The 1st Soccer Game: Suwon versus Seoul

Before I left California, I was nervous about my year long trip to Korea.  Ari, my friend, had spent 6 months abroad during college, so I sought him out for some advice.

                “Ari, you’ve been abroad…I’m nervous,” I said.  “What if I don’t fit in over there?  What if I don’t understand my new home?  Give me some advice, what should I do?”

                Ari said, very simply, “Billy, go to a soccer game.  You will understand the place you live in if you go to a local soccer game and see the diehard fans.  We don’t have that passion in the U.S.  As I recall, the team in your city, Suwon, is called the Bluewings.”

                Ari nailed it: it’s the Suwon Bluewings; and five days after my birthday, on August 28^th, I wanted to watch the Bluewings defend their home turf against FC Seoul.   That day’s match was between the blues (Suwon) and the reds (Seoul)—I couldn’t miss this primary match-up or the opportunity to get to know my neighbors.

I managed to convince a co-worker, Ace, to come along.  Since I met him, he had chatted constantly about his soccer prowess and the German Bundesliga, so I knew that this match was destined for Ace and I.  At first, Ace was reluctant to see this (in his opinion) provincial soccer game, but when I told him that beers were cheap and that I’d pay for his ticket we sought out a taxi and left for the stadium. 

The tickets I wanted to buy were for seats in the North Side of the Big Bird (Suwon World Cup Stadium).  I was told that The North Side was where all the Suwon soccer hooligans would rage.  The Bluewing fans call themselves “Grand Bleus” and I wanted to sit with the Grand Bleus and see my neighbors at their most manic.  I wanted to test Ari’s theory and learn about Suwon.

The streets were cluttered with taxis and buses as Ace and I waited in traffic.  When the grumbling taxi driver released us, Ace and I ran towards the giant relic from the 2002 World Cup, the Big Bird stadium.  In 2002, big scores were a trend at the Big Bird—averaging 5 goals per match.  Perhaps the enticement of high scoring games brings out all the locals, I wondered, because this place is packed with Bluewing fans.  Travelling uphill on the front lawn I noticed permanent art exhibits of steel, hordes of fans purchasing parkas.  It doesn’t look like rain, I noticed, however I should buy a parka anyway just in case it rains—tickets first though.  When we arrived at the ticket booth I logically explained to Ace why we needed to sit in the North Side:

                “A girl at an Indian restaurant said we should sit on the North Side of the stadium.  She said that’s where all the real fans sit—

                “North Side tickets sold out,” interrupted a busy looking man holding a long string of tickets; he wasn’t an official from the stadium, but what he said was verified when Ace checked with an official in the ticket booth.  Ace and I exchanged looks of shock: we wanted to sit where the crazies sat!  The Bluewings dream was soon to be over before it started…  I wanted to get a real taste of Korean soccer and especially Suwon fans—there had to be an alternative.

                “I have tickets though,” said the busy looking man, “₩15,000.”

                Ace and I were desperate for the North Side, so I overpaid for scalped tickets (the tickets are only supposed to cost ₩5,000 each).  I paid for two parkas (₩4,000 each) and then we hot-stepped into the stadium without turning back to look at our scalper.  I half-expected the tickets to crumble in my hand or to be for last week’s game, but they were just overpriced; we walked into the park with all the other fans.  I paid for 2 Cass beers (₩2,000 per can) and soon discovered that the North Side was really REALLY packed: No sitting room, just standing room.  Ace and I squirmed ourselves into the North Side quagmire with beers and parkas in hand.

We found an open spot, stood, and that was where we stayed for the rest of the game.  Before the game started I examined the Big Bird from my North Side vantage point: The West and East sections were for families or for anyone who actually wanted to sit and watch a game, the South Side was designated for the opposing team.  Today the South Side was all read, FC Seoul fans, and they waved red flags for intimidation and encouragement.  The North Side did the same—the only difference was that the North was filled with shoulder-to-shoulder fans and they had way more flags

The Grand Bleus in the North Side were a blue sea, waves of people constantly shifting and cheering.  It wasn’t just young people in the North Side, there were families who had arrived early and were actually sitting in the seats.  The families brought their babies dressed up in the mini-size Bluewings jerseys.  There were adults, teenagers, elementary aged-kids, babies—anyone and everyone was welcome (even a few foreigners like me). 

The center, however, was strictly a young-person crowd.  It was the heart of the Bluewings: the center was constantly sprayed with water from a hose, incited to chant and boo by a Grand Bleu with a  bullhorn, and they drunkenly swayed in mass—I assumed they were all drunk (I would need to be drunk to be in that pit).  At one point Ace suggested we go over to the center…I suggested next time would be better—when I actually was wearing a Bluewings jersey like everyone else was.  Overhead there was a large canopy that could block out some sun or rain, but it wasn’t enough: if it was going to rain, we were going to get drenched, good thing I bought these parkas.

When the game started so did the cheering.  The cheers were accompanied with dances, which I learned quickly.  Within the first 20 minutes two goals were scored by Suwon and the Grand Bleu-North Side was buzzing with energy.  Ace and I kept buying beer, we put the parkas on when it started raining, and we roared with our neighbors in the stands.  The second half was more exciting—there were 4 goals scored—and the Big Bird really lived up to its big scoring notoriety.  I’m not a sports commentator, so describing the play-by-play action wouldn’t do the game justice; thankfully the game’s highlights (all the goals) are on youtube.  I recommend watching; there’s a header-goal, by Suwon, that’s just magic.

At some point, maybe 15 minutes after the game had started, a business man, not much older than myself, arrived and placed himself near Ace and I.  From his briefcase he pulled out a Bluewings jersey and proceeded to electrify the outskirts of the North Side where we were sitting.  He didn’t know anyone, but he loved the Bluewings; he screamed every chant louder and danced every jig a little jiggier than anyone nearby.  He didn’t drink beer, he didn’t have a parka, he was just happy to have made it to the game.

As I left the game with Ace, and as we desperately searched for a vacant taxi, I thought of that lone business man making the trek to the Big Bird and sitting next to me.  He embodied my new home, Suwon.  He was hardworking (I could tell because of briefcase and arriving late from work), he was dedicated to his team, and he had heart.  The soccer game was my introduction to Suwon and my new neighbors; Ari was right, I definitely learned some things about Suwon that day.

The Spider Lessons - part 1

Coming home from work two months ago I came upon a large spider waiting to cross a street intersection, like I was.  The intersection was only a few yards long, which is nothing for me, but for the spider…well, it would need a miracle to make it across alive.  This poor guy doesn’t have a snow ball’s chance in hell, I thought, I wonder if I should just crush it now and put it out of its misery?  I didn’t smash the spider.  Instead I reserved a marginal amount of hope that the arachnid might make it across—and off it dashed.  Crossing one white line, then another, no cars in sight—Wow, this guy might make it.  But as predicted: Headlights appeared, the spider hesitated, and right before the “walk” sign lit up the spider was smashed, twice, by a Hyundai.  The lesson learned when passing the dead spider: Rush into things and you’ll end up like this guy: crushed. 

                The spider pancake only reinforced a similar lesson learned earlier that day; ironically the source of that initial lesson was also a spider.  It all began with a miscommunication between my boss, Marlene, and I.  (Marlene is the academic director at my hagwon.  She is responsible for all of the English teachers—solely responsible for them.  So, if I screw up than she’s the one that gives me the tongue lashing, but then she gets the same from our director, Myrtle.  Consequently, it behooves her to make sure all of us foreign teachers are performing well.) 

Marlene had told me the day before, “Come to work, tomorrow, at 1:50pm.”

She said 1-5-0, but I heard 1-1-5, so I arrived promptly at the hagwon at 1:15.  This was when I was still training, so when I arrived I went straight up to Marlene and looked at her with a hopeful expression saying, “alright lady, let’s start this!” and she looked back at me confused, with an expression like, “Already?  This kid’s gonna to be a pain in my ass.”

She looked at me strangely and explained the miscommunication, but everything was okay because I’m still new, and I was early after all—not late.  However, now I had some time to kill, 35 minutes exactly.  I could’ve gotten something to eat but at that point I couldn’t read or understand Korean, so eating was out of the question.  (It’s the new Korean-diet-fad: you don’t eat, because you can’t order food.  How stimulating!)

It was humid and hot that day, so walking anywhere was out of the question also.  Resolved to stay cool and adhere to my new Korean-diet, I marched up to the roof deck of the hagwon.  I sat under the shade of a small wooden canopy. 

(NOTE: I worked at a Target near my parents’ house, when I was 18, one summer when I came home from college.  During my 15-minute breaks, my co-workers and I would sit inside a similar style canopy.  They called this kind of canopy the “butt hut”: where everyone went to smoke and then casually toss their finished cigarettes on the ground.)

I sat in the shade waiting for the 35 minutes to expire.  It was just me and the “butt hut”.  Surveying my surroundings I noticed that whoever designed the top-level deck had the intention of making it like a Zen garden, but stopped taking care of it: the floor’s paint was chipping away because of sitting water, near the edges of the building were plants & bushes overgrown with weeds, there was a dismal pond on one side of the “butt hut” that had grimy fish constantly avoiding human eyes, an ever-flowing wheel of water and a mini-fountain propelling spurts of the muck into the air.  Inside the “butt hut” there were three wooden benches, a dusty green couch (I never sit on it) and two more benches, in the middle, acting as a make-shift coffee table or footrest.  There were also two tin cans nearby used for ashing cigarettes; the cigarette butts, of course, often missed the tin cans and ended up on the floor.  And the wooden canopy covered it all to properly complete my hagwon’s version of the “butt hut”.

While under the shade of the “butt hut” I told myself that I should embrace my surroundings—this was my first meditative moment in Korea.  Despite the intolerable heat and the perpetual whirring of the air conditioning units behind me, I tried to find some peace of mind …

A soft breeze rolled in and out of the “butt hut” so eventually I stopped sweating.  For a moment it was comfortable and I thought about what my upcoming year here would be like.  Will I eventually learn Korean?  Will I like it here?  Will I make friends?  When does this humidity end?  At one point a white crane flew by on my right, I felt hope.  Then I noticed large black ants on the floor searching for nourishment in the tin cans, I felt empty.  Nothing for you in there, I thought, just empty cups of coffee and a couple cigarette butts—hardly a nourishing diet even for an ant. 

I looked around some more and near my left foot I noticed a large rust-colored bug.  My initial impulse, to smash the bug, dissipated and the rust-colored bug trotted away, perhaps sensing my urge to crush it.  With the humidity returning and the rust-colored bug on the retreat I pulled out my Sansa music player—the Ready to Die album by Notorious B.I.G. was the obvious choice.  The thug tunes enveloped me and I started singing along.  I was nostalgic of the past and home as I sweated sitting in the “butt hut”.

In the corner of my eye I noticed the rust-colored bug was further away from me now.  A pair of Korean men joined me on the roof.  I stopped the Notorious B.I.G. sing-a-long, nodded as they did, and watched as the older one explained to the younger one the deficiencies of the roof: the weeds, the murky water in the pond, etc.  About damn time, I thought, I’m glad someone’s trying to get this place back into some kind of order.  Maybe the younger guy’s going to clean this place up?  The pair took off after the older one commented to me how hot it was—whatever, I’m staying here.  I’m trying to adapt…

I turned my attention back to the rust-colored bug and to my surprise it was elevated off the ground hopelessly stuck in a spider’s web.  A small spider descended to greet its guest and next meal.  Slowly the spider wrapped its web around the doomed rust-colored bug.  Who am I?  I wondered.  Am I the spider, patient and fortunate, or am I the bug?  Hasty and doomed.   And as I walked down the stairs, away from “the butt hutt,” I was struck with the first spider lesson that would be buttressed later at the street intersection: Be patient, you won’t regret it.  Watch out for spiders.

24th Birthday

      The key to good writing, I’ve learned, is editing. Putting words on a page is one thing, but getting those words to flow like a river or a symphony is hard; even the great writers I follow and enjoy (specifically Orwell and Steinbeck) have admonished editing. However, editing this latest entry has been a struggle—moreso than the other entries I’ve written so far.

      This entry is about my 24th birthday and, frankly, my birthday was a wild evening with good friends, lots of beer & soju, and me singing every rap song available at the karaoke bar. It was a hot evening (a rainy one as well), which I don’t remember completely. It’s an evening my friends talk about still as one of the funniest nights we’ve had so far; they’ve filled me in on what I don’t remember.

      I won’t lie about the night, but I will balance this anecdote (like I have before in my other entries) with what I think is appropriate for all of those aboard the Little Wolf Express. I’ve got friends and family, potentially children, that don’t need every sordid detail from a late night of partying. (Those who want the details should know how to get a hold of me.)

*** 

      I left for Korea on the 15th of August: a day after my father’s birthday and eight days before my own birthday; I was turning 24. Our birthdays being so close makes August the “birthday-boy” month in my family: first up, my dad, then me. Before I left, my dad’s birthday was especially meaningful: It became the time to soak up and value my family. These were the moments I would later recall to nourish myself when I would, no doubt, become nostalgic or homesick. (Thankfully homesickness hasn’t been in an issue; having the Little Wolf Express helps with that.) Now, ladies and gentlemen, my 24th birthday in Korea:

      I worked all day and kept the fact that it was my birthday as quiet as possible. I did tell Otto and Ace, my first friends at the hagwon (the English school). They knew about the birthday dinner I wanted to have. I figured it would be quaint: a couple friends, a couple beers, maybe a cake…Expectations are never what they seem though. Ace, the party-planner and drama-magnet, got busy spreading the word about my dinner. Because it was so short notice only a few people from work made it out, which I didn’t mind, yet far from the Super Sweet 16 stereotype. In the end it was just Ace, Otto, their girls, and three other co-workers: Jason, J.J., and Vic.

      The restaurant we went to was called Mapo Galbi, it’s a Korean BBQ place that features Suwon’s famous meat: galbi. (Go to Suwon’s wiki page and it will tell you that Suwon is famous for its “Suwon Galbi”—I’m not making it up.) It was raining after work, which didn’t bother me, because I like the rain, but it meant we could not eat outside. Instead, we sat inside the restaurant on tiny plastic red stools that surrounded two circular tables with propane grills in the middle of each table. Korean BBQ means you actually cook your food at your table, the meat arrives raw. Someone brought a cake out before we ate and I knew it was going to end up in my face; my intuition was spot on: Happy Birthday Billy. Ace shoved a slice in my face, trying to avoid my glasses…what a gentleman.

 

From Left to Right: "Ace", me, "Vic"

      “Wait till your birthday,” I said to him licking the cake of my glasses (he missed). “You’re going to be a mess.”

      “Do you even know my birthday?” he asked. (It’s in June everyone, Ace beware.)

      The meat arrives. We ordered Galbi and Samgyeopsal (large slices of unseasoned bacon, very delicious) and the meat was of course complimented by an array of side dishes: green leaves of lettuce to wrap our cooked meat around. Mushrooms, garlic, and onion that go on the grill to accompany the meat as it cooks. Kimchi (of course, no meal is complete without kimchi in Korea), Kimchi jjigae (which is a kimchi stew; very mild and delicious at Mapo), bean sprouts, seasoned shuts of seaweed, some kind of runny egg soup (which isn’t as bad as it sounds), tins of rice, and assortments of sauces to dip our meats into. The objective of the Korean BBQ meal (I learned this from Ace) is to cook the meat, season it to your liking with the sauces, place it in the lettuce, and then add whatever you want to it: Mushrooms, garlic, kimchi, whatever—in a sense, I felt like I was making a taco…a very Korean-version of the taco. I remember smells vividly still: the grilling meat, the pungent odor of kimchi, and, of course, the love-hate smell of soju.

      Soju is a fermented beverage, usually made from rice. Soju is a terrible drink for foreigners: it gives us headaches, leaves us with miserable hangovers, and we never think we’ve drunken too much until we’ve drunken too much. The Koreans, however, swill soju like it’s water (in fact, soju is cheaper to buy than water.) A lot of foreigners complain about soju because they’ve all had “that night” where they drank too much and experienced soju’s tremendous after-effects. I had “that night” that night. Besides eating a very filling and delightful meal, I drank lots of soju on my birthday, as is customary I suppose in Korea (reference: when in Rome…); I even mixed the soju with beer (to make a popular drink called somek). I felt like a reveler at a Greek symposium: food, booze, women, all I needed was some music…eventually I got that too.

      Dinner paid for and finished, grateful for my friends, feeling great from soju, I assumed that my night was over—not in Korea however…no, the night was merely getting started. A portion of the dinner party, perhaps sensing a raucous showing, departed after dinner; they could tell we were going be loud, drunk, and probably annoying. The crew that stuck around headed towards the norebang (Korean for karaoke) with a slight drizzle overhead.

      The proprietor of our norebang was an aged woman, an ajuma. She kept many tiny dogs around to stand guard and, probably, to drown out the awful singing. That night the dogs and I sang together—and what howls came from the birthday-boy’s room! (I already mentioned that I attempted to sing every rap song available.) We kept on drinking—more beer, more soju—and had toasts like, “Okay Billy, you’re 24—DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!” The norebang was where the heavy drinking started and somek drinks of 80% soju and 20% beer went down in “one shots” (Koreans scream out “one shot” which means you chug your beverage in one shot…I do not like the “one shot”).

      (A funny side note: On our way into the norebang, we passed a definitely more drunk group of Korean guys and they overheard it was my birthday (or maybe I told them, I don’t remember). Regardless, they demanded I accept their unopened bottle of beer…it was 1000 mL…I obliged them, thanked them, and we drank the whole damn thing.) 

Definitely me rapping--look at the lyrics...

      Surrounded by new friends in a new country, thoroughly satiated and inebriated, I welcomed in the new age of Billy: 24 at last! We stayed at the norebang until our hour expired and by that time the rain had completely stopped also. The prospect of walking home without an open umbrella and the notion of work tomorrow tamed the wild evening at around 3am. Ahead of me was a year in Korea and a mile long walk to the love motel. Truly I do not remember the walk, but I assure you that my 24th birthday in Suwon, Korea, will not soon be forgotten.

(Shoutout to Betty for the pictures!  She took them and I'm reposting them from Facebook.  You're a hot babe Betty, I miss you.)

The Korean "Love Motel"

(Cue Thug Passion by Tupac Shakur.  WARNING: this song has content not suitable for all listeners—mainly my grandparents.)

           But, If you clicked the link than you’re now listening to track 6 (disk 2) from the album, All Eyez on Me.  Whenever I entered my “love motel” after work, track 6 naturally came to my mind, and I whispered the chorus with a smile.  There’s something about the song’s grittiness and suggestive lyrics that I saw duplicated in the “love motel”.  In an imaginary world, where Tupac is still alive and touring, he might have come to Korea and the “love motel” would have been the perfect venue for Tupac and his retinue to pause the tour, enjoy some Thug Passion, and make use of the red-light setting.

In fact, I only found out that there was a red-light setting after eight days of “love motel” living.  For me, the most that ever came from the red-light was a giggle and then a switch back to the normal light setting.  However, I understood the “love motel” a little bit better that day: I knew the red-light setting wasn’t for developing photos.  I better understood why they called the establishment a “love motel” and not just a motel.  So, if you haven’t already, pour yourself “one part Alizé, one part Cristal” (that’s a Thug Passion) because I will now take you on a tour of the South Korean “love motel”…

           Based on this article, the “love motel” became popular in the 1980s especially because of the Seoul 1988 Olympic Games.  The “love motel” charged by the hour, rather than by the night, so this attracted the kind of clientele that led to the moniker, “love motel”.  Prostitution is illegal in Korea, so not all of the temporary tenants are in the service industry; according to the article there are a fair amount of people who actually enjoy travelling and staying in “love motels”…

I believe that high school students are the prominent residents of “love motels”:  in Korea, high school students sometimes have to live in hostels or motels during the week because their high schools are far away from their homes.  (They will only go home on the weekends and holidays; that’s the price they pay for such educational competition.) 

           My room at the “love motel” (which, I think, cost less than $40 a night) opened up to a small hallway: on my left was the bedroom and on my right was the bathroom; both were impeccably clean when I first arrived.  In the hallway, the first thing any visitor would notice would be a pair of sandals; Koreans take their shoes at the entrance.  (I think this is practiced throughout Asia, but I certainly made the faux pas of forgetting to take off my shoes several times before I got comfy with the “love motel” sandals.)

The bathroom had a Western toilet (no squatty potty), a sink, and a bathtub (even the bathroom in my apartment doesn’t have a tub.)  The bathroom offered toothpaste, soap, and towels—definitely accommodating.  And the bedroom had all the amenities of hotels I’d been accustom to back home: air conditioning, window with curtains, cable television with VCR, refrigerator & freezer, telephone, cups, hair dryer, etc.  Should you find yourself in a “love motel” you should, however, bring your own sheets (the “love motel” didn’t have sheets) and bring a clock (the “love motel” charges by the hour so the less you know about the time, the better).

           Actually, the worst part about my “love motel” was that it was a mile from the school, which had nothing to do with the quality of the motel itself.  My second day in Korea I got picked up from the “love motel” in a car, but after that…I walked…and sweated my ass off.  Sometimes when I left for work it was 33 degrees Celsius (almost 90 degrees Fahrenheit), with around 90% humidity or higher; and I always wore my khakis and a polo shirt.  Those were a very VERY sweaty two weeks.

           In a lot of ways the “love motel” is like Tupac: both are misunderstood.  I listen to Tupac because I appreciate his honest raps.  I know it’s not for everyone, but Tupac suits me fine.  So does the “love motel”: I lived very comfortably for two weeks for less than $500 (the case would not be the same at a hotel—even a motel—in the states).  The “love motel” may be associated with prostitution and adultery, but despite that, the only glimpse I got of anything illicit or seedy were some soft-core VHS tapes in the lobby.  I’m sure people come to “love motels”, with the intention of turning on the red-light, but it’s a hush-hush deal.  While I stayed at the “love motel” it was eerily quiet, despite its reputation, and the parking lot purposely covered up license plates from peering passerbys.

           I hope you have enjoyed your tour of the “love motel” and that you’re ready for your second Thug Passion—really, the beverage is quite complimentary to your “love motel” stay: If you drink enough of them, than you may find that your “love motel” bears a striking resemblance to a Hilton. Unfortunately, there are no complimentary hors d'oeuvres…just a free red-light setting and a much cheaper bill.

Day One ½

08/17/2010

                Once the plane landed in Incheon everyone swarmed the exit to get through customs.  People hate lines everywhere, Korea is no exception.  Fortunately, for Otto and I, our customs experience was little more than a stamp, a half-smile, and a few more steps towards the final destination: Suwon.  Prior to customs and retrieving our luggage, I remember, as we walked towards the custom line, there was a man in an airport security uniform—I swore he was asleep—dozing next to a thermal camera.

                “They’re checking for heat levels in all the travelers,” said Otto.

                “Making sure no one’s sick before they let them into the country.” 

And, I wondered, what happens when they find someone sick, someone with H1N1 or swine flu?  Do they quarantine them or do they get shipped back to the country they flew in from?  Are they returned like a broken alarm clock, waiting in a line similar to Target customer-service?  Had the drowsy security been awake maybe he would have seen thermal levels off the chart when I passed by: excitement, anxiety, and curiosity swelling in warm magentas and hot hues of bright red.  I could just imagine hearing, “Sorry sir, you need to calm down or go back home.”

                I looked at Otto’s passport and saw he had travelled extensively before coming to Korea: Germany, Switzerland, Australia, and other countries I can’t remember now.  Before this Korean gig, he travelled abroad with a renowned drumming crew.  He stopped drumming with the crew and went back home to North Carolina.  For a couple years he endured the grind of life behind a cubicle; it wasn’t long before he was convinced to return to the road, this time with an English job in Korea.  The wanderlust was deeply rooted in Otto’s soul: it wasn’t something that could be detected by a thermal camera, only something that irked you while sitting in your cubicle or kept you awake at night, looking up at the stars, wondering what life’s like somewhere else.

Soon Otto and I were greeted with pseudo-celebrity status by a docile man named Daymon.  He didn’t ask to see our passports, he barely spoke English, he grabbed one of my suitcases and looked for the vehicle that would take us 2 hours from Incheon to Suwon.  From the airport to the parking lot I had my first real sweaty encounter with Korea’s humidity: my brow dripped with perspiration, my palms moistened, I was thankful I chose shorts and not jeans like Otto.  Perhaps it was the humidity or the long plane ride but as we walked to the car I felt like I was floating, not really cognizant anymore, aloof and uncertain.

I felt like what a freshly planted seed must feel like as it looks up through the dirt in a garden.  I’m just a little seed and there is so much already grown around me.  Everything is so big and I’m so small—what will become of me?

When I closed my eyes in Incheon I opened them again in Suwon.  We parked in front of a 5 story building; the 4^th floor was where my English school was located.  Otto and I weren’t going to teach today but we needed to check in with our boss, Myrtle; this is what Daymon told us through hand gestures and English-Korean mush.  I’m stupefied at this point, overwhelmed and exhausted.  These initial experiences stick to my brain like it was a greased skillet.

Things got blurry after I left the car...I recalled my first encounter with the English school in garbled fragments: Outside the building—instant humidity and sweat—took an elevator to the 4^th floor, we ascended, first thing: a foyer then two halls of classrooms, one teachers’ office, co-workers said hi to me and I responded politely, my boss Myrtle and the assistant director Marlene translating for her, some faces, giggles, Korean kids stared at me, everyone stared at me, back in the elevator again with Myrtle and Otto, we descended, outside again and it’s still hot as blazes, back in the car with Myrtle driving this time, first Otto was dropped off at his apartment and we exchanged looks that said ‘oh well, here we go’, and then Myrtle dropped me off at the motel, my motel, where I’ll live for the next two weeks until my apartment is ready to be moved into.

As I prepared for bed, I realized I couldn’t remember a single detail since I landed in Incheon.  Of course I knew where I was—I knew the basics—but the all the details of the day were indistinct: faces, conversations, images—nothing resonated.  It must be some kind of initial culture shock, I reasoned, my short-term memory disappears momentarily as my brain processes the new environment.  So…when does the short-term memory come back?  Then it hits me: I haven’t even been in Korea for a full day; actually tomorrow will be my first full day in Korea.  I’ll probably have my memory back, full power, tomorrow.

The television in the motel had English channels so I watched them until I could barely keep from sleep, then I drifted towards this dream: I am in my motel room, it is dark, I am lying in my bed.  I look up and see that the ceiling of my motel is raised 20 or 30 feet (which it is not in reality) and there is a small window in the ceiling also (which, again, is not like reality).  The window is open and it lets in hot air.  The hot air circulates and I become warmer.  In the dream, I’m overwhelmed with the thought that I’ll never be able close the window and that it will always be hot here.