Korea vs Argentina

It seems that each night I lay down to sleep and each morning I rise to the same sound: the vuvuzelas of South Africa. Invariably as I walk to the convenience store down the road for a triangle Kimbap I pass the restaurant with the TV hanging in the patio and there is somebody watching some team whose name he might not know play some other team from a country he has never heard of. On my way to the grocery store after school always there is a crowd at the bar next door and always that buzzing theme of the World Cup.


A long time ago I spent a little while in the mountains of northern Greece, a stones throw from the Albanian border. One night we sat in the reception building of our little village tired and dirty. The first part of the day, for me at least, had been spent digging holes into the heavy clay in the rain as it flirted with the idea of turning into slow. After a lunch of bean soup I had spent all afternoon with a lead pipe drawing back and thrusting it into the clay. Again and again I did this as two Greeks watched me sweat in the freezing air of the new winter. My arms jarred with each rock I hit beneath the grass and as the hours wore on my muscles burned just to carry the clay-caked thing onto the next spot. All to put in the flimsiest and worst piece of crap fence made out of sticks and thin nylon rope.

If you ever find yourself in the Forest Village of Kedros enjoy the scenery: I planted the trees and I put the holes in the ground for the fence. If the trees have washed away and the fence is no more, well, just don’t tell me.

On the night after my first tango with the lead pole I watched soccer with Greeks long after most of my fellow volunteers had left for out freezing hostel. Greeks love soccer. I no longer remember who was playing but those who lived at Kedros seemed to have something at stake. My friend Axilleas barely spoke English but he bridged the gap by buying me a beer from the bar at the far end of the room. I returned the favor and we sat on big leather chairs almost unable to move.

The fire next to the TV both lit and warmed the place into the waxing morning. I didn’t know what team was who but I watched the game until the end. Each goal bought on cheers or screams that threatened murder. Men fresh out of the military with heads still shaved and scarred at the hand of some butcher of a barber lit cigarettes straight from the tap of burning logs.

I never really knew who won that game. What I know is that I forced myself into the freezing and black night, the path barely illuminated by the moon’s light that bounced off of the wild mountains of the Tzourmeka range so that I might get a few hours of sleep before the morning came and with it brought utter agony to my body.

The next day was still a nightmare. Again I did battle with the pole and if I was miserable Axilleas looked like he might drop dead any minute. Hangovers tend to be magnified by hard labor with little food in the cold at high altitude. I remember asking him when he had finally returned to the hostel and he said it had been sometime near 4am after another game. I tried asking him why in the name of god he had stayed up so late given we were doomed to 6 more days of these 6am wake up calls.

He looked at me as though he didn’t understand the question. He did understand the question but he couldn’t fathom why I bothered to ask it in the first place.

“Thomas,” he said, “because it is football and because it is Greece.”



Jump two years or more into the future and there I sat in a taxi trying to cut through Cheongju traffic that was as thick as the haze that clung to the city. The weather had taken a turn towards oppressive- the temperature was in the 90’s and the humidity was monstrous enough to bring the haze to the ground. Indeed the air was suffocating.

Everywhere pedestrians, cars and madmen on scooters rushed to where they might watch the game. Friends of mine headed to the stadium which was jammed full enough to suspend disbelief that they were watching a broadcast and not the Korea vs. Argentina game in person. Cheongju’s streets flowed red with the homeland pride.

A 10 minute trip to Albert’s other school took over 30 minutes. We spent much of the ride in stand still traffic watching scooters and bikes risk narrow passages when they didn’t abandon the road all together and take to the sidewalks, pedestrians be damned. The cab was full. I sat in front while Han and Boram sat in the back. Albert, holding three giant boxes of fried chicken and three big bottles of Pepsi sat in the middle. He was as giddy as a very well dressed school girl.

Albert had canceled night classes. I was the last person to find out (about an hour before we left) and had insisted that everyone at his schools watch the game together.

“We are,” Albert always says, “a social family.”

As it was, the guys at the other school had apparently joined the countless red army marching to the stadium and I was the only guy there apart from my school director.

So, we sat at desks in a classroom that had been occupied an hour earlier by students anxious (or forced) to learn the English language. It now contained 5 Korean girls giggling in the back row, Albert hooking the antenna to the computer so that we could watch the game on the giant whiteboard, a clueless foreigner, and an absurd amount of fried chicken.

The moment the game began all classroom-appropriate behavior ceased to exist. Korean girls can scream very loud. Once the ball was in motion there was a constant chatter of shrieks, commentary and blood curdling cheering. Albert had dragged in a great leather armchair in which to sit right in front of the game. Whether we were there or not Albert could have cared less.

Argentina scored first to screams. Had we been quiet I am sure that all of Cheongju could be heard around us. We weren’t quiet though. Albert swore, the girls sounded like they had just been stabbed in the spine and I dropped my chicken.

Soon after the Older Receptionist and Albert’s wife showed up with a few more goodies.

Pepsi wasn’t enough to drink, I guess, because they came in with 30 beers and doled them out as the game played on.

So, there I was: watching Korea take on a powerhouse while eating fried chicken and drinking beer in school. Sometimes I have to laugh at where my life has taken me. Albert would occasionally stand up and without saying a word tap his beer can against my own in some silent toast and step over to the window and smoke a cigarette. If he were a high school kid in a bathroom he would have been suspended; but he isn’t: he is Albert. He does whatever he damn well pleases.

A short time later we watched as Korea danced around the Argentinean goal in the last seconds before the first half ended. There was a kick and-- the ball wasn’t even in the net yet when I saw Albert propel himself into the air, twist around, suck in air and let it out in an eardrum shattering scream/growl before his feet even hit the ground. While all of Korea erupted my attention had been taken from the game. I was wondering if Albert was going to eat me, or if he had chosen this moment to turn into some sort of hip Korean demon. I was wondering if maybe I had wet my pants.

The game went on and Korea lost. Later on, Albert’s wife was driving us back to our neighborhood. I sat in front as his wife laid on the horn while watching another soccer game on the navigational system / TV / really, really bad idea. Han was in back with Boram. Half sitting and half squatting was the Older Receptionist who had taken the unopened beers and was planning to drink her sorrow into a hangover. Albert sat with his face pressed against the window.

“Thomas,” said Albert, “I think that I am going to cry.”



Korea will likely not be a contender in the end, but for the time being Korea is galvanized. Each day I wake up and walk out my door to that omnipresent buzz. Koreans walk around as though they are stretched out a bit too thin, but there is a national pride involved that we in the States see only in the Olympics. In the States LA rioted because they beat the Celtics, Melissa Snelgrove was shot in the eye by a non-lethal projectile and soon died in the riots that broke out after a Red Sox victory.

But here there is nothing but unity and a bond. Amidst threats of war with the North, even my coworkers spoke with brotherly pride when North Korea denied a shut-out game to Brazil.

I don’t expect that I will ever see Axilleas again, but all of this excitement and pride has me imagining him working at whatever it is that he works at with one hell of a month-long hangover.


What I ate today: Kimchi mandu, rice, bean sprouts, plain old mandu, tortila chips, salsa (score!)

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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.

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