February in Itaewon

While I worked in Garden Grove, CA, I lived in Newport Beach for a year.  Newport was not kind: At least three times I was insulted because I was Jewish, I saw a friend assaulted (and need facial reconstructive surgery after), I had a roommate who was robbed at gunpoint, and the archetypal “bro” jostled me at every bar I visited.  Newport was the kind of place where trouble was easily found, a lot like Itaewon actually.  In February 2011, I lived in Itaewon, a district of Seoul, and I saw the grittiness of Newport reflected during that month.  Itaewon is a tough area of Seoul: The U.S. army base is stationed there and droves of the soldiers prowl the streets on the weekends, racial friction (between Americans, Koreans, Arabs, Filipinos and Nigerians) has caused much violence, and prostitution is a notorious pillar of the city’s underbelly.  However, even in the presence of some nefarious elements, I enjoyed my month in Itaewon as I enjoyed my year in Newport.  My tales from Itaewon begin with Seolnal.  (Seolnal marks the lunar New Year: The white tiger of last year recedes and the rabbit replaces it.  Seolnal was on February 3^rd.)

For Seolnal and for the rest of February I shared an apartment with a friend, Otto, in Itaewon.  The apartment was situated north of the Crown Hotel and down one of Itaewon’s many alleys.  Beneath our apartment was Manila Bar, a mostly Filipino bar, which was owned by our neighbors and served frosty San Miguel.  Manila Bar was a quiet dive, off the beaten path, but beneath Manila Bar was Venue.  Venue was a lounge-type club that buzzed and vibrated the floor of our apartment.  Venue attracted a hipster crowd that was absent of the aggressive soldier-type; it was the kind of place where I could gorilla clap without disturbing the vibe.  On Seolnal we went to Manila Bar and met a group of fellow English teachers; they took us on a wild adventure: Up “Hooker Hill” (no hookers encountered), into a dive bar called Carmen, and (around 7AM) Otto and I enjoyed late night/early morning double-quarter pounders. 

Itaewon has a Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde feel to it.  At night, there is alcohol, friction, and so many women.  The women flocked to Itaewon and they were gorgeous.  The moon in the sky meant that the high heels were donned, the short skirts were adjusted, and groups of girls giggled throughout streets.  As the evening turned into the early morning the craziness of Itaewon accelerated: random hollering, inebriated yelling, dry heaving, pools of vomit, prostitutes, military police, arguments bordering on fist fights, occasional glass shattering, drunken singing, and the constant chatter of taxis and cars.  During the day, Itaewon was different though: The shops were all open, the salesman were outside offering “handmade leather vests”, the smells of exotic foods everywhere, and in the distance a vision of North Seoul Tower.  Itaewon was actually a family town during the day!  In my opinion, the best part of my time in Itaewon was treating myself to meals that I hadn’t had in a while: a burrito from Taco Bell, of course McDonald’s (breakfast and burgers), and a 12-inch Tuna on wheat from Subway.  Most of my meals though were not from American fast food chains.  I was eating Indian, Irish, Italian, French, Brazilian, Moroccan, and, of course, Korean food…I gained a couple pounds during February, but it was a savory gain.

While one must be careful in this city at night, it still had beauty to offer.  My advice: Take a walk, before the sun goes down, and see this city for what it is and not just the avenue of foreign shops and restaurants.  A sunset on one of Itaewon’s hills, above the chaos and looking at North Seoul Tower, is one of a kind.  If Itaewon was to resemble a person it would be a loud, threatening, muscular, cheap-beer drinking dude wearing Nikes.  (I swear I saw guys like that in Newport all over the place.)  Although Itaewon is rough around the edges, there are moments to be enjoyed there.

The Cell Phone Debacle

                When I came to Korea, I didn’t have a cell phone and not having a cell phone was like going on summer vacation: at first, I couldn’t get used to it then I got used to it, and I started to enjoy it.  I had phantom vibrations for weeks and when I rushed an eager palm to my pocket I would remember, Oh wait…I don’t have a cell phone anymore.  For a time I was complacent and enjoyed the freedom from phone calls and text messages; but, like the closing of summer, that complacency was coming to an end.  Soon I was washing phone numbers on bar napkins that I would keep in my pocket and forget about, I was making new friends and unable to coordinate lunch…I was realizing how important a cell phone was going to be in Korea.  I dreaded the realization, but I knew: I needed a cell phone.
                One of the teachers I replaced gave me his pre-paid phone, and I wanted to put more money on it, but that was a stressful and unsuccessful pursuit.  No amount of times, with cash in hand, was I able to register the phone to my name at the cell phone store.  Sure, there was a language barrier between me and the guys behind the counter, but I was waving green ₩10,000 bills in the their face and giving unscrupulous stares—Just put the minutes on the phone and I’m outta here!  No more foreigner in your store, c’mon, do it!  I want to give you money—take my money—put the minutes on the phone.

                (NOTE: Foreigners in Korea have to use pre-paid phones, in general, because their visas don’t allow them to stay for more than a year and cell phone contracts are at least a year; more often than not, a couple years.  E2 visas limit the person to 12 ½ months; as a result, foreigners teaching English don’t often get cell phone contracts or credit cards.)

                Three failed attempts frustrated me and I felt cursed.  I was furious and shamed, so I asked a co-worker, Hank, to help me.  We went to a different shop (which was probably for the best because I left the original shop mumbling obscenities and ruthlessly starred at the employees any time I passed by) and the same problem persisted: they couldn’t put money on the phone because the last person who had the phone did not switch the phone to my name before they left—now the phone was useless.  (Currently, the same phone is a paper weight in my room.  It’s still useless.)  I knew that I would eventually get a phone, but until I had one I felt like I was the animal at the zoo: I could look out through the bars, but that was it.  I was totally restricted.

***

                There is an asterisk to this story because I wasn’t totally without a working cell phone…  At some point, as I battled with the staff at the cell phone store, a friend of mine, Denise, gave me her old cell phone.  It was a little nicer than the phone I had, but it was bright pink.  Hell no, I thought, I’m not about to start using a pink cell phone.  Denise reminded me that I could change the pink cover, but I decided to waste my time…

When I hit rock bottom of my cell phone withdrawal, I e-mailed Denise and got the pink cell phone working.  Actually, Denise did all the talking, I sat there looking stupid and defeated, but in the end I had a working cell phone.  Sure, it’s pink—it’s still pink, I should say, I haven’t changed the pink cover (I doubt I will)—but the phone works.  Every once in a while some jerk in a bar makes a comment and I say to them, “whatever, I’m not from around here, someone was nice to me and they gave me their old cell phone, I can live with pink”.  My students at the English academy laugh at me and ask if I’m gay.

 “I’m not gay,” I tell them, “I have many girls’ numbers in this phone,” at which point I defiantly close my phone and the cover twinkles with shining lights.

My dad told me once, “A car is for getting from point A to point B, that’s it,” and I apply the same logic to cell phones: “A cell phone is for making calls, that’s it.”  Whether it’s sparkly, manly, old, or expensive, all that matters is that I can make a phone call or send a text message.  All things considered, I can’t complain about my pink phone… except that my ringtone is still Ke$ha’s “Tik Tok”…yeah, I’m not gonna change that either.

Surviving Kompasu

                I’ve lived through earthquakes, college finals, soul-crushing food poisoning, respiratory infections,  asthma attacks, torrential thunder storms, turbulence on airplanes, severe drunken blackouts, the wrath of an angry woman and even the blighted drive from San Jose to Santa Cruz on Highway 17—but, until I came to Korea, I had never survived a typhoon…and, since I’m still writing this blog, I clearly survived typhoon Kompasu and can now safely add that disaster to the list of things I’ve survived.

                In early September, it was starting to cool in Korea: August had been unbearably hot and humid, so I was grateful for the cooling that followed.  However, one day, during a lunch break, I was sitting in a restaurant eating some buckwheat noodles when a downpour began and I, without an umbrella, was stunned.  I should have expected the chance of rain with such humid weather: I’d been to the East Coast and experienced flash showers.  Little did I know that this moisture in the air, evident in the sudden downpour, was a precursor to typhoon season.

                In the beginning of typhoon season, I moved into my apartment (which was closer to my school and a blessing compared to the love motel).  The apartment had a kitchen, a laundry room, a bathroom, and a bedroom with two huge windows.  There were no curtains, so my nude yoga was put on pause, but I liked having such big windows: they opened my room up and they served as a natural alarm clock, while the alternative—no windows—was a dismal prospect.  So I stayed clothed more often, opened my windows for fresh air, and September continued.

                One evening in September I was drifting to sleep and suddenly I heard fierce wind outside my window.  I got out of bed, opened the window, and saw my neighbors clothesline whip violently in the air.  Trash and leaves danced like ghosts in the night while the wind moaned at me.  I immediately closed my window, got into bed, and pulled the covers over my head.  I felt like one of the little pigs threatened by a vicious enemy outside and I prayed for my house NOT to get blown down.

                The next day at work I had to express my surprise at the wind to my co-workers: had anyone heard or felt that extreme wind last night—I mean, my god, I thought my windows were going to get blown in!  It felt like a hurricane or something.  “Well Billy, this is typhoon season…duh!” that was the response at work.  “And, oh yeah, by the way, there’s a typhoon, Kompasu [Japanese for the archaic compass used to draw circles] coming up through Japan…should be here by tomorrow.”  Squealing with fear, this little piggy ran all the way back to his apartment, hoping big bad Kompasu would not blow his home down.

                It was pouring rain the day Kompasu arrived.  I felt like one of those old ladies from Mary Poppins when I was walking home—honestly, I could have been blown away the winds were that strong.  Despite the rain and developing thunder there was an eerie calm before the storm—I know it’s cliché, but it was eerily calm.  I had dinner, I had electricity (the storm hadn’t blown it out,) so I figured the worst had passed and I got into bed.  That’s a typhoon, I thought incredulously, a bunch of rain, some thunder, and a strong breeze?  I’ve had bowel movements worse than that.  I closed my eyes and pulled the blankets over me thinking that the Korean typhoon was going to pass Suwon calmly.

                Always when I am sure of something though, my expectations are revealed to be unfounded:  the pitter-patter of the rain turned into jack hammering, the wind howled like a big bad wolf, and it huffed, puffed, and tried it’s hardest to blow my windows in.  The panes vibrated, my bathroom door quivered, and I was sure that the windows were going to explode.  I was unsure of this kind of weather—this is the kind of weather that kills people, I fretted, this kind of weather swallows people up and spits them out like a chicken bone.   In good Billy fashion, I imagined the most diabolical and menacing hurricane outside my window and then imagined it destroying my new home, shattering my curtain-less windows, and wrecking Suwon.  Kompasu had arrived and I had severely misjudged it.

                The wind persisted, the rain eventually let up though, and I rationalized that if the typhoon was going to be as bad as I was dreading than my school would have warned me.  The prospect of work the next day overwhelmed my inklings to worry so I put in some earplugs (because the wind was that loud) and went to bed.  I remember my last though being: well, if I’m going to die by a typhoon, might as well be relaxed because it’s unavoidable.

                My apartment was still standing the next day.  I prepared for work, went outside and then realized that Kompasu did have its way with Korea: In Suwon, large branches had been ripped from their trees (while there were some incidents of uprooted trees), glass windows were shattered, banners were stripped from their posts, and bits of refuse had been strewn throughout the city.  In Seoul, the damage was much worse and it had halted the city’s subways.  In general, the damage was severe in the countryside, and the clean up afterwards took weeks.

                Now on my list of things I’ve survived is ‘typhoon’.  I was scared during the typhoon, but compared to how scared I’ve been during other calamites I’ve lived through I would rank it underneath an earthquake and underneath an asthma attack—staying indoors diminishes most of the effects of a typhoon, while staying indoors doesn’t do anything for an earthquake or an asthma attack.  If an earthquake is like that huge rolling boulder from Raiders of the Lost Ark and an asthma attack is like snorkeling with a straw than the typhoon, Kompasu, was like the big bad wolf that couldn’t blow my apartment building down and decided to make a mess instead.

                Typhoon warning, folks?  No worries: Stay inside, put some earplugs in, and wait it out.

A Budget

                In college I never had a budget.  I checked my bank account online, regularly, and then once the window was closed I pulled money out of ATMS, swiped my gold card, and used my VISA with discretion.  I was young, dumb, and running on plastic; I never went broke, but there were certainly moments where I thought, damn, I’m going to be eating at home for the rest of this month.  Naturally, after that startling realization, I would walk to the grocery store—convinced I was only getting the essentials for a week or two of home eating—and, almost always, I left the grocery store with food that I would eventually throw away next week.  The broccoli would get soft and brown, the milk got thick and stinky, and I devolved into a “Dollar Menu Junkie”…  Currently the “Dollar Menu Junkie” has been rehabilitated (or is merely hibernating), but the risk of blowing all my money on delicious yet unhealthy food is still a threat in Korea. 

                During my first 2 months in Korea, August and September, I was eating out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  Once I moved into my apartment I was able to keep fresh food so I cooked on my own more and labored to perfect the art of ramen.  But, having my own apartment with a fridge couldn’t curb those lunch trips to Lotteria or Egg Papa; I worked late and sometimes it was just easier to stop in at a local eatery (it’s called Happy Kimbob) and I’d let those two nice ajumma cook my ramen instead.  Plus, there was a whole new nightlife that I was getting used to: bars and clubs that needed exploration.  And it’s funny too, because beer is so cheap (soju is cheaper than water), but after a couple of beers, a couple of shots, a couple of hours—HOLY SH!T, how did this bill get so big?  I was going to bankrupt my Korean adventure before I’d been here for 3 months!  Otto and I brainstormed, we were in the same position, and we both realized that the simplest and most practical solution was a budget.

                After my conversation with Otto I started organizing columns and rows, setting up ‘sumproduct’ functions, and projected monthly budgets.  On one side of my budget, I projected what I was going to spend each month; in the middle of the budget, I kept track of how much money I had in all of my accounts (domestic and back in the US); and the largest section of my budget was dedicated to recording each purchase: I set up different micro-budgets like FOOD, DRY CLEANING, UPKEEP, and an ETC group.  (ETC is where I gather all the greasy receipts from my nights out.)  Everything was linked with different unique functions to calculate my micro-budgets, my monthly budget, and the total left on my South Korean debit account.  It took a while to get used to the budget, keeping receipts and writing down how much cheese ramen cost me for dinner, but it’s been a remarkable asset for me while I’ve been abroad.  I know when I’m spending like a New Jersey housewife and I know when my finances allow me an extra cuba libre. 

                If you are planning to go abroad than I recommend making a budget for yourself.  Often, when travelling, we don’t realize the value of the currency in our hand and we spend swiftly.  Maybe you’re like me and the money in your pocket burns a hole through your jeans and before you know it you’re down to half with what you started with—if that’s the case, start a budget.  Take an Excel class or just get ballsy and go for it (honestly, Excel isn’t that confusing and the internet is loaded with tutorials and FAQs).  Set a goal of how much you’ll spend and try not to go over, and if you do, it’s okay, just try harder next time and stay committed.  Have self-control and don’t let your money run you, run your money.  It’s never too late to start a budget and it’s sad to look back, broke, and think about how you could have used some financial advice, but now you have no finances to advise.  Whether you’re the “dollar menu junkie” or the Iron Chef of ramen, you owe it to yourself to be financially responsible…don’t go broke abroad…start a budget.

4 months felt like 20 minutes

Month 1: August

I felt like a goldfish in a bag with dunked in a new tank with new water—I was adjusting: temperatures, surroundings, everything was going to be new.  At first, the weather in Korea made me suffer and I despised the “night neck sweats”, sweating under my chin and my growing stubble annoying me when I tried to sleep.  Eventually I moved into my apartment and even that took getting used to: there was no bathtub, all my clothes would hang dry, and now I had a fridge which meant figuring out a regular diet/eating routine.  I was constantly getting lost.

My mind was freshly imprinting new landmarks, streets, and indicators: turn left here to get to work, take this street to get to Otto’s house, go this way—it’s a shortcut.  I was constantly meeting new people, new students, administrators, and I knew no Korean.  Within the first month I learned “thank you,” “hello,” “goodbye,” and “I want…”  I was a simpleton in a complex land of deference and unfamiliar smells.

Without resisting I dove into the Korean food, mouth open, and the only food I refused to eat was raw steak—no way.  Raw fish, sure; kimchi, down; sea snails, bring it on—but I can’t do the raw meat.  My cranky bowels adjusted and I ate out constantly.  Money was tight, I hadn’t been paid, but I operated with the hopeful notion of a soon-to-be-delivered monthly paycheck.

My closest friends, Otto and Ace, saw to it that my birthday was satisfactory and we adapted to our jobs.  Our training, turned out to be insubstantial, and I found myself desperately trying to learn the way my English academy operated.  But, I realized, that this job was no different than any other job I had had in my past: no matter how much training I might get, I am only satisfied and comfortable after  I learn the lessons for myself and actually start working.

Month 2: September

                September was cooler but it started out hot (I also started this blog in September.)  Eventually the weather became so moderate that I found the “night neck sweats” disappear and I didn’t need to use the air conditioning either.  That new goldfish feeling wore off and the grooves I had been fashioning were deepening with repetition: I knew how to walk to work confidently, I finally figured out how to get to Otto’s place, but my Korean was stymied…I hardly learned anything besides random words, cuss words, and interjections (“A-sa!” is similar to “hurray;” “I-go,” is something like “I’m pained” or “oh god;” and “hall” or “har” are something like “uuhhhh,” but not in a good way.)

                I was going out more: I found a café I liked, some restaurants that served food I liked (and I wasn’t nervous about ordering,) but Otto and Ace were definitely more independent than I was.  Perhaps it was because they were both older and well-travelled, but I didn’t try to keep up with them; I knew I had to go at my own pace and I really couldn’t match their rate of adaptation.  I was comfortable, but not settled, while they seemed to be molding to the environment perfectly.  At no point was I regretting my decision to come to Korea, but, at times, I wished I was more adaptable and knew Korean.

                My house was stagnating and I was getting desperately low on money because the soon-to-be-delivered monthly paycheck did not materialize as it should have and it became the I-promise-next-month-starts-the-full-paycheck-this-month-you-get-half-paycheck.  I perfected the art of making ramen, ate kimbop & apples for lunch, and tried to eat out as little as possible.  My co-workers were warming up to me and I was trying to figure out where I fit in at the office: of course I had my friends, Ace and Otto, but there was such a diverse spectrum of people that I found myself making numerous faux pas.  It couldn’t be helped, but I was learning.

                The English Academy lost its stress-factor and it became “the grind,” a job more or less.  I was getting used to how I was supposed to act with my students depending on their ages.  I looked forward to working with the older students, they could speak English better and I could communicate with them best, while working with younger students who didn’t understand English was difficult.  I battled this Korean mentality, which students have, of being quiet and not-speaking constantly: I encouraged my kids to participate (I gave them candy if they did.)  I danced and sang to make them smile, laugh, or look at me with that half-cocked-confused-puppy-dog face—anything to evoke some kind of emotion other than dreaded silence.

Month 3: October

                Giants baseball…Giants baseball…World Series…   What an experience?  (How about that bull pen?)  The playoffs were broadcasted on OBS (a Korean TV channel) and I would wake up in the mornings, usually 7:30am, to watch my Giants battle and eventually win the World Series.  In my pajamas I yelled like a hooligan whenever Ross, Renteria, or Uribe sent a ball over the wall.  Rest assured there was a proud Giants fan cruising the Suwon streets with the Orange & Gold SF hat and a huge smile.

                October was an incredibly emotional month for me and I was fragile in this new environment.  I couldn’t confide in my friends, we weren’t that close, and at times I was a nuisance with my incessant line-crossing, sarcasm, and dependence.  Despite this, I was still having a blast, and trying to become a stronger individual: seeking self-improvement, writing e-mails and reaching out to old friends, trying to talk less and listen more.  By the end of the month, Halloween, I was constantly reminding myself to be considerate of others and it paid off: I felt less in the hot-seat and grew closer to more of my co-workers.  I also got paid.

                October 31^st was Halloween, but hardly any of the Halloweens I remembered from home: no door-to-door trick or treating, no outrageous college parties, although there was still some dressing up.  At my English academy, we decorated the entire building in cobwebs, black paper over windows, and although it wasn’t spooky it was an attempt.  The kids loved it.  They dressed up, asked for candy, and, even though the drudgery of academy work loomed near in the future, they were happy to put paint on their faces, do the limbo, and eat some Hi-Chews.  I bought a Batman mask, which was a child’s size (surprisingly, not the second time I made this mistake: ask friends about last Halloween, my pirate outfit, and my belly.)  So, I decided to sport a gorilla mask for the rest of the Halloween festivities; I made a couple little girls cry, but this was only because I was a natural gorilla, a pro really.

The weather changed and my windbreaker at a point became too little against the big chill that came over Suwon.  Luckily there was a giant jacket in my closet, left over from the last tenant, and I donned it without hesitation—it passed the “it-smells-clean-test”.  The giant jacket saw many wild nights once it became a feature of my apparel and if the jacket could talk—I’d strangle it immediately.

Month 4: November

                I feel like a resident here, it took me 4 months to get to this point.  I know enough broken Korean to get around, I still have trouble in taxis, but I’m working on that.  Overall, November was a volatile month of apprehension, frigid weather, and the ending of my first session at the English academy.  I, finally, got to see what the entire process of teaching was like—one complete session—and I was overwhelmed when it was finished.  I just wanted to sleep at the end of November.  I wanted to hibernate like a bear: dig a hole in the snow, bury myself, and then sleep until the cold was over.  But that wouldn’t be a possibility because school would start again on December 1^st.

                Of course there was the North Korean attack on this tiny Western island, Yeonpyeong.   At first I was scared that my time in South Korea would be cut short, but based on locals’ response I realized that it was just another incident that didn’t faze them.  I tried to be unfazed as well, but family members and friends came out of the woodwork to check on me and I wasn’t as confident as I thought.  I was just as concerned as they were, maybe more, and the more we talked about it, the more nervous I got.  Eventually the whole thing blew over, people stopped bringing it up, but I felt emotionally vulnerable.

One day in the middle of November, after finishing a really long book, I came out of a coffee shop and looked up at the sky: it was snowing.  This was my first time seeing fresh snow fall from the sky.  I looked at the ground, there was no snow on it yet, and I looked back up—oh man, this is it! I thought.  This is the first snow of winter!  With what I can only describe as “the return of boyhood enthusiasm” I embarked on the funkiest James Brown steps, tongue out—catching snowflakes.  Of course it was cold, but that was 24 years in the making folks, and I got to move.

North Korea Shells Yeonpyeong-do

So, as most of my readers know, I am not partial to writing something and immediately posting it on my blog.  In fact, I like to let me writing simmer, edit it, and post it when I think it’s fresh and ready to be read.  Today, however, I will go against my normal policy and I will write something then immediately post it.  I have postponed my ramen dinner, kitchen cleaning, and book reading to do this.  I have rolled up my shirt sleeves, put Skype on the “do not disturb” setting, put Linton Kwesi Johnson on random, and I just plastered my lips with Carmex because I know I’m going to be licking my lips a lot.  (As any of my friends or family can tell you: when I am focused I lick my lips madly and they get chapped.)

***

Today I got a cell phone, finally, and was overwhelmed with a sense of benevolence because my friend, Valerie, was so helpful: she gave me her old cell phone, she got everything set up at the cell phone store, and bought me a cup of coffee.  I felt amazing when I walked home with the coffee and fresh cell phone waiting to be used.  Actually, I was looking forward to a busy Tuesday.

After my first class, my co-worker Hank, who I sit next to, made an innocuous comment to me that North Korea was shooting at South Korea.  Like a ball hitting sand, the comment hit the surface of my brain and didn’t sink in.

“What else does the article say?” I asked curiously.

“Well, it seems that North Korea attacked some ships; it’s a naval fight right now.  Lots of shelling.  It’s in the ocean, not on the land,” replied Hank.

Other teachers overheard our conversation and then asked what was happening.  My good vibrations dissipated immediately as I narrated the article from Hank’s laptop.  The office was shocked.  Soon, I recognized a familiar feeling in the pit of my gut: a mild nagging paranoid sense of uncertainty—not yet fully manifested into actual fear.  The next bell rang before questions could receive answers and all the teachers went to our next classes. 

The next class I taught was made up of 8 Korean children, all around the age of 8 (so in American years, 6 or 7.)  I couldn’t administer the game I had planned, this sudden news flustered me, so I opted to finish our phonics book which was a boring route but the students were well-behaved.  I looked at all of them while I sounded out blended-l words and blended-r words, my mind wandered and although my lesson was faring well, I was battling paranoia and ‘what if’ situations.  I wanted to talk about the naval fight, but my kids were so young and so full of hope and…honestly…so bad at English that I kept my mouth shut.  Despite the gnawing paranoia in my gut I knew I had to be strong for these kids—for all of my kids: they are so young, they need protection, they need to see that I am okay.  I finished my class and gave out candy.

After that phonics class ended the teacher’s office was in a state of commotion.  Anyone with a laptop was researching, people were making declarations out loud, “200 shells fired from North Korea, South Korea responds with 80,” “16 are reported as wounded,” “it’s all happening in the West Sea,” it was a research-gathering frenzy!  One co-worker, Vic, I noticed immediately changed from his normal smiling-self and I could sense his concern.  He was a veteran teacher from the US, so to see his demeanor fold immediately made me more nervous.  We were all nervous though, and yammering, but the Korean teachers were quiet after the initial shock of the news.  It was like, they heard the news, they said a couple things, now back to work.

Class went on as normal too.  We had classes, then 10-minute breaks, then classes, then 10-minute breaks, and so on.  And during each break we discussed a little more what was going on between North and South Korea.  Of course, the gallow-humor surfaced, but I didn’t take part.  I’m a sarcastic ass, but something didn’t seem right about joking presently while South Korean marines were wounded (NOTE: 2 marines were killed because of the fighting.)

I taught my classes and I didn’t mention anything about the naval conflict until after 6pm when I had some older students.  Their English was better and I wanted to get their opinions—also, maybe, they had seen the news and knew more than whatever was circulating in the teachers’ office.  They all knew what was going on (most of them at least,) but they were as clueless as I was.  What had really happened?  Who fired first?  How many people were hurt?  Does this mean that school is cancelled?  What’s going on?  At 7:40pm, when one of my last classes was finished, the students immediately got out their phones, attached their antennas, and plugged in to the news.

The first thing one of my students had on her cell phone was a video of rounds being fired from the South Korean battleships.  It was simply a reel of different shots being fired from different sized cannons, then some clips of a ship smoking, then a clip of South Korean sailors.  They showed empty brass casings of HUGE bombs, at least 2 feet long!  While the video is going, I’m shouting and “oh my god”ing, but I realized that I was the only one and the students were giggling at me.  Sorry kids, I don’t know what came over me, I thought.  I left the room and still the teacher’s office was surging with palpable nervous energy.

Back in the office, Hank told me that he had served in the military (South Korea has compulsory military duty) and that once a similar situation happened while he was serving.  There was some kind of naval exchange and the military put him, and everyone else, on high alert.  He was given rounds of bullets and grenades; they were preparing him to fight.  But nothing happened.  In the office, people were passing around the idea that Kim Jong-un was posturing as his father was stepping down and he was stepping up.  Still, the only ones really concerned were the Americans.  The Korean teachers carried on as normal.  Maybe they were expressing themselves in Korean, which I couldn’t understand, but in English there wasn’t any sense of emergency from them.

Walking home didn’t give me the impression that it was dangerous or an emergency: families were out walking, kids were hanging out with their friends, and restaurants weren’t glued to the news—in fact, they were all watching their favorite nightly dramas.  Nothing seem disturbed or out of place.  I came home, my apartment was still there, nothing was different, but I still immediately went to the U.S. Embassy’s website and checked the latest news: as of 11pm, Korea time, this is all that I can find in regards to the maritime shelling.

***

When I was in Israel, I always got the feeling that although I was having a blast and everything was safe around me, it could still “go down” any time.  Luckily, when I was in Israel, both times, there were never any problems and I enjoyed my time very much.  Honestly, the feeling is the same in South Korea.  In Suwon, in my hometown, there isn’t a sense of emergency, there isn’t a feeling of impending doom, fear isn’t apparent on passing faces—it’s like being back in my office: my Korean co-workers carried on with their lives despite the news.  It didn’t pass through them rather they didn’t let the news phase them.

I feel that most of my young life was heavily influenced by a constant and irrational sense of fear.  A fear of not knowing, a fear of uncertain things, and a fear of ‘what if?’—but I knew that, before I came to South Korea, a situation like this could happen and now it has happened.  Fear cannot be the only emotion that navigates my life anymore and the South Koreans around me embody this notion also.  I will continue to write and update you, my readers, my family, and my friends.

Also know that a major contributor to my youthful fear was the media.  The news loves reporting the bad news and sometimes…it’s real bad.  It will replay the same gory videos and sound bites to conjure a false image of what is really happening.  Do not let the media make you think that South Korea is on fire or that right now I’m getting calls from the embassy to come to Seoul and leave.  It’s just not true.  Don’t believe everything the media tells you, have hope, and please pray for the soldiers that are wounded and for the families that lost a brother, a son, or a father today.

It is night now in South Korea and day in the USA.  Please, enjoy your days knowing that I sleep peacefully in South Korea.

Rachmaninoff & The Buddhist Temple

At a certain point in my life, before I started listening to hip hop and after my early exposure to classic rock & roll from my dad, around when I was in middle school, I started to listen to classical music.  I think, when I was at that age, I discovered how competitive school was going to be: all of my friends were in advanced classes, I was not, and I wanted to do whatever I could to get on their level.  So, somehow, I rationalized music as the source of making me smarter.  With that fallacious notion in my head, an on-and-off love affair with classical music developed.  It started innocently enough with Vivaldi and Bolero, matured to Mozart and Beethoven in high school, and in college I learned of Glenn Gould—but I never considered myself a classical music aficionado; I still don’t.

But, when Otto told me, in early September, that there was a classical music concert in Seoul, I immediately gave my consent to join him.  I’ve never been to a classical music show and I’ve never been to the capital, Seoul, either, I thought, I definitely need to open my eyes to new things while I’m here—carpé diem. 

“There’s a musical group giving a performance of Brahms and Rachmaninoff.  They’re going to play Rachmaninoff’s ‘Suite No. 2’—it’s a great piece,” explained Otto.  (Honestly, I never listened to Brahms or Rachmaninoff prior to this concert.  Like I said, I’m not an aficionado, I’m just down for the cause).

The travelling companions for the concert would be Otto and a girl that he was kinda seeing, we’ll call her Gloria.  Gloria had a car, she picked us both up, and we were off to Seoul.  The drive from Suwon to Seoul is less than an hour, but we hit a fair amount of traffic on that Saturday.

Gloria made me incredibly nervous while she drove and I was unsure of any speed limits or traffic laws while I sat in the backseat.  Ignorance is bliss so I closed my eyes and tried to nap in the backseat while Otto and Gloria talked.  I didn’t sleep, I didn’t nap, I just closed my eyes and wondered what Seoul would be like.  I’d heard of huge skyscrapers, millions of people—a real cosmopolitan metropolis—but I went to Seoul with no expectations, only grateful for the experience and companions.  Otto yelled at me from the front seat,

                “Billy!  Wake up, it’s the Han River!”

I looked out the window and saw the Han River, the 4^th largest river in South Korea.  The river originates in the North, and passes right by Seoul, so during the 80’s there were some foreboding speculations that the North may try to flood the river and as a result flood Seoul…but so far, no floods.  Our destination for classical music was in the City Hall area of Seoul, right near the Seoul Museum of Art (certainly a museum I will return to visit).  The concert venue was ChungDong 1^st Methodist Church of Seoul: it was an old brick building being renovated.  Throughout its halls there was a dusty smell, the echoing of feet from the hardwood floors and in the anterior garden there were two bronze statues of the first English and Korean priests…this gave me a sense of the church’s permanency.

                Before the concert we had dinner and ate budae jjigae.  I called this soup, “kitchen sink soup,” after the old expression that “they added everything except the kitchen sink.”  There were pieces of pasta, ramen, hot dogs or sausage, slices of ham, vegetables & beans—and it was so spicy—but I ate heartily and enjoyed the new dish…“no expectations, only grateful for the experience.”

                I sat in the middle of the pews with Otto and Gloria as the church filled up with a diverse mix of people.  The group putting on the performance was the Camarata Music Company and they started with Brahms and I tried staying focused but choirs just don’t do anything for me.  I did like the piece they sang, “O die Frauen,” but when I saw Otto’s head dip in boredom-sleep, I didn’t feel so bad.  When Brahms was finished I talked to Otto and he told me that the Brahms didn’t do much for him either, he was there solely for the Rachmaninoff.

                Being in a church you can imagine that eventually the topic of religion came up:  Gloria turned to me and said, “do you believe in god?”  I told her I did and asked her the same question and she responded as I had.  I explained to her that I was Jewish and she explained that she was Buddhist.  She said I was the first Jew she had ever met and I told her I would explain to her about my religion if she would do the same for me regarding Buddhism.  She smiled and said that there was a Buddhist temple nearby where we were.  “We should check it out sometime,” little did I know that “sometime” would be very soon.

                After the intermission, 2 pianists began playing Rachmaninoff’s Suite No. 2 and I felt myself lean forward in my seat: I watched the fingers of one of the pianists move deftly and diligently over the black & white keys…there was magic in that kind of action.  It was like the recital of a prayer, the way that piano was played; it was harmonious, organized, and beautiful.  The music passed through the church without so much as a whisper, I smiled and closed my eyes and tried to visualize the music in my mind.  Because there were two pianos, it was easy to imagine two lovers; the Suite No. 2, for me, was the evolution of love.

It all started off so innocently, so beautifully: the first moment that two people realize, oh my god, I’m in love with that person and then there is that period of total bliss.  Nothing can interrupt the love—not parents, not friends, no catastrophe or blessed event can distract these lovers.  They are a double helix of mutual desire and caring.  The piano sounds became denser and less joyous, but still beautiful.  Although the love was there it was strained and battling through the difficult times that all lovers must face.  Finally, in the section called eponymously, Romance, the hard sounds of the piano became confident and the love was true, it prevailed, culminating into the Tarantelle which was majestic, sad in a way, but always beautiful.

                I don’t think I cried, but a tear may have formed because of sheer disbelief at the beautiful music I was exposed to.  After the concert I felt inundated with emotion and thought, hopeful of love, in awe of how a man, Rachmaninoff, could compose such a thing.  In the car, Gloria suggested we see the Buddhist temple.  Otto and I were both feeling incredible after the concert so, yes, how could we deny two breath-taking experiences in one day?  Soon we were taking our shoes off and walking into the Buddhist temple, Jo Gye Sa.

                The atmosphere in the temple was silent, but it buzzed with prayer and piety.  The temple was not like the church where Rachmaninoff had just lulled me into dreamy romance, now I felt compelled to just keep my mouth closed as I stared at mysteries I had never seen before: In front of me 3 giant golden statues of Buddhist deities, interior architecture decorated in rainbows, high tapestries revealing faces of prophets, unknown figures to me, potentially Buddha—but how would I know?  I saw the lotus flower, dragons, tables with incense, and prostrated people in mid-prayer.  Rising, bowing, down on their knees—the process repeated over and over while their hands clutched a string of beads and their lips muttered prayers.  Everyone was seated on the floor on mats, my group sat directly in front of the others in prayers, at the foot of the golden deities.  I gawked stupidly and said nothing, afraid to embarrass myself or to insult the people at prayer.  My mind raced—I was having such epic pontifications that I could hardly contain myself, but I remained quiet.  I always considered myself open-minded, but sitting in the Buddhist temple was challenging: I was totally unprepared for this, I was still in Rachmaninoff-mode, and I was full of questions that I couldn’t ask because I wouldn’t dare break the silence inside the temple.

                When we left Jo Gye Sa and were putting on our shoes, Otto was the first to talk and he said, “I don’t think I was prepared for that.”  “Neither was I,” I said.  We walked in silence back to Gloria’s car, not because we were angry or scared, but because we were still processing our evening: first Seoul, then Rachmaninoff, and a final trip to a Buddhist temple—our senses were overwhelmed.  Gloria was generous to share with us the temple, but Otto and I may have bitten off more than we could chew.  We were still digesting our first Buddhist temple and Rachmaninoff as we drove back to Suwon.  Did all this really happen tonight?  I wondered.

                Looking back at that evening, I consider it one of the best experiences I’ve had in South Korea so far.  In every respect it was me going out on a limb and trying something new: visiting a new city, listening to new music, and learning about an unfamiliar religion.  At times I was comfortably taking in new sensations and at other times the sensations were bearing down on me, but that was okay: nothing was painful, it was all new, and it was all beautiful.  I had no expectations, and was grateful for it all.