In Country

Seoul is overwhelming. 

I fight to stay awake in the back of the cab that is taking me from Incheon International Airport.  I fail at this spectacularly.  The last time I slept was days ago, and that was drunken sleep.  I spent 17 hours in the air watching "The Big Bang Theory" and doing puzzles. 

Every now and again my head falls back.  My eyes want to shut but I force my lids to stay open.  The cabbie might be weirded out as I am sure he looks into his mirror and sees a guy with his eyes rolled into the back of his head.  I look like a tweaker, maybe. 

I am met on the street by a Korean guy, impeccably dressed, named Chris.  We make small talk as he leads the way to my apartment.  I ask his real name and he tells me that it's "only Chris."  I am too damned tired to ask much more. 

I am barely aware of my surroundings when a door opens in front of me and I am shown my "apartment."

"You will be here only 3 or 4 days," says only Chris. 

It is a nightmare.  The room is not much bigger than a bathroom despite actually containing a bathroom.  A tiny bed is jammed into the space between the toilet and the wall.  A glass divider keeps me from rolling into the bathroom.  A long desk occupies another wall.  With my luggage there is no room to walk. 

Bummer, I think.

I am given some keys and then taken to the school. 

I take in very little.  My systems are shutting down.  I try to be polite.  I meet the guy I am replacing and the other native teacher, both Canadians.  I ask the names of some of the Korean teachers but I make almost no effort to remember them.  This day will exist in my memory as only a blurb. 

On my way "home" I buy a roll of kimbap.  As I eat it with my fingers I notice there is no strip of crab in it. 

This might all work out afterall, I think.  I then pass the hell out. 

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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.

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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.

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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.

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