old man cold man gumi can't take it

So Koreans are very proud about having four seasons--they seem surprised sometimes to hear that, yes, a good portion of the world on the same latitudinal lines share this phenomenon...  And YET when inclement weather hits, like snow, for example, you'd think they'd never dealt with it before.  To be fair, the past year or so has brought more snow to South Korea than the country has seen in over 30 years, but considering it snowed freakishly in April and has now snowed enough in the past two weeks to cover-thaw-freeze-cover- every driving and walking path of Gumi, you'd think they'd be a bit prepared.
Don't get me wrong, the snow is beautiful, and brings a bit of a relief to the annoyingly bitter cold, sun-shining deceptive cold.  Bring on those fatty flakes and all the fun that comes with them...
Except the streets are mush and ice, cars are fishtailing and skidding and I'm watching people bite it right and left, fearing a bit for my klutz-prone self.  But if I could, if there was some way to pantomime without slipping and eating ass on the icy streets I'm trying to save them from, I would try and communicate a lesson or two to these folks who don't seem to own salt or shovels or have the sense to walk down icy sidewalks without their hands in their pockets or can't seem to take their foot off the accelerator long enough to consider other ways of getting their car unstuck...oh the hilarity.

distance sucks

As much as I love to travel and live abroad, occasionally I get reminders of how much a life like this can also suck.  Separation.  Distance.  Heavy heavy things...
As much as new technology kids us into feeling connected, it also just reaffirms how far away we are.  How disconnected we become.   We're mammals.  Face it, without contact, without presence, what are we to each other?

Today I found out my grandma died through facebook.  Thank you technology, for keeping me so well informed.  I actually missed the first clue of a status update from my aunt, announcing the news.  I actually sent her a wonderfully supportive condolence message, thinking I was referring to her mother-in-law.  I actually still didn't make the connection that it was, indeed, her mother, my grandmother, she was talking about even after the "call me asap" urgent email from my mother.  All this distance has made me dense.  Well, international dialing failure and poor cross-hemisphere timing resulted in me getting the news through a facebook chat with my little brother.  Having this news broken in blunt text in a little box under pictures of the last makeoli night is a bit surreal.  Nice poetic juxtaposition with the abandoned revelry we're having over here.  Indulgence vs. loss...god did I feel like an asshole.  Okay, not yet.  I felt a bit shocked.  Then quite heartbroken.  Then blubbery.  Then like an asshole for being clear across the world wanting nothing more than to give my dad a hug.

After a bit of confusion with my boss who apparently saw my tears, and thought my request to go home was to return to America, I finally made it home for a skype with my parents.   Suddenly I am no longer in the future.  Suddenly I am the one listening for the news.  Skype with tears and broken silence.  Strange.  And still, no touch.  No way to reach out.  Strange how these losses can even bring us together in the digital age, but still keep us so so so far apart.  Man.

I'm not the first of my friends over here to experience this.  But wow, did not expect it.  And when will it sink in fully?  When I return home and there's no Grammie Lou.  No house in Horton to visit?  No more sugar cookies and buckeyes at Christmas?  Usually it's her tears at the family get togethers, but now those will be transferred to everyone else's cheeks.

I'm pretty ok with death.  In fact, me and Grammie, we're cool.  We connected through the sunshine this afternoon, through warm feelings and wind and memory.  Her face is still sharp and lovely in my mind (I don't care how cheesy you think that sounds).  The heaviest part of all of this is being separate from everyone else.  I immediately think of my dad.  Of both my parents with all their kids now far away...man.  And my aunts and uncles and the holidays coming.  And how my generation, all of us cousins, really aren't as connected.  This too shall pass.  What glue is going to be there when we're the adults, scattered all over, communicating way less frequently despite the modern ease of it.  This kind of change is a heavy thing.

I'm crap at keeping up contact over distance.  I wrote her another letter a few weeks ago and I am lucky it arrived just in time.  Lucky me, she got to hear how much I missed her food.  How touching.  I last saw her on my way to the casino with Jason, to play in my first poker tournament (which I did quite well in, considering...).  That visit was a completely last minute event, and how wonderful those moments in the kitchen were.  And then I came to Korea.

But really, it's times like these that just reinforce the importance of connecting, making the most of every moment we're together.  The people I love are with me every day, and even if they only hear from me in the occasional letter, I just have to trust that they know how much I carry them with me.  Over distances like these, instead of feeling disconnected, I have to believe that we are strong forces in each others' lives--not just as memories, but as a constant presence, so we are never really alone, connected despite being worlds away.

a run in with korean kryptonite

ok, I admit, I'm not totally invincible...thank you very much, Korea, for needing to prove that to me the week before 추석. 


After a few days of intensifying scratchy, gravelly liquification taking place inside me, I finally caved today and took a sick one.  Considering I've been here 7 months and this is the first--despite all the nonstop festivities of this life--I still argue in favor of my immortal status.  But, fearing a runny-nose-ruin of my island vacation, I am willing to concede defeat and seek treatment---or disappointment, as so often is the case when "professionals" give advice conflicting with my self-diagnosis.

Exhausted and dragging, dripping and sagging (but not too sick for word play!) I left the school armed with Hangul--the name of a clinic and my huge list of symptoms scratched onto a sticky note by my lovely coteacher-fairy-godmother, June.   I also should mention that I walked out of the office carrying a gallon of honey--no joke, a gift from one of the book salesmen--and instructions from the other English teachers to only drink warm liquids and to use the honey that is very good for you.

Drop off the honey, begin the adventure.

To begin with, taxi man isn't too sure where the clinic is.  I give him directions to the dong (which I'm quite good at doing) but since I've never been either, I'm no help.  He finally drops me off at a corner and points to the higher floors of a building (you get used to looking up pretty quickly in these stacked cities) and the name does indeed match June's print, and there's a happy little elephant next to the sign.  I'm already cheered.
Short-lived.  I climb the stairs to find the place long-since deserted with hangul scrawled across the door in marker (that I obviously can't read) and back down the stairs, outside, to find all of the pharmacies closed and June obviously in class and not picking up her phone.  But the sun is shining, I am not at school, and I will not be deterred.  I get ahold of Lily (boss of the English office, though easily the most clueless one of us all, gotta love her) and she tells me to walk to McDonald's and find the clinic across the street.  Just like in Daegu, where a plastic surgeon and skincare office are on top of McDonald's, it seems that Korea provides easy access to all the side-effects the greasy giant gives out.
But I couldn't remember how to get to McD's, and fate led me to ask the woman in Paris Baguette, who with the help of awkward charades, told me instead to just walk past Mr. Pizza.  Well, never have so many fast-food chains been the answer to my medical needs, but there indeed was the exact clinic I had found deserted across the street, relocated and lively just across the crosswalk where the Green Man could have led me instead.

The clinic is small, the first floor of several office buildings.  Cushy benches and KPOP fill the waiting room.  I give them my card, wait awhile (actually only a very short while) and am called back.  The doctor, who has a sort of overgrown frazzled look about him is quite the contrast to all the well-dressed well-pressed flight-attendantesque nurses.  He even has one of those large round mirror things on his head (I still have no idea what these are or what they're used for and am too lazy to actually look it up).  When I am called into the examining room, there is still another girl with her mother being examined--no doors, no privacy (not that I can understand, but if I could...)  The examining room is just one open doorway from the waiting room.  It feels like an over-crowded room belonging to a dentist--there is no bed, just a big chair in the middle of the room, surrounded by all kinds of instruments and gadgets and stainless steel, the doctor and his desk right next to it.  He was really nice, sticking tiny cameras in my ears and nose and throat and showing me things I really think are concealed by skin for a reason, describing what he was going to prescribe and telling me to come back in 2 days.  And the nurses--no I'm calling them attendants from now on--stood by in their pink cardigans, not really doing anything until they escorted me the ten feet back to the front desk.  The whole process, entry to exit, took maybe twenty minutes (overestimating) and I'm walking out the door with my paper for the pharmacist.

One last hiccup, since we could never get off so smoothly as that.  I cross the street to one of the now-open pharmacies.  Wait in a small line, hand over my prescription to be told no and pointed out the door.  Runny nose on the verge of breaking, I wait for Green Man to guide me back across the street, back into the clinic, where a lovely attendant (who I feel guilty for not smiling at) walks me outside, two stores to the left and bows me into the pharmacy.  Hand over my paper.  A few moments later, my name is called, and I am delivered a strip of individually-wrapped pill packets and instructed to take a packet 3 times a day.  Mystery meds, no written instructions necessary.  I only have 4 different colors and shapes in my sachets--I've seen people with loads more.

Koreans are notorious for over-diagnosing, over-medicating...BUT as easy as the visit was, as much of a comfortable, painless improvement on the American healthcare I am used to, I was still met with the same disappointing cop-out diagnosis: Allergies.  Bullshit.  I haven't been sick or stuffy or weak this whole time, and suddenly, in the span of a few days, I'm a blubbering mass crippled with congestion.  My vote, sinus infection (gross)--there I go again, self-diagnosing...I really should stop that.

Either way, doctor's visit and meds cost me less than four bucks.  The ironic part was that I finally buckled down and splurged on a multi-vitamin.  Prevention, or rather, daily sustained health, costs me more here than it does to have my systems go haywire.  I saw multivitamin pills that would cost about 6 bucks for a bottle at Walgreens going for 48,000won (that's almost $45!!!).  I settled on the strawberry vanilla chewable multivitamin (ugh).  Cheers to our health.

And my mantra continues: healthy and strong healthy and strong healthy and strong heal...

dam near geniuses (haha, what a pun)

Alright, so my first week of teaching at Gyeongbuk Foreign Language High School is coming to a close. All of my classes are finished; Woody and I crossed the dam and took a hike around the lake after lunch, and all this misty mountainside is finally giving me the chance to be a bit reflective.

Back to day one: Tuesday, 8:20am I met Woody at the trash pile (no joke) between our apartments--best landmark we could think of. We walk farther away from downtown, to the edge of Gumi. Geumo-san looms tall over the dam, softer, fuzzier mountains surround us, and the school is there at the end of the street. Four-stories of red-brick and windows, little origami hedges everywhere. Walkways running between the Training institute (where I'll also work) the student dorms, cafeteria, and main school. The English office is on the 3rd floor, where I have a wonderful staff ow witty little korean coworkers, Woody, and a family of strange plants accenting my lovely view of the mountain (currently hugged in an eerie, ethereal sort of mist). I have my own desk, own computer (great since my laptop is broken; the SHIFT button sticks but I can backspace my yells away). I have my own room, the English Oasis, with a computer lab, a giant touch screen tv and maps, tables, comfy chairs, etc. We are serious about our learning.

So, first day, meet the rest of the teachers, besides June, my short and spunky Korean co-teacher (godmother more like). Then it's off to the opening ceremony. I sit next to June and Woody in the rows of teachers on the edges of the auditorium; All the 450+ students (we have a small, elite school in the province) are standing in rows in the middle. They wear uniforms. Giggle. Bow. And, most strange in a school setting: they cheer.
Speech-after-lulling-speech goes by (and I actually keep my eyes open, despite not understanding a word of it all, unlike many of my neighboring co-workers). Then, after all the big-boss men have had their say, after the Korean and school songs have been sung and a small student band performed, it is time to introduce the teachers.
New teachers first: We line up in a row on the stage, and one-by-one they call our name and we are to step forward. All the new Korean teachers step forward, do a quick bow while they are cheered, then step back. My name is called, I step up, give a sheepish wave, big ol' grin, then have my go at a bow. The kids go WILD. They scream for me like a rockstar. NEVER have I had so many little faces make me feel like MJ himself. Here I am, ready to teach. And there they are, little geniuses, so excited to learn.

After the assembly I had only one class for the day. All of my teaching for these two weeks at least will be shared with Woody. Then, we'll split each class and each of us will take 15, then swap half way through the semester. As a foreign language high school, the kids worked incredibly hard to get here (and thousands apply) and their english is damn near impeccable compared to highschools my peers will be working in. And, most exciting, is the fact that it is fairly laid back. No typed up lesson plans to turn in, no stuffy attire, no strict book or syllabus to follow. Our job, get the kids talking. After one week, it's been incredibly easy.
The high school is divided into grades 1,2 and 3 (sophomores to seniors). Each grade has 5 sections of 30 students, and depending on their focus--English, Japanese, or Chinese--we will see them either 1 or 2 times in a week. Grade 3, intensely studying for KSAT, only has English Conversation once/week.

So, this first week was all about introductions. Grade 1, new to Woody as well, we did a guessing game for them to find out valuable information about us (like blood type and our favorite Korean food) and in grades 2 and 3, since they already knew Woody, we let them play a question game where they got to drill me on basically anything they wanted. They talk, they listen, and aside from some seniors so exhausted from studying they're about to fall asleep, they genuinely seem engaged in the activity.

So far, they have cheered for us everytime we come to a class. They laugh at almost any witty bit of sarcasm or even the most simple jokes I throw their way. Things they all want to know about me: where did I get my hair done? Do I have a boyfriend? Do I have a brother? What do I think of Woody? What do I think of my Korean male teachers? What do I think of certain boys in the class? (the hormones really seem to be steering their mind in the direction of attraction here). But it's great. They are so easy to get along with, so easy to talk to--and understand.
And even outside of the class, the celebrity status continues. They all say hi, bow, and smile endlessly when I talk to them.

My coworkers are fantastic too. Super excited and impressed whenever I spout the two or three phrases of Korean I know. And I had a one-on-one with the princiPAL the other day. I'd dreaded walking in there after third period, but hopped on in. Sat in one of the huge cushy leather chairs across his table (super fancy) and chummed it up. We talked family, travels, studies. He gave me a red ginseng drink to make me strong and we practiced toasting and clanking our bottles. And all the while, he keeps stressing how excited he is to have me, how the school only gets the best, and how I need to be happy happy, no stress at all, make this my home for a year. And later, at lunch, he told all the other teachers how great and cheery I am. This place is feeling like one huge ego-trip. Welcome to Gumi.

We have fantastic authentic and fresh Korean food every day. We eat with the teachers. Take walks around the dam by the mountain after lunch. And Kim Dong Il (a coworker in the English dept) took me up to the roof yesterday where he escapes for his secret cigarette breaks (Woody didn't even get that treat). It's been easy to slip into feeling welcome here. And when I'm not teaching, I'm finally catching up on the internet I haven't got at home.

The banner over the entrance the first day read, "Congratulations! You are here all your dreams will come true." (Or something like that). Par for the course.

communication break down

Well, this has been a lovely test of not having a cell phone or internet at home. WEll, I do, supposedly have internet at home, but my laptop doesn't want to respond to it. Found out there would be a tech coming this evening to have a go at it. Left school early to be there, waited until I thought he was a no-show then he finally did show. No English. None. Would've been fine if he was apple-literate, but no. And I am no PC. Communication failure #2 comes in hardware and software. After a bit of fumbling around, a knock comes and there at the door, another wonderful Korean repair man is there to fix my toilet seat (replacing it with some cushy floral version, which he was able to say the word "flowers" with a smile). Two Koreans, no English. One not-so-responsive computer.
After about an hour of fumbling around, talking to his daughter in broken English on the phone, and sitting and waiting in silence, I figure out how to switch the language on my laptop to Hangul (which I can no longer read to be any help with). The internet is finally working, he goes to reboot the thing and suddenly I have a computer that seems to have ODed on Korean Internet speed. Can't get past the bootup screen: gray-white panel with an icon flashing between an apple, a 'no' sign, and occasionally a folder with a ? in it pops in there. All the while, the whole machine seems to breathing quite hard and I'm sittin there wondering if I should be administering mechanical cpr and the man keeps trying to press ctrl+alt+del and f8 and esc. And god that is not helping.
Well, finally I have him use HIS cellphone to call my Korean co-teacher who tells me to send him home. I can't seem to pantomime this, so he has to call her again just to have her tell him to leave.
Poor guy, can't imagine how stressed he was, seeing how stressed I must've looked.
So here I am in a PC bang again. No phone. No net. Plenty of excitement.

Korea is dynamic. And not nearly as tech-savvy as I'd been told.