Dispatches - October 28, 2009

In a former life, I was a naive college applicant. While that existence isn't all that far removed from my current life as a naive college graduate, I like to think that my writing has much improved. There was a time when I began every piece I encountered with a quotation. Shakespeare I am not, but many of my ideas now will be penned or will perish without the aid of those that have come before me.

But in a nod to Korea and Korean tradition, I'm going to completely ignore the promise I have just made and proceed to do the exact opposite – quoting someone else. Charles Gaines, a noted fisherman, once wrote that, 'Fishing is casting a petition into the unknown.' I enjoy fishing and did quite a bit of it as a kid. But modern society and its soundbites have thoroughly trained my attention span to accept stimulation only in short increments. Unfortunately this has rendered fishing enjoyable only in limited doses.

And this past weekend I had to take my medicine. Allow me to set the scene. Weeks ago I was told by my host family to keep a particular set of dates free on my calendar. A big fishing trip was in the works and it would span the entire weekend, replete with a big boat and a journey far out to sea. So epic as this excursion that it required both Saturday and Sunday to complete. My mind got to wondering – as it is prone to do – and it took little suggestion for me to envision a return trip with a massive marlin strapped to the roof of our Kia. And after I had decided that this thought was the most-likely occurrence, it wasn't too difficult a leap to imagining a totally bad-ass stuffed beast being proudly displayed above my fireplace in law school. I'm not sure fireplaces exist in Los Angeles, but recall that this is my imagination and it knows no bounds.

An overnight trip with my host family would be a first. We have a terrific relationship thus far and the prospect of such an extended journey didn't worry me in the least. But the prospect of losing a weekend – and its coveted free time – did worry me. Taking a queue from Korean behavior and the general lack of details I have oft-noted, I gave a vague affirmation that I would check my calendar and keep that weekend free.

What proceeded was textbook traditional Korean. Between the original invitation and our actual departure, the weekend itself was changed twice. The duration was curtailed from two days to one. The ultimate possibility of the trip – understandably dependent upon the weather – was in question until the day prior. And best of all, a departure time of 6 a.m. was announced the night before. Much like a metaphor for my journey to Korea overall, this trip had very much become a 'petition to the unknown'.

While Saturday was ultimately benign, it had all the trappings of disaster. To begin with, the night before was a wine party in town. The thought did cross my mind around glass three or four that imbibing mere hours prior to leaving solid land for what was sure to be a tumultuous sea was not the best idea. By glass seven or eight, however, I was beginning to think that this wine was in fact my only hope for enduring said sea.

I returned home a few hours before I was due to wake up, drank some water, and fell asleep. I had gone to bed unconvinced that we were actually going fishing and would wake up in a similar state of mind. It wasn't until I actually heard stirring downstairs at 5:30 a.m. that I began to change my mind. Last-minute schedule changes and frequent cancellations abound in Korea and I have come to expect the opposite of what was planned. At any rate, I was somewhat disheartened to see two massive coolers prepared to attend the trip with us – a three-hour tour this was not. An actual 6:30 departure for a disclosed 6:00 goal is punctual by Korean standards and thus surprised me.

Not nearly as much as the surprise of nocturnal driving in Korea. What ensued was perhaps one of the more frightening episodes on wheels I've ever experienced. I don't sleep well on buses, planes, or in cars – I require a flat surface. Thus as we zoomed out of Cheongju, I groggily dialed up some classical on my iPod in hopes that I could trick myself into a couple more hours of shuteye. Silly me.

It took all of three miles to render me wide awake. At the first red light run by my host father, I directed a laugh laced with heavy concern at Jin (Jun – the elder host brother – had manufactured a 'school project' two days prior that conveniently needed to be done that Saturday and was thus still asleep at home. My suspicions that he knew something I did not added to my skepticism about this trip.). My host parents heard my laugh from the backseat, but judging by their reaction – themselves laughing without a trace of the alarm I had exhibited – I gathered that traffic laws were merely suggestions at night.

Perhaps – and I am permitting a very tentative perhaps – on some desolate dessert road on a crystal clear night with not another soul in site, carefully side-stepping traffic signals would be permissible. But we were sharing a six-lane highway with freight trucks in the minimal visibility of early-morning fog. At least my host father was now stopping at red lights. That would be much safer. Silly me.

At the next red light, we stopped in the middle lane. As two 18-wheel trucks doing 70 mph flanked our Kia with nary a foot off the gas pedal, I shuddered to think about the poor soul that actually had the right of way. Perhaps it was the sweet sounds of Mendelssohn's violin concertos or perhaps it was the lull of constant speed, but I was somehow able to sleep for about half of the two-hour drive.

Towards the end, we stopped at a restaurant rest area of sorts for breakfast. For those that are unfamiliar with traditional Korean breakfast, you can start by forgetting everything you know about the first meal of the day. Gone are stapes such as cereal and toast. Instead, those ready to greet the day are greeted themselves with *surprise* rice. Accompanying the obligatory bowl of rice is food that looks awfully similar to dinner and lunch fare. That's because, in all likelihood, it was your dinner or lunch fare from the previous day. As far as I can tell, Koreans do not use distinctions such as time of day when deciding what food to eat. That being said, this is one of the many reasons why I consider my homestay to be nothing short of a miraculous collection of fortunate circumstances. It's not unusual for my host mother to have Dunkin' Donuts coffee and pastries waiting. The morning of this composition she tried her hand – quite ably – at French toast and, should something ever prove a misfire, there's always a box of Post cereal waiting as backup.

But I wasn't so lucky at this rest stop. Gauging my options – ranging from some sort of clam soup to spicy cabbage – I opted for kimbab. A word on kimbab: I discovered it during orientation and it quickly became my go-to Korean food when Western alternatives were unavailable. I've noticed that – by and large – the Korean foods that I do like seem suspiciously familiar to famous dishes indigenous to other cultures. For example, Koreans are adamant that kimbab is their own, but vegetables wrapped in rice and rolled in a thin sheet of dried seaweed is sushi – a 'California Roll' – anywhere else in the world. The thin cuts of pork and cheese that I like, fried and quite tasty, are so unhealthy that they must be western. And with those two entries, the list of Korean foods that I enjoy begins and ends.

But I digress. The main point of interest at this rest stop was not the food – that I'd rather forget. What was interesting, however, was the strategy to staff a skeleton crew of two for 8:30 on a Saturday morning. I felt half-amused and half-annoyed as I watched a young man literally run between the convenience shop and the kitchen as he simultaneously juggled the roles of cashier, dishwasher, manager, and chef. I would have felt half-sorry for him too had a family of twelve not entered the restaurant literally seconds ahead of my own family. As far as I was concerned, every step of this ridiculous dance was delaying my date with a fish. And it wasn't that I was now particularly keen on fishing, but as I saw it, the faster I hauled my trophy on-deck, the faster I got home.

With a belly full of kimbab and the remnants of the wine party, I finally spotted the ocean. The sun inches off the horizon was very pretty and I was reminded at how much I enjoyed the coast. We waited at the boat launch for a twenty-food motorboat taxi. We tossed our gear aboard, I blessed myself, and we were off!

I like boats. In fact, I had procrastinated my studying Korean in the months prior to departure by finishing a model Chris-Craft (aptly-named the Bow-Tide for those who were wondering) and piloting it around the pond in my backyard. Much of my childhood was landlocked in Atlanta, but the few chances I did get to sail or motor on the water I thoroughly enjoyed. My motoring that day took all of five minutes. Rather than the hour-long cruise to a larger vessel promised by Jin, our taxi ride took five minutes and ended at what can only be described as a shanty-town on floats. A network of rotted planks and tarp coverings joined a neighborhood of shacks a few hundred yards into the bay. Fishermen sat on plastic chairs watching for movement on their lines as they drank soju (Korean rice liquor) at 10:00 in the morning. As I parked myself in front of a fishing pole, I came to the sobering reality that my marlin would most-likely not materialize, any wine that was left in my system was not going to offset the oncoming tedium, and that I did not recall seeing my family pack our own supply of soju for the sojourn.

I did, however, have my cellphone and I began sending copious amounts of text messages to friends remarking on the hilarity of my situation. In the broader sense, the ability to communicate instantly while sitting on a makeshift raft that had no business floating served as a reminder for the stark dichotomy often found in Korea. While the country is regularly listed as one of the most connected nations in the world and features notable technology firms such as Samsung and LG, there is often a sense that Korea takes two steps forward only to take one step back.

For instance, children have their temperatures taken daily before entering school to detect for swine flu, but communal eating with chopsticks at meals receives not a second thought. Korea has had nothing short of a remarkable sustained economic surge that launched it from the the brink of desolation fifty years ago to a global leader today, yet women are still considered less-able than men. The educational system consistently places its pupils at the very top of international rankings, but those very same students not only pay a price in delayed social skills thanks to enormous academic pressures, but must face overwhelming odds when attempting to enter the very few schools in Korea that afford them a full range of social mobility.

Here I have refrained from referencing observations of seemingly-contradictory practices that can clearly be attributed to tradition (although the role of women very well may qualify given the influence of Confucian tenets). Tradition in Korea is markedly prominent – and personally prominent in part for a lack of such strong heritage in my own culture and in part thanks to my own negative connotations for the institution.

But I have begun another tangent that deserves its own post. And I am sleepy. Thus I will conclude the riveting tale of The Old ETA and the Sea as well as my not-too-riveting thoughts on the negative repercussions of unquestioned allegiance to tradition in Korea *phew* all in my next installment. I don't wish to spoil the surprise, but to keep you tuned in I will reveal a single, solitary hint: the term 'fishing' for my adventure is actually a red herring.

Dispatches - October 18, 2009

In the previous post, I introduced 'Chris' – a mischievous second-year student who masterminded a racy entry for my 'Dream Middle School' lesson. I've remarked before that, while my age may betray me, I sometimes don't feel all that removed from middle school. As a teacher, I can laugh at some of the shenanigans the boys scheme up because I used to be a middle school boy myself. Perhaps relating more to philosophical conviction, I also let kids be kids. The agency of adulthood we all long for in our youth certainly has its moments, but that agency comes replete with problems. And the problems particular to adulthood – whether due to enhanced implications or our own enhanced awareness – always seem more dire. Though I understand the self-imposed, never-ending escalation of preparing the current generation to achieve ever-greater and ever-earlier success, I don't agree with it. When I tabulate the irreplaceable innocence of youth – cliché but true – I arrive at a cost much too high.

But I digress. Part of being in touch with my inner child – some would wryly call this my immaturity – means that I recognize the social dynamics I see unfolding. Watching Chris bully his peers and watching them respond – for better or for worse – brought back memories from my own middle school days. A minority of those memories are not particularly pleasant, but I certainly was not terrorized in my elementary education. Rather the more profound impact from watching my boys has been self-evaluation. I wonder where I would rank on the social scale of Se Kwang Middle School. I wonder how I would react to someone like Chris. I wonder if each generation is destined to pose these – and similar – questions. And if so, I wonder the purpose of it all.

I tend to do that a lot these days. Korea has challenged my notion of 'identity'. In the most superficial sense of the word I submit my markedly different appearance. At a core interpretation, my sense of self-worth. The former, usually manifested in stares from strangers, rarely registers as more than my amusement. But with the latter – as is usually the case – I am my own worst enemy.

Leaving the States – and the community, comfort, and ultimate complacency that comes with accruing personal history – can be liberating. Hiding behind the guise of an unknowing foreigner can excuse someone like me from quite a bit of the social responsibility not quite as easily shirked by a native.

Personal and shared history, however, also provide some level of comfort. And thus the cost born by the latter notion of identity. A blank canvas has left me quite able to sketch almost any rendition of Cornelius. But the ability to so quickly erase all I had outlined before has left me wondering the true substance of what was once there. I strongly suspect many of these musings are strongly influenced by my struggles with faith and doubt. Even so, Korea has catalyzed my introspection. A blog about an exchange experience in Korea is not the place – nor am I qualified – to seek answers about religion and existentialism, but the questions remain.

I remember it being high school – the middle school metaphor carries the anecdote only so far – when I did a science fair project that relied on a catalyst. The only thing I remember from this project – perhaps the entire year of tenth-grade chemistry – is that a catalyst facilitates a reaction without itself changing. When I wrote above that '...Korea has catalyzed my introspection', I suppose I had two meanings in mind. The obvious being that Korea – a culture far older than my own – certainly isn't the variable in my Cornelius equation.

Taking this one step further, I arrive at the second: I cannot fairly rest blame with Korea. Instead I rest blame squarely with Korea's food. Just kidding...but I wanted to make sure you were still paying attention. My ongoing battle with kimchi and octopus aside, what Korea does – or rather does not – provide are the distractions of the familiar. More and more frequently I am faced only with myself. My only distraction – an unfamiliar future. Two variables.

I lied – I remember two things from chemistry: experiments with two variables yield no reliable results. In this life – this experiment – I hypothesize that discovering one will lead to the other. Which I ought to solve for first is a question unto itself and, unto itself, still beyond my reach. But as long as the life in question is my own, there is sure to be a catalyst.

Dispatches - October 17, 2009

I write from a coffee shop downtown. During the past 100 days – the span of my time in Korea – I have spent more time in cafes than I had in perhaps the previous 365 in the United States. I've long considered coffee a good friend. After all, it's always waiting with a warm invitation, ready to listen and agree with whatever I have to say. And while I may stray long and far from a favorite brew, it will always accept my return with an embrace of the familiar.

And the familiar ought not be taken lightly at the moment. From what I gather regarding time spent abroad, there comes a point in most experiences when all things foreign become unwelcome. This 'crisis' phase follows the 'honeymoon' period and immediately precedes 'recovery' – or so we all hope. I don't see myself opposed to all things Korean per se – but I do find myself succumbing to the strong pull of the familiar. The danger in being seduced by the comfort of the customary is that I simultaneously spurn the advances of things au courant.

For the moment I feel vulnerable enough that I am content to embrace solace wherever I find it. I wrote earlier that I am cognizant – and somewhat concerned – by the possibility that the thoughts with which I am currently wrestling will be waiting for me wherever I go. Stated otherwise, the questions lie not with Korea, but with Cornelius. To be fair, Korea is foreign for sure, but it is not impossible – in fact, it is quite the contrary.

But enough melodramatic musings for now. Let's get down to brass tacks with the hilarity that is a Korean all-boys middle school. The reason I have the luxury of writing from a cafe is that those boys finally got what was coming to them...mid-terms. I exaggerate of course. For the most part things in school have reached a state of homeostasis – whether to attribute that to my being numb to the modus operandi in Korean education or to better behavior, I can't be sure.

I've tried a few new strategies recently that seem to be bearing fruit. My classroom seating situation consists of eight tables that accommodate approximately six students each. As anyone would expect, the tables in the back are the first to fill up, but I've started requiring the tables closest to me be filled first. A round table necessitates that half the backs of those seated there will be turned to me, but with my new seating scheme I insure that everyone has their chair turned to face me. A stranger entering the room may find it odd that only 50 – 60% of the space is used, but I have found I can minimize disruptions if I monopolize the attention in the room.

The greatest challenge continues to be material. I'm a bit of a Goldilocks instructor – often creating lessons that are either too easy or too difficult, but rarely 'just right'. A couple weeks ago, my primary guide at school – an English teacher that sits across from me in the teachers' lounge – approached me with a stack of new English textbooks. She began with the phrase, 'No offense' and proceeded to explain that the school wanted me to begin teaching from these books. I would never have thought to be offended, but since she used the phrase 'No offense' I naturally assumed that I should have been.

But try as I might, I wasn't. I figured I was considered a bad teacher by either the principal or my co-teachers. Honestly I'm not a trained educator. Some of my lessons have been hits but many have been near misses. I welcomed the guidance that I thought a book would provide and the guardrails for how to approach my classes.

Two or so rotations of lessons devised from the book have now come and gone and I'm not so sure the text is what I – or the students – need. I've read through a few chapters of each of the three levels and I have trouble deciphering demarcated levels of difficulty. Add to that the fact that I have many first-year middle school students that are of a higher English ability level than many of my third-year students and I have a recipe that seems destined to leave pupils on either end of the curve unsatisfied.

I have to hand it to the boys, however, for often giving me the benefit of the doubt. During orientation we were told of 'Rock Star' status many of us would receive in school – garnering attention for being such a novel addition to the faculty. Indeed I rarely walk more than a few paces down the hall without a high five or a 'Hello Corneeleeeuuuussse!' I thought it would wane after some time, but thus far the boys remain markedly enthusiastic at seeing me. And for their accommodations I am grateful. While they must realize my limitations in the classroom – some things translate regardless of language inability – I seem to have been granted a bit of license.

But I still have yet to get a definitive read on the principal. To be sure, he's an odd character. From what I can tell, his two primary pursuits are school gardener and interrupter of my classes. With respect to the former, he can usually be found tending to the hundreds of plants potted immediately outside the main first-floor front and back entrances. At one point earlier in the term, oregano was drying in the hallway. When I first spotted students lugging flower boxes up flights of stairs, I assumed they were receiving extra credit or at least members of some horticultural club. That is until my host brother informed me that the principal simply commandeers random students between class periods and assigns them garden tasks – nevermind them missing math.

As for interrupting my classes, almost as soon as I began teaching he began dropping in and observing. If he left it at simple observation, I would have appreciated a principal making an effort to insure that his students were receiving able instruction. When he began flipping light switches to his liking and resizing my computer screen mid-presentation, however, my admiration ceased about as fast as my concentration. One memorable class saw him enter through the outside balcony door and sit down with a team of students during a group project. Seeing as how the worksheet prompts were written in English and he speaks none, I wasn't quite sure what he hoped to glean.

But then again there is little about this man that I fully understand. He has, upon occasion, stopped me in the hallway and instructed me remove my hands from my pockets – instructed via a pantomime that left me thinking he considers someone who puts their hands in their pockets to cast the unsavory appearance of a disheveled, bow-legged cowboy. He has double-backed in the teachers' lounge to inform me that my back pocket was – purposely I might add – unbuttoned. Throughout all these occasions I have complied simply to end the encounter, but the moment I begin taking fashion advice from a man who sees nothing wrong with leaving the house in mismatched plaid jacket and pants while donning a be-dazzled tie is the day I need to seriously re-evaluate where my time in Korea took a dark and sinister turn for the worse.

Speaking of sinister, I will conclude this post with an entertaining anecdote about a particular student. He is a second-year and clearly the class bully. I've watched other students vacate a seat for him at literally the snap of his fingers. After I instructed him to remove a detailed drawing of me he left on his desk, he returned with another student and pointed at the spot for this poor boy to begin working while he himself turned to leave.

I try to insulate the other students from him whenever I can, but I'll be damned if this fellow isn't quite decent with English. Let's call him 'Chris' on account of that being on one side of his nametag. The other side is a category 1 expletive, but that's a tangent. I was halfway through a lesson called 'Dream Middle School' in which I first compared many facets of middle school in both Korea and America. The interactive element of the lesson ideally saw students writing about the best possible middle school they could imagine. They were given worksheets with prompts asking them about the length of classes, the school mascot, etc. I received the token responses one would expect from middle schoolers – lots of sports, short classes, and ice cream at lunch.

Chris's team, however, took things to a new level. At 'Sex Middle School', the building is shaped like certain female anatomy while the mascot corresponds to males. Club activities are a little too racy to repeat, suffice to say they are held in hotels. The English was perfect, but I felt it best that Chris's team not be permitted to present to the rest of the class. The next day, the co-teacher of that particular class approached me and apologized for Chris's behavior. She explained that he apparently commands quite a reputation not only in Se Kwang Middle School, but the entire city of Cheongju, as an able street fighter. I asked about his English skills and the teacher relayed that his parents had sent him to Singapore for language study.

Apparently trouble making is universally understood.

Dispatches - October 16, 2009

In an earlier post I referenced a tug-of-war that spanned two city blocks. Only in Korea can I venture out for an afternoon of museum-going and end up lugging literally tons of twine through the city streets of Cheongju – all the while wondering what on earth I'd gotten myself into.

I bet you are wondering too. Allow me to explain. I had returned from Daejeon early in the afternoon on a Sunday about a month back. Quite a large group of ETA's got together for the weekend and we had a terrific time in what was, for many, the first time they had seen fellow Fulbrighters since orientation.

Suffice to say that after a weekend of ETA re-orientation, I wasn't exactly in top form for an afternoon spent at the printing museum, but I was not about to let down my little brother Jin. Somehow I had it in my mind that this was a family affair, but Mr. Choi dropped only Jin and myself off at the 'Jikji' (the term used for the first book created by movable metal type in Korea – a book any Korean will proudly inform you predated Gutenberg by 50 years) museum.

Jin and I spent an hour or so exploring the robotic figure displays as we followed the process used to create Jikji. We picked up a few items at the gift store and I considered the day a success. Silly me – I should have known better. Jin wanted to attend the demonstration at 3:30 so I bought him some ice cream and we waited. As 3:30 approached, Jin inquired and discovered that the demonstration – I distinctly heard 'word' demonstration which made perfect sense given our location at the printing museum – was actually in a completely different location across town.

We quickly hopped into a taxi and made it to the police barricades of a centrally-located park in Cheongju. After noting hundreds of people dressed in odd white uniforms and wielding fake pikes and swords, I asked Jin to spell out what exactly we were here to see and was told 'w...a...r'. Of course. Unfazed – and somewhat excited for a reenactment – I prodded Jin until he found out what time festivities began. I began losing excitement when Jin told me that we had an hour wait with about as little confidence as he could muster. Jin was my lifeline to the world at the moment and if he didn't quite have a handle on what was going on, I certainly did not. We looked through out Jikji postcards a dozen times before people began lining up alongside a large braided rope that stretched down the center of the park.

I will stop here to clarify. 'Rope' is misleading. Imagine if a tree two feet in diameter and the length of a football field fell on the sidewalk. Then imagine someone tied small ropes to that tree about every two feet or so. Now imagine that the tree is made out of rope and the smaller attachments were there to lift and carry said rope. That's what I saddled up next to that afternoon as I realized that Jin had more than observation in mind.

Hundreds of fellow...Cheongju-ites?...grabbed a hold of an attachment ropes and began to slowly snake our rope out of the park and through the downtown streets which had purposely been closed by our police escort. It took over ah hour to move two blocks and, upon more than one occasion, I was almost dragged under the larger rope thanks to the cornering limitations of our charge. Traditional Korean drumming kept time and there was a fellow dressed like some sort of warrior king urging us onward at the front of the line. Seeing as how I was lugging the rope, he was standing on a cart that supported a large loop at the front, and I hadn't any idea about what he was saying nor still what we were doing, my patience was waning.

Jin then found out that there was another – equally as massive – rope being navigated from another part of town. I gathered that, when the two ropes met, serious things were in store. It took at least another half hour to position our rope in front of the downtown shopping thoroughfare. Standing on the beast, I could detect the enemy approaching with its own marching band and color guard from the opposite direction.

The cacophony from the drums reached a new crescendo and announcers spent literally 45 minutes hyping the event. The nattily-clad king fellow and his counterpart from the other rope then proceeded to trash talk each other – at least that's what I imagined for myself as I sat on the rope and understood absolutely nothing. I was definitely the only foreigner in the procession. At one point I counted no less than eight camera lenses pointed directly at me.

But this was just the type of adventure – albeit awkward adventure – that I signed up for! Up at the front of the rope there were now ceremonial dances being performed. By this time I had figured out that we were playing tug-of-war on a grand scale and I was anxious to get the show on the road. I'm as interested in cultural displays as much as the next fellow (that's a bold-faced lie – I had my fill by that point) but I wanted some action.

After what seemed like an eternity of additional trash-talking, singing, drumming, flag-waving, and general melee, we actually played three rounds of tug-of-war. I'm pleased to report that the team Jin and I were on won all three. Nevermind the fact that we would find out later that night that, given the part of town we live in, Jin and I actually took up arms for the wrong team.

We also learned from Mr. Choi that the event was a yearly festival dating back long into antiquity – a standard applied to much of Korea. And like many of Korea's festivals, it has something unpleasant to say about the Japanese. This particular tug-of-war game celebrates Korean forces reclaiming the castle in Cheongju from the Japanese during one of the latter's invasions. When in doubt about the origins of a cultural display in Korea, one would be wise to include Japan in their explanation.

But that mattered little to our mild-mannered heroes. We had begun the day innocently exploring early printing methods and ended it locked – or tied – in an epic battle of strength. And while the fickle tides of Korean events as they unfold throughout the course of a day may come as a surprise to some, it is this ever-present chance of being tugged to something random that I have come to expect – or perhaps suspect – in this country. I don't suspect I'll ever grow to enjoy this unpredictability, and maybe it's causing me to wind a little tighter rather than to loosen up, but at the very least I'll have stories to tell.

Dispatches - October 15, 2009

To say that I've been delinquent in maintaining my blog would be too kind. Much has happened since my last post and I have been remiss in not recording the goings on in South Korea.

So let's get started. The last entry featured some entertaining English names chosen by my students. A few days after that post, two boys sitting at the same table chose 'Jesus' and 'Conception' as their names. Se Kwang Middle School is indeed a Christian school, but I couldn't help but wonder - and smile – at how a couple of troublemakers in the back row put that together.

Since the early shock of school, either things have calmed down ever-so-slightly or I have grown accustomed to a constant state of chaos. Today featured three schedule changes. I went from having three classes on the books...to two classes...to one class...to zero classes. A month ago I would have been surprised, but I exaggerate not when I write that I now average at least two schedule changes a day. At one point last week I felt bad for my co-teachers composing revised calendars for me: the documents were obsolete by days end.

Those that know me well – and those that don't but have seen me operate for any length of time – know that I like to have my ducks in a row. I'm a planner – to a fault. Korea is doing its best to break me of this habit. Last minute changes and spur-of-the-moment departures are the modus operandi in this country. It's not entirely unusual – in fact it's quite normal – to receive an invitation for a happening mere hours in the future. Of course that happens among family and good friends in the States, but rarely with the expectation and the assumption that one will attend. But in Korea I am learning to think on the fly, shoot from the hip, and resort to every cliché excuse I can muster when confronted with invites in the eleventh hour.

And while I may never grow to appreciate this element of Korean society – at least not by next July – I must admit that sometimes those last minute changes lead to hours of fun. Case in point: a teacher trip to a historic southern South Korean province a few weeks back. From the time the event was proposed to me to the time we actually departed (a span of three days), the road trip went from 8 teachers to 3 teachers to 4 teachers. It switched departure times thrice. The length of the trip went from two days to one day, back to two days, and finally rested on one day. Upon actually getting into the car, I had no idea where I was going, what I was going to look at, nor when I would return. But late in the afternoon – after visiting a pottery museum and eating eel intestine soup – I toured a future formula one racetrack with the engineer of the facility. Driving along the dirt path that racecars would eventual speed on at hundreds of miles per hour, I soaked in the engineering of the grandstands, the financing for such a complex, and the timetable and manpower needed to put a brand new venue on the formula one circuit.

I still have no idea how my co-teacher arranged the private tour with the manager of this project. Given that I don't speak Korean and my co-teacher doesn't speak English, I may never fully understand. I'm pretty sure, however, that my drooping jaw and countless questions clued him into my enthusiasm for the visit. And if that didn't translate, I left a Liberty Bell shot glass on his desk that I had brought from Philadelphia for just such an unexpected need to say 'thank you'.

And to no two people do I owe more thanks to than my host parents. Long after I would have expected my 'guest status' to wear thin and my annoying traits to overstay their welcome, the Choi's remain two of the most gracious people I know. I have been under the weather for the past few days and just today my host mother went above the call of duty. Separately she had been concerned for me and my ability to swallow – literally and figuratively – the lunch served at school. Today she arrived at the teacher's lounge with coffee for everyone and a deliciously un-cafeteria-like chicken sandwich for me. Needless to say I was taken aback. But in reality I shouldn't have been – Mrs. Choi has never been anything short of a tremendous host mother.

I think I would describe my host father more as one of my brothers than the familial patriarch. Halloween is approaching and a few weeks ago my real mom (still the best) sent a package that included my pumpkin-carving supplies from the States. I had been bragging at the dinner table that I was quite skilled with jack-o-lanterns and a family contest is now on the books for late in the month. But although pumpkins are often an ingredient in Korean foods, I had yet to see them line the streets of corner markets or grocery stores as they do in America this time of year. My host father assumed responsibility for pumpkin procurement, however, and I came home this past weekend to a doorway lined with very large – and devoid of defects – pumpkins. Mr. Choi proudly went through the merits of his choices. He was speaking Korean so I can only assume what he was saying, but nevertheless, never have I seen a grown man – save myself – more concerned with the finer points of pumpkin-carving. He's actually been practicing at dinner with orange peels and a paring knife.

Jin and Jun continue to entertain and I am happy that we quickly reached a level of familiarity that we could poke fun at each other and kid around. The boys – and their excellent English – are also instrumental in my survival in Korea. Last week my younger host brother, Jin, and I were scouring the net for Tanqueray in Korea – it's hard to find decent gin in Korea, but Jin (the irony is not lost on me) worked his magic with a few Korean websites and a well-placed phone call or two.

Before you condemn me for corrupting Korean youth, consider two anecdotes in my defense: 1) Two weeks ago was the Korean holiday Chuseok (think Thanksgiving with ancestral worship undertones). I'll relay the details of my first Chuseok in a later post, but one memorable moment was Jin downing a glass of wine at breakfast before anyone could stop him and then proceeding to wobble around with a red face for the remainder of the morning. 2) Hours later at dinner, I ordered a coffee. When cream was unavailable, the server brought a shot glass full of milk. Jin swirled it in his hand, wafted the milk with an air of expertise, and haughtily proclaimed, 'I am a sommelier of milk'. Bear in mind that Jin is a 13 year old who could easily pass for 7.

I often quip that I am a 62 year old that could easily pass for 26. Many of the pursuits I am supposed to pursue at my age – a heavy dose of bar-hopping, a carefree social agenda, a t-shirt and jeans whenever possible – have historically had little sway with me. In some arenas I am consciously trying to challenge myself. By way of illustration, this past week I ventured out on the town – with the help and strict guidance of friends – in jeans and a shirt sans-collar (the no-collar rule may prove rather difficult to abide by – I predict a rapid relapse here).

In other arenas I am not progressing quite so rapidly. I often catch myself pondering my return home more than my stay in Korea and a bout with homesickness is always just a rough day away. With respect to both, however, I try to be honest with myself which, if I'm honest, is extremely difficult to do. The year immediately preceding my grant was full of reflection upon the past and prediction for the future. With Wall St. and college in the rear-view and law school on the horizon, there was never a shortage of questions about the direction I would take. Amid the familiar, however, it is often easy to fill those questions not with answers but with distractions. But surrounded by the unfamiliar and Korea, I don't have that luxury. Then to be fair would be to admit that Korea has not necessarily posed any novel or particularly difficult questions, but rather it has brought me face to face with questions long-preexisting.

In short, I suppose I am beginning to realize the danger of projecting all of my hopes and fears upon Korea. Many – if not most – existed long before my grant. They will linger long after my grant should answers continue to elude me. But one thing that seems certain to elude me this year is decent sleep. Although I appreciate almost every element of my homestay, I exclude my neighbor the rooster from my esteem. Before 6:00 every morning he takes it upon himself to serve as my alarm clock. During the week I could appreciate the jumpstart to the day, but on weekends and holidays, fifteen minutes of sustained rooster revelry I could do without. And thus I will sign off for now – if my real alarm clock is accurate, in less than five hours I am due to hear from my neighbor.