Same, Same
Friday, January 20
The area looks the same. I am in Newton, MA. On the horizon I can see the fuzzy Prudential Center and the rest of the Boston landscape shrouded in an unnatural winter fog.
I park in the same spot as before. The last time I was here I managed to fuck up the walking directions to the Korean Consulate General of New England. Now that I know exactly where the building stands, I feel like a moron.
Directions
Park on Washington Street (literally park anywhere on Washington Street).
Walk towards all of the buildings.
Find the ONE ENORMOUS BUILDING.
Walk in.
Simple as that.
Last year (a little over a year ago, actually closer to two) I walked past the building and looked like a moron: it was cold and I had a handful of papers and was dressed to the T.
This year I have a handful of papers and am sporting a horribly shaved face (read: half a beard) but I walk right into the building. On the second floor, amongst the doors labled "Fenway Pharmaceutical" and other such things, I find blocky Korean characters. I walk in and tell the lady behind the glass that I am here to apply for an E2 Visa.
Last time I had to sit down for an hour and fill out the paperwork. Looking back on it, I am suprized that I made it into Korea at all; I had no idea as to what address to put down and my Visa sponsor ended up being a combination of my actual employer and my recruiter. I sat through an interview that I wasn't prepared for but its goal seemed only to determine my pedophile status.
I passed.
I walk in, hand my application and $45 under the glass. Off to the side I hear Korean spewing from the television. Korean News. Over the past 8 months I have missed the crescendo and stoccato of spoken Korean: the frenetic pace with which they say absolutely everything. Even now the sounds from the TV are over my head. Still, all the "-sseyo's" and "-mnida's" make me smile. In an ideal world I would understand more. The anchor says the number "four". I understand this and it is a victory.
I effing own "four".
Fact is, last time I was here they were talking about the recently sunk Cheonan. Months later the sinking would be officially attributed to North Korea. This blame would lead to one of two incidents in which the North's verbal vomit led to my school warning me to get ready to bail: a modified zombie contigency plan. The second time, Tim's birthday, was a bit more than verbal.
Nothing of the sort this time. Kim Jong Il is dead.
The woman tells me to pick up my visa on Monday. I look at her and ask her if that is it; I am aiming to impress and am wearing a shawl. A shawl, for Christ' sake.
Yes.
I wish I knew I could have mailed it.
Read more...
I park in the same spot as before. The last time I was here I managed to fuck up the walking directions to the Korean Consulate General of New England. Now that I know exactly where the building stands, I feel like a moron.
Directions
Park on Washington Street (literally park anywhere on Washington Street).
Walk towards all of the buildings.
Find the ONE ENORMOUS BUILDING.
Walk in.
Simple as that.
Last year (a little over a year ago, actually closer to two) I walked past the building and looked like a moron: it was cold and I had a handful of papers and was dressed to the T.
This year I have a handful of papers and am sporting a horribly shaved face (read: half a beard) but I walk right into the building. On the second floor, amongst the doors labled "Fenway Pharmaceutical" and other such things, I find blocky Korean characters. I walk in and tell the lady behind the glass that I am here to apply for an E2 Visa.
Last time I had to sit down for an hour and fill out the paperwork. Looking back on it, I am suprized that I made it into Korea at all; I had no idea as to what address to put down and my Visa sponsor ended up being a combination of my actual employer and my recruiter. I sat through an interview that I wasn't prepared for but its goal seemed only to determine my pedophile status.
I passed.
I walk in, hand my application and $45 under the glass. Off to the side I hear Korean spewing from the television. Korean News. Over the past 8 months I have missed the crescendo and stoccato of spoken Korean: the frenetic pace with which they say absolutely everything. Even now the sounds from the TV are over my head. Still, all the "-sseyo's" and "-mnida's" make me smile. In an ideal world I would understand more. The anchor says the number "four". I understand this and it is a victory.
I effing own "four".
Fact is, last time I was here they were talking about the recently sunk Cheonan. Months later the sinking would be officially attributed to North Korea. This blame would lead to one of two incidents in which the North's verbal vomit led to my school warning me to get ready to bail: a modified zombie contigency plan. The second time, Tim's birthday, was a bit more than verbal.
Nothing of the sort this time. Kim Jong Il is dead.
The woman tells me to pick up my visa on Monday. I look at her and ask her if that is it; I am aiming to impress and am wearing a shawl. A shawl, for Christ' sake.
Yes.
I wish I knew I could have mailed it.
