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.