tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59571138177010043622024-02-09T02:47:58.170+09:00Changwon ChicaA Colorado Chic Turned CosmopoliteKristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-80994055223374256762009-07-31T19:58:00.002+09:002009-07-31T20:09:28.642+09:00Git Nikid!<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in">On Saturday, I finally submitted to the modicum of modesty that for eleven months has kept me from publicly disrobing, and I visited the jimjilbang.</p><p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in">I’d read about Jimjilbangs—public bath houses—before I got here, and my openness to the idea of luxuriating au natural with the denizens of Changweon has wavered perpetually between varying degrees of “Maybe” and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“Aw, <i>hell</i><span style="font-style:normal"> no.” Monica—who goes to the jimjilbang so much, she’s got books of coupons—had invited me to tag along several times over the colder months. But I always declined, saying—honestly—that I wasn’t quite ready yet.</span></p><p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in">It’s not that I have an issue with nudity, per se; it’s only that Korean women have these tiny, <i>perfect</i><span style="font-style:normal"> little bodies; and a few of my coworkers had told me that they go frequently; and urban legend has it that one is likely to run into the mothers of students, who probably know your face, while you don’t know theirs; or, worse, the students themselves.</span></p><p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in">And so, as a quasi-professional, was I wrong for so long avoiding an unclad encounter with any of the aforementioned parties?</p><p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in">Yes. Emphatically, entirely, and stripped of vacillation: <i>Yes</i><span style="font-style:normal">.</span></p><p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in">This time, it was actually my idea. My Saturday evening invited a little lounging: The night before, I’d taken in a bit more bourbon than my head was happy with. Then I’d gone and defied the <i>Rules of Hung Over and Out of Shape</i><span style="font-style:normal"> and run for nearly an hour. My body hated me. And so what else was I to do but plunge into a baking bed of smooth stones, rooms covered from ceiling to floor with ice and frost, and dry-heat, suffocating saunas?</span></p><p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in">We exchanged our shoes for lockers, changed into prison-orange, thickly woven uniforms, were given two white hand towels, and headed upstairs for the dry rooms. Each of the rooms had an exterior thermostat warning of the level of hellishness inside. Only there was no hell, there; not in the whole damn facility. We entered the rock room and veered to the right into a shallow pool of smooth stones. The lights were muted, and in the corner a couple Koreans sat entranced before some Korean drama playing on a TV set mounted to the wall. Monica grabbed a squat wooden block with a half-moon indent and laid her towels into the sanded-away portion. She motioned for me to do the same. And then we burrowed, like crabs into the sun-warmed sand, covering our legs and arms with stones. After a couple minutes, the heat seemed to fade, but shifting your body even slightly served to impassion the embers, and envelope your body once more in intense heat. The level of relaxation my body slipped into was nearly overwhelming, and if Monica hadn’t been there to rouse me, I might have laid there and fallen asleep and dried up like a banana chip.</p><p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in">After the rock room, we bounced between three heated rooms with wood-knit mats and clay-plastered ceilings. One was too hot, and more than three or four minutes left you feeling a little woozy. One was practically room temperature, and decidedly not worth the trouble. And one was <i>juuuust</i><span style="font-style:normal"> right.</span></p><p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in">And then the ice room. Sounds like some alternate version of hell, but scampering to the ice room and plunging our bodies into the Siberian climate actually provided a nice balance to the pass-out heat of the other rooms.</p><p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in">By now, my prison garb was soaked through with sweat, and my eyes were stinging with runoff, and I’d resorted to wiping my face with my towels.</p><p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in">“You’re gonna need those to dry yourself off later,” Monica warned. Oh, I whimpered, and said that my eyes were stinging, to which she said, “Buck up!” and ordered fifty one-armed pushups. Between sets, I sneaked a few brow swipes, only when she wasn’t looking, of course.*</p><p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in">Time to get naked! We made our way back to the locker room, the portal for the bathing room. Inside there were four diminutive pools heated to different temperatures, and rows of vanities—complete with personal sinks and shower heads—so close to the ground they looked to have been made for miniature people.</p><p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in">I was a bit hesitant to unclothe, wanting to wait until it was absolutely time. Was it time? I asked Monica several times. Now, Monica? Now?</p><p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in">It <i>was</i><span style="font-style:normal"> time. And no big deal, really. We lounged. We dipped in the cold pool. The lavender pool. Skipped between saunas. Nearly passed out in saunas. Monica gave me hell for not being able to scale the cold pool’s wall without the ladder.</span></p><p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in">At the end, we sat at the vanities and scrub, scrub, scrubbed everything dirty off our bodies. Monica <i>accidentally</i><span style="font-style:normal"> sprayed me in the face with her shower nozzle, but did the same thing to herself several minutes later. Then she dropped her towel that should have stayed dry into her water bucket. Karma?</span></p><p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in">How best to describe the jimjibang but half spa, half nudist colony? And at fractions of the prices! They serve snacks. They have those awesome massage chairs you see in malls, with none of the Yes-I’m-actually-using-one-of-those-mall-massage-chairs embarrassment. There’s a small workout facility. Video games. A computer station. They even have tiny one-person cubicles where you can sleep. Need a cheap hotel? Check out the jimjibang. A mere 8,000 won, friends. Which is, what, less than seven bucks back home?</p><p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in">Had my first trip to the jimjibang occurred approximately two months ago, when my biggest indecision revolved around “Should I stay or should I go?”—as in, Korea, or Colorado?—my decision might have been different. Yes; I <i>really</i><span style="font-style:normal"> might have extended my stay in Korea for the jimjibang. My skin felt so </span><i>smooth</i><span style="font-style:normal">; my body purged of bourbon wastes; my weary, mile-bogged muscles relaxed. I weighed myself in the locker just before we left, and I’d lost nearly two kilos. I don’t know how much that is in pounds, but hey—it’s something.</span></p><p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in">*Note: Certain creative liberties were taken in sections of this narrative, especially in regards to the dialogue of Miss Monica. She only ordered fifteen one-armed pushups.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-50681208692256152072009-03-17T08:58:00.017+09:002009-03-28T13:23:52.411+09:00Spectacular Post-Race Culture Compression!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2mGY-b6cI/AAAAAAAAAPs/5udK395jyGw/s1600-h/P3070052.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2mGY-b6cI/AAAAAAAAAPs/5udK395jyGw/s400/P3070052.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318089363708176834" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">After the Hadong 10K, Bishop's boss Cha found us. Susan and I asked if he could tell us how to get to the Green Tea Museum, because Hadong is the green tea capital of Korea, and the museum a must-see if you're in the are, and he told us to hop into the van. He would take us. This is so typically Korean--a Korean person really will ditch their entire day's plans to help somebody else out.<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7ok0h8vSI/AAAAAAAAAM8/opcaSo2TVCA/s1600-h/P3070049.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7ok0h8vSI/AAAAAAAAAM8/opcaSo2TVCA/s200/P3070049.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313940329617734946" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7oj1Myl5I/AAAAAAAAAMk/N5xs-8iZ-us/s1600-h/P3070042.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7oj1Myl5I/AAAAAAAAAMk/N5xs-8iZ-us/s200/P3070042.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313940312617555858" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Cha played tour guide to Susan and me for four hours. First, we toured a little community of traditional Korean houses.<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7rKabRCrI/AAAAAAAAANs/q8o4dKPhqjk/s1600-h/P3070059.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7rKabRCrI/AAAAAAAAANs/q8o4dKPhqjk/s200/P3070059.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313943174468668082" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Susan and Cha amid the bamboo poles.<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7rJtiMdpI/AAAAAAAAANk/5mXktwtXEi0/s1600-h/P3070057.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7rJtiMdpI/AAAAAAAAANk/5mXktwtXEi0/s200/P3070057.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313943162418132626" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7rJc8KQ3I/AAAAAAAAANc/fLAqSpnSr48/s1600-h/P3070051.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7rJc8KQ3I/AAAAAAAAANc/fLAqSpnSr48/s200/P3070051.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313943157963637618" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7okurrYeI/AAAAAAAAAM0/zoEcJiFVmvc/s1600-h/P3070044.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7okurrYeI/AAAAAAAAAM0/zoEcJiFVmvc/s200/P3070044.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313940328047927778" /></a><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7okV0zNYI/AAAAAAAAAMs/tGJseR6PlAk/s200/P3070046.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313940321375303042" /><div style="text-align: center;">A market spread throughout the bottom half, and we looked at some of the items for sale. The people who sell their things there actually live in the little houses and shops from which they sell, which almost give you the feeling that you're encroaching on their lives, but hey--they're making money!<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7shTiYdOI/AAAAAAAAAN8/2L_Pz2J4QX0/s1600-h/P3070077.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7shTiYdOI/AAAAAAAAAN8/2L_Pz2J4QX0/s200/P3070077.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313944667268084962" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">I thought this little boy was adorable--what a ham! He looks like he's practicing for Korea's Next Top Model.<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7sgIcnQXI/AAAAAAAAAN0/Kb6cNlFq9mo/s1600-h/P3070075.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7sgIcnQXI/AAAAAAAAAN0/Kb6cNlFq9mo/s200/P3070075.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313944647111229810" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Everywhere you go in Korea, you see women sitting like this, selling grains and greens from the red plastic tubs.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7tinYEZWI/AAAAAAAAAOE/LyKT_ckF_KE/s1600-h/P3070066.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7tinYEZWI/AAAAAAAAAOE/LyKT_ckF_KE/s200/P3070066.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313945789285033314" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Next, we went to a literary museum, which was really just one small room in a beautiful building on a hill.<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7olGmFs0I/AAAAAAAAANE/YdkItbH_wJ8/s1600-h/P3070045.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb7olGmFs0I/AAAAAAAAANE/YdkItbH_wJ8/s200/P3070045.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313940334466937666" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">After that, we made our way to the Green Tea Museum. It was very amusing.<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2gVtRVsqI/AAAAAAAAAPE/9_hJAIpCjaQ/s1600-h/P3070094.JPG"><img style="text-align: center;float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2gVtRVsqI/AAAAAAAAAPE/9_hJAIpCjaQ/s320/P3070094.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318083029784441506" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2gVQ3U7uI/AAAAAAAAAO8/-b7x1lQ0cFc/s1600-h/P3070080.JPG"><img style="text-align: center;float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2gVQ3U7uI/AAAAAAAAAO8/-b7x1lQ0cFc/s320/P3070080.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318083022159146722" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2dUuF4qSI/AAAAAAAAAOc/EszwYHaXuCA/s1600-h/P3070086.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2dUuF4qSI/AAAAAAAAAOc/EszwYHaXuCA/s400/P3070086.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318079714290084130" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">This tea comes from the oldest green tea plant in Korea, which is 1,000 years old. Tea from the plant has sold for somewhere in the thousands of dollars.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">This was <span style="font-style:italic;">hilarious</span>. Written by some wise, old Buddhist sage, extolling the virtues of green tea. Wouldn't he be impressed with the green tea movement today? According to him, the five effects of tea are: <br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">1. Helps one to absorb oneself in reading, and quenches one's thirst, <br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">2. Removes one's spleen in one's mind. <br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">3. Help one keep a polite rapport and a sincere relationship with guests. <br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">4. Remove parasites from one's body. <br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">5. Eliminates a hangover.<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2dVNikmAI/AAAAAAAAAOk/vGEIAO27-jg/s1600-h/P3070088.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2dVNikmAI/AAAAAAAAAOk/vGEIAO27-jg/s400/P3070088.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318079722731902978" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">This one is even better, by the same Buddhist guru. These are the seven stages of tea drinking (all typos authentic): </div><div style="text-align: center;">After the first cup, "the dried intestines are cleansed." </div><div style="text-align: center;">After the second, "It's refreshing spirit seems to make me a Taoist hermit with superpowers." </div><div style="text-align: center;">After the third, "My headache goes away." </div><div style="text-align: center;">After the fourth, "I become grandiose and openhearted, and my worry and spleen fade away." </div><div style="text-align: center;">After the fifth (and this is my favorite), "A sex fiend runs away in surprise, and I seems to wear cloud skirt and feather clothes." </div><div style="text-align: center;">After the sixth, "The sun and moon come to my mind, and all things around me look to be the..." (uh-oh, I cut this part off with my camera!). </div><div style="text-align: center;">And finally, after the seventh cup of tea, "A clear wind rises from the heart," and something about looking up at a mountain. </div><div style="text-align: center;">This guy was cuh-<span style="font-style:italic;">ray</span>-zee! <br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2dVQdtKoI/AAAAAAAAAOs/L4KrOxqUJc4/s1600-h/P3070090.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2dVQdtKoI/AAAAAAAAAOs/L4KrOxqUJc4/s400/P3070090.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318079723516799618" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">After the museum tour, we wandered to the Tea Lounge, where we browsed the merchandise and sat and drank tea with some lovely Korean women.<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2dVhjt7JI/AAAAAAAAAO0/qWnyX4mAwxo/s1600-h/P3070095.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2dVhjt7JI/AAAAAAAAAO0/qWnyX4mAwxo/s400/P3070095.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318079728105417874" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">The trifecta of Korean culture culminated in a trip to Sangaesa, a famous Buddhist temple. By this point, Susan's and my legs were a bit fatigued from the morning run and afternoon ambling.<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2kGPkTD-I/AAAAAAAAAPc/aBDWFAp3WEk/s1600-h/P3080106.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2kGPkTD-I/AAAAAAAAAPc/aBDWFAp3WEk/s320/P3080106.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318087162159370210" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2kF8uv05I/AAAAAAAAAPU/fOC1FyjfTd4/s1600-h/P3080099.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2kF8uv05I/AAAAAAAAAPU/fOC1FyjfTd4/s320/P3080099.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318087157102924690" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2kFNsjcaI/AAAAAAAAAPM/Pd7lZVzf6MQ/s1600-h/P3080097.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2kFNsjcaI/AAAAAAAAAPM/Pd7lZVzf6MQ/s320/P3080097.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318087144477258146" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">And yet another adorable Korean child.<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2mFQKFkqI/AAAAAAAAAPk/HWqDEn43RfQ/s1600-h/P3070047.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sc2mFQKFkqI/AAAAAAAAAPk/HWqDEn43RfQ/s400/P3070047.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318089344161256098" /></a>Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-42980374611580412012009-03-15T23:07:00.009+09:002009-03-18T08:52:06.329+09:00Three Foreigners run MARATHON in Hadong!Race season has arrived.<br /><br />So, my friend Bishop calls me a little under a month ago, and tells me he’s running a marathon. A <span style="font-style:italic;">marathon</span>? I ask. Yeah, he says, totally nonchalant. A marathon. Twenty-six point two miles. I’m thinking: Sure, okay, the guy’s eight feet tall, kind of a superstar, does well at the things he tackles. But he smokes. And it was only about two months ago that he told me he was starting to make it to the gym. And in that short time, with those lungs, he’s going to run a marathon?<br /><br />I tell him he is not running a marathon. He says dude, come on, it’s only like, ten miles. No, no, Bishop. <span style="font-style:italic;">Twenty-six point two</span> miles. Ten miles, another ten miles, and then over half of another ten miles. You’re telling me you’re running a marathon, there should be none of that spring in your voice. Only fear. Are you running a 10K? I ask. Yeah, yeah, a <span style="font-style:italic;">10K</span>, he says, a marathon. Ah. No, no, I say. A marathon, <span style="font-style:italic;">minus</span> twenty miles. Things are beginning to make sense, now.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb0OnJCNz5I/AAAAAAAAAL8/7f9fHclyO2o/s1600-h/P3070031.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb0OnJCNz5I/AAAAAAAAAL8/7f9fHclyO2o/s200/P3070031.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313419200969953170"></a>The confusion was mostly a product of Korea’s definition of a marathon. If you tell a Korean you are running a 5K (3 miles), you are running a marathon. And you are a rock star. If you tell a Korean you are running a half-marathon, in the auditory canal, <span style="font-style:italic;">half</span> somewhere sunders from <span style="font-style:italic;">marathon</span> before the information is processed by the brain, and you are running a marathon.<br /><br />Short story long, I invited myself to come run with him. It would be a terrible, terrible mistake, I knew, because I was and still am in no kind of racing condition, but I’d done this oh-I’ll-do-this-after-preparing-a-<span style="font-style:italic;">little</span>-more stuff too often, for too long. Perhaps this is the product of growing up in a highly competitive environment, where sister constantly debased a slightly—a <span style="font-style:italic;">slightly</span>, I insist—inferior athleticism; where father never slowed his pace through three feet of mountain snow for two little girls, but rather warned against excessive complaining; where mother never surrendered a game of Monopoly or Life, no matter how old you were, because <span style="font-style:italic;">that</span> sure as hell wouldn’t teach you anything about losing.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb0OnsCBheI/AAAAAAAAAME/9H_ejoj0hs4/s1600-h/P3070032.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb0OnsCBheI/AAAAAAAAAME/9H_ejoj0hs4/s200/P3070032.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313419210364388834"></a>So, in effort to battle my procrastinatory tendencies—functioning, I know, mostly to disguise lack of perfection—my brain braced itself for potential mediocrity, and I asked Bishop to sign me up. My self-esteem buffering mechanism (this may or may not be the technical term—I’ll have to consult my psychology textbooks) began functioning immediately. The handicap floodgate opened. I’m in terrible shape, I told Bishop. I haven’t run six miles consecutive since I’ve been here. And I want to point out, I told him, that your legs are about <span style="font-style:italic;">three feet longer</span> than my entire body, thus enabling you to cover twice the distance, in <span style="font-style:italic;">half</span> the time.<br /><br />True, but I’m a smoker, he says to me.<br /><br />Over the next three weeks, I stepped up the running, for sure, but not as much as would have been sensible. I decided to not kid myself. I wouldn’t be competing in this thing—no time to prepare—but would view the Hadong 10K as a warm-up for the rest of the season. A kind of kick in the butt. A motivator. I invited the girls from the office to come along, and Susan, our newest teacher, after gentle prodding, accepted the offer. She’d been in the gym most days of the week, it seemed, and would come run the 5K while Bishop and I stumbled through the 10.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb0Pf_2rg4I/AAAAAAAAAMc/0EvJjX4bIqk/s1600-h/P3070027.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb0Pf_2rg4I/AAAAAAAAAMc/0EvJjX4bIqk/s200/P3070027.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313420177758192514"></a><br /><br />On the Saturday afternoon before the race, Susan and I hailed a cab, nabbed a 4,500 won bus ticket, and were on our way to Jinju, where Bishop would meet us and then take us the rest of the way to Hadong. We’d been in phone contact to coordinate a meeting time. He was visiting with some friends, he said. When Susan and I arrived at the bus terminal, Bishop was not there. I called, and he said he would be there as soon as possible. We waited and watched a cute Korean girl run around her mother’s—or sister’s, maybe?—little concession stand. Eventually, I heard a voice, and turned to see Bishop’s six-foot-plus gargantuan frame ambling toward us. He had a Korean man and little girl in an adorable purple coat in tow. He introduced them as his Korean family; she was a student, and he her father. I felt a bit envious, I admit. None of my students’ families had offered to adopt me at any point. Soon, a little boy ran over. He, too, was part of the family. Suddenly, we were being herded toward their car. The father would give us a ride. At the curbside, we met the mother. She spoke no English, but smiled profusely. I wondered at how long the family would have to wait there as the father took us wherever we were going. But no, no. We would <span style="font-style:italic;">all</span> go. Bishop, Father, Mother, Susan, a little girl, a little boy and I, plus bags, crammed into a five-seater. No trunk utilization. The ride was cozy, for sure, and by the end, we all felt like family.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb0PfvOi0QI/AAAAAAAAAMU/pkhT5jLL5yE/s1600-h/P3070033.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb0PfvOi0QI/AAAAAAAAAMU/pkhT5jLL5yE/s200/P3070033.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313420173294883074"></a>We caught a movie in Jinju (This is where Bishop goes to escape the sometimes stifling and contemporary-culturally negligible offerings in Hadong). As we sat in a little smoothie shop, waiting for the flick to begin, Bishop asked Susan if she was artistic. If she liked to make things with her hands. We both thought it an odd question, but with Bishop, the juxtapositioning of his comments sometimes makes sense only in the end. Susan said no, not particularly artistic. Oh, he said. Would she like to cut his hair that night? Mouths dropped. Eyebrows lifted. No, not particularly, she said, as we both examined his head and struggled to discern what was there that needed to be cut. He turned to me. Would I?<br /><br />Seriously, Bishop? No.<br /><br />He made up for strange barbershop requests with homemade dinner back in Hadong. Susan and I sat in the teacher’s room of his school while he labored in the kitchen, refusing assistance. We looked up oddball marathons over the internet. The Death Valley ultra: 130 miles through the lowest, hottest point in the United States, 130+ degrees of hydration-zapping, heat exhaustion-inducing heat waves. No, thank you. We found a YouTube clip of some fools “running” up Mount Everest. I repeat: fools. One race runs along the Great Wall in China, and we thought, hey, we could potentially make it out for that one. Ha. Like we’re that hardcore.<br /><br />Dinner was fabulous. Homemade salsa. Mexican-style chicken and cheese and chips. I ate up heartily, fueling up for the six miles the next morning. Throughout dinner, Cha’s drunk friends trickled into the room, and a spattering of broken English was thrown around. Mostly a lot of “Hey!”s, and high-fives, and “I’m Sorry!”s, but entertaining company, to say the least.<br /><br />We’d planned on staying in a motel, as Bishop’s place is rather small, but 10,000 people were signed up to run this race, and there were no rooms to be had. So Susan and I squeezed into Bishop’s twin bed—I gave her the okay to push me out if I tried to spoon—and Bishop splayed out on the floor, bless his heart. We would wake up between 7:30 and 8:00, we said, because Cha would pick us up at 8:30 (he was the only one who knew where to go), in time to make it to the registration booth and starting line by 9:30.<br /><br />At 8:30 the next morning, un-running-attired Bishop was cracking up over YouTube videos, and Cha was nowhere to be found. I’ve mentioned before that I have a few serious anxieties, two of which are (1) being late, and (2) not knowing where I’m going. They’re interconnected, obviously, and the anxiety began welling up inside me as we milled about Bishop’s apartment, race garb on, numbers pinned to our shirts. Would he be here soon? I wanted to know. Should we leave without him? Would we be late? Would they hold the gun for us—<span style="font-style:italic;">Americans</span>—if we weren’t there by 9:30?<br /><br />We ended up leaving just before 9, at my humble behest. I suggested we run to the event to “warm-up”. Really I just wanted to make it there in time. It was easy to find, because small swarms of sneakered people were heading in the same general direction. When we arrived, we couldn’t find the registration booth. We walked around, searched, and I became anxious once again. How would we find it? I wanted my race shirt. I stopped and asked two men who were stretching. Eo-di-ae—and I mimed signing a paper—iss-eo-yo? Where do we register? I speak English, one replied bluntly. Oh, I said, and laughed. Can you tell me where we sign up and get our shirts? There is no registration, he said. Just run. We ended up hanging out with these guys right up until the gun went off. They were customs officials. Ha. Good thing we are all upstanding Korean visa holders.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb0OoWuLV5I/AAAAAAAAAMM/qRIucEYo6pU/s1600-h/P3070041.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/Sb0OoWuLV5I/AAAAAAAAAMM/qRIucEYo6pU/s200/P3070041.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313419221823870866"></a><br />The race was fantastic. Bishop bolted ahead from the start, and I secretly cursed his giraffe legs, but Susan and I settled into a nice pace, and had a nice pre-season warm-up run. We passed the 5K sign, and were both surprised we’d already run that far. Before we knew it, the 9K sign was moving from the front to back of our peripheral vision. We ran along the river, and there were few hills, and as two of only a few Westerners in the race, I think we attracted a little attention. People would fall in step with us along the way and yell, “Hello!” or “Where are you from?” or flash the universal sign of goodwill: thumbs up.<br /><br />Near the end of the race, a man who I found out is from Changwon struck up a conversation with me, and we ended up sprinting through the finish line together. There was just such a convivial, familial atmosphere to it all. We had come from starkly different worlds, but that day, we were runners, and here, in Korea, we ran together.Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-31400645709712592172009-03-01T11:31:00.006+09:002009-03-01T12:03:11.660+09:00Excuse the Ill-Matched Photos?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/San5gWkpkPI/AAAAAAAAALo/VmL57aGYVr4/s1600-h/P1250009.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/San5gWkpkPI/AAAAAAAAALo/VmL57aGYVr4/s400/P1250009.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308047970043269362" /></a><br /><br />We’d been waiting to see it for weeks. The next term’s final schedule. Somehow, happiness from March through May was inextricably tangled up in two excel spreadsheets, spreadsheets that we would quickly cover with yellow or pink or green highlighter. The fluorescent filling exposed coveted break times and class levels and the names of future students. One six-class teaching stretch could ruin an entire day. No dinner breaks would oblige you to overhaul your eating schedule. One wayward student might make your life miserable.<br /><br />Do you see why we’d been <span style="font-style:italic;">waiting</span>? It came last week. Christine walked through the office, laying the photocopied sheets before each teacher, and the inevitable groans filled the room instantaneously. At first glance, for most of us, the bad overshadowed the good, I think, and some were better at hiding their disappointment than others. I myself was less than thrilled. Four days of six class stretches. That’s brutal. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/San4qZeu12I/AAAAAAAAALg/J4Z89lyUick/s1600-h/P1300014.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 165px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/San4qZeu12I/AAAAAAAAALg/J4Z89lyUick/s200/P1300014.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308047043110819682" /></a>But the student lists for each class are more grave than the time frame. It’s interesting to me that certain students inspire disgust in some teachers, while arousing affection in others, or that some kids can embody both halves of the dichotomy in a single teacher’s mind. It all depends on our mood, I suppose. When I’m energetic and in good humor, one of my lowest level classes (the young, young ones) is fun and exciting and stimulating. When I’m exhausted, or preoccupied, they’re unruly. Angele was assigned to a higher level course mostly full of students that I’ve taught, although never all together, and she’s dreading the blend. I think they might be wildly entertaining. Class composites are like chemistry: the perfect amalgamation might garner gold (again, like chemistry, impossible…), while shoddily constructed compounds catalyze small explosions.<br /><br />We do, however, have to account for the effect of environment on a child’s—or anybody’s—personality. I’m eager to see what the kidlets do when released into a strange classroom full of unfamiliar faces. Will peer anxiety make little Wilson less weird? Probably not. Will Billy and Fred tear oddball Paul apart? Probably. Will being in a class of less rambunctious children spur to Vicky to verbal interaction? (I’ve never heard her speak). Maybe. It’s nice to switch things up like this, because the kids become too comfortable in their environments, the atmosphere somehow slides in a casual direction, and classroom management becomes difficult.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/San3WdZBShI/AAAAAAAAALA/Pvgafz0QIOg/s1600-h/P2100019.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/San3WdZBShI/AAAAAAAAALA/Pvgafz0QIOg/s200/P2100019.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308045601051593234" /></a>In October, I wrote a blog lamenting not knowing what the hell I was doing, most of the time, and while I like to believe that I’ve learned a bit over the last six months, I still have much to improve upon. I’ve been doing this for six months, now, and still, some days, I feel as if I’ve just started. I’ve touched on this subject before, but with a different perspective—a more naïve, green perspective. Teaching includes challenges I hadn’t anticipated, mostly in the administrative and discipline departments. I think sometimes my biggest problem is that I don’t understand children and what is fun for them. I was always an independent, test-loving, nose-in-a-book child, and so sometimes don’t understand the appeal of group work, or finding hidden images in a picture, but apparently, they love this stuff. A new sticker sends them into a paroxysmal state of bliss. I’m telling you: I don’t get it.<br /><br />In the beginning, I lacked consistency—between classes, and far too often, within classes—but I believe I’m leveling off in that respect. If you don’t minus cents for only one page of homework missing, you must do that every time—not only when the mood suites—because they will remember the precedents you set. And if you’re going to minus cents for Korean talking, you must do it <span style="font-style:italic;">every</span> class, for <span style="font-style:italic;">every</span> student, as hard as it is not too excuse little angel Anny’s one-time trangression, and write her name on the board, because it only slipped, Teacha! Just that once!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/San6sJBNNSI/AAAAAAAAALw/0VFqUKpxHOU/s1600-h/PC310029.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/San6sJBNNSI/AAAAAAAAALw/0VFqUKpxHOU/s200/PC310029.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308049272075007266" /></a>I’ve become aware, too, of the subtle—and yet indelible—sexism engraved into our minds and actions. I scorn when class is almost over, and it’s time to call students to line up for the bus. Because they all want to be first. The sequence is best settled with a few matches of rock, paper, scissors, but we don’t always have time for this, and even then, which duo or trio of children do you call on for the first round? I feel that my voice too quickly calls the names of the more pleasant children, and that then, the misbehaved must think I’m playing favorites with teacher’s pet; or, if I call a girl first, the boys must think I’m a man-hater, favoring the girls; or, if I compensate for this anxiety by calling a boy first, I must be contributing to all the negative forces in the world convincing girls that they’ll always come second…<br /><br />Perhaps I’m thinking too far into the issue, but there are many of them, those students, and only one of me, and so while I’m selectively discerning nine or ten sets of actions and attitudes and faces, each of them is looking at me, only me, and I hope my occasional negative actions don’t settle too personally with them. And I must struggle to shield my feelings, at times; I must be more conscious of it, because they’re only eight, or nine, or ten, and I am Teacha—the supposedly objective party. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/San4qQ7GqeI/AAAAAAAAALY/7yQQZZZ5hhk/s1600-h/P2200030.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 198px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/San4qQ7GqeI/AAAAAAAAALY/7yQQZZZ5hhk/s200/P2200030.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308047040813902306" /></a>I’ve made a mistake in telling some (most) of my classes the puppy’s name. Remember: the puppy’s name is Soju, which is Korea’s national hard liquor. Everyday, now, I have students stopping me in the hall, asking excitedly, “Did you bring Soju today?” and “Where is Soju?” and “Bring Soju!” Not entirely appropriate, as you can imagine, and now I live in fear that an angry mother will call and report that a boozer is teaching her children, and offering to bring the goods to school, no less. I suppose that in the excitement of Soju’s arrival, I might have left my common sense at home.<br /><br />Perhaps, after being introduced to the new classes on Monday and Tuesday, my potential woes will disappear. Bring forth the positive thinking!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/San3W99joxI/AAAAAAAAALQ/be5vlR-A1is/s1600-h/P2210042.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 194px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/San3W99joxI/AAAAAAAAALQ/be5vlR-A1is/s200/P2210042.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308045609794773778" /></a>Speaking of positive...<br /><br />I went to Seoul last weekend for the Jason Mraz concert with some gals from work. I'm not much of a concert girl—they’re expensive, and the noise is earsplitting, and standing, straining to see the stage through the throng is exhausting—but it was Mraz. One just doesn’t <span style="font-style:italic;">decline</span> Mraz.<br /><br />The concert was amazing. The <span style="font-style:italic;">weekend</span> was amazing. Angele, Anna, and Annie were fabulous travel partners (none of this sleeping in 'till noon business, thank you) and I believe it was my most enjoyable trip to Seoul thus far. We contemplated strategies to get Jason to come back to Changwon with us, of course, but none of them panned out. Maybe he'll be back next year?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/San3WQpEgAI/AAAAAAAAALI/bb5F-jWuzeQ/s1600-h/P2200027.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/San3WQpEgAI/AAAAAAAAALI/bb5F-jWuzeQ/s200/P2200027.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308045597629251586" /></a>Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-68786096639526498222009-02-18T12:50:00.006+09:002009-02-18T13:04:38.321+09:00News Item #1: I have a boyfriend. For his sake, I’ll skip the public cyber schmaltz. Any questions you have regarding the subject (estimated betrothal dates, etc.—kidding, Anthony! And Dad. Hehe), I’ll be happy to address via personal email.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SZuHDOe3O9I/AAAAAAAAAKo/KL0ug8gcDAA/s1600-h/PB300012.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SZuHDOe3O9I/AAAAAAAAAKo/KL0ug8gcDAA/s320/PB300012.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303981475655793618" /></a><br /><br />Which segues into:<br /><br />News Item #2: My boyfriend’s puppy is lodging with me for a bit. Her name is Soju, and she’s really sort of my fault—I’ll admit to a speck of goading (“Awww, you should get one!”) as we stood gushing over a teeming box of puppies at the market one afternoon—and for this reason, 25% of her person—I mean, puppy—has been relegated to my ownership. I’ve chosen a back haunch.<br /><br />I suppose “fault” implies “mistake”, though, and she’s far too fabulous to be called a mistake. Of course, mine is not the apartment she spent a good deal of energy destroying in her first few months. Puppies love to chew on things, apparently. I wouldn’t know, as my parents cruelly denied me any fur-laden, emotion-inducing creatures throughout my own childhood. Snakes? Okay! Grasshoppers? Alright! Dogs? Forget it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SZuHvcs8D_I/AAAAAAAAAKw/0NOj-Jlizgw/s1600-h/PB300037.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SZuHvcs8D_I/AAAAAAAAAKw/0NOj-Jlizgw/s320/PB300037.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303982235387170802" /></a><br /><br />I offered to take Soju a few weeks ago, as Anthony needed to prep his place for an apartment swap, and, of course, considering my cataclysmic pleas for the pup’s purchase, I thought I might take a little responsibility, step up to the plate, so to say. I expected enthusiasm at the proposal, but he said, hesitantly, Thank you. I’ll think about it. This reinforced a lesson I learned a little over a year ago: Men love dogs more than they’re often publicly willing to let on. (Reference “The Love Story That Was Ron and Bo.” Film version currently in the works.)<br /><br />Before she moved in, I admit, I had a few anxieties about how we’d get along, but really, she isn’t the shit terrorist* that Jennie’s dog, Bo, was when a puppy, and although I admit to a shoddy memory, this is what I remember disliking most about that rambunctious pup.<br />She’s peed on the floor only when overcome with excitement (to see me!), has dragged only a few embarrassing dust bunnies out from under the bed, administered minimal damage to my difficult-to-replace Mac power cord, and has eaten only a relatively small section of lime-tinted wallpaper. I’ve had worse roommates.<br /><br />*Note: Soju pooped on the floor for the first time roughly two hours after this line was written. Jinx!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SZuISUI8UUI/AAAAAAAAAK4/5Q0UE9aOVOc/s1600-h/PC310034.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SZuISUI8UUI/AAAAAAAAAK4/5Q0UE9aOVOc/s320/PC310034.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303982834384130370" /></a><br /> She’s a fabulous running buddy, actually. Took her out for the first time last week, figuring to knock out the dog walk and personal run in one go-round, and we had a great time. Now she goes with me every time. She’s fine off the leash and just trots beside me as I amble along, her perfect little face poised upward at me, ears at point, tongue hanging happily, loving and endearing. Sometimes she gets a bit curious about something off the path, and runs into the grass and bushes, but I simply call out, “Soju!” and she gallops back over. On-looking Koreans must think I’m crazy, as <span style="font-style:italic;">soju</span> is the name of their national hard liquor. Imagine somebody running down the streets of your neighborhood, yelling, “Vodka!”, “Rum!”, or “Beer!”<br /><br />She reminds me a lot of Bo, in that she’s super social, and just wants to be near you. I thought I might feel smothered by the responsibility of another body to take care of—I usually have enough trouble taking care of myself—but it’s rather nice to come home to life and unconditional love, jumping at your shins.Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-8677648999444233462009-01-04T10:03:00.002+09:002009-01-04T10:07:09.922+09:00I'm Back!If dust could accumulate in cyberspace, a thick layer would cover the ‘ole blog, here. I’ve been hounded by various parties for weeks to throw something new onto the page, but have suffered from an utter lack of inspiration. Scary place for a writer, you know, and sometimes (always), instead of sitting down and typing away at something potentially mediocre and completely lacking in entertainment, it’s easier to say, “Oh, I’ll write <span style="font-style:italic;">tomorrow</span>, once those creative synapses spark up a bit.” <br /><br />Well, they lie dormant, still, but here’s an attempt to wake them up. Random thoughts, mostly, and mumblings, a few grumblings:<br /><br />I’ve been here for almost four and a half months, and I really cannot believe that. It doesn’t seem like that long ago that I was filling in family and friends on my expatriate plans, being met with stares of bewilderment, concern-laden inquiries, and the occasional jeerish, “You know what it’s <span style="font-style:italic;">like</span> there, right?” from those who wouldn’t have been able to point SK out on a map. No, no—I didn’t know what it would be like here. Didn’t want to, fully, wholly, of course, because learning as I go has all been part of the adventure.<br /><br />I won’t lie and say this is the best decision I’ve ever made, and that life here is full of shimmering rainbows and frolicking ponies, but it has been rather fabulous at times. The worst of it hovered right around Christmas, a season that—as Mom, Dad and Jen can attest to—incites in my behavior some horrendous and—I’ll venture to claim—<span style="font-style:italic;">mostly</span> unintentional Ms. Hyde moments. Just hard being away from home for the first time, you know, during that time of year, especially when you’ve family like I have. Fortunately for me, there are lovely people here who buffered those blood-family absences, like Angéle and Pierre, who threw an amazing Xmas Eve soiree, and Johnny and Laurel, who hosted on Christmas Day, and of course Anthony, who on Christmas morning made me tater-filled breakfast burritos with <span style="font-style:italic;">real</span> cheese. And, of course, there was the brimming box of gifts sent from back home, which I send out many thanks for. Made it seem a lot more like Christmas, although I wish I could have been with everybody while opening them.<br /><br />The hardest part about being here? Balancing my time. Fitting everything in. Because there’s no dearth of things to do, or people to meet up with, and it’s simply hard to incorporate all of these new things into life while also working almost nine hours a day, and fighting the guilt of both my recent inadequate writing (zero) and running (sporadic) output. Working on it, though.<br /><br />Life is mostly very good here, though. I enjoy the teaching, although am still suffering a bit of anxiety over feeling that I’m not that great at it, some days. My disciplinarian skills are developing, but I think I’ll always prefer being the fun teacher to the mean, and allow myself to be walked all over occasionally. We did recently switch schedules, which changed our class lineup slightly, and I somehow was rid of each of the classes that I really dreaded going to. I lost a couple good ones, in the process, but it looks as if I’ve gained a few good ones, too. The week before the switch, I told one of my favorites that I wouldn’t be their teacher anymore, and one little boy erupted into tears, which could have been induced by anything, I know, but I like to think it’s because he liked having me as a teacher.<br /><br />Food has been hard. Despite having taken the Korean language class, I still can’t read the labels, and so have no idea what proportion of organic and mineral compounds I regularly ingest. I’ve developed an addiction for mandu, a type of Asian dumpling that can be filled with anything from beef to noodles to kimchi. I’d kill for an oven. And real cottage cheese. And whole wheat bread, or deli meat, or affordable frozen vegetables. But, we all learn to cope.<br /><br />What else? The weather has been frigidly arid, and dry skin runs rampant. I have three guitars, now. Went to a wedding last weekend, which wasn’t too incredibly unusual, besides the irreverent hum created by the horde of people chatting at the back of the wedding hall during the ceremony. My bag of Christmas cards lay labeled yet unstamped on the heated floor of my apartment. <br /><br />I suppose this entry might sound a bit depressing, but really, what it lacks is focus and direction. I’m in desperate need of topics, so please, if there’s anything you think I need to report on, let me know!Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-55399994709808345322008-11-16T09:01:00.003+09:002008-11-16T09:09:17.269+09:00I’ve been a negligent little blogger. Today, I offer culture:<br /><br />Pepito? Pepapo? No, Teacha…Pepero!<br /><br />Two weeks ago, I began to notice massive displays of red-boxed candy and cute stuffed animals everywhere. I wondered if Koreans prepared for Valentine’s Day much like Americans prepare for Christmas: no less than four months in advance. Turns out, last Tuesday was Pepero (pay-pay-ro) Day—a uniquely Korean holiday. Took me all day to remember what this holiday was actually called. I kept saying “Pepito” and “Pepe le Pue”, but trust me, this was no skunk of an idea. You think Wal-Mart has power? Well, the high-end-shop juggernaut of South Korea is Lotte Department Store, and in 1983, it created it’s own holiday, simply to (gasp!) make a won or two off sugar-stick lovin’ Koreans. In 2006, Lotte made the equivalent of $47 million dollars off pepero sticks, alone. They deny premeditation, of course. And would we expect them to do otherwise? <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SR9jrMRQ4MI/AAAAAAAAAKg/1LHIVO6FYQI/s1600-h/pepero.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SR9jrMRQ4MI/AAAAAAAAAKg/1LHIVO6FYQI/s320/pepero.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269039682725929154" /></a><br /><br />The designated day is November 11th—11/11—and the month-day configuration symbolizes friendship and love and all that jazz. Get it? The ones—they’re like little people standing side-by-side. So Lotte manufactures, boxes, and sells long sticks of cookie candy that represent the ones, that represent the people, that represent—ahem—the love of the Korean people for one another. I’m telling you, for a country practically drowning in everything that is cute, this is a fabulous marketing idea.<br /><br />The candy is fabulous. Tasty. Cheap. And the think tanks at Lotte solved that de facto profit-inhibiting factor of Valentine’s Day: pepero sticks are not just a between-lover exchange, but for friends, or family, or—lucky me—teachas! So the kids brought us teachas boxes and boxes of pepero. Crunchy pepero. Chocolate smothered pepero. Blueberry yogurt pepero (my favorite). Pepero dipped in nuts and sprinkles, and pepero with columns of fudge running through the center (they call this “nude” pepero). And for one day, the whole country was happy. Or, at least, our office was.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SR9jq486WwI/AAAAAAAAAKY/5beRUqtR2m4/s1600-h/pepero-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 305px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SR9jq486WwI/AAAAAAAAAKY/5beRUqtR2m4/s320/pepero-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269039677540293378" /></a><br /><br />An article if you’re interested: http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/06314/737326-82.stm<br /><br />What else? My Korean skills are coming along. Skipped class Thursday due to a little head bug. The man who owns the corner store where I buy my eggs and Dr. You health bars teaches me a little each day. Learned how to say “diahhrea” the other day (the direct translation from Korean is basically “water-poop”) and threw it out there on the bus the other day, just to see what the Korean high school boys would do. They remained very serious. Perhaps saying “poop” ceases to be funny at a certain age? I know the elementary kids think it’s but-gusting hilarious.<br /><br />Thursday was the national university exam test day. According to a couple of my coworkers, one of the highest suicide days in Korea. The other is the day the kids get their test results back. Clearly, this is an important test.<br /><br />Everything academic or intellectual here is done by rank. Chloe, one of my fabulous co-workers, has a cousin who consistently scores #1 in the country on the annual MD boards (and she’s a woman). Similarly, the kids are ranked in class according to monthly or quarterly tests. Kind of like ranking by chair in band class, right? Well, the result is serious self-esteem deficits. Brains are everything here. Imagine if kids in the United States were each given an ordinal number ranking how beautiful or handsome they were in relation to the other kids in class, and if this number was posted on the wall for all to see? Anxiety. (I harbor a bit of disdain for the state of the American education system. Could ya’ tell?)<br /><br />But the point is, is the eyes of Koreans, one’s entire future is determined by this one day of testing, and the number spit out by the grading machine. The goal is to score high enough to gain admission in a Seoul university—they are the best. Going anywhere else is humiliating and seriously debilitating to chasing one’s true ambition. Sad!<br /><br />So on national testing day, business and government workers are required to go to work one hour later than usual, to avoid traffic jams that might prevent kids from reaching testing sites. People are asked to avoid honking their horns at all costs (hard, in this horn-happy country) to cut down on noise. And the kids are locked up all day, scribbling, filling in bubbles, possibly contemplating, “Rope?” or “Subway jump?” I repeat: sad! At least we’re allowed to take those big assessment exams eight times over, if we really want to. And go to school in some obscure state like Missouri and not feel like your life is over.<br /><br />What else? I’m going to Seoul next weekend. Sooooo excited. I promise a little blurb about the city this time.Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-62548692518934416792008-11-07T21:48:00.002+09:002008-11-07T23:11:35.982+09:00I Feel Pretty?For some time now, I’ve been promising various parties a blurb on some major cultural differences between Americans and Koreans. Recent incidents have incited me to address this request immediately.<br /><br />I’ll avoid a long digression into the psychology of self-esteem and mate competition (don’t want to use that hard-earned Mizzou degree <span style="font-style:italic;">too</span> much) and, instead, simply present the obvious thesis: when your body ain’t lookin’ so good, your brain ain’t feelin’ so good. People are able—to varying degrees—to employ their powers of self-awareness and introspection in order to overcome whatever deficiencies might result from a decline in perceived physical attractiveness, right?<br /><br />Okay, maybe this is sounding too much like a mid-semester paper…<br /><br />Basically, I feel that I’m typically capable of drawing a sufficient stream of self-esteem from my mental prowess, and that—if I’ve so happened to pack on a couple pounds—I won’t feel any urges to slit my wrists.<br /><br />But what happens to the brain when the body is afflicted with a trifecta of body maladies? Serious serotonin deficiency, my friends. Which is no fun for the brain.<br /><br />Body malady #1: I was sick with a cold all last week, which somehow caused me to miss TWO weeks of running. This, like serious serotonin deficiency, is bad (partly because a decline in exercise <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">causes</span> the deficiency…) and whether or not the pounds have <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">actually</span> been gained, my eyes see them. And perception is everything.<br /><br />Conclusion: I feel fat.<br /><br />Body malady #2: My face has been breaking out like an adolescent school-girl’s. Seriously—I thought I was done with this stuff. And I’m not talking just a zit here and there. I’m talking prairie-dog town across the whole bottom of my face. And I can’t figure out what’s causing it. My diet, maybe? The air? The water? Soooo frustrating.<br /><br />Conclusion: Society might benefit from my wearing a mask.<br /><br />Body malady #3: Over the weekend, I was attacked by a flock of mosquitoes. No, not a swarm. This was definitely a flock, like something right out of Hitchcock’s “The Birds.” <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Just</span> the backside of my right arm has about fifteen bites. And they don’t look like typical mosquito bites. They look like the manifestation of some terrible, Korean, infectious disease.<br /><br />Conclusion: I feel dirty and contagious.<br /><br />So Tuesday. I’m at school. Walking to my second class. Acutely aware of a little belly protrusion beneath my shirt, which I’d tried that morning to conceal with some strategic sartorial decisions. I was reeling a bit already, because Anna Teacha had just commented on my lower-face inflammation, which I’d brushed off my mosquito-bite-ridden shoulder, because this is what they <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">do</span>, Koreans. They confront all of those things that, out of embarrassment, we avoid talking about in American culture.<br /><br />So I walk into class, smiling anyway, and begin to take roll.<br /> “Teacha!” Gina yells out in a whiny pitch. “Teacha!”<br /> “Yes, Gina?”<br /> “Uhhh, Teacha!” she grunts, and rubs her hands over her stomach.<br /> “Bay-go-payo?” I ask her in Korean. Are you hungry?<br /> “Uhhh, no Teacha,” she cries, and her face distorts as she continues to rub her belly. Then she points at me. “Very fat, Teacha!”<br /> Little assholes, sometimes, I’m telling you.<br /> “Me?” I ask incredulously. I mean, maybe a couple pounds, and I’d thrown around the “I feel fat” phrase several times in the last few days, but—really—this was kind of an exaggeration. Female drama.<br /> “Yes, Teacha! Why so fat, Teacha?”<br /> “Teacha has been sick,” I said meekly, maybe pleadingly, looking into a sea of ten-year-old faces for some kind of social understanding. There was none.<br /><br />A little later, I texted some friends who teach downtown to see if they wanted to meet up after school for batting cages or football in the circle. Everybody was down. I was excited.<br /><br />Fifth period, I walk into class of older kids. First off, I’m asking for the day, month, and year, writing on the board as the kids yell out answers.<br /> “Uhhh, Teacha!” Donna yells out.<br /> “Yes, Donna?” I ask, turning to face her.<br /> “Uhh, Teacha!” she yells again, a disgusted look on her face, and makes a spinning motion with her finger. “Turn, Teacha!”<br /> I am confused for a moment, but realize she’s seen the bites. I show the class my arm. “Mosquitos,” I explain, and mime something attacking my arm.<br /> “Mogi!” David yells.<br /> “Yes, Mogi,” I repeat, and attempt to draw a mosquito on the board, anything to draw attention away from my blighted arm.<br /> “Teacha!” Donna shouts, raising her arm. She waves her hand around her chin, and then points to my face. “Mosquito bites?”<br /> Oh no, she didn’t. A solid punch, right into my flabby gut.<br /><br />As soon as my last class was over, I sent a text canceling those after-school plans. Ashley walked me to the pharmacy, and we picked up acne medication. And then I went to the gym and ran what I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">think</span> was four miles (still working on the in-my-head kilometer-to-mile conversion). Take that, Korea.Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-51217649536577232772008-10-20T09:18:00.004+09:002008-10-20T10:06:54.779+09:00Kajisan<div style="text-align: center;">Had my first work trip this weekend! The three Changwon Reading Town branches united for a day of Buddhist fun on Kajisan--Kaji Mountain. The trip was absolutely fabulous. Wish I had more time to write about it, but pictures will have to do for now.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvR2He8BhI/AAAAAAAAAJg/_7QVfVR-GUE/s1600-h/PA170023.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvR2He8BhI/AAAAAAAAAJg/_7QVfVR-GUE/s320/PA170023.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259027717537138194" /></a><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">The fall colors are beginning to change, here, and they are stunning.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvR2k5DuQI/AAAAAAAAAJo/mJyFKBuo0Uk/s1600-h/PA170031.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvR2k5DuQI/AAAAAAAAAJo/mJyFKBuo0Uk/s320/PA170031.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259027725431322882" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvR3HS0GAI/AAAAAAAAAJw/k1bhHvWKLcM/s1600-h/PA170033.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvR3HS0GAI/AAAAAAAAAJw/k1bhHvWKLcM/s320/PA170033.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259027734666156034" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvR3u6vnaI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/WDo2bBsQfI8/s1600-h/PA170036.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvR3u6vnaI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/WDo2bBsQfI8/s320/PA170036.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259027745302617506" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvPuXUrRMI/AAAAAAAAAIw/bRfe2KItrVw/s1600-h/PA170009.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvPuXUrRMI/AAAAAAAAAIw/bRfe2KItrVw/s320/PA170009.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259025385326855362" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Anna and Chloe--two of my fabulous Korean coworkers. They are incredibly helpful and generous: Anna has helped me with everything from working out my water heater and washing machine to helping me buy fish at the grocery store to taking me to the doctor last weekend for my little kidney stone (I think?) episode. Chloe recently helped me open my bank account, and we went to "Mamma Mia!" and lunch last Friday. Great gals.<br /></div></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvPuzvowmI/AAAAAAAAAI4/68CXemTQJqc/s1600-h/PA170013.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvPuzvowmI/AAAAAAAAAI4/68CXemTQJqc/s320/PA170013.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259025392956129890" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvR18CqGXI/AAAAAAAAAJY/TBM7RJxOJgo/s1600-h/PA170021.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvR18CqGXI/AAAAAAAAAJY/TBM7RJxOJgo/s320/PA170021.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259027714465732978" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Crazy tree!<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvPvRiRMCI/AAAAAAAAAJA/iQElyA24lfo/s1600-h/PA170015.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvPvRiRMCI/AAAAAAAAAJA/iQElyA24lfo/s320/PA170015.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259025400953122850" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvPwZUIlcI/AAAAAAAAAJI/uWV17lGBCxw/s1600-h/PA170018.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvPwZUIlcI/AAAAAAAAAJI/uWV17lGBCxw/s320/PA170018.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259025420221191618" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">That rocky section of the mountains reminded me so much of the mountains right above Tarryall. Oh, nostalgia!<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvPwqKqyJI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/HSAnXg6d-XI/s1600-h/PA170019.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvPwqKqyJI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/HSAnXg6d-XI/s320/PA170019.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259025424744892562" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvV4rClCeI/AAAAAAAAAKA/7W2yHpYWrG8/s1600-h/PA170055.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvV4rClCeI/AAAAAAAAAKA/7W2yHpYWrG8/s320/PA170055.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259032159488117218" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Angele and Pierre: they're both simply fabulous. A very generous Canadian couple, and a ton of fun to be around. They take care of me :)<br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvV5Qkn-uI/AAAAAAAAAKI/mYS9cNnrAlg/s1600-h/PA170057.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvV5Qkn-uI/AAAAAAAAAKI/mYS9cNnrAlg/s320/PA170057.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259032169563028194" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvV6AhF7aI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/AQr6WeKRcIo/s1600-h/PA170058.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SPvV6AhF7aI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/AQr6WeKRcIo/s320/PA170058.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259032182433115554" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Helen and Mrs. Nam: Helen is my co-teacher for many of my classes (poor woman!), and this is good for me, because she is absolutely on top of the ball at every moment. She really is an inspiring person. And what can you say about Mrs. Nam, besides that she's fantastic? She doesn't speak as much English, so our "conversations" can be a little comical at times, but she is always telling me never to hesitate to ask her if I need help with anything. And she dresses so dang cute! Found out Saturday she has two teenage daughters, the elder of which has a boyfriend. Thing is, they're allowed to see each other two hours a week. Supervised. Oh, the Korean dating scene!</div>Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-37257740439748776672008-10-07T23:23:00.003+09:002008-10-07T23:28:47.502+09:00Late!<div><br /></div>Pet peeves. Everybody’s got one, or two, or—if you’re über anal or wildly intolerant—three, four, five or six. I have three. In order:<br /><br />Number one: I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">hate</span> being late. The mere thought of being late causes me anxiety. I mean, it’s like my Dad always says: If you can be late, you can be early.<br /><br />(Which, in truth, is nothing more than a pithy platitude, no more demonstrative than something I might say to my students: If you can Korean talk, you can speak English. Doesn’t really work like an adage, does it? When you really think about it? I've already brought this to Father's attention.)<br /><br />Whoa, tangent.<br /><br />Number two: I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">hate</span> not knowing where I am. Or where I am supposed to be going. Because—<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">because</span>—this nearly always inevitably leads to what?<br /><br />Being late.<br /><br />Number three: I strongly dislike spontaneity. Which, actually, has little to do with this story.<br /><br />This story is about my first day of school. Ah, regression: Kristen Teacha, so recently released from the clutches of studentdom, is back in class. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Korean</span> class.<br /><br />Which I’ve actually been quite excited about, for some time now. Sarah Teacha, too. We were supposed to have began classes around a month ago, at Changwon College, every Tuesday and Thursday from 10 a.m. to noon, for ten weeks, and only 200,000 won! But we were apparently the only interested parties. The class was cancelled. I felt like crying, then. Doomed to never know just exactly what I was buying at the grocery store.<br /><br />But then a glimmer of hope: the instructor sent us an email. There would be another go at it, she said, if we could get six students enrolled. Two down, we said. Four to go. We advertised. Talked people up at the bars in Changwon. Posted messages on Facebook. Learn Korean! we urged. The key to your expatriate happiness!<br /><br />That didn’t work, but four more people ended up randomly signing up, nonetheless. We were ecstatic. Finally we could begin to erase the shame of living in a foreign country and being able to speak only a meager amount of the language. And maybe meet gorgeous expatriate men. Vanessa drew us a tidy map of where we needed to go, complete with the bus numbers that would take us to the college. We made copies, just in case the original was lost, or misplaced, or forgotten at school. Last night, I told Sarah Teacha that if she wasn’t at the bus stop at 9:15 a.m., I would leave without her. I wasn’t going to be late.<br /><br />And so this morning, I hopped out of bed at 7:45 a.m. (had set the clock back, last minute, from 8—just in case). I thought about shooting Sarah a quick “wake-up” text (she had lamented for the previous few days about having to get up that un-Godly early) but decided I wasn’t her mommy, and that she probably didn’t want me to be her mommy, anyhow. Ate breakfast. Applied make-up somewhat more liberally than usual. Watched the clock. Time to go, and stepped out the door.<br /><br />Shit. Forgot the map at school last night.<br /><br />How would we know which bus to get on? Or where to get off, even if we knew? Or what building, or classroom, to go to, once we got there?<br /><br />But wait, I said to myself. Sarah would have her map. She’s responsible. She’s not forgetful. But the anxiety had already rooted (late on our first <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">day</span>?). I made mental attempts at weeding it out. These didn’t work. I called Sarah.<br /><br />No answer.<br /><br />Shit. Sarah Teacha, who usually answers my phone calls before I’ve even realized I’ve pressed “call,” was not answering her phone. She’d slept in, I thought. In her dim, curtained room, the little shit is looking groggily at the fluorescent screen on her phone, saying to herself, “Oh, Kristen Teacha will be fine today on her own. I’ll catch class on Thursday…”<br /><br />Or maybe she’s in the bathroom, I thought. That’s it: the bathroom. Primping. Or, you know. I wouldn’t answer either. And so I started walking up the street. Half-way up, I turned around, started walking back to my apartment. There’d been an email, I remembered. With the instructor’s phone number. That could help. I looked at my watch. Agh—no time! My head spun. I started walking back up the street, dialing Sarah. Still no answer. She was clearly still in bed, her phone now silenced.<br /><br />I walked to the bus stop, not quite sure of what I would do when I got there. And then, behold: I spotted her. Sarah was there, holding a little Starbucks container, her hair straightened (potential boys, remember) and looking calm. I called you, I told her. She’d forgotten her phone at home, she said. Did you bring the map? I asked her. She’d forgotten it at school, she said.<br /><br />Oh, problem.<br /><br />You’d think that after eight years of cumulative university experience, one of us would have known to be more prepared than this. Especially in a foreign country. Had drinking the Korean water for so long squelched our foresight of potential barriers to getting to class on time? The anxiety was rather bad, now. We had no idea where Changwon College was. We had no phone numbers. No bus numbers. And forty minutes to get someplace we didn’t know where was. (That was a wildly ungrammatical sentence. But I couldn’t figure out how to fix it. Sad Kristen Teacha.)<br /><br />We asked a woman. Changwon College? we asked. She pointed to a spot on the map. We figured out (we thought) the possible bus numbers. One of them showed up, and we hopped on. We didn’t know where we would be getting off, but Vanessa had said the ride was about half an hour. So we sat and stared out the window. About twenty minutes in, I told Sarah we might start thinking about asking somebody where the Changwon College stop was. Miraculously, a Korean woman interrupted us. Changwon College? she asked. Next stop! Kam-sa-ni-da! we said. Thank you! We got off the bus. Nothing all around. Long streets. No people. Finally a girl walked up to the bus stop, where we stood looking dumbly at the map. We asked her. Changwon College? She pointed to another place on the map, and then a bus number. It would take far too long, we decided. A taxi was our only option. The girl wrote, in Korean, Changwon College, so that we could show the taxi driver. Into the street we went.<br /><br />We couldn’t hail a cab. The Native Americans would have called Korea today “Land of Many Taxis,” and now, when we most urgently needed one (our punctuality depended on it!) there was not one to be found. I tried not to look at my watch. I shouted expletives.<br /><br />After ten minutes, this worked, because a cab rolled up. We hopped in. Drove for ten minutes. Got dropped off at a large school. Many students. I asked one where we could find a computer lab, to check that email and figure out where our class was. He didn’t know. We moseyed up to the gymnasium. Try again. Now into a bigger building. An office! With a window! Sarah asked the secretary lady is we could use her computer. She let us come behind the window. (Cool!) We somehow figured out we were at Changwon University. I was ready to go home. To give up. To run outside and hail a taxi and cry out Gay-Nah-Ri-Sacha! Back to my neighborhood! Back to where I know where I am, and where I’m going, and exactly how long it takes me to walk to work (seven minutes)!<br /><br />Thank God Sarah Teacha was there to take charge. Somehow a boy who spoke a little English was summoned. He wrote down for us the bus number to get to Changwon College, and what we should say to a cabby if we took that route. His hands shook violently as he wrote. (The make-up had worked? American girls very beautiful, yes?)<br /><br />Long story a little less long that it could be, we made it. Forty minutes late. And, in the end, I even let go of my time issue long enough for us to run into the bathroom before we crashed class.<br /><br />I regret to report: no gorgeous expatriate boys.Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-54313398211447701672008-10-01T22:56:00.005+09:002008-10-01T23:16:01.190+09:00I, too, have stared into the red eyes of the children...Raise your hand if you’re sick of reading about how fabulous and phenomenal and fantastic South Korea is.<br /><br />I’m picturing a classroom full of friends and family from the States (and London, Sean ☺ ) with fingertips pointed skyward. Therefore, I’ll toss aside this positivistic subterfuge (cant worry Mom and Dad, you know!) for a moment to report on an event happening right here, right now, in Changwon.<br /><br />The children are mutating.<br /><br />Yes, the children. They <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">know</span>, and I’m serious, here: they’re mutating. They know it’s the month of Halloween, and they’re turning all ghoulish on me. <div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="webkit-fake-url://943DCF62-DD2E-46A8-9E70-9298EEF4390E/battleroyaledoll.jpg" alt="battleroyaledoll.jpg" /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>One of the little imps threw a book at me today. A <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">book</span>. No Korean talking, I had warned. English only. They Korean talked. Teacha hears Korean talking, minus five cents, I warned, again. (I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">generously</span> warned! No?) Ben Korean talked. Bring me your bank book, I told Ben. From the back of the room, he held the book at arm’s length. Bring me the book, Ben, I said, my own eyes probably rolling to the back of my head. He threw the book at me. He <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">threw</span> the damn book at me. Devil boy. Vampire child, sucking the blood from my desire to teach. I subtracted five cents and chucked the book back at him like a rock skipping across water. I’d secretly hoped the impact would cause a minor injury, maybe even something requiring a band-aid, but the book simply slid across his desk and slinked to the floor, pages flapping wildly. The class grew calm, and Ben’s eyes grew wide, as if he thought I’d figured out his garlic. I could see the tears forming, the skin around his eyes puffing. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Nobody puts baby in a corner</span>, I thought. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I mean: nobody throws a book at Kristen Teacha</span>, I re-thought.<br /><br />I wonder if he went home and cried, because about two weeks ago, we'd had another little episode, Ben and me, and he'd ended up bawling through the next class because he'd felt so guilty about it. And right now, I wish my tit-for-tat retribution made me feel better, like I'd won, like I was the big tough teacha, but it only made me feel like a bad teacher. Like because I could not keep these children corralled, because I could not cease their constant Korean bleating, I was a bad teacher. And maybe I am.<br /><br />But children <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">do</span> need discipline. And doling it out is the most difficult part of teaching. My first couple weeks, they spoke constantly in Korean (“Korean talking,” we call it) and so I began threatening to take away cents from their bank books. If Kristen Teacha hears Korean talking, I warned, minus cents. I wrote their names on the board. I minused cents. This helped immensely with the Korean talking problem, but in a classroom of pre-adolescent pedants, created a whole new issue. Now, the children are constantly screaming, “Kristen Teacha! Joe Korean talking!” “Kristen Teacha! Gina Korean talking!” Tattle-tales to the core. Always trying to gain the upper-hand on one another, and in Reading Town world, that means having more cents in your bank book. I tried to explain that I don’t want to hear that, either, but they seem to forget by the time the next class rolls around. Not three minutes into class yesterday, before I’d even written their names on the board, one child was hollering: “Kristen Teacha! Harry Korean speaking!” I said to him: “Your <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">mom</span> is Korean speaking.”<br /><br />Of course, they didn’t understand <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">what</span> exactly Kristen Teacha was speaking, at that point, and this comes in handy sometimes. The language divide, I mean. Today I was so fed up that I told two boys to stop being assholes. They knew not what I meant in the least. Convenient, when one’s patience is drained. Yesterday, two others were bullying. I asked them how old they were. I am twelve, Kristen Teacha. I am eleven, Kristen Teacha. Then stop acting like six-year-old jerks, Kristen Teacha said. Right over their cute little Korean heads.<br /><br />Ahhh, sigh. The air is just about blown out of the vent. I love this teaching thing, I really do. The kids are usually fabulous. And their misdemeanors are rarely that serious. I think what frustrates me most is that I don’t know all the answers. What do I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">do</span> when Alan doesn’t do his homework for the fourth class in a row, and then claims that he absolutely <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">can not</span> stay after class to do it? And then fails the midterm? What do I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">do</span> when Frank cares nothing for his bank book balance, and even when I threaten with dividend docking, continues to mutter God-knows-what in Korean under his breath? What do I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">do</span> when I hand out homework, to be done at <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">home</span>, and Jack sits there haphazardly circling bubbles and filling in blanks right under my nose? And then just scribbles more quickly when I tell him to put it in his backpack? I'm pleading, here--I'm begging: What do I do?<br /><br />I know, I know. There’s a long, thick, tiresome book containing the answers to all these and infinite more “What do I do?” questions.<br /><br />The title is “Live and Learn.” Audio version also available in Korean talking.<br /><br /></div>Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-85091181560756996452008-09-29T23:04:00.004+09:002008-09-29T23:22:22.068+09:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SODhm9ysLdI/AAAAAAAAAIg/QvucdgZtfsA/s1600-h/P9150024.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SODhm9ysLdI/AAAAAAAAAIg/QvucdgZtfsA/s320/P9150024.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251445225052450258" /></a>I know. I haven’t been writing. And now my editor—the fabulous Virginia Johnson (more commonly known in my circle as “Aunt Gin”)—is on my butt about it. A clip from an email she sent me today:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“Have you ever really been in to a good book and were fed simply pages at a time? No opportunity to keep reading and enjoy a marathon session. No opportunity to read until your eyes grew tired. But handed a mere page or two at a time. It is like smelling grandma's pie come out of the oven and you are allowed to pick a few crumbs from the edge. Or like letting someone else control your portion of M & M's at a sitting instead of holding the bag yourself......<br /><br />I will be straight here. I know the above paragraph is talking around what I am trying to tell you. I clicked onto the blog and no new update. I know you are busy and you have a life to live … but is a weekly update too much to ask? I know, I know......next your fan base will ask for bi weekly, and then daily, and......So I guess I understand you have to be out living what you are writing. I just had to let you know how I was feeling.”</span><br /><br />So I suppose I better write something. Anything. Truth is, I’ve been <span style="font-style:italic;">wanting</span> to. I have post-its stuck to nearly every surface of my apartment. “Write about the teaching experience,” one says. “Write about the food,” is scrawled on another. “Write about the sartorial fabulousness that is South Korean fashion,” and “Write about your fading aversion to kimchi.” Oh, and then there’s the Seoul trip from this weekend. Let me just preamble <span style="font-style:italic;">that</span> upcoming blog: I heart Seoul.<br /><br />No time now, though, to devote the time that these topics demand. Just got a gift package from Mom and Dad (Um, I love you guys, like, more than is humanly possible? Splenda? Cinnamon? Clif bars, Orbit, spices and Poptarts a gogo? I almost started crying. Seriously.) and am therefore in too high an emotional state to concentrate on anything else. But in the meantime, a teaser, something new I’m trying. A column-style bit that I’ll call <span style="font-style:italic;">Encounters</span>. Because there are many that deserve at least a word or two. Here goes:<br /><br />A couple weeks ago, I jumped into a cab and recited the formula for getting back to my neighborhood: Gay-nah-ri-sah-cha. Pulled the door shut, cab now moving. The driver said something to me, and I did the hands palm-up, shoulders raised, “I don’t understand” shake of the head. He said something again. “No speak Korean,” I said. “Where are you from,” he said slowly. “Ah,” I said, feeling a bit of an ass. “United States.” He had been there, he said. I asked when. During the Korean War. Knowing that many Koreans hold ill feelings toward us Americanos in regards to that whole Korean war deal, I decided to change the subject. “I’m here teaching English,” I offered. Our eyes met in the rear-view mirror. “Koreans do not need English,” he said, rather caustically, I felt, and then <span style="font-style:italic;">really</span> caustically, he added, “or Americans.” I said: “Oh. Okay,” and stared out the window for the rest of the ride.<br /><br />Last Sunday, Sarah and I challenged a couple of our Western friends to a tennis match. What I love about Korea is that you can walk ten minutes in any direction, and you’re bound to find a tennis court. We planned to meet the gentlemen at a court we’d never been to, right across from a Christian church. We walked through the entry gate, and a Korean man was upon us immediately, motioning for us to follow him across two occupied courts to a vacant one. There were a man and woman sitting on the side. Sarah and I were directed to one side, and the man and woman rose and walked to the other <img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SODhm5xtQtI/AAAAAAAAAIo/7vguldwC-gU/s320/P9150026.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251445223974585042" />side. We volleyed with them, half-court, for about ten minutes, and they were very good. The boys soon arrived, and we thanked our new Korean friends for the warm-up. After dinking around for about half-an-hour, a Korean man hurried up to me and Sarah and pointed to our feet. “Tennis shoes,” he said. “Yes,” I said. “Tennis shoes.” “No, running shoes,” he said, clearly irritated. “You need tennis shoes.” Busted. I used to palms-up, shoulder raise “I don’t know” look again. It worked. He left. We played. Then a man brought us four cups and a bottle of water. Were we paying for this? I wondered, in between I love Korea thoughts. A little while later, a man brought over a large bottle of beer. He tossed the water out of our cups, and refilled them with Hite. We weren’t sure what was happening, but we knew that—whatever it was—we liked it. Then the man motioned me out onto the court, and showed me a few maneuvers. Free. Gratis. I love Korea.<br /><br />Last Friday, I ventured up the mountain again. It hurt much more than it did the first and second times. This is not good. Anyway, on the way down, I met an army of children, marching up the muddy incline, leaving barely any room for those in descent to pass. I became nervous that I might see children from my classes. I don’t know why I was nervous, really, but I was. The first familiar face I spotted in the throng belonged to Jack, a boy who had failed one of my tests two days earlier. I smiled at him, waved, and said, “Hello.” He ignored my greeting. Looked through me. I felt silly. I decided no more kiddie acknowledgment. Three minutes later I spotted Mike, who I’d recently had to move to the back of the classroom for being disruptive. I buckled and smiled. He ignored me. Looked through me. I was hurt. No more, I said to myself. They’re too cool for me, then I’m too cool for them. I averted my gaze to the trees. Who knows how many of them I passed during the last five minutes down. At the bottom, I began to run, and saw Kelly twenty feet ahead. That week, I’d told my Korean co-worker that Kelly was developing an attitude, and the Korean teacher had told Kelly to stop. I hadn’t meant for the Korean teacher to say anything. I wouldn’t say hello to Kelly, I decided, because she wouldn’t say anything back. I passed her, and she shot me a bewildered look, said nothing, no smile. Sad teacha.<br /><br />Friday as I left my apartment for work, my neighbors were leaving, too. I’d never seen them face-to-face before, but I’d heard them plenty, and was sure that they’d heard me, too. Every morning, and every night. You see, I have this thing about silence, and I usually fix it by singing. Loudly. I hadn’t felt bad about it until seeing this cute, little old couple, smiling at me, motioning toward me window, trying to ask if I was the girl who’d moved in next door. Their warmness made me want to apologize. I pointed to my ears and asked, “Me too loud? Too loud?” The woman laughed, and the man turned away and started walking up the street. I laughed with the woman, and then walked past them up the street. I thought about asking one of the Korean teachers to write a note. Is my singing too loud? it would say, and at the bottom would be two penciled boxes, labeled <span style="font-style:italic;">Ne</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">Ani-yo</span>. Yes or no. Please check.<br /><br />This blog ended up being far lengthier that I had intended. I hope my editor is pleased. ☺Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-70149816791903183742008-09-18T22:30:00.017+09:002008-09-19T00:09:55.267+09:00More Songpyeon, Please!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SNJnNxx3GRI/AAAAAAAAAII/KDCBpYulZqo/s1600-h/P9130013.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SNJnNxx3GRI/AAAAAAAAAII/KDCBpYulZqo/s320/P9130013.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247370002238478610" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Not even a month after I've arrived in Korea, a major holiday has passed: Chuseok (pronounced c<span style="font-style:italic;">hew-sock</span>). Chuseok is a celebration of the Harvest Moon, the equivalent of our Thanksgiving. And boy, am I glad I made it in time for this one: four-day weekend, camping in Jirisan National Park, and a giant bag heavy with <span style="font-style:italic;">songpyeon</span>--a traditional, half-moon-shaped Korean rice cake, filled with either a sesame or chestnut paste. They're cooked over pine needles for a subtle sylvan infusion, and I'm telling you, they are ridiculously delicious. I just found out that I can get them at E-Mart any time of year. Danger.<div><br /></div><div>So yes, Chuseok. A celebration of the bounty of the Earth. During this time, the 15th day of the 8th lunar moon, Korean families travel (or they're supposed to, at least) from all over Korea to return to their ancestral homes. Ideally, this puts them present at the gravesites of their ancestors, where they might pay deference to the spirits of those long-dead spirits that--legend goes--still play a hand in the fleshy happenings in Earth. </div><div><br /></div><div>What I found out, though--from talking to the undeniably reliable student resources at Reading Town--is that Chuseok is primarily about visiting the grandparents. Because on Chuseok, the grandparents become rather liberal with their won, and one can never accumulate too many won. But such is the nature of any currency.</div><div><br /></div><div>The point being: due to a mass ancestral-home-returning scramble, what should have been less than a three-hour car ride to wonderful and fabulous Jirisan National Park turned into a five-hour study of variance within the conditions of bumpers of Korean-driven cars. And my prior hypothesis was unequivocally correct: Koreans are Krazy drivers. Yes. Krazy with a capital K.</div><div><br /></div><div>But we made it. And it was definitely beautiful. Before we had all left work Friday, Mrs. Lee had told me that for years after the Korean war ended, scattered sprinklings of North Korean soldiers hid within the forests of Jirisan. According to my Korean guidebook, eventually the squatters were, well, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">flushed</span> out--which Sarah and I didn't take to mean they were shooed back across the DMZ by broomstick-wielding Koreans. The rumor is that of the large wildlife that once roamed them thar hills, two bears remain. I suggested that <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">un</span>flushed North Koreans might prove a larger threat to our food stashes.</div><div><br /></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SNJlxVgSh_I/AAAAAAAAAIA/N2E6fDJvawM/s320/P9130014.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247368414100621298" /><div>From camp, I could see the mountain I was destined to climb, and curbed the first-night boozing, specifically, so that I could cover serious ground the next day. The others expressed a desire to lay lazily in the adjacent river all day, but what I wanted was to walk. Forever and ever.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next day, the ever-helpful Anna walked to the campsite director man's office to inquire about the trailhead leading to the top of my mountain. They exchanged quite a few words as I stood there gazing across the road, across the river, up the forested slopes and to the pinnacle where--I was sure--the very best supplemental blog pictures await taking (always thinking about the blog, always, always). The man and Anna fell silent, and as soon as she turned her face to me, I knew.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"He says there are no trails."<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Impossible.<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"No trails?" I repeated.<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"Mmm, yes. There are no trails."<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Impossible.<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I hadn't expected this. I hadn't expected this at all. All day laying in the river? By the river?Might as well be <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">under</span> the river. My father understands.<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Not proud, but I pouted a little. A lot. I pouted a lot. And then I waded into the river, onto a rock, where I cursed my decision to leave my book at home (No time! There were mountains to climb!). The others were having fun in the water, and so me and myself walked the pity party upstream a ways, sat on a rock, and polished off about twenty serving's worth of pity-party trail mix.<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Then I decided to be a big girl, and rejoined civilization. The trip was actually quite fun, a good opportunity to get to know everyone a little better, sit around the camp fire and take turns showcasing guitar skills, a little beer, a little more trail mix. Good people. Good mountains. Good times.<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SNJYsQi5-6I/AAAAAAAAAHo/uiSZlHYwb0E/s1600-h/P9130002.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SNJYsQi5-6I/AAAAAAAAAHo/uiSZlHYwb0E/s320/P9130002.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247354033218911138" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SNJlODDZlxI/AAAAAAAAAHw/z3V4KXtDA6w/s1600-h/P9130006.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SNJlODDZlxI/AAAAAAAAAHw/z3V4KXtDA6w/s320/P9130006.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247367807852189458" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SNJnOFDm7VI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/ThwMALoaNSQ/s1600-h/P9130015.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SNJnOFDm7VI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/ThwMALoaNSQ/s320/P9130015.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247370007413189970" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SNJYr9jdrgI/AAAAAAAAAHg/r22Ue3nZ9I4/s1600-h/P9130001.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SNJYr9jdrgI/AAAAAAAAAHg/r22Ue3nZ9I4/s320/P9130001.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247354028120976898" /></a>Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-19603512908411685402008-09-08T23:05:00.015+09:002008-09-08T23:58:21.364+09:00Oh, where to begin!<img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SMUxqx7uVAI/AAAAAAAAAGg/o9p2Ap8h5to/s320/P9020004.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243651952170914818" /><div><br />Chronologically, and—I apologize—hastily:<div><br /><div>A couple weeks ago, Angéle expressed some interest in doing a little jogging, and I’m always looking for people to run with, so we made plans to meet at this great new park near Reading Town. The place is fabulous: quarter-mile rubber-based track, badminton courts, soccer field, skate rink, and these rudimentary, archaic-looking (but actually fairly new) weight machines. Yeah, outside. Check it out:</div><div><br /><div>Instead of adjusting the weight, each machine is rigged so </div><div>that as you—for example—sit and push the metal bars away from you to </div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SMU0zFmF9sI/AAAAAAAAAG4/I64UTp1CoBc/s200/P9020007.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243655393422735042" /><div>work your triceps, you push your own body weight. Rather ingenious, right? And free! (My favorite part). So at 7:30 on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, Angéle and I run a couple laps. Walk a couple laps. Do a few stretches. Lift our body weight a few times. Think about doing abs, talk about doing abs, and usually pass on doing abs. And all before the other teachers have rolled out of bed, we’re pretty sure. This is good for me, this having somebody waiting at the track three times a week. Because you can’t roll over, press snooze, and let your running buddy down. You just can’t.</div><div><br />That said, I think I’ve gained about five pounds in the last week. I love U-Dong noodles. I<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">love</span></span></span> them. And they’re so bad for you, too.</div><div><br /></div><div>Next: the weekend! Friday night, we had a company dinner to celebrate (I was </div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SMU1k1T3I2I/AAAAAAAAAHA/EHsNw-vWYx8/s320/P9050015.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243656248044757858" /><div>told) my coming to Korea. More Korean barbeque, which is quite frankly far more work that I’m accustomed to while going out to dinner, but this might have been my favorite yet. We had duck, instead of the fat-laden pork slices, and a type of kimchi I really liked. I sat next to Helen, who told me there are over 400 types of kimchi, although only a few are made regularly. She makes a few types every fall, and I think I might ask her if I can help this season. So Grandma while you’re canning jams, and Aunt Gin, salsa, I may be filling vats of vinegar with cabbage and spices. Who’s jealous?</div><div><br />Mr. Kim was so kind as to drive Angele, Sarah, Vanessa and I back to our apartments, and as we walked through the busy, downtown Changwon streets, our steps slightly swervy from a couple bottles of Hite (the Korean equivalent of Bud, or Miller, or—for us Colorado kids—Coors) some Korean men trailed us, calling out, “Hello! How are you! Hello!” Apparently, my judgment was slightly swervy, too, and I said hello back, because I didn’t want to be that rude American, you know? The girls shushed me, told me to ignore them, because, they said, wayward Russian women often roam the Korean streets looking to turn a trick or two. And with my incriminating blonde hair…</div><div><br />Next: Andrew Bishop came to town! Bishop is one of the fellows I bombarded with my battery of “What’s Korea like?” questions for the few months before I arrived. We had mutual friends at Mizzou, had been to a few of the same parties, and—the most special—I once walked in on him in a single, unisex bathroom on the Mizzou campus. Luckily, at this point, he was to the hand-washing stage. His own fault, really. Didn’t lock the door.</div><div><br />Anywho, he was in Changwon for a training seminar, and so we met up Saturday evening when that was finished. We wanted to find him a new bag, because, he says, Korea is the bag killer. Two of his bags have spontaneously fallen apart here, for no good reason whatsoever. We searched the Lotte department stores, but decided it was too expensive for teachers of English. Next the E-Mart, but they had nothing to his liking. So we decided to drink, instead, and were forced to jaywalk a rather busy street to do so, during which Bishop risked his life to save </div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SMU31oj478I/AAAAAAAAAHQ/UtiFa_kkwaw/s320/P9060022.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243658735703355330" /><div>his pack of cigarettes. But in the end, we got our Hite.</div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>Then, City Seven with Anna and Daniel for din-din. City Seven is a new shopping district </div><div>in Changwon, and let me just say: amazing. After a little Italiano cuisine, we wandered to the top </div><div>floor, which lays open under the daunting presence of some massive skyscraper-like apartment buildings, and which</div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SMU1lLMvO2I/AAAAAAAAAHI/gtr3VB44h7Y/s320/P9060019.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243656253920459618" />houses a classy restaurant and stellar fountain-light show. We <div>drank cheap beers and discussed things like: If we could have three superpowers, what would they be? Very intellectual.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Later, a little roof-top party at Sarah’s place. More games and deep conversations. We walked home at some point, and two minutes into my apartment, I saw my first live cockroach. Upside down near the drain on my bathroom floor, little legs twitching. Disgusting. I felt dirty. But we were feeling rather adventurous at this point, and wondered just <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">what</span> a cockroach tasted like (who hasn't?), and mused at what an incredible Facebook-profile picture us eating a cockroach would be, and so we each grabbed a pair of chopsticks from my kitchen and…</div><div><br />And, my creative license has run out. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Actually</span>, Bishop promptly flushed him down the toilet, and spent five minutes quelling my anxiety that I have a filthy apartment.</div><div><br />On Sunday, Anna and Daniel invited a bunch of work kids over for a spectacular Sunday dinner, with sweet-potato noodles and sautéed beef and sliced peaches and fettuccine alfredo and chips </div><div>and salsa and a wonderful cake baked in—yes, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">baked</span> in—an oven. I’d almost forgotten what an </div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SMU31_5za_I/AAAAAAAAAHY/aQEv-vxRUks/s320/P9060023.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243658741969284082" /><div>oven looked like. We also played Scrabble (Scrabble, Mom! Scrabble!) during which I convinced my opponents not to challenge me on <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">fatso, </span>but made up for it with the triple-letter hitting, thirty-something-point-scoring <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">quaint</span>. Mother would have been proud. Sarah did inform us that advanced Scrabble players should expect to score somewhere around 400 points a game. None of us even flirted with 100. But we did have fun warming up. Click on the </div><div>picture at the right to check out some of our fabulous Scrabble-letter concoctions.</div><div><br /></div><div>On our way out of Anna and Daniel's apartment, the strap on Bishop's bag tore and snapped. Korea the Bag Killer. </div><div><br /></div><div>And den—I slept. The end!<br /><br /></div></div></div></div>Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-24762172265929014382008-09-02T09:04:00.003+09:002008-09-02T09:26:15.414+09:00The Gaps We Bridge With Music"After silence, that which comes closest to expressing the inexpressible is music." ~Alduous Huxley<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLyHofL8m5I/AAAAAAAAAGY/0Bglcw-OTiE/s1600-h/P8300001.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLyHofL8m5I/AAAAAAAAAGY/0Bglcw-OTiE/s320/P8300001.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241213195988540306" /></a><br /><br />At Home Plus the other day, Sarah and I were exploring the various levels, and near the top was a tiny music store, the floor crammed with pianos and the walls lined with guitars. The man who worked there was very nice, and his English consisted of: "I do not speak good English," "I like the blues music," and then of course the names of his favorite Western musicians and lyrics of their best songs. He played "Wonderful Tonight" by Eric Clapton, and even sang, which was wildly entertaining in his Korean accent.<br /><br />He offered to unwrap and tune a guitar I was looking at so that I might play, and I did, and he urged me to sing, which I did, terribly. My claim is that the strings were very flat, because my voice just couldn't pick up the tune of "Wicked Game" by Chris Isaak, which I've probably played and sang more than any other song. However, perhaps I'm just <span style="font-style:italic;">that</span> out of practice. He must have though that I needed much more practice, because he offered to take 20,000 won off the price tag!Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-80729938137386604852008-08-31T18:57:00.005+09:002008-08-31T19:47:15.489+09:00<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLp09hq2FDI/AAAAAAAAAF4/ZoPGsYN6-yg/s1600-h/P8300031.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLp09hq2FDI/AAAAAAAAAF4/ZoPGsYN6-yg/s320/P8300031.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240629716757910578" /></a>Wowza, the weekend flew by! Teaching last week was rather exhausting, and I think all of us were ready for a couple days without reciting “cat, hat, hug, and bug,” and various other three-letter words, in front of ten confused-looking children. Actually, they’re rather smart, the kids, and we do more than just recitation, but by Friday, ready for rest.<br /><br />Friday evening, Anna, the Korean teacher I sit next to in the office invited me and a couple others out for dinner—LATE dinner, as our last class ended at 9:30. We discussed what we were in the mood for, and eventually decided on “meat,” which is basically Korean grill. The way it works is your party sits at a table with some type of grilling mechanism—the grill at this particular restaurant was sunken into the center of the table, with a stainless steel cover with numerous slits for fat to drain through—and you order a large plate of very uniformly sliced beef or pork cuts for the table to share. Side dishes are brought out, like kimchi (growing on me) and soybean sprouts (love them) and bean paste (delicious) and—my new favorite—green radishes. I believe they were marinated in some type of vinegar, but Sarah described them perfectly as having a watermelon/sour apple Smirnoff type taste. Absolutely delicious. And of course we ordered a couple bottles of Hite, which seems to be the official beer of Korea. So you grill the pork, which is actually very little pork and giant chunks of fat (how do they stay so slender? This is a mystery to me…), grab it off the grill with chopsticks (I’m getting better, ate eggs with ‘em the other morning!), wrap it in a some type of leaf with all the other fixings, and voila! Korean cuisine. Quite good. Way too much work, but good in the end.<br /><br />Went shopping this morning at E-Mart—the equivalent of Wal-Mart, but better—located about ten minutes by bus from my apartment. It lays on the edge of what Changwonians call The Roundabout, and has five levels: grocery store, electronics and home stuff, clothing, and two parking floors. The Lotte department store is across the roundabout, and has a movie theater and nice clothing stores. Pictures!<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLpsERkUCFI/AAAAAAAAAEo/wQx7M7Sny_c/s1600-h/P8300005.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLpsERkUCFI/AAAAAAAAAEo/wQx7M7Sny_c/s320/P8300005.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240619937089980498" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLpsFWqHsCI/AAAAAAAAAE4/bZmCnpm0DR4/s1600-h/P8300010.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLpsFWqHsCI/AAAAAAAAAE4/bZmCnpm0DR4/s320/P8300010.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240619955636383778" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I thought it hilarious that this boy was riding a pink floral moped. And that he wore socks with his sandals. But everybody here does.<br /><br /> <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLpyULQzveI/AAAAAAAAAFA/CBCdLqUTGlk/s1600-h/P8300013.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLpyULQzveI/AAAAAAAAAFA/CBCdLqUTGlk/s320/P8300013.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240626807345233378" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />There just may be more squid in the grocery stores of Changwon than in the all the waters of the oceans—gross. Actually, if I knew how to cook it, I’d probably get some.<br /><br />After shopping, I thought I’d try the mountain again. Turns out, I’d only been about ten minutes from the top the first time, but sooooo glad I saved it for today, because the view was absolutely amazing, just mountains in every direction. There seemed to be quite a few connecting trails, and a Korean man I chatted with on the way down the mountain said it was possible to backpack to Busan and many other places—so that’s the plan, if I can recruit some coworkers to go with me!<br /><br />Just a few pictures:<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLpyUc5vcYI/AAAAAAAAAFI/iAWerVBsvDs/s1600-h/P8300021.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLpyUc5vcYI/AAAAAAAAAFI/iAWerVBsvDs/s320/P8300021.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240626812080320898" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLpyUu94t_I/AAAAAAAAAFQ/8K_K0-e_WJU/s1600-h/P8300018.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLpyUu94t_I/AAAAAAAAAFQ/8K_K0-e_WJU/s320/P8300018.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240626816929544178" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLp0Eiv2EMI/AAAAAAAAAFY/nRphbaF-QQ8/s1600-h/P8300022.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLp0Eiv2EMI/AAAAAAAAAFY/nRphbaF-QQ8/s320/P8300022.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240628737794773186" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLp0E-nZdtI/AAAAAAAAAFg/evooEHpnak0/s1600-h/P8300027.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLp0E-nZdtI/AAAAAAAAAFg/evooEHpnak0/s320/P8300027.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240628745275537106" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLp0FO7MseI/AAAAAAAAAFo/9cuH5b4uCnY/s1600-h/P8300024.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLp0FO7MseI/AAAAAAAAAFo/9cuH5b4uCnY/s320/P8300024.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240628749653553634" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLp09ZiUhpI/AAAAAAAAAFw/hneRSXleLJ0/s1600-h/P8300032.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLp09ZiUhpI/AAAAAAAAAFw/hneRSXleLJ0/s320/P8300032.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240629714574673554" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLp09-inU9I/AAAAAAAAAGI/RMAUAeb9bX0/s1600-h/P8300036.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLp09-inU9I/AAAAAAAAAGI/RMAUAeb9bX0/s320/P8300036.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240629724508017618" /></a>Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-9489110885939088072008-08-28T21:42:00.010+09:002008-08-28T22:16:51.732+09:00Hyundai!Totally forgot to put up my pics from Hyundai beach! My first time ever seeing the ocean while actually grounded. I hate to admit this, but it was incredibly anticlimactic. Fun for a little while--yes--but one can only lay in the sun for so long and wander out to sea so far before longing for a nice mountain to trek up :)<br /><br />But here are the pictures. Sara was oh-so-sweet as to invite me, and several other people, but they declined the invitation. We met two gentlemen at the beach--Cam and Anthony--whom she had met at one of the international bars some weeks ago in downtown Changwon.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLaePlhIMEI/AAAAAAAAAD4/5Xixd9btnCo/s1600-h/P8230001.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLaePlhIMEI/AAAAAAAAAD4/5Xixd9btnCo/s400/P8230001.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5239549207098437698" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLagx2kRnSI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/wufrYTgnAOw/s1600-h/P8230003.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLagx2kRnSI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/wufrYTgnAOw/s320/P8230003.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5239551994813848866" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Waves! Sand! Water as far as the eye could see! One can only imagine how astonished I was that these things existed in such tangible tandem, and not merely in pictures and television.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLagJ83faaI/AAAAAAAAAEI/ALtuxqmuAkU/s1600-h/P8230007.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLagJ83faaI/AAAAAAAAAEI/ALtuxqmuAkU/s400/P8230007.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5239551309310290338" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Couldn't think of any better way to express my feelings at that moment. Like I said: anticlimactic.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLahgBTd_RI/AAAAAAAAAEY/ZAqLBxaKC5w/s1600-h/P8230011.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLahgBTd_RI/AAAAAAAAAEY/ZAqLBxaKC5w/s320/P8230011.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5239552787970129170" /></a><br />Some ways down the beach was this fabulous mermaid statue, and just before that, strange Korean disciplinary action. Perhap this child had failed to complete his hagwon homework the week before.<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLaj0vNa4TI/AAAAAAAAAEg/Pts9FnFzqr4/s1600-h/P8230009.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLaj0vNa4TI/AAAAAAAAAEg/Pts9FnFzqr4/s320/P8230009.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5239555342913429810" /></a>Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-22029091035342650542008-08-26T22:15:00.005+09:002008-08-26T22:38:17.109+09:00Now Introducing: Kristen Teacha!After three days of observing Angele and various other teachers conduct classes, I was let loose—and Lordy, was I sweating it. Summer session ended yesterday, and so a new schedule was handed out. Everybody was stressed. Everybody was bustling. I had no idea how to read the schedule. Daniel, a foreign teacher from New Zealand, was leaving, and so I was re-colonizing his desk, and a few of his classes. But I didn’t know which ones. And he didn’t seem to know which ones. And I couldn’t figure out how to tell who had previously taught my other classes (very important; some classes were transferred in the middle of their session, so they might be on lesson 17 on my first day with them) even though somebody had already explained it. I couldn’t ask again—stupid people aren’t allowed to be teachers, right?—and so I spent two hours trying to reference one schedule alongside a second schedule alongside a list of class rosters. Impossible. And even then, I doubted if I had done it correctly. Finally, close to tears, I asked Angele is there were simply an easier way. Flash the rosters around, she said. See if anybody recognizes old classes. I did that, but still three mystery classes—no paper trail at all. Turns out, they were brand new classes. No paper trail to find.<br /><br />Any new job is rather stressful, as anyone knows, because not only are there so many new things you must bother busy people to explain to you, but there are also those questions you don’t know to ask. These, to me, are more stressful than anything. They’re like phantom limbs, right? Itching, itching, itching, while they may not really be there at all. That was a horrific simile—phantom limbs? Truly horrific. Am I seriously still harboring these dreams of writing?<br /><br />But it ended up working out. My first class was at 3:30 this afternoon, and I showed up at the school at 11:30—only Mr. Kim and a cleaning woman were there—to hash out my lesson plans and familiarize myself with the books. The other teachers were super supportive and offered lots of help. Angele showed me how to use the copy machine—very important. As 3:30 approached, I was strangely calm. I felt like I should be nervous, but I couldn’t talk myself into it. Class wouldn’t be perfect. I wouldn’t be perfect. And it would all be okay. I spent the last minutes leading up to class convincing myself of this.<br /><br />And then the bell was ringing, and I was gathering my supply basket and books, and eight faces made that “Huh?” look as a short blonde American walked into the classroom instead of Daniel, their old teacher. I introduced myself, and asked their names, and started talking about I don’t remember what, and they all stared at me with wide eys, and then began chattering to each other in Korean. Some of them laughed. I asked what was funny, and Newt (yes, Newt; they each pick an English “name” as they begin classes at Reading Town) said to me, “Teacha, you talk too fast!” My dad says this to me nearly every conversation we have, and my rejoinder is typically: “You listen too slowly,” but I thought this might confuse the children. So I told them that the next time I lost control of my jaw, they should raise both hands and yell: “Slow down, teacha!”<br /><br />But the class went very well, and we were joking around as far as the language barrier would allow, and mid-way through, one of the boys told me I looked funny. I laughed, and told him that was not very nice, and he and another boy looked at each other with confused expressions, and then laughed themselves. “No, teacha!” the other boy said. “You funny!” I’m tellin’ ya: Made. My. Day.<br /><br />I’m sitting here at my apartment trying to remember the funny things that they all said today, because there were so, so many funny things, and in such cute little Asian accents, but my mind is drawing a blank. One day while I was sitting in on one of Angele’s book library classes, the class had to write a book report together, and she asked the children what a “summary” was. They all thought a moment, and then one boy began to fan his face and said, “Very hot.” Many have tremendous difficulty pronouncing the letter L. The letters R and L are basically interchangeable in Korean, and so when they’re reading the word “small,” they pronounce it “smarll.” Hilarious. Call? Carl. People? Peorple. Definitive articles do not exist in Korean grammar, so I’m told, and so to them, I am new English teacher. And Newt is loudest boy in class. Many Korean words end in a vowel sound, and so the children often add “ee” or “uh” to the ends of consonant-ending words. Handa-me-downs. Kristen Teacha. So very cute, and it sometimes takes all you have not to laugh in the middle of class. During my last class today, I was walking around with a red pen checking sentences they were writing, and Steven had his grammar a bit mixed up—and they HATE getting red marks on their papers, because Mom will see them later—and he yelled, “Shit!” I was very startled, and expected the class to erupt in titters, but nobody said anything, and I thought maybe I had heard him wrong, and so I said, “What did you say, Steven?” and he looked up at me through is glasses and smiled. “Uh, shit!” he repeated. I couldn’t help but laugh, and I said, “Bad word. Don’t say.” Heard it at least twice more before the end of class. <br /><br />I’m going to start carrying my little writing notebook with me everywhere, and recording the hilarious things they say, because they’re too good to pass up. Wish I had done it today.<br /><br />Hey, here are some pictures of my apartment:<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLQC35aVY8I/AAAAAAAAACo/AJZ-Y1Zeuvk/s1600-h/P8210001.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLQC35aVY8I/AAAAAAAAACo/AJZ-Y1Zeuvk/s400/P8210001.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238815425866064834" /></a><br />View from the front door<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLQC4OjbgPI/AAAAAAAAACw/FodqezNOml8/s1600-h/P8210002.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLQC4OjbgPI/AAAAAAAAACw/FodqezNOml8/s400/P8210002.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238815431541358834" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Ahh, the kitchen, in which lives the pot in which I boil every ounce of tap water I drink, in which--apparently--live some real bad things.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLQC4YYYN1I/AAAAAAAAAC4/lr7R6KIwckE/s1600-h/P8210004.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLQC4YYYN1I/AAAAAAAAAC4/lr7R6KIwckE/s400/P8210004.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238815434179360594" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Nice big living room<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLQC4gQXQPI/AAAAAAAAADA/uM3H0FZ7klc/s1600-h/P8210005.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLQC4gQXQPI/AAAAAAAAADA/uM3H0FZ7klc/s400/P8210005.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238815436293226738" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The "office." It houses only a desk. Rather depressing.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLQC4xRQ0SI/AAAAAAAAADI/To-bOUCiKrM/s1600-h/P8210006.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLQC4xRQ0SI/AAAAAAAAADI/To-bOUCiKrM/s400/P8210006.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238815440860401954" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The bathroom. That corner is where I point my shower nozzle when I hose myself down.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLQE21EggZI/AAAAAAAAADQ/OEoglyARtM4/s1600-h/P8210010.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLQE21EggZI/AAAAAAAAADQ/OEoglyARtM4/s400/P8210010.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238817606544163218" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The right half of my bedroom...<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLQE3MUyCmI/AAAAAAAAADY/QdTV9cjlQl0/s1600-h/P8210011.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLQE3MUyCmI/AAAAAAAAADY/QdTV9cjlQl0/s400/P8210011.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238817612786436706" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />And the left. Spacious, no?<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLQF5BrQgyI/AAAAAAAAADg/LndYavN42HQ/s1600-h/P8210016.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLQF5BrQgyI/AAAAAAAAADg/LndYavN42HQ/s400/P8210016.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238818743799284514" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The funny park across the street from my place<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLQF5ZC2F4I/AAAAAAAAADo/0GNPyt0vThs/s1600-h/P8210017.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLQF5ZC2F4I/AAAAAAAAADo/0GNPyt0vThs/s400/P8210017.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238818750072231810" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />And the sad converter box that I somehow melted. Lucky I didn't kill myself, really.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLQF5n3xBCI/AAAAAAAAADw/TizYH3sz4Ug/s1600-h/P8220040.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLQF5n3xBCI/AAAAAAAAADw/TizYH3sz4Ug/s400/P8220040.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238818754052293666" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />And possibly the coolest front door I've ever seen. Yup, it's mine.Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-14693025480366861902008-08-23T21:28:00.008+09:002008-08-23T21:53:42.203+09:00Decided last night that this morning I would venture up one of the trails on the mountainside directly behind Reading Town and my neighborhood. Angele explained to me how to get there, but still got a little lost this morning. Ran into a few interesting things before I found the trail, head, though, such as a good way to recycle old tires:<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLADZIOwnxI/AAAAAAAAABw/opm2otxFFH4/s1600-h/P8220025.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLADZIOwnxI/AAAAAAAAABw/opm2otxFFH4/s400/P8220025.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5237690096872890130" /></a><br /><br />Could see a bit more of the Changwon area on my way up:<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLAENWoGcYI/AAAAAAAAACA/RGAY1KyHG0M/s1600-h/P8220028.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLAENWoGcYI/AAAAAAAAACA/RGAY1KyHG0M/s400/P8220028.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5237690994090471810" /></a><br /><br />The trail was marked well, and a little map at the bottom showed the three routes. I wasn't quite sure which I was taking. <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLAD7qMo6lI/AAAAAAAAAB4/wgaxz7bKRPo/s1600-h/P8220030.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLAD7qMo6lI/AAAAAAAAAB4/wgaxz7bKRPo/s400/P8220030.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5237690690106354258" /></a><br /><br />Was super surprised and incredibly amused to see people pumping iron at seven in the morning in this outdoor exercise facility. I wanted to jump in there and work out with them! There was a gentleman standing off to the side who called out "Good Morning!" to me, and it really startled me, because I had yet to be greeted by an Korean just in passing, let alone in English.<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLAG5I7AykI/AAAAAAAAACI/bMtCsfaqDMU/s1600-h/P8220039.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLAG5I7AykI/AAAAAAAAACI/bMtCsfaqDMU/s400/P8220039.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5237693945349196354" /></a><br /><br />The trail was absolutely gorgeous, and very steep. A man who was on his way down warned," Be careful--very slick!" as I passed him, and it definitely was; we had some torrential rains last night.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLAG5VXCxuI/AAAAAAAAACQ/lZ7ni3m00w4/s1600-h/P8220032.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLAG5VXCxuI/AAAAAAAAACQ/lZ7ni3m00w4/s400/P8220032.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5237693948687992546" /></a><br /><br />There were several of these water stations on the way up. I'm not sure if they're for drinking--the water here isn't safe to drink unless boiled--but one wouldn't think they'd be there just to cool people off, especially with those colorful water scoops.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLAG5lNcH_I/AAAAAAAAACY/3O2XqgNCj70/s1600-h/P8220034.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLAG5lNcH_I/AAAAAAAAACY/3O2XqgNCj70/s400/P8220034.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5237693952942678002" /></a><br /><br />Midway up the mountain, the trail became incredibly steep and rocky, and the view of Changwon better and better:<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLAH_byXQWI/AAAAAAAAACg/mbGwQU-7fVg/s1600-h/P8220038.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SLAH_byXQWI/AAAAAAAAACg/mbGwQU-7fVg/s400/P8220038.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5237695153004036450" /></a><br /><br />I didn't go for the top, because I didn't know how far it was, but perhaps next time I will. Tomorrow, we go to the beach!Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-56878187027318559062008-08-22T21:23:00.000+09:002008-08-23T21:27:53.201+09:00At ten on Friday, my second day at Reading Town, Mr. Kim picked me up for the requisite hospital visit—basically a checkup to make sure we foreigners are not dragging any of our nasty venereal diseases or nefarious drug habits into Korea. Because I cracked my crack habit long ago, I wasn’t too terribly nervous, that is, until Mr. Kim and I pulled onto the busy main street in front of Reading Town. The drivers are crazy here—I’m talking cars driving through red lights as often as green, or pulling U-turns while three cars deep in the turning lane.<br /><br />Mr. Kim and I didn’t chat too much all the way from the Reading Town lobby to the hospital lobby, as he speaks little English and I no Korean. For some reason, when I am alone with another person, silence makes me wildly uncomfortable (the cause of my infuriating banal-comment tick), and so I sought some way to communicate. I tried to ask him what the word for “car” is in Korean, but he only smiled and nodded furiously and repeated “car”. A little later he pointed to one of the mountains and actually said “mountain,” and then “running training,” and I remembered that I had told him the day before that I had gone running.<br /><br />We made it to the hospital and parked in one of numerous parking lots where cars are angled haphazardly into tiny space. We pulled a ticket to secure a spot in the check-in line and then sat facing the counter, silent. Mr. Kim asked for my passport. I handed it over, and my extra passport photo fell out. Angele had asked me to bring it along, although I didn’t know what it was for, and Mr. Kim took the photo now and looked at it, and then all the pages in my passport, even the empty ones. He opened his wallet and slipped my photo into one of the plastic picture displays and said, “I keep.” I admit that I was rather confused and thought he might be pocketing my passport photo, but didn’t ask any questions, mostly because they couldn’t have been answered. (I asked Angele about it later that day and she told me that Mr. Kim needed the photo to make my school ID—so he’s not a salacious old man, after all.) <br /><br />Our ticket number was finally called. The receptionist looked at me and smiled, rambled off to Mr. Kim, and then looked back at me again. I simply smiled, wondering what they were saying. After the paperwork was sorted out and we walked away, Mr. Kim turned to me and said, “She say you very—”, and then a word I couldn’t quite understand, but that sounded so much like “freaky,” and I thought this wasn’t very nice of her at all, so I repeated it to Mr. Kim. “Freaky?” I asked with a laugh. “No, no,” he said, and thought for a moment, and then said, “Boo-tee-full.” Ahhh. Pretty.<br /><br />We walked to another section of the hospital, and Mr. Kim showed my passport and paperwork to a young man sitting behind a counter. Before long I was escorted into the back by a relatively tall, confident-looking doctor. He said something to me in English, but besides being able to recognize that these were indeed English words, I couldn’t understand him at all. I said, “Pardon me?” several times before he finally gave up and walked me to the changing room. I opened the door, and was surprised to find two rows of lockers and two teenaged-looking girls swapping their clothes for blue hospital shirts. I opened one of the lockers and found my own pair of shirt and pants, and wondered how many people had already worn them today. I was only required to undress from the waist up, and shrouded my torso with the blue shirt before removing my bra so as not to embarrass the two girls. Instantly, one of the girls was tapping on my shoulder, and I turned to face her, startled, and she pointed to my bras strap and said, “Brassiere—you must take off!” I laughed, and said “thankyou,” and she and her friend laughed. Such a helpful society, I was quickly learning.<br /><br />One little stomach scan and that was done and I was able to change back into my clothes. Next, Mr. Kim and I headed down the hall to a busy room with a friendly receptionist and horde of screaming children. This, I knew, must be where my blood was to be taken. Mr. Kim once again handed over my passport and papers, and the woman smiled and handed him a paper cup and test tube. He turned to me, directed me back into the hall, and handed the cup and tube to me. We walked about twenty feet before reaching the public restroom. He pointed to the two items in my hand, signaled to the half-full point of the cup, and the very-nearly-full point of the test tube, and then toward the bathroom. I repeat: the public bathroom.<br /><br />I jumped inside, and there were a few people milling, but one stall door slightly ajar. I opened it to find a hole-in-the-ground toilet, which look very much like a horizontal urinal, and which I used for the first time in Japan some days ago, and already dislike very, very much. I was wearing a skirt, and wasn’t quite sure how I was going to maneuver through this, because I didn’t want to accidentally stab a leg into the hole, or dip my skirt into it, and my hands were absolutely full because I had cup in one hand and cylinder in the other. I almost lost my balance and fell a couple times, and peed on my hand before the cup was halfway full, and somehow managed to grab a few sheets of toilet paper. I retrospect, I suppose the skirt was a good thing—would have been more difficult with pants.<br /><br />I poured the pee into the test tube, and then emptied the paper cup into the ceramic and threw it away in the trash can. As I prepared to open the door, I became acutely conscious—and rather embarrassed—of the fact that everybody between here and that receptionist’s desk was going to see my pee. But there was no hiding it. I exited to the hallway, cradling the test tube in my hand so as to cover as much of it as possible. Mr. Kim was a ways down the hallway, and when I reached him I smiled and breathed, “Okay.” He looked at my hands and asked, “Cup?” Shit, shit, I thought. I was supposed to have saved the cup? Was the test tube for blood, and the cup only for pee? But then why would he have sent the test tube with me to the bathroom. I made the “oops” expression, pulling the corners of my mouth toward my ears, and he turned to the receptionist and spoke to her very quickly. She gave him another cup, but I was already shaking my head. I wouldn’t be able to do it again, I thought. No more pee coming out of this chica for awhile.<br /><br />But Mr. Kim didn’t hand me the cup. He pointed to my pee tube and motioned for me to hand it over. You’re going to touch it? I wanted to ask. I gave it to him, and he removed the plastic lid, right in the middle of the waiting room. I was mortified, mostly for him and of the risk he ran of splattering Kristen pee on himself. He poured half of the liquid waste into the cup, resealed the tube, and walked them both over to a little cooler in the corner of the room.<br /><br />I was then asked to replace a screaming toddler in a chair opposite the receptionist. She smiled at me, grabbed my arm and extended it toward her, and pricked a needle into my vein. I’m not scared of needles or blood by themselves, or even together, in a tangible sense—it’s the thought of somebody taking my blood out of my body that gets me. Of course, she didn’t need too much, and it was over quickly. I was ready for my Band-Aid, but she only pressed a tiny piece of gauze to the inside of my arm. Mr. Kim directed me back toward the hallway, and halfway to the bathroom, he pointed to a little trashcan set against the wall. I looked at him, and then the trashcan, and then the gauze on my arm, and finally threw the little bit into the garbage. A trickle of blood immediately streamed down my elbow, and Mr. Kim jumped, and we practically ran back to the receptionist’s desk. I laughed the entire way, but by this point, I don’t think he thought I was very amusing.Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-5531947200621321992008-08-21T21:38:00.008+09:002008-08-21T21:49:58.411+09:00<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SK1kKJcQHYI/AAAAAAAAABo/L960QvBLH18/s1600-h/P8200004.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SK1kKJcQHYI/AAAAAAAAABo/L960QvBLH18/s320/P8200004.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236952067197640066" /></a>Whelp, I made it!<br /><br />So far, so good. I was exhausted last night when I made it in—in Colorado, the time was five-thirty a.m. Wednesday morning, exactly 26 hours after I’d woken to be driven to the Denver airport. The twelve hours over the Pacific (and the Canadian Rockies, but I was in the middle aisle, damnit! Would have loved to have peered out the window at that) passed surprisingly quickly, despite several stints of ridiculous leg cramps, and my inability to sleep longer than an hour at a time. It was the flight from Japan to Busan that was torture—the last thing one wants after a trans-Pacific flight is to hop onto another plane for two hours, or three, rather, because we spent a full hour taxiing from the loading dock to the airstrip. By this point, I couldn’t keep my eyes open, but I couldn’t sleep, either, because each time I nodded off, I nodded a little too hard to the left or right and jerked myself awake. I sat next to two little Korean girls who had just spent a month visiting the national parks in America’s West coast and Midwest, one from whom—true to my imperious American nature—I discreetly stole the window seat. But the Korean flight attendant was my not-so-silent accomplice in this, and the little girl was far too polite and acquiescing to have had any qualms about taking the aisle. Like I said: imperious.<br /><br />Meeting me at the airport was Angele, Anna, and Mr. Kim. Angele is the woman I was put into contact with through my recruiter in order to get a feel for the Changwon Reading Town, and she is absolutely fabulous. Reminded me a bit of Nicole Schnee, an old high school friend, and after observing her teach, reminded me a lot of Nicole Schnee. Anyway, we drove the half hour through and away from Busan, and despite the darkness, I could see the outlines of mountains on all sides, which was comforting, and promising. Before long we pulled alongside a building on a narrow street squeezed tight with similar-looking buildings, and this was it, they told me: my apartment, my home for the next year. They had bought me a couple bags of food to get me started, and so we dragged these and my 100+ pounds of luggage up two flights of stairs to my front door, which is quite possibly the most fantastic front door I’ve ever seen, and we stepped in and removed our shoes—very important to remove one’s shoes—and I was so pleasantly surprised: wood floors, big bedroom, good sized living room and kitchen, a screened-in porch, and—surprise, surprise—a second room with a desk, the “office,” I’m calling it. The bathroom has no tub or shower stall, just a hose and nozzle attached to the wall, and a drain in the middle of the floor. TV in the living room, and a loveseat and small table and chair. Across the street in plain view is a little sand-based playground. The washing machine was missing—Mr. Kim said it had been moved downstairs—but he would have it moved up sometime soon. <br /><br />I forgot my exhaustion and spent the next couple hours unpacking, and then the next seven—which I had relegated for catatonia—tossing and turning and waking every hour. Apprehension perhaps, excitement mostly, jet lag possibly. At 6:20 the next morning, I decided to just get up. Made some instant coffee, which didn’t taste like coffee, or have a bit of caffeine, I think. Once again, jet lag, possibly. I wanted to go run, but was afraid if I was going too quickly from street to street, I might forget them and get lost, plus I desperately wanted to take the camera, and more desperately wanted a cup of caffeine, and figured that after all I’d heard about the ubiquity of Dunkin’ Donuts and McDonalds in Korea, I was bound to find something. So I set out for a walk—North, South, East, West? Where’s Pike’s Peak when you need it?—and after traipsing up my street, ran into a main-drag-of-a-road, with a little brick-laden, tree-lined path running parallel. This, I decided, was where I would be doing most of my running.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SK1iSVCpUCI/AAAAAAAAABQ/r_9Pi0vzEyE/s1600-h/P8200001.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SK1iSVCpUCI/AAAAAAAAABQ/r_9Pi0vzEyE/s200/P8200001.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236950008727162914" /></a><br /><br />Walked along here for awhile, smiling at everyone, receiving empty—sometimes accusing—stares in return. High rise buildings all to my left, some with vibrant and wildly mismatched signs; almost nothing in English. I was surprised about this at first, and then thought about it a bit, and then felt like an asshole. What had I expected? Was I not in South Korea? The biggest English sign I saw was orange and read “Beer Hunting.” I immediately pictured the Deer Hunter game advertised in the states, and then I thought about Dad, and then I thought: ahhh, liquor store, and how appropriately advertised. They know their market.<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SK1ixTm0y0I/AAAAAAAAABY/1M0foLmchwU/s1600-h/P8200002.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SK1ixTm0y0I/AAAAAAAAABY/1M0foLmchwU/s320/P8200002.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236950540917984066" /></a><br /><br />Finally spotted a Dunkin’ Donuts, and as I approached the door, clutching my won bills, I realized I didn’t know how to say “coffee” in Korean. Or much else of anything, besides “hello” and “whiskey,” and it was clearly too early for that, and I wasn’t sure if I could count won, and most of all, I became acutely aware of my foreignness, and the supposed incompetence that so often accompanies that foreignness. So I kept walking. Right on past. No coffee.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SK1jGKqwQbI/AAAAAAAAABg/1lKq1WhsKJI/s1600-h/P8200003.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SK1jGKqwQbI/AAAAAAAAABg/1lKq1WhsKJI/s320/P8200003.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236950899295797682" /></a><br /><br />I realize this is becoming an “and then I did this, and then I went here, and then I saw that” narrative, but bear with me; my mother loves it.<br /><br />Came back to my place and ate, and finally made it our for a run, and as soon as I got back, decided to try this shower deal. The water heater must be turned on specifically for the shower, approximately two minutes before showering, but I couldn’t remember which buttons to press. They looked to be labeled very well, but—of course—in Korean. I pressed a couple, and then tested the water. Icy. Tried again, and still cold. Last button, and then just stripped and went for it, and the nozzle burst at me frigidly, but luckily, I had pressed the right button that time, and it warmed up. By the time I had the entire bathroom soaked, the last of the conditioner was rinsed from my hair. I bent over, staring at my knees, and squeezed the water out of my hair, when I heard a knock at the door. I froze. Another knock. Kr. Kim wasn’t supposed to pick me up for another two hours. I grabbed my pink towel and wrapped it around myself, and tiptoed just outside the bathroom door, and then Mr. Kim was yelling my name through the small kitchen window. There was nothing I could do now but answer the door, and that I did, praying that I wasn’t breaking some sacred Korean law of propriety. Mr. Kim looked thoroughly embarrassed. The washing machine was ready, he said.Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5957113817701004362.post-41996859082672935962008-08-13T00:24:00.001+09:002008-08-13T13:24:39.975+09:00Test<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SKG6MBIYDxI/AAAAAAAAAAk/em9uTS1aIhE/s1600-h/P7170043.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YZ1dT6qWVvU/SKG6MBIYDxI/AAAAAAAAAAk/em9uTS1aIhE/s200/P7170043.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233668957605990162" /></a><br /><br />Just a little test blog!<br /><br />Hey--my shirt matches the colors of my blog. Neat.Kristen Leehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390741930637548943noreply@blogger.com0