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.
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