to repay Korean debt that began in 1907. The site has since attracted visitors with its monument to poems by local poets and efforts to harmonize life in Daegu with a landscape of water fountains, pavilion, and stone sculptures.

The first site upon rounding the corner of the busy intersection neighboring the park is that of a tremendous bell pavilion housing the Dalgubeol (Dalgubeoldaejong) Grand Bell. This lovely sight is the stuff of an idealized Korea in Western consciousness. I was forced to stop in my tracks, take a deep breath, and then exclaim, “Oh my God, I am in… Korea!” For the first time, it really hit me. I am in Asia! I could practically feel my mind opening, and my heart soaking in the incredible reality that is this experience, for the first time.

Reluctantly dragging ourselves away from the bell pavilion, Sweta and I saw dozens of women in beautiful hanbok, the traditional Korean dress. It was quite a sight. I’ve seen older women in hanbok on occasion, and have viewed the garment through shop windows. But never before had I experienced the sea of color and flowing fabric that resulted from so many different ones in place! Young Koreans generally have much more of an affinity for jeans, cute t-shirts, and high heels.

It was impossible not to stare in awe, and fortunately the ajimas (older Korean ladies) seemed quite proud of our curiosity. Sweta asked one group of lovely ladies if they would mind her taking a picture of them, and they happily agreed. The resulting photo was complete with cherry blossoms in the background.

Daegu Tourist Information, http://tour.daegu.go.kr
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hanbok

More about the debt repayment movement: http://www.heritage.go.kr/eng/mus/prv_04.jsp

The Japanese Government aggressively loaned funds to the Korean Government since the Sino-Japanese War in 1894 to subordinate the Korean economy to Japan and to create a colony based on economic control.
According to the policies, the Japanese Government provided the Korean Government with loans totaling 11.5 million won in two years from the first Korea-Japan Covenant in 1904 to 1906, when the movement of national debt repayment started.
The lending policy of the Japanese Government was great threat to the economic independence of Korea and its people, and some intellectuals showed concerns regarding the policy.
Gwangmumsa Publisher was the leader in inspiring national pride by publishing studies of practical scientists and books on new sciences. In Daegu, on February 21, 1907, Gwang-Je Kim, the president, and Sang-Don Seo, the vice-president of the publisher, announced the movement of national debt repayment in the Daehan Daily News and invite the people to participate in the movement by donating the money saved from not smoking. The national debt repayment movement launched by the capitalists and some intellectuals was spread throughout the country with large participation that included women and the lower classes.
The contributions collected throughout the country were deposited in banks such as Hanseong Bank (former Chohung Bank), that were established with Korean capital. Public media such as Daehan Daily News, which was established by Gi-Tak Yang and Bethel, led the movement. However, the movement was terminated when Japan recognized it. They banished Bethel and arrested Gi-Tak Yang for misappropriation of public money through Tonggambu, an institute installed in Seoul by Japan for preparatory operation of merging Korea. The national debt repayment movement was a significant event in which the people of Korea participated during the monetary crisis that resulted from the currency change of 1905.
After Daedong Gwangmun Association in Gwangmunsa on February 21, 1907, numerous prospectus were announced throughout the country. The prospectuses declared that the people unite to recover the national sovereignty by repaying the national debt.

Meigook Modesty

2009-04-08T02:58:00.000-07:00

It never occurred to me to think of women’s style of dress as being immodest in the South. I grew up wearing flip-flops, shorts, and tank tops in the summer. I washed my mom’s car in cheerleading shorts and a bathing suit top. What else are you supposed to do in a place where the temperature regular climbs above 100 degrees with sweltering humidity? Even in the coolest and lightest of clothes, one will inevitably roast during a South Carolina summer.

As the weather grows warmer here in Daegu, the layers begin to fall. My sweaters give way to long-sleeved t-shirts, which gradually become camis with cardigans, which eventually get down to (wide-strapped, high-necked) tanks. Jeans become cotton slacks, which shrink to capris, and gradually make their way to knee-length cotton skirts. Today, for the first time, I ventured out in a skirt… sans tights. A big development!

Big indeed. So caught of guard was I by the stares of Koreans that for a split second I considered running home to cover my legs. I draped a scarf across my (already covered) shoulders in hopes of more successfully reaching for the accepted modicum of modesty, but my bright white, naked legs drew eyes despite this. Embarrassed, I was curious to see how my students would react.

“Teacher! Your shoes!” cried 10-year-old Jenny.

“Toes!” squealed Barbie. (Yes, Barbie. And her boyfriend’s English name is Ken.)

Navy class, one of my best, couldn’t get over my wedge sandals and bright blue toes. The latter amused me- especially considering the fact that I bought the blue nail polish in Korea.

They were completely unphased by this first appearance of Julie Teacher’s legs. Thankfully.

It’s a little early in the season to have a proper handle on just how skimpy Korean girls’ clothing gets in the summer, but even so I am doubtful that it will be loose and long. The issue is more, I think, that I draw stares anyway as a tall, fair-skinned Meigook (American). Showing more of my bright white skin makes people all the more prone to have a gander. Part of the oddity is also that very fair skin is prized in Korea. Half the people staring are probably thinking… “That crazy Meigook, revealing her white skin! Why would she risk having it growing darker in the sunshine??!”

It is a bit fun to be in a place where my pallor is the desired shade, after years of cursing my lack of tan in South Carolina. Forget the tanning bed, the oil, the bronzer. Hand over the hats, umbrella, and spf 50!

So many things are in the eye of the beholder. Modesty, beauty, wealth, adventure, happiness. If one worries about meeting some imagined standard in a certain place, he will almost surely be disappointed. The bar is different everywhere I go, so I figure I might as well be myself.

The Reality that is the Koreas

2009-04-07T05:46:00.000-07:00

**This entry is written from the imagined perspective of my colleague Courtney, a colleague and dear friend of mine from Ontario. She was so deeply shaken by her experience on the streets of Daegu this afternoon and the class that followed that I too was brought to tears hearing the story. I decided to re-create it as best I could.**

Most of the time, I am blissfully forgetful of the fact that I am living in a country that has technically been at war for over 50 years. I spend my days teaching English and munching on gim bap, and my evenings drinking beer and soju with friends. Were it Budweiser instead of Cass, I might very well be in Manhattan’s Koreatown. I even heard about North Korea’s recent rocket launch via Western news outlets, having perhaps been subconsciously braced for the sound of a siren during these first days of April.

Today on my way back to school following a break, I was shocked into reality by the sight of Korean Army soldiers standing at attention on all four corners of the intersection by my hagwon. I see them all the time walking down the street, riding on the subway, and having dinner in restaurants- the sight of soldiers in Daegu is hardly an oddity. But I seldom see so many, and certainly not in the company of their AK47s.

I came into school and asked my colleagues about the situation- whether they knew what was going on or why. My American colleague hadn’t been out since morning, before the soldiers were in place, and the Korean teachers were nonplussed. I was, as I often am, obliged to accept my inevitable ignorance. I had no choice but to shrug off the experience and hope, as I always do, that Kim Jong Il is in a pleasant, non-confrontational mood today.

My next class was one of my absolute favorites, HM1. This group of bright, cheerful, and side-splittingly funny kids never fails to make my day. I work with them out of a book that has several articles that we read and discuss, and today’s was a diary entry by a man from Vietnam. It spoke of his beloved village and that, thanks to the tragedy of war, he could never return to it. The topic of war and sadness resonated deeply with my students, who had been deeply shaken by the sight of the soldiers outside. Normally strictly enforcing the rule that they must speak only English in class, I quietly let them slip into Korean, so frightened were they by the topic of war.

One of my most wonderful students, Cara, turned to me with wide eyes and said, almost in a whisper, “But teacher… I am only ten years old!”

I have never had to work so hard to hold back tears. I wanted to scoop her up in my arms and assure her, with conviction in my own heart, that she has no reason to be afraid.

What a powerful point this young girl makes! In my hagwon alone, there are so many intelligent, kind, generous young souls. Imagining how many more are thriving beyond its walls is mind-boggling. It would take so very little to shatter their futures- one push of the button by a reckless dictator is all. Should the worst happen and the bombs fall, my fellow expats and I will be summarily scooped up by our respective embassies and shipped back from whence we came. These Korean children would stay behind. It’s a horrible thought that I never allow myself, but today it quite literally stared me in the face.

The Naked Eye Exam

2009-04-05T00:06:00.000-07:00

Wae, weh, weh. So goes the pronunciation of three different vowels in Hangul, the Korean system of writing. For the life of me, I cannot hear the difference! (http://www.zkorean.com/hangul/appearance)

There are few experiences more humbling than blundering through the process of learning a new language. Having now mastered recognition of Korean consonants and (most) vowels, I am able to slowly string together the system of sounds that forms a word. Emphasis on slowly. Being able to write a Korean word after having it spoken to me is, however, a grossly different thing. And even if I am able to do the unimaginable- pronounce and write a word- Lord only knows what it means.

Korean class is something of a naked eye exam, as I can’t blink for so much as a second without finding myself hopelessly lost. My eyelids are held open by veritable toothpicks, as I painstakingly move through every single line, dash, box, and circle in front of me. My brain struggles to remain on top of the material, and being one small step ahead (which is what I would much prefer) is next to impossible. So much information is coming at me with such rapid speed that I wonder how much is actually sticking. I may memorize a word or phrase today, but tomorrow it might as well be Arabic or Sanskrit for my ability to recognize it. I am truly a linguistic infant in Korea, able only to communicate rehearsed lines like annyeong haseyo (hello), gamsa hamnida (thank you), nay (yes), annyeo (no), and Daegu eunhang, ca juseyo (Daegu bank, take me there please). Attempts to reach beyond these choice tidbits are frightening and fraught for choice in the number of ways they can go wrong.

One wonderful thing I must say about Korea is that, much like the French, they are sincerely appreciative of a foreigner’s attempt to speak their language. The Anglophone world is so immense and influential that it often seems to see little reason to branch into another tongue, a fact that (in my opinion) is truly sad. In my mind, it is the absolute minimum of respect to extend a hello, goodbye, and thank you in the local language. The demand for English teachers in this country is so great that it alone provides most of us with an excuse to not bother with Korean- it’s our language they want, after all. And so indeed it is possible to live here for probably a lifetime without uttering so much as one annyeonog haseyo. The experience is no doubt extremely different in that light though, no doubt, than it is when at least a little bit of Korean is attempted and (hopefully) mastered. God knows I found Paris to be a completely different place once I became able to chat with the shopkeeper about how her day was going.

And so, in the spirit of seeking a loving relationship with Korea along the lines of my adoration for France, I creep and crawl my awkward way through Hangul. Souhaitez-moi bonne chance…!

Best Friend Blunders

2009-04-03T09:53:00.001-07:00

One very unfortunate thing about living on the other side of the world and having far too much time to contemplate my life is that I sometimes forget that most people are back home not contemplating every minute detail of their lives. I am extremely analytical as of late because, well, I can be. Every aspect of my day can be dissected and studied to a ridiculous extent, because I have that kind of time on my hands. As long as it’s a reasonably positive issue, I rather enjoy this in-depth analysis. If I didn’t, what would I blog about after all?

Because I spend so much time writing and so little time verbally dissecting life, I get a little overexcited on the rare occasion that I connect with someone back home and have the opportunity to do this. My mom has gotten many an earful. But moms are a little unique on this front, as they tend to be far more forgiving about incessant chatter with their children. Most everyone else has limited time and patience.

Wednesday night was a little intense. I went to see Kate Winslet’s Oscar turn in “The Reader” with my friend and her visiting family, and was in a deep life-contemplating fog afterward. It’s impossible not to be after seeing this type of movie. It was late at night, I was tired, and deep in the throws of PMS. Unfortunately for my best friend, I saw that she was on facebook and pounced with an instant message.

So excited was I to talk to her that I sort of dismissed her initial warning that she was home very sick with a sinus infection. In a normal state I would have quickly recognized that this probably was not the time to solve the world’s problems with her, but I needed a best friend chat too much to put her feelings first. We chatted a bit about how stupid boys are, as we always do, and she mentioned in passing that a couple of exes had emailed her a couple of times lately. Ever the caring friend, I launched a full on assault, advising her to be careful of these creeps and every reason in the book I felt this was a good idea. Once I finished typing and pulled my hands away from the smoking keyboard, she responded with “um… ok. So I need to go.” Taken aback and very hurt, I apologized for having gone too far with advice she didn’t ask for and asked her not to be mad. In response I got a curt “I’m not mad”, which of course meant she was irritated. Hormones and lack of sleep raging in my body, I burst into tears and had a total meltdown. To my best friend’s credit, she no doubt heaved a heavy sigh and proceeded to help me calm down and feel better.

What lessons can we learn from this?

1. Never give advice that hasn’t been explicitly requested.
2. When you sense that someone is sick/tired/not in the mood, leave her alone. As long as she isn’t dying, you can talk to her later.
3. Don’t even bother trying to discuss anything sensitive when PMS is at its peak.
4. Don’t try to solve problems of life and love after seeing a 2 hour film about a love affair between an SS Guard and young German boy and its tragic consequences.
5. Studying for Korean class when you’re 1 week behind is a much better use of your time than trying to solve the unsolvable mysteries of life at 3am.
6. Be good to your best friend. He/she no doubt puts up with a LOT of unnecessary shit that no one else in the world will take from you. Hugs, martinis, and chocolates (unless your best friend, like mine, is allergic to chocolate…) are in order.

American Antipathy

2009-03-30T07:12:00.000-07:00

This is going to come as something as a shock. You, dear reader, may want to have a seat. What I have to say is neither pleasant nor untrue.

A lot of people don’t like Americans.

Hurtful, I know. I can feel you bristling. What’s their problem, anyway, these silly foreigners who dislike us hearty folks from the US of A? We’re friendly enough, God knows. Our movies kind of rock. And what’s not to love about exports like Madonna and Coca Cola?

Heck if I know. But rest assured, we’re pretty damn unpopular. So much so that those of us who attempt to travel the world somewhat incognito pack only black pants when we go to Europe, making a point to leave the damning hooded college sweatshirts and white Nike running shoes (unless of course you plan to be running) at home. In Asia, however, it wouldn’t matter if I wore a big USC sweatshirt with “Go Cocks!” blaring across the front, or if I strutted down the street wearing the latest from Doo-Ri Chung. At 5’8” with brown hair, fair skin, and hips, I clearly am not Korean. And the assumption usually goes (much to the dismay of my Canadian colleagues) that a girl with such an appearance is American.

The shocking thing is that I am no expat pariah in this country- quite the contrary. My Korean friends are intrigued by my background and love to talk about cities I’ve lived in and visited. To the director my school, my accent is gold. In restaurants and bars, I’m slipped snacks that (I’m told) are a bit above and beyond the norm. On that front, I suppose, the assumption is that I have money to spend. And in fact I do, because this country values my linguistic heritage so much that it’s willing to put me up in a pretty swank lifestyle in order to let its young students benefit from it. It’s a little bit crazy really, how good the reception is. For the most part.

There are gross exceptions to what is the general rule. And they are indeed quite rare. In my last blog I mentioned being told “extra large, extra large!” immediately upon beginning to thumb the clothing racks of a Korean store. This I haven’t yet experienced personally, frankly because I’m a little frightened of stories I’ve heard! I know I’ve gained weight since arriving here and am therefore not entirely convinced that they wouldn’t be correct to point me to that section, so I figure I need to gain firmer footing before attempting to argue. My friend who told me this now regrets it, saying this happened to her once in 6 months and that I’m ridiculous to be so afraid of it. But, well, I am.

In some cases it’s worse- a place flat out won’t let you try things on or buy anything. Friends who have told me about this aren’t completely sure why. Is it an anti-Westerner thing? Are we perceived to be so incredibly hideous that the salespeople would rather die than have us be living mannequins for their products? I have no way of knowing for sure.

There have been other stories, like old men spitting on the sidewalk directly in front of you right before you walk by. This is meant to be anti-American, or at least anti-Western. I leave it up for discussion whether it’s possible to tell the difference between an American, Canadian, or Brit on sight.

The only experience I have had was walking up to a cab that had been parked on the opposite side of the street, clearly waiting for a patron who might happen by for at least 5 minutes (the crosswalk signs can take foreeeever here), only to drive away as I approached. It was a very clear moment of him driving off to avoid having a Western patron. Again, this is a GROSS exception to the rule. In one month I have taken many taxi rides and never, ever had another problem. In fact, the drivers are usually very friendly and applaud any Korean I am able to communicate successfully!

I am not knowledgeable enough about public opinion here to be able to accurately comment on Korean feelings about the American military presence here. I can say that it is significant. In Daegu alone, there are 2 army bases in the city, and 2 more nearby. One of my Korean friends dates an American soldier, and others have dated American guys in the past (though I don’t know that they were soldiers).

On the subject of North Korea, however, I have had the opportunity to talk to South Koreans. Broaching the topic is most often met with them shaking their heads sadly. The general consensus is that it is an incredibly sad and silly thing, the division of the peninsula. South Koreans want to be unified with the North, a land to which they are so deeply linguistically and culturally connected. I don’t get the feeling that they view it as a significant military threat. The presence here is strong and the North has too much to lose by going to war. But they don’t understand Kim Jong Il- him as a person, or his political motives. He is widely seen as an absurd barrier to what ought to be a natural and productive peace. South Koreans are hardworking, smart, and focused, and their thriving economic development reflects that. It boggles my mind to think of how the North might turn itself around, given half the chance. The greatest difficulty upon reunification, if it ever happens, will be evening out the growth and development. The North is truly still in the Stone Age.

Having come to appreciate the overwhelming warmth and generosity of this country, I too am saddened by thinking of North Korea. I’ve come to consider this place home, and it’s strange to think of home being so violently separated from its other half. Few places have welcomed me with such open and genuinely curious arms. It is my sincere hope that things work out well for the Koreas. These smart kids working themselves to the bone in regular school and hagwon ought not to be doing it for nothing.

The Friendship Curve

2009-03-30T06:27:00.000-07:00

As I write this, I am having to pinch myself in attempt to believe that I have been in Korea for 1 month. ONE MONTH. Already. Didn't I just leave Boston, like, yesterday... ??

I haven't written in a little while because, truth be told, I have recently suffered my first major onslaught of emotional turmoil. I don't use the word "homesickness" because it isn't that exactly. I suppose it could be deemed a combination of many things- the biggest being sadness over missing family and friends who understand me (or at least pretend to) and allow me to be who I am. It’s tough to completely let go in a new place. I would even go so far as to say it’s probably unwise to completely let go in a new place, when you’ve yet to distinguish your Saturday night drinking buddies from your truest friends. Though I’ve met amazing folks, some that I am lucky enough to call friends, we aren’t yet in that zone that enables us to completely let go and be the slightly odd, neurotic people we probably all are in reality.

There are some things, like getting upset over being told “extra large, extra large!” in a Korean clothing store, that I can openly share with my new friends and be guaranteed a sympathetic ear. But there are others, like falling too hard, too fast for an adorable guy, that I’m not so willing to discuss. Even harder with that sort of thing is the fact that, when you only know a few people, all of your social circles are intertwined. The girls I’ve met thus far seem so cool and emotionally detached from guys who aren’t established, serious boyfriends that I feel a little silly by comparison. I am cursed with honest feelings that generally run hot or cold- seldom lukewarm. If I like someone, I like them. Period. And when he turns out to be a jerk, I am thrown. I do recognize that there are varying degrees of hurt, and to that I’m thankful to be in the shallow end of the pool. But it still sucks, and it’s tough not to have best girlfriends around who will indulge me, no matter how silly and juvenile they secretly think my infatuation is. The unfamiliar feels even more cold and foreign when you’re wounded and embarrassed.

At some point I will inevitably realize that these cool chicks aren’t so different from me. We all have our soft spots as well as our tough ones. I’m a big wuss when it comes to matters of the heart, but in other areas I’m quite strong and resourceful. The beauty of making friends is that your strengths make one another stronger, and your weaknesses make you human, and therefore (hopefully) lovable. It’s easy to be much too hard on yourself when you don’t yet know what’s out there, particularly the things that are just under the surface. We’re all quite good at keeping these bits under wraps until it feels safe. And, it’s just as well. It would probably be overwhelming to take on every bit of one another’s good and bad right from the get go. If life were like that, we’d be afraid to befriend anyone!

The Nose Knows

2009-03-14T01:36:00.000-07:00

“It’s big.”
I looked up from the paper I was grading.
“What’s big, Cara?”
“Your nose.”
I laughed, rolled my eyes, and went back to grading. “Oh yeah?”
“Yes teacher, your nose is very big.”
“Okay?”
“You are very pretty, but your nose is too big.”

I smiled and said nothing. There was nothing really to say to this bright, young student in response to her honest observation about my Western facial features. Beyond being amused by her attention to detail, I thought little of the encounter.

Until a few days later.

“Teacher, you have much.”
“Much what, Cara?” I said over my shoulder, as I fiddled with the cd player to begin the day’s listening exercise.
She pointed to my forearm. “That.”
I looked to see where she was pointing, then laughed.
“You mean hair?”
“Yes teacher. Why is there so much on your arm?”
“I don’t know sweetie. So that I stay warm?”
Her faced twisted in confusion. Seeing the joke was lost, I decided to try a softer approach.
“Honey, God just made me that way I suppose.”
This seemed to satisfy her.

Later that night, I told a couple of friends, fellow Western expats from Ontario, about the encounter. They weren’t at all surprised, and reacted far more strongly than I had.

“Koreans are obsessed with physical appearance. In fact, plastic surgery is increasingly common. A lot of young girls even get a nose job or eye surgery as a high school graduation present, “ my friend Courtney explained.
“Eye surgery?” I was confused.
“Yes, eye surgery. You know, to flip the lid and make their eyes look bigger, more ‘Western’.”
“But that’s ridiculous! I think Asian girls are beautiful, and the narrow eyes are one of the most characteristic features!”
Courtney shrugged.

I was horrified. But, I shouldn’t have been surprised. When I first told my Chinese friend Anna about my plans to move to South Korea, her first comment was about plastic surgery. She told me that it is a weird phenomenon in this country- all the rage and astoundingly common. And inexpensive. To be completely honest, I dismissed her comments as a sort of “I’m-from-China” / “They’re-from-Korea” competitiveness. Kind of like when Bostonians slam New Yorkers for no real reason- just a historic rivalry or sense of somehow being culturally superior.

Though I tried my best to dismiss young Cara’s comments about beauty as youthful, razor’s edge honesty and probable regurgitation of the views of her parents and older siblings, it was hard to do. As a classic independent, educated, individual identity-oriented American woman, I couldn’t help but feel bothered by how much this young girl might base her sense of worth on her appearance. Cara is one of my smartest students, and she has a brilliant sense of humor that perfectly compliments her sweet demeanor. Her intelligence and charisma will carry her far in life. She is, coincidentally, also one of my loveliest students. Though her good looks certainly won’t hurt her in life, I sincerely hope she doesn’t become too wrapped up in them. They are such a small part of what she has to offer.

In pondering the culture of beauty here in Korea, I am coming to realize one aspect of my native culture of which I am very proud. In America, beauty can mean any number of different things. And, it can mean very different things to different people. To some it is a slim, athletic build and sun-kissed glow. To others it can mean an hourglass shape, fair skin, and red hair. To others still it can be a different skin color, eye shape, or manner of carrying one’s body. Some of us have a weakness for tattoos and piercings, while others prefer the look of someone who has tumbled out of a J Crew ad. But regardless of aesthetic preferences, I think that most young people have their eye on personality than outward appearance.

One of my duties at the hagwon is to work with one of the Korean teachers on her English. Our sessions are very casual and laid back, as I seek to involve her in natural conversation so that she may master practical vocabulary and grammar. Once a week, she chooses a topic to discuss. For our first session, she elected to talk about first impressions- a subject that inevitably led to a discussion of the dating scene in Korea and in America.

When I asked what she looks for in a Korean man, her eyes sparkled as she spoke of beautiful hair, brown eyes, nice skin, white teeth, height, and build. I waited for her to also mention the personality attributes she finds appealing, but my waiting was met by silence. So, I described the characteristics of American guys that I find most attractive. I spoke quite naturally and honestly of my love of good humor, intelligence, kindness, and a sense of adventure. We were both amazed by how much our outlook differs on finding the perfect mate. It was exemplary of the differences in dating culture as no other encounter could have been.

A few days later, I went to a local hospital with my hagwon director to have a physical done, as required by the application for a resident card. As he paid the receptionist following my tests, a young girl walked by. Her face was bandaged, chin to forehead. I shuddered.

I patted my nose, feeling comforted by it’s idiosyncratic largeness.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

2009-03-04T21:04:00.001-08:00

When my ex- boyfriend Chris sent me an instant message over Facebook a little while ago, I was happy and very excited to talk to him. We started chatting and at first it was fun- joking around and shooting the shit as we always did (when things were good). Then a few jabs into it, I realized I couldn’t seem to steer him into an actual conversation. He asked about my classes, only to joke about how Koreans can’t pronounce “l” sounds. He asked about my apartment, only to joke around about whether I’m having sex with Korean men. I tried to give real answers- “yes it is true that Koreans have difficulty with “l”, but my students are extremely smart” and even “no, I’m not seeing a Korean guy”. But he wasn’t having it. Knowing Chris as I do, I understood the reason for his being so ridiculous- he was drunk. At this point he said to me, “sorry, I’ve had a few drinks”. Oh really? *Julie feigns shock.*

Just as quickly as I had become excited about talking to him, I lost every drop of interest. This guy who caused my heart to bleed for nearly 4 ½ years now completely annoyed and nearly disgusted me. I mean, how hard is it to have a polite conversation with a friend who just moved to a foreign country? It’s not! A simple (and earnest) “So how are things going?” would have gone a long way. But no, he’s too preoccupied with making an arrogant ass of himself to actually think about the person on the other end of the line.

It amazes me that people can come so far… and that so much time can pass without someone moving an inch. Chris had so much potential, and this was one of the things I loved about him most. He’s incredibly smart, charismatic, and creative, and when we were dating I believed in his hopes and dreams that would have utilized these gifts. But his dreams quickly fell by the wayside in the name of making money, and now he works a job that I know doesn’t really interest him, and lives a type of life that is easy. A life that he feels others expect of him. The distance between us now would have been unimaginable back when we were in love: me teaching English in Korea, him selling food products in Florence and dating a 19 year old.

The way things have turned out makes me a little bit sad, but the strongest emotion I feel in reaction is relief. What would my life had been if we had stayed together? I think it’s safe to say that I would have been left feeling unfulfilled, and he would have always felt like he was fighting against my leftist, liberal inclinations. Though our break-up was one of the most painful things I’ve experienced in my life, I am finally on the other side. I understand why it needed to happen, and am endlessly thankful that it did.

Soju Sojourn

2009-03-01T06:13:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soju

One doesn’t go to Germany and not drink beer. It would be crazy to spend time in France without sipping a glass of wine. And what’s a trip to Edinburgh without a taste of Scotch whiskey?

In this same spirit (pun intended), you haven’t really begun to taste the real Korea until you’ve felt the pain of a soju-induced hangover.

Venturing out to the expat bar scene Saturday night, I knew an encounter with the infamous beverage was in my near future. My new friend Justin wasted no time ordering a beer-sized bottle, one for each of us. I gulped at the thought… an entire bottle of this stuff?? What, was he crazy? He assured me that it “isn’t that strong”- higher alcohol content than beer but considerably less than your standard liquor (vodka, etc). I didn’t believe him. But of course, not wanting to look like a total pansy on my first Saturday night out on the town, I downed shots at a reasonably respectable pace.

As my tongue loosened and my sense of ease in the completely unfamiliar environment (new people, new bar, new everything) increased, he began to warn me about the nasty hangover the stuff brings on. “It isn’t that strong, goes down easy, and won’t get you terribly drunk… but the hangovers are awful. And the first is the worst.”

Great.

Soju tastes much like vodka, a beverage I have always held in high esteem. There are few things I like more than a dirty martini made with top shelf vodka. Soju is a bit sweeter, and (in shot form) goes down far more easily. Which is exactly the problem.

Perhaps the most amusing part of the soju experience was the snacks that came with. Seaweed (which is actually quite good dipped in soy sauce), chocolates that looked like little rock candies, dried plantains (yum), and little tiny dried fish. Sardines maybe? Not being a connoisseur of them I don’t know. Regardless, the very prominent eyeballs on these little guys put me over the edge. Justin insisted I try one, so I closed my eyes and tried not to think about it. They weren’t bad- sort of salty and dry.

But, unable to get past the eyeballs, I stopped at one.

All things considered, my soju night was a good one. I managed to get a handle on the location of a few expat bars in Banwoldang, the center of downtown, and I met a few people. Unfortunately the inaugural soju exhausted me and left little space for additional beverages, so I went home around midnight. I did however consider it a great accomplishment that I was able to communicate Daegu eunhang- Daegu Bank, the closest metro stop to my apartment (and the only way I can convey where I live in Korean)- to the taxi driver.

It wasn’t until I woke up at 5am that I came to understand the warnings about soju. Even though I didn’t drink much, the devilish drink crept up on me. Thank God I brought plenty of ibuprofen to Korea. It seems a few of those babies and LOTS of water is all you need to survive the dangers of Korean soju.

Subway Stories

2009-03-01T03:21:00.000-08:00

Tonight I experienced what has to have been my most bizarre encounter thus far in Korea.

Struggling with a bit of back pain and beginning to worry that my eating habits are moving me farther and farther from the slim female figure that seems to be so popular in this part of the world, I decided to find a place to take yoga classes. I communicated with the friend of a friend about where best to do this, and she recommended a studio called Ayurveda near the Sinmae metro stop. I went to check it out tonight, as I was eager to have an excuse to explore a new neighborhood and don’t want to waste more time than necessary searching for the place tomorrow morning. As it turns out, the studio was super easy to locate- next door to an Outback Steakhouse and Baskin Robbins of all things. Pleased with my excellent navigational skills, I went around the corner to buy a pizza, and hopped back on the metro to go home and eat it.

A few stops down the line, an older man came on the train. Upon catching sight of me, he stopped and stared for a few moments. Uncomfortable, I looked away and pretended not to notice him. He then began speaking very loudly, clearly intending to talk to me or about me. Most everyone on the train ignored him, unphased by the crazy guy as subway riders are in most big cities. Then, to my horror, he walked over, leaned down, and said something to me in an unnecessarily loud voice.
I had heard from fellow Westerners that Korean men will sometimes inquire as to whether a girl is Russian- a roundabout way of asking whether she is a prostitute. All I could think was that this guy assumed me to be a hooker, though I couldn’t imagine how anyone could jump to that conclusion with me wearing old jeans, my long, loose-fitting black coat, sneakers, and no make-up.

Finally, to my relief, he said: “American?”

“Yes” I said, careful to exhibit a stern yet reasonably polite expression. The last thing I wanted to do was be horribly rude to a possibly crazy guy in a country where manners and etiquette are everything. Even, I’m sure, in dealing with crazies on the subway.

He babbled a few more sentences that were completely incomprehensible to me, and then his face spread into a wide smile. He leaned over and patted me on the shoulder- a gesture that is easily understood to be positive in any culture. He bowed to me and said, “American- good.” before quietly walking back to his seat on the train.

I tried to ignore and dismiss the whole thing, but it left me extremely curious. Why was this man so eager to talk to me, and what is the story with his strong feelings toward Americans? Since arriving in Daegu, I have learned that there are two American army bases here, and a third is nearby. I have also learned that most non-military Americans in Daegu do their best to stay away from the soldiers, and many bars in the city impose a curfew on them (i.e. they have to be out by 1 while everyone else can stay until close). They are notorious for getting sloppy drunk, starting fights, and behaving inappropriately toward female patrons- Korean and otherwise. Suffice it to say, their reputation in Daegu is less than flattering. So, in a city where American military personnel are so poorly regarded, the last thing I expected was an encounter like this one on the train.

Granted, there is no reason to think me a soldier. This guy might very well approve of Americans coming here to assist in schools, and have rightly assumed me to be an English teacher. Who knows? But I don’t think that was it. My thought is that he suffered, somehow, during the war, and regards the Americans as having been helpful in the recovery effort. I might very well be way off, but my curiosity about just what his story runs in that direction. Of course, I’ll never know for sure.

First Impressions of Daegu

2009-02-26T04:33:00.000-08:00

Annseyong haseyo! (hello!)

I made it safe and sound to Daegu- without incident once I got out of Logan. Navigating Incheon Airport in Seoul was remarkably easy... I still can't quite believe how simple it was, especially coming off 20+ hours of air travel. Everything was immaculate, trendy techno modern, and clearly labeled. I had an easier time getting on my bus to Daegu than I've had locating the Air France bus in deGaulle, or getting into Manhattan from LaGuardia. The director of my school, William, met me at the bus station in Daegu. I am absolutely blown away but how thoughtful this man is- he had a bag full of fruit and bottled water waiting for me when I arrived.

Daegu is a huge, modern Asian city. There is neon galore, entire neighborhoods devoted to cell phones, clothing stores EVERYWHERE, bars, restaurants, and the ubiquitous noraebong (karaoke spots). The metro is without question the cleanest I have thus far seen anywhere in the world. I would go so far as to call it beautiful. Super modern, techy, and spotless, it quite literally shines. The metro system consists of only two lines, red and green, and is therefore easy breezy to navigate. I didn't think a subway system could be any less complicated that the Boston T, but I stand corrected!

Having no other experience of Asia with which to compare Daegu, I haven't the authority to comment on its similarities with the rest of this part of the world. Even so, I think I can safely say that it conforms to the expected at least with regard to the skyscrapers, neon, and buzz of cutting-edge technology. Oh- and super trendy, skinny girls who put even the most fashionable Parisiennes to shame.

So far things are good. I'm still in the adjustment phase, but it helps being able to slip right into a routine. Work occupies many hours in the day and I like that. I'll feel better still once I start delving into outlets of my own- the first being Korean classes! It drives me crazy that I know so little (I've managed to master "hello", "thank you", and "goodbye" thus far- which at least helps me not be completely rude to shopkeepers!), so I'm anxious to get on that. I'm toying with the idea of ballet classes, which conveniently has the same terminology in the same language regardless of location. I want to get at least a little basic Korean under my belt first though, as without it I'll probably be able to understand the combinations but not the teacher's corrections. Which I guess defeats the whole purpose of class!

The jet lag is unlike anything I've ever experienced. It is definitely not as bad as I thought it would be overall but it is manifesting itself in very weird, uncomfortable ways (e.g. a splitting headache that woke me up at 5am today). Aside from that, all is well. I love love LOVE my apartment!! I'll take pictures and send them as soon as I can get my camera to snap to life. It is a spacious studio with a refrigerator, sink, gas stove and oven (a huge perk as ovens are rare in Korean kitchens), a very nice, spacious writing desk, a tv, armoire, a HUGE bed, one small Korean table (e.g. sit on the floor) and one small Western one (chairs), a nice big leather chair that I like to sit in and read, and a bathroom with Western toilet, 2 big shelves, sink, and shower. The shower is a bit interesting. There is a detachable showerhead, but no bathtub/actual shower space. The shower head is up on the wall in the open bathroom and there is a drain in the floor. So, I shower in the middle of the bathroom. At first this really worried me but it's actually fine. The water dries quickly and is never still on the floor, counter, and on the toilet seat by the time I get home in the evenings. And it miraculously manages to miss the shelves every time.

I haven't really started teaching yet, but I feel good about the whole endeavor. It's pretty easy for the "foreign" teachers. Each class spends X amount of time with a Korean teacher and X with a native English speaker. The Korean teacher is more or less in charge and sets the pace, and we pick up with listening, speaking, and writing exercises. It makes sense this way honestly- the Korean teacher is obviously able to explain grammatical intricacies and idiomatic expressions in a way that we can't as we don't speak Korean. By the time they get to us, they've sorted out the vocab and grammar for a unit- we help them practice and hear proper pronunciation. Most of the kids are well-behaved and incredibly smart. A couple of the kindergarten girls are unbelievable... their English is impeccable and they soak up new information like a sponge. The complexity of the work they're doing blows me away- I honestly think their English is infinitely better than that of (most of) their American counterparts. They are also heartbreakingly adorable and incredibly sweet. When they see me they squeal with delight and say "Julie Teacher!". I melt.

Some funny things I've encountered:

English words that sound like strange, completely unrelated things in Korean. For example, "Germany" sounds like the word for "young boy". And the Western name "Jill" sounds like the Korean word for vagina.

Annoying things:

Korea is NOT green. At ACIS we complained that there wasn't recycling pick-up, and how little sense this made as the office was right in the middle of Boston. Let me tell you... ACIS needn't feel guilty- at least not by comparison.
Last night I went out for sushi with a colleague, and couldn't help but notice all the shops with the heat blasting, and the front door wide open. Apparently utilities (heat/AC) are super cheap in Korea, so there's no real push to conserve. The same can be said of lights- it drives me crazy to see all the classrooms with lights on when no one is in them. As for recycling? Forget it. I throw my trash in a pile out in front of the apartment, where it is picked up. There is no other option.

While the push and enthusiasm for education here is admirable, these poor kids devote an unbelievable amount of time to it. The time I used for piano, violin, ballet, cheerleading, band, etc etc, they put into extra classes. When they have vacation from regular school, they pile on more classes with schools like mine. And, I learned today that when they begin middle school they're required to cut their hair shorter- the theory being that they will then have one less distraction from their studies. (As gorgeous as Korean kids' hair is, this really is a small tragedy.) It must be said though that most of these kids are incredibly upbeat and cheerful. They seem genuinely enthusiastic about learning, and so they are fun to teach.

Things I love:

The food. Sushi, noodles, bulgogi (thin, sliced beef marinated in sweet soy sauce)- yum.

Heating is from the floor! My feet are ALWAYS cold, so this rocks.

The kids. Even the quasi-annoying, rambunctious ones have something endearing about them. Maybe it's just that they're all so darn cute.

That's about all I have to report from now! I think I shall retire and watch one of the few English channels. Today I saw Project Runway Korea, which was fun. Incomprehensible maybe, but whatever- you don't need to speak Korean to decide whether you like the clothes!

Shipping out of Boston

2009-02-26T03:22:00.000-08:00

Having packed, organized, laughed and cried during last visits with friends, and made those difficult goodbye phone calls, I feel as ready as I suppose I ever will to move Daegu- a place that remains shrouded in mystery at this point. Going to bed last night was difficult, knowing it was the last time I would do such a thing at 9 Willard Ave. I hugged my roommates Johannes and Sabrina, and Johannes’ sister Anna (visiting from Germany), before retiring to write a few thank you notes for recent farewell gifts. Even after that, it was hard to believe it was so late- midnight- and that my dreaded 4am wake-up was only drawing closer.

Wake up I did, automatically, at around 3:50am. It was an easy and natural rise, as I understood the need to allow myself plenty of time to collect my belongings and myself. I showered, dressed, and did the last-minute packing that always irritates me to death. No matter how much I try to prepare in advance, it never seems to work!

Sabrina and I dragged my insanely heavy luggage out the front door, trying not to slide to our deaths on the thin layer of ice that settled on our sidewalk and street during the night.

Oh Boston. Can’t you let just one go by??

We chatted and giggled as we both started to wake-up a little on the way to Logan Airport. It was one of those casual, simple moments together that will forever be fondly burned into my brain. My only complaint about this time was that it was over all too quickly.

Well, sort of.

We hugged, said our goodbyes, and Sabrina slipped me a card that I knew would draw tears once I sat down to read it. (I left a similar one for her on the kitchen counter this morning.)

For the first time in my life I employed the assistance of a luggage cart ($3 at Logan!), feeling ill at ease with the dramatic departure from my usually sparse, simple packing style. I’m a big fan of Sabrina’s approach to packing for a trip- “put everything you think you need out on your bed, and pack half”. I swear to God I did this for Korea… but half of what I think I need for a year of life in a foreign country is apparently still far too much. I did my best to steer the ridiculous luggage cart into the terminal.

I was prepared for an intense line of questioning with regard to my ticket. I attempted online check-in with United last night, having never attempted it for an international flight and curious that it could really be so easy. The process stopped me after I entered my passport information, saying I needed to speak to a representative at the airport to confirm possession of an onward or return ticket. Uh oh. As I reckon is the case with most nomads like me heading to Korea to teach and use the set up as a means and jumping off point for further Asia travels, my trip is left open on the other end. I may want to come straight home in February of 2010, but far more likely is the possibility of me taking a month or more to explore new places.

I explained everything to the nice United employee- that I was going to teach English (“Here, see my work visa?”), that I have an apartment lined up (“I can write the address down for you”), and that I can definitely manage getting from Seoul to Daegu via bus (“Oh don’t worry, I have very detailed instructions- in Korean AND English!”). I’m considerably less confident about that last bit than anything else, but I thought it best to keep that to myself.

He proceeded to very carefully and thoroughly warn me that if for any reason Korean immigration fails to give me the green light upon arrival, I am completely on my own. “If they turn you away at the border, getting back to the States is your responsibility.” Trying not to think of the horror of having to make the “um, mom, I’m so sorry but … can you to put a one-way ticket from Seoul to Columbia on your credit card??” phone call, I cheerfully responded with “I understand that, thank you.” He later admitted that he doubts I’ll run into any problems, but he must say all of this and note that I have heard/understood/accepted the spiel. Just in case. Apparently, United will get slapped with a hefty fine if indeed immigration does turn me away.

Once all that was cleared up, I heaved my first suitcase onto the scale. 58 pounds. “It seems your bag is a bit overweight.”
“Oh yeah I figured it would be. Is there a fee?”
“You might want to try to remove the extra weight- it’s quite expensive.”
“How much?”
“$150.”
What??

The other bag was 77 pounds. That’s 27 beyond the limit for an international flight. Oh God. And I thought the $90 I had to pay to lug my crap home to South Carolina a couple of weeks ago was bad! No way could I afford this. There was only one thing I knew to do.

“Um, Sabrina? Do you think you might can come back to the airport??”

Ever my savior, she did just that. I told my airline guy that I was going to step outside and try to work some magic.

Sab pulled up to the curb and we both laughed at the ridiculous mess that was me running down the walkway, shoving the heavy luggage cart. We proceeded to open the first one, me digging through my stuff like some crazed dachshund- tossing pants, shirts, sweaters, scarves, speakers, and a hair dryer into the backseat of her Toyota Camry. She watched over me carefully, stopping me mid-toss whenever I started to discard something critical (“Jules don’t get rid of shoes!!! You won’t be able to find ones that fit in Korea!”). I did however chuck my running shoes. I mean seriously- who do I think I’m kidding?

Sab ran my newly lightened suitcases back and forth to the scale outside the terminal, rendering the verdict every few items.

“5 more!”

“2/7! We’re almost there!”

And so it went. In a way it was kind of exciting- our determination to hold on to my cash and stick it to the man. By the end of it all we were laughing hysterically. Leave it to someone with 2 ½ years of experience in the travel industry to blunder packing a suitcase!

I must have come back with a triumphant smile on my face, because my United guy couldn’t help grinning. “Pulled it off, have you?”

“I think so!” I breathed, lugging the first suitcase onto the scale. 50 pounds exactly. The next one was 49.

“That’s pretty impressive!” he said. I laughed in relief and called Sab to tell her that she could finally go now. I promised.

I was almost home free.

I got through security, scarfed down what will no doubt be my last Dunkin Donuts breakfast for quite some time, and sent a couple of emails. The flight to San Francisco slowly boarded, packed to the gills with people. At long last I strolled on, rollerboard and laptop bag in tow. When I got to the entrance of the plane, a worker approached me and said “I’m sorry miss but we’re going to have to check that for you.”

But… my Nap blanket! My neck pillow! Toothpaste, toothbrush, contact solution, dvds, fuzzy socks…

I clutched the suitcase a little tighter. Maybe it would be ok… I can never take my small suitcase on the plane to Columbia because the overhead bins are too small. They always check it plane-side and I get it back immediately after stepping off the plane. Maybe this was like that.

“Are you just checking it plane-side?”

He shook his head. “No I’m sorry, it would go through to your final destination. Where are you going?”
“Seoul, South Korea.”
Eyebrows up.
“Well… yes then, you’d get it back in Seoul. Are you United the whole way?”
“Yes, I think so.”
I pulled out my itinerary and showed it to him.
“Oh no you’re not United. The flight to Seoul is operated by Singapore Airlines.”

SWEET! Suddenly I cared a whole lot less about my rollerboard.

“Okay well, do you mind if I grab a few things before you take it?”
“Sure.”

I grabbed up my beloved Nap blanket, pillow, movies, and book. My French Marie Claire was already in my laptop bag. I thought for the one more second permissible to the impatient crowd behind me, and decided I could survive 12 hours and 50 minutes on a plane with these small beacons of comfort. If push comes to shove I’ll buy lip gloss, toothpaste, and a toothbrush in San Fran.

I wished my small suitcase bon voyage, took a deep breath, and walked away from Boston for who knows how long…

The Chicken Dance

2009-02-16T09:02:00.000-08:00

When a person sets out to cross oceans, languages, and cultures, she no doubt understands that she is going to find herself confronted by many a strange thing. When she decides to give the good ol US of A the heave ho in favor of life in a country like South Korea, such cultural quandries often manifest themselves in that most sensitive of places:

the tastebuds.

Mind you, I write this entry from the comfort and familiarity of my apartment in Medford. As my departure inches closer by the minute, I've decided to begin preparing myself for what is sure to be a dizzying attack on my senses. What better way to start acclimating than to spend some time with the closest thing I have in Boston to Korean friends: girls from SK's southerly neighbor, China.

As I headed to a dim sum lunch with Vivian and Anna on Saturday, I was admittedly a little bit apprehensive. I'd sampled dim sum only once previously, and on that occasion I didn't feel nearly the same pressure to learn about what I was ordering. This time I eyed every cart that neared our table, mentally noting every description and explanation Anna gave of the dishes. She swung back and forth between Chinese and English with the graceful ease of a truly gifted linguist- I couldn't help but admire the mental gymnastics!

Most everything we sampled was delicious, and I truly enjoyed it. Lots of meat- spare ribs with noodles, dumplings of every imaginable sort (familiar territory for a Southerner), and what I venture to guess is Anna's favorite- a sweet tofu dish that made for a light and delicious dessert!

There was one thing, and one thing only, that gave me pause. As a cart carrying chicken feet neared the table, Vivian and Anna lit up with excitement. "Ooooh have you ever had chicken feet??"

Erm... no. I hadn't.

Our Moldovan friend Ludmila was considerably more enthusiastic than me, and reached for a- *gulp*- foot with eager chopsticks. I made every effort to hide my reluctance... but as anyone who knows me can attest, it isn't so difficult to take one look at me and read my emotions plainly on my face.

"No really- they're very good!" Anna promised, no doubt catching the squeamish look on my face.

"Yeah, they're so flavorful- just pick off the meat like you would with a chicken wing, " agreed Vivian.

In my defense, my chopstick skills are rather sub-par for a girl about to relocate to South Korea. The chicken foot slipped and slid in and out of my hopeless use of the utensils, only once actually making it to my lips. I took a quick glance across the table to see whether Anna was watching me (she was), and took a small nibble. Unsure of the line between talon, bone, and edible meat, I didn't gather much at all. "Mmm!" I exclaimed- not missing the amused grin on the faces of my two friends from Hong Kong.

They mercilessly said nothing to me about the rest of the chicken foot, which remained untouched on my plate throughout the rest of the meal.

Suddenly kimchi isn't looking so bad.

From lobster to kimchi...

2009-01-28T07:39:00.000-08:00

Logging into my blog, I am reminded that I have not posted an entry since November 13th. As a would-be writer this is both embarrassing and disheartening, but as someone who seems to have gone through about 3 major life changes in only 2 months it's hardly surprising!

One fateful day in November, I dragged myself into work at ACIS after spending the better part of the morning debating calling in sick. My throat was sore, my sinuses clogged, and I was exhausted. For some reason I still had a sense that staying home would be a selfish and overly indulgent move... and I came above ground at South Station as I'd done almost every morning for the past 2 years. I had just gotten comfortable at my desk with a mug of green tea and a bowl of oatmeal when our VP of sales rang my line. "Could you come by my office for just a moment?" she asked. "Sure thing, I'll be right there."

As I swung open the door, I caught sight of my manager, her face empty of color and eyes staring at the ground. Uh oh, I thought.

Everything else that happened in the meeting remains a blur. All I really knew was that just like that, I had become the latest victim of our country's shitty economy. I had no job and no sense of myself- ironic coming from a job I'd been wanting to leave for nearly 6 months already. I spent the next several weeks with my head in the sand.

The next thing I knew, my life was unrecognizable. I was sleeping til noon and working nights as a restaurant hostess. Suddenly I was watching pennies as I'd never bothered to do before, and watched in amazement as my savings account began to have a little muscle. Somewhere in the background were the emails of a friend of a friend who had spent a year teaching English in Korea... do it, she said emphatically. There's nothing holding you back, and no time like the present to embark on a new adventure. You'd be crazy NOT to go!

As I emerged from my fog of depression, her words began to take hold. I was spending hours scouring job postings on Dave's ESL Cafe and sending out resumes at a rate that would impress even the most industrious job recruiter. I applied for English as a Second Language jobs in China, Japan, Korea, Vietnam... I think I even sent one application for a post in Turkey! The response rate, while not nearly as furious as that of my applications, was incredible. For the first time in months, I had the satisfaction of having a skill that employers wanted. Nevermind the fact that the main requirements were a bachelor's degree and a native knowledge of English- all that mattered was that they wanted it, and I had it!

As time went by, I began to get the hang of which questions to ask and which answers meant I should head for the hills. Half the process was becoming familiar with the expectations of the ESL schools, and coming to understand what my own expectations should be. The dollars/yen/won of it all quickly came clear- I would make the most money in Korea, less in China, and less still in Japan. Relative to this was also the cost of living question- Korea is least expensive of these countries, and from what I heard an ESL teacher in Korea could easily blow a month's salary in one weekend of partying in Tokyo. Perhaps if I'd been saving and planning for a year in Asia for quite some time, the salary would matter less. As it is though, I need the money as much as I need the change of scenery.

At long last I came upon a family-owned school in Daegu (often transcribed into English as "Taegu"). Something about the director's first email struck me differently than the dozens of others I'd received, but I went through the motions of asking tons of questions even so. At my request he put me in touch with two other foreign English teachers at the school, one from Ireland and a second from Canada. Both had good things to say, but were honest also about the challenges of the daily grind. The frankness with which the wrote went over well with me... clearly they had come to love the school and the city, but they didn't try to paint a fairy tale picture. That they didn't feel this was necessary went a long way to show me the truth in the things they said.

Of course, it is a possibility that the wool has been pulled over my eyes. I could very well arrive in Korea only to find the students terrible, teachers unsupportive, and the city a nightmare. I highly doubt it, but am realistic enough to acknowledge that this could happen. A certain amount of this whole crazy endeavor is having faith, as it's impossible to truly know everything about the post, the city, and the people there without having experienced all three first-hand. To that end I can only pray I've asked all the right probing questions, and that the majority of surprises I encounter will be good ones.

I depart February 23rd, as the school wants me there by the 24th. At present I am rounding up the last bit of paperwork needed to furnish my work visa- quite literally the last stamp is all I lack! (And as it's snowing like crazy today, I'm worried it won't hit the Pony Express until tomorrow...)

In the meantime, I am in that awkward in between stage of life... neither here nor there. It's difficult to know what to do with new relationships when a departure date hangs over one's head, and it's heartbreaking to realize the distance you're about to place between yourself and those you've loved for a long time. All I can do is live my life to the full, now as much as ever before, and pray that friends and family have begun working on a "trip to Korea" fund!

Ding dong the witch is dead... or is she?

2008-11-13T11:11:00.000-08:00

Ding dong, the witch is dead.

Or is she?

There are many in our country who would have us believe that with the historic ascension of Barack Obama to the presidency, racism is no longer a fearsome presence in the United States. I am here to burst the bubble, to crash the party with the news that no one (myself included) wants to hear or admit- it isn’t. In fact, it is alive and kicking as much as ever.

As a native Southerner, I have no illusions about race relations in the United States. Slavery, Jim Crowe, and the Civil Rights era are as vividly present in the hearts and minds of Americans in 2008 as they were in 1955- just not all Americans. Here in Massachusetts, the majority of the population is of Irish and/or Italian background. A haven of the blue-collar worker and his labor union, it is also one of the bluest, most liberal states in the nation. All things considered, it should come as a surprise to few that many here- especially the young, middle-class, educated set- view Obama’s win as a bridge across the racial divide in America.

I grew up and attended university in South Carolina, where a bitter battle was recently fought concerning the ever-present Confederate flag on the state house dome. Those against its presence finally won and the flag came down from its perch… and landed on the front lawn, more noticeable than ever at the intersection of Main and Taylor streets. I grew up hearing both grandfathers use the “N-word” on occasion and was not allowed to have black friends over as a young child for fear they might steal something. Later in life, there was a flip side: in high school, I lived in fear of accidentally bumping shoulders with certain black girls in the hallway- such a mishap would result in her turning around and screaming, acrylic nails flying, that as a “stupid white b!tch I’d better watch the f#ck where I’m going!”. My cheerleading squad’s dances at football games increasingly resembled the wriggling "hotties" in DMX videos- my choreographed moves, straight from jazz class, were less popular. Did I speak up? Absolutely not- such a thing would have been un-PC of me at best, racist at the worst.

It goes without saying that there will ALWAYS be extremes on either end of every issue. Racism is no exception. There are those who believe individuals blessed with fair skin to be intellectually and morally superior, and there are darker-skinned souls who continue to believe themselves to be owed something in reparation for slavery and Jim Crowe. I don’t deny the very real tension that will not instantly evaporate in this country, particularly not the South, where race has been and will likely continue to be an issue of formidable presence for years.

But the fundamental problem with harboring such racist beliefs and connecting them to Obama's presidency is that this is, frankly, beside the point. The most enviable aspect of being an American is that we are free to live, worship (or not), study, travel, love, and work as we choose. I have an opportunity to do something that millions around the world would and do fight and die for- live life on my own terms. The election of Barack Obama is firmly tied to these freedoms that are inherently American- the majority of registered voters in this country believed him to be the best man for the job, and so he was elected. To complain about him being president because he is black is a complete and utter waste of time.

If you disagree with his stance on certain issues and/or his plan for accomplishing certain things, fine. If, once in office, he begins shaping policy with which you sharply disagree, you can and should make your voice heard. It is your right to do so. As for now, he won the election fair and square, and it is time to move forward. Fellow Americans, let us be united in the hope that President-elect Obama will prove a pragmatic, open-minded, and effective leader.

Ours may not be a country that is free of racism, but it is a nation that can no longer deny its own melting pot.

The Singles Registry

2008-10-22T15:23:00.000-07:00

I am a member of a group on Facebook called “I majored in something I like, so one day I will probably be living in a box”.

It should come as no surprise to anyone reading this that, fascinating though it may be, a French degree isn’t exactly a one-way ticket to a lucrative career. I don’t do a great deal of complaining though, as I’m quite content with my decision to study something I was truly curious about as opposed to something that bored me but held brilliant job prospects. (And trust me- I second guessed this path many a time during my 4 years of undergrad.) Truth be told, I’m quite lucky. I managed to secure an interesting job in an exciting city, and I’ve been to Europe on the company tab 4 times in exactly two years. Not too shabby.

All that said, financial realities still are what they are. My current job offered no help in the relocating process, so I had to turn to the bank of mom in order to make it happen. Home accessories were (and still are) at a minimum as 1) I was only 23 years old and hadn’t accumulated anything, 2) I couldn’t afford to move most of what I did have in the way of plates, wine glasses, etc, and 3) I couldn’t afford to purchase whatever I wanted/needed upon arrival. So here I am, 2 years later, sort of stumbling along and making do with the “accessories” of roommates blessed with generous families nearby. I’m sort of in plate/bowl/cup limbo… I see little point in going to the trouble and expense of having my dinnerware shipped up here when I don’t plan on being in my current apartment beyond March 31st of 2009, and I don’t want to buy things when I’m a little fuzzy on the inventory back home. What do I have? What do I need? I have no idea.

The solution I am going to propose comes to mind as I scour yet another wedding registry on Crate and Barrel. I love my friends and love buying gifts to celebrate their happy nuptials. (In other words, this blog is not a rant about being single.) But I am a little irritated with the no man’s land that seems to exist between living at home in high school, having parents provide you with the stuff you need in college… and marriage. What’s a single gal to do in the meantime- destroy the environment by eating her dinners on paper plates she stabs with plastic forks??

I think we singletons should have birthday and Christmas registries! People are always asking what to buy us 20somethings anyway, as friends and family perhaps feel a little out of touch with our interests (and therefore what we might actually want/need) by virtue of the fact that we work all the time and/or live far away. Wouldn’t it save everyone a lot of time and trouble if they could just pop to our registry online, see what we’ve already determined we like/need, and purchase whatever item(s) is(are) in the price range that works for them? Bizarre though this might sound, how is it really all that different from a wedding registry and that whole concept? If anything, wedded couples need this less as they are working with TWO incomes and should therefore be better able to purchase their OWN stuff. I realize the married sorts need a greater volume of stuff still, but in that case isn’t it a good idea to go ahead and contribute to the single girl's inventory well before the union? Then wedding guests are then looking at a lesser expense for gifts when that time comes!

So, in closing, consider this an ode to a single girl’s kitchen- may it not be sparse and ill-equipped to deal with dinner guests and her daily Tupperware needs!

These are a few of my favorite things

2008-09-30T08:22:00.000-07:00

Sinatra had his voice. Dorothy Hamill had her ice skates. Lucille Ball had comedic timing. Me, I've got words. And as I'm sure Frank, Dorothy, and Lucy felt about their songs, skates, and jokes, I like some of them more than others. In no particular order, here are a few about which I have particularly strong feelings.

Favorite words

behoove. I just love this word, especially how pretentious it sounds. My boss is forever proofing my emails and saying "Julie, seriously, lay off 'behoove'- it makes your email sound condescending!"

befuddle. I don't use this one enough, and it's a shame. It certainly wouldn't be difficult, as many things and people in life most certainly befuddle me.

idiosyncrasy. Because I have a lot of them.

grenouille. French for "frog". Why at some point I found myself needing to know the word for "frog" I have no idea, but I've liked it ever since. I think the word sounds cute, much like a little frog.

Words I dislike

defect. Because I can never think of it when I need it. Example: "He defected to the US from Russia in 1979." The word "abdicate" always comes to mind instead, which is obviously wrong.

la banlieue. French for "suburb" more or less... because I canNOT pronounce it! Grr.

Relationships may be closer than they appear.

2008-09-23T13:55:00.000-07:00

I recently began seeing a cute and sweet guy who had been eyeing me for nearly 2 years. He was so determined and I so stubborn that I finally decided oh, what they hey- might as well give it a shot. I baked salmon, we chatted about travel, our hopes and dreams, and he teased about the quantity of red wine in my apartment. It was kind of vanilla really, the whole thing- not bad, a bit sweet even, but nothing exciting. After a few such get-togethers it was time to call a spade a spade, and I told him I thought we were better off as friends.

The shameful part? I told him… gulp… via text message. Julie, queen of confrontation- she who, out of principle, does not shy away from saying what needs to be said. The poor sweet guy asked what he’d done wrong- could we meet at a coffee shop and talk about it? I did not reply. I should have, I somehow feel… but what would I say? Why do I need to go to a coffee shop and repeat the phrase “I’m sorry, I’m just not interested” for 2 hours? What would this possibly accomplish, aside from embarrassing and hurting him to an absurd degree?

Popular consensus is that I did indeed take the low road. My roommate Kylee, ever in tune with the soul of the universe, felt I owed him at least some explanation in order to keep the positive energy between us. And my other roommate, Sabrina, ever more ethical and thoughtful than me, agreed that I should probably tell him how it bugged me a little that we never actually went out, only hung around my apartment. Maybe it would encourage him to be a bit more out-on-the-town with the next girl!

So imagine my relief when my best friend Annie, master of tough love, came to the rescue. “I think you handled it fine,” she said. “Why do you need to go through a big dramatic break-up scene with someone you weren’t dating in the first place?”

Mostly out of convenience of course, I have decided to adopt her way of thinking. Stroking of my conscience aside however, the girl has a perfectly valid point. Many say that in a break-up, or moment of establishing “what you are”, you should always have the conversation in person. Why? Isn’t that all the more embarrassing for the injured party? Granted there’s no good way to go about a (mini) break-up, but with that in mind, is it not perhaps better to just rip the band-aid off quickly and get on with it sometimes?

The big issue here is not handling a break-up or “the talk” the correct way. The problem is that all too often, the two parties involved are simply not on the same page. How can they be? Dating is all about feeling people out, getting to know them in hopes of determining whether you’re right for one another. It is inevitable that sometimes one person is going to be interested while the other is absolutely not. Throw in the notorious ambiguity of American dating (are you “friends”? “talking”? “just hanging out”? “dating”?), and you have a royal muddle indeed.

At the end of the day, the end result is what it is. For the moment I am out of the woods, 100% clear about my single status. Perhaps that isn’t as exciting as being in love, but it’s a heck of a lot simpler than being wedged into something that feels all wrong.

A Traveler's 10 Commandments

2008-09-17T08:47:00.000-07:00

I wish I could take credit for this, but it was in fact sent to ACIS from one of our Group Leaders. SO cute (and so true!) that I have to share... with a few embellishments of course.

I. Thou shalt not expect to find things as thou hast them at home, for thou hast left thy home to find things different.

II. Thou shalt not take things too seriously, for a carefree mind is the beginning of a vacation. III. Thou shalt not let the other tourists to get on thy nerves for thou art paying well to have a good time.

IV. Remember thy passport so that thou knowest where it is at all times, for a person without a passport is a person without a country.

V. Blessed is the person who can make change in any language for he shall not be cheated.

VI. Blessed is the person who can say “Thank you” in any language. It shall be worth more to him or her than tips.

VII. Thou shalt not judge the people of a country by one person with whom thou hast had trouble.

VIII. Thou shalt, when in Rome, do somewhat as the Romans do. If in difficulty, thou shalt use thy American common sense and friendliness.

IX. Remember, thou art a guest in every land, and he that treateth his host with respect shall be treated as an honored guest.

X. Thou shalt carry a light bag, a light heart and a warm smile, and return with the same in addition to thy memories!

Je suis... Carrie Bradshaw?

2008-09-16T20:16:00.001-07:00

Following my last entry, ma chere francaise Delphine wrote that "I am her Carrie Bradshaw". At first, I was touched. A bona-fide "Sex and the City" addict (my roommate Kylee and I watched a few episodes from season 3 over white wine last night in fact), no heroine of the small screen is closer to my heart. But the more I thought about her comment, the more nervous I became. If I am Delphine's Carrie Bradshaw- that is to say, her literary link to the life of a single 20something in the urban United States- am I to write about more than my favorite coffee shops, bars, and restaurants? Should I be gracing the pages of my blog with... *gulp*... tales of dating? And... ok I'll say it: sex?

Here's the problem. I have long since made the decision to include my family on this particular forum, which means my words reach the eyes and hearts of those I'd least like to judge my choices. Much as I admire "Sex and the City" for what it sought to accomplish, I recognize that anything so groundbreaking is not without its critics. I see the show as a positive step in our culture, an effort to bring the good, bad, and the ugly of dating, sex, and single life in general to the light of day. When my mom was 25 years old, she had already been married for several years. For me, as with so many free-spirited women of my generation, the thought of being married at this moment in my life is laughable. I'll go further than that- it makes me panic and feel a bit twitchy. I'm quite possessive of my independence, and it's going to take a certain kind of guy to make me feel even remotely comfortable with compromising an inch of it.

So here I am, floating about as one does when she is of a certain age, engaged in a certain lifestyle. That isn't to say that I am extremely promiscuous- I'm not. I can't understand getting physically involved with a man who doesn't interest me on a deeper level- picking up random hot guys in a bar is something I've never understood or aspired to do. But I will say that for the past 2 1/2 years I have strolled through a virtual dating desert! Whether it's Boston or me, who knows, but suffice it to say that the fish in this particular sea have been rather sparse.

Anyway, the point of this blog was not to sob about the lackluster dating world of Boston. Quite the contrary! The point is/should be one of the greatest challenges (for me) of evolving into a writer- saying what I feel compelled to say without censoring myself to the point of squelching my own voice. It is inevitable that I am going to have opinions and make choices that make other squirm, and I need to just... jump. No one wants to hear a writer expressing shopworn ideas, making politically correct statements to appease her audience. People want to be pushed to the edge- forced to the very limit of what is comfortable for them to read. Writers like this are the ones that win my love and respect- the ones that push me so far that I sometimes have to put the book down and take a deep breath before continuing. Augusten Burroughs is so blatantly frank about his sexuality and battle with alcoholism that I have literally blushed while reading his pages. When last I read a book of his while traveling, I actually stopped and looked around me to see if everyone in the airport knew what I had just read.

Can I do this, this crazy writing thing? I want to. And I have plenty of relatively open-minded, liberal friends who would support my foray into the uncomfortable with full hearts. But my family, what will they think? How do I prepare them, and how much do I worry about this? These are difficult questions, and certainly ones that I am going to have to step beyond before my efforts can amount to much. At the end of the day I am simply me and am incapable of being anything else- this they have long known and understood about me. I may not always go about things in the simplest or most logical way, but somehow I generally seem to wind up in the right place. This is a trend I hope to continue.

The Julie Trail, Part I -- The North End

2008-09-14T15:45:00.001-07:00

I wish I knew an Italian swear word, so that I could appropriately express my hatred of Macs. I don’t understand how to use them!!! I bought an Ipod nano a few months ago… isn’t that enough? Don’t I get even a little bit of credit for that?

My first attempt at writing via laptop in a coffee shop is, I fear, going to be a dismal failure because of my technological ineptitude. Which establishes the importance of technology in today’s world to an extent that I have thus far managed to ignore- even the humanities crowd is suddenly forced to get on the ball and figure this shit out.

Anyway… it’s the effort that counts right? I am planted in a corner spot, by the window, in my favorite coffee shop in my favorite neighborhood of Boston. The North End has a charm that is absolutely irresistible- I fell for it hook, line and sinker during my first weekend here. If apartment rentals weren’t so outlandish, I’m sure I’d set up shop in a tiny studio somewhere just up the street. But alas, it’s Medford for me- also an Italian neighborhood. I like to think of it as the workin’ man’s North End. Kind of like Starbucks vs. Dunkin’ Donuts.

The North End is packed to the brim with Italian restaurants, so no one around here is wanting for carbs. My personal favorite is Pomodoro, recommended by the maitre’d of Avoce in New York, where my good friend Cameron once worked. (I must admit that I enjoy how incredibly pretentious that sounds.) The menu is tiny as is the space- it gives me the sense of dining outside the kitchen of the Italian grandmother I never had. There is one vegetarian option which yes, I have tried, and can attest to its tastiness. With a wine list consisting of one house red and one white, this is the perfect place for vino neophytes to spread their wings. Most of the fare is hearty but served in reasonable portions- veal, a bit of fish, perhaps some linguine with shrimp. And the antipasti is to die for- a mishmash of all the best reasons to defect to Italy.

The restaurant accepts only cash, so bring a few dollars along or you’ll be racing down the street to Bank of America when the bill comes. Fortunately there is no shame in the sprint should it come to that- the waiters see it all the time, unphased by the abundance of plastic in today’s world. After your food has had a moment to digest, I highly recommend stopping by Café Vittoria just across the street for a cannoli and cappuccino. The coffee/sweetshop is under the same ownership as Pomodoro and it shows. The espressos are serious business- if I drink one much past 3:30 in the afternoon I’ll be lying awake all night.

The North End is also home to the best raw bar I’ve found (thus far) in Boston- Neptune Oyster. My resentment of high price tags on oysters is no secret to those who know me well, but this bone aside, Neptune is arguably the hotspot for lovers of this slimy delicacy. The menu features a variety of oysters and clams, most New England residents. The unique flavor of each one is intriguing, the perfect excuse to test flavor combos with a variety of chilled white wines. If you find yourself in the mood for a tasty upscale dinner that is a bit on the lighter side and sushi just doesn’t feel right, this is the place.

If it isn’t yet late enough to justify a full-fledged Italian meal, there is still plenty to keep your mind occupied and hunger at bay. Café della Sport is another favorite of mine, a great place to catch the latest European football matches on the big screen. The staff may get a bit distracted if team Italia is on, but otherwise they’ll look after you. Sweet treats abound, as do tasty sandwiches, pasta dishes, and drinks. A good guy-friendly option if your boy is getting a bit squirmy after a day of shopping on Newbury Street.

For those of us restricted to more modest budgets, all is not lost in the North End. True there are plenty of high-end dining, drinking, and shopping options, but our most Americanized Italian staple does abound. Pizza! For what is in my humble opinion the best pizza I've thus far tasted in my life, head over to Pizzeria Regina. A line snakes out the door most nights, so patience is vital- as is a sense of humor. The waitresses don't have the time to be bothered with chitchat- get in, order what you want, eat it, and get out. The food is so good that attentive service isn't necessary and they know it. So order your pie, get to work on a pitcher of cold beer, then hit the road.

My current watering hole of choice, Boston Beanstock, is a local (really?!) coffee shop with another location over in the Financial District/Downtown Crossing. (Exactly where the boundary lies between the two, I have no idea.) Paninis with names like the Hanover and Big Tony are delectable options for an inexpensive bite of lunch, and the quiches are made fresh daily. For a side, you can’t go wrong with the bean salad. That is of course unless you’re my best friend Annie, in which case it is most assuredly not worth the allergic reaction. This afternoon I popped over around 4:00pm, so I am just between meals. I fortunately have plenty of room for an iced junior mint latte however, my favorite Beanstock “cocktail”. I must be typing a zillion words per minute, I’m so hopped-up on caffeine.

Were I to be slightly more dolled up than I am in my gray t-shirt and blue jeans, I might head over to Fiore roofdeck for a drink this evening. Boston is, needless to say, blessed with comparatively few warm months, so we go crazy for outdoor activities of every sort. In a city that loves after work or celebratory drinks as much as any other, the field of activities most certainly extends to boozing. My outdoor bar of choice is on the roof of the restaurant Fiore, a wonderful spot in its own right. It can get pretty crowded on some nights, but even so its worth the fresh air and bit of alcohol in the bloodstream. I much prefer it to Tia’s, Boston’s corner of the same yuppie Hell inhabited by Columbia’s Pavlov’s.

Eating and drinking are two of my all-time favorite activities, so any travel guide created at my hand is inevitably going to be heavy on these two topics. That isn’t to say of course that there is nothing else to do in Boston’s North End! The Freedom Trail winds its way through the historic North End, popping by Paul Revere’s doorstep. Entrance to the small house is only $1.50 for students- a bargain by any sightseeing standards.

The North End Church, instructed to hang “one if by land, two if by sea”, is also to be found in what is nowadays an Italian enclave. The famous steeple can be viewed from much of the city and, I’m sure, has a tender effect on American history lovers of all stripes.

For those too commitment phobic to spend hours over a plate of antipasti, stroll through a revolutionary’s home, or acknowledge the Virgin herself in the neighborhood’s many Catholic churches, walking through the North End is sure to be as much a delight as anything. The narrow streets, buzzing with Italian exclamations and sweet with the scent of freshly made ricotta pie, make their way to the waterfront. In short, one is rewarded from the moment he steps across the highway and into the North End until the moment he winds up, regrettably, at Tia’s on the Waterfront.

Birthday wishes & literary dreams

2008-09-13T10:19:00.000-07:00

My mom is 62 years young today, I can’t believe it. It pains me to be away from her- there is something fundamentally wrong with a mother and daughter being away from one another on a birthday. It is however the world we live in, a strong reminder of what an enthusiastic supporter she is of all my crazy dreams.

It’s a good thing too, because I have a lot of them. That my mom indulges me and at least pretends to take each one seriously means so much, because who knows what will actually come to fruition? I’ve always said that my problem isn’t finding an interest or pursuing a career I will enjoy- my problem is that I seem to be intrigued by everything. And who can do everything? There simply aren’t enough hours in the day. As much as I would love to be a writer/professional dancer/ACIS Tour Consultant/Peace Corps Volunteer/Assistant de langue, no human being can squeeze all of that in. Or at least not in the same time frame. Which brings us to another question- which of these ambitions do I pursue? How many years to I dedicate to each one? As I near my 2 year anniversary at ACIS, the question suddenly burns more fiercely than ever.

For the time being, I pursue each possible path in a patient and determined way. I have applied to the Peace Corps, am working on my writing portfolio to submit to UBC’s Creative Writing MFA program, plan to apply for the French Assistant Program as soon as the forms are online, am working hard in dance class and watching my weight a little more carefully. (Emphasis on little.) When Chris and I broke up 2 ½ years ago and I left Wachovia, I felt excitement and terror waiting to find out what life had in store for me. Looking back, I am amazed and amused by the path my life has taken since then. Who knows where I’ll be tomorrow?

Happy birthday Mom- you are my heart and my rock, no matter where I am in the world. I love you!

Poking around Somerville

2008-08-24T13:11:00.000-07:00

Several years ago, I screwed up my shoulder in dance rehearsal at the University of South Carolina. New to pain in this particular joint, I sought the advice and assistance of the student health center. The doctor confirmed that I had indeed pulled my trapezius muscle on the left side, which accounted for the pain and stiffness all the way up into my neck. On top of the pain, my shoulder felt "loose"- I could slightly pop it in and out of joint and make a rather alarming squishy popping sound while doing so. The doc prescribed muscle relaxers, which did an excellent job of masking the pain. Unfortunately that's about all they did.

Quickly realizing the muscle relaxers accomplished little beyond fooling my body into thinking it was fine, I stopped taking them and abandoned Western medicine altogether (as far as this particular injury was concerned). Unpleasant though the pain could be, it reminded me that this was a tender area and kept me from going too crazy with it. Over the years I tried to strengthen it in yoga class and have the knots worked out via massage. The former sometimes seemed to help but sometimes aggravated the problem. The latter was just too excruciatingly painful on my problem muscles- I had to direct the masseuse elsewhere.

I have toyed with the idea of acupuncture for years but shied away from it. Despite what you may think of someone who has had 5 piercings and 1 tattoo, I'm not a fan of needles. Also, acupuncture tends to be rather expensive, and I wasn't interested in becoming the personal pincushion of some holistic whackjob in the name of saving a few bucks. I took the Scarlett O'hara approach to dealing with my shoulder- "I can't think about that yet, I'll think about that tomorrow".

This Monday I finally reached breaking point. Struggling to concentrate on my work emails because of a nagging throb in that left shoulder, I threw my hands in the air- this was ridiculous! I immediately emailed Lisa at Davis Square Acupuncture and booked her next available appointment.

Saturday morning I broke the normal lazy routine to be in the acupuncture office at 9am. I was nervous about it not working but excited at the prospect that it might. (I was also ever so slightly hungover from our company's annual sales conference party the night before and worried that alone would undo any possible good.)

What an amazing experience the whole thing turned out to be! First off, the professionalism. My acupuncturist spent easily over 30 mintues asking me about my injury, general health history, lifestyle, stress, diet... things no doctor has ever mentioned and many that have never even occurred to me as being relevant. It was such an eye-opener to realize that every aspect of my life ties in to my bodily health.

At long last, the actual "poking". I laid face-down on the table, my shirt the only article of clothing removed. Bra and capri pants stayed on, which was admittedly something of a relief. I had the fanciful notion beforehand that in this zen world of holistic healing, everyone is so open and comfortable that hanging out on the acupuncture table in the nude is no biggie. Fortunately I was wrong on that front.

Needles were placed in different areas- some directly into the problem muscles, some in areas that one would assume are totally unrelated. The interesting thing? Often times I felt absolutely nothing when a needle went into a damaged muscle, then felt a tingle or deep sensation when one was barely pricked into a (seemingly) unrelated area. What a strange thing to feel the right arm react to a pin in the left calf! My acupuncturist explained that because the injured area has been dealing with and compensating for the pain for so long, it may be less sensitive than it would be in a healthy state. Makes sense. The body isn't so different from the heart- when damaged, we put up a wall and don't let ourselves feel things we would when all is well.

Once I was in full pincushion state, the acupuncturist placed a heat lamp over my left shoulder (which felt ahh so good). She then left me to relax for about 30 minutes, which was when the interesting stuff began to happen.

I could literally feel my muscles releasing the tension they've held for so long. I pictured a crude drawing of the sun- a circle with the lines representing rays shooting out in every direction. The energy in my muscles was regrouping, and I could feel it as clearly as a cool breeze sweeping across my face. Everything darted out in different directions, deciding where it really needed to go, guided by the way the needles had been placed in my skin. I drifted in and out of sleep, an odd kind of sleep... back and forth between vibrant dreams and a calm line of absolutely nothing.

When my acupuncturist came back to take the needles out, I was completely relaxed. And when she took them out, I could have sworn she actually patted them in a slight bit deeper! So strange! I didn't believe her at first when she told me they were all out.

Getting up off the table and snapping back to reality was difficult- I was in such a haze, an "acupuncture buzz" as I've taken to calling it. The feeling was somewhere between the slight muscle fatigue one feels immediately after a work out and the feeling of having had one too many glasses of wine. My acupuncturist couldn't help but laugh at my being so very disheveled, and assured me that my body would adjust and the shock/buzz would be less with each session. It's a very intense thing she said, having your muscles completely regroup and redirect their energy. No kidding.

Starving, I made my way down to Broadway and had breakfast at Soundbites, a favorite spot in my neighborhood that takes care to serve up plenty of carbs. After that I came back to my apartment and took a 3 hour nap! Then, I woke up feeling like a million bucks. My shoulder didn't feel pain, more slight soreness. I could definitely tell that something had changed direction in my body, and it was a very exciting thing to realize.

My next appointment is on the 30th at a much more humane 10am. I can't wait!

MBTA Blues

2008-07-30T11:33:00.000-07:00

Last night on the way home, a blog was a'brewin. My train of thought is a truly bizarre an inexplicable thing, I'm beginning to realize. Imagine my surprise when what started out as pure annoyance at (what is in my opinion) horrible subway etiquette bloomed into pretty intense social commentary.

The T, as the subway system is known in Boston, is not fat-people friendly. I often feel a melange of guilt and annoyance when an overweight individual opts for the spot beside me, because this generally means I'm relegated to half a seat. I do however realize that I am profoundly lucky to not weigh 300 lbs and that, of course, this individual probably doesn't particularly want to be fat, which indirectly means that they aren't taking over my seat out of malevolence.

It is however an ENTIRELY different issue when someone half my size sprawls themselves over a seat and a half- homeboy straight chillin' on the way back to his crib. This was the demon I faced on the red line yesterday from Park Street all the way home to Davis Square. A young guy, thin as a rail, came on the train and made himself quite comfortable... while I squished into the corner between him and the end of the row. Argh! I suppose I could have moved, but I didn't because I didn't want my move to be misconstrued... and here's why.

This guy was not the typical young business guy on the way home from the office in his Banana Republic suit, nor was he a college student in Birkenstocks (yes people still wear them) and bermuda shorts. He was young, had his hair in cornrows, faded black jean shorts that hung precariously at mid-thigh, and a grungy white t-shirt that in all honesty can't really be called white anymore.

To put this into perspective, I have not seen cornrows since I left South Carolina.

I don't mean to suggest that Boston is completely monochromatic- it isn't of course. It is perhaps less of a melting pot than, say, New York or Los Angeles, but you will hear multiple languages and see many different colors while strolling our streets. Boston is however unique in the fact that its poverty is oddly contained, therefore the professional/student crowd is pretty disengaged from the kind that makes us clutch our purse a bit tighter.

To put it quite sharply, this guy wasn't the norm for the red line between Park and Alewife. I was consumed with curiosity to see where he would get off the train, trying to imagine where he could possibly be going. I doubted he was going for a burger at Mr. Bartley's Burger Cottage in Harvard Square or a pint at the Burren in Davis. If he was attempting to go the way of Leonardo Dicaprio's undercover cop in "The Departed", he was doing it all wrong.

My reaction to this innocuous train of events was unsettling. Why am I suddenly so shocked by a black guy who doesn't look and dress like Taye Diggs? In Columbia this wouldn't have phased me, because the shabby parts of town are sprinkled throughout the most desirable places to live. Hell, in Columbia, half the guys dressed like Red Line Guy are at USC on full football scholarships and will make more money in their first 6 months after graudation than I will in a lifetime! (Not that I'm bitter.)

I am forever looking for things, large and small, to connect my life here in Boston to everything that shaped me in the Carolinas. This brought me to the greatest impasse I've know thus far. I began to understand why Massachusians squirm at racial jokes that would never be taken seriously (or perhaps taken all too seriously) in South Carolina.

To attempt the insurmountable task of putting our cultural differenes in a nutshell when it comes to race and, let's admit it, racism- Mass and SC might as well be two different worlds. Massachusetts never knew the history the Carolinas live, breathe, and debate every single day. In this respect, I will never fully integrate.

n.b. photo from www.bostonreb.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/mbta1.jpg

Les huitres francaises

2008-07-23T08:15:00.001-07:00

Parisian food is a beloved topic on which I could write a whole series, let alone one blog. Despite being such a large, cosmopolitain city (or perhaps because of), there is a lot of mediocre food here. That there are oodles of fantastic and diverse choices goes without saying, but the abudance of the mediocre and downright bad never ceases to amaze me. It is wise to make dinner choices with a trusted guidebook or, preferably, through the advice of locals. On my last night in Paris, I was in the mood for sushi but my less than stellar past experiences with Parisian sushi gave me pause. I chatted with a French colleague about this and she directed me to Rue St Anne without hesitation. Japanese expats in Paris adore the area around the Opera Garnier (news to me), so it is known to have the city's best sushi! She did not lead me astray- I ate extremely well.

Another item I am pleased to report on the subject of the Parisian culinary experience is... oysters! Thanks to my South Carolina coastal roots, I have had my fair share of delicious oysters. I seldom order them outside the Carolinas and am acutely aware of my reverse-snobbery with this particular cuisine. If you want good oysters in Myrtle Beach you do NOT go to expensive seafood restaurants on the strip. You head to Horry's out on highway 9- the middle of nowhere on the tourist radar. They aren't expensive, the venue isn't gorgeous, and they are truly tasty. In my mind, the ultimate way to enjoy oysters is while sporting a t-shirt and jean shorts, with a side of cole slaw, hush puppies, and an ice cold Mountain Dew.

The first time I had oysters in Paris, I was in a beautiful restaurant that was reminicent of la belle epoque. Brass chandeliers, velvet-covered chairs, lovely white linen tablecloths. The oysters were less than impressive... the color was strange, they were small, and the flavor was dry and flat. Having had this experience, it is understandable that I was a bit skeptical of ordering oysters at La Taverne on the Boulevard des Italiens, despite the lovely space and enthusiastic servers. I asked lots of questions about the size and flavor and, with a great deal of reservation, finally decided to take a chance. My northern California colleague seemed to have well-heeled tastebuds that also know good oysters, so I knew I wouldn't be stuck eating anything horrible for the sake of appearances.

One word- heaven! The oysters' size was discerned by numbers on the menu, 1 being the largest and 4 the smallest. (We went with 1/2 dozen of the size 3 and another 1/2 of the big guys.) They were juicy, salty, and the different types definitely had distinct flavors! Having only ever eaten one type of oyster at a time, it was fun to compare and contrast. And my oh my, the big ones were oyster monsters.

Suffice it to say, there is something to be said for les huitres bretons (oysters from the French region of Brittany/Bretagne)! I am so happy not to have completely given up on the little (and/or big) guys. I will however stick with ordering them when a senior colleague will be expensing them.

n.b. The photograph featured here is not my own and was found via google.fr search: http://www.interet-general.info/IMG/Huitres-1.jpg

Paris, je t'aime

2008-07-23T07:44:00.000-07:00

There is a big problem with finally sitting down to write a blog about one's 1 1/2 week stay in Paris after said person is through airport security, waiting by her gate. Or, to be more accurate, this is problematic when the flight in question is to the USA. This timing is awful because at this particular stage in the game my complete and utter disgust with all the rigamarole a person has to go through to fly to the United States nowadays has clouded recent memories of pain au chocolat and café au lait! I have a self-imposed rule when traveling back to the States from overseas- keep your mouth SHUT! As security personnel tend not to go for my sarcastic brand of humor (granted I normally am feeling anything but humorous by the time we finish playing 20 questions), I find it wise to take a deep breath and just grumble internally.

Departure day woes aside, this has been a truly fabulous trip! I have been incredibly busy with work (hence the lack of attenention to my writing as of late) but have enjoyed myself even so. In a way it's especially fun to be in Paris for work because it makes it easier to imagine that I live here!

So what am I doing in the first place? ACIS sends staff (primarily sales people like yours truly) to busy destinations during busy times- generally London, Paris, and Rome during the "spring" (March) and summer. We pop in to check on groups in places lots of them congregate (in front of Notre Dame after a city sightseeing tour) or in places where we're guaranteed to catch them- before or during dinner, for example. If the customers I meet are happy with everything it's a pleasant experience, and nine times out of ten this is the case. I find that most teachers who are crazy enough to do this in the first place- travel overseas with 25 teenagers- are generally pretty enthousiastic and friendly. It is impossible to do what they do (successfully at least) without a positive attitude. That said, there are of course the less-pleasant ones, and with them you just roll through everything as best you can. Occasionally their concerns are warranted, and when that happens the machine (and what a remarkable machine it truly is!) is set in motion and things are corrected and/or changed.

As ACIS is of course fabulous and things seldom go amiss, I was blessed with a good bit of free time! I walked and walked until my feet ached, and when they couldn't take it anymore I consoled my whole body with food and wine/kir royal/beer (generally not all at once).

Chatsworth House & Sheffield

2008-07-13T10:54:00.000-07:00

Friday, my only full day in Doncaster, was spent at lovely Chatsworth House. The grounds are enormous (and sheep-filled) and beautiful, so we spent the better part of the day exploring them on foot. My favorite was the coal mining cave- a small, eerie tunnel dimly lit by "candles". We were caught in a downpour shortly after exiting the cave which made us all a bit mardi (English for "grumpy", French for "Tuesday"), but then I suppose exploring the grounds of a magnificent English estate wouldn't be quite right in 80 degree sunshine. References to The Secret Garden (which I cannot figure out how to underline properly on this computer, urgh) filled my imagination throughout the afternoon.

The house itself was absolutely fantastic- in comparison the Biltmore house and self proclaimed "cottages" in Newport, RI truly are cottages. You can't tour the entire house as the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire call it home. Though I suppose that's disappointing in a way, I kind of like the warm fuzzy feeling of experiencing a place in which people actually live.

We had provisions for a picnic in the lovely gardens, but the plan went awry thanks to the rain. Not to be dismayed, we munched on yummy homemade wraps and biscuits (that's "cookies" to my fellow Yanks) in the car on the way home.

We headed to Sheffield for the evening, to see a band called "Band of Horses" at the Leadmill. They were good and I had fun at the show, but I wouldn't put them at the top of my Ipod playlist just yet. To be fair though, everyone should take my opinions on music with the proverbial grain of salt. There are precious few bands that make me swoon for some reason- I have picky (if not terribly refined) tastes. The club itself though was fab- what's not to love about a dance club that plays the Rolling Stones and the Clash?? Let's go back tonight!

Anyway, the evening ended as any good evening out in the UK should- with shwarma, fish and chips. I for some reason was full of energy and chattered away the whole way home (poor Ben) while sleepy Hannah did the head bob. My colleague Molly once commented that cars, planes, and trains should have a strap to go around the forehead so your head doesn't bob up and down and all around when you're exhausted. I completely agree.

I woke to another culinary triumph Saturday morning, then was off to the train station. The journey from Doncaster to Edinburgh takes approximately 3 hours and is beautiful. I can't say enough about the lovely countryside in northern England- it barely seems real. I swear the fields are painted, the cows and sheep placed just so here and there. Just as I began to experience the unthinkable- becoming a bit bored with the cows and whatnot- there was the ocean! Having sort of forgotten about the fact that I am on an island after all, it came as a pleasant surprise.

Haggis, Tatties & Neeps

2008-07-13T10:03:00.000-07:00

Though the title of this lovely blog may sound borderline pornographic, I assure you it is not. Tatties = potatoes, Neeps = turnips.

Haggis –noun Chiefly Scot.
a traditional pudding made of the heart, liver, etc., of a sheep or calf, minced with suet and oatmeal, seasoned, and boiled in the stomach of the animal.

Sounds horrible right? I concur, though rumor has it that haggis is actually rather tasty. Despite my best efforts to taste a wee bit o haggis this trip, I just don't think my stomach is in the right zone for it. I went with a safer choice of salmon, green beans, and potatoes for lunch. It was delicious despite being boring in comparison to more adventurous options like haggis!

Saturday afternoon, Lonely Planet guide in hand, I hopped off the train at Waverly Station and began to make my way to the hostel. True to the book's word, my hostel is in a great location and was easy to find- about a 10 minute walk from Waverly. It is in the Cowgate area which (I found out later on a bus tour) is very much the clubby district, easily explaining its popularity with young backpackers. To broaden the spectrum a bit, I am in the Old Town, just a couple hundred yards beyond the Royal Mile. I can walk to Edinburgh Castle in 5 minutes, less if I run like mad. (But why would I do that?)

I was completely knacked (tired) yesterday thanks to the 3am-er the night before but absolutely determined to cover some ground before going to bed. Fortunately I was filled with excitement and curiosity the moment I stepped off the train- Edinbugh practically begs you to wander around and explore! I couldn't get rid of my suitcase fast enough. I strolled along the Royal Mile, the small streets right around my hostel, and when I'd walked to the point of exhaustion I hopped on a sightseeing bus just in time for their last tour of the day. I had dinner in a small family-owned Italian restaurant on the Royal Mile and was completely through after eating and drinking a glass of red wine. After practically crawling back to the hostel, I called my mom, read a bit of the LP, and went to bed. There was a funloving (e.g. extremely drunk and loud) bunch of German kids across the hall from me and it didn't even matter- I slept like a baby.

I rationalized my late start today by deciding that this is the last time I'll get to sleep-in while I'm overseas- tomorrow I have a flight to catch and after that I'll be *groan* working. I was out the door by about 11 and began the all important search of the day- the quest for the perfect lunch spot. After two disappointing misses (both closed on Sunday), I finally found a great pub. There was enough of a crowd to assure me the food was edible but not so many that I couldn't enjoy a quiet, peaceful lunch. I had the aforementioned salmon, green beans, spinich, and potatoes. It was delish, I scarfed down every bite!

After lunch I strolled through parts of the New Town, gradually making my way down to the park at the base of the castle, alongside Waverly Station. (I know the park has a name, my apologies... my LP guide has been retired for the day to make my purse lighter and without it I am lost.) Itching to do a wee bit o a hike, I made my way up the side of the castle mount (again, probably not the proper term) and back down again. It goes without saying that I am not a runner/hiker but Edinburgh brings out some inner outdoorsman I didn't know lurked within me! Perhaps it has something to do with my family's Scottish roots, I don't know. I am seriously considering hiking up to Arthur's Seat tomorrow morning before I leave, which will involve a 7am wake-up.

But I digress. Feeling I deserved a treat after hiking, I bought a strawberry ice cream cone and sat down in the park. A family came to sit beside me on the bench and we got to chatting. They were from Augusta, GA it turns out, so we had much to talk about. Long story short, the dad travels all over the world for work, the son is doing a summer abroad at Oxford, and the mother teaches math at a school in Augusta. I gave her my business card, as teachers from her school travel overseas with groups of students. (You're welcome ACIS.)

I then hopped back on my bus tour (the ticket is good for 24 hours) because it was raining yesterday and I knew I'd have much better views of everything from the top level. It was a good move as today's guide was much better. I hopped off at the castle but ultimately decided not to go in as it's super expensive (£15 and no student discount!). The Scottish Whiskey Experience had caught my eye earlier and was vyying for my afternoon. At £7 with a student ID, it won. The tour itself was admittedly a bit cheesy but certainly informative! I now understand the difference between single malts and blends, the differences between American, Irish, and Scottish whiskies, and know that whiskey is actually clear until it is aged in barrels. In short, I have become an old Scottish man.

Other great tidbits of the day- I saw the hotel where JK Rowling finished the last Harry Potter book, the private school both her daughters attend (£9000 per kid per year), and the art university where Sean Connery once posed nude so that art students could draw him. Lucky kids.

The verdict? I love Edinburgh. Mom is tightening the grip on her wallet because I have already mentioned doing grad school here...

Ode to an Englishman

2008-07-13T02:49:00.000-07:00

I have had the privilege in my life thus far to meet many people, and of that crowd I have been thrilled to find that most are kind, generous, and have a dynamic sense of humor. When one stops to consider the state of the world, it is a tremendous comfort to feel quite confident that the majority of people out there are nothing short of fantastic.

Ardent travelers with limited budgets like me are deeply dependent on the couches, kitchens, and showers of the world's residents. To let us beyond the front door is in itself a gracious act, so we take notice when a host goes far above and beyond the responsibility of his role.

Never have I experienced a journey so far beyond the expected as in Doncaster at what I now affectionately refer to as the Ben Lawman B&B. I mentioned my arrival "snack" in a previous blog- this thoughtful gesture is only the tip of the iceberg. Ben treated me to a couple of delicious dinners (whoops I mean "teas"!), made wraps for our picnic at Chatsworth House, and cooked breakfast both days I was there. (Eggs benedict with homemade holondaise, asparagus, and parma ham the second morning- wow.) He made sure that I was well fed, well rested, and (when appropriate) properly inebriated. Perhaps his only shortcoming was failing to order two days of sunshine!

Any attempt I could make to adequately describe Ben's tremendous kindness and generosity of spirit will inevitably fall grossly short of what I'd like to convey, because words simply cannot do justice to a person like this. I was touched by the sincerity of his every word and action- never in my life have I been treated with such kindness by a man with absolutely no agenda whatsoever. Ben gives you the sense that he is the way he is simply because he can't imagine being any other way. The world would do well to have a few more blokes like him.

Many thanks Ben for opening your home, kitchen, and lovely town to me. I will always think of Doncaster warmly because of you.

Donny Donny Donny

2008-07-11T03:50:00.000-07:00

Gazing out the window at grass that is absurdly green and English skies that are a classic shade of gray, I am overwhelmed with affection for this place. I am in Doncaster, England- or as I have taken to calling it, "Donny"- home of Ben and temporary home of Hannah, a fellow American Southerner. I definitely didn't expect to come here and find my Southern drawl relaxing into its old form, that's for sure.

I arrived yesterday around 8:15am following a mishmash of new flights. The original plan was to fly Delta from Boston via New York's JFK, which would have taken me directly into Manchester. Because of bad weather making its way up the East coat on Wednesday I was re-routed through Paris, on Air France the whole way. (I was brokenhearted as you might imagine!) :-) Flights were comfortable and the food was good. As ACIS clients say to us when nothing goes wrong, "flights were fine". No news is good news in that department.

Ben and Hannah met me in Manchester, and what a welcome wagon they were! Once in the car (a Ford focus with the steering wheel on the wrong side) they gave me "snacks"- a basket full of fruit, granola bars, and two bottles of water. I was too stuffed from my Air France meals to indulge just yet, but I was incredibly touched by the thoughtful gesture. Ben had to go to a business meeting in Manchester so he dropped Hannah and me off at a local shopping mall, where we sat and had espressos while catching up. We wandered around the different shops and I bought some vanilla tea at Whittard.

After Ben's meeting we drove from Manchester to Donny, taking the scenic route. The countryside was absolutely gorgeous- rolling hills (dare I call them mountains?), stone walls that put their recreations in New England to shame, sheep, cows, and horses everywhere. Having only been to London in the UK, it was quite a wonderful part of the country to see. I munched on my raisin and hazelnut granola bar while taking it all in through the haze of jet lag.

I took a 2 hour nap when we got back to Ben's beautiful home, showered, and finally felt ready to roll. While I don't tend to have a hard time with jet lag, it seems I must acknowledge and address it briefly before it will leave me be.

We went to nearby Toddwick to the Red Lion Inn, a beautiful old English country inn complete with a pub. Delaney's it was not- this was the real deal and it was wonderful. Cozy and warm are the two adjectives that filled my every sense. Wood beams in the ceilings, mismatched chairs covered in fabrics and cushions, beautiful wooden tables, and lots of good English beer on draft. I could waste my life away in a place like that. "Piss it away", as Ben would say. Wow.. that looks so much worse when it is written!

We returned to Donny for a few drinks after dinner, then made our way to bed. I was exhausted and anxious to curl up in my comfortable bed and slept like a baby.

This morning I woke to a feast of ciabatta bread smothered in brie, ham (bacon Ben says, ham I say), and sun dried tomatoes. (The "mat" in "tomatoes" rhymes with "hot" when Ben says it.) We are now off to Chatsworth House and plan to spend the better part of the day exploring the house and gardens, picnic basket in tow. This evening we're going to a concert in Sheffield, the only town in these parts that I had heard of prior to the trip! I kind of like that honestly- exploring dozens of small English towns that are completely new to me. It does make for difficult writing though, as I need to be within shouting distance of Ben if I'm going to list the name of each one here.

Ta da for now, cheers, bye bye!

Nice is Nice- what about Niceville??

2008-07-02T14:25:00.001-07:00

It only just occured to me that the name of the town I'll find myself in tomorrow evening was once the password for my AOL Instant Messenger account. Only then it was intended in the French sense- Nice Ville- two different words that form the name of the most central train station in Nice, France. Take a sip of your sweet tea, lean back in that hammock and spend a bit more time with those "i" sounds and you'll be well on your way to pronouncing the version I'll be wrapping myself in tomorrow evening- Niiiiiiceviiiiiille.

That's right kids, Jules is on her way to Niceville, Florida. I don't exactly know where that is to be perfectly honest. It's on (in?) the panhandle, is 1 hour behind Eastern Standard Time, and I'm flying into Pensacola which is about an hour away. Tallahassee, if I understand correctly, is about 2 hours in the opposite direction.

Why this particular adventure? Well, let me preface this by saying that I should probably choose my words and explanations carefully, given the fact that I've decided to share this blog with my aunts and a couple of colleagues! It's also probably a good idea to chat with all parties involved to ensure that they have no objection to being mentioned here (hmm good thinking), so for the time being I'll leave out names.

Suffice it to say, I am going to Florida to visit a very dear friend who happens to be very attractive. He is smart, sweet, and for some unknown reason gets my sense of humor. In short, we are two peas in (what I would like to think is) a rather attractive pod. There is of course a downside. It wouldn't be mid-20s dating if there wasn't. He is in the army and in the pipeline to go to Iraq within the next 12 months or so. And as if that isn't enough, this will be the first of at least 2 tours of duty he serves. Obvious fears and concerns aside, this arrangement pretty much kills any real chance at a real relationship. Whatever that is.

So, for now, we are good friends and I am going to Florida for a visit. I'm super excited to see him, and to explore a new area! It will also be great to be in a land where there is an abundance of sweet tea and Chic-fil-a. It isn't exactly MY South, but it is most assuredly below the Mason-Dixon line. Coors Light and army boys in uniform, here I come!