Christmas Yin and Yang Style

It's Christmas time in Hollis Queens Mom's cooking chicken and collard greens Rice and stuffing, macaroni and cheese And Santa put gifts under Christmas trees Decorate the house with lights at night Snow's on the ground, snow white so bright In the fireplace is the Yule log Beneath the mistletoe as we drink eggnog The rhymes that you hear are the rhymes of Darryl's But each and every year we bust Christmas carols
OK, so this year is not a RUN DMC type of Christmas. My family is in Michigan and I am in Korea. But that doesn’t mean that I have to be a total Scrooge about the entire affair. Yes, I will fully admit that after working in retail the idea of what Christmas has become is extremely disgusting and after listening to Christmas carols 8 hours a day from the day after Halloween until the day after New Years, I can easily go to my grave without hearing any song involving snowmen, reindeer or jolly St. Nick. However, for some reason there is something warming about watching children at this time of year, as long as they are not near a toy department. They are naturally amped up as it is, but this time of year, well, it is like some one put crystal meth into their hot chocolate: they can’t stop moving and everything is lights and Santa and toys and sugar and . . . You’ve seen them, you know. Like any good buzz, this lasts until the boredom returns and then they transform back into the little demanding beasts that is their natural state. Ah, how soon we forget . . .

So this year I decided that I would go to the Bubku Church Christmas pageant with Solomon, Susan and their 27 month old daughter, Daniela, who was to be in the play/circus/event. I had seen her in her rehearsals but I really couldn’t figure out what was supposed to be going on. In my mind, the idea of rehearsals involving two year olds is akin to training cats, but this wasn’t my show. If I was in charge I am certain it would be like a bad version of something on South Park.

The pageant was way over the top with kids of various ages doing odd little numbers about Jesus and the joys of the season. It went from little Daniela’s booty shaking dance to some teeny bopper version of an “up with people” kind of Jesus is here and we should dance the night away kind of thing. The crowed whooped and hollered as each act ended and for a minute I thought I was at a Stones concert – where’s Keith, baby?

So it was fun and odd as the songs were mostly in Korean with the occasional attempt at the old English standard. Afterward we went out for dinner and by the end of the meal Daniela finally decided that allow I was big and scary, she could at least try to hit and poke at me which seemed to make the idea of my imposing terror less terrifying: don’t run from your fears, attack them head on!!

After dinner, and coffee with Solomon and Mr. Chang at the Café Id – they even brought roasted chestnuts in with them to make all holiday-like - , I went over to the Lee Way Bar. Mr. Lee runs one fo the few places that cater to foreigners here in Pohang and for some reason the crowd has drifted from Mindy’s over to Mr. Lee’s. Foreigners are so damned tempermental! On Mr. Lee’s side is the fact that he has a HUGE collection of vinyl and some of it is pretty entertaining. Pick a record slap it on. There is a self service cash drawer so if you want a drink you simply put your money in the box. He is kind and helpful and the few times that I have been to his place have been enjoyable as it is usually not as crowded as it was Christmas. For the most part people were trying to drink themselves home which sounded like a rather sound idea. I drank coffee as the following day I had big plans.

Much like the voters in America, Korea is a divided nation. When it comes to religion, 50% of the population doesn’t have an opinion on the matter. Of the 50% who do have an opinion, they are evenly divided between Christians and Buddhists. Much like those who are married, I spent Christmas Eve with the Christians and decided to spend Christmas day with the Buddhists – a Yin/Yang sort of thing.

PARADISE AND HELL

He looks at me, sort of grabs a handful of belly fat, and says: “Your body, it’s not so good.” Fine, I mean, if he grabbed my gut a year ago he would have been really disgusted. He wouldn’t have known what to do. Today, well, he simply shakes his head and tries to explain that I should enjoy my one (only one!) paper cup of water, rest for 2-3 minutes and then spend 15 minutes on the exercise bike going at “20.” I smile. My water tastes good, refreshing in fact, and my sea-legs have stopped shaking from my little 30 minute walk on the treadmill – who thought those torture devices up? I nod and head over to my next implement of pain. Riding a bike is cake so this is not a problem. There will be no sea legs with this activity.

Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop/play house/whatever and I figured that I may as well do something with my glut of free time. The gym with the nice baths is a five minute walk from where I live and I figured that I could join, take some yoga classes and work out a few times a week. It wouldn’t be too big of a deal. I may even meet some people and if nothing else I can soak in a nice warm tub a few days a week. Lose 10 pounds and that is one less sack of potatoes that I need to pedal around with me.

Susan, Solomon’s wife, signed me up and that was most kind as she basically has a great deal of pity for me. She takes the yoga class, so does Solomon on occasion, and she has agreed that afterward I can study a little Korean. Yoga, like many things including, table manners, war, sex, peace, love, death, etc., is something that I know about in “theory.” I have tried to struggle along with the videos and have browsed some books on the subject but have never had an instructor per se. So I follow Susan to the gym and she introduces me to the entire program. There are forms to fill out and who really knows what I signed; I basically put an “X” where I am told. We then have to meet Mr. Yu, the director of the facility. He will also be my new personal trainer.

He is short, solid, perfectly proportioned and seems that he could destroy my entire being without breaking a sweat. His posture is perfect and he seems to laugh a great deal. Wearing a black K-Swiss track suit he is welcoming but I am assuming that is simply a front to disguise his true nature as one who will tear down the spirit and then rebuild it in an image which he finds suitable. We enter his small office in the main exercise room and we all sit down. He immediately decides that there is no real reason to “test me” as he could pretty much see what he was dealing with as I sat in front of him . Naturally, his English proficiency is that of a three year old on cough syrup: limited and slow. Then again, my Korean is like that of a puppy on Prozac: happy and willing to please; but overall useless. I can see my future reflected in his eyes and “bleak” is the only term that comes to mind.

Susan and Mr. Yu discuss me as if I am not in the room. Well, it is more like I am this “thing,” a large water heater perhaps, which needs to be fixed. He keeps looking at me and saying things to her and she nods attentively. She says that “Mr. Yu can work with you” and he seems to be saying “big” a lot – big boned? – and all of this seems pointless as I am not really part of the process but I have to do something and there is little reason to be stir crazy unless it I decided that I have finally given up and vow to spend the winter becoming one with my new couch. There is a scene in An Infinite Jest where one of the characters wants to finally quit smoking pot so he scores a bag, some groceries, some high quality porn, pulls the curtains shut and waits for everything to simply run out, deciding that this will be an effective cure to his ills. I am a mess, but I am not quite there.

Susan and Mr. Yu decide that I will begin my new regime on Saturday because I will be doing yoga on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. Mr. Yu pronounces my name in two distinct syllables (Ska – ta) and wishes me a good day. Over on the treadmill Susan spies the yoga instructor and quicly drags me across the room to introduce me to my new teacher.

She is tall. Fit. Not hard, bull dyke fit; but a soft, subtle kind of fit. She smiles and nods and it is clear that she knows very little English and I am once again reduced to being a physical object to be discussed- more Moore than Giacometti. Again, the word “big” seems to be one which is popular and I am transformed into this large putty-like being which, with much effort by all the parties involved, could, and I do mean could, be transformed into something resembling a human being. As it stands, I feel like the missing link.

She tells me, with smiles and a nod, that she looks forward to seeing me in the morning. At this point I am thinking that I would really like my money back and that, as there is a window which looks into the yoga studio from the street, I could better spend my time on a bench outside, smoking cigarettes and eating Cheetoes instead of getting both sweaty and embarrassed. Then again, who wants to be thought of as a pussy by Mr. Yu?

The following morning I show up and find the class. I am the only guy there. Me, surrounded by a bunch of beautiful women who can actually do the poses, is not exactly what I was hoping for. I can see my bench outside the window. It looks ever so inviting.

The class lasts about an hour and there were only a few poses that I couldn’t do. The language thing was aided by Susan who kept whispering instructions (turn over, the other leg, breathe, etc.) and if I became too twisted my new teacher would simply walk over, straddle me and push my body in the proper direction. Believe me, it hurt. It really hurt. I hated it. I don’t care how cute she is and I don’t care that they all clapped when it was over and seem to think that it was sort of fun to watch the uncoordinated American get into a couple of poses which landed him on his ass. As I watched the events unfold it became crytal clear that this woman, tall, flexible, toned was, in fact, trying to inflict great harm upon my person while pretending to guide me on some quasi-spirit/mind/body trip. My stomach was burning. My knees . . . Jesus, they were shot. And she is all smiles and there is this entire feeling of “good session ladies” and I am about to puke. To the right and left of me are women who are having no problem twisting and bending and I am feeling broken, shattered, humpty-dumpty on a blue mat. Then, when I am all crushed, she tells me, via Susan, that I did very good and that she looks forward to seeing me the following morning at 11 am. I nod and do the unthinkable; I say “thank you.”

The next day it is more of the same with me twisting in ways that make me feel like I am in a Hieronymus Bosch painting. I can’t figure out my instructor’s name but there are several instances of me thinking that I am in the proper position, that I am actually in control of the situation only to feel her hands grab my feet and push them into a place where I am certain that they were never designed to be in - a collision of matter and the fact that this shit really hurts. She moves them, muscles pulls and strain and I want to scream out . . . But I can’t. I have to “save face.” I have to enjoy my new tormentor. I bite my tongue and tell myself that this is good for me. I lie to myself and say “it builds character.” In this session there is another male, a 500 year old man, who makes me feel even more out of shape and pitiful. Ah, I am but a fool. A totally out of shape, whining and wimpering fool.

Saturday is my encounter with Mr. Yu and he sets me up in a little group of women doing more stretches. Mr. Yu, like all good tormentors, has minions and his, much like Ms. Yoga, seems to think that if he simply grabs my heels that I will have no problem going where directed. He’s high. His doc needs to change his meds. Something has to give and I am convinced that it is some muscle group, perhaps within my lower back. For 30 minutes this goes on, MR. Yu occasionally checking in to make certain that I don’t stroke out on his watch, and then the women again do the unthinkable – they applaud when it is over. They are all crazy!! This rat bastard just twisted them into horrible shapes and they thank him for it. Then, as I am heading towards the water cooler, Mr. Yu sets the down the one drink maximum and quickly guides me towards the treadmill. Now I am a goddamned gerbil. A thirsty gerbil at that.

OK, so it is not the worst thing that has ever happened to me and the women are wonderful to look at. But I feel so helpless as I can’t say anything without Susan around and she has other stuff to do besides aid me - she has a real baby, 27 month old Daniella to take care of. She got me in the door, she'll teach me some Korean. But after that it is up to me.

So I am alone. I need to learn words. Lots and lots of words. String them together to make sentences that work; that get me what I need. If I want to tell Mr. Yu to get bent (obviously not a good idea), I need to know how to do it. In order to do that, I need a text book. Susan told me what I need to find. It is the one that all first graders use. So much for telling Mr. Yu to get bent.

Have a Merry Christmas,

sh

GYEONGJU

The one thing that amazes me about this place is the way that the public transportation system works. Much of it has to do with the size of the country, which is a little larger than Minnesota, but one can simply go to the bus terminal and jump on a bus to virtually any location for relatively little money. As with most things here it helps if you can read the language, but all you need to do is scribble out the location of the place that you want to go and then scan the schedual and you are off. As I was just paid the other day, I decided that I was due for anoter trip so I did just that. First I had to go to the bank to get rid of my stack of loot.

This proved difficult as I really didn't figure out that the banks weren't opened on Saturday until I tried a few of them. To fully appriciate this fact I needed to walk the half mile or so to my branch office and see that it was closed. Knowing that it was a branch office, I tried to find someone to tell me if the banks downtown were open. From a man on the street, via guestures, I gathered that the downtown branch may be opened so I got into a cab and made that move.

A cab ride from my part of Pohang to downtown runs about $2.50 USD and they will take you anywhere you want to go, as long as you can explain it to them in terms that they can understand. I tell the guy "KB Bank" and "Downtown" and I am on my way. In about five minutes I am there. It is closed. It it still before noon and I am living in a place that, much like myself, really doesn't start to move until after 11am so I figure that perhaps, as it is Saturday, they don't open until noon. Killing time is what bookstores are for so I head there to wait it out.

Long story short, the guy at the bookstore tells me that banks are never opened on Saturday and that the section of books in Engish is over there. It is limited to say the least and I head home, determined to go and see "something" on my day off.

I throw my travel necessities in a little backpack - guide book, dictionary, the note book where I write down the names of things that I like to eat and and other useful words - and catch a bus to the main terminal. On the ride there one of my middle school students is standing beside me. He asks me where I am going and I say "Gyeongju." He says that this is "far away" and I tell him that as far as I could tell it is only a 25 minute bus ride. That, it seems, constitutes "far away." He then wonders who I am traveling with and I tell him that I am going alone. "Ah, no friends." OK, so now I am being told that I am a loser by some kid but cultrually most Koreans would never travel alone. It is simply not done. Everything is done in, at the least, pairs. They hold hands (espeially the girls) and travel and shop and the like. Rarely do I see people eating alone. I have simply had no problem doing this as I am pretty much a loner by nature. I usually have something to read with me so I could care less if I have some one to talk to. My student simply shakes his head and I tell him to study hard for his up coming exams. Now I have his pity.

The bus ride is about 25 minutes long and on it I read about Gyeongju. This is the Silla capital of Korea and one of the oldest sites in the country. I realize that I am getting a slow start on the day but I fiugre I can still see something if I finally get my shit together. If nothing else, there is a park filled with burial mounds of kings that is right near the bus station. This should not be too big of a task to check it out and do some quality wandering before night falls. Besides, it is not like i have any predding engagments. Even my students know I am a loser.


The walk to the mounds is nice and short and, although it is sort of cold outside, I am getting used to it. Growing up I spent most of my off time watching reruns of M.A.S.H. so I had a rough idea about what I was going to expect. I knew that I should have plenty of long underwear and that a still would be a nice addition to my apartment. Med school may be a good idea. I simply had no idea that the wind would be so brutal. It reminds me of . . . well, any place that has a lake nearby in the winter. Pohang may not have snow but the wind ain't no joke and that goes the same for Gyeongju. The wind was fairly fierce. But I am not exactly a sissy and I had enough money in my pocket that I knew a scarf would be one of the day's purchaces.

In the park there are various mounds of earth under which numerous Kings are buried. Some have been excavated and others have not. So they simply put down pavers and made it into a quite place to stroll. But under the mounds there are dead Kings and that is something rather remarkable in itself. The one mound that does have an entrance is rather tall and amazing. They do not allow any photography in the burial chamber but they have recreated how the "Horse King" was laid out and there are some rather nice pieces of gold the acomanied him to the neither world. I don't necessarily want ot be laid out in this fashion, a small gathering of friends will suffice, but I like the idea of a huge mound of earth . . .

Around the park the trees were preparing for the on coming winter. There are workers inscattered throughout the park raking up leaves and bagging them (no machines needed). It was not really worth mentioning excect that around this one grouping of trees there was a small mob of women beating the trees with sticks and then gathering whatever it was that fell out of them. I watched for a minute and then came in for a closer look. The trees were covered with little berries and the women were trying to knock then out of the trees so that they could gatehr them up off of the ground. I offered that all purpose "what the hell are you doing?" look and that is when they motioned that you could eat the berries. The problem was that the good berries were all in top of the tree. This is where I help. Oh, I can't find a size 12 shoe in this country for shit but when the little old ladies need someone to shake the berries out of the trees who do they turn to? So I do this for a few minutes and everyone is all smiles, chasing the berries as they scattered all over the ground. No, I didn't try to eat the berries as I didn't need to eat something that needs to be cooked first in some form. But they seemed to be having a good time so I moved on.

Accross the street from the park was some sort of temple but it appeared be closed. I liked the paintings on the doors and wandered around looking at all of the woodwork. By this time I was aging getting cold. My camera was also screwing up so I decided to look around the shopping district of town for a moment. I can kill a day with ease; it really doesn't matter what country I am in.

Naturally, the camera guy thought that I was useless. He basically said that if I kept using the batteries that I was currently using my camera would soon become a paperweight and that if I knew what was good for me I would simply buy the proper batteries for the camera and get on my wretched foreign life. The batteries ran me close to $60 USD and they needed to be charged for about an hour. So I give them the money and do the insanely dangerous thing of leaving the store without the product that I has just bought. Was I afraid I was going to get ripped off? No, I was afraid that if I didn't leave a trail of bread crumbs I'd never find his store again. But I left it, carefully looking for land marks and craving a cup of coffee. A nice second floor cafe was found quickly and I was pleased as there were cute little giggling Korean girls eyeing me as I scribbled in my little notebook and drank an over priced cup of coffee. I mean, in the real world I am simply something that doesn't stand out of the crowd in any form. Here, I am this odd anomaly; I am the piece in the picture that doesn’t fit. Anywhere else I am simply an overweight balding guy who is probably doing something horribly mundane. Here I am a walking freak show and, like any good car crash, people must stop and stare. It would be great if these beautiful young 20 some-things were going to take me back to some red laced boudoir, fill my head with opium and take my body to places that would be illegal in the southern United States but this ain’t gonna happen. At dinner they will tell their friends, hands over there beautiful teeth as they giggle, “A westerner drank coffee in the shop today, blah, blah, blah.” This is the extent of it. It is just a pain in the ass to be a “foreigner” all of the time.

I return for the batteries and then, as my budget is now shot to shit, decide that I need a scarf before I end up with pneumonia. This leads to a series of stores where the scarves are not what I am looking for or leap out of my $10 USD price range. If you spend more than that for something you know damn well you will lose within three months you are an asshole. I have played that role far too often and I know that things like scarves, hats, gloves, sunglasses are quasi-disposable items. They will get lost. You spend $65 on some Ray Bans and you will, in the near future, be kicking yourself as they have walked away with some other guy who intends to take better care of them than you did - you were the one who lost them. That is the way it works out. At least in my world. So I have set my limit and I am on the hunt.

I finally find this little hole in the wall with a big sign that says “The Paint Shop” which I find to be an odd name for a clothing store. I go in and try to indicate to the man in charge that I want a scarf. I get the big “no” but start to look and there are a bunch of really nice sweaters stacked in piles in the center of the room. I am a sweater whore and soon I am trying on these really nice wool things that are around $30 and which seem to make the idea of a scarf obsolete. I buy a nice gray sweater and then, as I am leaving, I realize that I have lost my hat. It is not a great hat but I dropped $15 on it in Colorado and have managed to keep it awhile. So now the owner and I are ripping apart the store looking for this silly hat and he finally reaches into a bag of hats and indicates that I could have "this one." Well, it was brown and I don’t want a brown hat. So he finds a black hat and now I am fairly happy. I leave, new sweater, new hat. He is thinking: IDIOT.

Well, I have to readjust the contents of my backpack and as I do so, out falls my hat. What to do? Do I go return the hat the guy just gave me? Do I simply consider it a bonus – sort of like the ones that Clinique gives out? Since I have been here I am far too conscious of Karma and decide that I had better give this guy back his hat or the next time I am bicycling downtown I will end up killed by a bus. Piss on that noise.

So I go back to the store and show him my hat and give him his hat and then he gives me a piece of sweet potato and invites me into the backroom, behind the two-way mirror. He is back there with his buddy watching the news, eating a snack of potatoes and mandarin oranges, washing it down with Soju. So I sit and snack and tell him where I am from and where I live. I mention Pohang and he gets all excited and hands me some book which I gather is somehow connected to Pohang and the merchant’s time in the military. He turns on his laptop to indicate that he uses Hotmail and chats with people all over the world. I give him my email address, take a photo and thank him for the snacks. I gave him the $3 for the hat (I sort of liked it) and prayed that I staved off the inevitable bus collision for a least another week or so.

Still no scarf.

I find the city’s central market and it is closing up, so I start to wander around in there.

It is smaller than the one in Pohang but it seems to have stranger stuff to look at. There is lots of octopus hanging from the ceilings and other kinds of seafood that I haven’t noticed locally. There are also butchers that seem to be very busy.
I find some killer things to snack on and then, as luck would have it, I find an Italian wool scarf – who the hell knows where it was really from, that is what the label said, but it is wool and it is very soft – that is right in my budget. So now I am happy. I wanted a scarf for ten bucks; I got a scarf for 10 bucks. I also ended up with $100 worth of other shit that I didn’t know I need but that turn out to be “must haves.” If only I had known.
The only other thing that I really need is a pair of hiking shoes/boots and this could be a real problem when the boats that I call feet are added to the mix. I knew that this would be a bit of a problem but I could not imagine how serious a problem it really is. A US size 12 shoe is like a unicorn – a mythical beast. They simply don’t exist and if you believe they do, you may have bought a bridge in a recent real estate deal. So I have been looking, albeit fruitlessly, for some shoes and when I find a place where I think that they may have something in my size, I venture in. On my way out of town I spy the Columbia store and stroll on in.

Columbia sells some fairly nice stuff and when I worked at Meijer’s one of the things that I did was score as much of their stuff as possible at some serious discounts. Wait until it is on clearance, couple that with my employee discount and I was doing OK for eastside white trash. So I go into this store in the hopes of finding some shoes. I know I am going to have to pay more than I did in the past but . . . “Do you have anything in a US 12?” “I’ll look.” This fool comes out with a pair of boots that are right at the $250 mark. Aghast: “I can’t afford that.” “You look like you could.” RIGHT THERE! He said that I “looked like I could.” So I am wearing a Columbia coat but the damned thing was made in Vietnam(guess we see who’s winning that war) and I basically stole it from my previous employer while trying to be slick. All this cat sees in a “Westerner” and that means “cash.” I wanted to scream: “RICH??!! You simple bastard! If I was rich why in the hell would I be here teaching rug rats English? I'd be getting my knob polished in southern France by some porn star in training.” To some people, dropping $350 on a GORTEX coat is chump change, the tip money after a nice meal. To me it is something that ain’t gonna happen as I really don’t see me climbing Everest, or any other thing that I can’t see the top of, any time soon. I need some boots to walk around in, not prove to others that I have balls made of brass. I leave, thanking him for his time and make my way towards the bus terminal and home.

So this little field trip wasn’t a complete waste of time. I now know how to get to Gyeongju, have more "necessities" that I can use to make my life easier. I learned that in the future I can store my bicycle under the carriage of the bus so this should make my next trip there even more fun. I also have a scarf that I can’t wait to lose and a new friend in another city. As he has “big sizes” I can always score another sweater and maybe a snack. That is something and don’t think it isn’t. Now I just have to find some boots for under $150 USD that actually fit. I think I’ll have better luck finding unicorns.

A View from outside the Gates 

Be Careful What You Wish For

The other day my mother sent me a great big care package. One of the things that I really wanted was some shoes for my bicycle and I had no idea how to get them here. I ended up having her order me a pair from a store in Grand Blanc and then sending them. It was far from cheap, but they fit well and are exactly what I wanted. There is a guy here who runs a coffee shop, The Café Id. Lee speaks excellent English and he rides mountain bikes to a degree that I can’t understand. I immediately went to his café and he told me how to get some pedals to go with the shoes. He even offered to order me some if I didn’t find what I wanted at the best local bicycle shop. It is really nice to know people who can help you in a time of need. He also makes some of the best coffee I have ever had. He even roasts his own beans which is overkill to say the least.

In the “be careful what you wish for” department I followed Lee’s instructions and bought some pedals. I don’t know if you have ever seen “clip-less” bicycle pedals but, in essence, they are like ski-bindings. They are really difficult to use at first and there are a shit load of little warnings all over them which basically say if you mess with these, you do so at your own risk. As if I would ever heed any warnings!!

There is this crazy bicycle shop in the center of town and sort of reminds me of my father’s old shop as it is filled with stuff everywhere and the only person who knows where everything is at is the guy running the show. I bring in this piece of paper and show the guy what I want. He looks at my shiny new shoes and then, literally starts to dig around for a box that is buried under a bunch of other boxes all well hidden behind a bunch of bicycles. He pulls out the exact pair of pedals that I am looking for. Through motions and coyness I hint that I want him to put them on my bike. We wheel it in and that is where the fun begins.

First he lifts my bike and makes a face as if he has just smelled a fresh diaper. He then lifts my bike and places it on a hook to see how much it weighs. This stirs up a face like he just found out he had a terminal illness: lots of looking at the ground, lots of head shakes. He then motions to another bicycle and indicates that I should pick it up. I do so and it is as light as a feather. He then smiles as if I should trade mine in for that and that the world would be better for everyone if I made that move. On a box he scribbles the price of 6,000,000 won which is a little under $6k and I now make the new-diaper face. He then pulls out another bike, this very light as well, and seems to think that at 2,500,000 won I would be getting a steal. He looks at the components on my bike and seems to approve of them and then begins to switch out the pedals.

He then looks at the angle of my seat and then points to another seat which has an incline that goes more towards the front pedal. Then he sort of grabs his crotch and tries to indicate that the way my seat is set up would be nothing but a swift kick in the family jewels and that he had better go to work on adjusting that.

I then pick up my old pedals and hang them on the handle bar, figuring that they can stay there for my ride home. He HATES this idea, finds a bungee cord and hooks the entire thing up to the rack that I had previously used for my saddle bags. I don’t why it never occurred to me to use the rack for anything else.

Here it was that I thought I pretty much had my game under control and this guy was pointing out, sort of subtly, that I had no idea what the game was. In fact, the world would be a better place if I simply sat back and watched others play the game as I am simply clogging up the trail with my follies.

I get ready to leave and he offers me coffee. I gladly accept and then he points up towards the ceiling of his shop. Along a beam are framed photos of the bicycle team that he either sponsors or is on. They are all of these Koreans on what appears to some very high mountains and they all look fit, hard and serious. These are the ones who have a right to play the game. They have the proper tools for the job. The honed bodies. The drive. I am quickly learning my place in the world and my pegs have been seriously moved downward.

I finish my coffee and then start my ride home. It is at this point that the words of the guy I went riding with when I first arrived here, Colin, came swiftly back to mind: Be prepared to fall! I test the things out and I seem to get the general idea that you need to twist your foot get out of the pedals. This seems to be no big deal and I start to ride away, filled with confidence and the feeling that I have a new toy to play with. Perhaps MR. BIKE was wrong and I am I ready for the game after all?

Within three minutes of leaving Mr. Bike’s shop, a guy on a moped cuts me off and, try as I might, there is no way to escape the bindings and my ass is sprawled out in the middle of the road. The moped guy seems freaked as to why I would just fall over without a struggle – think cow tipping – he must of thought I simply had an aneurism or something. I shake it off, try to play it off and try again.

It is then that I realize my current geographic location and that in order for me to get home I need to ride though some SERIOUS traffic. There is no way to get out of this short of walking my bicycle home. Riding with the new pedals is a breeze. Stopping is horror as I can’t figure out how to escape these contraptions. I keep practicing, hoping that I can find some area that is people/car/bus free but that is like wishing for a big bag of money to fall out of the sky. I feel doomed!!

I make it home and only fall one more time. I stop at a 7-11 type place, buy a coke and a bag of chips and do the unthinkable: read the instructions. This makes me feel better as I have a understanding of the motion I need to break free, at least on paper. I practice my escape some more on some side streets where I only need to dodge pedestrians. My confidence is building. I then go to the coffee shop and wait for it to open to tell the owner, Lee, thanks for writing down the info that I needed and for offering to order the pedals for me if the guy at the bike shop didn’t have them in stock.

The pedals that I bought were about $50 and as we were looking at them on-line, Lee described them as “middle class.” From what I gathered it is one of those things, much like bicycles themselves, and most things for that matter, where the entry level thing is about $30, then it goes to $50 and the limit is: what the hell are you willing to spend? When I finally see Lee he says that I got a very fair price on the pedals but he was wondering why I would put them on such a middle of the road bicycle. God knows what he rides but I am certain that there is no way I have any business riding such a machine and he then looks at my tires with disgust (they are street tires) and says that they would never make it in the mountains. It is on of those moments where what he is saying is: Well, that piece of shit you call a bike may be good enough for you but I wouldn’t let my little sister be caught dead on that rat-trap.

Believe me, I am far from embarrassed about my bicycle and have no desire to upgrade at the moment as for what I use it for (dodging cars, buses, mopeds and people) it is the perfect machine and pretty much overkill on all fronts. These guys see it and think that I want to climb mountains with it and I know damned well that I am in no shape for what they think that its purpose should be. It is PERFECT as an urban assault vehicle and that it what it shall be.

So now I am ready for a trip:

The next day I looked on a map and thought that I nice route towards some temples planned out. This proved not to be the case but the ride, as most rides do, turned out to be interesting.

At the end of town, the POSCO steel plant and the other industries start to fade and it becomes a land of little pockets of civilization cut into any area where the ground is flat. Everything else is simply small hills that are not really suitable for anything besides offering a pleasant view. The roads through this area are very smooth and the route I took was not very hilly at all. The only problem was that there was a great deal of traffic and with these new pedals I am forced to be rather cautious. There is added confidence with the fact that I can travel faster – sure, I’ll go between a bus and a car without fear – but now there is the added element that if something happens suddenly I won’t be able to break free from my bindings and I will be crushed by said bus and car as I lie sprawled out on the pavement. As I ride, I continually practice the “escape” motion so that my body will become attuned to it and it will eventually become instinct rather than a forced gesture. I have been told that it takes about two weeks of solid riding before this occurs. After that, there is no way that one would ever return to not wearing the shoes/cleats combination.

I decided that 10 miles out was my bench mark for the day and it proved to be nice as I can do 10 miles in about an hour or so with little effort. I can still stop and look at stuff without being too tired – I am old and frail. I wanted to do the return trip before it became too cold. It is not that I mind riding when it is cool out, it is just that anything below 45 is simply a pain and I really don’t enjoy the wind. Like anything, when it starts to seem like work it ceases to be play.

As I rode towards the edge of my known world I realized that traffic was starting to get heavier and that I was at a huge intersection with a couple of bridges. I looked at my map but it wasn’t really helpful so I decided to simply follow the road that I was on and see where it took me.

My route was sort of “L” shaped in that I had to come south from where I live and then head west along the river. The further I got from the center of town it became clear that I was entering a major highway. This was not really a problem as there were wide shoulders and there was still plenty of light. On either side of me were small mountains and it felt as though I was in a valley. Most of it seemed like natural terrain but there were many spots where it was clear that earth moving equipment had been used to tear down parts of the mountains in order to make the area hospitable. I also think that some of this area was used during the Korean War as a point of entry which may be why there is such an extensive inland road system coming in from the coast.

The ride along the highway was fairly uneventful and there really wasn’t much to see as it is like traveling on any highway: lots of cars, a few gas stations, some places to eat. On my map I saw that there were some temples but I couldn’t place myself on the map as it wasn’t very accurate and for some reason I misplaced my other map, a detailed one, which was pissing me off to no end. So I simply rode with a general idea of where I thought I was going.

I found out that one of the big reasons that good maps are so scarce is that there was a great fear that if maps were generally available, the North Koreans would use them during an invasion. Maps have only become available in the last few years and prior to that people simply memorized everything, which also explains why there are no street signs. I guess that this is sound logic but doesn’t help my cause one iota.

I finally came to an intersection and it seemed that it would be better to cross the road as going against the traffic is seldom a good idea. By now I was getting cold and, truth be told, a bit frustrated. I got to the other side of the street and, across the railroad tracks that ran alongside the highway, was a small hill. At the top of the hill was a structure that looked old and seemed out of place amid the surrounding buildings. So, as I was hardly pressed for time, I rode up the hill and decided to see what it was. There was a sign in front of it that was in both English and Korean but before I could read it an old man came up to me and said that it was a school from the Chŏsun period. There was a wall around the structure and the gate was locked so I couldn’t get inside the grounds. I took out my camera and held it over the wall to take some pictures with the hope that they would come out with something interesting on them. I shot some things from various places along the wall.

This site was located next to a small house and while I was taking pictures, my bike and backpack lying haphazardly on the ground, a man came out of the house. He was smoking a very thin cigarette and he walked towards me, pointed to the building and said “school.” I nodded and he then asked if I was an American. I said I was and he smiled, motioning me to follow him. He then took me along the wall and up a small set of stairs. This allowed us to enter the school grounds from the side; something that one could not see if it wasn’t pointed out as the passage was along side of his house.

The school was actually a complex of small buildings and he let me wander around as long as I wanted. There was no real communication between us and I simply snapped pictures while he watched, leisurely smoking his cigarette. The architecture was fascinating with wonderful wood work, exquisite joinery and colorful paints applied everywhere. There were signs over various archways in Korean and I am supposing that they indicated the school’s charter or something similar. Photographing them, perhaps I can one day read them.

After we were done I saw some fish drying on a bamboo pole outside of his home and took a picture of them. It was set up almost like a clothes line. This time of year is for a special fish which is a delicacy in Pohang. It is fish that is dried by hanging in the open air and covered with netting, almost like cheese cloth, to keep off the insects. I am not certain when they are ready to consume but I hear they are eaten with hot sauce and washed down with the local fire water: Sojo. When he saw me take the picture, he again indicated that I should follow him. We went around the side of his house and towards a small shed with a lock on it. He found the key and unlocked it. Inside were stacks, and I mean stacks, of bamboo. All of the pieces were about six feet long and about as think as an old cane fishing pole.

He then took me to a machine under an awning and it was here that he showed me what he did: he straightened bamboo. The poles were inserted into this machine which was like a kiln. The bamboo was heated and then there was device, similar to what an electrician would use for bending conduit, which he would use to form the poles into straight pieces. He had a huge pile of bamboo that still needed to be straightened and in the back of his truck was more bamboo that was ready to ship off somewhere. I was impressed with his set up, even if I wasn’t certain what it was for.

As it was getting cold and a bit darker I thanked him for his time and prepared to continue on my way. He asked me if I would like some coffee and I naturally said yes.

We sat on his front porch and he said something to someone inside the house. I never saw who it was but I assume that is was his wife. I offered him as cigarette, which he gladly accepted, and I then took out my dictionary to see if I could figure out what he used the bamboo for. He didn’t like the words “building” or “furniture” so I basically gave up. He went over to the fish drying on a pole and seemed to indicate that the bamboo was strictly used in the process of drying fish but it sure seemed like a great deal of bamboo poles simply to dry fish. I was in no position to doubt him and by that time the coffee was ready. I still didn’t see who made it for us.

We drank coffee in silence and watched the sun set in the mountains. He then told me that he was 64 years old and that he had three sons, the eldest being 39. If I understood him correctly, he was from China and he moved to Korea about 10 years ago. On his right hand the tips of two fingers were missing and I assumed that it was from an accident with a saw.

He threw the butt of the cigarette down on his dirt driveway and went to his truck to get me one of his business cards. He told me to call him but what I would I say and how would I say it? By then we both had finished our coffee and it was time that I went as I still had a thought that I could see some kind of temple if I continued up the road. We said our goodbyes and I headed back down the hill.

I went further along the highway and the traffic started to pick up. It seemed that I was riding along a big highway, something akin to I-69, but the traffic doesn’t seem to move as fast. Off to my right I saw what I was looking for: a sign with a swastika on it. Yes, the fact that the Nazi party borrowed a sacred symbol for its flags and other decorations simply compounds the reasons that one should think that they are a bunch of complete assholes. Here it means that there is a temple nearby and I thought that this was a good thing. I exited the highway and began to ride along a two lane road that curved out towards the north. This time the mountains were further away and the valley was filled with newly harvested fields. It looked like they were growing some kind of straw. It may have been rice but I didn’t think so. At various intervals were small fires but I had no idea what they were for or why they were burning.

There was no temple in sight.

Venturing right, I took a small single lane road that went along the fields and came to small village like compound near the edge of the mountain. As I rode along this road I only saw two people: an old woman pulling a cart loaded with small bundles of sticks and a man coming home from a tavern. He was popped and he said something to me but I have no idea if he was being friendly or hostile. He simply staggered towards a walled house, opened the gate and staggered in. I looked down at my odometer and I noticed that I was right at the 10 mile mark. I decided to simply call it a trip and head back.

The ride back into town was a non-event. I just pedaled away and when I returned to some familiar scenes I looked for somewhere to sit down and eat. I ordered food, as usual the only westerner in the place, and ate in silence. The TV was showing some kind of dating game and I had no idea what the point of it was. The food was good and it keeps my streak of not having a bad meal since I have been in Korea alive and well.

So that is the story of my first outing with my new shoes. I admit that they did make a difference and that so far they seem to be a fine addition to my life. This will remain true until I end up locked into them and crash hard; another reason to always wear a helmet.

I hope all is well and that everyone is keeping warm. The weather there looks dreadful. It turns out that there was one thing that they forgot to mention before I took this job. I guess it was a slight omission on someone’s part: the building where I work doesn’t have central heat. When my lovely coworkers started to keep their coats on and I was asked to go to the third floor and start bringing down space heaters I knew that this would be a long winter. I can’t believe it. I mean, I don’t really mind as it is not THAT cold, but still.

So I too will try and stay warm.

Peace,

sh

Mr. Bamboo 

Drying Fish 

Lots of Bamboo 

Bending Bamboo 

Painted Corner Piece 

Part of the School Complex 

Dem Noodles be real good!! 

Road Trippin'

I hope that everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving and that they spent some quality time with those whom they love, enjoy and even tolerate. I didn’t really do anything except work and this has been the same thing six years running so this is not a new feeling. The thing that I am most thankful for is the fact that this year I didn’t have to deal with the disgusting hoard called the Amercian Consumer. There were no pleas for Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup, French’s Fired Onions, canned yams, cranberries whole/jellied and the other necessities that T-day requires. To say that working retail in the holiday season brought forth a feeling of disgust deep within my soul simply doesn’t cover it. I do not think that I have ever encountered such a rude and obnoxious breed as the American when shopping. What brutes! The Wednesday before Thanksgiving is grocer’s nightmare. Well, the owners are going to make loot, but his underlings are going to work like sled dogs and get treated like shit all the way around. This year I could give a shit about the holidaze. I miss the people but all of the bullshit that surrounds this time of year is simply that.

My main man Solomon has decided that trying to convert me is a complete waste of time (see, the man possesses wisdom after all) and now we spend our Tuesdays trying out different Korean dishes in between classes (or “battles” as he calls them). Last Tuesday, he invited me to go with him to Daegu, a city of about 2.5 million not far from here. As I have such a busy schedule, penciling this in was not too difficult.

Later that evening his wife showed up and said that she thought me going would be a wonderful idea. I was only told that some of her students would be going and that it would be fun. So I figure that this is going to be a funky little field trip and I guess I am down with the program. Why not?

Then it happened. My boss got wind of this. She pulls me aside and starts to stress that perhaps I should use my Saturday for resting. “Do I appear crabby?” I ask. “Crabby?” We break out the dictionary. “Oh, no.” Well after a bit of prodding I discover that what she is very fearful of others recruiting me to work for them and that if I go off on this trip I will be teaching others the splendid secrets of mighty English Language. She fears that Solomon’s wife, Susan, has told the student’s parents that a native English speaker will be on this trip and that she has used this fact as a recruiting tool to entice people to send their kids on this adventure. Immediately I stress to Lydia that there is no way I am doing any kind of work as I am far to lazy for that kind of shit and further, of all the things that I am interested in doing on my days off, teaching isn’t one of them. I know how to kill a day. I can destroy them with ill conceived behavior and misguided thought so for her to think that I am going to try and make a few won on the side is simply silly. Further, I stress that fact that I have no idea what they are going to do on this trip and that I was simply invited as a friend of Solomon, someone whom she employs. Plus, Susan used to work for her so Lydia should simply lighten up.

OK, so I didn’t add that but I was certainly thinking it. Lydia then said that she would call Susan and find out what this was all about. I said OK and then pressed on to other things in my not so busy week.

I did have an interesting encounter with some people later that evening which is worthy to note. While I was eating between classes, I ran into a Canadian whom I had seen at Mindy’s on a few occasions. He is a really nice guy and has been in Pohang for about 9 months. We chat and he says that later he is going to Mindy’s to play Trivial Pursuit with some other people and that I should come down if I have the time. Fine. I have one little project that I want to complete before the night is over and I’ll think about it if I have some time after that. This is my long day and my last class doesn’t end until 10:30 pm.

One of the text books that we use has a short section on “BEATLEMANIA” and I decided that I was going to teach it whether the other teachers liked it or not (FUCKIN’ AMERICANS!!). I downloaded some of the old Ed Sullivan footage and then decided that, as it is relatively inexpensive, I could burn some Beatles songs onto CDs and pass them out to the kids. Reading about the Beatles without hearing them is sort of pointless in my mind and, although they are not my favorite band in the world, I still possess enough of their music to make a pretty cool disc. I would also include a lyric sheet with all of the songs that are on the videos. So completing this was the first thing I needed to do that evening.

One of the videos that I found was the final concert they did on the top of Abbey Road where they sing “Get Back” and I thought that after seeing this video they should at least have the song. After I get home, I begin to look at the footage and then at the songs in my library and realize that I don’t have The White Album or Let It Be. They are not my favorites (I’ll take Revolver or Sgt. Peppers any day) so I start to look for them on line. This proved to be a complete pain in the ass and my computer was not cooperating as this task was unfolding – it was running slow as hell. I figured that this was a cue to venture downtown and destroy some innocent souls at trivial pursuit.

Well, the game was winding down by the time I got there so I shot a little stick in the interim and was finally introduced to the group who was playing. There were two women, one from Canada and an Australian, and another American from Oklahoma, plus the Canadian who told me to come downtown. They are drinking beer and chatting and the Aussie says that she is going to take a three month trip to the US, starting in S.F. by car, and wants to know what sights to see. So we Americans start talking about that and this is rather fun and the like. Then the topic shifts to America in general and global politics and this starts to become sort of odd as they seem to think that simply because I am a Yank I am going to defend our policies and they are somewhat shocked when I explain that I am REALLY far to the left and that I think Bush should be tried for treason (No, I don’t think that Al Franken was joking when he made those remarks) as his actions, and those of his administration, are immoral and illegal.

Then the Aussie starts to ask about drugs and, as I could give a shit, I tell her my history (scandalous in some circles, tame in others). She says that she has never touched anything stronger than alcohol: as she says this she is chain smoking. The other American lists a bevy of prescription pills that he has abused over the years and now he simply sticks to alcohol. He then admits that he has been picked up twice by the Pohang police while passed out but that it is cool here as all they do is let you sober up and then throw you in a cab, whereas back in the states he’d be charged with a PI and have to appear in court.

“Well, I know what the best high of all is,” says the Canadian, her Polish accent coming through a night of alcohol and nicotine.

I immediate add my personal favorite: “A fat bowl of Indiana Homegrown and a couple of glasses of Cabernet.”

The other American chimes in with: “Sex.”

She shakes her head and says: “No, it is none of those. It is a natural high. The body takes over and everything is crystal clear, perfect. You don’t need sleep, anything and the world is perfect. It’s called ‘mania.’”

Now she has my attention: “Are you bi-polar?”

“No. But I am probably manic depressive.”

“What are the highs like? How long do they last?”

“Only a few hours. Maybe a day or two at the most. But I love them.”

This is what I really want to know. “What are the crashes like?”

“They are bad.”

“Suicidal?”

“Not usually. Nothing that extreme.”

I basically call her a piker and then that is when the attacks start from all fronts. First she is pissed about my comment and I apologize. Then the Aussie starts to chime in about how “bi-polar/manic depressive” is a bullshit term and that it is over-diagnosed and a fuckin’ cop out. If people would simply take responsibility for their lives and their actions they would grow up and move on with whatever it is that they have to do. As it is people freak out and go crying to a doctor and then hope that they will solve problems which are usually of their own creation. She goes on with this train of thought and I ask her is she has suffered from depression and I try to stress that I’m not talking about the “dog ate my homework” or “I just put Pops in a box” kind of depression. She said “no.” I then ask about the other side of the coin. Again, “no.” So, and how do you say this without sounding like a patronizing prick, I tell her that I am extremely happy for her and that she should feel fortunate.

Now I am a patronizing prick.

Sure, I know damned well that arguing with drunks is a fool’s errand but at times it is fun and I knew that I still had awhile until my downloads were completed. I tried to explain that I have that over-diagnosed diagnosis and that I don’t necessarily like it, but that I’ll take it for what it is. As a result I need to take some meds and I know that if I fail to take them, shit can get a bit strange. Better yet, I feel that it would be in my best interest not to discover what life is like without them as I have done a bit of reading on the subject (I write An Unquiet Mind on the inside of a cigarette box and pass it her way) and have a fairly good idea about how this shit works. Is my diagnosis one of the ones that should be seen as a “cop out?” I guess it depends on whom you ask but I try to stress that there are certain people who care about my well being who would be most pissed off if I tried to stop taking my meds and ride the waves again.

I am totally down with the Canuck when it comes to the highs as they have red wine and kind-bud whipped hands down, but the lows . . . Fuck a whole lotta that noise as those are cruel and bizarre and painful and make death seem like a cozy thing to add to one’s list of life experiences. The Aussie ain’t buying.

So we leave it at that and I am certain that I shall meet them again as other aspects of the conversation were cool. Like I said, perhaps she is correct in her assessment. I am but a person of weak character who took an easy way out. I couldn’t handle life so I went to a doc and found a bunch of “happy pills” that make life nothing but ducks and bunnies. The spiders and snakes are back in their little holes and I can skip and play to the music that guides through my various veins. Maybe I should put the pills down and return to what I was dealing with before?

Maybe that bitch has no idea what the fuck she is taking about, should have another shot of Sojo and shut the fuck up?

Yes, that seems to be the best assessment. I mean, I gave her the title of one of the best books on the subjects. If she reads it, she may understand. If not, well I hope she has a great time touring the states.

See, I ain’t so vindictive after all.

When I finally rode home I checked my downloads and now it was time to decide what to put on the CD. As with most activities, there are certain limits and with this project the concern is: how does one make a disc that is representative of the Beatles career, not offensive to the ears of youth and something that I can be pleased with, as these selections are being cast out into the world and heaven knows where they will end up. The final list was as follows:

1. Twist and Shout

2. I Want to Hold Your Hand

3. I Saw Her Standing There

4. Can’t Buy Me Love

5. Roll Over Beethoven

6. Rock & Roll Music

7. Day Tripper

8. Help!

9. Paperback Writer

10. Taxman

11. Norwegian Wood

12. Yellow Submarine

13. Penny Lane

14. Hello Goodbye

15. Strawberry Fields Forever

16. Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band

17. With a Little Help From My Friends

18. Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (Reprise)

19. A Day in the Life

20. Here Comes the Sun

21. Something

22. Maxwell’s Silver Hammer

23. Dear Prudence

24. While My Guitar Gently Weeps

25. Revolution

26. Get Back

Obviously, they will not understand most of the stuff that was there and I know that there is a good chance that what I gave them could be turned into coasters or toys or quickly thrown away. This is not my concern as I figured that I gave them a chance and that perhaps one of them may actually dig it enough to run with it for awhile and see where it takes them.

As I didn’t get home until 4:30 am, the next morning/noon was spent burning CDs and then burning extras for the Korean teachers as no one would be giving them this shit either.

Then I thought about it and as I looked at my schedule I realized that there were two other classes that I could offer this to, but that I would be short one CD. So, in that first class, a class with three boys and one girl, I said that they were my TEST MARKET and that one of them would have to make the sacrifice and wait until tomorrow for their CD. In my mind I thought I knew who would agree to this but I was very wrong and what is known as Korean sexism reared its ugly head. The boys all said that Connie, the lone woman, would simply have to wait. She the girl has to wait? Fine, I will abide by the ruling of the masses.

Over all the lesson was well received but most of them could give a shit about black and white footage of the Beatles (Teacher, turn on the color). They read the article and were sad about John Lennon being killed and explaining that event was sort of hard. They didn’t understand that I wanted them to KEEP THE CDs as I really had no use for them – I can make my own coasters, thanks. This was something very alien to them and took a great deal of explaining on my part. But it was cool and I have three other classes to teach it to in the following weeks so I am certain that my presentation will improve.

As for Connie, well I believe that good things come to those who wait. I gave her the Beatles disc but I also included the following:

Scott Teacher’s Crash Course in Miles Davis

So What (Radio Concert from Japan)

Freddie Freeloader Kind of Blue

Blue in Green Kind of Blue

All Blues The Complete Concert 1964

Flamenco Sketches Alternative Take

Autumn Leaves Somethin’ Else

This is actually off of a Cannonball Adderley Album

Which features Miles Davis on Trumpet

On Green Dolphin Street On Green Dolphin Street (UK)

Straight, No Chaser Miles Davis Live At Newport 1958

Générique Ascenseur Pour L’Echafaud

Ah, now that is a nice thing to have. I originally made it for another teacher but thought that everyone should own it. She was baffled as to why I was giving her two discs and I simply said because she has to wait. She seemed pleased, confused, but pleased.

Saturday @ 7:33 am I get a wake up call from Solomon’s wife saying that she will be picking me up in an hour and that our little field trip is on. I shower, pack a bag and figure that not having any idea what this journey is about is sort of a good thing as there is always something pleasing about going somewhere completely blind. Ah, just get into the car and see where it takes you . . .

Our first stop was at a large apartment complex where we picked up a middle school kid (sorry, can’t recall his name) who spoke excellent English and who brought a small bagged filled with freshly baked sweet potatoes which his mother prepared as a travel snack. We also munched on mandarin oranges. This was until we arrived at Wal-mart.

Then we met a van and our party went from four to four adults and 11 children. One of the kids was a student of mine, Michael, and I had no idea where the other kids were from or, for that matter, where we were going or why we were heading there. I was in the van with Solomon, he friend who volunteered to drive (yes, he is now a candidate for sainthood) and a bunch of noisy kids who were scared of me at first but warmed up later. All of the kids proved to be private students of Solomon and his wife. Many Koreans teach English on their own time but if one is under contract here, like I am, having private students is an offense which can lead to deportation. However, many foreigners do it as the money can be very good (up to $75/hour).

It turns out that the British Museum had a traveling exhibit of goodies and we were going to see that. Of course, I didn’t realize this until we all saw the signs. The exhibit was in a hall at Keimyung University. The lines were long so we had lunch in the cafeteria and once again I was the only westerner for what seemed like miles. The kids ate noodles and then we went to the exhibit which was fascinating to say the least. I noticed that there was no way the Brits would let go of the Rosetta Stone, but they were happy to send a replica and an assortment of Rosetta Stone t-shirts and other knick knacks fun the gift shop. Personally, I liked the Renaissance etchings but the kids were captivated by the mummies and anything that was made of gold.

After that we took the return trip to Pohang, got rid of the kids, which was no easy task as they lived all over the city and then headed out for a killer meal with some more of Solomon and Susan’s friends.

Now, in all honesty, I must admit that Lydia’s initial fears turned out to be well founded as they did want me to work for them at an upcoming English camp in January. I made no promises. I was more interested in Susan’s offer to teach me Korean in her free time when she is not watching her kid. She and Solomon were both very kind and dinner was wonderful as the food was great and the company was excellent. The friends that they brought happened to be two Vietnamese students from the local university who study business. They spoke great English and everyone had the good sense to leave all politics at the door. They were also most helpful in instructing yours truly on how to eat certain Korean goodies: it seems that I was eating the chili peppers all wrong.

On the whole it was a busy week. Sorry that this is such a long piece but it has been awhile since I wrote anything that wasn’t put into an envelope.

Take care of yourselves and those whom you love.

Peace,

sh