This image speaks for itself.

Gangin Celedon Cultural Festival

It really is easy than it appears: the whole getting places and doing things in a country where you have no idea what is said to you or any of the writing on any walls. One just marches right up to the marked ticket window at the bus station and announces your destination. The teller hands you a ticket and points to a bus and you just wait for them to wave you aboard. I am finding there are some perks to standing out in the crowd ALWAYS. And after a not too confusing journey we arrived at the Gangin Celedon (blue clay) cultural festival which we discovered was "Foreigner Day" which seemed to mean nothing more than free admission but that was enough for us. We each participatied in throwing a pot with the assistance of a few very eager Koreans, traditional wood printmaking on rice paper, and the essential chicken on a stick. I helped my friend pick out the perfect phallus shot glass which in itself made the journey well worth while. The trip was long but as my companion reminded me, commuting is only hours between you and an incredible experience. For those that know me well would not be surprised to know that I actually and accidentally left my camera upon the bus on our way back to Suncheon. Not realizing this until I got home, I had a Korean co-teacher call the bus station in the feeble attempt to see if it had somehow been turned in to the lost and found. Would you believe it? It was. The bus driver even called to make sure I got my camera back! I think Amy and Korea are going to get along just fine.

And it was an average Sunday to the Gangin Celadon Cultural Festival

 

Oh, just another day of normalcy in Korea-land- also know as let me apologize in advance for this one . . ..

   On foot I was making my way for some Hwe Da Bob Dinner (raw fish, rice and greens with chirashi) this evening.  Along the way I navigated through the usual street market vendors selling their colorful assortment of farm fresh produce, kimchi's, grains, and well, slightly smelly fresh fish. Yes, here you can buy various sea creatures right off the street, so fresh they are still alive- very alive- very moving alive (and very on the street). 

   So I rounded my last corner before the restaurant when suddenly out of seemingly nowhere an octopus, in a last courageous and desperate attempt of escape, lept from his shallow plastic vendor bin and kami- kazi-ed inches away from my much surprised bosom to the unforgiving sidewalk below. (All I can say is that it was a very unsettling and cartoon-like splat noise. ) Startled and perhaps slightly flatter than moments before, this tentacled beast made not a few seconds of headway toward freedom when the even quicker Ajumma (older Korean woman) scooped him up and plopped him right back into the crowded salty shallow water from which he came. "Poor guy" I thought as I walked on. 

   I tried to make light of the situation: "Well, Amy, you are one of the few people in the world who can say they were almost groped by an octopus!  Ha- heh- eh . . no . . ."  I resistantly began launching myself  into my own inner existential conflict about this experience, but eventually took comfort in the realization that all creatures- big and small inevitably find themselves doomed to some(thing)one's dinner table someday

-  that and that an octopus just tried real hard to grab my tits! But what can you say, the octopus's has got good taste- eh? [ba- bum-tiss]

[and the world rolls it eyes at me in unison]

A strange and surreal day at the swimming pool . . .

No joke. This is seriously the emergency exit method of escape from my studio.

Sunny Afternoon outside of Suncheon

How much is that doggy in the window . . . the one sizzling in the pot

    OK, well in my personal motto of "I will try anything once." I could not say 

"no" to the unusual invitation of dog for lunch. We ordered an expensive plate off the menu hand printed in large Korean character taped above our heads.  The ajumma (ma'am) brought to our table a single propane range and pot filled with a variety of greens which was harmless enough, but quickly after she returned with the tray o' dog. She swiftly tonged the pieces of canine meat piece by piece until a small pile mounted in front of us. Soon it began to sizzle. I was with another American teacher. He was finishing his contract in Korea this week and on a plane the next. On his list of "things I must do in Korea" was the eating of dog. We both were reluctant but felt it was an important part of the authentic 'being in Korea' experience. 

    The meal was bubbling with fervor and with chopsticks poised for action, we stared at the pot for so long that the ajumma called out to us from across the room something in Korean that must have equated to "Its ready already, EAT!" The meat in front of us looked much like pot roast and I tried to convince my self that is was as such. 

    I, usually not a timid eater, was finding it hard to separate my connotations to the carefully prepared meal in front of me. I chose an indiscriminate piece of meat, placed it carefully in a piece of lettuce, wrapped it tightly, and put it in my mouth. I must say, it wasn't bad, it just wasn't 'worth it' good. What I mean is that it didn't taste good enough that I could relinquish the fact I was eating fido. For the sake of politeness to the ajumma, I mustered through five more bites saturating each generously in sauce and herb powder, none of which made the deed inconsequential. 

    My companion was equally disturbed and with almost two thirds left of the pile of dog meat in front of us we left the table. We paid the expensive bill and sauntered from the restaurant feeling a little nauseous and regretfully a regretful. We joked about going out for pizza, but I walked on to the bus stop instead. Perhaps this was one of those rare moments when imagining I had done one of those 'crazy things' would have been more much better than actually doing it.

My first Painting in Korea

Apartment Highrise 

My friends, this is Korea.

            It was my first big girl trip outta town. I have been here over a month now- I have to say honestly (and almost embarrassingly) I have unusually dragged my feet to adventure much further than to work and back from the American oasis that exists inside my apartment. 

This sort of hermitting is not my style, but somewhere between my foreigner celebrity (that every foreigner has here), my incapability to communicate with anyone, and realization that I'm in no hurry to see a place I won't be leaving for a very long time; it has made me slow going to, well, go anywhere. I mean really, what's the rush? But alas, the sixth week came and with it an invitation that even the most timid of travelers could not pass up: The Boryeong Mud Festival. 

    Boryeong (which is known for its therapeutic and precious supply of coastal mud) is a usually sleepy town on the west coast of South Korea. Once a year it erupts into a week long mud extravaganza where foreigners and Koreans alike congregate to its little seashore to bask in the sun, swim in the waves, and (of course) roll in the mud. I decided with out much debate that this event was worthy of an inauguration. 

    My trip would entail my first Korean rail ride to Deajeon, one of the larger cities in South Korea. There I would meet up with a few friends of friends who were driving by car to the coast.

The train ride was almost poetic: an accelerated silent glide at dusk through rice pattys and reflective riversides. I was seated next to a young boy who was yet another enthusiastic beginner English student. He kept taking my picture on his camera phone and passing me handfuls of fruit. He reiterated the usual "Konglish" (the term for the Korean/English blend coined by English teachers country-wide.) repertoire of "Hi how are you. . .  so nice to meet you, what is your name ....etc" again and again.  I kept fumbling for my ticket and re-checking the printed arrival time as if it was going to magically change mid-commute. Korea time, for most things, is in the 24hour clock which is (for those of you who know me, know how I am with numbers so you can imagine how) confusing, but I arrived safely and punctually. Shortly after a cab ride to a well lit high rise large apartment complex, I was being buzzed into my weekend hosts' home. 

    My hosts were two Canadian English teachers, a married couple of nine years. They had just returned from an epic trip six month trip through South East Asia with their three year old daughter. She was an amazing creature who had seen more of the world at age three than most of us see our entire lives. She is also becoming bilingual at a pace her mom is struggling to keep up with. First thing the next morning and peering barely out of one eye, I encountered her hovering over me with wide and curious crystal blue eyes. She asked quite frankly and in close proximity, "What's your name?"

    My hosts made an amazing breakfast of omelet, bacon, and toast. Koreans don't have breakfast, well not eggs and bacon breakfast, they have rice and kimchi -fermented cabbage. (Truth be told, Koreans have rice and kimchi with everything all the time) so even in only a little more than a month, a Western style breakfast is a savory treat and perfect beginning to a strange phenomenon known as "The Mud Festival. 

   We dropped the little bilingual monster off at close family member's house for an overnight stay. She kept asking where we were going to which her parents would only reply " A place that is NOOOOO fun." Soon after we were off down the windy country road that led to the beach. 

    It was a carpool/caravan of motorbikes and car with myself, my host, and her friend inside. Her friend, who was Aboriginal Canadian, was also a ESL teacher and was refreshingly crazy, the good crazy, the crazy 'my life is so much more charismatic when you're around kinda crazy'. On our way out the door, I asked her if she had everything and she emphatically grabbed her crotched and exclaimed "Well, I got my puss!" In the twenty four hours I spent with this girl,  I witnessed her, amongst other things, chase strangers down the board walk wielding an empty 40oz plastic beer bottle threatening to spank them and meander through the community hotel room full of strangers, freshly showered and buck naked casually searching for her towel. 

    The car ride was filled with friendly questions posed by individuals who barely knew each other but were spending the weekend together like a distant family reunion. We wound are way through unmarked bends in the road and lane endings and after the last sharp turn at large water park we were at the beach! 

    We parked and unanimously decided is was beer -thirty. We stopped by the nearest mart for a cold one for all. It was one of the best tasting beer I had had in awhile. We walked and drank. The beach was hot, and air was sticky and sun was out, so we quickly emptied our beers and slid down the beach into the cool salty water. 

    For the first time since I had been to Korea I saw white people, a lot of white people. Well they were white people- covered in mud. Everyone was covered in mud! It was out some strange Julie Taymour film. The mud covered people's skin in thick layers, making it appear as if I was surrounded by moving statues. There was a huge stage with live music, umbrella-ed tables with bowls of green-grey mud and brushes, mud kiddie pools and inflatable slides, colored mud, and mud prison. There were thousands of people there getting muddy. Getting muddy, jumping in the ocean, getting clean and getting muddy again. 

    We were at the colored mud tent slowly covering ourselves in patterns and pictures in red, blue, orange, and green mud when a boisterous parade passed by us in ceremonial percussions. Koreans in traditional creature masks and white costumes marched and danced in synchronicity slowly twirling by. I was experiencing a sensory overload: the soft brushes painting my body, the cool mud on my face, the rich colors and sounds of the parade in front of me, the warm beer in my belly, the hot salty ocean air. My friends, this is Korea. 

     Later that evening I sat oceanside drinking libations amongst other expats exchanging stories of who we were and how we got here. Spontaneously, a spectacular fireworks display began over the water. Into the wee hours of the morning we sat in the sand listening to the surf and taking in the still, surreal perfection of the day. Suddenly and with out warning, the sky opened up down poured on our small camp. We scattered into the night realizing there was no where to go for shelter from the dumping rain. I learned one of many valuable lessons on this trip: tread easy and lightly in South Asia, you never know what kind of weather you will encounter. 

      A few stragglers and myself huddled sloppily under an umbrella we discovered outside of a mini-stop hoping the rain would pass which didn't. I was possibly more soaked thru than I had ever been before and I sat wringing my skirt uselessly from the tropical rain. We waited for the slightest break and made a run for it. I lept over and charged thru giant puddles impeding my path all the way back to the room. I arduously but barely dried out and lumbered to my designated blanket and pillow. (Usually, there are not beds in hotels in Korea, you sleep on the floor) It was 4 am and I believe I was snoring before my head hit the pillow. Thank you mud. Thank you rain. Thank you Korea. 

One of my students with her Art Project.

Musings and meanderings inside the Sangbul Temple

     I heed you this one piece of advice: in contradiction to the old saying  "let no deed go unpunished" visit a Buddhist temple and you will find at the end of an impossible climb are great splendors which defy this sentiment. I have struggled with documenting this experience most of all because I feel that words only mere in comparison to seeing such an organization of architecture, art, intellect, and emotion in one place. I felt guilty with my cell phone and my digi camera slowly editing this experience in a few moments which had taken centuries to build, fall, and recreate in the effort of meditative peace. "Elaborate care" were the words that kept passing through my mind. The silence in these places is haunting, but haunting in a sort of way that beckons quietly "if you were more like this you would be more like everything . . ." 

     We were in an active temple and the evidence was in the tiny pairs of shoes at every closed door on the grounds. I felt people praying for me even in my complete invasion of their solitude. I could go into great detail here: about the tile roofs covered in wishes which were donations paid to the temple, the giant drum which hung in such stillness that I could feel the force of its percussion with out it being touched. . . . intrinsic murals richly painted of dragons and heroes: an abstract vocabulary that in its profoundness, I could only absorb it as a pedestrian. 

    I was an accidental tourist in the presence of trancendence. This encounter created in me a sense of clarity that I can best summarize as absolute. I realized (standing atop of this lush green mountain with the stone dust of this holy place settling on my toes in Gwanyong, South Korea) that in this brief and wonderful moment "Everything is perfect and I love you".

Just another average Sunday . . .

We were heading out to Gyanyong. A little drive out of town, up the mountains to go swimming in the river which flows down to the valley below offering fresh cool pools of refreshment amongst the green my companions described to be just like Ireland "if they had ever been there". So there we were: Myself, the driver, her Korean boyfriend in front, myself and her daughter and the two dogs in the back. We finally had piled all in and were just on the outskirts of town where the inevitable happened: a car accident. It happened as all car accidents do: in slow motion. Being a passenger in Korea is like being a pin ball in a pinball machine: you must relinquish your fate to the person operating the buttons and hope fate falls in your favor between the many blinking lights and bumpers. So, outta nowhere the car in front of us was in a full and complete stop. Even with the emergency brake pulled, we abruptly bucked into his shiny black bumper. 

     Without hazard lights or even pulling over out of lane of traffic, we sat and waited for further instruction. Trucks were whizzing by us with such speed that our little four door rocked and the dogs whimpered with each pass. We waited there for the insurance man to arrive on a Sunday afternoon. Thankfully, we were with the driver's Korean boyfriend who could communicate with the disgruntled "used car salesman" we bumped into. The damage to his car was one tiny little scratch to his bumper but as any good used car salesman would do, he was insisting on a brand new bumper. An hour, adequate information exchange, and the begrudgingly loss of some significant income later, we were back on our way to a relaxing day in the sparkling clean moutain waters of Gyanyong.  We were, however. almost out of gas. 

    Half way up the mountain and a Murphy's law realization, we turned back down to revisit the fuel station we streaked by in hopes for another. We got gas and soon enough we were unloading dogs, people and flip flops out of the vehicle at the top of a steep hill which was also the entrance to a very inviting Buddhist temple. 

   Our destination surrounded us with cool clear, white water cascading down black and earthy rocks sheathed under layers of tropical green. Between sprouting bamboo shoots we lumbered, carefully passing over unturned rock after unturned rock to stick our toes in the frigidly refreshing bubbling water between baby falls. 

     I found a boulder to sit upon. I crossed my legs and closed my eyes. I inhaled deeply smelling the pure green-ness around me. I listened only to the falling water, perpetual and endless. It was not a sound to me, it was a feeling.  It was the feeling someone feels knowing  they are in the presence of something that is greater than themselves while simultaneously feeling great within themselves. It was at that moment I was reminded of why I have traveled so far, so far on an outward and inward journey: to know that that greatness is not with in me, it is what passes through me. It was time for a swim. 

This is a "rock wish". Korean's stack stones as high as they can and make a wish.

Gorgeous Asian plums

Typical Korean dining experience.

Amy as a crazy sore thumb . . .

    Um .... ok, so as I have mentioned before, anywhere you go in South Korea as a "waygook" (foreigner) you are, well, extremely noticed. In my experience, Korean people are very peaceful, friendly, and insatiably curious  Some days I find I just don't want to deal with the ritualistic peering eyes and barrage of questions in confusing English I endure at the bus stop everyday. I have found the best way to avoid such encounters when unwanted is to disengage by means of sunglasses and ipod. Today was one of those days. 

   I was walking down the alley to my bus stop when a Korean man in his mid forties stops me in his extended bright yellow van. He makes a movement which implies take out your earphones. (Apparently even my best efforts can be foiled by eager spectators.) and I oblige. He asks me with a giant smile where I am from. He says, "I want speak English with you. We go now, I take you . . . We have tea, eat, drink . . . I want be your friend. . . .  Get in . . .  Where are you going? . . . .I take you." I told him I had to go to work and he insisted as he patted his passenger sear "Come, come, I take you." 

    This whole spontaneous conversation has my red flags standing at attention. In the states, we don't speak to strangers in vehicles whom demand you get in there car. In the states, smart girls definitely don't get in the vehicle of the aforementioned stranger. In fact, a girl that does that kinda stuff is never seen again. But I am not in the states and this endearing man with gentle eyes and a giant smile that beems with ecstatic joy in the thought that I might just sit down and talk with him . . . and, well, abandoning better judgement . . .  I got in the van. 

    He took out a piece of paper and wrote down his name "Kim Chun Ock" underneath it he wrote his phone number and under that he wrote 'Good Friends'. He kept emphasizing that we would be good friends. He went on musing about our life long acquaintance: exchanging emails and phone calls long after I went back to the states. My heart started to pound as I considered the possibly tragic mistake I had made in getting into this Korean's van, but I tried to tell myself that, no no... he was not a phycho killer, he was just really excited at the thought of a friendship with a "waygook". Grinning ear to ear the whole time, he rambled on in barely English and I understood most of it, I think. He wanted to make plans. He wanted to talk. He went so far as to say that if I called him he would pick me up and take me to and from work everyday where we could talk 'englishee' together. 

    We picked up his sister who was waiting on a corner up the road. He said "I must stop. I made promise to give ride to my sister." A middle aged Korean woman lumbered into the back of the van with three bags plastic grocery bags: one full of corn in husk, one full of colorful towels, and the third full of whole fish. (My confidence in the fact I was going to get to work was fleeting.) "She works at Soju Bar. I take her to work then I take you Hagwon." The newspaper headlines were passing through my head "Stupid American girl disappears in Suncheon .  . . " But he did as he said. He took her to work and then he took me to Hagwon. 

    As we pulled in to the parking lot I can't say I wasn't relieved. He reminded me to call him when I got off work and he would take me home. He said, "Have good day." I smiled I got out of the van, very much alive and replied  "It was strange but nice."  As he drove away he waved and exclaimed "Very happy to meet you!!" I slowly walked in to the Hagwon a little jaunted by the whole experience. Did that actually just happen to me? Was I just a victim of a hit and ride?

     Later I asked a few Korean teachers about this surreal experience. They insisted that my new good friend was guilty of nothing more than a little (or maybe a lot) of eccentric courage. They encouraged me to meet with him, to be his 'native speaking' friend. "Not to be worried", they consoled me. After all, Koreans love speaking English with English people. They did however have one suggestion:" Until you know Mr.Kim better, maybe it best you ride with bus." 

Finally Ribs that are served with gloves!

Badminton with Jesus?

 My first Typhoon. The best I can sum up it up is that it is a whole lot of rain. A LOT of rain, Like the kinda rain you wear shoes knowing they will get soaked, pants rolled up to your knees and still they are wet to your thighs . . . the kinda rain that even with your umbrella, it was like you were outside in pouring rain with out one. . . . there is no staying dry in a typhoon. 

  It is the beginning of my understanding of what a "monsoon season" is, and from what I have been told, a month long of it to look forward to. "Understand, you will be wet, and you will be wet all of the time." So after the long day of down pour I looked longingly out the window of my Hagwon to realize I had no umbrella and in the aftermath of my journey home I would have been dryer if I had taken a dip Yellow Sea. In procrastination, I tinked around on the computer at school and in happenstance a Korean teacher walked into the office. She said, like an angel, "I have car. You need ride home?" 

  I most whole heartedly (thinking in my head: soaking rainy walk to bus, smelly wet bus, soaking rainy walk to apartment home) said an enthusiastic yes. This Korean teacher was always very smiley and welcoming and spoke, at best, broken english.  As we pulled out of the parking lot in her glorified box on wheels she turned to me and said "You have dinner?"  I looked out the window at the daunting rain, taking into consideration the possible uncomfortable nature of an enduring conversation between two people that cannot understand each other and said "of course."

   She took me to an end of town that I have never been. (Suncheon actually translates into "very very country" but there is really nothing rural about this place.) We parked and meandered down a street that looked lit up like vegas between the neon lights on the signs and the reflecting puddles rippling in the street. She lead me up a stone staircase to a cozy Korean restaurant. 

   Let me note here that there are two seating areas in a Korean restaurant: take off your shoes and sit on the floor (Korean Style) or keep shoes on and sit at a table. (Western style) So, I have learned that you wait in shoe limbo to find out your next move. I know this of because of a few awkward instances off taking shoes off only to put them sillily back on again. We were sat at a table, or should I say two couches with a table between them. It was possibly the most comfortably I have ever sat down for dinner. 

    So we talked, kinda. .  . I learned that she was from Jae Jeu Island, "the Hawaii" of South Korea. Hearing this I said, " I would love to go there someday" and with out hesitation she replied "Tell me when you go and I will prepare a room for you at my parents home." This is an unaccustomed response I have encountered in Korea. Hospitality is NOT an illusion but an authentic gesture of respect. The communication between us a liken to a ride in a bumpercar.  She asked me in broken English if I believed in Jesus. (a question I avoid answering at all costs) She then said she had not been a real Christian her entire life but as of, and she was very specific about this, January 2, 2008. That was the day, she said she had heard the Voice of God. She said she had been praying as she had many times before and out of no where she heard a voice that said "Do you love me?" She said she heard it and replied "Yes, do you love me?" and to which, in her interpretation, God responded "Yes, now move to China and spread my word." This came to her not in verbal means but in visual terms: she said she felt love and saw pictures of Asia in her mind. Since then, she tells me, she is able to pray in 3 different languages: Chinese, Arabic, and Japanese with out actually ever learning these foreign dialects. She calls it "speaking in there tongue." She insists that this multilingual occurrence only happens while she is alone and in prayer, but that her sisters: one in Sacramento, one in Austria also have the same ability. It is now her goal to travel to China and do missionary work because God on January 2, 2008 told her so. Then she asks me if I would like to play badminton with her at her church on Sunday. Images of birdies sailing over a taut net between Koreans and a white robed Jesus suddenly rush into my mind. I smile out of the corner of my mouth and reply in true California style."Sunday? Would love to but unfortunately I already have plans." 

"Where's the beef . . . . from?'

     My walk home from work takes me right passed the train station. I discovered that it is also the location political protests are held in Suncheon. On my walk home this night,  I encountered another candlelight vigil in progress. (There have been three since I moved here three weeks ago.) The protest usually entails a peaceful crowd holding candles and quietly nodding as tag-teaming speakers spit angrily into megaphones. Between speakers, a small group of people in white robes pound on traditional Korean drums with such fervor it feels like a second heart beat in my chest. I cross the street and avoid getting involved even periphally with the anxious crowd. 

   I have inquired with the other foriegners about what all the protesting is about with out much of an answer. One teacher told me that other protests must of have been about the Iraq war because her boyfriend, who was Iraqi, was called by his consulate and instructed not to attend any protests over the weekend. When I returned to my apartment, another teacher who lives in my building called me to say it was NOT dangerous, but probably best if I stayed in tonight considering there were protests going on this day nationwide (remember, the state of Michigan is Larger than entire country of South Korea) and there was one happening right on my perverbial front lawn. She told me that I should be fine because I am female "and they usually leave the women alone." She also told me that the most the protesters have ever done to any foriegner is throw rotton vegetables at them as they passed by. This is enough information to keep me avoiding any other "peaceful protest" for my entire stay in South Korea. 

    I turned on my TV in an attempt to solve the civil dissodant mystery to find broadcasts of enormous vigils going on in Seoul and Busan. It all seemed very important but the language barrier again . . . so it was eventually through the internet surf of the information super highway that I finally discovered the purpose for all of the mayhem: American beef. Yes, yes, beef. The South Koreans were very upset with their president for making, what was considered by most be, a snakey and secretive deal with President Bush exporting American beef that the citizen's of Korea deemed unsuitable. Now almost the entire country is convinced they all will get mad cow disease and die. The protests, apparently, had an effect because a cabinet member resigned that very day in response to the uproar. After talking with some of my students later they explained the issue further: The citizens of S. Korea were outraged at their president for doing something for money that threatened the health of his country, which they take very, very seriously. In their minds, the wrong person was removed from office and this is one of many instances that this president (4 months into his 8 year term) had made desicions which benefit him financially at the expense and safety of his people. (perhaps this sounds familar?) I am reminded once again that although democracy boasts rule by the people, capitalism always discriminates.

Fear and Loathing in South Korea . . .

I Like the way your sparkling earring lay. . . .

    Sucheon Bay was a beautiful place with boardwalks extending out into grassy marshes that further extended out into the sea. I wandered aimlessly through meandering families holding hands. I was wearing a summer dress but felt under-shoed around the high heels my Korean counterparts were wearing.  Armed with only blades of grass, many people were bent over the boardwalk catching crabs that were scurrying in the sand below. Crabbing with blades of grass you ask? This is a simple process: 1. Pluck long blade of grass from marsh. 2. Lay, belly side down, on boardwalk. 3. Spot biggest crab. 4. Reach blade of grass below and taunt large crab until he angrily latches on to the grass with pinchers. 5. Retrieve crab with other hand. One man confirmed this cycle when he ran excitedly with up to me with a bowing blade of grass, fearfully dangling and the end of it was a twirling crustacean.  He shouted something at me laughed, abruptly handed it to me and ran away. How odd. 

    I walked through some of the small stony gardens that surrounded the marsh and happened upon a yellow tented booth where an Asian man and woman were offering tea. They called me over enthusiastically and insisted that I have some. I picked a small ceramic cup from the orange linen clothed table and held it out with both hands in front of me ( this is what I now have learned is the traditional way to accept drink in Korea) and she poured some steamy tea to the brim of my cup. It was the best tea I have ever tasted, nutty and green, refreshing and soothing. I finished the tiny cup quickly and before I could say a word she was refilling it.  They were inquisitive and kept asking me questions even after I indicated that I did not speak Korean. The man knew a few words in English and asked me where I was from  . . .  I think. I said California. (Sometimes I say CA, sometimes OH, Sometimes New York, the fact is I'm from a lot of places.) "Oh!" The man said or should I say sung (and I am so serious about this) "Wel-ome to row-tel Ca- wi-for-na . . . "  "Yes, Eagles!" I exclaimed. I giggled thanked them for tea and headed back to the bus to get back to town. Guess it is true what they say, for every moment in life their is an Eagles song playing somewhere softly in the background.  

The brand of Japanese condoms in Korea.

 

Finding new faith in the kindness of strange strangers.

   So decided that today was the day I was gonna figure out how to go somewhere- anywhere sans brevity and ease of taxi cabs (expense as well) and go see something besides the minor urban route to my school and back (which after some trial and failure can do without worry).  So with the little Korean I had my fellow teacher jot down on a yellow post-it note (which translated only into "suncheon bay" which if pronounced says Suncheon Man- which was also funny to me because I was approaching friendly-appearing Koreans saying "Odis mika Suncheon Man" - which to me meant "where can I find a Suncheon Man" ).... I arrived at the bus station and stared bewilderingly at the giant bus schedule in front of me.  After good while of studying,  began to laugh a full belly laugh at how impossible the bazillion characters in front of me were supposed to guide me to where I was supposed to go. Thankfully my phone rang. It was another teacher from my school with impeccable timing. She has been described to me as the person who knows how to get around Korea in English. She is Korean-American or should I say American-Korean for when I inquired about her it was mentioned to me that I was more Korean than she was. (reminder I am from Ohio and very NOT Korean.) You know, some people have the impression that when in a foreign country that if people do not understand you just speak louder and suddenly the language barrier will disipate? She has been quoted several times yelling "I don't speak KOREAN!" to innocent bystanders.  Anyhow, I'm digressing . . . She called and when I explained to her my predicament she informed me that I was standing right in front of the tourism booth in Suncheon. "Just walk in and ask them" and by ask them it means do a great deal of charades, mumble some things in broken Korean and hope for the best. So I did.

  "Hello! Very happy to meet you!" said the smiley ole man from behind the counter.  I mustered my best greeting in Korean and asked "where is the bus for the Suncheon Man?"

He told me in what I am most sure was very helpful Korean and I shrugged my shoulders in a way that said "I have no idea what you just said." He pulled out another yellow post-it note (post-it's, very big in Korea) and wrote the number 67 down and pointed in a general direction across the street. He said "seventy-six, you go." and then gently pushed me out the door. 

   So that's the direction I headed, armed with my little post-it note, my little yellow badge of courage, to a strange street on a strange corner in the world  . . . .  to prove to myself that I, this girl from suburban Ohio, could get somewhere else from work to shoebox in Korea by herself.

    I stood on one corner for a bit, looked puzzlingly at the signs surrounding me and waited . . . . . . .  for the bus? Finally, a nice Korean gentleman approached me and said what I could only assume was something like " Can I help you figure out where you are trying to go?" I showed him my slip of paper and said again "Odis mika?" He pointed down the street and I had to hope that was the right direction. 

    I walked down another street and contemplated giving up. . . but no, no as to those that no me enough, I always follow through, and found yet another bus stop. I stood again in front of another coded bus schedule and again hoping for the best. To here I will note that one of the best and worse qualities of the Korean culture is that they, are for lack of better word,  curious.

Before I could think the words 'frustration' an older woman tapped me the shoulder and said "sixty seven Sucheon Bay, this your stop!" She even went so far as to shove the other ladies in waiting for bus down the small bench to make room for me at which I could do nothing else but oblige. I suddenly was in the company of five older Korean grandmothers who wanted nothing else but to make sure I got on my bus. We waited. We waited a good long while. We waited so long that I would of left a called it a day, but  I was assured with the occasional "you bus coming!" from one of the ladies next to me that I was not defeated. Finally, bus 67 arrived. "Here your bus. Come come!" The women said in unison. They even insisted I get on the bus first. Let us not begrudge the will of our elders!

    So there we went slowly:  ole ladies, bus, and I winding through parked cars and pedestrians til the urban glowing signs and geometrical architecture transitioned into pointed- earthy tiled roofs and then into the space of Korean country side: rice field after rice field. The sky became wider and the road windier. I saw small workers in straw hats with bent knees deep in mud between rice rows slowly working away at their crops. Bus stops let out at dirt paths to tiny islands of houses separated by shallow ponds of agriculture. I was slowly getting lost into the fresh air and skyline of nothing but mountains and green when I heard a pitching "Hey, Hey! " I turned my head behind me and it was my Korean grandmothers. "You stop next!" "Oh, kamapsamnida" I responded. (thank you.) I got off the bus sure enough there I was at the foot of the remote and beautiful Suncheon Bay. 

I am Sam, Clean Sam I am.

  

     As I said before, Koreans are serious about cleanliness. So serious that whenever the kindergarten class of New York Academy of English has a field trip (to the mountains, on a hike, to the river) all children must be cleaned and properly scrubbed before returning to their respective homes. I guess the thought of sending students dirty is unacceptable. Since my temporary host's home was closest to the school, her apartment was the volunteered location were such and event could take place. When I arrived at the apartment that afternoon there were twenty five tiny pairs of shoes lined up in 4 little rows by the door. And like an assembly line in a Dr. Seuss book, 25 dirty children filed into the bathroom and emerged as 25 sparkly clean children. They were quickly rounded up re-shoed and returned to school for a clean bus ride home to Mom and Dad. The most amazing part was the state of the bathroom- it was a complete un- disaster. As if there were no little children pitter-patting through our bathroom at all- not even a wet towel. Astonishing. 

Trash. Korean Style.

  Koreans are serious about cleanliness. So serious in fact it took me good week two find out where the trash is. This is very different from the way we see garbage in America: land of plenty (land of plenty garbage cans more like it.) In Korea, the point is not to have less trash receptacles but rather produce less trash. What a brilliant idea! I have to say though that this system although eco-friendly, is probably more out of necessity than conscientiousness. (that being that there is a serious spatial issue in the East.) Anyhow, it has been a confusing process figuring out how to of dispose of my personal waste properly and without getting fined. Yes, fined. Garbage is broken down into five different categories: paper, plastic, glass, food and un-recyclable waste. Each type of waste has a designated bag which is acquired at the grocery store when your groceries are bagged (smart huh?) You are charged 10 cents per garbage bag. Then you take your garbage bags home which are, by the way (only slightly bigger than our usual grocery bags), empty your groceries, and  begin to thoroughly separate your waste. 

     In some ways, I feel like I am at summer camp, separating my edible trash from my un-reusable trash, scraping my leftover food into the slop bin for the farm animals. Ultimately that is just what Korea does with our giant slop bin: we feed it to the pigs on a massive national level. It is one of the many ways this country has elected efficiency over personal convenience. It has made me very aware of the trash I make or try not to make, making garbage day a borderline intellectual endeavor. 

We now return to our regularly scheduled program . . . (almost).

Due to moving difficulty, I am interenet-less for a little while. 

But will be updating blog as soon as I am up and running again. 

stay tuned . . . 

some stories to share:

As 25 kindergartners showered in my bathroom today . . .

Grocery shopping in the form of slight torture . . .

Toast meet Amy, Amy eat toast . . . .

My first trip to the art store . . . 

My shower is my bathroom!

And for the record, I am your princess and I am your lover.

You haven't seen someone get hit by a car yet?

     It was an early late evening, my director had offered to drive me to preview my apartment (as I am still temporarily living at another teacher's place.) On the way, the traffic slowed to a crawl. A plethera of reflective police officers were waving flash lights directing traffic through a road block. My director explained that these are nightly drunk driving check points that happen spontaneously in different parts of the city. Our vehicle is directed to an officer who holds out a mechanical breathalyser, she rolls her window down and blows a determined gust into it waits for the OK, which is given, and we quickly speed away. It was uncomfortable and serious. There is a no tolerance policy of drinking and driving in Korea and this his how they combat something that has reached almost epidemic proportions. Koreans drink, they drink a lot. They now, however, will not drink, drive and kill people anymore. 

   Driving in general is a dangerous thing in Korea. One of the teachers asked me the other day if I had seen anyone get hit by a car yet, and was surprised when I said I hadn't (I've only been here 6 days!) Can't say I'm looking forward to that experience in the slightest.

  After the showing of the studio, we went to get some coffee at a local coffee shop. The clerk at the counter was of was a very enthusiastic business owner and was intent on sharing his coffee roasting knowledge with us. After a few "Nice to meet you"s He kept approaching out table with coffee beans in hand and talking endlessly about how his roasting process was best. (all which had to be translated) He sincerely was passionate about his beans. We had to feel the beans, smell the beans, taste the beans . . . His perseverance was teetering between comic and overbearing, but I am sure it will not be the last time I will encounter this sort of exuberance. There is a quality of pride in your work here that you do not find too often in the states.    

Even the McDonald's aint 'Merican . . .

    As part of my immigration process, I was informed yesterday that a medical examination would need to be performed in order to make sure I am healthy, undiseased, and drug free. The most disconcerting part of this news was that the examination included the most dreaded medical procedure for all women: the pap spear. (even the word is ugly). This was most upsetting news on many levels mostly because when I inquired about how the "hoo hoo" check goes down in Korea all testimonials the women shared with me were most unsettling. The most ancedotal story entails "a slap on the ass in short paper skirt." Needless to say, I was not looking foward to this. I had a problem with this exam on principle as well. Seems that the wae-gooks (forienger in Korea) men go through a STD blood check but the wae-gook women got to drop trough and spread eagle for their STD check. It is, as many things are in this country, very, very sexist. But the fact of the matter that if I want to stay in Korea, I gotta swallow my feminist pride and do what needs to be done regardless of my position on the matter or how violated I feel as result of it. This is a hard realization, but I imagine it is the first of many situations that will leave me feeling grateful for my freedoms and equalities provided to me. Most that, until now, I have been practically unaware. This sort of mentality is making this whole situation a little more palatable. That or it really it is us easy U.S.  ladies and our dirty hoo hoos' that are spreading the "love disease" all of God's green Korea.

     Any how, after all this mental and emotional preparation, we arrive at the hospital only to be discover that they had recently changed the laws and the pap is no longer a component of the immigration medical exam (apparently too many women complained). I sighed with relief of the greatest proportion. 

     The most exciting the part of the trip to the hospital for the wae-gooks was the ride home which required a brief but neccesary detour to the one of the few semi-American experiences in town, McDonald's. There are a few differences between Korean and American McD's. First off, there is nothing fast about the fast food here. One teacher told me how she waited 45 mins for her egg McMuffin once. They do not have double cheeseburgers but they do have a spicy "shang-hai" burger which is chicken. (?) They do not have fish-filet, but they do have, and brace yourself, a shrimp burger. It is possibly the most disgusting thing I have ever tasted in my life. Just thinking about is making me vomit a little in my mouth. If ever in Asia- just don't, just don't.... 

Yes, Virgina, that is a real live octopus.

    It was one of the most delicious and surreal dining experiences of my life. Dinner among natives and locals in a seamless dance of drink and eat. We remove our shoes at the door (of course) and climb into a low rise table which has a cooking range right in the middle of. Almost immediately we are served a variety of local fare which I have to inquire about each dish because I don't recognize anything that is put in front of me. It is all clean, flavorful and fresh, fresh, fresh tasting. With in a few bites of some sort of creamed urchin our server appears with a giant wok filled to the brim with an impressive collection of seafood, most of which was still alive. The part that made me the most uneasy was the octopus which was wriggling wildly in its last attempt of life. The gas burner was whisked to high and the herbaceous broth quickly began to boil as I tried not to notice the tentacles of the creature in front of me slowing in what seemed like forever to a still. This may seem upsetting to some, it was in fact upsetting to me (quietly) but I am here to understand a culture, experience a culture, NOT judge. We cook live lobsters, we eat live oysters, we . . . . well I'm trying to understand, but after a few bites of my "seafood casserole" what I would liken to a ciopinno, I had forgotten about the entire horrific slaughter in front of me. The meal was HOT and SPICY but drink was served in LITTLE glasses and NOT refilled. My host instructed me to receive drink in the Korean manner which was with holding your glass in front of you with two hands. Why this is I will still have to inquire. The little amount of drink with meal is something I have noticed since dining in Korea. When I asked about this phenomenon, I was informed that Koreans have a sort of mythological philosophy when it comes to eating: the hotter the food, the spicier the food, the better it is for your body. They also believe drinking is for after the meal because your body will rid itself of all the calories you ingested earlier, easier. Perhaps this is a new diet tactic I will have to try? Dessert was served in a bowl. It was an aromatic liquid of persimmon and cinnamon and was slurped down loudly and quickly. YUM. It tasted like love. There is no "splitting the bill" in Korea, in fact I never even notice a bill or exchange of money it is just magically paid for. My hosts are two Korean women from my school and the headmaster who, as always, said very little. I have noticed in most cases men and women do not socialize much in public. As we abruptly (literally mid sentence) left the table for coffee somewhere else . . .  one of the women that was with me says quietly to me that in Korea they have a saying . .  "if gathering with many women and one man, bring dish." 

"Class, meet new Amy Teacher"

"Hello, Amy Teacher!" they all say in unison as I am always introduced to a new class. As the students are starting to recognize me in the hallways and classrooms of school they are also calling out to me across parking lots and from street corners in town"Hello,  Amy Teacher!" It is not just students who have this response to my blonde hair and volumptous frame which immediately identify me as American, the community too. The coffee clerk, the grocery store attendant, the old man smoking tabacco on the corner will all stop what there doing and call out "Hello, nice to meet you!" It is quite endearing really. But I am aware now that I am no longer an anonymous face in the crowd. In this place, where ever I go and whatever I do people know immediately I aint from around here.  

Morning Rain in Suncheon

And its only day two . . .

     Well the pot roast turned out to be delicious . .  . the next day. We spent the evening smoking cigarettes in the stairwell and drinking "white beer" and soju while discussing the best and worse of Korea. Apparently I have avoided a lot of the pitfalls most Americans encounter when coming to this country on an esl endeavor (english as a second language), which i must "thank my lucky stars " for.  I have heard some real horror stories about abusive hagwons (private teaching institutions) and some shocking cultural differences that can be quite traumatizing if one is not prepared. Its not that it is everywhere, I am just made to be aware from the start that we are not in Kansas anymore. The teacher I am living with shared with me a colorful story of her first and second year in South Korea. 

      It involved a wretched fight with her old boss over last months pay and a legal document they unknowingly signed claiming that if they did not complete their year contract, no matter what the circumstance, they would have to leave Korea FOREVER and never, ever come back. (dramatic, I know) They fought it, and won and are still here- six years later. The following year she was put into a nice house with her sister and they lived happily until they came to alarming conclusion that their korean welcoming party was a man who had a serious and committed ritual of masturbating out their window on a regular basis. She said she new she was sexy when she washed the dishes, but this was extreme. Apparently it got much worse when he began to, for lack of better words, expunge his bowls on their lawn whenever he was discovered by the young American women. This was not OK. They also fought for this. They called the police which replied casually "oh, it must be the heat." So they moved. The advice to be headed here is that it is best in Korea to live in large apartment buildings which are EVERYWHERE that have posted security guards which eliminate any possibility of this sort of thing happening  . . . . again I repeat they are still here, six years later. There was another story that I was told that could be best summed up with a man, a pig, a hammer, and a pick up truck and I think you can draw your own conclusions. needless to say: there are no guns in Korea with out complicated and arduous permits, which is a good thing, right? 

   I have made a shocking accidental discovery that even Oprah exists in Korea. My temporary roommate leaves the TV on 24hours a day so that when "mama's not home" her babies (dogs) have company. As I was getting ready this morning I heard here familiar voice emanating through the family room . . . is that Oprah or God? I am still unsure if I was relieved or alarmed. 

 

So here I am in Korea

    It is not true what they say . . .  Korea does not smell like Kimchi. The air seems clean but I was unnerved at encountering a few woman covered in from head to toe in cloaking garments including face mask but was assured that it is purely a cosmetic attempt keep their porcelain white skin.  I have, however, been instructed to not drink the water.  

   The teacher assigned to my "acclimation" took me on a short walk from school to lunch. On the way we past many street vendors selling brightly colored fruits, vegetables and wares. We stopped into a little place that she informed me was the equivalent of a Korean Diner. The menu was immediately handed to us by the server and was a piece of paper that listed each dish in Korean, prices with a pencil for checking which dish you would like. The teacher quickly checked a few boxes and handed the menu back to the server.  I noticed people were staring at us from behind there large slurping spoons as my company talked loudly on her cell phone as and I inspected my silver chop sticks. Lunch arrived as pickled kimchi, radish, soup of soy and spinach, and an entree of a bowl lunch of cold noodles and vegetables, and boiled egg on a bed of crushed ice. She told me to mix the entire bowl together ice and all. The ice at first seemed strange in a dish but I realized it was the perfect way to create a sauce in a dish meanwhile keeping it very cold. It was delicious and unlike anything I had ever tasted before. 

    We walked back to the New York School for English and I saw the school for the first time. It is a colorful building in teal, mustard, and orange. We take off our shoes before entering any building and replace them with "house slippers". There is a coed bathroom. I meet the other english instructors, who are charismatic and all seem happy with their jobs (which is relieving). One instructor asks me how my first 24hours are going in Korea and I say well in which he replies "well did you eat scrodem? Cause that's what happened to me my first day here." Which I found to be a very peculiar introduction but he assured me it was entirely accidental. We ended up making plans later that day to have some "dog soup" but not the ribs those seemed to be to expensive. 

    I sat in on some classes. The morning class of kindergartens was a "multi-media" class where the students interacted a power point game. Let's just say I saw a fox eat sin. The class ended with some fun time of commercials on utube but all that we watched were stopped in the middle/beginning due to inappropriate content which was hysterical in itself. Afternoon class was for the older kids and class consisted of conversational english and a well balanced blend of seriously learning and outbursts of laughter. I discovered today that it is complicated to understand the age of a Korean person for they are two years older than we would consider them to be: one year for the year you are in your mom's belly and the other is calculated when the Chinese new year begins. This is confusing to me but the notable part of this is that the 6 year olds look like 4 year olds and the 8 year olds look like 6 year olds and so on. 

    I am staying with the American instructor who has been incredibly  informative about my transformation into Korean life. One of the more peculiar components of this culture is that it is completely unacceptable to smoke as a woman in public. Now if you are in a bar it is fine, but people will be offended if you are smoking on the street- which means one is often encountering women in stairwells and restrooms puffing down a quick one. She said that it would be a typical response of a women who was caught red-handed with vile cigarette in hand to throw it down stomp it out and cough like it was the first inhale of smoke they had ever had. She also said however that it is perfectly fine for woman to drink and get as drunk as they want . .  . strange. When I inquired about female reproductive here care she said you were more likely to encounter abortions over birth control- it was cheaper. 

   In the apartment I am staying is home the teacher's two dogs: an enthusiastic Pomeranian and what she titled as a "tweeny weeny" dog (between mini and regular wiener dog size) which is funny to me for matters that should not be discussed here. 

   Tonight I will be enjoying the least authentically Korean dish imaginable: pot roast, curry and beer prepared by my American host. An eclectic beginning to say the least.