A Bloody Nose, 주세요.

Dear Family,

Too many weeks have passed between my last email and this. I've been intending to write for some time, but some how have heretofore lacked the necessary enthusiasm. Correspondence is not the only thing to have become colorless. I've been remiss in studying Korean. Crafts that interested me a month ago, have since lain untouched. Many other mundane tasks have been neglected; I won't bore you with a more exhaustive list. I've only become aware of this state of lethargy within these last few days, and have puzzled over what could be the cause of it. I'm in fine health and my work situation is no more chaotic or insane than usual, so I don't feel any remarkable physical or emotional stress. The weather is warm and beautiful, entirely un-depressing. I sat in silence for a while this morning, to consider if perhaps my relationship with God has become indolent. Aside from feeling keenly how little I know and love Him, not by any means a feeling isolated to this last month, I am glad to say that I don't think that spiritual regression is at the root of this torpidity. Then the only thing I can put my finger on is that I'm simply winding down in anticipation of being home in just four weeks.

Only four weeks! I've never experienced such escalation of appetent impatience. If other pursuits have become dry, that eager interest which they once commanded is now redirected, with all the force of bridled energy, toward intensifying my voracious desire to be home - like a lens that focuses scattered rays of sunlight into a live, smoldering radial, until its very heart must, by the laws of nature, burst into flame. To be with the ones I love best. I believe I'm not alone in the persuasion that there is no stronger earthly pull.

On the other hand, I experienced for the first time, the other day, while hanging out with my Korean friends, some small regret for the things I will leave behind, and find myself excited at the prospect of being back here in August. I look forward to being able to devote my time to studying this complicated language in earnest. I know that so many of the frustrations and difficulties I experience arise from my lack of comprehension.

Though I've been here for over ten months, I'm only just beginning to realize how very different Korean is from English. They don't just speak differently, they think differently, and to become fluent, one must learn to think the thoughts of a Korean. Some time ago we experienced an unexpected rain. Boyeun and I were just leaving the Kindergarten, and neither of us had an umbrella. She turned back to speak to one of the other Korean teachers. I was puzzled by the question I heard her ask, and supposed that I had mistranslated.
"Did you just ask her if she doesn't have an umbrella we can borrow?" I verified.
"Yes." Boyeun replied, "That way whatever answer she gives will be okay."
It took me a while to figure out what she meant, but after having listened to several similar dialogues, I begin to understand.
In America, one would ask his friend, "Do you have the time?"
Either "yes, I do" or "no, I'm sorry" would be the reply.
However, in Korea one mustn't place a friend in the position of having to give a negative answer, so the question will be stated, "Do you not have the time?"
To this, the reply must be either "yes, I don't" (positive accedence) or "no, I do" (positive modification). The situation has been handled with delicacy and no apologies are needed.

Along the same train of thought (that is, creating circumstances most comfortable for your audience) is the idea of mi casa es su casa. It's not 'my apartment' or 'my car' or 'my phone.' It's ours: 'our teeth hurt' or 'our left shoe is missing' or 'I'd like to introduce you to our wife.' …huh?!

However, I regret to state that not all of my linguistic difficulties can be explained so casually away. Some mistakes simply take the form of those errors which other language learners may struggle with, but I had determined never to make. I have been adequately humbled, however, and step forward to join rank with countless others who have been humbled before me. Not very long ago, upon sanguinely ordering a 'coppie latte' at the local Star Bucks, I was rewarded with that bemused look that has become as familiar to me as the back of my hand. Being accustomed to receiving such peculiar glances, especially at cafes, I paid no heed, but Boyeun began to laugh.
"Do you know what you just said?"
"Of course I do. Why?"
"I think you mean 'cappie'… you ordered a bloody nose."

While my opinion of own intelligence may suffer severe blows, at least I don't feel entirely alone. Korea has economically developed at an amazing rate. Sometimes it's difficult to picture this Korea that I know today as the war-torn, isolated country that it was just over fifty years ago. So when Koreans present their old ways of thought as proven fact, it can be somewhat startling. I've mentioned before, for example, that hiccoughs are caused by eating stolen food, and that rain water will make one's hair fall out. But I think I should warn you, also, that it's fatal to closet oneself in an unventilated room with a running fan, and that to prick one's thumb is to draw bad blood from his stomach, thereby relieving a bellyache. What a wealth of information one amasses in a foreign country!

Once a month all the English teachers eat dinner out, on the company's bill. This is always a pleasant experience, especially since we usually go to a western restaurant. This month, for various reasons, I happened to be the only Western teacher amongst us. Being easily outnumbered by the other bilingual teachers, my lone vote for Outback Steak House was overridden by six in favor of Seafood Ocean. I took this in good grace, and each laughed at the strangeness of the others' peculiar taste.
In most cases, one establishment is pretty much like the next, where seafood is concerned. Each sports several large aquariums out front; the equivalent of a sidewalk menu. One studies the various fish and squid and rays and octopi and eels and barnacles swimming round, and if the restaurant has a palatable assortment, he steps in to find a seat on the floor round a long, low table. From the moment our hungry friend has ordered to the moment his dish will be placed before him, only as much time passes as is necessary for the chef to reach into a fish tank, slay his unlucky victim, and diametrically arrange this still pulsating, writhing creature on a lovely bed of crisp, green lettuce. This adds a whole new dimension to my understanding of fresh seafood.
With this picture in my head, a quaking in my heart, and a smile on my lips, we were off. I'm happy to be able to report that my heart quaked in vain. Not only was most of the food in the Seafood Ocean buffet edible, but much of it was even quite delectable, and I heartily enjoyed my dinner of fried shrimp, chicken shish kabobs, sharks' fin, and various pastas and fruit. The tray at the very end of the line was a novelty to me. It bore a mound of sea-snails, their large, gyroidal shells still stained green with algae. I toyed with the idea of eating one, until I happened to spy one of the other teachers prying his from its shell. The strings of slime involved dissuaded me, and I had to hide a smile when Boyeun leaned over and whispered,
"Koreans don't like them either. But they're so expensive, that people aren't going to pass up the opportunity of eating them at no extra cost."
As we filed out of the restaurant two hours later, our waiter handed each of us a bar of soap - dish soap, I supposed, glancing at the sparkling, clean dishes pictured on the box. I opened mine, and took a big whiff. Wrinkling my nose with disgust, I cried out,
"Ugh! It smells like fish!"
"No it doesn't." The others protested, smelling in turn. But I laughed when it was later explained to me that the soap was made from the used oil in which the restaurant had fried its seafood. When they knew why I was laughing, they grinned sheepishly, and admitted that maybe there was just a hint of fishy odor about it.
"But that's okay. It's not dish soap, so your dishes won't smell fishy. It's laundry soap."
I gave my bar away.

It occurred to me for the first time, the other day, that I will always be seen as a foreigner here. I may learn to think, speak, behave, and even feel like a Korean, but until my eyes develop a slant, and my hair becomes straight and black, I will always be stared at as I walk down the street, and strangers will always shy away from me at the super market or in the park. While I dislike it, I've become used to some Koreans refusing to talk above a whisper in my presence, or even turning their backs to me in their shyness.
On Monday, riding from the first floor to the cafeteria on the eighth, Boyeun and I were joined by two other employees. They hesitated before stepping on to the elevator with us. This bashfulness was overcome, but once in, they stared silently at their shoes, with their hands clenched tightly together, until they were able to make their escape. It's not really an uncommon scenario, but for some reason it struck me particularly then. I commented on it to Boyeun, only half funning.
"I don't bite!" I protested. "Maybe I should hang a sign around my neck to that effect."
She laughed, but I don't know if she really got it. Cross-cultural humor is hardly communicable.

I bought myself a hand crafted fife, a few weeks ago. The instrument sang so beautifully when the salesperson wielded it! My pains, however, produce no more than a clumsy squawk, and I'm lazily inclined to believe that a sleight-of-hand was pulled, and the exceptional instrument I purchased mysteriously exchanged for the one I now hold. I shall continue to practice, however, until I have rung out of the lemon a tune as sweet and melodious as ever. I do so enjoy making music!

Several evenings ago I glanced at the pile of dishes in my sink, and sighed. Suddenly I was very, very tired. It was raining out, so I opened my sitting room window and pressed my cheek against the wet screen. It felt so cool and beautiful. The rain was fine, and the icy-green leaves on a tree just outside the window were covered with sparkling droplets. It all shouted God's voice at me, "See what I have done!" I opened the screen and held up my hand to catch the rain. It gathered in a little pool in my palm and ran down my arm, and again the silent but distinct exultation, "See what I have done!" My heart thrilled as a sudden gust of wind shook the leaves, spraying me with water. Leaning as far out of the window as I could, I lifted my face to the sky and laughed with spontaneous delight at the wonderful care of my God.

May He so care for you,
Elisabeth