Sangdang Sanseong

Incase you are wondering, Sangdang Sanseong is not the leisurely stroll it appears to be in guide books. It’s 4.8 km seem to be vertical and it should not be attempted with only a puny chicken burger from Lotteria in your belly.

The day started off pretty poorly. Larry, who I met at the Cheongju Bus Terminal, and I asked a girl at the tourist information office how we might arrive at the 400 year old fortress-on-the-mountain via city bus.

The Golden Pavilion.
Cheongju

“No direct route,” she said. She then said something neither of us caught and wrote down two bus numbers, a greater than symbol and an “X”. It looked like a math equation. Either way the general idea was that Bus A would take us to Cheongju Stadium in Uptown, Bus B would take us to the fortress on the mountain: Sangdang Sanseong.

Bus A took us nowhere near Cheongju Stadium. Larry and I realized we were in trouble when we found ourselves alone and pulling into a bus station. We quickly worked out that the tourist rep had said that was caught by neither of us. The two busses were the only busses out of god knows how many that did not go to the Stadium.

So, feeling like complete and utter morons we cabbed it to the stadium and there waited for the bus that would be arriving in an hour, give or take.

The thing that is so amazing about being in a new place is that everything seems so exotic. A five minute walk took us the Golden Pavillion. Erected sometime in the 1800’s this place is something for Western eyes to behold. The entrance is guarded by fierce, fanged totem poles. Inside is a golden pagoda that stands five stories tall. What was more surprising is that the place was completely deserted save for a few dogs chained to trees whose job it seems is to scare the crap out of anyone foolish enough to pose in front of a great big bell.

Finally, we caught a break and found ourselves on a bus heading straight up a mountain. I have been on some unnerving bus rides on bigger mountains in my life, but this one was up there. The road was not built for busses, that is for sure. Whether or not the road was even built for a standard car is open for argument but regardless the way was more akin to an amusement ride than a 1000W ($1.00) city bur ride.

The Mountain Fortress.
Cheongju

The main issue is that the road follows the most direct route to the top of the mountain. Rarely is one able to sit comfortably in their seat as most often they are being flung to either side of the bus as the vehicle negotiates hairpin turns without more than a foot of breathing room. To look out any window is to see the trees coming at you only to be replaced by open air. To look out the front of the bus is just plain unsettling as it looks as though the bus is simply spinning in circles. For ten minutes we carried on like this and Larry, nudged and firm against the window, laughed as I bounced around all the while trying not to look outside. You begin to understand that maybe it wasn’t such a good time to ride on the Magic School Bus.

The bus finally pulled down a long narrow road, somehow managed a 3 point turn and let us off amidst a folk village on one side and a pond on the other. We walked until we found a small trail around the pond and decided that was as good of a place as any to begin our walk.

The beginning of the trek around the fortress is deceptive. We passed people sitting by the pond and families walking this way and that. The trail curves at the far end of the pond and doubles back and then takes you up a small incline. This was the end of the “leisurely” stroll that I was expecting.

The trail then turns and races up a very long and very steep hill. It is a courtesy that there are beams of wood laid into the earth so as to form steps but they do not help very much. We passed an elderly woman who was having a hard time of it and was trying to pull herself up the handrail.

I can only imagine Autumn.
Cheongju

At the top of the hill is the first of many views that made the sweat and blisters worth it. The valleys and hills that surround the fortress had become visible already and in the distance urban Cheongju was beginning to become visible.

Sangdang Sanseong is a fortress whose walls reach around the top of a mountain. It was built in the late 1500s and the structures themselves are incredible in that they are relics of a time that seems ancient to somebody from the States.

The way didn’t get any easier. The Lonely Planet guide book fails to mention several things. For example, nowhere do they mention turning a corner hoping to find level ground only to be faced with a fixed ropes course over a bunch of rocks at a fairly steep incline. True, the ropes weren’t really necessary as ice would not be forming at 85 degrees but neither of us were planning to take on the Hillary Step. The book doesn’t say anything about what it is like to sweat and walk up a hill that never seems to end in hiking shoes and then be passed by some jerk slacks and dress shoes.

The valleys of Cheongju.
Cheongju

Still, sweat dries and you are left cool and relieved. We sat for a long time on a couple of rocks that lay more or less at the highest point before the trail continues on back to the pond. We watched as couples, families and children ran by. The views into the valleys were simply amazing. Beyond the fortress walls were the hills, many of which were now well below us, and the smoggy city line of Cheongju and beyond.

“I’ve gotta say,” said Larry, “I didn’t expect this to be so gorgeous.”

Point for Cheongju.

Read more...

Concerning Children and the North

A few days ago I passed my One Month mark here in Korea. I will not say anything to the likes of “I never thought I would make it this far,” as that would be melodramatic and untrue. That being said, I never thought my first month abroad would go so smoothly. Homesickness has been negligible (owed majorly to the wonders of Skype) and teaching children my perverted knowledge of grammar has turned out to a heck of a lot more fun than I anticipated.

In the month that I have been here, my school has grown from 15 kids to 25. Classes are filling up (I have a class with 7 kids as opposed to a maximum of 3) and I am getting to know the kids a lot better. Also, I am becoming much less of blonde-haired enigma to them. A few of them, I would dare to say, don’t actively dislike me.

Rock, Scissors, Paper Boy (RSP Boy) has quickly become one of my favorites because he is so goofy and hyper that he has me cracking up at least once a day. His class has two other boys, all of whom seem to be friends. Each worksheet we give them become a race with correct answers always sacrificed in the name of speed. Most kids would look around with a silent satisfaction if they finished first, but he throws up his hand and shouts.

There are two kindergarten aged girls in the first class. The first calls herself Alice. She is adorable and tries so hard to understand English even if she doesn’t understand concepts. Everything spoken in English and aimed in her general direction is repeated with enthusiasm, whether you want it to be or not. Also in the class is a girl called Amy.

Amy might be the cutest little girl I have ever seen. This is what I thought for about a week. Currently, this girl is the biggest problem at the school. She will not repeat anything and generally won’t participate at all. When she feels like saying anything it comes out in the creaking voice that sounds like a possessed Danny Torrence in The Shining. And, her eyes, my god! This girl looks as though she is constantly trying to suffocate me with her mind. More than anybody, Angry Girl included, this girl straight up hates me.

There is a new group of young middle school students who come in for the last two classes of the night. They aren’t but a year older than the Three Monsters but the maturity gained in a year can be shocking. Where as most of the Three Monsters wear the same shirt every day of the week, each of these kids are impeccably dressed. Also, with the exception of two giddy girls who sit in the front (and routinely rob be of any gum I might have) nobody uses the class as a screaming match.

I can say that after a month in Korea I am much happier than I thought I would be and I am happy that I came here. But, alas, I have not been living beneath a blissful rock these past weeks and neither have you. Something wicked looms just above the smog of Seoul: North Korea.

As somebody who has followed the news of the world religiously for a VERY long time, I must say that this is a very interesting time to have come to Korea. A day into this sojourn I crossed over a symbolic bridge that beckoned for a united Korea but was flanked by the haunting faces of those that perished aboard the Cheonan. There was the façade of doubt and uncertainty then, but as of a few days ago that is all but gone.

How does one dumb down an extremely complicated situation? I don’t know. Han will make an occasional joke about my coming to Korea at a comically horrible time, but there is genuine fear mixed in. Sitting to lunch Boram admitted that in reality she was really scared that what is happening could lead to something very bad.

General consensus is that neither side would welcome open war as the results would be catastrophic for all parties. For the North war would be suicide, simple as that. Kim Jong Il and his propaganda machine aside, the North is a shamble of a country made up of a population that knows nothing but bad times. The South, much of which lies within artillery range, would be brought back to a time that they do not want to return to. It wasn’t so long ago that the Peace Corps was here and as Larry points out South Korea has come extremely far in a short time frame.

Still, there is no telling when a lunatic will finally crack and turn the South into a “sea of flames.” Earlier today the South Korean Navy began firing artillery and dropping anti-sub charges in a show of readiness. Soon, the US Navy will join them in a demonstration of brute force so as to scare the North into common sense. Earlier today, Kim Jong Il rendered an agreement to avoid trite naval clashes null and void. The North will now fire upon any ship that passes into their disputed waters.

Four North Korean submarines have vanished from radar and their whereabouts are unknown. Optimists remind us that tensions have been high before without any dire results. Pessimists point out that things have escalated beyond the norm and either Kim Jong Il will lose face and retreat or the man who was irrational before his stroke might do something rash. Posters on news forums want the nukes to fly and let the Koreas deal with their own problems.

“Dear Leader” is again in the crosshairs of the civilized world and he could be soon to lose the only “friend” he has: China. China has announced that after their own investigation they will condemn the nation that sank the Cheonan, whether or not that announcement will bring turmoil to its own border.

As it is, the South has begun to blast their own propaganda over the DMZ and will soon erect billboards whose purpose is to draw those that they might away from the cause of a dying homicidal maniac. To this, the North has promised to open fire on any billboard or loudspeaker in the DMZ.

So, I sit and watch like the rest of the world because I don’t understand it all and anyway there is nothing else to do. That being said I have decided to register with the US State Department. I’ve seen Cloverfield; I wouldn’t last a second on my own.

Read more...

Itaewon

I have been to some pretty shady places in my life but Itaewon takes the cake. I laid my head on a pair of shoes on the floor of the Grand Hyatt at 4 something in the morning and waited for sleep that would never come. It had been a long day.

It started with a 2 hour bus ride from Cheongju to Seoul. Larry sat beside me as I stared out the window after I giving up on a quick nap. The night before was spent at an outdoor bar in downtown Cheongju. Morning came too soon as it usually does after such nights.

An alley market in Seoul.

After passing beyond Cheonan the bus raced faster and faster to the northern megatropolis that I had seen in so many travel shows. The green hills and mountains that follow you always here gave way to gray buildings that had sprung from the land and cut into the yellow smog-clouds.

Seoul is a big place. Seoul is a monstrously big place. It blows the population of New York out of the water despite being dangerously close to the guns of the North. It might be fair to say that Korea is a country based around Seoul as a disproportionately huge percentage of the population lives within its limits.

After the bus dropped us off at the express terminal, Larry and I made our way to the subway. Here, not for the first time and probably not for the last, I was following Larry like a toddler on a child-leash; I was completely useless in navigation. It was the best I could to simply keep up and not get caught and swept away in the currents of black hair that rushed about us.

We boarded one train and then another that took us to our destination of Itaewon.

That evening we were to be guests of Larry’s friend Lucy who made the occasional escape from life to the Grand Hyatt that sits atop a great hill and so overlooks the city line of Seoul. On this occasion she was awaiting the arrival of her brother who had been held up in Japan.

The entrance to a market district
in Seoul.

The first sight of Itaewon is startling. On what seemed to be the main drag cutting off bustling side streets there was the blinding and jarring sight of white skin, black skin, blonde hair and every shape of eyes. Itaewon is a Mecca for expats in Seoul, and for this it is the home to some of the most dynamic scenes this peninsula has to offer.

We meandered through the main drag and everything was so familiar. In a strange sort of way, the things that we have grown accustomed to at home had become exotic to all of us now residing in Korea. I had seen McDonalds here and there, but here was a Subway and a Quizno’s right next to each other. There was an Outback Steakhouse and signs announcing the soon-to-arrive Taco Bell. No Moes, though.

The people and places of Itaewon seemed to be worth the trip alone.

We walked past Thai joints, a Mexican place and countless vendors selling everything you could ever want and stuff you could never need. There were thousands of socks and stands selling shirts that were so inappropriate that even I had trouble reading them.

We turned a corner and began to walk up the steepest hill that I had ever seen a car drive up and shortly decided that we would never make it to the Hyatt at the top. This hill, with no exaggeration, rivaled that of Mt. Wachusett at home.

If ever I was impressed by a cabbie’s driving skills, this was it. In a manual, this guy negotiated hairpin turns, uneven road levels and some pretty ridiculous graded roads that were not wide enough for two cars at once all the way up until we were let off to wander our way to a room on the 8th floor.

I have never stayed in a place like the Hyatt. I can take that statement further and say that I will probably never stay in a Hyatt. Sure, that night I would be sleeping in a Hyatt but that was as non-paying, unauthorized trespasser. Still, the place exudes of colonial retreats and unattainable wealth. On the back side of the lobby is a wall of windows that look on the eternally hazy sight of Seoul. Down a flight of stairs and through the spa are the indoor and outdoor pools.

Pools are important to me. I can and have stayed in truly horrible motels only because they had a giant hole in the ground full of chemically induced clear water. These pools: my god! Inside was a contoured and curvy pool set with rock. Outside and surrounded by deep green grass and a couple of open air lounges was a massive pool decorated with an inlaid grid beneath the water.

“Hotel Rwanda?” Larry said. It was true, you had to wonder if any working Korean in Itaewon or anywhere else ever had the means to visit a place like this.

Traditional masks in Itaewon.

Another taxi took us past a military wedding party, down the hill and let us out onto that main drag. Larry, Lucy and I wandered to dinner where three incredible hamburgers and three very stiff drinks cost about 70,000W, which doesn’t translate to anything reasonable in U.S. currency.

Nearly a year without real beef, I am told, will make you do crazy things for the taste of a genuine hamburger.

Soon after we walked for a time to be accosted every ten feet by shady men offering custom suits and leather. With the setting of the sun, we met up with a girl named Katie and were off to Incheon to greet Lucy’s brother and take a taxi back to Itaewon for a night on the town.

There is no quick way back to Itaewon and there is no cheap way back. Indeed, if we didn’t find a taxi van we would have had to pay two taxi fares, as it was the van cost nearly $100.

Itaewon changes at night. Drastically.

Cart vendors for the most part disappear, to be replaced by Soju tents and kebab stands that pollute the air with intoxicating smells of afar and florescent lights that glow in the smoky haze. With nightfall, everything genuine or Korean about this place seems to flee into the hills.

Where as Cheongju or Cheonan nights see the school teachers out and about, Itaewon is the hub of vice for US Military personnel from the base at the edge of town. They come in the hundreds and they come with determination. Hard at work and hard at play.

An alley of Itaewon.

I do not begrudge the military their fun because god know what is to come with the North threatening open war, but it is hard to think what this place might have been like before they arrived. Korea is new to the realm of developed countries and Itaewon seems to be one of those places that was forced to sell its soul for the business.

We started the night off at a crowded bar, sweating even beneath an industrial fan. While westerners mingled and flirted and tried their luck with every girl around, we played asinine drinking games that all but assured that we would not be bothered.

At 1am the place died down fast and we were suddenly left with only a handful of small groups drinking at the bar. We set off in search of another spot and soon found ourselves wandering the night.

The air was saturated by laughter, shouting and slurred speech and the ground was covered in garbage. We stopped at a hole in the wall for Turkish gyros and were bumped around on the sidewalk as we ate; we stood in the way of everyone as they rushed from one drink to the next.

We passed bars and clubs of every sort. Music blared as people in every manner of dress and lack thereof passed us by. On the recommendation of two questionable girls we walked to the second floor of a building and walked into a bar that was barely worth the circle around the tables we made before we walked right back out again.

We passed through doors flanked by armed men in utility vests. It hip hop club that served us horrible Jack and Cokes as we watched the smoky dance floor bump and grind. The elevated stage was apparently reserved for those that were too cool or too bad to smile as they shouted along to songs raps that pulsed with the strobes. We left with another layer of sweat and grime.

As the night wore on we struck out again and again until any buzz we had had turned into plain fatigue. We found ourselves at the junction of the night and morality. As people questioned their willingness to go on we looked about the hills to our side and behind us.

At our side was one of the few openly gay districts of Korea. It is called Homo Hill. Behind us was Hooker Hill. No explanation needed.

Truth be told, dirty and grimy and sleazy as Itaewon is, there was something familiar about it. Itaewon has the feeling of every lawless frontier town in any Western and bares a remarkable resemblance to every Pirate movie representation of Tortuga.

In the end, the night ended here. Lucy and her brother went back to the hotel and the rest of us drank beer outside of a convenience store watching a group of hammered French argue and mumble. We walked down the street one last time as the MP’s began to make their rounds to at least feign control and enforcement of a 3am curfew.

So, at 4am I laid down beneath a table at the Hyatt with horrible heartburn, shoes for a pillow and an extra T-shirt as a blanket. Outside the night was just beginning to wind down. Those that remembered where they were from returned or else made a bed on the curb.

The next day the streets were as clean as ever and men peddling custom suits returned as though the night before was just a fading fever dream.

Read more...

Sweat and Sashes

Thursday began what would become a very long weekend. Friday, thanks to a huge population of Buddhists, would be another day off for me and almost every other expat teacher. Friday was the Buddha’s birthday. Happy birthday Buddha!

Thursday started off too early and way too uncomfortable. I was told by my coworkers that I would be attending a special meeting at the broadcasting station down the road. I tried several times to understand what it was that I would be going to and how important it was. Still, the most explanation that was given to me was that it was for the parents of our students and that I would be picked up by Boram in front of the Paris Baguette down the road at 8:45am.

Ok, fine, fair enough: 8:45am is not very early for most people but I haven’t woken up at a normal hour in I don’t know how long. One of the benefits of working for a nightlife magazine and then being unemployed is that your hours don’t really change all that much. Further, sleeping later has allowed me to forget that breakfast even exists outside of the realm of breakfast-for-dinner, or Ihop. Heck, there are times when I roll out of my bed to go into the school at 1pm. So, 8:45 was damn early to me.

I dragged my sorry behind, wearing fresh jeans and my favorite sweater, into the humid Korean morning a little early so that I might grab a little breakfast. I do not recommend pizza quesadillas and orange juice. It is not a good combination to start the day with.

Boram arrived shortly after and we were taken by cab to the broadcasting center where we met up with Han, the Younger Receptionist, Older Receptionist, the Directors Wife and apparently everybody who worked for our chain of schools. I walked and soon learned that jeans and my 5-inches-too-short Freddie Kueger sweater were a pretty bad idea. Of the 70 or so people in the lobby almost all were wearing dress pants and a tie at least; a few had full suits.

To make me look even more idiotic and uncomfortable I was given a blue sash with Hangul script and soon looked like an anti-beauty queen.

After standing about for 30 minutes or so the Younger Receptionist waved me over to the door.

“Thomas,” Han said, “you will be the greeting party!”

This day was turning into a nightmare. Here I was in jeans, Hadley’s worn out shoes and a sweater that looked like a belly shirt, ready to single-handedly cause every parent to turn around and pull their kids from the school. To make things even worse the pizza quesadilla and warm orange juice in my stomach were beginning to quarrel. Things had the potential to take a very bad turn.

Then, to my surprise I was joined by a handful of other Westerners just outside the entrance in the hot and humid late Korean morning. I was beginning to think that I was the only white person in this dirty little city. I didn’t even know what to say; it had been a little while since I had had a proper conversation in English that involved much more than noun, one adverb, verb.

There were three guys and we all asked the standard questions. All of them had been in Korea for a pretty significant amount of time and none of them had any immediate plans of returning. The three of them knew each other fairly well and were really nice. If any of that original three were from the States I do not remember but I remember at least two being from Canada.

The heat and humidity were oppressive. Each time somebody walked through the doors we bowed and said “hello” in Korean. While I know the word I generally lack confidence in my pronunciation skills so I spent most of the time bowing, sweating and mumbling.

After a time, another Westerner showed up with a beard in sunglasses. He might have been nursing a hangover but of this I don’t really know. As conversations sprung up amongst us I asked him where he was from, expecting another Canadian.

“New Hampshire.”

Another New Englander! I asked him what town he lived in and to my shock he said Rochester. I laughed and asked if he knew Larry Boire.

“Are you shitting me?”

He did know Larry Boire. Not only did he know Larry Boire but his aunt had been his neighbor at a summer house on some lake. Last he had heard of Larry was a newspaper article announcing Larry’s achievement of Eagle Scout.

It is a small world when it comes down to it.

One thing I was not prepared for in Korea was the humidity. Massachusetts summers are hot and humid but they have nothing on Korea. It would not have surprised me if upon reaching the entrance, a parent would have looked at the four of us pouring sweat and simply turned around and walked back to their car.

We stood there bowing and talking for over an hour until finally we were pulled from our posts and told to sit down until it was time to leave. It was then that we realized that our part at this special meeting was simply to show off that the school employed native speakers. That was it.

A couple of hours later we turned in our sashes, exchanged our phone numbers and were off to our respective schools in soaked through clothes.

Read more...

The Angry Girl

I have been in this place for over three weeks and it is still entirely foreign to me. On days in which I am not fed at school I find myself eating triangles (despite knowing their true name, I will continue to call them triangles mostly because my coworkers get a laugh at it). I have put a decent effort into learning Hangul if only so that I might be able to order a simple meal or two at the place next to my apartment.


Tonight, I walked into that place with my Lonely Planet in hand. The lady behind the counter looked at me and smiled. I looked at the menu on the wall and decided that this was not the day and just pointed to one of four photos of food they had above the kitchen.

Tteokbokki. I’ve had it a few times before but everything tastes a little better when you order it on your own. This was after all the firs meal that I had ordered what wasn’t a pizza or Mc. Donalds. Sure, I was still pointing at a picture but at least it wasn’t a recognizable picture.

Actually, it is more of a snack or a side than a meal but it hit the spot while I ate it sitting on my floor. Tteokbokki is a dish of pressed rice cakes, veggies and sometimes fish cakes in a spicy red sauce. It is not so far removed from a pasta dish at home and the rice cakes have the texture of gnocchi so it didn’t seem so foreign.

While three weeks has not been nearly enough time for me to learn the true names of the students at my school, it has certainly given me time to see their personalities. The prospect of standing and teaching a bunch of kids was daunting to me before I came. A lot of people at home have been given the impression that I hate kids. I do not hate kids; they intimidate me. I do not know why this is, but I never knew how to interact with a kid of any age. This, if nothing else, is being remedied.

I like all of the kids here. They are all hilarious beyond even that Kids Say the Darndest Things: Foreigner Edition level.

There is Clara who continues to come into the office and sit down next to me and give me candy or gum. Once she offered me a hunk of her dried fish. I would have politely accepted it but I had already politely accepted dried squid from the director’s wife and had just thrown it out the window when nobody was looking.

There is another boy who is just a bit younger. I do not even know this boy’s English name, but every day he comes into the office and plays with the magnetic darts or wants to play “Rock, Scissors, Paper.” We could be in the middle of class and I will just barely make eye contact and he will be shaking his hands ready to throw down rock. He always throws rock. He is hyper as hell but he is one of my favorites.

There is a group of three older girls that always ask me questions that they forget to translate into English and then laugh as I stare at them. Usually, they ask if I am married or if I have a girlfriend. Today, they asked why my hair looked so funny.

Then there is another girl in the same class as R.S.P Boy who hates me beyond anything else in this world. When I first had Angry Girl in my class I thought she was terribly shy. She would rarely answer any questions, seemed miserable playing any games, would not sing and simply never looked me in the eyes.

Being extremely shy as a kid is something I can relate to. Heck, I am still shy. I never pushed her to sing, and I never said anything to her about speaking up. I tried to be nice to her.

Over the past three weeks most of the students have warmed up to me. As they filter in through our sliding doors they always walk by my door and say “hello,” as I sit there and wave. Angry Girl will turn her head and walk by despite my waving.

Turns out, this girl is not shy: she might be evil.

It started with the Weather Game. The Weather Game is an incredibly lame game played on a board made of paper, with a big die made of paper. It is a simplified game that is something like Pictionary without any of the fun stuff. In turn, each player rolls the die and then moves their piece (usually an eraser) to the photo that matches the weather condition on the die. Needless to say R.P.C Boy loves this game. We played one round and he kept playing. Having nothing else planned we all kept playing. At one point everybody’s attention was turned elsewhere and Angry Girl smashed the paper die and threw it to the floor in one motion. She then acted as though the die never existed.

A few days ago I was standing in front of the Smart Board as the class came in. Each kid said “hello” to me. When Angry Girl came in she simply looked at me and said:

“No Hello!”

No smile whatsoever.

Her mannerisms give her away too. When a kid has a question or wants something repeated they will usually say something in unrecognizable English or in Korean. Angry Girl will just point at me and tap the desk with her fingers twice. Also, I kind of figured out she hated me when she flung a small glass of water at me when nobody was looking. Nothing vague about that one.

In an effort to make friends with her, I handed her a piece of gum a few days ago. She took the stick and demanded more, to which I obliged because I did not want her to stab me in the neck with a pair of scissors or something. She walked off with 5 sticks.

Honestly, I do not care if this girl hates me. I do not hate her and actually think that she is funny and at times I can’t help but crack up when she does something outlandish. On Friday we were demonstrating the concept of giving. The other kids “gave” me their pencils or books.

“Teacher, here is my pencil / book / bag / etc.“

When it came time for Angry Girl to give me something she looked around her desk until she found a piece of garbage.

“Here is some trash,” she said looking terribly pleased with herself. Point is, it was hilarious.

The reason I tell you all this is because I got my revenge. She walked into my office to find me chewing my last piece of gum. Without saying so much as “hi,” she walked over, held out her hands and said:

“Gum.”

I looked at her and she was not even smiling. To this I (a 25 year old man to a 10 year old girl) responded by spitting my gum out into my hand, holding it up and saying “here you go.”

“Ugggh! Teacher, you dirty!!”

Am I proud of myself? Yes. Yes I am.

Read more...

A Normal Day

I have been here a little over two weeks and already there is a routine in my life. I have no internet and I have no TV so my entertainment is largely self made. One of the things that I do to keep myself busy and avoid the homesickness (I figure if I keep my mind occupied I can delay it another 11 months and deal with it on my flight home) is write. I would say write in “this blog” but at this stage my writings are just on my computer. If I were a girl it would be a diary. Thankfully I am a guy with a journalism degree so I will call it a travel journal or something to the like.

Well, I have finally caught up to present time and have nothing else to write before I have the internet and go “live.” This means I am bored. Like, really bored. I would play solitaire but the other day I had as close to a perfect game as they come. I’m actually pretty stoked and I wish I wrote down my score but you never expect something to amazing to happen when you are sitting around in your underwear now do you? Almost every card dealt by the computer was in order and this will probably never happen again unless I get a physical deck and cheat. Come to think of it I probably spent my allotted luck in life on computer solitaire.

Here is my average day here in Korea:

10am - Wake up and decide against sitting around and playing solitaire until work. Set my alarm for 12:30pm or hit the snooze 30 times and go back to sleep.

12:30pm - After rolling around for an hour finally get up and get ready for work. Before work I usually walk to the convenience store and buy Kimbap and hope that is not filled with something disgusting.

1-2pm - Sit at my desk and read email and Facebook messages while drinking coffee and water from the machine.

2pm - 4pm- Help out in a few classes by reading various sentences and then repeating them. On really bad days I have to sing or do the hokey pokey or both.

4pm - Usually have lunch upstairs. This usually consists of rice and a half-dozen side dishes. I try to sample each dish but tend to veer away from the ones that have eyes that are still intact. Also, Koreans have a tendency of masking squid legs as noodles so beware!

5pm - There is a rush of various kids coming in. The three boys come along with a few girls of the same age. The girls walk by and say hello to me having briefly peeled my eyes away from Facebook. The three boys say hello only if they are physically dragged over and forced to. Also the girl called Clara comes in and usually plops herself down in the chair next to me and tries to talk to me. She almost never understands me and also sometimes forgets who I am and will speak Korean but she is a hoot. On the day of this writing they did not give us lunch and I skipped my Kimbap and was beginning to die from starvation (or at least get a bit honery). In walks Clara with a bag of food. She gave me half a jam sandwich and I didn’t even pretend to be polite and refuse it. So we sat eating our (her) sandwiches while everyone else worked. I felt kind of bad being the teacher that takes a students dinner but she did have two sandwiches and I didn‘t take any of her yogurt…

6pm - Teach a class or two and then return to Facebook to talk to Kelly who wakes up horribly early in the States.

7pm - Eat a dinner much the same as lunch. Once there were two cold chicken nuggets in the side dish container. I was pretty stoked about this. Also, sometimes they put out the sesame oil and a kind of spicy and thick ketchup that adds a whole ton of flavor to the rice.

8 - 9pm - Sit around on the computer (read: Facebook or the T&G website) while everyone else writes out progress reports.

9:10pm - Go home or, if I am still hungry, go buy another Kimbap or ramen.

9:10:45pm - Get home, perhaps drink a beer or two (or eight) while reading or studying. Currently, I am reading The Silmarillion despite the fact that I have tried a few times before but never made it through it. I already finished The Hobbit and I will read the rest of the trilogy after that. Hey, just being abroad does not cure nerdiness! I am also learning Hangul, the alphabet and written characters of Korea. I don’t have much hope in learning the language in just a year, but at least knowing the letters and pronunciation should improve my quality of life. As it is signs and menus appear to be written in Wingdings.

12 - 1am - After showering, go to sleep while listening to people talk as they walk into the building. The other day I heard Americans! I must find them and make them be my friends!

Read more...

Wandering, Part One

My second Wednesday was a holiday: Kids Day. It is a nice concept now isn’t it? Once a year Korean kids are given the day off from school to presumably be doted on by mom and dad. I asked one of my students, a really bubbly girl who is called Clara, what she would be doing on Kids Day.

“I will be…. Studying!” Crazy Koreans.

After Kids Day, students would return to school and celebrate Parents Day on Saturday. Here, they would presumably worship mom and dad for their praise on Kids Day; or at least they would be less pains-in-the-asses.

A Korean construction site.

I spent my Kids day determined explore at least a tiny bit of Cheongju. I was also determined not to lose my way as I had yet to change the rest of my money and was down to my last 8000W (about $8) which I was hoping to spend on a dinner that didn’t involve rice ramen. Therefore I became the foreigner drawing a map on a piece of cardboard at every intersection.

A word on food. Everything here is fresh as fresh can be. Even the convenience stores that sell pre-wrapped meals sell fresh food. My hunger has gotten the best of me in the States and I have been doomed to spending a good chunk of days on the toilet, but that does not seem to be the case here.

Take Kimbap for an example. The convenience store variety consists of a triangle of sticky-rice, a little bit of sauce and topping, all wrapped in a dried sheet of seaweed. Pop it in the microwave for twenty seconds (or just hit any button and count to twenty as no microwave here seems to have roman numbers) and you have yourself a solid snack. Really, these things are amazing! You run the risk of getting something you don’t particularly want if you cannot read Hangul and some companies vary on their color coating a little bit. Red seems to be beef. Yellow was not chicken. I do not know what the hell yellow was but it was not chicken.

I digress. I walked out of the side street of my apartment and school and decided to go left. I do not know what direction it really was, but I was in a lefty sort of mood so that is where I went.

After a few blocks, the hustle and general chaos of my little urban neighborhood gave away to quieter, if a bit dirtier, streets. I passed a heap of junked scooters and a store selling Buddhist statues and shrines made of bronze. Restaurants became more traditional, exchanging bar stools and whiskey signs for floor mats and shoe cubbies. The people too seemed to change, if in fact people can change within blocks. There were fewer kids and teens walking about. What children there were clung near by their parents who poked out of a shop for a cigarette. Every now and again I would pass a stooped old woman as she walked past me in the opposite direction.

I walked for a good mile or more before I came to a great intersection at which I stood for too long waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green. I crossed a large bridge and saw that below a river was running. I marked a bridge and the river on my map and found stairs onto the walk way.

The path around the river was pretty clearly marked. There were two lanes for bikes going in either direction and one lane for people on foot. That being said I played a few games of chicken as old men with sour looks seemed intent on running me down head on.

The path is surrounded by reeds, rocks and speakers pretending to be rocks. It was nice to see the green and brown, and to hear the river running next to me. The Cheongju that I have seen seems to be one of grey, neon and smog; the river and reeds seem only to be an oasis in chaos.

The plaque before the Unity Bridge
of Cheongju.

I walked beneath a couple of bridges (and marked them on my map) that shaded old men playing croquet on flattened square courses. They reminded me of the old Italians playing Bocce at the victory club back home. Both seem to be unaware of the day and neither seem to ever be anything more than vaguely pissed off at something.

Off in the distance I saw the red and blue spine of the Unity Bridge. Ah! This would be my destination of the day. I marked it on my map, pocketed the cardboard and kept on my way.

The place was hopping much like it was on that second day. If anything, the place was even more chaotic with families walking or riding about for Kids Day. Still, if you are as red as I am or as blonde as I am or as monstrous in size as I am people tend to get out of your way; it’s easier for them to stare if they are off to the side.

I meandered across the bridge, back and down to the fountains to take a few photos. At every hose it seemed there was a family. At every other hose there was a kid trying to stick his face in the jets and a parent screaming at him.

The Unity Bridge of Cheongju.

The skating rink was a mess. I couldn’t figure out where to safely make a few shots as every now and again one of the older guys would decide they didn’t want to ride with anyone and would b-line it in my general direction. Finally, I simply found a step further to the back and watched.

Koreans love those screwed up bikes that nobody in the States would be caught dead on. Hell, they probably still love pocket-bikes. The wheels were often tiny, or one would be giant giving them the look of the bicycles of old. I saw a grown man riding a tricycle with two front wheels and one back. In his defense, he didn’t seem to know how the hell to operate the thing. I saw those odd scooters where you hold the handle bar and pump in either direction with your feet on two separate bars. I saw a girl on roller blades trying to use one. Talk about multitasking.

The Rock Formation.

On my way back I passed a massive stone structure that seemed significant and meaningful, but my Kimbap had worn off and I didn’t care anymore.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time I got home it was well past dinner time, I was tired and I would have been sweaty if the sun hadn’t baked it all off of me. My stomach groaned as I walked the streets near my apartment looking for something of substance that I could order without looking like an utter moron. I tend to go for things with pictures of food on the wall as my pointing skills are not lost in translation. Then I found what I was looking for.

Pizza Manu.

Koreans love pizza. They love strange toppings like sweet potato, hot dog, mayonnaise and any number of other things. I am spoiled when it comes to pizza. I have had pizza in Manhattan in the middle of the night and I have feasted on deep dish in downtown Chicago; but I am eternally bound to Village Pizza in Shrewsbury.

A collection of junked scooters.

By American standards Pizza Manu is actually pretty horrible if you are craving good pizza. For one thing, their dough has less flavor than Dominoes, their sauce might actually be ketchup and there are no brick ovens here. Instead, I watched as my pizza was put onto a conveyor belt that ran beneath a heater and came out five minutes later. The pie was then put into a box and wrapped with a red bow, I shit you not.

As much as I complain here, I ran home to eat the thing. I plopped onto my floor and turned my music on, opened the box and found a surprise! It was a little dish of what must have been garlic or marinara sauce. I opened it, more excited than I should have been about something to dip my crust into.

Pickles. I am in Korea, of course they will give you pickles with your pizza. Hungry I was, though, and the pickles were a nice break between slices.

Spending 6000W of my last 8000W was acceptable. What isn’t so acceptable is the fact that I ate the entire damned pizza. Not only did I eat the entire damned pizza but I did so in less than half an hour.

So, incapable of moving more than a few inches for the rest of the night, I sat on my bed with my computer editing photos. The photo software on my netbook is no Photoshop to be sure and has some kinks (there is no option to crop with a photo ratio and the auto-leveling is pretty friggin horrible) but it was free. As much as I bitched about all of the time I spent editing at home and for work it is actually something that puts my mind at ease. All was right with the world.

Read more...

Busses and Quizzes

The general layout of things.

The new apartment is fantastic. It has a more separated and natural layout. The kitchen is a bit more spacious and the bathroom is awesome. The walls and floor are laid with green tile meant to look like marble and it is much bigger than the last one which makes showering a bit easier given that the shower is just a hose pinned to the wall. The main living space has a much bigger fridge and even includes an actual freezer. What’s more is that inside the freezer is a big heavy bag with the picture of a cow and nothing else. The floors are made to look wooden, though they are still made of a sort of soft plastic or rubber. I even have a couple of closets!

My lovely bathroom.  Ignore the
Urkel style.

There are two problems however. The first is that when I close the sliding, foggy glass door between my room and the kitchen and then try and turn on the kitchen light in the dark it looks absurdly creepy and each time I think I see the girl from The Ring. Also, the bathroom sink’s pipes aren’t actually attached so that whenever I run the sink the water just pours out in the general direction of the drain. Oh, another issue is that I have no idea how to heat the floors, but this won’t be an issue until fall as it is starting to get pretty muggy.

A big plus is that this place is directly across the street from my school, so my commute takes about 40 seconds.

After much trial and error I figured out what was wrong with the computer, or rather what was wrong with me. The converter was unnecessary and was preventing enough wattage from getting to the computer; now all it takes is my cheapo adaptor plug. I should have brought more adaptors because as it is only one thing can be plugged in at a time.

Days at school pass by quickly. I get by on a lunch and dinner of rice, a platter of side dishes, a few slabs of spam and occasionally a cold chicken nugget. One thing I must say is that their ketchup is refreshing. For one thing they put it on the last things you would expect anybody to put ketchup on. Spam and sausage, for example, are always eaten with ketchup. Also, it has a much bolder flavor than our own being fortified with a heavier dose of garlic.

The view from my window.

On my first Saturday I walked out my door armed with a list of phrases written in Hangul that would get me to a bus station and then to Cheonan where I would be met by Larry. After, I would be taking part in a pub quiz in an expat bar called Adonis.

There could have been many reasons why I couldn’t get a cab to stop for me. It could have been because I was a foreigner and would be more bother than I was worth, it could have been because I was holding a piece of paper and they knew they would have to decipher from it what I wanted, it also could have been because I was holding my Lonely Planet guide to Korea and nothing good ever came from picking up somebody holding one of those. Whatever the issue, it took me 30 minutes to get into a cab.

I handed the cabbie my paper and assumed it would be a quick and quiet ride. Instead, he began asking me questions to which I just stared at him in utter fear. I said “bus terminal” and he said something impossible for me to understand. After this we both fell back on the idea that if you kept repeating the same statement over and over and louder and louder that it would break a language barrier. It doesn’t.

He drove aimlessly as I called Han and Boram, neither of whom answered. On a small road I called Albert as a last resort. I handed the phone to the driver and they had a long conversation with much laughter that could only be at my expense. After hanging up, the driver looked at me, smiled and said: “Tough driver!”

How I survived the ride is beyond me. He drove at speeds that exceeded even those of the other lunatics that occupy Korean roads. He would sometimes take the trouble to roll through red lights, but would generally just swerve around cars that actually stopped. At one point he took a left in front of 3 lanes of oncoming traffic and then cut in front of a city bus as he settled onto the new street. All the while he kept repeating the words “tough driver” with pride.

Interesting fact about Korea. Almost everybody has a suped up navigational system, and almost all of these are equipped so that they can and do watch television on them. It is horrifying.

So, finally we arrived at the bus station. No sooner had I gotten out of the car when I got a call from Albert. Albert, worried about my general incompetence, had just arrived at the bus station to ensure that I was put onto the appropriate bus. My self -esteem to say the least was on a downward slope.

The bus station was like any bus station in any country in the world. Albert got my ticket and escorted me to the line of people waiting beside the bus to Cheonan. There we waited for a time and Albert would not leave my side, only asked the driver if I might be let on early because I may be capable of somehow screwing that up.

Ten minutes passed and I was soon sitting in my seat watching Albert smoke his tiny cigarettes. A second later he was back on the bus and asking a 10 year old kid to make sure that I got off the bus when it arrived at Cheonan. Albert then patted me on the shoulder and gave me a coke. My self-esteem was somewhere south of Hell.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The bus ride was great. I am a fan of slow speed transport and have always looked at bus rides as a great way to see a place if you are on your way to another place. I have taken busses across Mexico, to Canada, and from Athens to the edge of Albania and I often find myself too mesmerized to sleep despite utter exhaustion. This ride was no exception.

The land between Cheongju and Cheonan is rural. There were sparse villages and sloped tile roofs. Rice patties dominated the way, but every now and again there were the burial mounds from times forgotten or never recalled in Western memory.

Downtown Cheonan is massive. The bus station quickly becomes a four-story shopping center with a food court and cinema on top. I wandered for a time while I waited for Larry. Upon walking into the food court I remembered that I was starving and that if I was going to have anything to drink at all I needed food, or else I would be barfing after one beer.

There were so many options that I am ashamed that I fell on the American comfort food that is McDonalds. Please, please do not judge me too harshly: I was starving!

I sat alone, the only non-Asian in the place eating a Mc. Chicken and fries. I was fully aware that if there were a decent photographer present I would wind up in some article critical of fast food imperialism and our unwillingness to adapt to another culture.

After, I sat on a bench outside of the complex and watched people cross the street. This was something to behold. Koreans obey crosswalks and pedestrian signals as though they would be thrown away for life with no parole if they jaywalked. They will wait at the corner regardless of the fact that there are no cars coming.

When they do cross, though, now that is really something! By the time the cars stopped and the cross walk opened up there had to be over a hundred people going to opposite sides. It looked like two enormous waves crashing and breaking into one another.

Eventually, Larry and a friend found me and we were waiting for a taxi while he spoke to an American guy and his sister. A short cab ride took us to the suburbs of Cheonan: the domain of Larry Boire.

The drinking began instantly and I was thankful that I at least had a stomach full of Mc. Chicken. While Larry set off to make final arrangements for the pub quiz, I was left in the company of the first native English speakers I had met since home.

We sat around on the floor and played drinking games with orange juice and soju. We played a game I used to play a long time ago in an East Boston apartment off of Maverick Square and they all reminded me of old college friends who are lost now to life in time. They told me how bizarre it was to speak in proper sentences with adjectives after trying to speak simply to Koreans. Before we left we played poker with a big pile of cigarettes in the center of the floor and I felt like I was in prison.

The pub quiz at Adonis was something else. I came to Korea so that I might experience another culture for a year and that I might come away from it a little richer emotionally and monetarily. It is important though to take a breather every now and again. It is perfectly acceptable to go and get drunk with 60 other English teachers every now and again.

My team consisted of Larry’s friend CJ (actually Larry was friends with everybody) and a Canadian named Miranda. We somehow came up with the name Husky Hamsters. We also lost horribly, but I guess that is not really the point now is it?

We drank and drank and all became friends or at least something like it. Miranda was finishing up a job and would be on to at least another year in Korea. CJ was looking for another teaching job. I stepped outside with everyone else for a cigarette.

I remember talking to a guy who looked exactly like Kevin Bacon and the Pixies started playing. Out came the guy from the taxi stand that Larry was talking to. He had been in a motorcycle accident since we had last seen him and had gotten the worst of it. His shorts were stained with blood as well as his shirt. His limbs were covered in road rash and gashes. It was pretty obvious that he needed stitches, though I found out later he would be going to his doctor in the morning to avoid an expensive visit to the emergency room. It was a shock to see.

Still, the night wore on. The quiz ended but the beer kept coming. Miranda left and Larry and I sat in a booth watching people dance or generally have a good time while we finished our beers.

We headed back to his apartment, drank a bit more and called it a night. Larry apologized for a pounding head and what was apparently an early night for this crowd. It was 4am by the time my head hit his hard couch.

Read more...

Fish and Norebang (re. Nightmare)

My first week seemed just a countdown ‘til Thursday, like so many other weeks in my life. Thursday, Albert told me, was a work party day. Having experienced the welcome that I did, I assumed that it would be, well, a shit show. It was indeed.


Albert owns two schools: a high school and an elementary school (mine). This evening would be an occasion for both schools to unite and welcome me and say goodbye to the other girl. I feel like a jerk saying “the other girl” because she was really awesome and put up with me checking Facebook on her computer, but I do not remember her name.

My office consisted of myself, Han, Boram, the Oder Receptionist and the Younger Receptionist. The High school consisted of a good deal more.

I should have known that I was in for one hell of a night when the Young Receptionist showed up as the last kid was leaving with a bag of bottles she claimed would kill the next day’s hangover. The stuff was putrid and it was all I could do to swallow the brown stuff . I could not even pretend to like it. This gave everyone a laugh, but it was really very horrible stuff.

From here, the Young Receptionist drove us to a further part of town that was home to all of the hot discos in the area with such amazing names as Don’t Tell Momma. We arrived to the kick off meal already in progress.

We sat at a collection of tables on one side. At one end were the teachers of the high school, including a Korean-American whose husband had remained in California. Around her were several girls who obviously thought I was funny looking and kept staring at me. Next to me were Han and Boram, and further down was Albert and three Korean guys.

When asked if they were English teachers Albert spoke for them with a laugh.

“These boys, they are very bright in many things, but English? It is not one of them.”

All the same they tried the hardest of anybody to talk to me, asking me what teams I liked and so on and so forth.

Now, about the meal: I will try anything if only so that I can say that I have had something outlandish. I once made myself bone marrow and had to leave work because I had gone and gotten myself sick. Generally speaking I hate seafood. I used to like the standard fried clams but now I just don’t like any fish. That being said I was at a dinner that was being paid for by the boss and I had decided that I would not turn anything away for fear of looking rude or ungrateful. Han knew my aversion to seafood and turned to me when she heard what was coming our way.

“Tom, I am sorry!”

The first dish was soup, brought over and placed on top of three propane heaters. It looked tame enough. When the waiters brought over three decent sized, thick octopi I knew I was in trouble. After they hit their respective bowls and 24 arms shot up in panic, I too began to panic. After a short time the waiters picked up the recently departed and cut them into not so small pieces. The boss’s wife made sure that I had a couple of the purple arms in my dish.

Octopus arms are hard to eat. They are not soft for one thing, and another thing is that their suction cups add a bulbous and funky sticky factor to the whole meal. I choked down the smaller pieces but was left with the thicker base of the tentacle. Han, feeling sorry for me, tried to cut them down a bit but was promptly sprayed by a rupture that spewed black ink. I tried dousing the things in wasabi and soy but it wasn’t much more than a hotter and saltier monstrosity.

The next dish was sashimi. Being fairly popular at home I figured it would be easier for me to down than the octopus. I was wrong. I am a baby when it comes to texture and I could not get through more than one piece without gagging. I am serious; I gagged a bit twice and once more would have brought the octopus back to what was left of him on the table.

I was relieved when the final dish came. Chicken. Thank God! I smiled and finished my drink to have another poured by the Older Receptionist. I asked Han what this was and she smiled and told me to just go for it.

It looked like little hunks of pale grilled chicken. It didn’t taste like much and it certainly was not horrible, but it was tough! No matter how hard I chewed the piece would not break down. Here, Han looked at me and told me the bad news:

“Err, it is, I do not know the real name in English, but it is chicken ass?”

Then I remembered my Anthony Bourdain. The chicken was, in fact, chicken sphincter muscle. It was also the best thing I had eaten at that point of the night. Soon, there would be chafers of baby snakes and monkey brains in the skull and I would be off to free the slaves of the Temple of Doom.

At that point the food was done and the general drinking commenced. I was mostly left to my own devices as multiple Korean conversations popped up Albert came over to me and we smoked one of his very thin cigarettes and he seemed generally happy to talk to me.

Afterwards, we walked to my biggest fear: norebang. Karaoke. We took the stairs to the fourth floor of a neon-lit building and walked into a large room with a horseshoe couch surrounding a long table, all facing a huge television.

The singing began instantly. Asians seem to love this concept, but to me it was a nightmare. Han rocked the place like no tomorrow with rehearsed moves and crowd involvement. I was too soon to realize that I was not nearly drunk enough and I couldn’t get any courage from the whiskey fast enough: it was too soon my turn. I stood up and walked to my doom in front of virtually total strangers.

I had hoped I would feel better with the whine of the harmonica but I looked at my crowd and realized that there would be no way out of it, that I wouldn’t find myself suddenly and pleasantly hammered. Hell, vomiting or wetting my pants would have been an acceptable alternative. So, I sang.

The place was generous enough so that there was a fair amount of sustain added to my voice as I butchered “Piano Man.” At a certain point Albert, who was completely hammered, came up and sang with me all the while banging on a tambourine. Not so soon enough it was over. I received a few whistles and much applause, but my ego had already pulled the trigger.

The night becomes a fuzzy memory at this point. We made it back to the cars at 4am and I remember walking with Albert when he began to hold my hand. I am told that it was a mix of Korean culture and the fact that he was totally wasted, but it was an awkward walk. When we sat in the car he mumbled on about something and could not sit up straight and began leaning on me until finally he pulled it together enough to lean against the door.

We were driven home by some sort of chauffeur service for drunks. I was let off at my apartment to pass out at 5am. At work the next day I came to the conclusion that the anti-hangover potion did nothing. If I was doing horribly, my cohorts were not doing much better; kids learned nothing from us that day. Also, I suddenly remembered being told to dance with a big group in front of the television. It is something I wish I could get out of my mind’s eye.

At about 2pm, Han told me that I would be moved that day and that I had to give the keys to the Young Receptionist. I only wish I had been sober enough to pick up all of my underwear.

Read more...