They Shoot Foreigners, Don’t They? Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Airport (Part 1)

What follows is a faithful account of the movements of myself, Courtney M. Brown, as accompanied by one Sheila Olivar, between the morning of the 15th of August and the afternoon of the 23rd of the same month, the Year of Our Lord 2011. The contents of this account should not be read without some caution as they may startle and alarm those faint of heart. Those of a stout disposition, read on, duly warned.

August the 15th
I can devise no more ignominious end for a fowl than to have its legs removed and used as airline food. And I can think of nothing that any bird could possibly do to deserve such a fate. If, on top of that, that airline food is served, not on a tray table suspended 10,000 feet in the air in a shiny silver tube, but instead in a crowded, airless terminal to a group of people in danger of becoming a flash mob – well, neither man nor beast deserves that fate.

Alas, such and more befell us in Shanghai. Alighting two hours late from Incheon after an apparently unnecessarily early and prepared arrival at that airport, afeared that we may miss our connecting flight in Shanghai, we rushed off the plane and through the terminal only to find that we were in no danger of missing anything but our luggage. Our connector had been delayed as well. At first we were told we must wait but a scant two hours, a circumstance we accepted with grace. That two hours gradually shifted, however, into some nebulous amount of time at which no airline employee would hazard a guess. When we finally did board our vessel, it was five hours later – after we had partaken of our dubious meal, grumbled a great deal, and threatened mutiny. The end result was that, instead of arriving in our hostelry at a reasonable 9:45 on the night of August the 15th, we pulled up in our taxi at 2:30 in the small of the morning of the 16th, weary, bleary, and nearly beyond comfort. We slept and prayed that dawn might come slowly. Unfortunately, it made no allowances for us.

August the 16th
Awake, clean and in possession of a hostel key attached to a blue metal lizard, we set out for the nearest subway station. We rode the MRT to the Chinatown stop, alighted, and, after much dithering, had some Chinese food. My traveling companion wondered if we would be able to find our way back to the subway station. I assured her that I had been, in fact, a compass in another life, and would never let us be lost. She received this assurance with less than what I considered appropriate confidence. We shopped a bit. Sheila expanded her wardrobe. I expanded my understanding of the clever t-shirt and bottle-opener magnet trade in Singapore.

We decided to walk in the direction of the Chinatown Complex and I pointed us in the right direction. Sheila was not sure it was the right direction, but followed me anyway and we arrived at the Chinatown Complex in good time. We shopped some more at the Complex and were regaled with rousing tales of Singaporean government by a particularly enthusiastic shop owner. It was every bit as thrilling as it sounds and, though he ended up making Singapore sound like a police state, it sounded like a really cheerful one.

We left the Complex and headed back toward the MRT station. Sheila was not sure that it was the right way, but it was. We took a well-considered detour to find coconuts with straws in them and enjoyed cold coconut juice under a garish orange awning. Nothing about the place seemed remotely Chinese, but the building across the street did, so I assumed correctly that we were still in Chinatown proper.

On the way back to the MRT station after coconuts, Sheila wondered if we were going the right direction. We were.

Since the day was still young we ventured on further down the Purple Line and ended up at the Harbor Front where we found all manner of interesting things. Once we made it to the water (“I really think we should go through this building. Trust me.”), we lazed about, took pictures with the large metal flower tree and an inexplicable skinny snowman statue, browsed at length through the first genuine English bookstore I had seen in many months, and gadded about chiefly concerned with figuring out ways of enjoying ourselves. I bought Magnetic Poetry: Pirate Edition so I think you can tell we achieved that goal.

Sheila had a hankering for soup round about dinnertime and fortunately The Soup Spoon was conveniently located right next to the bookstore. Sheila had something whitish that was reported to be good and I chose the Simon and Garfunkel Chicken and Mushroom Ragout. The chicken and mushrooms had some tight harmonies that I initially received quite well. As time went on, however, the chicken and mushrooms seemed to be having some problems and eventually broke up due to gastronomic differences, and, though I began to wish I were homeward bound, I was a rock, an island, in fact, and carried on. I briefly considered adding some parsley or sage or even some rosemary or thyme to my bowl, but all I had was tabasco sauce, so I didn’t. I asked Mrs. Robinson if this sort of behavior was normal for the ragout, but, not being there, she didn’t answer. As the chicken and mushrooms weren’t speaking to each other, the sound of silence coming from my bowl was both deafening and disheartening. Fortunately, however, we were able to build a bridge over troubled soup and the chicken and mushrooms became friends again in the end and finished strong for their fans, which is to say, me. At that point me and Julio – I mean Cecelia – um, Sheila – decided to go lookin’ for fun since we were feelin’ so groovy.

What we found was “Cowboys and Aliens.” And really I don’t think I need to say much more than that. The awesomeness of the event should be understood outright. But I will say this: Harrison Ford has now very nearly made up for the whole “Six Days, Seven Nights” debacle that I know we’re all still feeling so keenly, and I sure do wish Daniel Craig were taller. Also, though I think you’ll agree that he’ll always be best known as the plucky Guy Fleegman, Sam Rockwell does a pretty fine embattled and desperate saloon owner, too. With glasses, so you know it’s a serious role.

Leaving the theater happy and meditating upon our place in the universe amongst all those quite rude and slimy alien species bent on destroying us poor earthlings, we wended our way back past the tall, skinny snowman, the flower tree, the harbor, and all the rest and arrived successfully at the MRT station once again, swiped our cards, and headed back toward Kovan and our hostel.

As we left the Kovan station near the other end of the Purple Line, Sheila was pretty sure that we should go the other direction, but I was more sure that we should not. She humored me with distinct reservations and as a result we made it back to the hostel in good time.

August the 17th
If I were to simply say that this day bore us on silver wings to all the wonders and attendant delights that one would expect from spending a day at Universal Studios, I would be telling you true, but it would hardly do the day justice so naturally I will expound a bit for the benefit of posterity.

We arrived as the gates were opening, our hearts set on enjoying every possible moment of Universal Studiosity. And such we did. We were logical in our path through the park. We bore left and continued that way, leaving nothing un-tried, no fun un-had.

We began in Madagascar where we had a Crate Adventure (not to be confused with a slow boat ride for children) and great fun on King Julien’s Party-Go-Round (not to be confused with a cartoon-themed carousel for children). Then we enjoyed ourselves immensely in the gift shop.

In Far, Far Away we caught Donkey’s interactive stage show in which I was not chosen to be an audience participant even though I sat on the aisle for that express purpose, rode a dragon on Enchanted Airways (not to be confused with a tiny roller coaster for children) and the Magic Potion Spin (not to be confused with an exceptionally tiny Ferris wheel that my legs almost didn’t fit into, also for children). Then we enjoyed ourselves immensely in the gift shop.

In the Lost World and Ancient Egypt we partook of every flying, soarin’, coasting and driving ride there was to experience and if we did perhaps drive rather more slowly than I thought was appropriate when one is traversing a cursed desert, we also moved quite quickly through the also cursed pyramid in the often pitch black. (I won’t say that Sheila screamed the entire time and wouldn’t open her eyes, but one of us did and it wasn’t me.)

In Sci-Fi City we rode a teacup ride for grown-ups, and there was lots of spinning in big yellow things that were definitely not teacups. And then, I’m pleased to say, we chose to be Cylons rather than Humans on the dueling roller coasters and flew upside-down many times as a result. (I won’t say that Sheila screamed the entire time and wouldn’t open her eyes, but one of us did and it wasn’t me.) I truly do heart Cylons and now I have a magnet on my refrigerator that says so to prove it.

The Hollywood and New York sections offered copious opportunities to take pictures of ourselves in fantastic sunglasses and with people dressed up in what must have been sweltering if delightful costumes, not to mention a stage show of monsters performing a Rock-N-Roll Extravaganza! and a special effects show in which a hurricane hits New York City. I guess we could have just waited on that one.

And then, of course, there were the Daddy-Os, Universal Studios Singapore’s somewhat belated answer to the Beach Boys. They sang all the fun old songs like surfer angels in tight white pants and shook their hips with an enthusiasm that I genuinely appreciated. I liked the two tall ones best – one was blond and as American West Coast pretty as they come and the other was all the best of Asian attractiveness rolled up into one man – tall, dark, handsome, and definitely not too skinny. Sheila liked the short one with the tall hair. She said he had good “expressions.” I know it must be a euphemism, but I can’t figure out for what.

And with that and some other bits in between to fill all the cracks, we found that we had participated in every activity, ridden every ride, climbed every rock wall, and throttled Universal Studios for all it was worth. We left, were accosted by a cheerful survey man, took pictures with the candy trees and coveted the Reese’s section of the huge candy store located just outside Universal’s main gate and then lounged about on the waterfront because when you’re in Singapore you’re never far from a waterfront and it’s always a good idea.

We slept soundly that night under the quiet hum of the air conditioner in our little hostel, but we didn’t appreciate it the way we should have.

We didn’t know that the Germans were coming.

And you thought it would kill me.

As of this afternoon, I have officially completed a two week stint forcing small Korean children to speak in a language they find confusing and nonsensical with only the threat of hard labor and the promise of stickers to motivate them.

I’ve drilled elementary schoolers in the days of the week, the months of the year, the finer points of nouns and verbs, and the subtle difference between “in the corner” and “on the corner” until calendars, action words, and the edges of rooms and street corners haunt all of our nightmares. I have threatened and cajoled them into acting out “Cinderella,” “Little Red Riding Hood,” and “Our Class Pet” in which one enviable child plays a parrot, and been harried to within a sad centimeter of my sanity. Because we do centimeters here.

I’ve been sprayed in the face with a fire hose, been water gunned repeatedly in every face hole I have until four of my five senses have been materially damaged, sustained a nearly mortal elbow wound from a water-squirting sword (the sword part is really the critical element there – the water is mere insult on that injury), and had my green flip flops thrown in a mud puddle. I’ve pulled the fingernails of little boys out of other little boys’ nearly bleeding arms, made minors do squats, and been the unrepentant cause of more than a few tears.

I have watched one 60-second clip of Pocahontas roughly four trillion times (“This is how we say hello: wingapo.”), and been tricked into drinking a flavor of Fanta that both burned and tasted like medicine. I’ve nearly been driven to fisticuffs in order to obtain just one more pair of scissors (pink), stolen more than my fair share of A4 (white) and index cards (lined, wide rule), and had more than a couple heated arguments with a non-English speaking copy machine (grey, in an irritating way).

I have mercilessly judged the talent show offerings of middle schoolers and been personally gratified by the fact that my own charges won the whole shebang, even more so since I had absolutely nothing to do with the invention, teaching, learning, or performance of their talent. I think it was the sampling of Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” that won the judges over in the end and I’m glad that people in my vicinity thought of it so I can take an undue amount of the credit for myself.

I’ve given and received more high fives than I care to count, had my words turned into a mantra and dance performed at random by half a dozen little girls, and been given seahorse pictures with messages scrawled in hilariously sweet English by my own little class. I’ve been told repeatedly that I’m so pretty (in a rather effective ploy to get more stickers), had random children point at my face and say “blue” (I assume in reference to my eye color, not the fact that I am somehow generally corpse-colored), and given at least one compliment that was understood and fully hit its mark (since afterward its recipient always bowed to me and beamed and answered questions in class when before she’d avoided both eye contact and anything that may have seemed remotely like speaking.)

I have willingly suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous cafeteria food made desirable by virtue of its freeness, waited with bated breath for potato, bacon, and onion pies to arrive from Mr. Pizza, eaten the hardest chocolate chocolate chip cookies known to man three times, and supplemented my diet with ice cream from various sources at every opportunity. I’ve watched professors beat the staff at basketball, students beat professors at a water balloon fight, and the most struggling kid in class beat all the rest at the two math problems I made them do last week.

Three hundred kids, twenty foreign professors, twenty TAs, and thirteen staff members bravely went “Swimming in the English Ocean” this summer at English Camp without our water wings and have somehow, miraculously, washed up on shore battered and bruised, but alive.

Result: I’m invincible.

Six months to go until Winter Camp.

Things I Ate: the Student Festival Edition

So Tuesday through Thursday of this week were devoted to the Student Festival on campus. For three afternoons we collectively shirked our responsibilities and decided instead to play outside, eat questionably prepared foods, watch concerts (Guess who has a new favorite Korean rock band!), and contribute to the common mood of frivolity and merriment that so saturated the atmosphere that it seeped into the very sidewalk squiggly bricks upon which our dancing feet so joyfully trod and the earth fairly hummed with our vitality.

Of course it rained this morning so it’s all gone now, but it was nice yesterday.

I went to concerts, did a little head-banging, did a little dancing. I watched contests and was suitably impressed and/or amused by all the acts. I laughed at our MC’s jokes, not because I knew what he said, but because I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was most likely hilarious. I watched my students get pummeled by water balloons and was constantly surrounded by other students determined to sell me their wares. Like sharks that feel a drop of blood in the water or Monterey Jack the mouse smelling cheese from three blocks away, they seemed to have some otherworldly ability to sense the presence of won burning a hole in my pocket.

But, despite all the fun I had and things I did, I think my festival experience really is most vividly and accurately summed up by the pile of food sticks, crumbs, and drips of sauce that I left in my wake over the course of those three afternoons. So with great pride and a little bit of a stomachache, I give you Things I Ate: the Student Festival Edition.

1. Spicy chicken on a stick. Because they asked me so enthusiastically to buy it. Also it was the first thing I saw.

2. Spicy sausage on a stick. Because it was across from the spicy chicken on a stick. On the down side, it dripped a lot. On the up side, I did not get any drippiness on my clothes. Final analysis: a successful eating venture.

3. Spicy chicken on a stick. Because I was still hungry and it was still close.

4. Waffle with three scoops of ice cream – vanilla, strawberry, and green. Because it seemed like a good idea. I was right. It was. Even the green part.

5. Popcorn. Because I thought a change of pace might be nice. When will I learn that I always regret popcorn? Stupid kernels.

6. Thing in a cup with a toothpick to facilitate consumption. Because I wanted a toothpick. Stupid popcorn.

7. Slushie thing – plum flavored. Because it was cheap and pretty, like a prom dress or a hooker.

8. Slushie thing – plum flavored. Because one is never enough, like a prom dress or a hooker.

9. Candy in the shape of a heart. Because those Marines earned my business and did so with gusto.

10. Peach iced tea. Because it was clearly a better idea than normal iced tea.

11. Thing on a stick involving some manner of meat and spiciness and something a little squishy that was probably rice-based. Because I’m adventurous and can make up my own names for things. I call it Meat-Squish on a Stick and I liked it.

12. Thing on a stick with cheese in the middle, sugar on the outside, other unnamable things in the middle, and slathered in ketchup. Because, let’s face it, at this point I think we’ve all realized that I’m a pushover when it comes to food on sticks, even something as questionable-sounding as that. I ate it all without regret.

13. Waffle with three scoops of ice cream – vanilla, green, vanilla. Because I wasn’t able to figure out that green ice cream the first time and some experiments deserve to be repeated. I was just being a responsible scientist.

14. Spicy chicken on a stick. Because sometimes you need to check to make sure they’re still doing it right. It's a simple matter of quality control. The quality having been adequately controlled, I moved on.

15. Red bean slushie. Because beans do not belong in slushies and I needed proof.

16. Strawberry smoothie. Because eating healthy food is very important to me.

17. Slushie thing – can’t get away from plum. Because it comes with such a cute little spoon, like a prom dress or a hooker.

18. Waffle with three scoops of ice cream – vanilla, vanilla, vanilla. Because I’ll never become a true connoisseur if I don’t try them all. I was just being conscientious.

There were other things I tasted and stole from those around me and still other things that I never quite managed to try, but there’s always next year and, like the practiced festival-goer that I am, I am already formulating my plan for the next Student Festival. Preparation is the key to success. And I was, after all, trained on the Circleville Pumpkin Show. I have festival-going skills the likes of which most of the rest of the world has never even imagined. This was my warm-up year.

So brace yourselves. Troubadours will sing songs about the next one.

Strangers on a Train

In my life, I’m really quite lucky to be able to say that I haven’t had very many people hate me just for being me. At least as far as I know. At any rate, I usually have to do something stupid first. And, quite often, I do, so anyone who wants one has only to wait a little while to find a good reason to wish I weren’t around. Today, however, my greatest, most pervasive, and completely unalterable fault was simply being not Korean.

Mind you, it’s not that I take great offence at having people dislike me – like I said, there are reasons enough, some of which I’ll even agree with. And it’s not that I can’t understand why people here might object to Westerners in general and Americans in particular on principle alone – we have a complicated enough history to accommodate all sorts of thorny and problematic feelings. So, when someone finally comes to the end of his tether and decides to vent his frustration and anger at me and mine, I suppose what really stings is having to feel so conspicuously small and off balance, and being able to do nothing about it except wait for the end, all the while just hoping I’m not doing anything that will make it worse.

So. I rode the subway today.

Typically, riding the subway is not an occurrence of much note. There are maps and timetables to read, seats to fight for and little strappy handles to hold – all innocuous enough, despite how attractive I’ve made the subway sound so far. So when I and a couple of other foreign professors decided to go to Songtan to search for a few bits of this and that, we loaded up our T-Money cards with subway fare and set out, practicing the days of the week in Korean (which I’ve forgotten again) while we waited for our train. As we waited, we ran into a former student of one of our number and, as a result, also had some lively non-days-of-the-week-related conversation.

The train came and all four of us boarded, found spots to stand in the full train and commenced to waiting again – this time for our stop. There was some brief dispute as to how many stops we needed to pass before we reached our destination, but I’m glad to say it was settled amicably, and the dueling pistols that I’m sure you know I carry with me at all times (just in case) were unneeded.

Professor and former pupil stood together and chatted and the other two of us stood a few paces away, doing some chatting of our own. All seemed well, but I’m afraid Trouble was brewing in River City. (Oh yes, we’ve got trouble. Trouble with a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for . . . Probably Slightly Inebriated And Therefore Emboldened Old Man, actually.) Anyway, it wasn’t long before we started hearing “Hello! Hello!” bellowed at us from across the middle aisle by an old fellow in what seemed to be military dress of some sort, though I could be mistaken, followed by something sharp and fast in Korean. My fellow traveler responded to the Hello and tried briefly to understand, but I knew just from the tone of his voice that no good could come of it and we mostly did our best not to notice as he continued to yell and gesticulate.

Unfortunately, after a bit, simply yelling from his seat lost the allure that I assume it had at the beginning, so he stood up and came close to us so he could yell and point forcefully with greater impact. It was at this point that I think he really began to build up a head of steam. When the student who was with us eventually noticed the old man’s yelling, he came over and spoke to the man, sweetly trying to calm him and shield us poor, confused foreigners from the brunt of the vitriol ricocheting off the walls of the subway car, but there was a limit to what he could accomplish there.

By now, the rest of the people in the car were paying rather a lot of attention to us – we were providing quite a little show – and, though they frowned and shook their heads at the man, he was a determined fella with a need for self-expression that could not be quelled. Today was Parents’ Day, after all, and elders should be allowed to do as they please, up to and including shouting at strangers on the subway. Gradually, a few other Koreans drifted silently nearer to where we were and stood close by. It may have just been coincidence or curiosity, but it felt like a kindness, a show of some small measure of support. I hope that’s what it was.

Every so often our old man would wander away, only to return with renewed vigor to say something he’d apparently forgotten to say before. It was during one of these gaps that our friendly student explained to us that on the grounds of fervent nationalism, the old man objected to our presence in his country. If his volume, boldness, or verbosity were anything to measure by, he objected greatly. And I didn’t have to understand Korean to understand that, in his eyes, we didn’t belong here. At all.

It seemed like a much longer train ride than it actually was.

Before he got off at his stop, the old man came close one last time to shake our hands in turn, say something in Korean that still sounded pretty cross, and then “thank you,” though I couldn’t tell you why. He wasn’t sincere, but I shook his hand and bowed my head to him anyway – it doesn’t do any good to be rude, after all. And then he left.

As I watched him step out and the doors close behind him, as the train jolted again into dispassionate and implacable motion, I wondered.

I wondered if my conduct had been what it ought to have been, or if I could have somehow made it better, or if I somehow made it worse. I wondered what would have happened if we hadn’t had a Korean friend with us, as it happened, by chance. I wondered if I can ever do anything more than just be sorry when this happens and let it all wash over me. I wondered if he yells at all foreigners or if we were special.

Make no mistake, nearly every Korean I’ve met or had even fleeting contact with in these last months has smiled big and been kind and patient with me, so much so that it was all the more startling today on the train for the simple strangeness of such an occurrence. But, no matter how kind someone may be, people lump other people into groups, units and categories that help us label and account for our world and those in it. So here, Westerners especially become a single very visible unit and the sins of one become the sins of us all, whether those sins be fresh or decades old, real or only perceived.

Coming from a place that so values the sanctity of the individual – sometimes to excess – it’s hard to get used to or feel good about being seen as simply a nameless but guilty Foreigner who must shoulder the weight of the responsibility for foreign and military policies across the Western world. I’m not naïve enough to be shocked at being viewed that way, but I can tell you without hesitation that my shoulders aren’t strong enough for such responsibility. And I don’t think they ever will be, even if I do manage to get used to the occasional outburst from someone who’s feeling particularly uninhibited at a given moment.

Maybe next time the party offended by my existence will know some English and I can tell the joke about gorillas and their big nose holes and, since it’s such a hilarious joke, we’ll all laugh so hard that all umbrage will be forgotten and we’ll go have ice cream and donuts together. And if I can learn the joke in Korean also, I’ll be prepared for anything.

Next time.

On the way back home I kept my head down and read a newspaper. Nothing happened.

The Midterm Scourge

As a student, I entertained bitterly fanciful notions of the hidden private lives of professors. What fun I knew they must be having. During Midterms and Finals, while I was sleeplessly stuffing fact after frightfully important fact into a brain fueled only by Honey Nut Cheerios and Jolly Ranchers, dreading that nearly palpable moment when night gives up and lets day come again, I just knew that somewhere all of my professors were having a party.

In my bones I could feel them savoring bonbons and peeled grapes while string quartets played easy-listening covers of songs selected from the Queen and Led Zeppelin catalogues in the background. Possibly a little BeeGees thrown in for good measure. (There were also, as I recall, a great many chaise sofas to aid in general lounging and a number of poor saps standing by with large fans at the ready.) And I would turn my bloodshot eyes to the hopefully still pitch black heavens and curse their clearly undeserved good fortune.

So you’d think that now that I’m one of those exalted elect – the few, the proud, the professors – I could get someone to turn the heat back on in my office on days when I can see my breath or at least get a test copied without having to forfeit all pride and/or sell my soul. I mean seriously, what’s a girl have to do to get a thing copied around here?

So in the absence of all I expected from my new and privileged position, I will concede that Midterms turned me a bit loopy these past few weeks. And I think if I’d had a guy with a fan following me around it would have been easier. (Though, upon reflection, I probably would have had him lose the fan and made him figure out how to get me copies. Which, of course, would have made me very happy indeed.)

I’m sure the first semester is the most tiring – only arriving a few days before classes began, not getting a schedule of the classes I was teaching until two days before classes actually began, staying just far enough ahead in my lesson plans to reasonably be considered (or assumed) to be prepared for each class, and adjusting to new everything all at the same time – all that can take a toll on even the most well-rested person. (Which I have never been.) But come fall semester, these things will not possess the gravitas they do now. Oh, they may still be issues in one form or another, but the degree necessarily lessens.

I’m looking forward to that.

In the meantime, however, that mature understanding did little to stop me from wanting to swear in three languages. And I could now, too, so you can imagine how tempting it was. Stacked up on top of all the regular horrors my schedule continues to offer me daily, I also had to find time to write, administer and grade approximately 63 billion written and speaking Midterm tests. It’s a rough estimate, but a conservative one.

And does anyone appreciate the trials of the solitary, beleaguered professor during Midterm time? Ha. Don’t be silly. No, it’s just a steady stream of “Have you entered your grades, yet?” “Are you done, yet?” “What’s my grade?” “Why did I get this grade?” “But if I lose those three points I’ll never be successful in life and it will all be your fault, Professor” and 63 billion sets of accusing eyes (conservative estimate) staring back at me for weeks.

Well if you didn’t want to lose those points, you should have turned it in on time!

[mentally regaining my weary composure]

I don’t get paid enough.

I know my acrimony may startle you, but I can assure you that it is the honest acrimony that comes with having lived through something that a pithy adage will tell us has made us stronger. I’m here to tell you now that sometimes those things just make you grumpy and tired. Also a bit hungry. And, if I’m going to be honest, a little nonplussed. Sixty-three billion students (conservative estimate) and not one of them offered to peel me a grape? The baseball of cruel reality has shattered the stained-glass window of my youthful dreams. It really is a hard world sometimes.

And clearly I’ve been teaching my students the wrong things. My lesson plans next semester will address this gap in their learning. Thoroughly.

Eight weeks to Finals.

Fortunately, Koreans don't carry guns.

Generally speaking, as I crisscross Cheonan on my various errands to the grocery store or the stationery shop or one of many, many restaurants, I feel relatively capable. I don’t know much Korean yet, but I know how to say hello, here, there, how much is this?, thank you, and goodbye, among a few other things. I’m good at picking up context clues and guessing, and I can point to things on a menu like a pro. So, I get a lot of indulgent smiles and people try to put things in my shopping basket when they’re sure I should be buying something else, but I usually feel that I have at least avoided causing an international incident.

Usually.

Yesterday that all changed. I knew it was only a matter of time – some aspects of the expatriate experience are inevitable – but I know now without the merest shadow of a doubt that I’ve finally made a Korean inescapably angry with me. In all fairness, this has probably been a regular occurrence, and I’ve left scores of Koreans strewn frustrated in my wake but have simply been blissfully unaware of the fact. Yesterday I knew it for sure.

It started as such a simple thing – I wanted to make copies of a worksheet for one of my classes and I decided to go to the copy shop on campus (located, without irony or the intention of a joke, inside the coffee shop) where professors have a monthly allowance of copies we can make. I made my seven copies and was ready to sign my page in the blue folder that I always sign, but, alas, no blue folder was produced.

The copy shop man said something in Korean which I failed to understand. Receiving only a questioning look and an “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” from me, he paused then started over in a louder voice. A hand gesture or a prop might have helped, but the copy shop man seemed determined simply to stare at me and say words. (On the other hand, I might not have appreciated any hand gestures he was inclined to produce.) This time I tried to add an apologetic look to the already confused look that I know was on my face. At any rate, it was clear that I had no idea what he was trying to tell me. So he decided to ignore me for a bit – a space of time I wasn’t sure what to do with, so I stood there, feeling a little awkward and lot dumb, but trying not to look it.

When he came back, it was to say more Korean words at me, this time even louder and with a decidedly impatient look on his face. Mysteriously, I still didn’t understand. After I had done my confused face again and he had ignored me some more, he tried one last time. But his words, though quite loud and grumpy-sounding, were still Korean. I know he added extra words this time because it took him longer to finish, but I’m afraid that was all I could discern. In complete and obvious exasperation, he held a calculator up to my face with a number on it.

At last we were communicating, but unfortunately not in a way that was going to help.

He wanted me to pay for the copies I’d made. Now, I could have just paid for the copies and left, and I probably should have – the copy shop was busy, he had work to do, and I don’t know but what he’d already had a stressful day before I got there – but the whole thing was beginning to make me feel undeservedly harassed. Professors get precious few perks for the work we do, so I make sure to use and appreciate my 200 free copies per month in the copy shop.

And granted, copies aren’t that expensive, but I work hard for the money – so hard for it honey – yeah, I work hard for the money, so you better treat me right. Plus I felt like getting yelled at multiple times in Korean in the middle of a crowded copy shop where everyone understood what was being yelled at me except for me probably covered my tab.

So instead of handing over my cash I hitched up my politely and apologetically confused face a little higher, and said “I’m a professor; I need to sign the blue folder,” and made a signing motion.

A lesser woman would have wilted under the contemptuous gaze that was leveled at me then.

Fortunately for the diplomats of both our countries, at that point, a random student who knew a little bit of English came into the copy shop and offered to help/was conscripted into service by an angry copy man. With the nice student’s help, I answered the copy man’s questions. I told the copy man that I was a professor (which he already knew), that I worked in the English department (which was irrelevant), and that I needed to sign the blue folder (which, again, he knew – I’m a regular). And, at length, a slightly crinkled paper was grudgingly shoved in front of me which I signed. It wasn’t the blue folder, but it seemed to be just as official so I didn’t care.

I kept my money, kept my copies, thanked the student sincerely, and left the copy shop never to return (for the rest of the day). I’m beyond certain that the copy man was as glad to see my back as I was to show it to him.

If I weren’t so recognizable, I’d have some hope that my next quest for copies might go smoothly, but really the only person who looks like me around here is me. I’m too tall, too blue-eyed, too pale, and too fair-haired to be mistaken for anyone but myself. Anonymity is not a boon I have around these parts, however much I may wish for it at times. I just know he’s going to see me coming and start to cry.

Maybe after a restful weekend he’ll be in a more forgiving mood come Monday. I hope to high Heaven that man has a restful weekend. I’m giving a quiz on Monday and I need copies.

Is that spaghetti on your pizza?

I decided to take a moment and answer a question that I know has been weighing on you heavily regarding my time so far in Korea. And the answer is, yes, I have been eating spaghetti on my pizza. Along with corn, potatoes, and something that is either cream cheese or something else so similar that the distinction doesn’t deserve to be made. Koreans apparently come from the no holds barred school of pizza theory. If it’s digestible, you can find it on a pizza here. Though I haven’t seen any pepperoni yet. But the spaghetti-cream cheese-corn-ham combo was not actually deserving of the grimace I’m sure you’re making right now. In fact, I had an extra piece the next day for breakfast.

As for the rest of the food I’ve eaten in Korea, I have to say I’ve been pretty pleased. Some things are, of course, pretty spicy, but I’ve enjoyed everything I’ve had so far. Even the tiny octopus. I’m sure it’s lucky that I’m not very picky. I figure if it’ll keep me from starving to death, I probably ought to eat it and enjoy it.

I am also learning the art of tea drinking. (I know certain ones among you will be very proud of me for this. C1 and C2, I’m talking to you.) Actually, to be more accurate, I’m learning the art of consuming whatever is put in front of me. That just usually happens to be tea of some sort. I have to say it’s growing on me. Who knew leaf water could be so pleasant? And I’ve even had a couple of small cups of coffee. Weak coffee, but still. It’s more than I could say before.

And as of today, I’m happy to say, my food consumption has also included two kinds of cake and even some chocolate covered strawberries. Understandably, I’m very excited about this. And I chose the cakes and fruit in question, so I knew I’d like them. You can say whatever you want about Korean pizza, but cakes here are gorgeous.

This cake and chocolatey fruit situation is not an everyday happening around here, but among us foreigners there are two who are having birthdays within the next few days. And if that’s not a good enough reason for a party with cake and chocolate, then you’ll never find one. So I took it upon myself to ensure that joy and gladness would be spread to all and sundry as a result of these happy days. Translation: I wanted cake and found a perfectly legitimate excuse to have some. Some of you may find it ironic that the second newest professor at KNU who has been in country only two and a half weeks is the one doing the party planning, but I think most of you also know what lengths I will go to for chocolate and cake, so maybe it’s not all that surprising.

The bottom line I suppose is that my palate is expanding to include an appreciation for all sorts of ridiculous things that I never would have come up with on my own, but I still know of four bakeries that are within a ten minute walk of my apartment and, if pressed, I’m pretty sure I could recite the entire contents of the candy aisle at the grocery store.