Wait, Are You Really SARS?

'Pears that the SARS patient might just have pneumonia. Hope so.

I have heard from more than one person that Koreans are naturally resistant to disease because of all the garlic they consume. Does that mean that Italians are naturally impervious too?

I met a Russian girl today whose grandparents were forced laborers (read: slaves) for the Japanese. I've noticed her before because she takes the same subway I do after school, and during the winter, she'd literally be wearing short sleeves and jacket. Unzipped!

"I'm from Russia," she explained today, when I told her I'd marveled at her winter outfits.

She's married to an American soldier she met in Korea (when he was stationed here). He's now in Fort Lewis, though, where my own dear uncle works. He's hoping to get transferred back to Korea, but if not, she'll go to Seattle -- after she's okayed for a visa. It seems that she's already been waiting 7 months for it, and has another 5 to go.

It's a little strange to speak English with someone who looks Asian but speaks with a Russian accent. Hm. Not strange. Cool.

Hello, SARS

Well, it's here.

Just saw on the 8 pm news that the first SARS patient in Korea was confirmed today. I didn't understand most of the news report (and there's nothing about it up yet on the English language Korea Herald newspaper site), but it seems that it was man coming back from China. Since the universities are closed in Beijing, I'm guessing it was a male exchange student coming back home.

As Dan wrote me a few months ago, I certainly picked an interesting time to live here.

In the fluffy news area, you can see pictures of the dog cafe up on ofoto.com. I slapped them up pretty quickly, but hey, they're there:
www.ofoto.com; login: hkim100@hotmail.com; password: hkim100.

Tired. Was up til midnight last night working on the American Culture book for the Ivy League Educational Institute, and then stayed up for another hour and a half, doing exactly nada. I am dumbness personified.

Finished the darn text, though, so my editor told me to take it easy for a few days and catch my breath before starting on the final book (Language Arts, whatever the hell that means). It'll be great to have only homework to do when I get home at night!

Yesterday morning (which seems really far away), I went with my dad to visit my aunt and uncle. My uncle is dying of cancer. He looks a lot closer to death than he did 4 months ago, when I last saw him. I can't say that I'm really stricken with grief -- I don't really know him. But I feel a kind of empathetic sadness for the frailty of human existence. How quickly it all passes.

I also saw my brand new second cousin (my cousin's second son) for the first time. He was born on January 31, which is actually New Year's Eve on the lunar calendar. I've never seen such a new human being before, and I thought I might be really awed or something, but I have to say, I felt zippo. I even told myself, "Hey, this is brand new life looking up at you. Don't you feel something?" Nein, meinen freuden. I merely observed, in my head: "Look! New human! New human toes! New human hair! New human expressions of happiness and constipation, alternatively! Huh. Yah. Okay, I'm bored."

The new human's older brother is about 4, and is a spazzoid. I gave him a toy truck that J and I picked out in December (I know, I know, I just never got around to visiting my cousins last term), and he liked it, so he thought I might be a potential playmate. Chuh! He quickly became disillusioned, and turned to my father, who's never been much of a kid person, but found the kid pretty funny. My cousin commented, "Wow, look! He caught on right away that you weren't about to play with him." Smart kid.

I'm not much with kids. J is, and I found myself wishing he were there. He would have been an object of great interest to the kids and the adults, I think. And he probably would have gotten a kick out of playing with the kid. I don't know, when I'm around family, I miss J more.

Well, too tired to type more. Not done with dog cafe pics yet. Should clarify, though, that the cafe was not outdoors, like a French cafe or something. It was on the second floor, and it was just two big rooms. Hence, the smell. Not the nice furry doggy smell, but the kind of sickly sweet disinfectanty smell. Which is why I probably won't go back, except if you come to visit. (Wink.)

Grr. Two weeks ago, I did a superfast proof of an art book about traditional Korean knots (sort of like macrame but not). Its publication is being supported by the Foundation, but the writer and her editor are not Foundation staff. Anyway. I refrained from making too many corrections two weeks ago, since there was a chance the author wouldn't take my suggestions. Well, today, I got the book back, and it seems that the editors over on that side followed my corrections -- selectively. So okay, whatever, welcome to the life of a proofer. But someone on this side wants me to look over the book again and make "essential" corrections only. Yo, didn't I do that the first time? Flurgin' colossal waste of time when I could, you know, be doing important things, like writing emails.
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The German Giant canceled at the very last minute last night, but my team at work was going out for dinner, so I joined them, equally last-minute, instead. If I hadn't gone, I'd have missed one of my colleagues opening a wine bottle with a single metal chopstick. (Didn't take too long, eitha. Hee.)

I was amazed and asked if he had done this kind of thing before. "Yes," he said, "but with a screwdriver, at least you have a handle."

The wine was the bottle of Rodney Strong merlot I'd brought back from L.A. in January for the office, and the smooth taste made me smile, because it reminded me of many evenings at the Ringleted One's house in DC, where there was always a bottle or five ready for the downing. Here's to those lovely evenings, those lovely friends, and of course, the Rodney. Kombei!

Last night was way too much "Confessions of Things You Never Wanted To Know and Dearly Hope To Never Read Again," which I fully realize and feel rather blushy about. No more of that nonsense; I am done with the issue.*

(*i.e., saw Junior today at school and he invited me to his birthday celebration next Friday, so I don't feel like such a freaking loser and therefore don't need to cry in this space.)

I still haven't told you about the dog cafe I went to last weekend. Lessee... I went with my current classmate Midori, the G.O.D. (Groove Over Drive) fan, and Maiko, with whom I've been friends since my first days here. Midori, at the past two "graduation" ceremonies of our language program, performed G.O.D. hip-hop rock songs with three other Japanese students, so when I introduced Maiko to her, Maiko's eyes got really big and she said, "You're the G.O.D. singer from graduation!" Turns out Maiko's a bit of a Korean music fan herself, so they got along well.

Before we went to the dog cafe, we went to get lunch, at -- get this, DC inhabitants -- Pho 75. Yup, it's out here! Reviews from the Washington Post on the walls and everything. I was so surprised and happy to see it! Unfortunately, the taste was not up to the caliber of the Pho 75 in Arlington, nor even the tiny little pho place in Whittier I went to last month. And at 7,500 won (about 6 dollars), it's on par with American prices, but on the expensive side for Korea (where you can get an equivalent amount of food for 3,500 won).

Still, I felt a rush of fondness and nostalgia, so it was worth it. And it was funny to inspect the sauce for the spring rolls (which again, had a rather Korean lean to it) and confirm that it was indeed, correctly, peanut sauce and not denjang (Korea's ubiquitous bean paste).

After lunch, we found the dog cafe and were greeted by 16 dogs of varying shapes and sizes, from a huge, aristocratic white Russian borzoi to a saucy little puffball wearing a camouflage outfit (fortunately the only "dressed" dog in the place). Most of them were cocker spaniel-sized or smaller, though there was a black lab mix (I think), an Alaskan husky (probably in its teens -- not yet full grown), and the aforementioned borzoi.

The way it works is that you can bring your dog (3 months or older) and yourself (or just yourself) and hang out with the doggies. They have the run of the place; the camo-wearing puffball, for example, perched on top of our table, quite at home, and we were told that the couches we sat on were dog beds at night. You order a horrendously expensive drink (plain coffee ran 6,000 won, more than a decent meal) in return for staying as long as you like around the canines.

The smell greets you right away, and stays with you, as does the feeling that you're gulping down dog hair, but for a space about as big as my old apartment back in DC (without any of the walls), it didn't feel too crowded. The dogs seemed happy (except for the borzoi, who clearly considered all other life forms beneath her).

I have to do some research on this, but I believe that these kinds of cafes only exist in Korea. Again, it's not simply a place where your dog is welcome -- the cafe itself has dogs for you to pet. Interesting concept. There are at least 10 here; perhaps more, and they're kind of a new fad, I think. (One that's not going to stay around for long, I predict.)

Due to the smell, I'm not sure I'd go back on my own, but I'd definitely take YOU there, to experience it. (Unless you don't like dogs, in which case I would inwardly sigh at your lack of taste. Kidding.)

I'm in the process of putting pictures of the cafe up on ofoto.com; when they're ready, I'll let you know.

I'm a Loser, Baby, So...

Just came back from my evening constitutional around Olympic Park (5 rabbits spied tonight). I've taken to "marking" someone to follow around the path, as it helps me keep up a reasonable pace, and also makes me feel a little safer. Tonight, though, I think I scared the guy -- an older gent of probably 40 or 50, he turned around and looked at me a few times during the 30 minutes I was following him. I'm sorry, mister! I'm not a stalker, I swear!

Those endorphins kicking in are really very helpful, especially since right before I started walking, I felt like a total loser. Determined not to spend yet another Friday night alone at the movies, I called Jason, the Yale pre-junior, at my language program, to see if he wanted to do something tomorrow night. Okay, yes, he is 20, but it was fun to go bowling with him and his friends a few months back, and I was determined to have plans, see? Determined.

So this is how the conversation went:
Me: Hi, Jason? It's Helen from Sogang.
Junior: (laconically) Oh, hey. How's it going?
(Sounds of busyness in background.)
Me: Pretty good, thanks, how are you? Is this a bad time?
Junior: Well, uh... noooo, uh, it depends. What's up?
Me: I wanted to see if you wanted to do something tomorrow night.
Junior: Well, uh... what did you have in mind?
Me: (already feeling embarrassed) Um, dinner?
Junior: Well, I ... yeah, I kind of do this Bible study with my church group on Friday nights, so I don't know when that will be over. Maybe another time?
Me: Sure, okay. Do you want to set a time now, or just...?
Junior: Uh, yeah, we can set a time now. When are you free?
Me: It's kind of tough for me to get to Shinchon during the week, but the weekends are okay.
Junior: What do you mean?
Me: Well, I work in Yangjae, so it takes an hour to get back to Shinchon...
Junior: Yeah, okay... uh, well, I'm free on Monday.. wait, I think. Uh... yeah, I'm not the most organized person.
Me: (starting to laugh at the absurdity) I'm starting to see that.
Junior: Yeah, uh, I don't know...
Me: Well, hey, if you have some time free, just give me a call, okay?
Junior: Yeah, okay, good.
Me: Okay, bye.
Junior: Bye.

Okay, perhaps doesn't seem as absurd here as it felt at the time, but you understand that I'm really not used to reaching out and making friends. So I had to, like, psyche myself up to call, and then to be turned down by a 20-year-old, and then be turned down again when I try to make future plans -- oh yeah, baby, I felt like a BIG time loser.

Losah!!!

Well, after that roaring success, I immediately called someone else, the giant (6'5") German guy who I used to live with in my old boarding house, and invited him and his girlfriend out for dinner tomorrow night. Still felt like a losah, so I went for a walk, reminding myself that a REAL losah stays at home and waits for someone to call her, and when no one does, re-reads Bridget Jones for the 55th time.

I'm almost convinced.

And I'm learning: Next time, have plans in mind when you invite the person, and try not to call someone you haven't spoken to in several weeks if you don't want to: (1) spook them/cause them to think you're a loser/cause them to think you're desperate, and subsequently (2) cause yourself to think you are, in fact, a loser.

I've been reminded, of late, of the saying, "Wherever you go, there you are." Can't escape yourself, right. But I feel like I never really got it before this sojourn. It is such a glazed-eye truism that you learn about yourself when you travel, but there you go. And what lesson might I be speaking of? Well, if you're interested, it's that I am weird. Yes, I know this comes as a total shock, but it's time that you all knew the truth: I'm a total weirdo. I do not know how to relate to people, and the more I don't interact with people, the weirder I become (please reference my senior year in college, when I slowly grew more and more petrified of going into the dining hall because people might see me and think stuff about me).

You don't believe it, eh? I'm not talking about regular shyness here. Yes, I am used to keeping still and having other people make the overtures of friendship. It's so easy to wait for other people to make the move, and if they don't, then just to sit at home. I'm so in awe of people like Fearless T, the Neener, and the Ringleted One: when they decide they want to be friends with someone, they just walk up to them and start talking and before you know it, they're on for some fabulous event that very weekend.

I do realize that social skills, especially for naturally shy (me!) and introverted (me!) people, are something you learn, and that only by doing it over and over again do you start putting "rejections" in perspective. Do I think that just because I didn't end up successfully making plans with Jason that he rejected me; i.e., doesn't like me and is going to avoid me like the plague from now on? Well, no, I don't think it, but I do feel it. But this is besides the point -- my real weirdness, I think, is that I don't seem to know how to naturally progress from an acquaintance to a friendship, and so end up calling people out of the blue and spooking them. You know?

On the other hand (and I have at least 23), maybe it's all a matter of spin, as Fearless T pointed out once -- what I see and envy as natural progression is actually one person or two people having enough self confidence (or psyching themselves up enough) to say, "Hey, you wanna do something this weekend?"

Huhhhh. (sigh) It's a bit discouraging to go through another phase of "Eurgh, should I talk to This Person? What if I ask them to do something and they go away thinking I'm a total dork?" Even so, as Debbie Newberry says, "You gotta try. It's your DUTY." I hear ya.
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Something else totally unrelated to the above: Cigarettes are cheap! 2,000 won = about $1.80. How do I know? I bought some. That's right, I bought some cancer sticks. I have no defense. Just felt like a smoke.

And in other pollution-related news: On March 31, 2003, the Korean Ministry of Environment announced that Seoul has the worst air pollution of any OECD member, including notoriously polluted Rome and Mexico City. All right!

Entries have become rather erratic this week, sorry.

Last term, people kept telling me that there was another Helen in a different class. Same glasses, same hair, same demeanor! they insisted. Besides slightly similar glasses -- just dark plastic frames, as opposed to the light metal favored in Asia -- I didn't see much resemblance, but the "twin talk" led in us meeting briefly last term. We didn't really talk, though, and I sort of wrote her off as one of Those Korean_American Girls (T-KAGs?).

We struck up conversation again earlier this week, and today she came by my classroom and asked if I wanted to have lunch or something. I was absurdly pleased, as I always am when someone evinces the slightest hint of taking pleasure in my company. She's a high school teacher from Canada (why do I feel like this sounds like an intro for a candidate on The Dating Game?) and yes, she does do the Peter Jennings "abewt" (as opposed to "about") thing.

That's all. (Yah, it's true, I don't have anything marvelicious to tell you. Oh wait just a SECOND, though. What about the freakin' dog cafe I went to on Saturday that I've been meaning to write about since, uh, well, Saturday? Where is my brain? Seriously think I may have misplaced it in the airport last vacation, as I am totally losing it. These days, have hit plateau in Korean speaking abilities as well as losing grip on just about everything else. Anyway, need to look over a document now, so can't tell you about dog cafe. Tomorrow. And pictures too!)

To the woman wearing Henri Rousseau-inspired tights: Please don't. Patterned tights do not flatter. Especially those with a jungle flower-print.

To the woman wearing lace-patterned tights: Please don't. American women went through a similar lace craze in the 1980s, and we are still dealing with the emotional scars. Just... don't.

To the male student sporting a batik shirt and camo-print pants with one ankle-length pant leg and one stopping at just below the knee: I don't recommend this combination on you, or any other bipedal form. Not that it doesn't have its charms, but -- wait. You're French, you say? And you complain that no one takes France seriously?

Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs

Okay, not really any chance of meatballs, either coming from the sky or elsewhere. The above is, however, the title of one of my favorite children's books. I used to pore over the illustrations, which were hilarious; to wit: the huge pancake (with accompanying syrup!) that landed on and closed down the school, the day it rained broccoli and gorgonzola cheese, Ralph's Roofless Restaurant (no reservations needed). Only recently did I realize that the family in the story (written in the 1970s) consists of two kids, a mother, and the grandfather who tells the story of "the tiny town of Chewandswallow" -- no father.

Anyway. It's cloudy out but not raining, so the title came to mind.

Last night I saw Chicago, and while high expectations and the fact that Renee Zellweger is constantly referred to as "cute" when she in fact looks like a chipmunk wearing rouge did effect some disappointment, I did like it overall, and hereby apologize to Dave for not going to see it in college when he suggested going to see the actual stage production in New York. I think Bebe Neuwirth was playing Velma Kelley at that point, so I'm even sorrier I didn't get to catch the live version -- while Catherine Zeta-Jones does a fantastic job, Bebe woulda been worth the $75 I didn't have in college. Dave, Dave, Dave. You were ahead of your time then (and had more money to burn than the rest of us).

One of the previews last night was for Bowling for Columbine, the Michael Moore documentary that won the Oscar this year. Okay, I'm as much a fan of heavy-hitting documentaries as anyone, but I was in the mood for escapism. I mean, I went to see Chicago. Music, dance numbers, murderous dames dancing in lingerie, slick lawyers -- that's what I expected. I did not expect and was completely taken aback by a series of ultra-liberal interpretations of U.S. geopolitical actions in the past 50 years culminating in a shot of the Twin Towers as the second plane crashed into it, with the caption: "In 2001, Osama bin Laden used his CIA-provided training to kill 3,000 people." Even writing about it this morning makes me feel queasy. I don't excuse U.S. actions that have deposed elected leaders and installed murderous dictators -- these facts should be known, should be taught, should be learned -- but such a presentation is as prejudicial and narrow as any Rush Limbaugh show.

I guess you could say that you hafta fight fire with fire (i.e., we need the Michael Moores to balance out the Sean Hannitys) but the series of images and captions felt exploitative. Oddly, watching the second plane hit last night shook me in a way that the events, while happening, never did. I felt like crying.
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In totally different news, I received yesterday a very special package from BC: the Yale Herald compilation of Wide Gauge comics. Wide Gauge was drawn (but more written) by Ken Moon, on whom I had a omigodit'shim! kind of crush during college. (Except for an art show I helped put together where he was one of the artists, we never had contact, though.)

Ken remains the only KA guy I've ever remotely liked, while Wide Gauge remains the only comic featuring dung beetles that I know of. I spent an hour last night reading and laughing over them, and was surprised to have a great deal more sympathy, recognition, and understanding of the angst coming out of those dung beetles. In college I think I just thought they were funny, or slightly gross, or both.

Does the fact that I like and understand them better now mean that Ken was a genius, or that I was more immature in college than your average college student? Huh. Lately I feel like my maturation rate has been incredibly slow throughout my life. I'm not trying to dog on myself, I'm just saying I feel like I lack a lot of the life-knowledge/self-knowledge/common sense that other 27-year-olds have.

Good god, am I really 27?

Many, many thanks to BC for such a funny, dear gift. You know me too well (and still like me!). I'd completely, utterly, totally forgotten about the KM obsession. (Hm, wonder what he's doing these days. Maybe I should google him...) (Hah hah -- NOT!) (Well, a little, but not much.) (Oh, LORDY.)

Another rainy day

It's one of those nights where you wonder how anyone gets through the terrible, terrible loneliness of it all.

I should probably stop going to movies by myself -- this is the second Friday in a row that I've gone to see a movie alone and then walked home late at night. The sky is that weird light gray color that it gets when it's cloudy and rainy.

I guess this is one of those nights that I warned myself I was going to have. "You're going to hate it at times, Helen," I said to myself as I prepared to leave DC, "so suck it up and remember that this is what you want to be doing. There are going to be good times and there are going to be bad times."

I said this to a wise woman at TPG just before I left, and she said, "You know what, Helen? That's life."

Yeah.

Pictures of Jejudo at ofoto.com. Login: "hkim100@hotmail.com", password: "hkim100".
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It's 11:20 am here on Thursday and I'm not in class because we have today and tomorrow off due to Easter. I still have to go to work; it's not a national holiday or anything, but since Sogang is a Jesuit school and there are a lot of nuns and fathers enrolled in the language program, we get these two days off.

I just came back from a walk in Olympic Park, where I've gone on a semi-regular basis to get a bit of exercise. It's mid-April and it's not exactly hot, so I was wondering why the hell I was sweating, when I realized with dread: humidity.

Summer is going to suck. Especially since there is no AC in the apartment.

The park is much nicer, I think, at dusk, when there are no schoolkids running around on field trips and when the animals come out to feed. Lots of rabbits and pheasants, plus the occasional crane.

Listening to: Noel, a Korean boy band.

Thinking of: The fact that the Korean contemporary music scene consists of boy bands, girl bands, and bubble gum popsters. Oh, and the occasional rapper.

Feeling guilty about: Using this format of "Blah: Blah", since it's blatantly stolen from other blogs. Oh well. Nothing original under the sun.

Also feeling guilty about: Not finishing the American Landmarks chapter for the American Culture book yet, mostly because it took me two days to figure out that Monticello, the redwoods, and the Grand Canyon are not really "American Monuments" or "American Symbols," and while they are "UNESCO World Cultural Heritage Sites," I'd be better off calling them "American Landmarks." Two days!
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Same day, 8:02 pm

This morning, my dad called me up at home. He can't really afford my mother's upkeep in the States while she finishes her master's thesis, so he asked how I'd feel about her coming to Korea and us all living together.

My first reaction was that I'd move out rather than live with my mother. And I may do that, if she does come here -- not that there's any guarantee that she will. In fact, my guess is that she won't. But while musing about it on my walk home from the subway, the utter hilarity of the situation struck me.

I've lived apart from my parents for 10 years now, and they've lived apart from each other a little bit less than that. I can't speak for them, but for a good four years of that time, I was inexpressibly glad to be a minimum of 3,000 miles away -- as far as the North American continent would let me run. But within 6 fucking months of moving to my birthplace, I'm living with my dad and now maybe my mom? Like one big happy fucking family again? Pardon my French -- there's just no other way to express my incredulity about the way life can frog-march you into the weirdest and most unexpected of situations.

Pictures of Jejudo at ofoto.com. Login: "hkim100@hotmail.com", password: "hkim100".
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I just proofed a couple articles about the geopolitical situation over here, all of them focused on whether U.S. forces should stay in Korea.

One of the more interesting points I learned was that there are 26,000 American troops in Okinawa. That fact was lodged somewhere in my brain, but I looking up the actual number today, and was surprised that it was so high. While it's still 11,000 fewer than those stationed in Seoul (37,000), and while Seoul is admittedly the enormously overcrowded capital of Korea, you don't really hear much about Japan wanting to kick those troops out. (At least in American press. I need to learn more about it; I seem to recall that their presence in Japan has also been a source of controversy.)

What's fascinating is that the Japanese government spends quite a bit of money each year for the express purpose of smoothing relations between the Okinawans and the U.S. troops -- money to help alleviate discomforts and inconveniences of having foreign troops around, education programs, etc. One of the articles I read made the point that the Korean government might be well-advised to build a similar program. Eeeeentahresting, no?

Check out the pictures of Jejudo at ofoto.com. Login as "hkim100@hotmail.com" and put in "hkim100" as the password.
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Sad, sad, sad. I hate spring.

Reading: Abraham Lincoln and Civil War America, by William Gienapp.

Listening to: Coldplay, Parachutes

Working on: The text for the American Culture book for the Ivy League educational institute. It's freakin' hard to condense my encyclopedic knowledge of America and its culture into text for kiddies. Further reason to hate kids.

Thinking of: John

Trying not to: Cry

Latest laugh: On Saturday, I went to the doctor to see about some mild but consistent back pain, and it turns out that my lower spine is not curving as it should. (No wonder I have no fucking nerve, ha ha. Bad spine! Bad spine!) I'm on orders to get up from sedentary positions every hour to move about, and to get exercise. That's not the funny part, though. That would be when I went to get X-rayed and as I waited, I could hear the nurse yelling at a granny, " PLEASE TURN THIS WAY NOW. GOOD. NO, THIS WAY. NO, THIS WAY." When it was my turn, my dad told the nurse I didn't speak Korean very well, so would she speak a little more slowly than usual, and the nurse yelled very loudly at me, "JUST KEEP YOUR PANTIES ON BUT TAKE EVERYTHING ELSE OFF OKAY" at which I started laughing, as did my dad, who said, "Uh, she can hear just fine, just talk a little slowly, not loudly," to which she blushed and said (in a normal volume), "Sorry, there was a granny here before you, and I had to talk loudly for her, so I just kept going, sorry." Heh.

After far too many hours sitting in front of the computer listening to Coldplay over and over while the earth awakens from its winter slumber outside, I finished the Jejudo album at ofoto.com for your viewing pleasure. Ah, don't worry about it. I hate spring anyway.

Go to www.ofoto.com, login as "hkim100@hotmail.com" and put in the password: "hkim100". Hope you enjoy it.

Saw "The Recruit" on Friday night, and Colin Farrell is one sexy bastard. Check out the Washington Post Style section last week (I think Friday) for a completely can-I-lie-at-your-feet-and-worship-you article about him, written, strangely enough, by the usually level-headed Tom Shales. Tom does everything except ask if he can be the president of the Colin Farrell fan club. I think it's that come-and-have-a-drink-with-me-mate attitude that gets the men drooling.

It's raining today. Sometimes rain makes me happy but today it's really, really depressing.

BC and Steph both sent me articles noting the death of my college senior essay advisor, Robin Winks. All of senior year I was terrified of meeting with Winkie, whom I called Winkie to defray some of the terror. (But not to his face or anything.) He was really very kind, though, when I decided halfway through the year that I couldn't actually write a paper on the Silk Road if I didn't know Chinese, Russian or any of the language spoken in the -Stans. I still remember him telling me that another student of his had once done the same, and switched her topic midyear to Barbies, her lifelong collection hobby. And of course I remember going to see him when I got an A- on the essay and being greeted by: "You didn't like the minus, did you?!" (Followed by an explanation that he'd been on the fence about the minus as well, but left it up to the grader, who was the wrong person to be grading my essay anyway but as we'd never discussed who the grader should be, I couldn't very well complain... lord, if I could do college at this wizened age, I think I'd actually know what I was doing.)

Winkie visited every single national park in the States; he told me once that he'd meant to become a park ranger but got sidetracked by history. He also was interested in and wrote about espionage, detective fiction, British history and all the countries formerly in the British Empire. I didn't know he'd done a Fulbright in New Zealand until I read the obit.

I don't know from Joe Doe about Winkie's personal life, but it does seem that he had a full, satisfying life, in which he explored many different interests in depth. It's inspiring.
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In other education-related news: I just read an article for work stating that the UN's Committee on the Rights of the Child recently found that the undue stress that Korean students are subjected to as a result of rigorous early education and excessive competition for university admission constitutes a violation of their rights. In all other cases where children's rights were found to be violated, the violations consisted of poverty, inadequate healthcare, and abuse. Korea was the only country on the list where excessive education was the cause of abuse!

One of my colleagues here told me that when she really began to prepare for the university admissions test (usually a year before), she would be up at 6, go to school all day, eat dinner there, study, go to a private study building after that, study some more, and go home to sleep around 12. This, all year. 16-year-olds! Yikes. She expressed her doubts about the system too: "I don't want my kids to have to go through what I did."

Bad stomacheache last night, around 1 am. Told my dad about it this morning, and he said something interesting: "I used to be like that. Always tired, stressed out. But now I'm not. You have to let it go. Make it simple. Don't be stressed out, because everything is impermanent, nothing is what it seems." (He's into the Buddhist thing, if you couldn't tell.)

So I'm thinking, yeah. Yeah, because I feel like I've been tired and stressed for years, and though there were definitely times where that was the appropriate response to life events, I'm tired of operating in that state all the time.

I haven't figured out yet what exactly I'd like to change about my daily life, but I know that I'd really like to change my mind's reaction to stress (i.e., get all tensed up and nervous about the least little thing).

(Yah, you THOUGHT this was going to be a blog about Korea, but once in a while, you have to slog through confessionals and promises of self-development. I'm not going to be offended if you skip these. In fact, I won't even ever know! So go ahead and skip with abandon.)

(All right, but now I feel all guilty because I haven't written anything fun or elucidating about Korea. FINE. I'll flip through this Koreana magazine here and find some FASCINATING fact, just for YOU.)

No, forget it, I won't. I have a flurgin' right to be lazy, don't I? So I'll just tell you this little story, which I keep forgetting to write down, but must have been forgetting on purpose, so that I could pull it out for this kind of occasion.

Everyone knows that obesity is a serious problem in America. Expat Matt, upon his brief visit back to the States for the holidays, wrote to me that I'd probably notice the preponderance of overweight people when I came back to the U.S.

Actually, I'm fairly unobservant unless I'm trying to be, and so I didn't notice until I read his note. Anyway, I didn't really think anything of it until several weeks ago, when I was walking to work and I saw a mother with two kids in front of me. The older kid, a girl of about 7 or so, was a little overweight. The funny thing is, I heard her say something in Korean to her mother as I passed by them, and I was surprised that she spoke Korean. It took a second to figure out why: in my head, since she was overweight, she had to be American.

Weird. Not like there aren't any fat kids in Korea (on the rise, as you'd expect), but odd to what extent you completely absorb beliefs that you never even articulate.

The concert last night WAS all about modern composition, which I had a hard time sitting through. However, the hour and a half was leavened by the fact that Maiko and I had sneaked food in and surreptitiously opened crackling plastic wrappers under our coats and during applause, trying to look extremely nonchalant at the same time. Nope, no food here.

We also stuck around after the concert in the hopes that the reception set up outside the concert hall was actually for commoners like us. After some toasts for the organizers of the 2003 International Festival of Women in Music Today, we did get to descend on the sashimi, fruit, fake melon-and-prosciutto (thick rolls of ham instead of the prosciutto), sushi, etc., and gobble away. Whee! Free food! Sometimes I think I'll never get over my college years.

Illness seems to be fading away. Today I'm sitting upright in my chair at the office, not slumped down like yesterday. This, however, might be due to the fact that I seem to have gained poundage and cannot comfortably slouch in these slacks without cutting off circulation to my legs. It's time for some shopping. I found myself staring at a woman yesterday morning on the train because I really, really liked her outfit. I want a butter yellow, three-quarter length spring coat that matches my pale yellow cropped pants and yellow pumps. Okay, maybe not the yellow pumps. And maybe not all in yellow. But something -- dare I say? --in pastel.

Dang spring. Makes dark-colors people like me actually crave pale shades of pink, green and blue. Another reason to hate the season. Which I do. Except when I don't.

I keep meaning to write more about Jejudo but days go by, I don't know why, I'm walking on a wire -- hey, when did lyrics by Shawn Colvin get lodged in my memory? I swear, I forget the commonest facts and words these days and am able to dredge up the murkiest facts. Like today, I remembered that the coffee bean turd-dropping animal's name is a civet. And furthermore, that the fact that some folks actually pay big money for coffee beans harvested from civet turd is, oddly, a rather just revenge for the many decades during which civet anal glands were harvested for perfume bases (Chanel No. 5, for one).

(If you don't believe me, check out Cecil Adams' site: http://www.straightdope.com/columns/010525.html. And no, I didn't look at it before I wrote the above paragraph; I wrote those facts down from memory. Don't ask me why my mind chooses to hold on to facts like this.)

Anyway, I'll work on Jejudo descriptions at some point. If not, I'll write them up when I post the pictures. Probably this weekend, when I'm not reeling from the one-two punch of returning to school and work on the same day.

Since I've been in Korea, I've been under the weather an oddly high number of times. The illnesses haven't been colds, exactly, or cases of the flu. They're just times when I feel completely and utterly wiped out. Like now, for instance. I'm slumped in my chair at work, and the desk looks like a pillow to me. Someone here just said, "Helen, you're disappearing."

I'm so tired! And this is the third or fourth time in six months (not including the time when I really did have the flu). I don't understand it.

I know I promised more descriptions of Jejudo, but they'll have to wait til tomorrow. In the fresh dew of morning strength, I foolishly made plans to see a concert tonight, which involved inviting my friend Maiko, and so instead of going home like a wise Helen, I'm going to trudge off to the 2003 International Festival of Women in Music Today. They better not be playing any weird experimental crap; I can't hang with that just now.

I was going to cop out and say that I'm too sick (weird throat, nose, achey body affliction), have too much work (on top of the regular 2-6 job, I'm continuing to do the freelance textbook writing), am worn out from vacation (always a strange oxymoronic feeling), and am down in the dumps, but I decided, "Ah fuck it, just write something, ya lazy bum."

Re: sickness -- don't worry, I don't have a cough and I don't have a fever, so it's highly unlikely that I have SARS. But I do have a memory about infectious diseases that I'd like to share: about a year ago, I attended a series of lectures at NIH about infectious diseases (free! I love government), and one of the several experts who spoke rhapsodized about viruses to the effect of "There's no other organism that continues to baffle and try humanity, to frighten us and decimate us, and continues to have such mystery about it. Perhaps they do not trespass on our bodies, in our world, as much as we trespass on theirs."

(Yah, obviously I don't remember it to this extent, but you get the drift.)

Yesterday I came back from a two-day trip to Jeju Island, the southernmost island of Korea. It's called Korea's Hawaii; some people insist it's better than Hawaii. I don't remember Hawaii well enough to contest that, but I sure was charmed by Jeju. Popular destination of honeymooners, it harbors no factories, relying on fishing and farming in the past and tourism today for its economy. The island lived up to everything I'd heard about it.

It is said that three things are abundant on Jejudo ("do" means "island"): wind, rocks and women. The wind was balmy while we were there, but I did see a basketball hoop with a concrete base that had fallen over; I'll take that as evidence that the wind can be fierce. There were tons of rocks. Tons! All the fields are neatly framed by rock fences, which brought to my mind the line from the Robert Frost poem "Good fences make good neighbors" (probably because it's the only line I can remember from that poem). The fences are constructed with space between the rocks, so that the wind goes through the fence. And though I didn't take a survey, there did seem to be a lot of women. I think the reason for this part of the saying is because in the past many men died in fishing accidents, sort of like Gloucester in Massachusetts.

The women of Jejudo are famed for their diving skills, and I saw several divers while I was there, both in and out of the water. I was pretty freakin' impressed, lemme tellya.

I'll have some pictures up on ofoto.com in a few days, and more descriptions of stuff I saw there tomorrow.

John

We never would have crossed paths if I hadn't been jonesing for a cigarette. If his guitar-playing friend hadn't asked him to come out to Dupont that night, we would have remained ignorant of each other's existence. If he hadn't been smoking at the exact moment I passed by, I wouldn't have noticed him.

Fate, coincidence, god -- whatever name you want to put to it, all the elements were in the right place at the right time for an anal-retentive Ivy League grad and a high school dropout army boy to meet on July 20, 2000.

Before that day, it seemed as if my life had been dark for a long time. I would walk home after my night shifts at Olssons, and the night seemed endless and omnipresent. The world consisted of work and home. It wasn't joyless because there weren't any emotions in it. I wasn't speaking to my father. I avoided talking to my mother. I told people that I thought marriage was an outdated institution. My heart was closed. I couldn't even see what I was missing.

Today, I am on great terms with my father. I'm slowly mending things with my mother. I have hope that someday I'll meet someone I want to be married to. Sometimes my heart feels so full of emotions that it hurts. My brother thinks I'm more relaxed, and I am. I've still got a long way to go, but I'm not the tensed up, closed person I was.

When someone loves you completely and totally for who you are, even at your worst, you can't help but change. You can't help but learn from them.

The great lessons in life aren't the ones you get from lectures. You don't learn them by hearing and you don't teach them by telling. John would be the first person to say that he doesn't know much, that he couldn't imagine having anything worthy of teaching anyone. Well, on this matter you really don't know anything, Pokey, so shut up and listen.

Friends, I know what I seem like. I'm basically kind. I'm responsible. I try to be helpful and I try to do the right thing. I like people to compromise and I like people to get along. I hate confrontation. I love dogs. I worry and I am anal-retentive. I am sarcastic at times, sometimes to the point where it stings. I can be silly. I baked a good cake or two. Often I'm shy.

All very nice. But missing the point. I was all these things to John and much, much more, and the much, much more was much, much awfulness. Around John, my anal-retentiveness turned into snappishness and irritability when things didn't go the way I wanted them to. My kindness? Ha! I was forgiving to all people but John. I was often selfish, choosing not to spend time with John's friends when I didn't want to, even though he spent countless hours with mine, even when he didn't want to. I second-guessed him, made him feel bad about his mistakes, judged him unfairly for not having skills or talents that he never had a chance to acquire. I didn't communicate with him, staying silent or sulking instead while he coaxed me into dialogue.

There wasn't a week of our relationship where I didn't cry for some reason or another -- and I do mean EVERY damn week. Frustration, sadness, irritability -- you name it, I cried about it. And every single time, every SINGLE time, even though I had acted prickly or angry or sulky or insulting -- in other words, behaved childishly and churlishly -- John would pull me to him and whisper, "Don't cry, baby. It's okay. Don't cry."

On John's 23rd birthday, I took him to Marrakesh. No, not the Moroccan city, the DC restaurant with the belly dancers that my friends took me to on MY 23rd birthday. It was just the two of us. We had a great time. Unfortunately, at some point in the evening, I started feeling like John wasn't showing enough appreciation for the dinner. You would think that one year into a relationship I would be able to discern whether my boyfriend liked something or not. (He did like it.) You would think that it would be enough to do something nice for someone you love. But ah, my friends, how little you know me. Insecurity took over and I capped a lovely evening by acting hyperactive, withdrawing, and then bawling. Happy birthday, honey! Bewildered, John nevertheless comforted me, calmed me down, and always referred to it afterwards with a smile.

There were naysayers from the very beginning of our relationship. How could you not doubt? John and I are from different cultures, different socio-economic stratas, different educational levels, different ethnicities, different EVERYthing. I went to posh private schools; he went through the school of hard knocks. I read Dostoevsky and Dickens; he read people with spot-on accuracy. As a teenager I took lessons in flying, piano, and horse-back riding; he took lessons in skateboarding, punk rock, and drugs.

But John and I are alike in that it takes a couple meetings for people to really see us. And some things, obviously, are only seen by significant others. So I'll tell you now what I never overtly said before: John was the best boyfriend in the world. He always kept close to me at any place where I might feel uncomfortable, be it at an army function, or at a bar with his friends, or in a huge electronics store in the video game section. He never laughed at me or teased me if I hid my face during a particularly gruesome scene in a movie. He would stroke my hair and tell me when it was over. He wouldn't take off the little gold ring he took from me one summer, even when a superior asked him scornfully why he was wearing it. (He answered, "Because I love my girlfriend, sir.") He followed Buffy the Vampire Slayer because my friends and I liked to watch it.

In October 2001, John was there when my father came to town to make amends with me. He was the one who gently reminded me, "He's your father, baby," when I debated whether to spend a day with my dad. Later that same week, John's father died. Even in his terrible grief, he was able to say, on the very day he found out: "At least I got to know him for 10 years. At least I have that." And even now, I marvel at it: what kind of person can say that? Can recognize and appreciate the good even in his darkest hour? Someone with strength and humility beyond most people, including myself.

When John was in the army and had to be in at work at 5:30 am, he always dressed quietly, put his change and keys in his pockets, and then, without fail, knelt down beside the futon to give me a kiss and whisper, "I love you." Every single time.

Perhaps it's easy to be this tender and generous and kind to someone who is the same. Easy to be a saint to a saint. The amazing thing is when you're a saint to a decidedly unsaintly person. When you can be this tender and generous and kind to someone who is difficult and irritable and prickly. John knew all my bad qualities -- the silences, the inability to communicate, the crying, the doubt -- and still loved me.

Because I doubted too. I doubted us from day one. I doubted our longterm viability as a couple (yes, I used those words exactly). And though it must have pained him to no end to hear me voice these doubts, John reassured me, over and over. Once, early on in our relationship, he told me that if we did break up some day, he'd be able to walk away happy to have known me and to have learned from our relationship. He pointed out the good things in our relationship, things that I would gloss over in my negativism. His faith in us buoyed me through the rough times. I depended on it, not just to keep our relationship going, but to keep me going. Knowing that John loved me gave me strength. In my first two months in Seoul, I carried his dogtag with me everyday. Just touching the outline of the metal in my pocket helped me get through the loneliness, the strangeness of it all.

If I have any regrets, it's that I wasn't the same vast reserve of love and tenderness that he was for me.

John, thank you for being part of my life so intimately, so lovingly, for these past two years and nine months. This entry is for you. This is for you because you showed me that someone can be deeply, profoundly hurt, and yet have the courage to love again. And not just to love but to reach out a hand, again and again, after getting slapped back, over and over. This is for you because I was and continue to be a difficult, exacting, judgmental, selfish person, and you knew this more than anyone else and yet loved me all the same. This is for you because you've given me something so many things to aspire to: generosity, tenderness, patience, integrity, and a huge, huge capacity for love. I can only hope to love someone like that someday. This is for you because you might someday believe these things about yourself if I tell you enough times, if I shout it out to the world. This is for you because I hope someday that I can appreciate the amazing things about you to the extent that you deserve. This is for you because I think you are more than just the best boyfriend in the world. I think you might be the best human being in the world.

Helen and John: July 20, 2000 to March 25, 2003.