PIXIES

For the last six weeks my gig has been a job, one that leaves me drained and pissed off and wondering why I ever sold my mitre box. I suppose I knew that this would eventually be the case but I really hoped that it would not turn out that way until much later in the game. As this was unfolding I spent some quality time with some of teachers who work at other academies and it turns out that this is simply the way that all of this works itself out. Every January and February the kids go on their winter break from their regular schools and the schedules of the academies change with all of the start times beginning about 4 hours earlier. Then, in the beginning of March, they return to something that is a tad more stable and that the foreign teachers can live with: start at 3pm, finish at 9 pm or so. I think fact that the foreign teachers like these hours has to do with the local past time (excessive drinking) but I could be wrong.

I will not say that the entire thing was a complete bust as I did have a bit of fun with a couple of my “special classes.” These were four classes where I was supposed to think up some creative things to do for small groups of students. They would attend thier normal classes and they we would spend an extra two hours every week with the idea that spending time with a "native speaker" would allow them to practice thier English. We did things like reading recipes and then cooking, lots of singing, lots of little projects involving crayons and such. With the older kids I broke out Boggle and Scrabble (yes, I played to win) and time was killed with some seriously competive games invovling three and four letter words. My favorite class was called B1 and it was simply four little girls: Sally(in white), Bess (in red), Hanny(the one with the cell phone taking pictures) and Julie (hend to face, eyes black as coal) . For the most part, as we held our class on the third floor of the school, it was simply the five of us doing very little and laughing a great deal. I’d give them money and they would go buy food at the little stand next door and then we would eat and they would bitch at me, in a shrill tone that would wake the dead, for not understanding their Korean. I would try to get them to talk in English but it cost me much in the way of candy. In the end I decided that they were like little Pixies and that each session was simply fun for all parties involved. I mean, no one told me not to screw off and give them candy. . . . As my Korean is still woefully sad, we were speaking in English . . . English punctuated with Bess screaming (she can shatter glass, of this I am certian), Hanny tugging on my sweater and screaming for my TOTAL AND ABSOLUTE attention, Sally saying "Oh my God!' when I asked her to do anything that involved using a pencil for something besides drawing and, Julie . . . Well, if everyone were like Julie the would would be a nice and peaceful place . . . Every day the chalk board was strewn with the kind of things that girls draw and I'd have to make certian that plenty of time was allowed for them to clean the chalk dust off of themselves. In the end, I simply decided that I had by the second session I had toally lost control and allowed them to run the show: as long as I did what they told me to I wouldn't be hurt.

For our last session we combined two of the special classes and made fried rice. As this is supposed to be an English class, I explained the way the recipe was to be made in English while my boss, Lydia, and the wonderful Ester Teacher, did the most of the heavy lifting in Korean. Lydia made all of the kids wear these little plastic chef's get ups and I thought I was goig to wet my pants with laughter. The kids were good little cooks although I was mortified at the sight of them with knives (dull as all get out) trying to dice and chop vegetables. I was waiting for one of them to slash a vein and then we would all discover whether the lesson that I tried to teach on what to do in an emergency had any merit. In the end our little feast was exactly that and there was no blood shed. As would be the case, yours truely was forced to do the dishes. I guess I all my years of prior work in that field have once again proven useful. No one has really been able to explain to me why Koreans make the little peace sign when they take pictures but they all do it . . . I mean, if you see a picture, they are doing the little "V" with the fingers. Some day I'll figure it out. I will note that they say "KIM CHEE" instead of "CHEESE." Nice.

So now my life is returning to normal. I have time to screw off which is really what I need most. I know that it is said that idle hands are the devil’s workshop but it appears that is one of those places that I like to hang out. Call it lazy, I don’t really care. I like to think of it as preserving my mental health.

Hope all is well.

Peace,

sh

After thought

Ah yes, I knew that I forgot something. If you live near Flint, have free long distance or nothing better to do, I now have a Flint phone number. If you dial (810) 515-7980 you should be able to dial into my computer. It is via SKYPE and so far it has worked rather well. If I am not here there is a voice mail (cute English accent) and you can leave a message. With this service it is not like I am 6000 miles away, it is like I am lost in some kind of odd little box that I can’t escape from . . . so it is like being 6000 miles away but with a local phone. The old British TV show The Prisioner (You are the new number 6)? Matrix like? Maybe . . . Still Brade Runna . . .

Now I have to go and try to find some marshmallows for a project at school. As if that is going to be possible; I’d have better luck brokering peace in the Middle East.

Peace . . .

The Wall

The school year in Korean runs from mid-February until December and this means that, in theory, all the children are on winter break and should be off doing whatever it is that small children do. But this is Korea and this means that the idea of winter break only holds in theory. As I am basically working for a glorified after-school program, and the Korean population is all gaga about education, out little school now shifts to what is called the “winter break” schedule. This means that we now start our teaching day at 10 am and that all of the classes are consolidated as the Korean teachers try to figure out which students should be moved forward and which should be set aside for further development. The problem with this is that I really have no say in the matter – which means I have no idea what is going on — and if I did have a say, the students who I would move would all be moved to different schools, not different classes. After all of this is sorted out, my boss sells the parents on this idea of “special classes” and this means that throughout the break period some students will have extra class time to work on . . . well, something that is obviously “special.” It basically means that I have to think up “special things” for them to do besides the other things that they normally do in class. It also means that I have another seven classes for six weeks. Thus, I am basically pissed off and frustrated as these are the moments where the “communication problems” are acutely apparent. As it stands, I sit very still and do what I am told. It is not like I really have anything better to do.

I did get some things to fall in my favor. I have basically tried to stress the idea that I think textbooks suck rocks and that a greater feeling of accomplishment can be had if the kids actually read “books.” I checked on-line and decided that I liked the book HOLES and had my mom send me some copies. I am using that with some middle schoolers and I think it will work out. I am also using it with a high school freshman who showed up yesterday – “Scott teacher, I need a small favor . . . ” giggles Lydia as she motions for me to come to her office. At this point what is another hour of my time?

Woo Ju is all cute in her little school uniform and she is nervous as hell. I try not to be imposing but it is Friday and if I want to be a prick I could easily make things so intimating that she would scurry away and try to pick up French. I would have my hour back, now wouldn’t I? After explaining to her where I am from, I tell the kid that the choice of how to run the class is basically hers. This confounds her. She can read the text book I have set down in front of her, answer the questions about a short reading and complete the exercises or she can start to read a book (HOLES), look up all the words that she doesn’t know and then use those words in a diary that she writes in every other day or so. Those are two options, you choose or come up with another. I mean, it is her dime and I will work as hard as she wants to work. The textbook thing is really a cake walk as I don’t have to think . . . This other route . . . Well, I am probably going to have to think a bit and all of the rest of it. But like I said, what else do I have to do?

At least I found a reasonable place to get the books online and this will ease a great deal of pain. Ah, the joys of books in English that will be mailed to the crib without much of an added cost. As far as I can tell there are only about a buck more than they would cost in the states. There will never be an excuse for me to be bored.

Damnit.

The first week of this program started on the second so my sorry ass has been in scramble mode for about the last 14 days. After I took my little Christmas day trip to Oeo Sa temple, I have simply been trying to keep up. The week after that I only taught for two days and then I went to Seoul with Lydia and her husband David. Their son, Daniel, just landed a job with the Kolon Corporation. I thought that they only made mountain climbing gear but, like most companies in Korea, they dabble in all sorts of shit. For example, you see Samsung and you think “cell phones” or “TVs” but those people make everything here: Cars, trucks, air conditioners, blank CDs, apartment buildings, you name it. Hyundai is the same way – as far as I can tell this place is run by about 10-15 really powerful families who own a piece of everything. Well, Daniel needed some new threads for his new gig and mom and dad were on it. I was just along for the ride.



I always had this vision of Seoul via M.A.S.H. in which entailed drunken soldiers in Hawaiian shirts are trying to forget where they are and why they ended up there. This really wasn’t the way things ended up being but I did end up in Iteawon and, while in some shit hole pub, as I was waiting to meet Ian Leighton at a hotel an hour later, I did listen to a bunch of American Service people as they built their loads for the approaching night. In their voices, and as they chased down shots of bourbon with the local ale, there was this sense of longing for a place that was a world away. There is a scene in Apocalpse Now where they are having a barbeque after tearing up some village and in the voiceover Martin Sheen is commenting on how the more that they make things seem like home, the more conscious one becomes that where they are is not that place. This is what the pub felt like. Sort of homey, but in a way that was slightly askew. Maybe the stuff on the walls and the bottles of ale made one think of The Torch, The Alley Cat or any bar which a upstanding barfly would call home, but as the neon glows it becomes clear that the wait staff didn’t cheerlead at Flint Southwestern and the head bartender didn’t play third string D.E. at MSU. No, their accents betray years of TESOL teachers and their grammar has a stiffness to it that doesn’t seem quite right. It isn’t a “Twilight Zone” kind of feeling, more like that feeling of waking up after tying one on and beginning to replay the scene from the previous night; images are fuzzy and a bit out of sequence, faces are familiar but out of focus, motion is stilted and goes in spurts, it is real, it is simply different and doesn’t feel “right” no matter what one does to adjust the playback. A rerun with scenes missing. Colorized B & W.

This scene didn’t really pop up until later in my adventure as I was traveling with Koreans and this meant plenty of rest stops for coffee, noodles and other snacks. Filling up the gas tank once (small car, about $70 – gas is about $1.10 a liter), lots of mountains to look at and tunnels to drive through. There is a $15 toll to pay to cover our nice drive along a pretty swell highway – not that swell. We stop at Lydia’s brother’s apartment for a big fat feast and then it is off to my weekend hang out spot.

Daniel lives in a small basement apartment in the center of Seoul and he lives like most senior college students: plenty of empty bottles, take out containers, clothes everywhere, no clean dishes. This was perfect as I felt that I actually understood the guy. He was a mechacnical engineer and he really had no idea what his new job would entail. He was simply riding it out until it started and dreading the fact that he would have to start work at 9 am the following Monday. I have no idea what kind of student he was or what the job market is like here but he said that he interviewed with about 50 companies and it took six months to find this job.

Piss on that.

The first thing that we decided to do was go to the night market at Dongdae-Mun and it was incredible as they seem to be selling everything imaginable at all hours of the night. From what Daniel said, people come from all over the country to buy clothes and other goods and take them back to their own reigions. I don’t know that I would call it a wholesale market but it was something like that. There were also large buildings that had various stalls filled with merchants selling . . . well, if you want it and they don’t have it I doubt that it can be legally obtained.

In the end I bought a belt as I only brought one with me and every knows that it is the accessories that really make the man.

When we returned for the night Daniel got on-line and quickly made me an interniary of the things that I was going to do the following day. This included which subways to take, the time allotted at each place and phone numbers that I could call should things fall apart. I tried to explain to him that I wasn’t really good with “well planed events” and that he was pretty much wasting his time if he thought that I could keep to a schedule which involved any more than two events. It was the engineer in him that was reacting with horror when I explained that this wasn’t going to go off as planed and that he had best pick a time for me to just give him a ring. He decided that six PM would work.

The following day I was an hour behind schedule by the time I left his door and immediately got on the right subway line, going in the wrong direction. I cleared this up and made it to Gyeongbokgung right at the ceremonial changing of the palace guards. This was nice as after living in London I never saw the changing at Buckingham Palace and really wondered what all the fuss was about. Here, as it was cold as hell with a light falling of snow, the ceremony was a bit scaled down but it was still pretty cool.

The palace and the surrounding grounds were simply amazing. The pictures that I took can’t do it justice and by the time that I left the area Daniel’s to-do list was totally shot to shit.

I hate to say “told ya’ so” but . . .

I ended up leaving the grounds by a side entrance aand quietly began to wander the streets. Themount of people and traffic was a stark contrast to Pohang and it really made the fact that I live in a sleepy little fishing village rather clear. There is so much movement and motion.
How anyone could find sense of peace in such a place was beyond me. Then I found a Buddhist temple that was in the middle of an afternoon ceremony and this illustrated that peace in such a bustling place was indeed possible, if not fleeting. The temple was undergoing a renovation but I still went inside and tried to see what was going on.
This was not a perfect idea I really had no idea what the procedure was and although I got on my knees like everyone else, I happened to be near the door and debris kept falling on me from the work going on above me.
I guess there was some kind of karmic thing going on as I really wanted to take some pictures and it was as if someone, or something, knew that this was my intention. You want to take pictures, well you will be covered in filth for doing so. I left, feeling a bit enlightened, a tad dirty, shook off the dust, wandered around the site and continued to screw up Daniel’s well made plans.



Returning to his list finally took place after I had a coffee and realized that left to my own devices I wouldn’t see a damned thing. I ended up going to the Namdaemun market and simply wandering around. The only other things that I had on my list to purchase was a bound blank book and a new pen. Without effort these were found at a reasonable price and

THE WALL

They told me that after four months I would “hit a wall” and I have done so. Obviously there is the idea that once someone plants the idea of a “wall” in your head, you will find a way to hit it one way or another. I had this vision that things were all good and that I was really on top of my game, that nothing would ever cause me to doubt my decision to come here and that my “new life” would be perfect and that it was one of those “new beginigngs” that everyone dreams about. I often compare the life that one lives to the tructure of a book and the beauty of life is that it offers ample opportunities for re-writes. Things are going shitty, think of a way to rework the plot into something that is a tad more palatable. It may not be perfect, but it could offer enough of a change that it keeps everyone guessing, including the struggling protagonist. The problem arises when everyone involved become off kilter, doubt settles in and the book, as written, is ready to be pulped.

I had this vision of writing about my little trip to Seoul and trying to make it all entertaining and then it was becoming boring to write about it as it was a done deal. Then, time started to pass and I didn’t feel like writing at all - not even the little letters that I so love to mail. My new schedule was kicking my ass. I would leave the job (Oh yes, it is seriously becoming that) and return home with this feeling of dread and this feeling of what the fuck am I doing here? . . . I still can’t speak the language for shit, I can’t stand aspects of my job . . . there are moments of loneliness and I am sick of being thought of as a “foreigner” . . . the weather really sucks as it is cold, dry (15% humidity) . . . everyone has a cough . . . my family is 6000 miles away . . . There is no way to pull a “do-over” as I am stuck here for the moment. The doubt just gnaws at me. I miss some of my things. It is just a funk that is difficult to shake.



The New Year’s tradition is to watch the sun rise out of the east and make a wish and I did that without really knowing what to wish for. Health, I am old enough now that I finally wish good health on all of those for whom I care . . . A wish that I could find a girlfriend . . . A soul mate seems like far too much to ask for . . . What else?

Go home, sleep it off and then the new schedule starts and for the last two weeks all I have done is try to keep little kids motivated enough to learn some Engrish. I try to go to the gym, do what Mr. Yu tells me to without complaint or pause. I try to only curse under my breath when the Yoga Nazi tricks me into some position that causes me to teeter and evokes giggles from all of the women in the class. Do that and eat and my day is pretty much shot until I enter the next one . . .

So that is where it is at: doubt and a busy schedule. The doubt passes as soon as the schedule begins to settle into something that is acceptable, tolerable. I return to listening to jazz – currently Art Tatum – and that really helps. Bought a Toni Morrison book(Love) and allow her command of English remind me why I love this language so much. Read the papers on-line and remember why I am so pissed off all of the time . . . Once the settling in part takes effect, life isn’t so bad and the degree of doubt isn’t as pronounced as it was . . . the down, much like the stock market, begins to turn around (Hey Pal, turn that frown upside down!) and then the mind finds something else to ponder . . .Life goes on.

In the end, I guess that this is what happens when, as they said about my friend Mike, “his bi-polar is really fuckin’ with him.” The moods change and the only way to make it settle down is to . . .well, try to do something besides sit on a goddamned bar stool and bitch about it. I haven’t returned to that as of yet and it is really not in the plans as the mix is crowded enough as it is . . .

Other than that, well things are simply things. I hope all your New Year’s wishes come true.

Peace,

sh

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.