And here I am in Yanji. Thank you, my family, for your many thoughts.
As the train drew near, Yanji station was announced in mutilated English, so I had time enough to gather my wits and my belongings, and make a hasty exit.
I was exhausted and disoriented enough that most of that day remains a blur. Mike introduced me to a few of his own friends, and together they contrived (quite deliberately) to keep me away from home and sleep until around 8:00. Miserable as it was at the time, I was grateful for it later, because that night I slept like the dead. The only thing that really stands out in my mind, was crossing streets. It was insane. At first I was able to cope with being nearly run down several times in succession. But as the evening wore on, and I became more disoriented, my fried mind blew a socket whenever we came to an intersection, and it felt as though I was flying in every direction at once, as maniacal vehicles careened past and around me in the dark, often with only inches to spare. My head snapped around, but it didn't seem to matter which way I looked, there was always a worse fate over the other shoulder. The 'Intersection of Death' was especially intense, and I came, then, as near as I ever have to panicking.
That night I slept soundly, and woke up the next morning pretty rested. Which was fortunate, because at 5:00 AM a group of us took off for Baekdu Mountain. That was a beautiful experience. After a five hour drive in a rickety bus, we hiked for one or two hours up the lovely, mellow green mountain, to a waterfall. We were to have hiked up the fall, but that trail was closed due to rock slides. So we hired a SUV, instead, and drove to the very top of the mountain, from where we had a breathtaking view of the glassy, water-filled crater at it's center. About two thirds of the crater is actually in NK. So standing on top of the world, over a magnificent scope, so close to the land of my people, was exhilarating.
I could write of more, but I know how quickly an email can get very long, so I'll stop here. I mostly just wanted to let you know that I got here safely, and to thank you for thinking of me.
Elisabeth
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
A Grueling Experience
Family...
Well, this train ride has been a grueling experience. With five hours left to go, my neck and shoulders are beginning to ache from three days of cramped inactivity.
I've seen a little of the country side, which is much like one would find anywhere, with it's greens and browns under a very blue sky. Here and there are herds of long haired goats. Their herders stand in the road side or sit picturesquely in the shade of a near by tree, with gnarly staffs and conical, straw hats. There are a lot of corn crops, their silky tassels hinting at the ripeness of their fruit. It has been pleasant to sit on one of the little, backless bucket seats by the window and watch the world sluggishly roll past. But, as those seats are quite uncomfortable, I've spent most of this journey lying in my bunk, above two others, with about three feet of head room. The forced rest has been a disguised blessing: I feel much more alive today than I did yesterday.
I found the train depot, yesterday, as you may have gathered. After paying the taxi driver, and hoisting my luggage out of the car, I began to walk in a generally unspecific direction. Before long I spotted a police officer on the corner. Showing my ticket to him, I pointed in several directions at once, and shrugged my shoulders. He obligingly gesticulated, grunted in four or five different tones, and made me to understand that I was to walk down to the nearest crosswalk and cross the street. This I did, and found myself before an impressive, stately building, pressed in on every side by a throng of people all heading in the same direction. For reasons ambiguous, only one person was permitted to enter the building at a time. So the surging crowd outside pressed and pulled together, moving like a strong current of water, while one individual at a time burst through the doors, much like a wet watermelon seed. Once inside, of course, the crowds thinned a bit.
I wandered around the depot for a while, until I eventually spotted a billboard above 'Waiting room number 4' that had numbers to match those on my ticket. I stood, looking around me uncertainly at the hundreds of people crowded, sitting, into this large room. Spotting an official at the very back, I picked my way over to her, and showed her my ticket. She unexpectedly punched it, and opened the little gate in front of which she stood, ushering me through.
I followed several corridors for an eternity, until my whole body began to ache from the weight of the two backpacks I carried. None too soon, a long cement hall opened on the left to a flight of stairs. Up these, and there was a train, with an officer standing at the door of each car. Again, out came the ticket. Again I was gesticulated at, and understood that I was to move further along the train. At every car I stopped, showing my ticket, was pointed in one direction or another, until at last I gave my ticket to an officer who scrutinized first the ticket, then myself, then stepped aside to let me in. Without too much more ado, and with the help of some helpful fellow passengers, I found my bunk, stowed my bags, and settled down for a very long ride.
I must leave you now.
Much love,
Elisabeth
Well, this train ride has been a grueling experience. With five hours left to go, my neck and shoulders are beginning to ache from three days of cramped inactivity.
I've seen a little of the country side, which is much like one would find anywhere, with it's greens and browns under a very blue sky. Here and there are herds of long haired goats. Their herders stand in the road side or sit picturesquely in the shade of a near by tree, with gnarly staffs and conical, straw hats. There are a lot of corn crops, their silky tassels hinting at the ripeness of their fruit. It has been pleasant to sit on one of the little, backless bucket seats by the window and watch the world sluggishly roll past. But, as those seats are quite uncomfortable, I've spent most of this journey lying in my bunk, above two others, with about three feet of head room. The forced rest has been a disguised blessing: I feel much more alive today than I did yesterday.
I found the train depot, yesterday, as you may have gathered. After paying the taxi driver, and hoisting my luggage out of the car, I began to walk in a generally unspecific direction. Before long I spotted a police officer on the corner. Showing my ticket to him, I pointed in several directions at once, and shrugged my shoulders. He obligingly gesticulated, grunted in four or five different tones, and made me to understand that I was to walk down to the nearest crosswalk and cross the street. This I did, and found myself before an impressive, stately building, pressed in on every side by a throng of people all heading in the same direction. For reasons ambiguous, only one person was permitted to enter the building at a time. So the surging crowd outside pressed and pulled together, moving like a strong current of water, while one individual at a time burst through the doors, much like a wet watermelon seed. Once inside, of course, the crowds thinned a bit.
I wandered around the depot for a while, until I eventually spotted a billboard above 'Waiting room number 4' that had numbers to match those on my ticket. I stood, looking around me uncertainly at the hundreds of people crowded, sitting, into this large room. Spotting an official at the very back, I picked my way over to her, and showed her my ticket. She unexpectedly punched it, and opened the little gate in front of which she stood, ushering me through.
I followed several corridors for an eternity, until my whole body began to ache from the weight of the two backpacks I carried. None too soon, a long cement hall opened on the left to a flight of stairs. Up these, and there was a train, with an officer standing at the door of each car. Again, out came the ticket. Again I was gesticulated at, and understood that I was to move further along the train. At every car I stopped, showing my ticket, was pointed in one direction or another, until at last I gave my ticket to an officer who scrutinized first the ticket, then myself, then stepped aside to let me in. Without too much more ado, and with the help of some helpful fellow passengers, I found my bunk, stowed my bags, and settled down for a very long ride.
I must leave you now.
Much love,
Elisabeth
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Perfect Rest
Dear Ones,
I may or may not have the opportunity to send any emails while in China. In any case, I thought I'd keep an account of life on a daily basis, so that when I do get the chance to email, either from here or from Korea, I won't have to dig back into the recesses of my mind to remember what happened when and where.
In these last forty four hours I've been able to catch a total of four hours of broken, alert sleep. So if what I write today seems in any way scattered or irrelevant, that will have to be my excuse. And I will continue to use it for the next thirty hours. My travels, you must understand, are only half over. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
It wasn't too difficult to wave goodbye to you, two nights ago. I've said good-bye enough times that I'm pretty much able to disengage my mind, at times like that, from what's happening. So it wasn't until I actually stepped on to the plane, nine hours later, that a heavy weight settled on my chest, and my mind screamed at me, 'What on earth are you doing?!' Somehow planes always seem to have that effect on me…they're so irrevocable, you know. But I told myself that now was not the time to be entertaining such thoughts, and allowed the candy and cookies you sent along turn my mind to more pleasant, or at least less restless, channels.
The rest of the plane trip was uneventful enough to satisfy the most prosaic of travelers, if you don't count the fact that the seats were so squeezed together that my knees pressed into the seat in front of me for the entirety of the twelve hour flight from San Francisco. I was most sincerely thankful when we finally touch down in Beijing.
…Except, I'd never met (or, of course, seen) the man who was to meet me at the airport. I picked up my luggage, went through customs, and from there was quickly re-initiated into the very east-Asian method of maneuvering through a crowd (this, for those of you who are drawing a blank, employs mostly the elbows). And it was a crowd. I looked over the sea of glossy, black heads (I really don't know what for. As I said, I didn't know for whom I was looking) and quickly decided that the one who didn't have the luggage must be the one to do the finding. So I dragged everything over to a row of seats, pulled out a sudoku puzzle, and settled down to wait for an indefinite amount of time. It occurred to me that I should be a little nervous, at least. And certainly I berated myself for not having gotten Marvin's phone number, or at least having arranged a particular spot at which to meet him. But in the same moment I knew that He had His eyes on me, and absolutely had my hand in His. And sure enough, one from a multitude of Asian faces spotted me about a half an hour later, and called my name. He had been looking for me for several hours, and 'was just about to take off.'
'I'm very glad you didn't.' I replied with intense sincerity.
Marvin took me to the apartment where I'll stay tonight. To my very great joy, the elderly couple with whom I'm living speak fluent Korean so that we're able to hold basic, albeit stunted, conversation. Sometimes they laugh, so I know either that I've misunderstood their question, or somehow miscommunicated what I had attempted to say. It's all good practice, and I'm happy that, despite my deplorable lack of studying this summer, I'm able to pick up where I left off.
After exchanging some money into Chinese currency, Marvin brought me around the corner to a little cubby hole in a wall where I purchased a train ticket that will carry me up to Yenji tomorrow. That will be a twenty-one hour journey, which I'm not even remotely looking forward to. Marvin will put me in a taxi, give the driver directions to the depot, and then I will be on my own, with no way of contacting anyone, if I need help. As he was telling me this, he said, 'You should probably know that the driver won't take you all the way to the station, because he's not allowed to drive that far. He'll drop you off somewhere near by, and you'll have to find it from there.'
In relation to which train to take, 'Someone will be able to help you, but don't let anyone besides yourself hold your ticket. If you let go of it, you'll never get it back.'
And when I asked how I'll know at which station I'm eventually to disembark, 'Oh, you'll probably just know.'
The entirety of the trip is fraught with vaguenesses, and if you've ever spent time in a foreign country, you'll understand some of the discomfiture I experience in being set loose to find my ambiguous, twenty-one hour way, alone on my second day here. If it weren't for the absolute certainty that every step (I do not speak generally, but very specifically: every foot step) I take is Ordered and Prearranged, I would be experiencing every emotion other than that which I now feel, and that is perfect rest.
...
Yay! I get to send this sooner than I thought I would. I'll be taking off for the train station very soon, and hopefully (though by no means probably) will be able to send a quick email tomorrow, when I've arrived, letting you all know that I'm still alive and hopefully not too disoriented.
Missing you already,
Elisabeth
I may or may not have the opportunity to send any emails while in China. In any case, I thought I'd keep an account of life on a daily basis, so that when I do get the chance to email, either from here or from Korea, I won't have to dig back into the recesses of my mind to remember what happened when and where.
In these last forty four hours I've been able to catch a total of four hours of broken, alert sleep. So if what I write today seems in any way scattered or irrelevant, that will have to be my excuse. And I will continue to use it for the next thirty hours. My travels, you must understand, are only half over. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
It wasn't too difficult to wave goodbye to you, two nights ago. I've said good-bye enough times that I'm pretty much able to disengage my mind, at times like that, from what's happening. So it wasn't until I actually stepped on to the plane, nine hours later, that a heavy weight settled on my chest, and my mind screamed at me, 'What on earth are you doing?!' Somehow planes always seem to have that effect on me…they're so irrevocable, you know. But I told myself that now was not the time to be entertaining such thoughts, and allowed the candy and cookies you sent along turn my mind to more pleasant, or at least less restless, channels.
The rest of the plane trip was uneventful enough to satisfy the most prosaic of travelers, if you don't count the fact that the seats were so squeezed together that my knees pressed into the seat in front of me for the entirety of the twelve hour flight from San Francisco. I was most sincerely thankful when we finally touch down in Beijing.
…Except, I'd never met (or, of course, seen) the man who was to meet me at the airport. I picked up my luggage, went through customs, and from there was quickly re-initiated into the very east-Asian method of maneuvering through a crowd (this, for those of you who are drawing a blank, employs mostly the elbows). And it was a crowd. I looked over the sea of glossy, black heads (I really don't know what for. As I said, I didn't know for whom I was looking) and quickly decided that the one who didn't have the luggage must be the one to do the finding. So I dragged everything over to a row of seats, pulled out a sudoku puzzle, and settled down to wait for an indefinite amount of time. It occurred to me that I should be a little nervous, at least. And certainly I berated myself for not having gotten Marvin's phone number, or at least having arranged a particular spot at which to meet him. But in the same moment I knew that He had His eyes on me, and absolutely had my hand in His. And sure enough, one from a multitude of Asian faces spotted me about a half an hour later, and called my name. He had been looking for me for several hours, and 'was just about to take off.'
'I'm very glad you didn't.' I replied with intense sincerity.
Marvin took me to the apartment where I'll stay tonight. To my very great joy, the elderly couple with whom I'm living speak fluent Korean so that we're able to hold basic, albeit stunted, conversation. Sometimes they laugh, so I know either that I've misunderstood their question, or somehow miscommunicated what I had attempted to say. It's all good practice, and I'm happy that, despite my deplorable lack of studying this summer, I'm able to pick up where I left off.
After exchanging some money into Chinese currency, Marvin brought me around the corner to a little cubby hole in a wall where I purchased a train ticket that will carry me up to Yenji tomorrow. That will be a twenty-one hour journey, which I'm not even remotely looking forward to. Marvin will put me in a taxi, give the driver directions to the depot, and then I will be on my own, with no way of contacting anyone, if I need help. As he was telling me this, he said, 'You should probably know that the driver won't take you all the way to the station, because he's not allowed to drive that far. He'll drop you off somewhere near by, and you'll have to find it from there.'
In relation to which train to take, 'Someone will be able to help you, but don't let anyone besides yourself hold your ticket. If you let go of it, you'll never get it back.'
And when I asked how I'll know at which station I'm eventually to disembark, 'Oh, you'll probably just know.'
The entirety of the trip is fraught with vaguenesses, and if you've ever spent time in a foreign country, you'll understand some of the discomfiture I experience in being set loose to find my ambiguous, twenty-one hour way, alone on my second day here. If it weren't for the absolute certainty that every step (I do not speak generally, but very specifically: every foot step) I take is Ordered and Prearranged, I would be experiencing every emotion other than that which I now feel, and that is perfect rest.
...
Yay! I get to send this sooner than I thought I would. I'll be taking off for the train station very soon, and hopefully (though by no means probably) will be able to send a quick email tomorrow, when I've arrived, letting you all know that I'm still alive and hopefully not too disoriented.
Missing you already,
Elisabeth
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
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
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
Friday, April 27, 2007
'Shattered Hues of Light"
A silent ache, a trembling droplet blears
The vision of my vacant, brimming eye.
Color melts with color, drips, and smears
A stained glass world, washed and splashed awry,
And falls among the thousand watery tears
That tumble from a weary, weeping sky.
Then in a trice, one captive shaft of light
Bursts from the prism of one raindrop’s bight
The vision of my vacant, brimming eye.
Color melts with color, drips, and smears
A stained glass world, washed and splashed awry,
And falls among the thousand watery tears
That tumble from a weary, weeping sky.
Then in a trice, one captive shaft of light
Bursts from the prism of one raindrop’s bight
And shattered hues of joy illume the night.
My Heart Aches Quietly
Dear Family,
I'm so sorry about Grandpa's death. All day that thought has been in the back of my mind, but as a dream rather than reality. Sitting here alone, now, I begin to realize that I will never see him again, and my heart aches quietly. At times like this, it's incommunicably difficult to be so far from home.
Wishing I was there with you...
Elisabeth
I'm so sorry about Grandpa's death. All day that thought has been in the back of my mind, but as a dream rather than reality. Sitting here alone, now, I begin to realize that I will never see him again, and my heart aches quietly. At times like this, it's incommunicably difficult to be so far from home.
Wishing I was there with you...
Elisabeth
"He will joy over thee with singing."
Well, it's been about a month since my last email. I've had every good intention, on several intermittent occasions, of writing to you all, but somehow have up till now been unable to focus on collecting all my thoughts.
Life is dealing well with me lately. Spring begins to discard its inconstancy and to become more assertive. As the gray skies lift, so to does my spirit.
The only one disobliging element of an otherwise perfect season is the yellow dust. Every year in April, for about two weeks, fine dust from the more arid regions of China blows across Korea, positively enshrouding the country in a hazy, yellowish fog. Some days it's not bad, but on others the air is thick and dirty. I'll try to remember to attach a picture of it. In this case a visual is worth a thousand words.
A week ago I registered at Sogang Language Institute, for the fall semester. There are no words with which to describe my absolute happiness in the prospect of finally settling down to learn Korean. I've come to realize about myself that I don't like to stay on one place for very much time. I've been teaching at SCG for long enough. Forward and Onward!
Meanwhile I continue to study Korean with Boyeun, who has become an amazing friend to me. We hang out a lot, and she's made my life here infinitely easier. Fluent in both English and Korean, and having spent three years in Canada, she understands Western culture, and knows first hand how it feels to be a 'foreigner'. We relate very well, and I'm grateful for her friendship.
My commitment here ends toward the end of June, so between then and September, I'm a free woman. Taking advantage of this rare state of being, I'll be home for two months this summer. YAY! I'm hugely excited.
A couple of weeks ago my adult English class treated me to dinner. This class is composed solely of male employees from the company, none of whom speak very fluent English. On this occasion, however, and to my pleasant surprise, a young woman came along, who (though she spoke no English), served to relieve the situation of any awkwardness it may otherwise have afforded.
The restaurant they took me to was a typically traditional one. We sat at a small round table, with a grill set deep in the middle. This was filled with white-hot coals, and covered with an open rack. Here was grilled perhaps some of the most delicious cuts of beef I've had yet in Korea. Tender, juicy, and delectable. I felt very Korean, eating this with raw onion, garlic, and horseradish, thought I was only just able to refrain from asking for water.
Dinner over, desert was brought out. Artfully arranged on a bed on parsley, and liberally topped with shredded pare, a pound or two of raw ground beef was set before us. My eyes widened, and I found my lips twitching at the absurdity of such a dish. Fortunately, my half-smile communicated, to those curious eyes watching my face, a degree of pleasure, and I was invited to dig in. It was better than I had expected, but only just. The taste was fine, but the thick, greasy consistency was nauseating. However, I helped them to polish of the last of it with out recourse to either water or the glass of beer placed at my elbow.
This particular drink had been liberally partaken of through the meal, by the others. My own abstinence was commented on, but I excused myself, "The taste is very strange." They all nodded with sympathetic understanding, and held up their glasses for more.
After dinner, we went to a coffee house (of very cozy and comfortable ambiance…such a thing would absolutely take Bandon by storm) where I, by ordering a Latte, forestalled the inevitable next round of beer. We talked comfortably for a while, the only disturbance to my peace of mind lying in the amount of caffeine I was ingesting at such a late hour. It must by this time have been nearly nine o'clock. After some small talk, one of the men announced, "We must be home by 10:00." I cocked my head curiously and he explained, "After 10:00 police officers arrest drivers who have been drinking." There was a barely perceptible pause, then he asked politely, "Would you like me to drive you home after we leave? My house is close to yours." It's to my credit that I didn't burst out laughing at the absurdity of this offer, coming as it did on the heels of his previous statement. I declined gracefully enough, but still shake my head ruefully at the memory of that evening.
Boyeun bought me flowering potted cacti for my birthday. They're beautiful, each holding his own vibrant orange or red or pink head up with the inexorable dignity of one conscious of his own superiority, whether real or imagined. I find their stately airs amusing, though I never let on…not, of course, as though they would take me seriously, if I did. Such an ego cannot fathom that one might see him as less than he perceive himeslf to be. At any rate, we get on famously. They are the only plants with which I have absolute success, simply because I'm never required to touch them.
The school shooting in Virginia has been a hot topic here. I've been amazed at the Koreans' reaction to it. They took it really hard. It's just a guess, but I'd say that most Americans, those not directly involved, probably heard the news, threw mental hands heavenward, exclaimed in horrified accents, "Dear God, that's terrible!!!", then went back to their dinners. The Koreans, on the other hand, listened with stolid silence and lost their appetites. The Korean concept of family and nationality is such that one member represents all. Korea is apprehensive that America will point her outraged finger, "What kind of people are you?!" The apparently individual personal responsibility assumed is sobering to watch.
Well, this is getting rather long. I will end with a thought that has lately made me very happy. The end of Zephaniah 3:17 reads: "He will joy over thee with singing." That word 'joy' is 'to spin around under the influence of any violent emotion.' That I infuse God with such elation is beyond my grasp…
May we learn to so joy over Him,
Elisabeth
Life is dealing well with me lately. Spring begins to discard its inconstancy and to become more assertive. As the gray skies lift, so to does my spirit.
The only one disobliging element of an otherwise perfect season is the yellow dust. Every year in April, for about two weeks, fine dust from the more arid regions of China blows across Korea, positively enshrouding the country in a hazy, yellowish fog. Some days it's not bad, but on others the air is thick and dirty. I'll try to remember to attach a picture of it. In this case a visual is worth a thousand words.
A week ago I registered at Sogang Language Institute, for the fall semester. There are no words with which to describe my absolute happiness in the prospect of finally settling down to learn Korean. I've come to realize about myself that I don't like to stay on one place for very much time. I've been teaching at SCG for long enough. Forward and Onward!
Meanwhile I continue to study Korean with Boyeun, who has become an amazing friend to me. We hang out a lot, and she's made my life here infinitely easier. Fluent in both English and Korean, and having spent three years in Canada, she understands Western culture, and knows first hand how it feels to be a 'foreigner'. We relate very well, and I'm grateful for her friendship.
My commitment here ends toward the end of June, so between then and September, I'm a free woman. Taking advantage of this rare state of being, I'll be home for two months this summer. YAY! I'm hugely excited.
A couple of weeks ago my adult English class treated me to dinner. This class is composed solely of male employees from the company, none of whom speak very fluent English. On this occasion, however, and to my pleasant surprise, a young woman came along, who (though she spoke no English), served to relieve the situation of any awkwardness it may otherwise have afforded.
The restaurant they took me to was a typically traditional one. We sat at a small round table, with a grill set deep in the middle. This was filled with white-hot coals, and covered with an open rack. Here was grilled perhaps some of the most delicious cuts of beef I've had yet in Korea. Tender, juicy, and delectable. I felt very Korean, eating this with raw onion, garlic, and horseradish, thought I was only just able to refrain from asking for water.
Dinner over, desert was brought out. Artfully arranged on a bed on parsley, and liberally topped with shredded pare, a pound or two of raw ground beef was set before us. My eyes widened, and I found my lips twitching at the absurdity of such a dish. Fortunately, my half-smile communicated, to those curious eyes watching my face, a degree of pleasure, and I was invited to dig in. It was better than I had expected, but only just. The taste was fine, but the thick, greasy consistency was nauseating. However, I helped them to polish of the last of it with out recourse to either water or the glass of beer placed at my elbow.
This particular drink had been liberally partaken of through the meal, by the others. My own abstinence was commented on, but I excused myself, "The taste is very strange." They all nodded with sympathetic understanding, and held up their glasses for more.
After dinner, we went to a coffee house (of very cozy and comfortable ambiance…such a thing would absolutely take Bandon by storm) where I, by ordering a Latte, forestalled the inevitable next round of beer. We talked comfortably for a while, the only disturbance to my peace of mind lying in the amount of caffeine I was ingesting at such a late hour. It must by this time have been nearly nine o'clock. After some small talk, one of the men announced, "We must be home by 10:00." I cocked my head curiously and he explained, "After 10:00 police officers arrest drivers who have been drinking." There was a barely perceptible pause, then he asked politely, "Would you like me to drive you home after we leave? My house is close to yours." It's to my credit that I didn't burst out laughing at the absurdity of this offer, coming as it did on the heels of his previous statement. I declined gracefully enough, but still shake my head ruefully at the memory of that evening.
Boyeun bought me flowering potted cacti for my birthday. They're beautiful, each holding his own vibrant orange or red or pink head up with the inexorable dignity of one conscious of his own superiority, whether real or imagined. I find their stately airs amusing, though I never let on…not, of course, as though they would take me seriously, if I did. Such an ego cannot fathom that one might see him as less than he perceive himeslf to be. At any rate, we get on famously. They are the only plants with which I have absolute success, simply because I'm never required to touch them.
The school shooting in Virginia has been a hot topic here. I've been amazed at the Koreans' reaction to it. They took it really hard. It's just a guess, but I'd say that most Americans, those not directly involved, probably heard the news, threw mental hands heavenward, exclaimed in horrified accents, "Dear God, that's terrible!!!", then went back to their dinners. The Koreans, on the other hand, listened with stolid silence and lost their appetites. The Korean concept of family and nationality is such that one member represents all. Korea is apprehensive that America will point her outraged finger, "What kind of people are you?!" The apparently individual personal responsibility assumed is sobering to watch.
Well, this is getting rather long. I will end with a thought that has lately made me very happy. The end of Zephaniah 3:17 reads: "He will joy over thee with singing." That word 'joy' is 'to spin around under the influence of any violent emotion.' That I infuse God with such elation is beyond my grasp…
May we learn to so joy over Him,
Elisabeth
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
'Elemeno' & 'Double-U'
Family,
I write this wrapped in a fuzzy, variegated brown shawl-ish thing. Teresa bought one of the biggest skeins of yarn I've ever seen, because she liked the color and the texture. I liked these qualities as well, but $15 was a bit pricey for a ball of yarn I'd no idea what to do with. However, Teresa found the yarn difficult to work with, and so bequeathed it to myself a few days later. Having already several scarves, I decided to try for some slippers. I quickly found that this was impractical, since the yarn has absolutely no stretch. To make the slippers small enough at the ankle to stay on my feet, was to make them too small to get past my heel. So I unraveled my work, and left the ball in a pile with my other projects. The ball was left undisturbed, but being so large, and so loosely wound, it began to become tangled, as yarn will do of its own accord. Wanting to get the ball out of my way, I sat down one evening and cast on until my needles couldn't hold any more. Then I began knitting away. I lugged the thing around with me daily, and several people asked me what I was making. I shrugged cheerfully, "We'll see!" It took a very long time to complete, but finally, last night, I knit the final stitch, and now have what appears to be a small shawl. I like it, and will leave it thus, until I can think of something better to do with the yarn, at which point it will be unraveled. At least for now, it is reduced to something, if not useful, at least untangle-able.
A week ago, Wednesday, was White Day. It's similar to Red Day (also known as Valentines Day), the only discrepancy lying with who bestows what upon whom. On February fourteenth, the boy receives a gift from his girl. On March fourteenth, visa-versa. And on Black Day, April fourteenth, those who have neither received a gift nor given one must bemoan the fact by eating Chinese black noodles (which, by the way, taste pretty good). May fourteenth, Rose Day, is the last, and my favorite, in this series of holidays: the day on which friends exchange roses.
My love of living things has risen to a new level. I decided, spur of the moment, to get myself two bunny rabbits. The idea pleased me, but it's perhaps fortunate that I had a night to sleep on the thought. The next morning the prospect of having two high maintenance animals around overshadowed the prospective pleasure of having cute little bundles of fur hopping round under foot, and I promptly called to cancel with the lady I was to have taken them from later that afternoon. Seeing my slightly downcast demeanor, Petra suggested fish. I spoke to the Dubes of her idea, and they marveled, "We were going to get fish, too!"
On Sunday afternoon we all traipsed over to E-mart and bought our aquariums and fish together. I took mine home, and with Petra's help named all my fish that evening. Unfortunately, half of my nine Neon Tetras, which look something like small sardines, died the next morning, and by that evening the remaining four and a half were down to only four. I wasn't too upset by it. Being each so identical, I'd named them all Bob. When I called out to Petra, "Another Bob died!" She replied, "That's okay, there's still a few left." The logic of that pleased me. However, by the end of the week all the rest of the Bobs had met their watery demise, along with Tinker Bell, a small feathery, white thing, and I was sad. Daphne followed Tinker Bell, Paris followed Daphne, and now the only ones left are my black, evil looking Delilah, three gold fish, and one of those sucking fish, that is supposed to keep the tank clean. He hasn't got a name yet. The biggest of the three gold fish, Hank, is all orange, but the other two have black fins and tails. I like these two the best, mostly because of the story behind their names.
Allow me to relate: At the beginning of this semester, we divided up the classes differently than they had been before. Then I'd taught only beginning students, now I was to teach all ability levels. Of course, the first thing I did was to find out how much each student knew, so that I could place him in his appropriate class. Calling random students to the front of the class by turn, I asked each to recite the alphabet. Some whizzed through it, others stumbled along, and all, with out fail, pronounced the twelfth letter of the alphabet 'elemeno.' I talked to Boyeun, who's musically inclined, and told her that we needed to change the alphabet song to be more commodious to learning the letters. That afternoon she sat down at the piano, I sang, and we bestowed upon L, M, N, and O each their own beat, as well as taking the N out from between Y and Z. No longer do students recite, "…jay, kay, elemeno, pe…" Talking with Petra later, though, we both agreed that 'elemeno' was definitely the coolest letter in the alphabet, with 'double u' coming in for a close second. And so I've named my gold fish for these two letters, because they make me laugh.
Seeing 'my kids', after nearly a month long vacation, was amazing. I hadn't even realized how much I love them. But I do, and I'm glad I do, and I'm glad that they're back. Especially James. I try not to make him 'teacher's pet,' but I think I probably root harder for him than I do for the others when they're spelling out a word, or playing a game. He's an average student, but so earnest, and cute. And I think I've been able to make him enjoy learning English, because it got back to me that his mom is pleased with the remarkable progress he's made since I've begun to teach him. That makes me very happy. Sometimes I love my job.
Other times I don't. We have more classes to teach this semester, in a much shorter space of time, so I feel perpetually rushed, and perpetually behind the game. I've begun staying late at work some evenings just to catch up on all that I need to do. I feel quite bogged down. Unfortunately, this puts my language learning on hold for some time. I had begun to take private lessons with Boyeun, but she's become just as busy as I, and we neither of us now have time. I've had a perpetual headache for four days, partly from the anxiety of not being able to meet deadlines. If nothing else, however, at least this present schedule is clarifying. I had been debating in my mind whether or not to continue to work here next year. The 'rush' has made my mind up for me. Unless something changes (which, knowing this place, could possibly happen at any given moment) I have no intention of staying. I'll go to Sogang Language Institute next year, as planned. It's rather a relief to have that decision made.
Boyeun has a brother-in-law whose cousin is one of the actors in a show that costs between $50 - $80 to attend. This young man seems a close enough relation that she was able to get free tickets for herself, me and Petra. The show was a mix between break dance and Korean traditional dance, and was absolutely phenomenal. I shan't be able to describe it, so I won't try. Let me just say that it would have been worth every penny spent, had the seats come from our own pockets. I only wished that Jimmy could have been there to see it with me, because he would have so appreciated it.
Well, suffixing my farewell turns this two page Microsoft document into three, so I'll keep it short.
My love to you all…
Elisabeth
I write this wrapped in a fuzzy, variegated brown shawl-ish thing. Teresa bought one of the biggest skeins of yarn I've ever seen, because she liked the color and the texture. I liked these qualities as well, but $15 was a bit pricey for a ball of yarn I'd no idea what to do with. However, Teresa found the yarn difficult to work with, and so bequeathed it to myself a few days later. Having already several scarves, I decided to try for some slippers. I quickly found that this was impractical, since the yarn has absolutely no stretch. To make the slippers small enough at the ankle to stay on my feet, was to make them too small to get past my heel. So I unraveled my work, and left the ball in a pile with my other projects. The ball was left undisturbed, but being so large, and so loosely wound, it began to become tangled, as yarn will do of its own accord. Wanting to get the ball out of my way, I sat down one evening and cast on until my needles couldn't hold any more. Then I began knitting away. I lugged the thing around with me daily, and several people asked me what I was making. I shrugged cheerfully, "We'll see!" It took a very long time to complete, but finally, last night, I knit the final stitch, and now have what appears to be a small shawl. I like it, and will leave it thus, until I can think of something better to do with the yarn, at which point it will be unraveled. At least for now, it is reduced to something, if not useful, at least untangle-able.
A week ago, Wednesday, was White Day. It's similar to Red Day (also known as Valentines Day), the only discrepancy lying with who bestows what upon whom. On February fourteenth, the boy receives a gift from his girl. On March fourteenth, visa-versa. And on Black Day, April fourteenth, those who have neither received a gift nor given one must bemoan the fact by eating Chinese black noodles (which, by the way, taste pretty good). May fourteenth, Rose Day, is the last, and my favorite, in this series of holidays: the day on which friends exchange roses.
My love of living things has risen to a new level. I decided, spur of the moment, to get myself two bunny rabbits. The idea pleased me, but it's perhaps fortunate that I had a night to sleep on the thought. The next morning the prospect of having two high maintenance animals around overshadowed the prospective pleasure of having cute little bundles of fur hopping round under foot, and I promptly called to cancel with the lady I was to have taken them from later that afternoon. Seeing my slightly downcast demeanor, Petra suggested fish. I spoke to the Dubes of her idea, and they marveled, "We were going to get fish, too!"
On Sunday afternoon we all traipsed over to E-mart and bought our aquariums and fish together. I took mine home, and with Petra's help named all my fish that evening. Unfortunately, half of my nine Neon Tetras, which look something like small sardines, died the next morning, and by that evening the remaining four and a half were down to only four. I wasn't too upset by it. Being each so identical, I'd named them all Bob. When I called out to Petra, "Another Bob died!" She replied, "That's okay, there's still a few left." The logic of that pleased me. However, by the end of the week all the rest of the Bobs had met their watery demise, along with Tinker Bell, a small feathery, white thing, and I was sad. Daphne followed Tinker Bell, Paris followed Daphne, and now the only ones left are my black, evil looking Delilah, three gold fish, and one of those sucking fish, that is supposed to keep the tank clean. He hasn't got a name yet. The biggest of the three gold fish, Hank, is all orange, but the other two have black fins and tails. I like these two the best, mostly because of the story behind their names.
Allow me to relate: At the beginning of this semester, we divided up the classes differently than they had been before. Then I'd taught only beginning students, now I was to teach all ability levels. Of course, the first thing I did was to find out how much each student knew, so that I could place him in his appropriate class. Calling random students to the front of the class by turn, I asked each to recite the alphabet. Some whizzed through it, others stumbled along, and all, with out fail, pronounced the twelfth letter of the alphabet 'elemeno.' I talked to Boyeun, who's musically inclined, and told her that we needed to change the alphabet song to be more commodious to learning the letters. That afternoon she sat down at the piano, I sang, and we bestowed upon L, M, N, and O each their own beat, as well as taking the N out from between Y and Z. No longer do students recite, "…jay, kay, elemeno, pe…" Talking with Petra later, though, we both agreed that 'elemeno' was definitely the coolest letter in the alphabet, with 'double u' coming in for a close second. And so I've named my gold fish for these two letters, because they make me laugh.
Seeing 'my kids', after nearly a month long vacation, was amazing. I hadn't even realized how much I love them. But I do, and I'm glad I do, and I'm glad that they're back. Especially James. I try not to make him 'teacher's pet,' but I think I probably root harder for him than I do for the others when they're spelling out a word, or playing a game. He's an average student, but so earnest, and cute. And I think I've been able to make him enjoy learning English, because it got back to me that his mom is pleased with the remarkable progress he's made since I've begun to teach him. That makes me very happy. Sometimes I love my job.
Other times I don't. We have more classes to teach this semester, in a much shorter space of time, so I feel perpetually rushed, and perpetually behind the game. I've begun staying late at work some evenings just to catch up on all that I need to do. I feel quite bogged down. Unfortunately, this puts my language learning on hold for some time. I had begun to take private lessons with Boyeun, but she's become just as busy as I, and we neither of us now have time. I've had a perpetual headache for four days, partly from the anxiety of not being able to meet deadlines. If nothing else, however, at least this present schedule is clarifying. I had been debating in my mind whether or not to continue to work here next year. The 'rush' has made my mind up for me. Unless something changes (which, knowing this place, could possibly happen at any given moment) I have no intention of staying. I'll go to Sogang Language Institute next year, as planned. It's rather a relief to have that decision made.
Boyeun has a brother-in-law whose cousin is one of the actors in a show that costs between $50 - $80 to attend. This young man seems a close enough relation that she was able to get free tickets for herself, me and Petra. The show was a mix between break dance and Korean traditional dance, and was absolutely phenomenal. I shan't be able to describe it, so I won't try. Let me just say that it would have been worth every penny spent, had the seats come from our own pockets. I only wished that Jimmy could have been there to see it with me, because he would have so appreciated it.
Well, suffixing my farewell turns this two page Microsoft document into three, so I'll keep it short.
My love to you all…
Elisabeth
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Qiute Delirious With Joy
My Dears,
Thank you for the emails and prayers you send my way! I'm blessed.
These last few days have been exceptionally joyous ones, for no real cause. In fact, were I to recount to you all the adventures and misadventures that have lately befallen me, it would be enough to move the most hardened individual to tears of frustration and despair. It has me frequently enough. Often when wallowing in it, I seem to enjoy my misery. That is, I refuse to be comforted or cheered. I want the world either to cry with me or to leave me alone. But lately I seem not to have the power to remain down cast. In fact, I have been quite delirious with joy. I laugh at nothing and everything. I sing at the top of my voice (in the most off key notes), just because I can. I watch the falling snow outside, and want to dance and skip and twirl with it. Every little thing reminds me of God's goodness, until I feel redoubly (there I go again, using a word that doesn't exist) blessed.
Yesterday, March amazed everyone by wrapping the world in a heavy, gray blanket. Most of the day, powdery, clean snow flitted about in intermittent flurries, but by the time I left work, thick whiteness was falling quickly. I walked to the bus stop, about 150 meters away, chuckling silently to myself at all the bundled up figures scurrying hither and fro, huddled together under umbrellas or awnings. Traffic was bad, so my bus was slow in coming. I stood beneath nothing but the sky while I waited, catching snowflakes on my black gloves. How exquisitely symmetrical each one was! Intricate in every detail, and each more beautiful than the last. I marveled at the oblivious passers-by, each too wrapped up in his own thoughts, or too concerned with staying warm, to notice these tiny miracles. "How often am I like that?" I wondered. "How often am I oblivious to the love of God revealed in the little things?" I must begin to make a point of noticing the beauty of His character as reflected in His creation.
Petra has been staying with me while in Korea. Her friendship is a blessing. It's strange seeing another face from home. A few evenings ago, Petra, Titus, Ruth and I were out walking in the rain. It was a gusty night, so that the umbrella that Petra and I were sharing was nearly tugged out of our hands, until it completely flipped inside out, and I had to stop and buy another. We had such a jolly time, laughing and singing, and really behaving like children. We traipsed over to building 63, the tallest building in Seoul, named for its number of floors. Built by Christians to take the shape of praying hands, the glass tower glistens in the sunshine, because of the gold in it's windows. We trudged in, looking like drowned rats, and took the elevator to the 60 th floor, where we talked for an hour, looking out over the city. So pleasant!
A week ago, Wednesday, I spent the whole morning apartment-hunting at the behest of the powers that be (who later decided, contrary-wise, that I am to remain at Herb Farm). Most of what I looked at left much to be desired. But eventually the realtor stumbled upon a snug little place, in a cozy area near the company, at a reasonable price. I was exceptionally pleased, nodded and smiled, and agreed to return on Friday to sign the contract. Making my way home, I felt so good with the day's accomplishment, and such a load off my shoulders, that I stopped in the market to buy a basket of strawberries. Strawberries here, let it be known, are a taste of heaven. They have all the natural sweetness of that fruit, concentrated and quadrupled in each bite. Truly remarkable. These, in turn, pleased me so, that I treated myself to two potted plants.
Potted plants have become something of a fetish for me. Used, as I am, to being surrounded with all things natural and beautiful, the cold, stone edifices of Seoul, looming and intimidating, quite depress me. So the first time I saw a pink, flowering bit of greenness, in a red pot, I took it home with me. Every day I touched its pedals, while watering it, and told it how happy it made me, until one day it began to droop. My spirits drooped vicariously, and I wondered if perhaps just a drop of coffee wouldn't perk it up. Upon execution of this thought, my little bit of sunshine withered immediately and entirely away. I have since replaced it with six others. And, though I'm not having much better luck with any of them, their deaths have been somewhat slower and of more natural causes.
The adjima (grandmother) from whom I buy my plants, sells one for three-thousand won. I have become a regular enough customer that when I ask for two for five-thousand won, "du gey oh-chon woneayo?" she nods with that bemused smile which with I have become quite familiar. It has shown on the faces of countless individuals, who are humoring the strange and random whims of the foreigner.
As afore mentioned, my preparations to move were later made null and void. Two weeks earlier I should have welcomed the option of remaining where I am, but for sundry complicated reasons, this is just now the worst possible thing for me. I struggled for a few days against the irritation I felt toward those with whom the decision rested. But God has reassured me that this, too, is of His doing, and I have nothing to fear. That He has orchestrated and arranged, is infinitely comforting. And I even feel something akin to excitement when I think of Gideon and how God dealt similarly with him, removing from him every stability and dependency other than Himself. I am happy for God's love, and that He has seen fit to remind me of it.
I thank each one of you for your love,
Elisabeth
Thank you for the emails and prayers you send my way! I'm blessed.
These last few days have been exceptionally joyous ones, for no real cause. In fact, were I to recount to you all the adventures and misadventures that have lately befallen me, it would be enough to move the most hardened individual to tears of frustration and despair. It has me frequently enough. Often when wallowing in it, I seem to enjoy my misery. That is, I refuse to be comforted or cheered. I want the world either to cry with me or to leave me alone. But lately I seem not to have the power to remain down cast. In fact, I have been quite delirious with joy. I laugh at nothing and everything. I sing at the top of my voice (in the most off key notes), just because I can. I watch the falling snow outside, and want to dance and skip and twirl with it. Every little thing reminds me of God's goodness, until I feel redoubly (there I go again, using a word that doesn't exist) blessed.
Yesterday, March amazed everyone by wrapping the world in a heavy, gray blanket. Most of the day, powdery, clean snow flitted about in intermittent flurries, but by the time I left work, thick whiteness was falling quickly. I walked to the bus stop, about 150 meters away, chuckling silently to myself at all the bundled up figures scurrying hither and fro, huddled together under umbrellas or awnings. Traffic was bad, so my bus was slow in coming. I stood beneath nothing but the sky while I waited, catching snowflakes on my black gloves. How exquisitely symmetrical each one was! Intricate in every detail, and each more beautiful than the last. I marveled at the oblivious passers-by, each too wrapped up in his own thoughts, or too concerned with staying warm, to notice these tiny miracles. "How often am I like that?" I wondered. "How often am I oblivious to the love of God revealed in the little things?" I must begin to make a point of noticing the beauty of His character as reflected in His creation.
Petra has been staying with me while in Korea. Her friendship is a blessing. It's strange seeing another face from home. A few evenings ago, Petra, Titus, Ruth and I were out walking in the rain. It was a gusty night, so that the umbrella that Petra and I were sharing was nearly tugged out of our hands, until it completely flipped inside out, and I had to stop and buy another. We had such a jolly time, laughing and singing, and really behaving like children. We traipsed over to building 63, the tallest building in Seoul, named for its number of floors. Built by Christians to take the shape of praying hands, the glass tower glistens in the sunshine, because of the gold in it's windows. We trudged in, looking like drowned rats, and took the elevator to the 60 th floor, where we talked for an hour, looking out over the city. So pleasant!
A week ago, Wednesday, I spent the whole morning apartment-hunting at the behest of the powers that be (who later decided, contrary-wise, that I am to remain at Herb Farm). Most of what I looked at left much to be desired. But eventually the realtor stumbled upon a snug little place, in a cozy area near the company, at a reasonable price. I was exceptionally pleased, nodded and smiled, and agreed to return on Friday to sign the contract. Making my way home, I felt so good with the day's accomplishment, and such a load off my shoulders, that I stopped in the market to buy a basket of strawberries. Strawberries here, let it be known, are a taste of heaven. They have all the natural sweetness of that fruit, concentrated and quadrupled in each bite. Truly remarkable. These, in turn, pleased me so, that I treated myself to two potted plants.
Potted plants have become something of a fetish for me. Used, as I am, to being surrounded with all things natural and beautiful, the cold, stone edifices of Seoul, looming and intimidating, quite depress me. So the first time I saw a pink, flowering bit of greenness, in a red pot, I took it home with me. Every day I touched its pedals, while watering it, and told it how happy it made me, until one day it began to droop. My spirits drooped vicariously, and I wondered if perhaps just a drop of coffee wouldn't perk it up. Upon execution of this thought, my little bit of sunshine withered immediately and entirely away. I have since replaced it with six others. And, though I'm not having much better luck with any of them, their deaths have been somewhat slower and of more natural causes.
The adjima (grandmother) from whom I buy my plants, sells one for three-thousand won. I have become a regular enough customer that when I ask for two for five-thousand won, "du gey oh-chon woneayo?" she nods with that bemused smile which with I have become quite familiar. It has shown on the faces of countless individuals, who are humoring the strange and random whims of the foreigner.
As afore mentioned, my preparations to move were later made null and void. Two weeks earlier I should have welcomed the option of remaining where I am, but for sundry complicated reasons, this is just now the worst possible thing for me. I struggled for a few days against the irritation I felt toward those with whom the decision rested. But God has reassured me that this, too, is of His doing, and I have nothing to fear. That He has orchestrated and arranged, is infinitely comforting. And I even feel something akin to excitement when I think of Gideon and how God dealt similarly with him, removing from him every stability and dependency other than Himself. I am happy for God's love, and that He has seen fit to remind me of it.
I thank each one of you for your love,
Elisabeth
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