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.

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.