Kids and Blood

The first week of real life (or as close as you can come to it) is nothing but a blur with peaks of excitement and valleys of total fear. Albert picked me up each day so I could arrive at the 1pm starting time. The earliest he ever arrived was around 2pm.

Each day he said the same, “Thomas, I am very sorry. I am very tired from drinking.”

Often left in my room with nothing but The Hobbit to occupy my time. I would have played solitaire on my computer but it was having trouble holding a charge and I was beginning to stress as it would be my main means of communication with home. It was during these mornings of idleness that I felt bits of homesickness and the twangs of melancholy.

The school is something to see but would be hell for a migraine sufferer. The walls are all neon green, orange and yellow. The glass doors slide open with the touch of a button and a trekkie wush! which is supremely satisfying. There is a wide open reception area with two giant flat screen televisions! There are four classrooms, one of which being a computer room with several very fancy computers with Skullcandy headphones. Each room is equipped with a Smart Board and speaker system. The teacher’s office is a tiny little room with strange angles and two computers. This is my favorite place to be.

In this office is Han, myself and another girl whose name I forgot because I am an ass. In a week the other girl would be leaving to pursue her major and I would be taking over her computer. Boram sits at the computer in the reception, next to the receptionist, a funny lady who finds it absolutely hilarious when I try to say anything in Korean. There is another girl as well, a younger receptionist, who turns up at random points in the day. What she actually does at the school I can not say.

My first week involved standing next to a proper teacher and reading passages of The Little Mermaid (the original version in which Ariel actually dies and becomes foam in the sea, to little kids who would then repeat what I had said back to me. There is not much to mention here as this is the extent to which I have taught. I don’t talk to kids, I talk at them.

I did, however, meet the three boys. If they weren’t so hilarious they would have been kicked out of school a long time ago.

I stood next to Han and watched the Little Mermaid Lesson go from simple recital to one or all of the boys standing up and punching each other, dancing or simply opening the classroom door and running away. At one point, all stood up and switched seats. If you try to give them a quiz, they will cheat. Try and stop one of them and the other two will just walk out the door while you are not looking. Bad teacher that I am, I can’t help but laugh.

This happened a good deal later (I am a week behind in this thing and am trying to get caught up for when I have the net) but it is related. I was standing in the room before Boram came in to teach and I watched the goofier of the three boys manage to tie his hands together with balloon ribbon. Take it to mind that I watched this and did nothing about it. When Boram walked in ready to teach he tried to take the papers he was given and write on them but he had somehow made some pretty solid handcuffs and could not move one hand without the other more than 3 inches away. Finally, Boram got pissed off and had to cut them off with scissors. I, meanwhile, could not stop laughing.

One morning, instead of taking me to school Albert took me to the hospital. I knew this was coming but I didn’t much appreciate being hoodwinked. Here, I was given my check-up to complete my paperwork. We started off with an x-ray of my chest. From there we followed a line on the ground to a room where I was weighed, measured and given a blood pressure test. Another line led us to a room where they would take some blood.

The first attempt to find a vein did not work. The young guy, perhaps an intern or some kind of psycho, asked if I felt faint and then tried again. Despite his efforts of simply wiggling the needle around he couldn’t get any blood to come shooting out like he obviously wanted to see. At this point the called over a girl who took her turn at jabbing me and tried to make small talk about the Red Sox.

“Success!” she said like she had just won a carnival game.

After this I had to pee in a cup and try and hold swabs on my arm to keep blood from getting on my work shirt all at the same time. After which I put the cup in the wrong place and had to watch my boss walk around with a cup of my piss for a while until he got it all sorted out.

Eventually he bought me food and I told him that we were almost even for the stabbing and the blood on my shirt.

Read more...

On Dogs and Alcohol

The next day I got lost.

It was bound to happen as it always does. When I moved to Beacon Hill I managed to get all turned around in the brownstones for two hours before I found my way back to Somerset St. I was going to meet Larry from Cheonan at Starbucks in Cheongju and there we would have a reunion neither of us thought would ever happen. Larry found Starbucks with no trouble. I never had a chance.

 

Starbucks, it turns out, was in Uptown while I thought it was in Downtown. This mistake didn’t make much of a difference because I couldn’t find Downtown to begin with. I walked for an hour or more until the people all disappeared and the trendy shops were replaced with dirtier streets and shambled stores.

Being lost in your own country is embarrassing, but being lost in Korea on your third day can be panic inducing. I managed to get so jumbled about that before I knew it I couldn’t even find my way back to where I had come from. I walked and walked until I was pouring sweat in the humidity and more or less wanted to cry.

Eventually I came to the main gates of Chunbuk University. Remembering that Downtown was situated off of the University, I walked a half mile in either direction but never found Downtown. Finally, I plopped myself down against the gates and told Larry that I would not be moving any further or else I might be wandering my way into a North Korean Gulag. If he wanted to hang out then he was going to have to try and find me.

Larry found me in all of 5 minutes. He was a sight to see after not seeing him since my old place at 24 Proctor , and what’s more he was decked out in leather and riding an old black motorcycle. It was good to see him; after all, he was the one who convinced me to pack up and head to Korea.

Together we walked to Uptown as it was the only place we knew the general direction of. It was a long way and it was humid as hell. I would have taken my jacket off if I hadn’t been sweating like a tweeker. We wandered the markets that we came across; almost hidden in alleys. They reminded me of the markets I found while wandering about Mexico: dreary and far off the tourist path but vital arteries of culture. The first was tiny and soon spit us back onto the main road, but the second was something to see.

It was one main throughway on a dingy street. It was dark and a little bit dank but there were so many people! Vendors sold everything: Bugs, crops, sand shrimp that jumped from their baskets, the ugliest fish I had ever seen and bags and bags of this and that. We continued on down the main path until we came at last to a live market.

If people were speaking around us I no longer remember. There were the squawks of chickens and the calls of roosters. One vendor had pens and pens of farm birds, while another had a collection of ducks sitting in tiny wire cages. Another sold rabbits and everybody sold eggs. If only I had my camera. If that was all that was at the market I would have left happy and satisfied. As it was we came into the last stretch and Larry broke our silence.

“Yep, there’s the dog.”

I had heard rumors of this, but I didn’t really believe them, but there was the proof right there. First, it was just cuts of formless meat beneath clouded glass, but finally we came to a few stalls that had de-furred or skinned dogs hanging like sausages in a butcher shop.

It is hard to look down on a culture that you do not understand, and I don’t, but there is something sacred about dogs. Whatever I have ever heard about the historic relationship between man and canine was that it was generally a mutually beneficial sort of thing; but here, there was nothing beneficial going on for Fido who now dangled dead from a chain.

I asked and Larry told me that they got many of the dogs from China as it was illegal in Korea and had been since Seoul hosted the Olympics, but it apparently was not enforced. Still, even he was surprised to see so many openly hanging or laying about.

It was a sad sight to be seen by somebody who misses his dog.

Still, life goes on and I am just a visitor to this place in the end. We wandered for a long time. We passed through Uptown, and through the street with the animal-people and microphones and sound systems and I was once again finding myself dizzy as we walked through the thousands. It seems that always we are walking against the crowd here.

We ate a good lunch in a food court. I had spicy pork, rice, kimchi and soup until Larry informed me that it was essentially squid broth and the once odd flavor and funny little chunks became disgusting. We walked back to the general direction of my place.

I would like to say I went and got my camera and took a bunch of photos, or that Larry and I went and had a cultural outing. I would like to say all of these things but we didn’t do any of them. Like most of my Suffolk friends, the original bond between Larry and I had a high proof. We went to one dark and smoky local bar, then to another where we watched Korean soap operas and ate a potato sampler and drank Cass beer and soju. We ended up at a joint called Vons that had the most wonderful chicken, though I have no idea where it is anymore, where we had one last pitcher. Actually, I had one glass and could not drink any more and poor Larry drank the rest of it.

That was the end of the night.

Read more...

Uptown and Downtown

I woke with a hangover on my second day in Korea and began to wonder what the hell I was doing here.

I dug the Korean cell phone I had been given at some point the night before out of the disaster that was my room and checked my text messages. The first was from Albert, saying that from now on we were family. The second was from Larry calling me a bitch for not coming over the night before.

Sometime after noon, I was met by Han and Boram who had been tasked with keeping me entertained for the day as I had no internet and no TV. Together we three walked into daytime Cheongju and I became aware of just how not small this town was.

The Rink in Uptown

There are two extremely happening places in this town, both centering around the universities of the area. First, we took a cab to Uptown. Uptown is dominated by a river and a park. The river cuts the city in two like a muddy Charles. Dotted along the river are sets of exercise equipment free to the public like some sort of South Beach perversion. For the most part the equipment served as very lackluster jungle gyms for little kids. Along the river bank is a giant blacktop rink that is perpetually overloaded with kids through adults on wheels of all manners. There is a little stand at which one can rent anything from a two wheeled skateboards and roller blades to bicycles. A couple hundred people with questionable balance and skill is something to see.

Spanning both shores of the river is a foot bridge that resembles the rib cage of a giant fish. One side of the bridge is red while the other is blue but the ribs do not meet in the middle.


“This,” Han tells me, “is a unity bridge. There are many through out Korea.”

The Unity Bridge of Cheongju.

The idea is that the bridge will not be completed and the two colors will not unite in the middle until the country is finally reunited with its brother in the North. Given recent events, this means that it will probably never happen. Near the far end of the bridge and across a path hangs a banner with the unaware photos of the sailors of the Cheonan; all killed by a torpedo that most likely came from the North. As it is, tensions are high and open war is always a possible reality.

We continued on until we were in the main part of uptown. It was overwhelming. Once you turned off of a road you were in a pedestrian-only street that looked like Newbury St. and Downtown Crossing on crack. Thousands of people walking this way and that. People in animal costumes beckoned you to whatever they were selling. Music from loudspeakers and girls in costumes yelling into microphones. At the end of the street there was an open-air fashion show! So much black hair and pale skin coming my way that I began to feel dizzy as I cut through them.

This was the first time I truly felt like a foreigner in a strange land and it will not be the last.

We passed street food stalls selling everything you have ever seen on No Reservations or Bizarre Foods. Smoke of a thousand different smells saturated the air, and everywhere I looked everyone was dressed in the hippest clothes. I was wearing jeans and a Star Wars t-shirt.

A few streets later we were sitting down to lunch. Kraze Burger. One would think it would be pronounced Crazy Burger, or at least phonetically, but there are apparently invisible accents on the a and e that makes it sound like Krahzay Burger.

What do Koreans like to eat when they are not eating fermented and pickled vegetables? Burgers and chili cheese fries. The only thing that is really worth mentioning here (I didn’t really plan on writing about cheeseburgers and fries in Korea) is that everyone ate their burgers with a fork and a knife. This is something I failed to notice until I had ketchup and mayonnaise all over my face. Actually, writing this reminds me of the time Hadley ate a hamburger and somehow got mustard in his hair. Thought I would share because it makes me happy. Sorry Hadley.

We sat in that place for quite a while talking and getting to know each other until it was decided that we would go to the movies at the cinema next door.

I do not recommend Clash of the Titans. I am happy to say that it was not depressing; my first night in college involved my roommate Kiel showing us SLC Punk and it bummed me out for like a week. What it lacked in depressing-ness it made up for in being a solidly horrendous flick.

After the movie we headed downtown, which was closer to my neck of the woods. A short taxi ride (which are insanely cheap here) and we were walking in the tangled streets of the Chunbuk district, named for Chunbuk University. Boram used to go to school here, and she was happy to take us on a stroll through the campus to the little pond she liked. The sun was setting and already college drunks had populated the far side of the pond. It was Saturday, after all, and some things are universal.

Downtown was a bit dirtier than uptown. It wasn’t down trodden by any means, but it was obvious that it catered to college students looking for cheap thrills and cheaper booze. Each street had bars offering everything from hole-in-the-ground dives to places advertising high-style beer (whatever the hell that is). Along with the propane fires of food vendors, the night was lit by game stalls. For 500W (about 50 cents), Han and Boram had me pull a tiny stub of paper out of a hundred other stubs in the hopes that I would win a little rabbit. What I would do with a rabbit had I won was beyond me but it didn’t come to that as I won a bouncy ball.

Finally, we stopped at a lounge called Seduce. It was a multi-floor place with no light, offering the standard food and drink. Here, we ordered drinks and a buffalo chicken salad.

It is funny how a familiar drink can make you feel a little bit more at home (and at ease) when you can recognize absolutely nothing around you. Thank-you Jack Daniels; I appreciate your friendship.

We talked for a long time. I asked questions about the school I would be working at with them and they put me at ease. The school, KHS, was new. My worries that I would be teaching a dozen or more kids were, despite the attempts of Albert, not going to happen anytime soon. In total 15 kids attended the Hagwon and the biggest class size was only three. The relief this brought me was immense.

“Generally,” Boram said as she picked at the salad, “the kids are very nice. They will have a hard time understanding you because they are young but they are nice.”

“There are three boys that are horrible though!” Said Han and they both laughed. “You will meet them anyway!”

Another round of drinks came, this time a Zombie for me, and we continued talking. Try as I might I could not eat much of the salad. I love buffalo chicken but this was not buffalo chicken. It was covered in some sort of honey mustard sauce and ranch, but this is not why I wasn’t eating.

Boram asked me why I didn’t eat much and I told her that it took me a long time to get my appetite back after I went to some place, any place, that was not my home. It is lame, I know, but I have a tendency to get extremely homesick. Call me a wuss, call me a momma’s boy, call me anything but it is what happens to me. At this point I must say that I was doing pretty well, all things considering. I had not been able to speak to my family or my girlfriend since I had arrived but I felt…. OK. I felt better than I thought I would. Besides, after eating what I ate at home I was in no danger of using my fat reserves all in one day and starving to death.

“Thomas,” Boram said, “we want you to know that we know how you feel. We have both gone away to another country for a year to learn English so if you ever need to talk, please talk to us.”

“Yes,” added Han, “I went to Canada for one year and the two things that I could not handle and missed too much was my mom, my mom and food, ha!”

Here the night ended, or rather here my night with them ended. They walked me to a PC Bang (a place to rent super-powered gaming computers by the hour in a room full of WOW addicts) and I finally sent word home that I was OK.

So, to my room I went, and I did feel OK.

Read more...

On that First Night

What happened when I stepped off of the bus was a whirl wind. I was promptly rushed by three Korean girls shouting my name. Before I could say “hello” my luggage was taken from me and I was soon in a car driving into the Asian night.

There were questions. My god, were there questions. How old was I? Did I have a girlfriend? How long have we been together? Did I have a pet? How many? Did I have any brothers or sisters? What was her name and how old was she and what was her boyfriend‘s name? How old was I? And so on and so forth.

Apparently I am 27 in Korea. It is a bit daunting and I am not entirely sure how they come up with the number. I understand I am born at one year, but where the second year comes from I have yet to be able to understand. Either way I do not like it so much.

We drove through my town, Cheongju. I was told by Larry that it was a small town, but this apparently is only by Korean standards. The streets were jammed with cars and people. Every now and again a scooter would leave the road and cut through the sidewalk as though it were another lane. The night was black, but street level was a whir with florescent stores and neon signs. It was something out of Vegas.

Of my captors, two of them spoke English enough for me to communicate with ease. The one who sat next to me as I stared through the window was Han and the girl in the passenger seat was Boram. The driver, who smiled the entire time with this maniac grin as though she was enjoying my shock like no tomorrow, was the school director’s wife. I still do not know her name.

I was brought to a home goods store. It’s name I do not remember but it was something of an entire Walmart put into the space of a large CVS. There, regardless of any protest I was bought a bunch of stuff I was not expecting and probably would never use.

Here is the short list:
Towels
A dozen eggs
Some sort of instant soup
Two quarts of milk that looked like they came from a designer store

Mandarin oranges

Banannas
Shampoo made out of black beans -enough of which to last me the entire year
A toaster
Beef jerky
8 cans of Budweiser because apparently I exude alcoholism

My shower head.

Shortly after I was brought to my apartment. Through Han, the director’s wife told me that I would be here for only a few days as it was not very close to the school and she wanted me to have a nicer place. So, luggage in tow I stepped through the door to see what I was in for.

Upon walking in there was a tiny kitchen nook. It had a sink, cabinets and a gas range. Up a raised step and through sliding, foggy-glassed doors was the main living space.

Korean Lesson Number One: Do not, even in your own living area, walk in with shoes on. You might start another Korean War. Even before the soles of my shoes (actually they are the shoes of my old roommate Hadley that should have been tossed in the Best Buy dumpsters before we even drove to Florida) hit the floor I was pulled back as though I were about to step on a landmine.

So, in dirty socks I stepped into my temporary abode. Indulge your eyes in the fabulous photos.

My very masculine room.

Perhaps, it is nothing to write the folks about, but I have a certain soft spot for places that remind me of college dorms, and I quite like having my own little place to call my own so I was happy. Also, I find wearing pants to be a bother.

In my fantasy, this was where we all parted ways for the night. I would be left to unpack, calm my mind with one or all of the cans of beer and get to bed at a decent hour. I would wake the next day and confront the crippling homesickness that I knew was hiding behind fatigue and jet lag. That, however is not how it happened.


Again, I found myself in the car watching the neon night pass me by. We finally stopped at a wide open restaurant whose name I never knew. They asked if I was hungry, I replied that no, I was fine; but of course it didn’t matter one bit.


I was beginning to understand what Bilbo felt after his unexpected party; much planning and concern of things happening involving yourself with no say either way (errr, yes that was a reference to The Hobbit).


Barbecue is big in Korea, and barbecue restaurants are the place to be. Do not be fooled though, you do all of the cooking yourself. We sat at a round table, in the middle of which was a grate covering charcoal. Above the pit was a long hose that sucked the smoke and deposited it god knows where.


The waiter brought over the standard yet overwhelming collection of sides, as well as a plate of what looked to be three enormous slabs of bacon. The bacon was tossed onto the heat and soon the place was sizzling with the smell of fat man’s heaven.


We spoke for awhile. I told them that I had never been away from home for longer than a month, and that it was hard for me to leave but that it was important to travel because otherwise the far parts of this world seem irrelevant.


As we munched on the meat and the sides and I demonstrated my almost insulting chopstick abilities, I couldn’t help but feel a little fortunate that I had ended up with this lot. They seemed like genuinely warm and welcoming people. Even the director’s wife, who spoke no English whatsoever, seemed extremely concerned of my wellbeing and happiness. For the first time in my life, I put in the effort to be upfront, social and talkative without being awkward and quiet for two weeks before I said anything. It was 11pm and I felt fulfilled. I was ready to pack it in and call my first night a huge success.


Then the school director walked in.


Albert.


Albert is a slick dresser. He was wearing a shiny dark grey suit with some pretty hip hair. His age I would put at somewhere between 25 and 40 something, though I know he is closer to the latter. He sat down next to me and we talked for a while. I was as bubbly as I could manage after being up for the better part of 48 hours and flying as far away from home as I could possibly get, let alone having a business dinner on top of it all.


At some point Albert started ordering beer. Pouring duty fell on Boram. We had a round or two before the soju came into play. Soju, a vodka kind of drink, is drank like water here and Albert had it decided that I could not end my first night without at least a taste if the stuff.


Perhaps it was fatigue and perhaps it was the lack of real substance, but the drink hit me and it hit me quick. Before I knew it I was feeling the warmth of a fairly decent buzz. Soon, I began to ramble and talk as though we were all old chums. A round or two later and I was laughing and laughing as Albert smoked his leaf-thin cigarettes. Poor Boram, who had been pouring everybody’s drinks, laughed and told Albert something in Korean which amounted to the likes of: “Albert, look at this poor bastard. Here he is on his first night delirious and drunk off it all.”


“Thomas,” Albert said at 2am, “I am very happy with my first impression.” He then went on to confess to me that he liked to drink, and that we should drink often and that he was very generous.


And so, that is how I found myself at my little apartment, completely hammered on my first night in South Korea.

Read more...

Los Angeles to Seoul

The flight from LAX to Korea killed me. It went along without incident but it went along sickeningly slow. Despite utter exhaustion, sleep never found me and my fantasy of falling asleep and virtually skipping the 13 hour trip never happened. Instead, I watched Avatar in all of it’s glory: on a 9 inch screen with fuzzy headphones.


The plane was stuffy and cramped; and again I was popping pills like a fiend. In an attempt to keep our internal clocks from completely breaking, the airline forced us to close the blinds as we were flying in perpetual sunlight. Towards the end I was beginning to feel a bit panicky and more than a little claustrophobic but I am proud to say that I kept it together.

It was heaven when I landed. I disembarked and followed the crowds, hoping they were all going to the same general place as I. They were and I soon found myself standing in the immigration line.

Sad as it may be, one major appeal of traveling is the stamp you get each time you cross that border. It is something of a notch in your bedpost type of deal, but I have become quite proud of my stamp collection; despite the lack of a Greece stamp. The addition of an official Republic of Korea visa… my god it might be frame worthy when I come back.

I was met outside of the baggage claim by a finely dressed Korean guy who called himself Mr. Moran. Moran was a driver who had apparently been hired by my recruiter, Steven, to find me and buy me a bus ticket to my destination of Cheongju and sit with me until I was safely on the bus. Perhaps I was a flight risk?

The bus ride from Incheon to Cheongju was 4 hours long according to Mr. Moran, but only 2.5 according to the kid from Hartford on the bus. If I were anything short of exhausted, I would have appreciated the idea of traveling to Asia and instantly meeting a fellow New Englander; but I was exhausted and the humor was lost on me.

Whether Hartford gave me his name or not, I do not remember. At that point I had been up since Wednesday morning Eastern Standard and it was now Friday evening Korean time. I tried over and over to calculate the hours in my head but simple math skills had been lost a day ago. I didn’t know where or when I was. What’s more is that in this state I was starting to see things; not an “I see dead people” kind of see things but on the airplane I was pretty sure I was seeing flocks of birds at 30,000 feet.

Hartford, it turns out had just returned from a Visa run to Japan and was heading back to his second year of teaching.

“I hope you know Korean,” he said, “because where we are going nobody knows English.”


Damn, I knew I forgot something.

But before my head could slump over in exhaustion induced and general un-preparedness aided dread, Hartford told me that Cheongju was actually a pretty dynamic place with its array of neon and ancient fortress walls.

Hartford was right about the neon and the 2.5 hours in any case, because 2.5 hours on the dot the bus pulled into a neon filled lane and stopped.

“Well, this is us,” Hartford said. “Man, I am sure I will see you at the bars.” He then told me where the expat bar section was and I forgot immediately. I stepped off the bus and was virtually assaulted by my welcoming committee.

Read more...

Boston to Los Angeles

From 30,000 Feet


I spent the last minutes of freedom, before the alarms went off to wake people only feigning sleep, wondering what the hell I had been thinking. It didn’t feel real. It felt like stuff was just happening; my luggage seemed to pop out of nowhere and packed itself (actually my mom and sister packed for me while I Skype-smoked a cigarette with Hadley) and an E-2 Visa appeared in my passport. After all this waiting and all of these delays, I almost thought it would never really happen. But it did, despite how hard I fought it in the end.

Early on in this process I had told my parents that I did not want them to take me to the airport. I am not one for extended so-longs and my will to go through the security line has all but been destroyed when I looked over my shoulder to see my mom all teary eyed and my dad smiling at me.


At one point I was actually going to take a limo to the airport but it didn’t happen. Instead, I found myself trying to rush past my sobbing mother and into the car as my Dad waited idling in the dark.


By the way, when I say sobbing, I actually mean balling her eyes out as though one of her beloved cats had finally jumped into the oven. It was R-O-U-G-H. It almost pushed me past my limit, but I choked most back and was in the car and on the Mass Pike; flying to uncertainty and fear.

My father drove me and for my sake he keeps thing cool.


Now, I am not a religious guy by any means. When it comes to organized churches and afterlives I just sort of try and do my best and hope that things turn out ok. My prayers are thoughts to remember those who have gone to the great adventure before me. I rarely ask God for anything as I am not sure I am comfortable with the idea of leaving a lot of my life in the hands of something that probably has better things to do.


I prayed in the car. I begged in the car. I pleaded, as though for clemency and my life, that I wouldn’t be a line from an Alanis Morisette song. I pleaded to be panic free (being abandoned in Mexico and left to wander alone has a tendency to give you panic attacks) and that the drugs wouldn’t lead to me being dragged off the plane naked and screaming (totally ripped that off from Brandon). Hey, it can’t hurt right?


We pulled up to the terminal and soon my bags were sitting on the curb. My Dad stepped out and wished me luck. His hand patting my back was nearly the end of it all. I often think that it would be easier for me to leave if I had family issues, but I don’t. In fact, over the past several months I had stopped taking these little insignificant moments with my family for granted. I knew right then that I would miss a lot: walking my dog, playing with my cats, my sister, trying to get my mom to walk my dog and drinking brandy with my father in Manville.


Deep inside I told myself that it would all be there when I came back. I grabbed my bags and walked through the sliding doors and glanced back as the Cavalier drove off into the rising sun. My idleness was over; now was the time for living.


The airport could have gone a bit smoother. I could have looked at my itinerary and saw that I was flying United and perhaps would have been spared the 30 minute wait standing in the American line. This would have also spared me the seemingly half mile walk from terminal B to terminal C.


If I knew I had to take my belt off for security then I would have buttoned my fly.


So, I am writing this from 30,000 feet in the air, about 35 minutes from L.A. and I am happy to say I am, thus far, panic free. In fact, I almost enjoyed the flight. Four of the 6 hours were spent in a Benzo delirium in which I could not play a game of solitaire in less than 45 minutes. I came out of it right as The Middle started to play -I mean it’s no Modern Family but beggars can’t be choosers. Also, Modern Family better be around when I get back


One flight down. One monster of a flight to go.

Read more...

It's About Time

After much delay and the loss of too many brain cells I am in Korea.  Much much more will be put up just as soon as I can get the internet to come through my apartment window.  Really, I mean a lot: I have no internet and no television which means I have been doing nothing but writing.

Read more...

Attempt One

Wednesday afternoon I found myself at DVD Stop.  If you are familliar with Game Stop then you get the idea: buy DVD, watch DVD, sell it for a fraction of the origanal cost, buy new DVD.  I was there with my friend Ricky to return my old roomate Hadley's DVDs. 

To say that Hadley had a bit of a DVD addiction would be an understatement.  We arrived with three full moving boxes of DVD's and that was the second batch.  It took the poor guy at the cash register 45 minutes to shuffle through each box and come up with a price.

In the meantime, I called up the Korean Consul to schedule an appointment for my visa interview.  The woman on the other end of the phone was harder to understand whan Steven, my recruiter.  What I managed to get out of the conversation was two things: firstly that the visa was going to cost me money, $45 to be specific; secondly that I needed another transcript!

I had been lucky when my first transcript was rendered useless when it was opened in Korea and I had a spare.  I ordered the spare not for backup, but so I could take a look at my grades.  They thwarted that plan and I sent the spare to Korea for $50.  Now to find out that I need to order a third for my visa application interview, mon dieu! 

So I am delayed again, hopefully for the last time.  Again I ordered two sealed transcripts and they are due Monday, at whch point i will make another attempt to set up a visa appointment.  Now to scrounge up $45.

Read more...

On Progress and Planes

At 3AM I recieved confirmation from my recruiter, Steven, that after spending another $50 to ship my Suffolk transcripts to Korea that I finally was the proud owner of a visa confirmation number.  That's one step closer to getting on the thousand ton, magical flying machine.  Tomorrow I must call the Korean consol and arrange an appointment, after which I will have a new sticker in my passport saying that I am allowed to work in the country.  Missing the point, I know, but I hope this is one bad-ass sticker.

So, one step closer to leaving everything and everyone I know for a whole year.  I began this process as a scared little Kid.  Larry, my friend from Suffolk and long-standing drinking buddy convinced me that teaching in South Korea was the thing to do.  Two weeks later he was in Cheonan, telling me about the adventure of it all, and how I had to come and do it. 

I started the process a long time ago with little hope that I would actually finish it, but here I am.

This process has taken me so much longer than I was expecting that my fears have begun to calm down a bit.  I am still scared, mind you, but I am no longer completely mortified of the prospect of spending a year abroad. 
This sounds stupid, but the part that I was (and to a certain extent still am) fearing the most was the airplane.  To say that I dislike planes would be an understatement.  Here is an example: I drove to Florida with my old roomate Hadley.  The way down was one of the funnest things I have ever done.  I had the option to fly back home but I turned it down and took a train.  That is right: I took a 27 hour train to avoid 3 hours in an airplane. 

I went to Mexico to do a workcamp once and it ended badly.  For those of you who follow the link i want you to know that the vast majority of workcamps work out fine and that this was a fluke.  To make a long story that will be told elsewhere very short: I arrived in Mexico City, took an 8 hour bus to a place called Tecpan de Galeana, spent the night watching heavily armed men drive around in trucks and fending off cockroaches while trying to conceal $1000+ worth of camera equipment.  Nobody ever picked me up.  When the sun came out I hopped the first bus that came and ended up in Acapulco.  I salvaged the week or so I was there, but there was a certain stress that was building in my mind that I didn't even notice.  After I made my way back to Mexico City and got into the plane I was so happy it was over.  I was seated next to a couple of kids on their way to Chicago, where I would be put on a plane home to Boston.  I smiled and drifted to sleep.

I woke up to what I now know to be a full blown panic attack.  I couldn't breathe but in gasps.  My arms and legs were tingling and felt as though novacaine was being pumped through my veins.  My vision was jumping as though there was a very powerful strobe light infront of my face.  And my mind.  I was sure I was dying.  I was having a heart attack.  I was accepting this but my thoughts became so irrational.  I was positive that I could feel the back of the plane beginning to fall from the sky.  I looked at the kids and wondered how much their parents would have to pay for therapy when this was over.  It passed in a few moments but came back again and again.  It took all my might not to scream and cry.  To be sure, that moment is and will remain the worst experience that I have ever had.

I passed out as soon as I hit the bench of my connecting airport and I walked onto the next airplane as though I were walking down that last grey mile to the gas chamber. 

I was happy to be home, but something was horribly wrong.  I kept having panic attacks.  I had trouble driving or being in a small room, or anywhere with quiet.  I couldn't go out to eat at a restaurant.  The only time I didn't feel on edge was at the place I worked at.  Finally the doctor gave me some pills and I googled the hell out of what was happenning to me.  Knowing what happens physiologically during a panic attack is more helpful than any medication.

In the end, I don't think a plane caused what happened; it must have been the stress I kept bottled up, but it left me with a foul taste for flying. 

That was a long way for me to say that I really do not like flying.  I don't like taking off, I don't like descending, and I certainly hate turning.  If I had my way the pilot would inform us of EVERY move he or she made. 

But I am ready for this flight, or at least I am as ready as I can be courtesy of a hefty bottle of Lorazepam.

Read more...

It's All Just Killing Time

There was a hang-up in my visa application process.  Steven, the voice in Korea who has found and secured me a job in Cheongu Si, tells me that "a woman has opened my transcript" at the school; and he says "woman" as though it means something, that I should laugh and say "Oh those women."  In order to be given a working visa in South Korea, the government must receive an official and sealed transcript.  The transcript I sent is now a useless piece of junk.

This whole process has taken so long it seems.  I was originally to leave in January.  Most jobs require only two weeks of notice, but I was the only staff photographer at the magazine at which I worked and we hit shelves monthly, so I pushed my date to February and gave my notice. 
I had a lucrative month in February.  Uncle Sam sent me more money than I was expecting.  The magazine sent me my editorial check and a whopper of an art department check courtesy of the cover I shot; and a client paid me a good chunk of the balance she owed me.  I would have been rolling; I would have hired a maid, a chef and a chauffeur. 

I was delayed again.  There was a miscommunication between the recruiting company I was working with and myself.  Larry, my friend in Cheonan set me up with Steven and here we are.

I ran out of money weeks ago. 

This idle time has given me time for thought.  I have had many jobs.  Got time to kill, me too; here is a list:

1) Camp Counselor- I was awkward and shy towards younger kids and the older ones asked if I smoked weed and if I could score them some.  I was a gym teacher despite the fact that I did crew because I lack the coordination for anything ball or goal related.  Remember the kid in Fever Pitch?  He says something to Jimmy Fallon like: "You love the Red Sox but do they ever love you back?"  I had him.

2) Caddy- I caddied at one of the most expensive private clubs in the country which is located in one of the worst parts of MA.

3) Cashier at BJ's- I was written up 8 times.  I quit before they had the chance to fire me.

4) Panera Bread- A Cuban man told me if I forgot how to make an Italian combo one more time he would cut off my hand.  I also threw a fork in a vat of coffee thinking it was full of dishwashing soap (it was brown?!)  I was banished to the hell of washing dishes, albeit very poorly, until I quit.  If you ever ate at my Panera Bread then you should know I often did not clean silverware, though sometimes I would just throw it away instead of dealing with it; so its 50 / 50 whether you ate somebody elses spit.

5) Handyman at Shropshire Curiosity- Crazy old bastard had me cleaning out medical equipment and cleaning dog poop for weeks.  I made $6 an hour under the table for a month before he payed me.  He took out taxes himself and I made $100.

6) Warehouse at Sears Retail Outlet- I got payed to hang out with my friend and screw around.  I routinely ate at least four microwavable burritos per shift.

7) Movie Theatre Usher- The theatre was overstaffed.  It was possible to watch 1 - 2 full movies per shift. 

8) Mail Room Clerk- Suffolk University's mailroom is responsible for most of my University friendships.  Between cigarette brakes and reading everybody elses post cards we did homework.

9) Beacon Hill Times- I took photos of Beacon Hill.  Major issues included vandalism and public urination commited by Suffolk Students including myself.  Lesson in irony learned.

10) Dock worker- After blowing all of my money on a weekend in New York City to see my friends Castine play I worked for two weeks unloading a truck to set up a new store.  It was pleased to go home every night covered in dirt.

11) Office I- I was a temp in an office after graduating.  It was nothing like the show.

12) Magazine I- Took photos of rich people and wrote about things nobody in my locale could ever afford.  I did get invited to go to a yacht party with swag.

13) Mt. Wachusett- I took photos at the summit.  My shift began at 9am and ended at 3pm.  I would arrive promptly at 9:30am completely hung over and leave no later than 2pm.  Ever.

13) Office II- I was hired and promoted at the office.  I was on the quality assurance team and spent my days professionaly stocking people and reading medical records and death certificates.  The program was called Prescription Advantage.  Every person calling up to complain said it was "no Advantage to them," and thought they were beyond clever.

14) Tree Planter- In exchange for free food and lodging I planted trees and put up a fence in Greece.  My shoe was eaten by a dog on the second day.

15) Catering Company- I used my love for food to make a living serving food to other people.  A love for food does not translate to any skill.  I discovered a love for dishwashing jobs.  There is something zen about an industrial dishwasher.

16) Waiter at an Upscale Retirement Home- I worked with a huge number of foreign students from a nearby university.  One, my friend Jorge tried to say a little boy was so cute that he "wanted to steal him."  His actual words were that he "wanted to rape him."  I once put a ton of vinnegar into Jorge's drink to prove that I will be 10 forever.

17) Waiter at Upscale Restaurant- I try my luck at fine dining.  I am yelled at for a solid 20 minutes for not having enough pens.  I go to the bathroom and never come back.

18) Album Designer- I work with the semi-famous Carol Lundeen getting rid of bags and crows feet. 

19) Dance Competiton Photographer- I took thousands of photos of the same dance routines over and over to be sold at prices that surpassed my salary.

20) Magazine- I work for a long time as a music reviewer and staff photographer.  I get to interview many death metal celebs.  I also get to interview Trouble Andrew (boyfriend of Santigold) Reuben Langdon (former Power Ranger and lead motion capture of such indie films as Avatar) and Andrew W.K. (Lets get a Party Started).

21) I will lump all of my freelance together.  I shot a lot of bands, and weddings and did some work for a national publication called Next American City that nobody but me has ever heard of. 

For those of you who made it this far I am sorry but I am unable to compensate you for wasted time.  Soon, I will leave and soon this will get interesting.

Read more...