Laughing Life in the Face

Time is rapidly passing. Much has happened between now and when last I wrote, most of which has slipped unobtrusively from the dim annals of my memory into nothingness. I shall attempt to recall what I can of these last two weeks, with as accurate detail as possible.

Firstly, Teresa moved into my apartment, with two pets, a week ago today. The next day she left to visit her family in Florida. It's the first time she's been back to America in two years. I am, consequently, left with the animals. Daive, a small, kaleidoscopic dog, all hyper affection, bears perfunctorily her irregular name. Claude is a cat – aloof, consequential, sanctimonious. Need I say more? They bear me good company, but I will be glad for Teresa to relieve me of the joys of pet-sitting in just under two weeks.

How long Teresa and I will live together, no one knows. The possibility of my moving upstairs into the Dube's apartment after they move out (around the 20th) is very strong. The probability of that arrangement being only temporary is even stronger. Having no place to really call 'home' is, perhaps, the hardest thing in being here. However, on Friday the Dubes carried one of their dressers down to my room, and having the means at least (and at last) of unpacking my clothes brings me boundless joy.

I have been substitute-teaching for Teresa. It makes me very happy to have such occupation with which to employ my days. I heartily enjoy the time with my little students, and they have latched on to me as well. I teach Monday through Friday mornings at the Little Kings kindergarten, ½ hour from where I live. In the afternoon of these same days, I teach 1 st – 6th grades at the SCG building. Each respective grade involves, of course, different lesson plans, activities, and approaches.

For my hours to be so suddenly and dissimilarly filled, especially in contrast with what they recently have been, was rather disorienting at first. Especially considering that this same week I have also taken over Beth's Saturday elementary class, which position will be permanent. This group of students is most attentive, and the subject to be taught (predominantly reading) is much to my liking. But six teaching days a week, even for so short a time, is draining. The demand for ingenuity, spontaneity, and alacrity stands in defiance of even the most lively eagerness. The Dubes, having been here for some time, understood this, and were concerned that taking these Saturday classes on top of Teresa's was a little too much. All callowness, I assured them of my capability, and really, in retrospect, I think I would do the same again. If I hadn't taken Saturday then, it may not have been open to me later. Adam waited a day or two, then as my eagerness abated, told me that he would like to teach for me on Tuesdays, giving me that day off. I confess, I don't know what I would have done otherwise. Every day my appreciation for that family grows.

One regularity, initially an inconvenience pursued more from a recognition of my need to associate more with the Koreans than for pleasure, has since grown to be a joy. Every Monday and Wednesday after lunch Pyongae and I, and sometimes Joy, walk to and twice up a nearby mountain. It's excellent exercise. The pace they keep is astounding, especially considering the fact that they wear weighted shoes. I'm glad for the opportunity to get to know Pyongae better. She speaks English with a fair amount of fluency, and I sometimes experiment on her with the few Korean words I know. The age difference between us (about ten years) is too great, according to Korean social rules, for us ever to become very close friends, but I know that she enjoys the time we spend together as much as I do.

The mountain itself is restive. It's the most interesting sensation to one moment be traipsing through a noisy, bustling city, and the next, with quite literal suddenness, to find oneself surrounded by nothing but oriental trees, bosky foliage and the sky. Lovely in every respect.

Last Sunday the Dubes and Teresa wanted to get out. Their choice of destination was a grand scale mall on nearly the other side of the city. A mall isn't really my idea of a relaxing outing, especially coupled with the fact that it's over an hour away by subway. But I didn't particularly want to spend another evening in solitary reflection, so I decided to go along for the company, if nothing else. Had I known what felicity awaited me, I would have been unable, I am sure, to bridle my eagerness. The actual destination, I discovered, was not the mall in question, but rather, a fair-sized book store located therein. A book store, nonetheless, with an English section, wherein I was soon sublimely and blissfully lost to all reality between the covers of one book or another. All good things must come to an end, and I eventually tore myself away, but not without one each of Dickens, Austen, and Christie. I revel in these delights with a hunger that only such estrangement from well written English can engender.

Another shop that has supplied me with a great deal of satisfaction is a little yarn shop around the corner. I had taken it into my head to crochet myself a hand bag, so I wandered up and down the streets of my small neighborhood, peering in at first one little shop and then another, in attempt to find the yarn with which to do so. After nearly two hours, I gave up in despair, and essayed vainly to console myself with a little sandwich and an iced latte at a near by deli. That evening I got online, looking at patterns, and conceiving in my imagination that which would never be a reality. I even looked at what it would cost to buy the yarn online and have it shipped. I suppose it had by this time become a sort fetish for me, no longer having so much to do with the purse as with the intense desire to employ myself in a thing at which I was sure to excel…a rarity to me in such a foreign environment. The next day I happened upon Joy on my way to work, and inevitably spoke of that which was still foremost on my mind. Joy has incredible English vocabulary ability, but her grasp on the usage thereof leaves something to be desired. It was quite some time before I was able to communicate to her that all I needed was the yarn. Not books. Not a teacher. Not a translator. Just yarn. When she finally understood her face brightened, and she said that after lunch she would take me to a little place that she knew of. "But," she warned, "it may be very expensive." I hadn't expected otherwise…expensive has become the norm. The little cubby hole tucked away off the street was indeed a yarn shop, but to my amusement, and initial dismay, carried no real yarn. It had imitations and substitutes enough, however, to soon satisfy me, and after some deliberation I settled on what I though would be suitable for the project I had in mind. It didn't end up being more than W15,000 for the three skeins of whatever-it-was and a crochet needle, and I came away feeling in harmony with the world, and quite contend with my purchases. The project is nearly completed, and I fortunately haven't, so far, had any repetition of such irrational drive as compelled this recent exploit.

I think that, at this point, I've written enough about personal happenstances to here justify two cultural observations. One strikes me as humorous, the other as odd. The former has to do with the police force. I constantly observe, in a state of mingled amusement and incredulity, what is to me the appearance of inflated self-importance, though I know this to be merely a Westerner's misconceived point of view. I really cannot imagine what it is that compels them to drive around with their flashing lights constantly and irrelevantly revolving, as if announcing to the world, "Look out! Here I come!" And I have to choke back laughter at the absurdity with which the quotidian plain-clothes men attempt inconspicuity. Every one of them is dressed with rigid and obvious uniformity in black and white checked shirts and black slacks. I do not attempt to understand. I merely shrug and enjoy.

A more perplexing, less easily excused actuality is the role that video games play in this society. During the adult session at English camp, when individuals were asked what different hobbies they had, the reply, "I play video games" was not uncommon. I first thought that the concept 'hobby' must not be entirely clear to these individuals; perhaps they understood it to mean, "what do you enjoy doing?" I later learned, however, that regardless of their comprehension of this word, video gaming is indeed quite the craze here. There are TV shows dedicated to those who take pleasure in watching the masters at work. Video game competitions are held among grown men. It's not uncommon for a social gathering to be wrapped around the screen in breathless delight as an unsurpassable level is conquered. I am truly amazed, and have nothing more to say on the subject.

The topic of food refuses to be suppressed. My eating habits seem as strange to the Korean as theirs do to me. It is common knowledge that, when one sits down to a meal, he cannot be fully satisfied unless he is tasting something of everything at once. Thus a little bit of this, then a little bit of that, then some of the two mixed together, then a taste of that dish over in the corner, and so on. If one only watched and never tasted, he would be quite enraptured with the remarkably painstaking delight a Korean takes in his food. Long before I had noticed this very peculiar manner of consumption, however, my eating habits had become irrevocably settled and remarked upon. I cannot feel at all to blame in the situation, given the curiously strange tastes, smells and textures of the various foods set before me. Always politely taking as much as I dare of as many dishes as I brave (and these I redundantly pronounced 'interesting' much to the general satisfaction of those to whom the preparation of the meal is credited), I circumspectly save my probably ridiculously large helping of rice for last. The delightful tastelessness of this particular food serves its purpose remarkably well in erasing from my memory all other strongly and mildly offensive tastes. I hadn't realized how great was the discrepancy between my manner of consumption and the norm until, one day, just as I was beginning to partake of my anti-analeptic rice, I was pressed to go back for more food. I felt puzzled, and must have looked it, because it was helpfully explained to me that certainly one cannot enjoy his rice without some accompanying taste. I thanked my benefactor kindly, but assured him that he was quite mistaken, that the rice was singularly delicious. He smiled quizzically, shrugged and returned his attention back to his own food. I thought no more of this encounter until, eating one day with Joy, she looked peculiarly at me. "Namsoo told me you eat funny." she remarked casually. I laughed, "What do you mean?" She explained to me what I have explained to you, while I continued with nonchalant unconcern to savor my lonely rice. I have since been asked, more times than I care to recount, "Why do you eat like that?" and my common response has become, "It's how I would eat it in America."…which is quite true. It's how I would eat it anywhere. This seems to be quite a satisfactory reply, meeting with sympathetic nods of the head, and much magnanimous condescension. They understand.

Well, thank you for putting up with my ramblings. Years from now my older and more mature self will read back over these emails and shake her head at how easily diverted she used to be. But for now, I'm glad to be able to laugh life in the face. It can be overwhelming, if one takes it too seriously.

Annyonghigeseyo (*pant, pant*),
me