Scott and Solomon after a day of looking at things the British looted 

Some Happy Campers 

How it ends up 

On to Month Three

I made it through my second month in Korea. I still can’t speak the language but I fully admit that the fault lies with me. I was under this impression that if I stayed here long enough the language would simply seep into my unconscious mind and that one day I would wake up all happy, rested and fluent. As it is, after work the last thing that I want to do is come home and try to make sense of this language. I want to chill. Chill and ill. Watch TV where I have no idea what they are saying but they seem very excited as they say it. I know that this will have to end and I am currently looking for a tutor.

I bought a printer for my computer so I could send out some actual letters. For some reason I don’t mind doing it. I actually enjoy it. Besides, I do know people who don’t use email. I also know people who drag their women folk around by their hair and who hunt the dreaded and much feared wholly mammoth with hand made tools.

I lost the class with my little Fireplug but I did sub for her class last week and I am now forced to take back all of the things that I wrote about her. Yes, she still has a black belt, but she is irresistibly cute and always tries to teach me bits of Korean. I think that we spent the lesson reading Little Red Riding Hood and she does read well. When there were some words that everyone didn’t understand, she insisted that she write the words out on the white board so all could see (she had to stand on a desk in order to reach the upper part of the white board). I mean, for me to write out the Korean would take hours and she just whips it out like it is her native tongue. Her English name is Julia but I have no idea what her Korean name is and there is no way that I would remember it. I can barely remember how to get home. She tried to teach me the word “friend” but I forgot it. The next time I’ll slip her some candy, just to keep her on my good side. She could be frontin’ for all I know.

Although there are many rackets in the world, I find that the faux holidays that the Hallmark Greeting Card Company has created to be some of the most offensive. Sweetheart’s Day is bullshit. But the Koreans have one better. On 11/11 is Pepero Day. These are long, pretzel-stick like things, no salt, that are dipped in chocolate. They actually more like a flavorless cookie. They vary in size and the deal is that taller people are supposed to give them to shorter people. This means that every teacher is supposed to pass these damned things out. So I go to my first class of the day and BOOM there are hands out and everyone wondering where their treat is. I knew that it was 11/11 but I really didn’t think that it was obligatory. SO . . . I have to leave the class, ask my director to cover while I run to the store, buy 30 boxes of these things and start passing them out. My 30 boxes only ran me about $10 but it was not enough as each kid wants their own box and there are 15 short sticks in a box. After careful rationing, by the time I get to my last class I am down to three boxes of these things and I decide that each student can have four sticks. I have taken attendance, I am down to just a crumpled bag of broken pieces and I think I am pretty much on top of things. This girl walks in late and I hand her the broken pieces and tell that is the last of it and that is what she gets for being late. I mark her in as late and when I look up she is crying. I mean crying hysterically. Like I have gutted her pet in front of her crying. I have no idea what faux pas I have crossed but it can’t be good. Maybe the broken ones represent a curse or some silly shit? The one who gets the broken ones will have a year filled with rotten teeth and poor sleep. The bag is on the floor and she is weeping . . . Once again I leave the class and go and get my director and tell her that some girl is crying because I gave her broken pretzel sticks and she follows me back to the classroom.

It turns out that one of the boys did something to her so he got reamed out by the director for making the girl cry and for sending me into a frenzy. Naturally, the same boy made another girl cry before the class ended and I was tempted to kill his scrawny ass but it was Friday and I just wanted to go home. I guess Georgie Porgie knows no international boundaries.

I also tired to bribe one of my lousy classes with movies and treats. I decided that the best way to get them to do what I wanted them to was to make them answer direct questions. Well, this just pissed them off. I really didn’t mind but I decided that honey might work better than vinegar and I downloaded a bunch of Tom & Jerry cartoons with the idea that they could watch them and then try and retell the plot. So I sprung for some slushies and we watched cartoons and, I suppose this is my own fault, all I got was a bunch of stories about how the cat and mouse were mean to each other. I guess it was worth it but now all they want to do is watch cartoons and they are all pissed off if I don’t bring my laptop to class. Ain’t that a bitch.

I never really like to write about politics as most know where I stand. There are also people like Judith Miller and Bob Novak who do it so well that adding my voice to the fray isn’t really necessary. Once I completed one of those on-line quizzes (Are you on the right or the left?) and I ended up so far to the left that I was next to Chomsky and was moving out toward the point that I was almost a Maoist. I guess that is from reading Sartre and growing up in an industrial ghost town. This week George Bush is making his Asian tour and from what I have read it seems that he is trying to escape those stellar approval ratings back home. On Thursday he arrives in Pusan/Busan which is only a 1 ½ hour bus ride from here. I think that he leaves on Saturday so the protests which as scheduled for Friday will be over by the time I get out of class. I still think I may make the trip as I need to find a sweater and Pusan/Busan is the second largest city in the country. It wouldn’t hurt if I added my voice to those who want to scream. South Korea has 3,000 troops in Iraq. If nothing else I am certain that there are plenty of students who are pissed off about that and other things. Ah, there is nothing like a nice riot to bring everyone together. I’ll be the guy cowering in the corner . . .

Other than that there hasn’t been a whole lot to add. I downloaded Roger Ebert’s Greatest Movies list and am trying to fill in the gaps via LIIMEWIRE and cheap videos that I find in the downtown markets. Tonight’s feature is The Bicycle Thief. Now if only I can find some popcorn . . .

Peace,

sh

Coltrane's Insane

There are many things in this world that take a great deal of nerve to pull off. Everyone saw what happened when Homer Simpson named his motorcycle gang THE HELL’S SATANS. You end up looking like a complete ass and usually end up pissing a shitload of people off. The late Jim Croce seemed to outline it well when he offered the following list of don’ts: pull on Superman’s cape, spit in the wind, pull the mask off of the Lone Ranger and mess with Jim. Easy advice; follow it and no one will get hurt. So my question is: What kind of gall it takes to name your Korean jazz bar Giant Steps?

If you are not familiar with Coltrane’s masterpiece then before you pass into the next realm of being you should take a little time out of your busy day and sit through it. Make some tea. Have a sandwich. Pour yourself a nice Scotch, dim the lights and savor everything that music could, and should be. It is only an hour or so; perhaps less depending on the recording. I carry the title cut on my MP3 player for those moments when everything is falling apart and I need a psychological safety net. Play the first few notes and the world is restored to something bearable. It is not something difficult like A Love Supreme or some of the more intense pieces of his final years. It is like a great wine: complex, flavorful and one glassful simply will not do.

On Friday night the Yahoo Life in Pohang group sent out word that there was to be a good, old fashioned, American style Halloween party at Mindy’s American Café and I was sort of up for a nice night out on the town. I was coming up to the point in the month where I was starting to crave conversation that was a tad more complex than Subject-Verb-Object and I figured that a night surrounded by drunken Americans in full costume really couldn’t hurt.

Naturally, when I got off work I fell asleep on the couch and that shot that plan right in the ass.

So Saturday I decided that I would make the trek to a place called Giant Steps. I had a vague idea where it was at and I had also heard that they had live music. So far anything that said “LIVE” on it was basically a karaoke bar with drunken Koreans trying to be Wayne Newton. So I was rather excited about the prospect of actually hearing musicians. This brought back these odd memories of my life in Detroit and how I lived right around the corner from Alvin’s. I would ride the bus home from work and there would be some old black dude with a battered horn case getting off at my stop. He would head towards the bar and I would head home to change.

By the time I would get to the bar there would be all of these people waiting to sit in. And it wasn’t like it was a bunch of bullshit people sitting in. You either knew what you were doing or you wouldn’t dare approach that stage. It was always decent, sometimes great and seldom boring. Perhaps I am idealizing it somewhat but as I rode my bicycle on a cool, October night that was the vision I was holding in my mind. Sure, there weren’t going to be a bunch of old black cats with 25 years in at Mr. Ford’s plant, but there could be some guy who spends his off hours trying to play along with Miles or some chick fresh out of high school who spends her time away from Mozart practicing In Walked Bud. I mean the place was called Giant Steps and that could only mean that whoever owned it was all ate up on jazz.

Or perhaps not.

AN ADDED “S”

I suppose there is a great many assumptions made when one lives in a foreign country. The first is that they have no idea how to use the English language. I see “Giant Step” and I think Coltrane and I assume that they simply forgot the “s.” I read the email and assume that those who sent it forgot the “s.” It never occurs to me that someone would name a bar that has live music “giant step” as that has no real value connotatively. Obviously, it denotes other images (Armstrong on the moon, the Jolly Green Giant crushing peasants) but why on earth would you want to name a bar that has live music something as inane as that? I just attribute it all to some piss poor use of syntax and I start pedaling like a mad-man to reach a destination which promises both live music and native speakers of English.

Sure, it is fun to pedal through the streets bustin’ out Ice Cube on my MP3 player, but after an hour on various hills and getting lost in unfamiliar ‘hoods I simply want what I was looking for and nothing less. I want music, sweet music. At this juncture I will even settle for covers of Green River or some other shitty song that is played at weddings. I will settle for anything as I am old and tired, I am sick of being lost and in a city of 500,000 people there has to be somewhere that has live tunes. Growing up in Flint we could go to The Rusty Nail and listen to MR. X play the drums and some other cats blow out tunes . . . It has to be possible here, no?

The bottom line is that the giant in the step refers to . . . I have no idea and there is no native speakers of English and the only people in the place are eating, what appears to be, poorly cooked French Fries, and the large screen TV is showing choppy footage of the recent bombing in India.

I sit at the bar and am thrilled to see that they have Milk Shakes on the menu as that sounds really good. I am shattered when they tell me “no Milk Shake” and the waitress looks all extra pissed off when I simply order a coffee. I begin to look around and the place is comfortable with deep chairs, nice tables and lighting, and a stage with a drum kit. There are amplifiers and it must be true what they say about “live music.” So I am pleased.

In front of me is a man who begins to shuffle through a stack of CDs. I can’t really see the titles but I notice that some of the writing is in English. So I sip my coffee and I wait. What he fill my tired head with? What beautiful choice will he make that will set my soul free and make my six mile journey through a chilled October night worth all of the calories burned? I mean, it is approaching Halloween and I think I deserve a nice treat.

This is the age of the music download. I can sign up for something like LIMEWIRE and I can offer up my music in exchange for yours. I currently possess about 15,000 songs and I have managed to do so without adding any files by Lynard Skynard, Led Zepplin or anything else that has been driven to the grave via FM radio. You spend a few years working construction sites and there is no reason to ever hear Stairway to Heaven, Freebird, or Back in Black. You hear the opening licks and you know where it is going. Just let it lie and move on. There are too many other choices out there. Read AMG and figure out what is new and try to find that. Get into opera or house music. Don’t limit yourself with what is prescribed. Life is far too short for that. It is acceptable to revisit the songs of your youth as long as those songs were not played on FM radio. Try to find that kindred soul who has a copy of Vistamix or Oil and Gold; listen to it to refresh the mind, wander back to when buying something new meant just that; file it away and move on. “Live for the obscure” is not necessarily a bad motto.

So the man who is trying to play DJ has some choices. Sure, there are patrons whose needs must be met but that doesn’t mean that you must bore the shit out of them. Pretend you have moved to Dublin and start to play the goddamned Pogues for Christ’s sake. Make a solid choice. Make a choice that shows that you have at least put some effort into your selection. Show a little bit of class.

Now, I fully admit that I added the “s” and that I went to this place with very high expectations and that in doing so I have set myself up for a huge fall. I made the trip, I made the choice and now I have to live with it. I connected the dots and created an image that was way too obnoxious to be realized. But I am patient and I will at least let the man make his choice before I make my appraisal. If his selection is good, I may make the journey again. I will make it without complaint and I will make it with a hint of joy and anticipation lodged in my heart.

The noise of the TV starts to fade and sounds begin to fill the air. Sounds. Sweet sounds . . . Hold on. What the hell is he doing?

You see, this is what I will call a sin. Now, I add the “s” and I get Coltrane. I take away the “s” and I still get Neil Armstrong. But this asshole chose the fuckin’ Bee Gees and that leaves me with the image of the Jolly Green Giant’s foot coming hard and heavy towards my own person. He will grind my bones to make his bread. If the devil has a juke box the Bee Gees are on it. They play in a continuous loop while bodies writhe in blocks of ice and fire licks the souls of there feet. After six miles of sweat and determined pedaling this is what he offers me? Why not give a man dying of thirst a glass filled with sand? Coltrane is rolling in his grave and I am starting to pray for mine.

I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to beat him to death with my bicycle helmet. What a fuck nut!

Then again, I am the fuck nut. I guess Koreans like the Bee Gees and I am the one who must adapt. I am the one who must change. I am the fool.

After a few Bee Gee songs, the man puts on some video of a Korean folkie who the patrons obviously enjoy. This is my cue to leave. It is rolling on midnight and I still have six miles to go.

As I wind though the hills listening to the sounds of my youth (Howling Wolf, Bill Nelson, Jimi Hendrix, Merle Haggard, etc) I decide that I still need to hear my own language spoken with “r”s that don’t sound like “l”s, so I decide that I will stop off at Mindy’s. Her little oasis will leave me with about 12 minutes left on my journey. I can live with that.

I lock my bicycle to a lamp post and head to Mindy’s. There I know damned well that I will hear songs that have been played to death but at this juncture I don’t care. I have given up on any kind of music that I may enjoy and simply want a familiar mind. This is all. Nothing more. I don’t even care where they are from or what they do. They can be rabid Bush supporters. They can think that Stairway to Heaven should be the one song that should be played at their funeral. I just want someone to understand me and it is getting to the point where that is becoming a difficult goal to attain.

At Mindy’s there are some people playing pool and they are listening to Metallica and I don’t care as she remembers my name, places a Diet Coke in front of me and tells me “happy Halloween.” She says the last night’s party was good and that life is treating her well and I finally feel at ease.

At one point she offers me, and some American guy who is playing pool, to share in her snack. She warns us that it is very spicy and we eat and chat. The guy says that it isn’t too spicy for him as he is used to food that is much hotter. Thinking that he must be from Texas or somewhere else in the south, I ask him where he is from.

“Michigan.”

“Really, I am from Michigan. Where are you from?”

“Flint.”

“No shit. Where’d you go to high school?”

“Kersley.”

I tell him that I went to Northern and he says that he lived in Burton and that he is in the Navy. We chat but that doesn’t go very far and I return to my end of the bar. A fuckin’ poser.

The guy sitting next to me starts to pay his tab and finish what is left in his glass and I ask him where he is from and what he does. He is Belgian and works on windmill turbines. He is in Pohang for four weeks and this is his first time in Korea. His English isn’t flawless but it is pretty damned close and Kurt turned out to be a pretty fascinating guy.

He talked about his travels and the fact that he worked his way up within the company and now travels all over the world looking at the gearboxes in various windmills that generate electricity. He even spent about six months in the states and had really nice things to say about his time in America.

We talked for about two hours. He reminds me that I really shouldn’t bitch about not finding someone to speak with as no one speaks his native tongue which is Flemish. Thus, he is forced to speak in French, English or German. We talk about rude travelers, how different Asia is from Europe and how nice it is to actually talk to someone who knows what you are trying to express. It was just what I needed.

Around three AM a group of Americans in full Halloween costumes (a belly dancer, a devil, someone who looks like a Smurf and others) come in and start searching Mindy’s computer for Halloween songs. So we hear The Monster Mash, some odd Misfits tune and other scary songs. They dance in groups, take lots of pictures and the beer starts to flow.

Kurt decides that it is time to move on to another bar and we part. I gather my belongings that are spread across my corner of the bar, tell Mindy “good night” and head out towards my bicycle. It is just where I left it and, naturally, as I am riding home I see that my front tire is starting to lose air. It is nothing that will prevent the complete journey but it still pisses me off. I have to stop, pump it up and hope that I won’t have to repeat the process before I make it home.

Once back in my ‘hood I eat a quick meal and look at my tire which is suffering from a slow leak. Upon inspection I see that the tire must be replaced. This is fine as I had enough foresight to bring an extra tire and a spare tube.

The restaurant is a few blocks from my house so I simply walk my bike along the deserted streets. As I walk I look into various restaurants and see that they are still filled with patrons who are drinking and eating. It is now close to 4 am.

So on the whole my Halloween was fine. It was filled with both tricks and treats. In the end it was the tricks that I played on myself that got me into trouble. At least I know a bar where they know my name. It ain’t Cheers but it will do for now.

Happy Halloween.

Peace,

sh

This Ain't the ol' Swimmin' Hole

The other night I was working with Solomon and he was talking about the various places he has lived and the fact that one of the good things is learning about different cultures. I’ll buy that. Then he went on to say that while he lived in Argentina he missed the Korean saunas. This sort of confused me and then he asked if I had been to a Korean sauna and I said that I had not. “Ah, we’ll go after work.”

On Tuesday nights I finish work at 10:30 and Solomon and I started to walked towards my house. We then continued up a large hill to this five story building. I could see the word Hawaii on the side of it and Solomon said that this is where the sauna was.

Inside we check our shoes into lockers and then take the key for that locker and exchange it for another. This key is to a locker for clothes. Solomon picked up a set of short, “scrub-like” clothes for me and we headed towards our new lockers.

Here where I got the details of our adventure:

“This is a public bath. You need to get naked and then get clean. Then you can go to the sauna. Koreans are very big on hygiene. You must be clean before getting into the bath.”

Fine, I’ll do anything once.

So we get all naked and then grab these really rough wash cloth like things and head to the showers. There we get all lathered up and I know, as a reader you are thinking that this is turning into some kind of gay porn novel but that was far from the case. Once I got over the fact that I was the only westerner in the place and I was the only creature with chest hair (think of that one James Bond movie where he turns Japanese) then it was just this odd shower that made you feel REALLY clean.

Then it was off to the baths. There were probably eight different pools. There was one with water jets, a couple with crazy minerals, some that were hot, some cool. You soak and watch crazy nature programs on a big screen TV. There are a couple of little kids flopping around, their fathers reading a laminated newspaper. There are guys chatting, guys shaving and brushing their teeth. Some guys are sleeping on lounge chairs. It takes a minute to adjust to but after that is was a pretty relaxing place.

The saunas were wonderful. One was a dry heat, one was a steamy heat. There was a room that was like a freezer with chairs and I found this to be ridiculously cold. After a while your body started to open up and your mind started to bake. The walls of the saunas were lined with rocks that looked like jade and they gave off a oddly sweet scent.

After the rooms it was back into the water and you could simply do this process for as long as you could stand it. Solomon bought me a tooth brush and a razor and I had a shave and scrubbed the teeth and shampooed and then it was off to next part of the excursion.

After drying off I put on my little scrubs and we down two floors to a large common room. Solomon pointed out that on the floor below us was the woman’s baths. In this common room there was a large TV and a stand that offered beverages and snacks. People were lying on the floor on mats and watching TV, some kids were conked out, obviously through for the night. In the center of this room was a staircase that led up to large rooms where people could basically crash out. There were rooms off to the side of this common room that had heat, cold, people napping. There was another room with computers and karaoke machines (yes, listening to Solomon sing Bohemian Rhapsody was like the sound of two cats screwing in a pillow case). But then we saw them . . . The new model of massage chairs (a vast improvement over the older ones says Solomon). For a little under a buck you could sit in those bad boys for 10 minutes and it was a sheer delight. After that is over, another buck gets you 10 minutes in the foot massager. Holy shit those were nice.

After all of this, eat a couple of sauna eggs (eggs left in the sauna for awhile), another dip in the pools, get dressed and you’re home by 1:30, rested and ready for a good night sleep.

It was a bit odd and I apprehensive at first, but afterwards I was rather pleased and thought that these folks know how to relax after a hard days work. Too tired to go home? Just sleep there. There are also weight rooms, yoga classes and the rest. But those pools . . . man, that was sweet.

Now if only I can figure out how to swipe one of those chairs . . .

Peace,

sh

A Busy Week:

Monday: Payday and it is all cash and comes in a brown envelope. For a minute I feel like a guy who just took the down payment to do a contract on someone and I am conscious of the money until I finally make it home. The first purchase is a hard drive for my computer and the rest of it goes into the bank or back to the states. I guess that is the problem with being poor; it is the same no matter where you are.

Tuesday: Lydia picks me up and we head to the bank so I can open an account and wire some money home. We also need to get some kind of sticker to put on the old couch so that we can put it by the curb for heavy trash pick up. The bank is not that exciting, although I do sort of feel like a non-existent entity as Lydia and the banker lady chat with one and other and I simply hand over stacks of money when they nod at me. This process takes about an hour and fifteen minutes and in the end I am sick of banks. I never did much care for them, this only further confirmed it. But I now only need to take in some paperwork and I can transfer money to the states with little fanfare. So I guess it was worth it.

I celebrate during my between class break by getting a hair cut. It was not really a big del and the only thing worth mentioning is that before it was my turn in the chair this little kid was getting his hair cut and when it came to call it “done,” the kid’s mother came up and basically made the barber re-cut the kid’s hair. Then, after she was satisfied, she took the boy over to a sink and washed and dried his hair. It seemed a little “too much” and I sort of felt bad for him. With me, I simply tried to gesture that I only wanted a little cut off and he did a fine job. When some of my students saw me in the chair I became an object to watch. I am hoping that one day the stares will diminish.

Wednesday: Nothing. I didn’t do a damned thing. But I did start to feel a scratchiness in my throat that wasn’t there before. I find this a bit alarming but nothing to be totally freaked out about.

Thursday: David calls and says that today is the day that we should go and see the Doctor. This is good because I am running out of pills and this scratchy feeling is really starting to kick my ass and is turning into a cough that is more than annoying. He arrives right at 11 am and we head towards downtown. The day is sunny and the traffic is nothing to be too concerned about.

Once downtown the only problem is where we must wait for traffic to clear at the two major intersections in town. One is a junction of six roads and the other is a junction of five. If you show up at the wrong moment you will be sitting through the entire cycle and that seems to last forever. We only have to wait at the second one and that wasn’t too bad. We are lucky as David thinks he knows where this “clinic” is and we find a nearby parking spot, not an easy task as to the untrained eye it appears that these people park anywhere they feel like. There are rules; I simply don’t know what they are. So we park and start looking for the “clinic” and this is becoming a task with David going into one pharmacy after another trying to figure out where this place is. As per usual I am zero help in all of this and simply stand around and enjoy the sporadic fits of coughing that are developing within my body. It is starting to hurt and I am not pleased and David finally returns with the information that the “clinic” has moved to the other side of the junction so we must return to the car and now drive on.

After about 10 minutes of waiting and searching we finally find the “clinic” and head up the three flights of stairs to the office. The room is almost bare except for a couch and a TV and the walls are this institutional green color that signifies . . . “Clean” perhaps? “Doctor’s Office?” I mean, if there were some magazines or something . . . there is the standard water machine that is in every Korean place. No artwork. Just green walls and a woman sitting quietly behind a long desk and two doors, one to her right and one behind; she barely looks up as we enter the room.

David explains to her why I am here and then I print my name and sign on some sheet of paper. After I return it to her, she goes to the door on her right, opens it, goes in and returns quickly, motioning for us to enter the room.

The room is an office with a desk, a couch, a couple of chairs and some weird contraption that appears to measure brain waves. On the wall are two long book cases and they are filled with psychiatry books and there are two that immediately catch my eye: obviously the DSM IV is nice to see but there is a book on psychopharmacology. I have no idea when it was written but I am pleased that there are many titles in English and that there is a good chance that what I deal with on a daily basis isn’t so rare.

He and David begin talking and I pull out my two bottles of pills and place them on the desk and once again, much like at the bank, I feel as though I am only here for comic relief or to hand these guys props as needed. They continue to look at the drugs and I am trying to stress the fact that the Depakote is a non issue as I have a shit load of that. But the Doctor still keeps looking at it as if it is the riddle of the sphinx and I am becoming very jittery, and he goes behind a curtain and David explains that he is looking up something on the internet and I keep trying to stress that I don’t care about the Depakote and then the Doctor returns and says that he can get me the generic of the Depakote and I tell him that this is wonderful but that what I really need is the Effexor and I quickly begin to look for something sharp on his desk to jab him with if he doesn’t get on the task that I have placed in front of him.

So far this guy has not said a word in English and now he is looking in some book with Korean script and talking with David and my anxiety level is shooting through the roof. He leaves to go back behind the curtain and David asks me what will happen if I don’t get the drugs that I need and I tell him that I am not certain but I would rather not find out as once you start taking them it is really not in your best interest to suddenly stop. They are supposed to be in your system at a constant level and to disrupt the flow is not a good idea. I can’t tell if anything that I have said has made a lick of sense and with that the Doctor returns and in perfect English says: “You take these for mood fluctuations, yes? In Korea we don’t have the strength of the Effexor that you want but we have half of that, so just take two. How many months do you want it for?”

Sheepishly I say two and then he and David go back to talking and I am once again the big white mass in the room. After awhile the prescription is printed up and he hands it across the table to me and I tell him thank you. As we leave the office David explains to me that because it is my first visit here I am getting the discounted price of $3 USD. I am told that the normal rate is $5.

A trip to the pharmacy and now I have my drugs. They weren’t cheap but David thinks that my insurance company will reimburse me for the expense. No one lost an eye due to a chopstick thrust and I didn’t throw hot soup on anyone. It was just a complicated process that I get to try and repeat in two months time. At least this time I will be prepared.

Friday: That scratchiness is now a full blown cold with a bunch of green shit coming up with each couching fit. It is at this point that I become convinced that children are simply little germ factories and that they need to be culled just like the chickens and other fowl that are causing Europe to panic. They sneeze, they cough, they never wash their hands, they touch everything . . . Yes, they are little machines that are out to cause great harm and this little wave of pain that is shooting through my body is but another warning shot.

“Oh, the karate kid, she ain’t shit: if prodded we have fully developed bio-weapons and have no qualms about using them. Take another deep breath asshole, feel our wraith! HAHAHAHA.”

By six o’clock I must have a co-worker explain and write down what my symptoms are and then I head over to the pharmacy in the hopes that some Asian remedy can be found before death rears his ugly hear. At this point I can feel him sharpening his scythe and I hear his footsteps coming towards my door. On the way home from work I buy nine liters of water and figure that this will be the weekend where I will either survive or die a hideous death are the dirty hands of children.

Saturday: I pray for death. He does not come.

Sunday: I again pray for death. He does not come.

Monday: I start to feel better. Death can find something else to do.

Tuesday: I am feeling much better. The cough is still there but I think the worst of it is behind me. I now feel as though I am once again part of the human race. At this point I think the children have thrown their best at me and I no longer fear them. I simply need to try to get them to behave without actually touching them (those cootie things are real, seriously) and I should be OK. Some days are better than others and I am learning to manage my classes a bit better.

So, sort of a fun week. Glad I had to only do it once. Hope all is well,

Peace,

sh

Let’s start with the couch . . .

When I moved into my new place there was this couch and matching chair that were less than desirable. They were both out of green vinyl and the couch had a big tear down the center of it. I could really care less about it for the most part but my boss kept on insisting that she would replace it. I would nod and that that this was “fine” and basically file this thought away deep in the recesses of my brain pan among the cobwebs and other non-events. I mean, if I can make it in Squalortown, a torn couch isn’t going to kill me.

So all last week she kept calling me and telling me that the couch was on its way and that I should be ready for it when it arrives and I nodded and politely thought that if it happens it happens. As my door is at the top end of a very narrow stair case, I was told that they would have to get a truck with a lift on it and bring the couch, or any type of furniture, through the window. This alone sounded expensive and I figured that this meant the couch was basically a pipedream at best.

Well, Saturday evening, about 4 o’clock Lydia calls with this frantic story about how the couch is on its way and how I mustn’t leave my house and that in thirty minutes I need to go downstairs and let the movers in . . . So I do what I’m told and go down stairs and there is a small, flat bed truck with a couch on it and a guy who looks confused and this older looking woman trying to give him directions. I scurry over there and try to tell them to follow me and that my house is up the alley. I have no idea how this job will be completed as I only see the one guy. As I have seen the trucks with the lifts on them I figure that he simply pulls the truck up next to the house and lifts the couch up to my living room window and slides it in. This seems to make sense and I can now see how it could be a one person job.

But for some reason the middle aged woman is following him as he drives down the alley. I figure that she is from the neighborhood and that a new couch is something to “watch” being delivered. So as he pulls up near the place I gesture towards the top floor. The man shakes his head as if he is doubting the success of this entire production. The woman starts to climb the stairs and pointing out things that may impede the process. It is now that I realize that she works with the guy and that the truck doesn’t have a lift of any sort and the idea is now to get the couch up three flights of narrow stairs without killing anyone or tearing up the couch in the process.

I have no idea what my role in this will be.

So they hand me some cushions and I take them upstairs and then she follows me and I point to the old couch and we dump the cushions on the chair and then head back down. It is at this point that I really want to help the guy lift the couch but the woman will have none of this and I am soon regulated to holding back phone and electric lines that crowd the area and this woman and her helper (the roles were clarified quickly) started to hump this sofa up the stairs. The fact that there was no way could have been five feet tall didn’t help matters at all. I am not going to say that what there were moving was akin to moving a Lazy Boy with a sleeper bed but it was still hard work and she was making it quite clear that I was simply in the way. Ok, I am not going to argue (as if I know what to say) but I was trying to help.

Then, after the trek to the top, the first thing they do is kick off their shoes before entering my apartment, as if that is easy to do while holding onto a couch. The cushions are put into place and I sort of point to the old sofa in the hopes that this gesture will illustrate that one couch can come up but the other must go down. Here I simply grab the damned thing and start to drag it down the stairs with the intent that the woman can rest and her pal and I can do the heavy lifting. It works out that way and at the bottom of the staircase is Lydia, all smiles. She and the woman talk for awhile and it turns out that the woman is the mother of one of my students and that she owns a large furniture showroom downtown. I smile and nod and then Lydia insists on coming upstairs to see the new sofa.

She is pleased and walks around the apartment to make certain that things are OK (I am sure that she wanted to look into the fridge to see if their was any food – there was not) and then she asks if the hot water is working and whether or not I have enough gas for the stove (one takes oil and the other gas). I finally decide that since it is rather dark I should get the headlight off of my bicycle to help guide her down the stairs. She seems pleased at this action and then she stops, looks back and utters those words that I fear like the plague:

“Scott, will you go to church with me in the morning?”

What was I going to say? Piss off, I’d rather sleep in! I’m sorry, I’m not that kind of boy . . . So I say yes and agree to be outside at 10 minutes to 11 AM and she is even more smiles than usual.

Now what?

I set the alarm and go to bed as I am broke and there really isn’t anything that I really can’t live without. Sleep simply sounds like a solid idea. I also spend some time trying out the couch. It was a little short but other than that is was a nice piece of furnature.

In the morning I hit the snooze button a few times and drag myself into the bathroom, shower and shave and then find some kind of snack before I walk down to the end of the alley and wait for Lydia. The only thing that I know about this church is that she and her husband spend a great deal of time there that David is some kind of quasi-minister.

I am waiting and waiting and have noticed that for the most part Koreans are rather serious about the concept of time and when they say that it starts at “X” is starts right at “X.” This is, of course, highly offensive to someone like myself who views time simply as a nuisance, something that can be taken up by others. How many years of my adult life was I able to live without wearing a watch? Several. So I am sort of wondering why she is running late, I mean, I was at the end of the alley right when I was supposed to be. . . then it dawns on me that I probably missed her phone call and when I didn’t answer she simply assumed that I had overslept. At this point my spirits began to lift as I decided that I had dodged a bullet. Further, if I didn’t go once that could be seen as a massive hint that I wasn’t going at all and that I said I would go only to be nice. We can call it a “face saving gesture.”

Then she pulled up.

She was happy and said that she was running late because of the bus strike and that we could be at the church at no time. I go on to tell her that I was raised as a Catholic and that I really didn’t practice much of a religion, preferring literature to do the work for me. We chat and I begin to recognize the roads that we are rolling on and it comes to my attention that we are going into one of the areas of town that is newly built up. After a few turns she points out a little sign and says that it points the way to her church.

Here I almost faint.

Since I have been here every structure I have seen has been made out of brick, mortar and tile. The structures are built to last and some of them have obviously made it through several conflicts. The church before me looked as if it could have been made by Dura-Builders and located in suburban Indianapolis or on the mid western plains. It was made of wood, two floors, had vinyl siding and a cross on top that appeared to be made of 6 x 6 treated lumber. Once inside the floors were all hard wood and the walls were lined with knotty pine paneling. I was most confused and Lydia explained that all of the materials came from Canada and that it seemed that the members of the church put the structure together themselves with the help of some pros. It was sort of “Church in a Box.” I was impressed and took off my shoes and made my way upstairs.

They had already started the sermon and it was naturally in Korean. They did have a power-point presentation for all of the music, a pianist and a minister who seemed to like what he was saying. All of the men wore suits and the women were nicely dressed as well. The younger people all wore jeans and tee-shirts and off to the side was small room with a large window that looked onto the main room. This area was filled with screaming children who watched TV and bounced off of the walls. Lydia was kind enough to show me what they were reading/singing and I followed along in English. She told me that the congregation was about sixty members strong and that many of them were at this service.

I guess that is one thing that I do respect about Protestants is that they actually use the bible during their services. The Catholics let those in higher places pick and choose what is before them and publish it in their missalette, but these folks leave the thing out in the open so if you have the inkling, you can read away. As I really had no clue what he was saying I read the parable of the seed (the day’s topic) and then flipped around. It was funny that I would find the story of Salome and John the Baptist and could not help but wonder what the woman looked like, a woman who was so attractive that someone would could off another’s head simply to see her drop her vales. I guess this is why the Catholics leave the bible out of the church. Then again, whenever I read that book I always end up feeling like “little Alex” in A Clockwork Orange. When he read the bible while he was in prison he seemed to place himself in the roles that the friendly neighborhood priest found deviant to say the least. But I digress.

Throughout the service Lydia would point to the book, show me the correct song and then she would quickly move to the front of the church where she would sing in the choir. I was amazed as she had this wonderful, powerful voice that seemed to move all over the place. She had this huge range and sang without fear. She was amazing and this made me respect her all the more.

After the service (it was a little over 1 ¼ hours long and I was not getting the salvation that I had hoped for) we all went down into the little coffee shop on the first floor where we were to be served a lunch of Korean noodles. I was excited about this as I love noodles and I also saw a coffee pot on the counter and this meant that there was a distinct possibility I may be afforded my second cup of real coffee in the span of a month. Yes, I find that sentence difficult to fathom as well.

So Lydia puts on an apron and brings out steaming bowls of delicious noodles and I am sitting at a table with four men, one of whom is Lydia’s husband David. The men ask me various questions (where am I from, why I am not married, why did I come to Korea) and I am really sick of the marriage question as my answer of “I know better” requires too much explanation and the other questions I answer as best as I can and for the most part I simply want to eat the noodles before they grow cold.

During all of this (the conversation is between me, some kind of business man and another fellow who I have no idea what he does to make money, with David being an exquisite host and translator) there is a man who is sitting across from me and not really saying a word. He eyes me carefully and nods occasionally but he is silent for the most part. I had notice him earlier when the choir was singing as he was one of the tallest Koreans I had seen so far, but other than that and his rather thick framed glasses (most people wear glasses with very light, almost invisible frames here) he was not that noticeable.

Just about the time that they were bringing out the coffee, an almost clear colored liquid with a slight brownish haze that clearly missed the point of the activity, David mentioned that the man was a Doctor. Well, how fortunate for me!! A doctor is just what I am looking for as I take Effexor and was coming very close to running out. So he says that he is an internist and I basically say that I don’t give a shit if he delivers babies I need these drugs and I need them quickly.

By now the business man and the other man have left so it is simply David trying his best to translate my needs to the doctor. At this point I could really care less who knows what disease I have or whether or not I am mentally sound or any of the other bullshit stigmas that are attached to my affliction: I JUST WANT MY FUCKING DRUGS!!!

So I tell him that I need to see a psychiatrist and that the drugs I need are sort of special because, when I think about it, I guess I really don’t want people to know what is wrong with me, especially people whom I just meet in a do-it-yourself church from the Great White North. It is nobody’s business and the further the questions go and the more the hand movements flail about the only way I am going to get over the hump is to tell this cat, straight out, what the problem is and hope that he gets it.

When I was a kid I used to smoke a great deal of pot. I know, shocking. And the people who first turned me on to pot also turned me on to Zappa and Hendrix and other wonderful late sixties and early seventies icons of rock music. As with most things, you start out liking the big hits and then move onward towards your own special niche, the music which really speaks to your soul, your inner being. For me, for some odd reason it was the following song:

Manic depression is touching my soul
I know what I want but I just don’t know
How to, go about gettin’ it
Feeling sweet feeling,
Drops from my fingers, fingers
Manic depression is catchin’ my soul

Woman so weary, the sweet cause in vain
You make love, you break love
It’s all the same
When it’s, when it’s over, mama
Music, sweet music
I wish I could caress, caress, caress
Manic depression is a frustrating mess

Well, I think I’ll go turn myself off,
And go on down
All the way down
Really ain’t no use in me hanging around
In your kinda scene

Music, sweet music
I wish I could caress, caress, caress
Manic depression is a frustrating mess

I don’t know how it reads as poetry but as piece of Rock and Roll it pretty much kicks ass. And I have loved the song for a variety of reasons but the thing that got me was this idea that music was something that could be caressed. Naturally, after I had the diagnosis, the lines “frustrating mess” gained increased relevance. So I pick a song and it speaks to me, just not in the way that I thought.

Well, I don’t know what the deal is with the doctor across from me but I am trying to tell him that I don’t have headaches and that what I need the drugs for involves (here I use hand gestures with the hope that making a wave will convey my untreated emotional situation) something a tad more complicated than just a few aspirin and this brings only raised eyebrows. Finally I say “manic depression” and that doesn’t do what I think I want it to and for a moment I am feeling hopeless.

Then out pops “Bi-polar Disorder” and his eyes perk up, he leans back in his chair, as if the table isn’t enough distance between us already, and repeats, in perfect English: “You have bi-polar disorder?” YES YOU FUCK NUT!! CAN’T YOU FUCKIN” HEAR ME??? NOW GET ME MY GODDAMNED DRUGS BEFORE I IMPALE YOU WITH THIS CHOPSTICK!! He then starts to look me over and it is as if every word that had been spoken over the last several hours was crystal clear to him and that I was now something to be examined, like a piece of pottery or a painting and he was nodding as if he understood everything and all I kept wondering is whether or not he could help me out. Hand him the diagnosis of Bi-polar Disorder and he can use that as a Rosetta Stone to figure this lad out. He is simply looking and nodding and I feel like I have just gave away my hand.

“Do you want a clinic or a hospital?”

“I don’t care. I just need the ‘script filled as I am down to my last eight pills and I don’t want to run out.”

Now David is curious: “What will happen if you run out?”

“I don’t know and I don’t want to find out. I know that they are available in Korea, I just need to have a psych write out the script.”

He and David share some more Korean and I squirm in my seat as now I know damned well that Dr. Feelgood has just spilled my secret and that no one will be able to look at me with those “wow, what a nice guy” eyes that I had been getting my entire first month. Now I am some seriously damaged goods (Yes, I know I am kidding myself if I think I was going to keep that under wraps forever) and must be watched with extreme vigilance. I am beginning to panic and this weak-assed coffee is only pissing me off.

The good Dr. says that he will call around and that on Wednesday or Thursday he can get me set up with an appointment. I feel a sense of inner calm that I haven’t felt since I have been here. I have a serious chance of scoring the drugs I need.

I tell David that it is probably time for me to leave and as we are walking out to the car Lydia follows us. She runs to her car and then she returns with a bag that probably contained a box of shoes. Inside was a bright red Braun Coffee maker and I was so pleased. She started to tell me how to use it but I told her that I had the coffee thing down pat. I thanked her for an interesting day out and thanked David for all of his help with the Dr. and his undying patience in his dealings with me. The man is a saint.

The sun was shining and I had the afternoon free. Now all I need are drugs and coffee and everything will be A-OK.

Peace,

sh

The View from the Barstool 

A Night on the Town

I seldom go into work early as the demands on me are not very great. This is probably because I am still in my first month but think it has something to do with the way that the school is set up. There is a sharp line between what the Korean teachers and the foreign teachers do. The Koreans teach grammar and hit the students with sticks; we are required to give oral tests and try to get the students to pronounce words correctly. At least that is what I assume my job is and no one has really told me any different. I have been criticized for not teaching two books per class period and not covering enough material but those are simply issues of pacing on my part and I am learning to adapt. In the folder for each class is a little box where each teacher writes out what they have done in the previous period. I am now getting notes addressed to “Scott Teacher” and when I as if there was another “Scott” that may be reading the note they don’t seem to get the joke. A boatload of my “A – list” material is simply wasted.

On Fridays I only have to teach for four hours and I don’t have to be at the school until 3pm. For some reason I went in early yesterday and this was fortunate as it turned out I had to give an oral test to the class with the hand stabber (I guess he’s OK, it is hard to tell).

Beth, one of the Korean teachers, helped me prepare the paperwork for the tests and then we chatted for a few minutes. She asks me how I am adjusting to life in Pohang and whether or not I have any friends. How do I like the city? Am I bored? I tell her that I am adjusting as well as can be expected and that most of my time has been spent trying to figure the place out and cope with ordering food and the rest of it. I am still struggling with the alphabet and my vocabulary still sucks. But I am learning how to travel by bicycle and this is always a good thing. On the whole it was nice that they were concerned about my well being.

The test went as expected and the students basically spent the time trying to karate chop folded pieces of paper and then suddenly perking up when I called on them to answer a question (there each must answer ten questions over what they have been reading). They were clueless but I didn’t care as I didn’t start that book with them. If they are still clueless after I finish the next book . . . well, then I guess I need to buy a new saw and go back to making long boards into short ones.

After the day was over I was getting ready to leave and another of the Korean teachers, Anna, asked me what I was doing this weekend and I explained that I hadn’t really thought about it. She gave me directions to a temple and I thought that was a good plan. I am very close to being broke in a foreign country and her suggestion was a cheap way to spend the day. I have two days until payday and about $20 USD in order to make it.

I went home and that is when I decided that I was indeed bored. I am not bored of the country or my job. I guess what I am bored with is not being able to speak. I hate it that my jokes are not making people, at the least, crack a smile. Each day I only speak “normal” English between classes. Then it is off into this world of broken English, hand gestures and blank stares. When I got home I made a decision, I was going to find the ex-pats.

The internet is a pretty cool tool and within about an hour I had found this odd link on Dave’s ESL Café that had entire section on Pohang. It turns out that a few years ago one guy posted a question about what life was like in Pohang and three years later there are 28 pages dedicated to life in this fair city. I read about the first eight pages and then skipped to the last three to see if there were still keeping up with postings. They were. And they also listed four bars that the ex-pats hang out at. They also noted that a few times a year about 2000 US marines show up and things get real crazy. I haven’t seen any jar heads so I figured I was OK so far. But I hadn’t seen anyone that looked even remotely Anglo so any conversation would be appreciated.

I went outside and waited for a bus and it seemed to take a REAL long time. Finally a bus that was dropping off kids (they are like Greyhounds, filled with school children) stopped and gave me and the other guy waiting the Korean sign for “no” which is arms crossed in an “X,” fists closed. The other guy got up and started walking and I started to head home. Whatever was said it was obvious that there was not going to be anymore busses coming our way.

It is a forty minute walk downtown and I decided to take the walk instead of going home. A cab ride is only $3.50 but I figured the walk would do me well and it is simply a journey around some main roads that snake their way into the two major downtown intersections. One has five roads and the other has six and crossing them on a bicycle is sort of intense. To walk around them on foot is a pain in the ass as you must cross each street and the wait is very long between lights. No one jaywalks.

So around 11 I made it downtown and looked at my little notebook and found the first place on my list: The New Hess Bar. It is located in this pedestrian area of town and is on the second floor of a shop front. The place had an 8 foot pool table, which I take it is a rare thing around here, and it was sort of smoky, no Anglos, and pairs of Korean guys watching ultimate fighting on TV. I sat down and ordered a Coke. This caused great confusion. “Coke and Hennesey?” Hell no! How Ghetto does I look? So, after some discussion between a couple of very attractive bartenders, she finally gets it, brings me a Coke in a REAL GLASS BOTTLE and then gives me some popcorn. The popcorn was as good a popcorn can be (not The Torch good, but good) and then the manager comes over and starts talking to me.

She has been running the place for a few months as the owner has just married and is now living in Hawaii. There is a picture of the owner above the bar and it is obvious why she would be married and living in luxury in Hawaii. The manager is very attractive, speaks decent English, which she learned in Korea and the Phillipines, doesn’t have a boyfriend, wants to move to China, thinks marriage is not for her and hates the fact that she can’t smoke cigarettes while walking down the city streets. When she mentions this fact I realize that I see all of the men smoke in the streets but none of the women. She then goes on to explain that women are second class citizens and that Korean men are pigs and this goes on for a while and I decide that this is an OK place and that all the bartenders are eye-candy but it really isn’t what I am looking for. Although she was very nice to talk to . . .

I head off to Mindy’s.

Mindy’s is down an alley and there is a sign that says that it is an English Café. The music is LOUD and there are some people dancing and they appeared to be rather hammered and they were all ANGLOS. All of the signs were in English. They served Diet Coke (this seems rare as well). They sold Newports behind the bar. They even served ham sandwiches. There was a computer hooked up to the sound system and the patrons were busy picking songs off of a huge list and then checking their e-mail once a play list was established. The music reminded me of a frat house or a gay bar: shit you can hop around to and of which everyone knows the lyrics. Nothing I would listen to on my own time but fine for the moment. I ordered a Diet Coke and sat down at the end of the bar.

After I sat down, Mindy introduced herself and said that her bar had been open since April and that what she wanted was a Western Style bar with loud music and where people could have fun. Her clientele were all westerners, few Koreans came there and those who did came to practice their English. Mindy said that she learned her English by studying for five hours a day and I would have sworn she was educated in the states. She was cute, spunky, fun and seemed to love what she was doing. She then started to introduce me to people.

The first guy I met was from Ireland and he was hilarious. He had no time for any of this. He could not understand the Koreans and basically didn’t want to. He was chatting about the economic mess the world was in, talking about what a dumbass Bush was, said to drink a pint of Guinness here was pointless. He had been to the states and had even been to the U.P. which he said was like Ireland without the Irish. He offered the following bits of advice that he had learned in his first few months here as he had arrived about a month before I did. He interjected these while he typed out email:

1. Register with your embassy and put that number on speed dial. If your employer starts to fuck with you, threaten to use it.

2. Another thing that is useful to know is that the internet is a powerful tool. Explain to your employer that if they fuck with you a few nice notes to Dave’s ESL café with basically put them out of business. If they try to cheat you, they will be ruined. If they do cheat you, resort to number one.

3. Never volunteer for anything. Once you do it will become expected. You will be fucked. He did one Sunday as a favor, now he is doing one Sunday a month.

4. Don’t under any circumstances, learn the language. It is your levee against them and if it breaks you are fucked. Play dumb. If the students find out you know Korean, any Korean, they will trick you into using it and it will be your ass as this is what they want and the classroom will become your Korean lesson instead of their English lesson. Learn just enough to order food, get around in a taxi and maybe get laid. Other than that it will come back and bite you on the ass as it will lead back to #3 and then it may be too late to use #2 & #1 as you have set yourself up.

5. Remember, the only power that you have here is that you are a foreigner. We make up less than one percent of the population and the fact that the one commodity that we have is our ability to speak English is something that we need to hold onto with a solid grip. Lose that, you’re fucked.

There was other advice but the bottom line was that assimilation meant death. It meant that you would be owned and basically pimped. I thanked him for his advice and then was introduce to some people who really like what they did and thought that teaching English was a great profession.

I met the guy who posted the initial question on Dave’s and he was a real nice guy. He has been teaching in Korea something like 10 years and was able to offer a great deal of information about where I am at in the world and what the future may hold. He started off by asking me if I was happy about my situation. I told him that I was. Then he said that if I wanted a killer nightlife, Pohang was not the place to be. If I wanted to pick up anonymous women, Pohang was not the place to be. If I wanted to make 75,000 won per hour teaching privates, Pohang was not the place to be. If I wanted to live a rather anonymous existence, Pohang was not the place to be as it may be a city of 500,000 but it feels like a city of 5,000 and everyone knows everything about everyone else. But . . . If I simply wanted a nice place to live and a fairly good community with nice people and great places to eat (they say the food here is better than it is in Seoul) then I am in the right spot. It is a good place to save money and if I am in the right teaching environment then things should work out fine.

I told him that I had read his posting on Dave’s and he was sort of proud of the fact that what had started out as a lark had turned into this odd thing. There is even a Yahoo Pohang community with 42 members. He introduced me to the other teachers with whom he worked and they were all charming and interesting and all of them had solid perspectives on what to expect from the students and what to expect from myself as a teacher. Everyone was encouraging and on the whole it was a helpful journey into the night.

After a couple of Diet Cokes and a fresh pack of Camel Lights (US Army I think), it was rolling on 3am (I think Mindy said that last call was 6am on Friday and Saturday, 3 am during the week) so I left Mindy’s and searched for a cab home. The streets still had people on them and they were all loaded and eating snacks and life, for the most part, seemed good.

So I am not alone. Far from it. I am simply part of a community. I am pleased that I waited a month before I ventured down that road as it gave me some time gain my footing and make some choices on my own. As much as I enjoyed the Irish guy’s advice I think I’ll try to learn the language and leave the US embassy out of my affairs. Besides, I have no idea how to use the speed dial on my phone. I enjoy my employer and if I am paid on Monday then things will work out just fine. If not, well, I’ll be down to my last few won and this would have been the worst decision I have ever made (at least that I’ll write about in a semi-public forum). Then I’ll seriously have to ponder the thoughts of an Irish man . . . though the only one I ever really liked was Beckett and he wrote in French.

Peace,

sh

p,s. The reason there was no bus – they are out on strike. I guess my bicycle is a good stroke of luck after all . . .

Jenny in Profile 

Mindy Herself 

Closed for Business

I was having one of those days where you really don’t feel like going into work. We all get them and I had finally just decided to gut it out and go. I had done most of the things that I wanted to do for the morning including talking to my mother and chatting with Carlo via Yahoo Instant Messenger. It is really nice to hear a familiar voice and we talked for about an hour and then it was time for me to head to work.

I walked up the little hill and scored a diet Coke (they only have two sizes, a 10 oz and a 1.5 liter, I go for the larger one) and then stopped to get a couple of the little rolls that I eat daily. It is rice in a seaweed paper with vegetables and some fish. They are only a buck a piece and I normally go and eat them in the park across the street from school before I head to work.

So I am lunching and all of a sudden this little pack of kids comes up and starts to ask me for a bit of the roll. Soon I have passed out half my lunch and I am left wondering who these kids were as they are normally not the ones who are in the park. But it was still more than enough for me to feel full and feeding kids is not the worst thing in the world for me to do.

I then walked into the building and up the stairs to the second floor where our office is and noticed that there are no shoes in the rack and that the wooden door is pulled shut. Normally the wooden door is wide open and there is a glass swinging door with “WELCOME TO OUR SCHOOL” emblazed with big green letters across it. In fact, I didn’t even realize that there was a wooden door until I saw Jennifer, the office manager, close up shop one night.

So I beat on it and there is no answer. I look around and there is no note. I remember that there was a phone call that I missed earlier in the day but I am certain that if something was up I would have been told about it.

Confused, I go home and start to make some phone calls from this list that I have and I get no answers. It is at this point that my mind begins to wander and all sorts of messed up thoughts come to the fore. Someone is dead. The school has gone bankrupt. I have no idea what is going on and there is no one to ask.

This sucks.

I then write an email to Amy Klee agreeing with her that Koreans are difficult to grasp (she used to work on their Airline) and how I don’t even know if I have a job. Maybe it had something to do with the kid who stabbed himself? I have no clue.

I fart around for a few hours and then finally decide to look for this coffee shop that someone told me about. I have a general idea where it is at and after about a half an hour I find it. It is on the second floor of this building and the doorway is rather non-descript which is why I had missed it in the past.

I go upstairs and it is very nice. Big couches, well padded chairs, nice knotty pine trim. They have real coffee and I am most pleased. They even have menus in English and as I read it I am stunned by what it says at the bottom of the page: THE CAFÉ ID IS CLOSED ON MONDAYS BUT OPEN FOR HOLIDAYS.

So today was a holiday and no one bothered to tell the American. Nice. My waitress goes over to the computer, pulls up a page and motions for me to come to her. It turns out that today is Founder’s Day and I guess that explains why I saw the Korean flags up and down the beach: silly me, I thought it was simply civic improvement. I thank her for going out of her way and order my coffee. So I guess I still have a job, which is nice to know.

After a couple of cups of coffee, the first real coffee I have had since I have been here, the owner comes up and asks me how I like his establishment. I tell him that it is just what I was looking for and then he mentions that he had seen my bicycle out front. Now he is very happy as we can talk bicycles for a minute and this makes me happy as I now have a place to go and drink coffee and speak with someone in English.

He even knew why I had the tires that I did and that my bike is basically an urban Hummer. He says that he goes in the mountains quite a bit and asks me if I like to go off road. I tell him why it is set up the way it is and that . . . Well, I tell him that I really don’t want to change out my tires but I’ll think about it. I don’t want to tell him that I am a total wimp; he can find that out on his own.

In the end it turns out that I have to go have a cup of coffee in order to figure out why the place I work is closed for the day. Later I get a phone call telling me that I was invited to go hiking today but that as I didn’t answer my phone they assumed that I had went somewhere for the weekend. Actually, when they don’t hear from me I think they (my boss and her husband) are convinced something tragic has befallen me. Don’t get me wrong, it is wonderful to have an employer who cares. It simply would have been nice if someone would have told me it was a national holiday.

Peace,

sh

The Pedestrian Mall in Downtown Pohang 

Kimchi Pots as Roofing Material 

My new 'hood 

You Brade Runna

I guess the easiest analogy to explain what I am dealing with on a daily basis would be to say that I feel like Decker in Blade Runner. I am not saying that I running around shooting androids, rather that the colors and the sounds and the hodge-podge of languages seem like images from the film. Much like Decker, I walk around in this world looking for answers and occasionally the ones that I find are those that I least like to hear. The colors, the tastes and the sounds are fine; it is the answers that sometimes disturb.

On the first day I met Solomon he came into the office carrying a long piece of bamboo. I, jokingly, asked him if it was to motivate the students. He responded that it was and gave some confused reading of the idea that to spare the rod is to spoil the child and that discipline was one of the keys to learning. I thought he was joking until I saw that he took the stick to every class that he taught. I also noticed that other teachers carried sticks. Nothing that would not seem akin to a ruler on the knuckles but I still found it alarming. I am a guest here and I can barley get myself around town let alone criticize a culture for committing corporal punishment. If he hit the kids it wasn’t like he was going to cane them . . .

As my week progressed I noticed that I was beginning to have discipline problems in my classes, especially with the boys who, like boys, would rather beat on each other and play video games than study the way English should function and sound. When one finally became so disruptive that I no longer knew what to do, I left the room, had a class of water, returned, grabbed his books and escorted him to the hallway and tried to explain to him that he could come back next time. I may be many things but a babysitter is not one of them.

Friday is my short day as I only have four classes and these don’t start until four pm. I spent the morning drinking coffee by the sea and having a nice walk before finally getting to school and rounding up the supplies that I need in order to teach. This usually takes only about 15-20 minutes so Friday is a very nice way to start to wind down the week.

My first class is a group of total beginners and it is often very frustrating. I can leave that 50 minute session feeling exhausted and wondering if any of my efforts sunk in beyond the depth of a droning ‘blah, blah, blah.” After this it is all gravy.

My next class is all boys and they are a total handful. Today, Stonecold asked to change his name to Paul, which I thought was a very good sign. It took me a moment to explain that Paul doesn’t have an “R” in it and we all thought he should have changed his name to “Skunk,” which is what he was actually called for the rest of the session. The topic was “hobbies” and I tried to get them to think of things that people do in their free time. This was going well but in the back of the class were two boys who kept smashing their desks together. I could give a shit if you don’t want to pay attention, simply be quiet about it. But this was not going to happen and they kept getting louder and louder and I was losing the battle so I decided that the easiest way to solve this problem was to get rid of it. Out they went.

Not so fast white foreigner. The one kid, they say he is a bit slow, did as he was told but the other was not having any thing to do with leaving the classroom. No, young David was going to sit in his chair and if I wanted to take him out of the classroom I was going to have to drag his ass out of there. So much for the idea that little Asian kids are well disciplined. Fill anyone’s head with a bunch of chop-sockey flicks and you know there will be trouble. Teach them all Tai Kwon Do and someone could actually get hurt.

I was about to completely lose it when Lydia came to my rescue and took both kids out of the class. I continued with the idea of what a hobby was and with about ten minutes left the two dissenters came back and sheepishly said: Sorry, teacher. I said I know and I thought that was the end of it. They lined up to go out the door and I wrote some notes about what it was that we tried to cover during the period.

It was at this point that the slower kid, Shawn, erupted and kicked a desk. I was REALLY startled but I simply rose out of the chair (in this class I actually sit down with the kids in the hopes that this will keep them from picking at each other) and headed towards the front of the class. It was then that all of the kids started to scream at me in this cornucopia of English and Korean that someone had/should call Shawn’s parents. As this is happening, he starts tearing into his book bag . . . I am thinking Columbine and figure that some little maladjusted fucknut is going to pop a cap in my sorry ass simply because I sent him out of the room . . . He pulls out a pencil, raises it above his head and slams it, I mean SLAMS it, into his own hand. I fuckin’ couldn’t believe it.

He looked stunned and then he looked like he was going to do it again but the bell rang and everyone left like nothing happened. I tried to stop him on his way out the door but he left and I returned gathered my things and went into the teacher’s offices. By this time I am . . . I don’t know what I was feeling so I went up to Anna, she is the Korean teacher with the best command of the English language, and I said: Do you know Shawn? Well, he just freaked out and tried to shove a fuckin’ pencil trough his hand.

The Canadian seemed horrified that I would use such language. Anna said that he was disturbed. The Canadian said he was mildly autistic and that he is prone to such outbursts. I am still horrified. “Are you OK?” they ask. “I’m fine. I wasn’t the one who stabbed himself with a pencil.”

So I go outside and have a smoke and try real hard to think about the last time I saw something that messed up. I know that on a few occasions I have done some self destructive shit but it was usually in private when the really serious urges took hold, when my darkest thoughts manifested themselves into a tangible form. Here, some kid totally freaks out and the only way he had for making whatever was pissing him off to stop was to drive a pencil through his hand.

Which brings me back to Bladerunner. Earlier, when I was having coffee, I was writing in my journal and trying to express my amazement at some of the things that I had seen as of late. This was the first time that I had actually written anything in that book since I had arrived and the first thing that caught my mind was when I passed a construction site and saw the trim carpenters building a ladder. Don’t have one on site, build it. I was struck as this is something that would never be done in the states and the ladder appeared well constructed. I don’t know if I remarked about the Bladerunner imagery or not but when I see all of the little shops that cluster the streets that is the image that I think of, especially when Decker was looking to identify the snake scale that he found in the bathtub. The streets are busy and rainy and there is neon everywhere. Pockets of where I live are just like that.

But there is this other scene in the film that also gives pause. It is when Roy has chased Decker to the edge and he finally decides that the right thing to do is to pull Decker up and then he begins to tell Decker all of the things that he has seen with his eyes. He has seen so much and he only wishes that he could see more. He knows that his time is up and he only wants to see more.

Right before this happens, he can feel his body start to fade and in order to stop the pain, he pulls a nail out of a board, no small feat, and drives it through his palm. This allows his hand to move again. The pain granted freedom of motion.

So when I saw the kid put the pencil into his hand I knew it was to kill some kind of pain. Maybe the pain he was going to feel when he got home? Maybe it was the fact that he couldn’t communicate his thoughts. Maybe it just seemed like the only available solution he had. I guess I will never know.

I know that I want to go on seeing things, a variety of things. I simply don’t want to see shit like that. I also don’t want to have to walk into a room with a big stick in order to get children to learn their lessons. Although, lately the idea does seem palatable . . .

Peace,

sh