One of my favorite anecdotes to illustrate this traditional Korean modus operandi begins in the gyomoshil (think: teachers' lounge) of Se Kwang Middle School. I try to keep a low profile at school for various reasons: (1) Not being a trained educator, I am not very confident in my teaching abilities (2) I can't actually speak to most of the teachers – nor they with me – save a few particularly-proficient English instructors (3) We were told numerous times during orientation to expect frequent invitations to socialize after school with other teachers. That in and of itself would be fine – if it stopped there. Our orientation coordinators went on to provide vivid accounts of all-night drinking adventures with co-teachers that may or may not have ended with thinly-veiled solicitations for prostitution. But perhaps most-applicable to my own circumstances was (4) I am frequently exhausted after school and all I desire is a quiet evening – and maybe a nap.
And thus these thoughts were in the back of my mind when I was approached by a co-teacher one morning early in the term. He has a very low speaking volume and very rudimentary English skills. Even so, he is a friendly man and I was still very cognizant of making a sterling first impression. Through context clues, I deduced that there was a soccer team composed of teachers from the middle and high school and I was being recruited. A simple backyard pickup game this was not. Uniforms emblazoned with 'Se Kwang United' (a clear reference to the 'Manchester United' of English Premier League fame and also the professional team of Korean hero Park Ji Sung) were prominently featured in the team photograph this co-teacher proudly displayed on his desk. There was a time – long ago – when I played soccer. While I was never the second coming of Pele, I played enough soccer throughout my youth to consider it the sport with which I was the most comfortable.
But beyond some form of sport after school, I really couldn't overcome the language barrier to figure out exactly what was in store. I knew I shouldn't turn down invitations extended early in the school year, but visions of extracurricular activities with co-workers escalating from soccer matches to trips to tour Korean law enforcement facilities were nagging in the back of my mind. What's more, this teacher had approached me about the team and then commanded 'Let's go now' all within the span of three minutes. Apparently he saw no reason why I could not simply sign off of my computer, grab my bag, and accompany him – at that very moment. And while I would come to know these instantaneous invitations as traditional Korean, the planner in me still doesn't appreciate them. And so I manufactured an excuse about meeting my host brothers for my transportation after school and, wearing my best oblivious American expression, exited the situation.
But apparently I exuded the aura of a serious threat on the soccer pitch – must have been the bow ties – for the next day the co-teacher was back. This time he was curious about the type of soccer equipment I preferred. He was also eying my build – fitting me for my uniform. In another unexpected conversational twist, simple smalltalk about a preference for Nike was translated into an urgent demand to immediately leave school to purchase soccer spikes. I would have liked to have seen my face when upon realization that my broken conversation about shoe size conversions was being parlayed into a procurement mission. Once again, however, I was able to extricate myself from the gyomoshil without committing.
But, plagued with guilt, my afternoon naps were growing restless. I had begun slinking around school, spending less time in the gyomoshil and more in the English classroom, and ducking encounters as best I could. Soon the co-teacher was back in the hunt. This time, however, he came armed with new and convincing information: he had talked with my host brother and cleared a trip for that afternoon. Never mind that we were to depart for said trip two minutes hence, I couldn't very well continue to postpone the inevitable. In light of this ambush of information, I was caught. I was going. Reluctantly. But going.
I put on a happy face and followed the teacher to his car. He had to move quite a few things from the cabin to the trunk to accommodate me as a passenger and, while he was doing so, I counted evidence of at least a half dozen sports in the car. Golf clubs rested on top of soccer shoes and alongside a baseball bat. There were various pairs of running shoes in differing degrees of use and a tennis racket or two. There very well may have been a polo mallet and a spearfishing gun resting somewhere at the bottom, but there was so much stuff piled high that I can't be certain.
At any rate, the first sign that I was in for a unique afternoon occurred as I stood next to the front passenger door, waiting to sit down. Twenty years of on-and-off passenger experience had taught me that this is where someone sits when they are the only other person driving in a car. Silly me. The teacher instructed me to sit in the backseat. For a split second I expected another teacher to arrive at the car and thus provide some logical explanation as to why I was sitting where I was, but to this day my chauffeur-like car ride remains a mystery.
The soccer store wasn't much more than five miles from school, but five miles can seem like fifty when the passenger and driver share all of two dozen words in common. We arrived at the soccer shop and the teacher started talking with the attendant. They clearly knew each other and, judging by how serious the teacher took his soccer, I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that he was a frequent customer. At that point I still didn't have a firm grasp on the distance my return from soccer retirement would take me so I was not about to spend serious won (Korean currency) on a pair of boots. Whether I had any skills to begin with can be debated, but I also figured that whatever was left probably didn't depend upon the grade of soccer cleat I was wearing. After trying on a few pair and struggling to convey the concept of a half-size, I ended up with a blue pair of Mizuno spikes. I suspect I was secretly drawn to the red and white trim that contributed to the pair's overall American vibe.
At any rate, after securing shinguards and socks, I approached the counter ready to settle my tab. I had begun wondering during the fitting if my teacher was planning on paying. I hoped not. It would be a little uncomfortable for someone I had just met to buy my soccer equipment. It would also, in a way, obligate my participation. My suspicions were confirmed when we both extended our credit cards to the attendant. With both parties insisting, it was up to the employee who, of course, took the card of the person who spoke his language. I was not pleased with the end result, but there wasn't much I could do except graciously accept the gesture and rejoice. Rejoice that, soccer kit in hand, my afternoon was over.
Silly me. We left the store, but started walking in the direction opposite the car. I noticed immediately and, after inquiring, understood something about a 'brother' being nearby and paying him a visit. Alright, I thought, the teacher has a brother who works in town and we were dropping in to say hello. No harm in what surely wouldn't be more than a few minute detour.
Silly me. The teacher was accurate in that his 'brother' was only a few blocks away. We entered two incorrect doctor's offices, but the third time was a charm. At this point I was clinging to the assumption that the teacher's brother was a doctor, but I was losing faith by the minute. My suspicions were confirmed when a smiling man a full two feet taller than my teacher greeted us at the reception area of the third office. If these two were brothers, I told myself, then I was Santa Clause (hint: I am not).
At this point, the lingering fear of something amiss lingered no longer and forcibly made its way to the forefront of my thoughts. I assembled the facts: (1) I had just bought soccer gear (2) I was presumably expected to play for the teachers' team (3) These two gentlemen were not brothers, and (4) This man was a doctor in some capacity. At this point it's useful to pause for a moment to explain (5): recall that, during orientation, I had injured my foot at Tae Kwon Do practice. Early in the homestay I had still not fully recovered. As far as I could remember, however, I had told no one outside my orientation friends.
As the three of us slowly walked back to the doctor's office, my mind was racing. Try as I might, I couldn't arrive at the connection that allowed this teacher to know about my injured foot. But I couldn't be concerned about that at the moment. I was more occupied with what this doctor thought he was going to do to me. My mind was made up that I would make a break for it if he came within five feet of me with so much as a stethoscope. To make matters worse, upon entering his office, I was immediately confronted with a host of indicators that this doctor's specialty was orthopedics. A model of a knee was displayed prominently on his desk. Various diagrams of ligaments adorned the walls and there was more skeletal paraphernalia lying around than I could shake a femur at (both literally and figuratively: I did briefly consider fending off an examination with the model knee display).
The doctor took a seat behind his desk, wearing a grin that stretched from ear to ear. “Smile all you want Doc,” thought I, “I'm on to your little charade.” My teacher sat in front of the desk and I reluctantly sat at the side of the desk, between the two. The location was less-than-ideal for an escape – the co-teacher between myself and the door – but I figured that if I had the jump on him I'd at least make the lobby. The doctor, however, was tall with long legs. Being young and scrappy, I normally would give myself the edge, but I had a bum foot and we were on his turf.
I was eying a scale model of an ankle as a potential club when the doctor smiled at me and turned to his computer. He pulled up an internet browser. “Ah, crafty,” I observed, “he thinks I'll let my guard down if he shows me the procedure he has in mind.” I kept one eye on the model ankle and turned one to the computer screen. The computer screen which was pulled up to...
...NFL.com. The doctor then broke into fluent English, asking if I followed American football and what my favorite team was. Still cautious, but certainly off-guard with this turn of events, I revealed that I followed the Patriots. I even revealed my esteem for Tom Brady. “Stupid Cornelius!” I cursed to myself as I realized my weakness, “you've said too much!” But in my defense, Tom Brady is indeed a personal hero of mine. I'm willing to forget his time at Michigan (arch-nemesis of Penn State) given that he only took a few snaps there. What followed, however, is perhaps the most storied use of sixth-round draft status ever in professional football. After that nancy Drew Bledsoe got injured and opened the door for Brady, the latter proceeded to win three rings for the Pats, collecting two Super Bowl MVP's, a league MVP, and the season touchdown record for good measure...all while dating actresses and supermodels. Bad ass.
This doctor seemed to like Tom Brady too. I had to admit it, if his plan was to distract me by talking football, it was working brilliantly. Somewhere amid our analysis of AFC strength, I began to entertain the notion that perhaps I was not there for some procedure after all. Throughout the course of our conversation, I inferred that I was simply a means for this doctor to polish his English skills. He had a son that was a former student of my co-teacher and, when he heard that I was from the Philadelphia area, he excitedly mentioned his wish for his son to attend Wharton.
After thirty minutes discussing football and Philadelphia, I was walked to the elevator and handed a business card. My intuition told me that this new orthopedic friend considered me a potential avenue for his son's admission to business school, but to this day I can't be sure. I escaped intact, though more than a little curious as to how such a bizarre afternoon could unfold, but also glad that surely now it must be behind me.
Silly me. The way my co-teacher had parked his car made it nearly impossible to enter on the side of my original seat. Thinking nothing of it, I simply occupied the opposite side, but once again in the backseat. As the teacher pulled onto the main road, however, he motioned for me to move back to the passenger side. This struck me as more than odd, but I just had a football second-opinion from an orthopedic surgeon when all I wanted was soccer spikes: my standards for normalcy were devolving at an alarming rate.
It wasn't until a few miles later that I was able to solve the mystery of the rear seat switch. Driving in Korea is very much a passive enterprise for me. Yes, yes, I know that being a passenger is always a passive role, but at home I could serve as a co-pilot: navigating street signs, offering directional assistance, or commanding the radio...at the very least I could read the banners as storefronts passed by. That's not the case in Korea. The radio is incomprehensible as are the signs. As I noted in my Old ETA and the Sea saga, traffic ordinances are mere suggestions in Korea.
To make matters worse, the only scenery I have any chance of understanding – other automobiles – is composed almost-entirely of Hyundais and Kias. Now, now, now...before you go and judge me for being myself judgmental, hear me out. Korea has enacted such a strict protectionist trade policy to insulate its domestic car manufacturers from foreign competition that any such foreign vehicle is rendered essentially twice the price. A German car in the U.S. is something of a status symbol, but it's nothing unusual. A BMW or Mercedes is so rare in Korea, though, that I tend to stop whatever I'm doing whenever I see one and proceed to gawk with a 180-degree head-turn. A sedan that would set someone back $60,000 in the States stings to the tune of at least $120,000 in Korea. For a society that never misses a chance to highlight its globalized presence, what amount to xenophobic tariff practices strike me as a bit antiquated...if not hypocritical. And just to show a critique of hypocrisy that is not in and of itself hypocritical, I also find the penalties the U.S. puts on corn imports to protect domestic ethanol production to be downright disgraceful. And while I'm at it, the EU ought to be penalized for its support of EADS.
OK. My detour is complete. If not for the fact that I recognize you signed on to read a blog about teaching English in South Korea and not an online version of the Wall Street Journal, then for the fact that I have exhausted my current knowledge of economics. To be fair, Hyundai makes some beautiful cars. The Genesis is every bit as luxurious as its European counterparts and I hope it stirs up the market. I gawk every time I see the coupe version: its one helluva sexy car. My host father's Opirus – an upscale line made by Kia – is a sleek flagship sedan with all the amenities of a Mercedes E-Class or an Audi A-6. But that doesn't change the fact that seeing one of the latter two is pretty unusual in my neighborhood.
All of this to illustrate that there is not a whole lot for me to look at whilst I am being driven around town. And thus my mind and my eyes tend to wander. It just so happened that, sitting in the backseat, they happened to wander to the rear view mirror...and the stare of my co-teacher. I must have done a double-take because I tend to find the mistaken eye-contact in the rear view to be a little off-putting in the most normal of circumstances. When I figured out that the ability to look at me was the reason for the rear seat switch, I was somewhat unnerved. Our broken English/Korean conversations that involved all of twenty shared words now involved furtive glances by each of us.
During one of these mangled exchanges, I was asked if I played golf. At this point I was weary of admitting that I did anything beyond teach English – 100% of my time – because I suspected it would involve another dogged string of invitations until I acquiesced once again to an uncomfortable and awkward afternoon. I tried my best via facial features and atrocious Korean that I was awful at golf and did not play. That's actually pretty close to the truth. I like everything about golf except actually striking the ball with the club. The venue is often beautifully-manicured, there are always refreshments flowing at the end of a game, and there are even fun little carts to race when the grounds crew isn't looking. On account of my never having played the sport for any continued period of time, however, I'm awful. I can get about two holes into a course before I grow frustrated and my mind drifts to fun things to do with a golf cart rather than lining up my next shot.
At any rate, for true amateurs such as myself, the fun of golf lies in an afternoon of conversation with a small group of friends. If one cannot actually communicate with said friends, the only element of the game that salvages my enjoyment is lost, compounding what is already an exercise in frustration. I had no designs on lowering my handicap while in Korea.
But my co-teacher was undeterred. He 'asked' if we could meet his friend who played golf. I emphasize ask because, in Korea, invitations are a different species of request. They are often thinly-veiled assumptions of submission at best and, at worst, outright commands. I recognized this sitting in the backseat and, hanging my head, conceded to the visit.
When we arrived at a driving range I was again suspicious. This afternoon had been bizarre enough and I knew Korean habits well enough to sense that something was amiss. I further-detected a ruse when, instead of hopping out of the car and walking toward the entrance – behavior displayed by someone on an actual visit – we instead retrieved my co-teacher's golf bag from the trunk.
Driving ranges in Korea are prolific and also a bit different from those in the States. Imagine a massive, four-story skeleton of steel covered in green mesh. The structure extends close to four-hundred yards and is given a slope – ever so slight – from the back toward the front. It's like a batting cage for golfers. At any rate, we said hello to someone (this must have constituted the visit) and began hitting balls. 'Hitting' is actually generous: 'hacking' is almost-certainly more accurate in my case. I loosened my bow tie, still being dressed from school, tossed aside my blazer, and tried my best not to take aim at my co-teacher.
At this point I felt my sour attitude was justified. I had remained a good sport throughout an afternoon of soccer spike fittings and orthopedic surgeon consultations and I probably would have retained that decent demeanor had this visit actually been merely a visit. I had been promised a 6:00 pm return to my homestay and, as I marked 6:00 then 6:15, I began to lose patience.
At 6:30 I called attention to my watch and my co-teacher gestured that he understood and we began to gather his clubs. The ride home was uneventful – I dutifully sat in my assigned seat in the back and exchanged odd glances in the rear view. The only time I piped up was to direct him to my house. I couldn't remember being more excited to see my homestay.
That is, until my co-teacher exited the car with me and began walking toward the backdoor. What was this?! Surely he wasn't coming to dinner...visions of an awkward meal raced through my mind. I feared another helpless scenario – doomed to sit through supper as an entire year of golf t-times and soccer practices were planned – in Korean – before my very unknowing eyes. Thankfully, however, the teacher seemed to be slowing at the door. Jun – the elder of my two host brothers – met us at the threshold and exchanged pleasantries with who I would later learn was his math teacher. Jun and I would have some words later about just how much I appreciated walking blind into an ambush of a Korean afternoon. But at that moment I was simply relieved that my co-teacher was bidding adieu and making his departure. After his teacher had left, Jun smiled in a knowingly manner that left me suspicious about the hand he had played in this sordid string of circumstances.
I climbed the stairs to my room and tossed my soccer spikes into a corner, collapsing on my bed. With whatever lucidity I retained, I vowed never to leave my homestay again. And thus my most inexplicable afternoon in Korea is explained. Some may question the veracity of my tale or accuse its author of hyperbole, but lest they accept an invitation in this country themselves and all that is entailed, they may never understand the true scope of random occurrences that can beseech a helpless foreigner.
I began this post noting how things in Korea happen fast. The tale above illustrates the human hand in this phenomenon, but I've begun to wonder if it might not also be something in the air – literally. Last week winter struck in a matter of 24 hours. One day mild-mannered Cornelius was frolicking in fall-like Fahrenheit and the very next he was awakened with a chill and a dip of epic caliber in the Centigrade. I recall the same abrupt shift happening between summer and fall. I can't help but wonder if such sudden climactic alterations have something to do with the modus operandi for Korean invitations. I may never get to the bottom of it, but if we are all merely products of our environment, this begs the question: what commodity am I becoming? Whatever end result assimilation has in mind for our intrepid traveler, I find some measure of solace knowing that at the very least I'll be in the driver's seat upon my return.
Cornelius, you're hilarious. Somehow, when these things happen to me (as they have happened to all of us!), my sole consolation is knowing that it'll make one hell of a blog entry. You, sir, a hero in both action and blog-writing, have done your Korean day of adventure justice ;)
ReplyDeleteC.W., oh my!! Only you could keep such composure and a sense of peace on your face. You've taught so many of us about understanding, patience and not being judgemental, however, this takes it to an entire different level. You are certainly a hero is right in many, many ways!!!!
ReplyDeleteCan't even imagine how funny this is but my heart goes out to you.
Mom