Friday, March 21, 2003

Starting tomorrow morning (Sat.), I'm away for about two weeks on vacation, so no new entries til I get back.

May the war soon end.

Thursday, March 20, 2003

Late Night
It's 2:20 am on Friday, and I'm up this late because I forgot I was going to meet Aya tonight for the last time before she goes back to Japan.

Aya was my housemate and schoolmate for two months before I moved in with my dad. She's Japanese, a smart cookie, and deeply interested in North Korea. In fact, I would say that her interest in North Korea goes beyond interest. It's like an obsession. Or like a calling. She went there a few years ago and met a comfort woman and a man who had been forced to labor for the Japanese army in WW2. And since then she was determined to find some way to work with North Korea, to help the people there.

So she plunged into learning Korean and getting to know Koreans. Tonight, when I asked her what she liked about Korea (after spending about an hour complaining about stuff we didn't like), she paused and then said, "Actually, I'm not really interested in South Korea. I want to learn about it and learn about Korean culture because of my interest in North Korea."

Yesterday, at the graduation (for people who finished the 6th level), Aya and I agreed to meet up this week, since she's going back to Japan in two weeks. Since I too am going out of town, this week seemed to be the only time we had that overlapped.

But I thought we agreed on Friday, so I was surprised to get a call from her asking where we were meeting tonight. I was actually at the Coex Mall, buying some presents, which is about a 40 minute ride away from where Aya lives. I was also feeling kind of blue, and wasn't too keen about meeting up tonight.

But since I hadn't seen Aya very much this term, I thought, "Cut the bullcrap, young grasshopper! Let's get going."

I'm really glad I did, for my Korean's gotten to a point where I can express some opinions and have a fairly interesting conversation, and I like talking with Aya. She's curious and thoughtful and adventurous, and I hate the fact that she's leaving, but I console myself with the thought that she actually bought a roundtrip open-ended ticket, and will be back sometime within the next year.

After dinner (cheese ramen! Not to be believed til you try it!) and some bland tea lattes at Starbucks (do they have this in the States?), I suggested going to a bar. We hied ourselves over to one that Aya knew, and put away a small bottle of lemon soju, which is what I had last night too. Mm. Lemonade.

After a rather sad goodbye at the subway turnstile, I got on what turned out to be the last train home, relieved that I had actually caught it this time. It was 12:30, so I tried calling my dad to tell him why I wasn't home yet, but my phone, strangely, died, and so I got cut off just after I said, "Hi dad," and he replied, "Where are you?"

I thought about calling him again from a pay phone, but there weren't any in the station. Then I thought about borrowing someone's phone, but I felt weird about it.

So I just sat there.

Until.

The train stopped 10 stations before mine.

Fuck!

Everyone got off the train, and I confirmed with a station employee that all trains had stopped.

Fuck!

Everyone seemed to be streaming out the same way, so I followed my nose, feeling worried. Descending the stairs onto the street, a young woman asked me if I knew the way to Jamsil, an area close to where I live, and I replied that I didn't, but that I needed to
go that way too. Was there a bus? No, she replied in a what-are-ya-stupid-or-sumthin' tone, they've stopped.

Fuck!

Fortunately, there were quite a lot of young people in the same position, and fortunately, there were plenty of cabbies around. Now taking a cab in Seoul is a bit of a trick, because if the driver doesn't want to go your way, he won't pick you up. So the de-trained people, including me, stood by the road and shouted into the cabs where they wanted to go, whereupon if the driver felt like it, he would nod you in.

After a few cabs went by, I got the nod from a cabbie who lingered in the same spot after I got in. I noticed the young woman who'd asked me if I were going to Jamsil, and said, "That person's going to Jamsil too."

She got the nod, and got in.

And then two more.

And so we made a merry five. Well, a merry four, anyway; I didn't partake in the conversation, but the driver was a jolly sort, and joked that if the second woman sang a song, she wouldn't have to pay. The two people who'd gotten in last were also funny:
Guy: Can you just charge us one fare?
Cabbie: When pigs fly!
Guy: C'mon, we're uh, we're married! Yeah, that's it!
Cabbie: Yeah, right, you probably didn't even know each other before you got in the car, ha hah, you probably do this with complete strangers all the time in order to get discounts, ha hah.

Anyway, after a jolly 15 minutes, I finally got dropped off in the vicinity of home, and arrived to this:

Dad (upon hearing me open the door): Helen? Is that you?
Me: Yeah, it's me.
Dad: Where WERE you?
Me: I was in Shinchon, having dinner with Aya. I'm sorry, my phone went dead when I called you.
Dad: I called the police!
Me: What? I called less than an hour ago!
Dad: It's dangerous here at night! People get kidnapped, and forced to labor! People disappear! I was about to call my friend who works for the Korean CIA! I was looking for information to call the U.S. embassy too!
Me (dumbfounded): But, but ... I just talked to you an hour ago!
Dad: If you'd been kidnapped, it would have been crucial to start looking right away!
Me: But couldn't you tell that I wasn't panicked when I called? I said, "Hi Dad!" not "Help!"
Dad: Yes, of course I thought of that. But imagine -- you call and it's disconnected, and then another call comes (I'd tried to call again, at which point the phone went completely dead) and I can't reach you?
Me (feeling awful): I'm sorry you were so worried. I thought about calling you but I didn't see a payphone, and I felt weird about asking to borrow a stranger's phone. I don't know why my phone went dead. Next time I'll borrow someone's phone.
Dad: Yes, people here will let you do that. And please tell me now where you'll be.
Me: Okay. I'm sorry you were so worried.
Dad: All right. It's okay.

Did my dad overreact? Well, yeah, I think so. Do I find it weird and a little hypocritical that after five years of living on my own in the murder capital of the U.S., during which my dad and I barely spoke once a year, my dad should now be so worried about me? A little. Did I feel like complete and utter shit? Yes. When you scare someone so badly, and you totally could have prevented it, you feel like ... I don't know, like you kicked your dog out of pique and the dog is now looking at you with big sad doggie eyes, like "How could you do this to me?"

Okay, that was a really bad comparison, but you know what I mean.

My dad calmed down remarkably fast, and that did a lot to make me feel better too. But it's a striking enough episode for me to want to report it here. After all, we're talking about my dad being scared enough to call the freakin' police, and my dad doesn't scare easily. In fact, he doesn't feel many emotions, period, something that he freely admits to. Perhaps I should feel annoyed at his panicky protectiveness. But I don't.

Huh.

Went out with classmates last night, despite near incoherence. Perked up after a little food and a little soju. I joined them at a restaurant first, and was pleased to see Sister Maria and Father Njoroje there, sipping their drinks as well. I still find it funny, somehow, that people of the cloth drink.

Half the group went home after dinner, and the other half, including two of our teachers, went on to a bar. The food that you order with your drinks is fun: creative arrangements of beautiful peeled and sliced fruit (we ordered a platter that included half a pineapple, kiwi, apples, persimmons, a banana, strawberries and a tangerine), for example, that you wouldn't be surprised to see at a wedding; also, the inevitable dried squid topped with peanuts...

You gotta see it (and try it!) to believe it. I mean it. Come to Seoul and check it out. I'll treat you to a bottle of lemon soju (mmm, tastes like lemonade). Or you can try the 50 Year Alcohol (literal translation). The actual drink is sold as 100 Year Old Alcohol, but a popular twist on it is to pour the 100 Year stuff into a bottle and pour another bottle of soju on top of it, diluting it into... yes, 50 Year Alcohol. Heh heh.

(It's not 50 or 100 years old, by the way, it's just named that way.)

Wednesday, March 19, 2003

Passed level 3.

Finished (I think) with the first phase of the American history textbook project.

Debating whether to go out tonight with classmates. Was up until 3 writing about Honest Abe and George Washington's cherry tree, so very sleepy. Could be very fun, tho. Could also be totally incoherent unless get some sleep.

Read this weblog the other day where the author celebrated her 250th entry. I think I'm up to almost 100 now. BUt do entries like this even count?

I moved to Korea five and a half months ago.

Gn'iite.

Tuesday, March 18, 2003

"Bush Gives Hussein 48 Hours to Leave"
-Headline of the Washington Post online edition

You hope and you pray that your leaders know more than you, can base their opinions on information you don't have access to, will make decisions that are grounded in experience and learning and thought. You hope and you pray -- even though you're not religious -- that there won't be war in Iraq or in Korea, because all you can see are young men like the ones you used to see in DC, walking through the streets of Baghdad, being shot at by heavily armed civilians and bleeding out and dying. You hope and you pray that somehow, the force of world opinion can actually make a difference to the three or four people making the decisions.

But it was all no use, your hoping and praying, and you start new hopes and new prayers: that the war will be short, and that the leaders really will rebuild, and that somehow your country can get back into the graces of the countries of the world, for without them, we cannot stamp out terrorism and anti-Americanism. This is something that President Bush seems to have forgotten.

Monday, March 17, 2003

Just say no

Today someone at work asked me to look at a friend's resume and I said no.

I said no!

This, I know, sounds like a big load of nothing to you. But for me, the planets changed course! Stars collided! Galaxies imploded in fits of disbelief!

(So I like to practice my hyperbole skills once in a while -- SUE ME.)

This was my friend Myung-soo, with whom I got my hair cut, and who has been very helpful to me at work. She casually asked if I'd take a look at her friend's resume, as it was only one page and wouldn't take very long.

Alarm bells started ringing very loudly and the voices started up.

-NOOOO. We have enough frickin' work to do without looking at someone's resume for FREE. Crimey, people charge LOTSA BUCKS for this kind of work.
-Oh please, it'll probably just take a minute or two, and what's the harm? Myung-soo's been really nice to me--
-Even when you don't want her to be --
- ... and I can do this small favor for her. Don't be such a dick.
-Look, I'm just looking out for you, you idiot. We have a test tomorrow and this textbook to finish and I'm NOT gonna simper and smile and say, okay, please walk all over me, I love that, hee hee hee. Say NO.
-But I probably owe Myung-soo for all the nice things she's done for me, like give me candy on Valentine's Day, and ask people to take care of my broken phone, and ---
-That's nice and all, sweetheart, but talk to the hand, 'cause the face ain't listening. If she wants to do nice things for ya, then let her! But you need to take care of yourSELF first. You're already overbooked AS IT IS, mushbrain. Say it with me. No.

And then I heard myself saying: "I'm sorry, but I have a project that I'm doing, and I just don't have time."

Myung-soo: "Oh. Well, I just thought that if you had time, it's only one page, and it probably won't take very long."

("What's the big deal, then? It's just one page?" "Did someone replace your brain with some cooked macaroni? NO, moron. NO.")

Me: "Sorry."

Myung-soo: "Okay."

And that was that. Except that I immediately started wondering if I was indeed like Gwyneth Paltrow.

"Huh?" you ask.

On Friday, you see, I had dinner with another work colleague, Trudy. She's hella smart, and fairly fluent in English, as she lived for a few years in Britain when she was young. We were talking about something or other when I said, "...you know, that's why I don't like Gwyneth Paltrow. She just had it too easy! I mean, Steven Spielberg is her godfather, and he just randomly asked her in the car one day if she'd like to play Tinkerbell in his movie. And that was it!"

"But she's a good actress, isn't she?" asked Trudy, probably perplexed at my anti-Gwyneth vehemence.

"Yeah... I guess she is. But I just think of all the poor young men and women out there in L.A., struggling to just get a chance at the bigtime, and I really feel for them, because they're never going to make it, and Gwyneth, she just was born into it. I mean, I guess I'm lucky in life and all too, but --"

"But then Helen, to some people you are like a Gwyneth Paltrow!" Trudy laughed.

That stopped me short. First I felt annoyed ?hey, I wasn't born with a silver spoon in MY mouth ?and then I started feeling uneasy. It's true that my godfather isn't Steven Spielberg and it's true that I'm not pulling down millions of dollars per worldwide release, but it's equally true that compared to 99 percent of the world, I do have the golden key: a pedigree from Yale, another one for the having at another ivy-covered schoolhouse, supportive family, well-placed friends... But what do I do with this golden key? Not fucking much.

Oh, it's true that I've gotten one or two bat swings to the head, but one or two ain't much.

Even in comparison to most Koreans, I have so many more opportunities. Just by having grown up in the U.S., I have an advantage, because frankly, the U.S. is the all-powerful and mighty political AND cultural force in the world. Because English is so in demand, I can say to my office with impunity, well, I'm going on vacation for two weeks, SEEYA! and know that my job will be waiting for me when I get back. In fact, I've gotten a few comments to this effect, and I've taken to saying, "Well, it's nice to be a foreigner and a parttimer" by way of excuse.

It's a chore to read about someone's moral/ethical angstitential shit, and it's no walk in a cherry orchard to think about it either, so I'll end here. For now.

Friday, March 14, 2003

Today is White Day, the day when the boys give the girls gifts (on Valentine's Day, the girls gave the boys gifts). I recently found out that there is a Black Day too, on April 14. On Black Day, boys and girls who DON'T have sig oths dress in black, meet each other to eat black food (no, not soul food, but black-colored food like jja jjang myun, a noodle dish in a black bean paste sauce) and drink black coffee. Heh. I like it.

The writing test is over and done with, and I'm sure I didn't fail. All ROIGHT!!!

Monday I have my speaking and listening/reading tests, and Tuesday my oral exam. I'm not too worried.

So, this freelance project I referred to in the past two entries. It's for a private educational institute here (there are tons and tons of them) called Ivy League. See, these institutes (hagwons) prey on the fears of parents that their kid won't get ahead in life, so that the parents walk like zombies to the phone and enlist their kid in afterschool classes in English and other subjects. It sucks for the kids, who have to frickin' do MORE school after school. It's great for North American expats, who are in high demand as native English teachers.

Last year, my dad noticed this particular hagwon in the paper and called them up to say, "Hey! My daughter is ALL about the Ivy League. Don't you need someone on your staff that is, like legit?"

So we met with an Important Person and 2 Teachers on a freezing cold winter night, and the meeting went like this:

Teacher: So...you're a teacher?
Me: Um, no.
Teacher: Do you have any teaching experience?
Me: Uh...oh yeah, yes. I taught LSAT once.
Teacher: Oh. How about with kids, have you ever taught kids?
Me: No, actually, I hate the little buggers. Oops, did I say that out loud? (Actually, I just said no.)
Teacher: I see.
[Silence.]
Dad: I don't know anything about your company, I just saw Ivy League and thought we could talk together.
Others: Uh huh.
[Silence.]
Dad: Okay, then! Just give us a call if you need us.

And that was that. Dad has a history of cooking up schemes like these, looking for money-making opportunities everywhere. I used to feel annoyed and embarrassed by it -- why couldn't he just have a 9 to 5 job like everyone else? This time I was slightly embarrassed, but mostly amused. It was pretty damn funny to be sitting around a table with four other people, none of whom knew why the hell they were there.

The really funny thing, though, is that that WASN'T that. Last week I got an email from one of the teachers, asking if I'd be interested in writing some textbook material for them. I met with her on Monday, and it looked interesting: three books about American history and culture, four lessons per book, five pages of text per lesson, 10 to 20 sentences per page. And since it was geared for elementary school kids, it would be simple enough that I could just dredge up facts from my brain or the internet.

I left the meeting thinking I'd do it, despite a really rotten schedule (the first book would be due two days after my exams).

When I got home, I talked it over with my dad, who was of the mind that they weren't going to pay enough, since I'd need at least 5 hours to write up each lesson. So I thought, oh, fuck it, I'm not going to do it. Besides, I don't want to be stressed about this over my spring break, I need to relax.

Early the next morning was when I was woken up at 5 am by the woman looking for her husband next door (see March 11 entry). I couldn't get back to sleep, so I decided, "What the hell. I'll see how long it takes me to write up one of the lessons in the first book."

It took me 2 hours.

I thought, "At this rate, I'd be crazy not to do this! I'll call and accept during break at school."

I went to my Korean writing class, where I got totally freaked out by the stuff I didn't know for the exam. "I can't do this project," I thought, panicked, "I need to study my ASS off!"

So I called the teacher and said, "Hey, I'm sorry, but I can't do this, the timing sucks." She said, "That's okay, I understand. Can you drop off the materials I gave you?" Sure, said I, and hung up.

One minute later: It's a chance to write creatively about history! What was I thinking?

55 minutes later: "Uh, hi, this is Helen again. I'm sorry to be so indecisive about this, but I thought it over again, and I'd like to do the project after all. Call or email me, okay?"

I am freakin' SPAZZ MACHINE.

But this did not seem to deter the teacher, who emailed me to say that she understood my hesitation and that if I could deliver the book by March 21, let's get started. All roight!

On Wednesday, I delivered the lesson I wrote on Tuesday morning (from 5-7 am). I need to shorten it, but otherwise it seems acceptable, which is GREAT. I'm psyched to do the stuff (it's fun, and worlds more interesting than my currently sucking-the-big-one parttime job). My sole complaint is that I have exams on Monday and Tuesday and then must deliver the rest of the chapters by the next day.

As the Koreans say, "Whiting!" which is how the rather bizarre choice of cheers -- "Fighting!" -- is pronounced.

Wednesday, March 12, 2003

Apologies, but I can't really write anything of substance today (if you'd even call my regular entries substantive) as I have a shitload of work at work (the GALL of these people, giving me stuff to edit!!!) and a shitload of studying to do if I am going to pass my writing test on Friday morning. Am feeling EXTRA crankified today and do NOT want to be here correcting boring-as-bricks letters.

Fearless T says that in her experience, time expands to fit the quantity of activities. "Very Einsteinian," she writes. God, I hope so.

Looking forward to March 21, which is when my freelance job will be over and thus when I can go out and pour a bucket o' beer down the hatch.

Tuesday, March 11, 2003

Vewy sleeepy.

This morning. Around 5. Loud, repeated pounding on the neighbor's door, punctuated by yelling.

This, through TWO sets of closed doors!

My dad later said that it was some woman who was looking for her husband. Since it's a family that lives next door, I don't think it was an outraged wife breaking up a lover's tryst or anything. Maybe a marital tiff, with the husband seeking shelter in a friend's house?

Whatever. It was weird. I couldn't fall asleep afterwards. Hence, sleeeepy.

Getting worried about exams again. Writing exam on Friday, listening/reading and speaking on Monday, and oral interview on Tuesday. Then -- FREE!!!

Well, almost. I have just taken on a freelance project due the Friday after next, which I will explain tomorrow since I am way too bleary to explain now.

Monday, March 10, 2003

Hair Be Gone

One foot equals 12 inches equals 25 centimetres equals how much hair is gone from my head.

How is it that when it's on your head, hair is, like, touch-me sexy and glamorous, but the minute it leaves your head, it suddenly becomes dirty and gross? I mean, let's say you find a hair in your food. It's your hair, even. But you're all like, ew, gross, and maybe you even throw the food out. Why?

I ask this question, full of profundity and deepity, because there is a foot-long length of my hair lying on the bedroom floor, tied up with a rubber band on one end, and loosely braided. It's a bit weird. It's actually not that gross, but I'd like it to be gone tomorrow, and I've got the envelope all ready to send to Locks of Love. LoL is an organization that accepts hair donations in order to make free wigs for kids and adults with diseases that cause them to lose their hair. I donated my hair the last time I cut it, which was about a year and 9 months ago. I've been too lazy to get it cut since then, and since I had so much hair, it seemed a waste not to just cut it all off and donate it to a good cause.

I tried to explain this to the hairdresser that my work colleague recommended, but only got as far as saying, "First off, I need to cut of 25 centimetres," before getting the stare. I managed to get out that there were sick kids with no hair, and a group that made wigs for them (pantomiming as I went along), and though she looked as if she still thought I was crazy, she got out a rubber band and sliced off the 25 cm.

It was a little sad, first to feel my head become lighter and a breeze on my neck, and then to see my hair lying rather piteously on the counter before me.

But it wasn't as sad as when the haircut was finished and I looked like Prince Valiant.

I haven't cried about a haircut since I was 11 years old and my mother brought me to a fancy Korean hair salon in L.A. where they permed my hair some crazy-ass way and I hated it so much that I cried on the way to the car, and okay, I didn't cry this time, but I damn well felt like it, especially when my friend Myung-soo, who also got her hair cut, said, "Oh, you look so different! It makes your face looks smaller. And you look really young. But kind of sophisticated at the same time, because it's mannish."

Mannish?! Wah!

I met a couple people for dinner after the haircut, and though the girls were of course very nice and said it was cute, one guy said I looked like I was in high school. Lovely. High school girls here are not what you call high fashion -- they have to wear uniforms and not dye their hair, and if I'm not mistaken, they are not allowed to wear makeup or perm their hair.

Perhaps I should have gotten the perm that I was thinking about getting, but this salon was rather expensive. The hairdresser suggested getting a straight perm. A Magic perm lasts for 6 months, she said, but it freakin' costs 300,000 won (US$250), and all I could think was: "That's worth a roundtrip ticket to Japan!" So the hairdresser -- actually, hair designer is what they call them here -- suggested the cheaper version, which would last 2 months and cost about 100,000 won (US$82), but that still seemed an awful lot to little ole me, so I refused it all.

I think this may have upset the hair designer, because she clearly had a cut in mind, and as she ran her fingers through my remaining hair, she pouted, "Oh, it's going to be all wavy!" She sighed. "Well, can I at least cut and perm your front hair?" I assented, and she went to work.

She did seem like a very competent hairdresser, but I felt trepidation the whole while, since I'd said, "Just do your thing!" throwing precaution to the wind (a bad idea for a control freak like me). When all was said and done, I calculated the following:

Tools used: 8 (scissors, clippers, razor, hair dryer, hair iron, brush, perm solution, tin foil)
People used: 6 (hair washer, hair cutter, perm-solution-putter-on, perm-solution-dryer, hair dryer, assistant to hair cutter)
Hours taken: 3.5 (there were periods where I was waiting for perm to take, for the hairdresser to come back, etc.)

Price: Normally 30,000 won (US$25), but since our work colleague had introduced us to her hairdresser, it was knocked down to 20,000 won (US$16), which is an amazing price for all that work. The last haircut I paid for in DC was $50. Without a blow-dry.

More amazing, however, is that this is considered expensive in Korea, as in many places you can get your hair cut for 10,000 won (US$8) -- and not no cheap-ass Haircuttery haircut, but a nice, quality one.

However, all this cheapness aside, I did not like the hair. I would even go so far as to say I hated the hair. The hairdresser decided to go ahead with her envisioned style, and since I didn't agree to a perm, used a straight iron to straighten my hair. Naturally, it looked glossy and flat and beautiful after that -- except for the Prince Valiant/70s bowl cut style. Okay, it was slightly updated, but I still felt like I needed to go out and buy a doublet and tights, or possible bell bottoms and platforms.

Of course, the moment I washed it, my naturally wavy hair reasserted itself, and sulked through the next day as payment for having been ironed down the previous. I suspect that the hairdresser figured on me coming back to get the perm, because I have a suspicious mind, and maybe I will -- at a different and cheaper salon. Maybe at a different place I wouldn't feel like a total freakazoid for not getting a perm (every other woman in the place had one) and not wearing make-up (the hairdresser addressed that comment to Myung-soo, since she thought I didn't understand, but I answered with a winning smile immediately, "Yup, you're right!" while saying silently, "You know, I have better things to do than be judged by someone who thinks it's a travesty not to wear makeup").

I have a feeling, though, that those kind of hair salons don't exist in Korea. Friggin' culture of feminine beauty.

So maybe I'll just keep it the way it is. Everyone says I need to get to used to it, and that it looks fine, but you can't believe people, you know, not about haircuts. It's like everyone forgets that the nice thing about hair is that it always grows back. I kept telling myself that yesterday, but it's different when you're glumly staring at a nice fat braid of glossy, beautiful hair on the floor and looking like your brother circa 1979.

Friday, March 07, 2003

Friday Night

I neglected to make any plans for Friday night, and was too chicken to call someone up at the last minute and invite them out. My work friend also had plans, so I thought maybe I'd just go home.

Yeah, just go home and read a little, go to sleep early, relax.

But I don't feel like going home.

What are you gonna to do then, go out by yourself?

Well...

So, per my advice to myself, I ventured out alone tonight. Okay, it was only to a movie, but when you: 1. are in a foreign country where you don't know the language too good; and 2. are timid like me, even going to the movies is an adventure.

I went to see 8 Mile, the Eminem movie, at the Coex Mall. This is the huge, enormous, gigantic, continental underground shopping mall where I went last week to buy a book. It contains a large theatre called "Megaplex."

The theatre complex itself is huge, enormous, gigantic, etc. Since seating is assigned, they can sell out far in advance, so there was a line to buy advance tickets. But there has to be somewhere to buy tickets from a person, I reasoned. Where was it?

Oh, I have to go down this escalator! (Mind you, we're already underground.)

Whoa. Lots of weird lighting. Hey, is that a -- yeah, it is! A Playstation Center! Weird. All the people are actually standing in front of large monitors and playing with joysticks.

Wait, there's a separate room for video games?

Why yes, my young friend, there is.

But where do you -- oh, I see it now. There's where you buy tickets for the current night. Oh, and there's a sign for 8 Mile, too. Boy, that's annoying: the 8 different movies keep switching from sign to sign. But there's a 9:00 show. Good.

What's that phrase next to the time? I bet that means there are tickets left. No, wait, maybe it means there are no tickets left. Shit. What if I get up there and say I want a ticket for the 9:00 show and they stare at me and point up to the sign?

Oh fuck it. Get in line already.

Maybe I should ask the woman behind me if that phrase means there are tickets left? Let's see, I start with "Shillae ji man" or was it "Jeh song han dae yo"? Well, she's talking to some guy now anyway.

Hey, is that my phone ringing?

It's J! J, I'm in line to buy a movie ticket! Okay, here we go...

"Can I help you?"

"8 Mile, please."

"Blabbity blah blah?"

"Uh, that's okay." (Huh?)

"How many?"

"One."

"Here's the ticket with your seat number."

"Thanks."

J, I just bought my first movie ticket in Korea!

Wow, I'm happy I could be there with you.

Aww.
. . .
I ended up sitting on the floor of the Megaplex talking to J for a while, which was nice, since I was feeling a little alone. We signed off half an hour before showtime, so I could get some food, go to the bathroom, find the bloody theatre, etc.
. . .
Okay, here I am, sitting by myself. Yup, not self-conscious at all! Feeling good, I tellya. Could do this everyday. In fact, mean to do so from now on. Yup, yup, all good.

Oh god, does everyone think I'm a freak for being here by myself?

Someone's coming into this aisle. A group of guys is sitting to my right now. Okay, I can just pretend I belong with them.

Oh look, another group of guys is sitting on my left now. Huh. The guy next to me is wearing a bandanna under a baseball cap and baggy pants. What, you think you're all gangsta now?

Oh, shut up, Helen.

Yay, previews! Chicago looks good. Catherine Zeta-Jones is beautiful. Renee Zellweger looks kinda fat. Ew, Richard Gere. Hey, I read about that new CIA movie with Colin Farrell and Al Pacino. Colin is hot. Oooh look, sex scene.

Jesus, no wonder foreigners think that Americans are sex-crazed.

Finally! The movie's starting.

[entranced for two hours, periodically thinking that you just can't really translate rap]

[exit, while being hailed to go safely by the theatre staff]

Oh, I am SO ready to buy the Eminem CD.

Oh shit, the store is closed.

In fact, ALL the stores are closed. What is this? No, I guess only the stores close by 11 pm on a Friday night. The cafes and restaurants seem to be open still.

Well then, time to head on home, I guess.

Hey, it's snowing! It's sort of wet and not very impressive, but it's snow all right. Cool. Snow.

Thursday, March 06, 2003

Inner Poise

There is a man in my class who annoys me.

He's insufferably all-knowing, socially obtuse, makes unkind jokes, is always late to class though he lives 5 minutes away, and is ungenerous.

For instance. There is an unspoken rule that when you go and buy a snack for yourself, you offer it to other students who are around. Everyone shares. This fellow does the same. He sometimes even takes food from the wrapper even when the owner isn't there! And he never, but NEVER brings food to share. Today he bought two fried snack things, and offered not a bite to anyone else. Yo, YOU'RE the one working at the stock exchange here, buster! How about easing up on taking food from people who don't have jobs?

Sister Maria, the 42-year-old Japanese nun with whom I was paired for the oral midterm. She's extremely sweet and very, very conscientious. Earlier this week, this fellow was seated next to her, and because he was late and missed the answers to a page full of questions, he took advantage of a moment in which she was asking the teacher something to take her book, plunk it on his side of the desk and start copying answers! Without even fucking asking her!

I was seated with him and the Catholic priest today, and we had to read out questions given to us and make up answers using the grammar pattern we'd just learned. This fellow read the question when it was his turn, but didn't deign to make up any answers, instead staring off into space. The priest and I chugged along by ourselves for a while, until I waspishly pointed out that the fellow hadn't answered any of the questions.

The know-it-all-itis may be the worst of it, though. Yesterday we had to memorize a short dialogue, and the teacher pointed out natural stops in a particularly long sentence. I was practicing this dialogue with the fellow, and he stopped me to laugh, "You know, you're reading this like a robot! People don't really talk like that, you know, not with all the breath stops and stuff. They just say it. So try speaking naturally."

Damn. Just recalling that makes my blood boil. The fellow has lived in Seoul for two years and is getting married to a Korean woman in May. So yeah, he's pretty good at Korean. But he by no means has bragging rights. When we're reviewing vocab, his voice is always heard asking "What's this? Okay, what's this?" Then, when someone else tells him, he turns to the next person and says, "Car. It means car," as if that person didn't know. Half of the time, he's misunderstood the explanation and the word actually means toaster oven or something.

Today, he said with absolute conviction and surety that the verb "to live" was conjugated a way that I was 95 percent sure was incorrect. But when I said, no I don't think so, I think it's this way, he shook his head as if he were the teacher and pronounced the incorrect conjugation even more exaggeratedly, as if I were a dolt. Grrr.

Have you got a sense now of how much he bugs? I must admit, I said "PLBBBT!" when the teacher confirmed that I was right about the conjugation.

I should NOT let this guy get to me. Because he's not being annoying as hell on purpose -- that's just the way he is. He can't help it. But I can help my reactions. As the Dalai Lama so rightly says, if your neighbor hates you, it's no good hating her back, since it just comes back to bite YOU in the ass. (Somewhat paraphrased.) So I will do my best to treat this schmuck -- I mean, person -- as a test of my patience from now on.

How will I do this? By reaching over and pulling his tongue out of his mouth the next time he implies that someone is several stages below him on the evolutionary scale? Good idea, but, uh, no, unfortunately. I don't think I'll get any patience points for acting as jerky as he does.

Tuesday, March 04, 2003

Sleeeeeepy.

Stupid me, I keep staying up late at night surfing the 'Net, because I am an idiot.

Moreover, I am brainless, deficient, dim, dense, dodo, doltish, dopy, dotterel, dull, dumb, foolish, futile, half-baked, half-witted, ill-advised, imbecilic, inane, indiscreet, insensate, irrelevant, irresponsible, laughable, loser, ludicrous, meaningless, mindless, moronic, naive, nonsensical, obtuse, pointless, puerile, rash, senseless, short-sighted, simple, simple-minded, slow, sluggish, stolid, stupefied, thick, thickheaded, trivial, unintelligent, unthinking, AND (dum duh duh dum!) ... witless.

Moreover, I am even dumber than all that, because I just spent five minutes looking up synonyms for "stupid" on dictionary.com, and another five minutes weeding out the adjectives I didn't like before decided to actually keep them in because I think it's dumb to include "irrelevant" and "laughable" as synonyms for "stupid."

Moreover, I am now using my tongue to type because my head has just fallen onto the keyboard due to the fact that my neck refuses to support such a moronic body part any longer.

I would normally stay up and type something anyway, but I'm going to be wise, for once, and listen to my body. I suspect that recent downer feelings are resulting from or at least exacerbated by the lack of sleep.

Monday, March 03, 2003

I hope no one thought that the letter I posted on Friday was MY letter. I stole it and the response from tomationation.com, and then wrote a commentary below both of them. So don't worry, I'm not being berated by irascible grandfathers.

Okay, extremely long entry below.
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Weekend

This weekend, my work friend Myung-soo and her younger sister had a nice trip back home to celebrate her grandmother's 91st birthday. On the train ride back, she and her sister were sleeping in their seats, when they were woken by an old man who wanted to sit in the space behind their seats. You see, he had a standing ticket (trains sell standing tickets and sitting tickets) and wanted to sit down, and their seats were the last in the compartment, and had a little space behind them that someone could squeeze into.

He was rather rude about it: instead of asking, "Do you mind moving your seat back up a little so I can sit down?" he pushed the seat back up on his own, causing Myung-soo's sister to awaken. Okay, annoying, but whatever.

But it's very uncomfortable to sleep sitting straight up, and so Myung-soo's sister eventually asked if she could ease the seat back slightly, in order to recline more comfortably. The old man began to berate them, asking, "What's the matter with you?! You're young, and you can't even take that little discomfort?" (all in the impolite, casual speech form used between close friends and to children).

This went on for a minute, after which Myung-soo got very angry and started screaming back. I think the conversation went something like this:

"What's wrong with you! Can't you be a little more polite?"

"What's with you young people today? How dare you use casual speech to me? Who are you that you can talk to me this way?"

"Who are YOU that YOU can talk to me this way?! Respect me and I'll respect you!"

And so on, attracting a fair amount of attention. It's not every day that a young Korean woman argues loudly with an older man.

A little later, after both parties decided to ignore each other, Myung-soo's sister got a call on her cell phone, and began complaining about the old man in English. When she got off the phone, the old man poked her and said, "I just have one more question."

"What?!" said Myung-soo's sister, ungraciously.

"Are you American?"

Myung-soo said her sister was so angry that she just said, "Yes! I am!"

To which the old man returned: "I thought so! You have American ways! No respect!"

I bewailed her sister's choice of answer to Myung-soo: "What -- she couldn't have said she was Canadian?" (Myung-soo's family lived in Canada for a few years.) Myung-soo laughed long and hard at this, and so did I, but I was truly a little upset -- Americans have enough stereotypes and past bad behavior to overcome without someone falsely shifting the blame to us. After all, the real answer would have had more drama and more irritation factor: "No, I'm not American, I'm Korean, and if you think I'm American because I don't like rude, uncouth people, then all the better for Americans!!"

Ironically, I am American, and I'm the last person who would have made a fuss like Myung-soo did. I even told her that I envied her fiery temper and instinct to stand up for herself and her sister, to tell someone flat out that they were wrong to behave the way they did, and to go fly a kite. I'm way too timid to do something like that. If someone is unpleasant or rude to me, I'm more likely to quietly seethe and then cry frustrated tears afterwards. Internalizing the anger? Dunno. All's I know is that I sometimes wish I could just reach out and smack someone.
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On Friday night I went over to Tex's apartment for a great night of American fun: pizza, Survivor, The Agency, and ice cream. I will bear witness that Domino's pizza here tastes just like pizza back in the States. Mmmm.

I had actually never seen a whole Survivor episode before Friday, and I admit it was pretty amusing. This time it's in the Amazon, and the teams are split by gender.

Tex was bummed by the voting off of the hot Asian guy, who was a slimy flirt and as dumb as rocks, but easy on the eyes. Still, you, me, and everyone else on the planet watching knew that he was a goner just as soon as he said, "X is my best friend here, I can totally trust him."

Cut to next scene: X scheming with someone else to toss Hot Asian Man off the show.

Just before the voting started, Hot Asian Man said something amazingly stupid, in terms of surviving: "Well, just look -- I'm the only Asian guy surrounded by all these white guys." Hey, excellent way to win "all these white guys" over to your side, Hot Asian Man! Immediately, one of the white guys jumped on that statement, declaring that neither he nor any of the other white guys had treated HAM differently because he was Asian.

When everyone's votes were counted, and everyone had voted to exile HAM (including HAM's "best friend"), Tex bemoaned the decrease in level of hottiness. And then, more seriously, she asked what I thought of HAM's ham-handed statement.

A tricky can of worms, to be sure. For I am sure that "all these white guys" completely believed that they did not treat HAM any differently because of his race. But there's a large field of study about implicit attitudes, the ones we have but may not be aware we have, and I'm pretty convinced that we have and sometimes act on these attitudes.

Check out http://implicit.harvard.edu for an interesting demo and study on it.

As for me, I think HAM was dumb and the dude who answered him was naive. But really, what else are you supposed to say to something like HAM's comment? Survivor: Amazon viewers aren't watching so they can get a treatise on implicit social cognition! They're watching so that they can see scenes like the one of three hot babes bathing (as a reward for winning one of the games) and deciding, very naturally, "Hey! Let's take our tops off!" They're watching so that they can hear a hot Asian man say, "I don't like him because he's really bossy. Plus, he smells"! They're watching so they can listen to the men discuss which woman was the hottest!

On the whole, I prefer Fear Factor. I admire the straightforward setup and simple lust for fame and fortune.
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Saturday night I went out with a bunch of people from school. I actually only knew the organizer, Yale Boy, who is got a fellowship to study in Korea for a year; I had dinner with him and the fellowship program people last term.

I was not in a good mood and didn't feel like going out, but brightened up when I saw that the only people waiting in front of the McDonald's so far were all guys. I'm sure I wouldn't have felt the same if it had been mostly girls. Believe me, I am SO not a flirt, but it soothed my prickly spirit to see guys there; there's something lovely and comforting about being the only girl among a group of nice guys -- reminds me of my year at Club DOJ, when I was the only girl among five guy's guys who were also inexpressibly sweet.

By way of introducing me to one of his friends, Another Yale Boy, original Yale Boy said: "Guess how old she is!" (Meaning me.)

I decried this as rude, so Yale Boy apologized and then said, "Okay, guess when she graduated college!"

Okay, and HOW is this different from asking my age? Oh, whatever, chalk it up to the immaturities of 20-year-olds. For that is how old the Yale Boys (plus Russian Boy, another member of the party) are.

Twenty!

Which explains, naturally, why Another Yale Boy got to talking about i-banking, and how he just wanted to make lots of money and not work when he grew up, and how everyone graduating was working like 60 hours a week, and how he was majoring in Bio because of his parents. Yale Boy responded by saying he was thinking about majoring in Religious Studies.

Whereupon I wandered off to look at the bowling.

Oh yeah! That's where we went. A bowling alley. On the eighth floor of a building in Shinchon (the area of Seoul where my school is located).

Bowling in Korea is the same as bowling in America. I suck at it. But I have a good time nonetheless.

You can't drink in Korean bowling alleys, which might actually be a blessing, seeing as how one of our party dropped the ball on his back swing 6 or 7 times without alcohol.

After bowling, our party, which grew to about 10 or so (mostly language school students), decided to go have sam gyup sal (fried pork wrapped in lettuce -- mmmmm) and soju -- ajyushi (older man) style, as Another Yale Boy put it.

I dislike soju, so I ordered a bottle of sweet wine (name of which is "100 Years Wine"), and was told by Another Yale Boy that it was expensive and didn't taste good. To which I replied, "Fine, then I'll drink the whole bottle myself!" Punk.

A few minutes into dinner, Russian Boy returned with his girlfriend, a Korean Russian who I've noticed in the hallways before because she is tiny, perfect, and speaks Russian, of course.

In fact, pretty much everyone at the table spoke two languages already, and were working on Korean as their third. The Japanese people, having been schooled in English since junior high, at least understood quite a lot, and the Russians both spoke English -- Russian Boy with a firm grasp of idioms and everything.

I felt keenly the inadequacies of American education.

After dinner, we moved onto the third part of the evening (all Korean outings must involve at least three places, and I'vee been told that the ideal evening consists of five or six!), which was the inevitable karaoke establishment. Chinese, Japanese, English and Korean songs were sung, and only two songs before I was about to inflict "Oops, I Did It Again" upon them, I realized that it was 12:20 and I had to catch the metro before it closed.

So Yale Boy's close friend Yokyo and I hurried to the metro, which is open until 1 am.

During the week.

Argh.

We considered crashing at Yale Boy's place, but Yokyo had done that the night before, and I -- well, it might have been fun, but now that I'm an old, old almost-27, I need to go home and sleep. So we considered taking a taxi, but before we had decided anything, I got a call from my dad.

And what did this old, old almost-27-year-old do? Why, accept an offer of a pick-up by Dad, of course, and request a ride for Yokyo as well.

Yokyo was amazed that my dad would do this. Her dad refused to pay for her college education, so she didn't go, instead going to a theological institute. Her dad almost stopped her from going to high school too, citing that lovely old reason that because she was a girl, she didn't need any more education, but Yokyo's teacher came to her house and talked with her father for two hours before convincing him to let her go to high school.

So when my dad insisted (in his mild way) on taking her home instead of dropping her off at her usual metro stop, she was very astonished, and I was very aware of being damn lucky.