Nothing But a Pair of Chopsticks

I can't believe it's already the twenty-eighth. September has passed stealthily.

Many interesting events notwithstanding, I find myself at a loss for words. My head is so very full, and my heart so unaccountably heavy, that the lighthearted frivolity with which I'm wont to express myself would render any stories, in this case, quite impersonal and in-apropos ([ap-r uh-poh]- a good word meaning ill-fitting or inopportune). Perhaps the major cause for this melancholy is that the Dubes moved today, leaving silent emptiness behind. There is no way for me to tell how precious that family has become to me.

On a more optimistic note, Adam and I signed up a Ewah University for Korean classes beginning mid October. I'm thrilled about this development. From every angle the course seems custom ordered: location, time, price, hours. I will be unbelievably pressed for time. There are few, if any, teachers who go to language school, and for good purpose. Both occupations are equally time consuming. But it won't be forever, I know, and will be give me a huge head start on next year. So I happily await October 16th.

Teaching is falling into a pattern, to my boundless joy. Now that I have my own classes, I'm making many modifications to the methods I had been using before. Each day preparation time is less, and my classes more focused and constructive. I'm beginning to feel like I really belong at the head of the classroom.

In just five days begins Chusok, a national Korean holiday. Everything closes down, including the school, for three days plus the weekend. So I'll have five days with which to get some rest and explore Seoul a little bit with the Dubes and Teresa. I look forward to this time with indescribable hope. 'Hope' is a strange word to use, but the feeling is a difficult one to portray. Longing. Expectation. Relief. I really need a breather.

Quite a few evenings ago I had dinner with Pyongae at her apartment. She wanted to have piping hot chicken soup with me while the weather is still warm. Heaven forbid eating chicken soup in the winter! I drank two full glasses of water before heading over, knowing that I wouldn't be offered liquid of any sort for the duration of the meal, and possibly for some time after. Many strange habits notwithstanding, I very thoroughly enjoyed my time with her, all the way down to the raw onion soaked in rice vinegar. That particular dish was, in fact, so exceptionally delectable to me that my mouth waters even now, while thinking of it. The soup was amazing, as all soup always is, regardless of recipe or cook. Two guinea hens boiled in water with three or four dried dates. Nothing more. Nothing less. To de-bone a whole chicken swimming in thin, hot broth, armed with nothing but a pair of chopsticks, requires skill, patience, and strong fingers. I have often, when partaking of this particular soup, had to discontinue eating as my fingers begin to cramp. Any more they don't feel too much pain, but I still often find my tongue sticking out one side of my mouth, and my face screwed up in focused effort to separate the tenacious edible from the equally tenacious inedible. At such times, I'm glad that small talk isn't conducted over the dinner table.