Note to the woman I walked by yesterday, who was wearing long black leather shorts, gray stockings, and calf-length black leather boots: for the love of all things holy, please go home and burn your outfit. Thank you.

I stayed up, completely accidentally, until 5:30 am yesterday (today?), watching TV. This apartment has cable, which has tripled the number of channels on the idiot box, including a couple English language movie channels. Shows viewed (roughly from 10 pm to 5 am):

1. Alien 3. I had never seen it, despite really adoring the first two (they were just about the only two that showed up on both John's and my favorite film lists). Man, I can't believe they killed Hicks. Michael Biehn was so pretty in Aliens. For Newt I shed no tears, though. And overall, Alien 3 so did not need to get made.

2. Dirty Dancing. Ah yes, the ultimate girl-growing-up movie, and a college era favorite. When Patrick "She's Like the Wind" Swayze growls, "Nobody puts Baby in the corner," don't you just want to DIE???? Okay, not really. But the movie's a sentimental favorite. On this viewing, I was surprised to find that I liked Baby's mother best of all. I know, she barely even has a presence in the movie, but in the last scene, when she and her husband are watching Baby dance with Patrick Swayze Like the Wind, she leans over and says "I think she gets it from me" with the perfect balance of ditz and seriousness.

3. Justine. Apparently a soft porn TV show about a privileged blonde high school girl named Justine who gets into a series of mishaps around the world that require her to take off her clothes and from which she needs to be saved by her studly English teacher, who sports the world's worst English accent EVER (and that includes Kevin Costner's "accent" in Robin Hood). The acting is really terrible, in a really funny way, and the show reminds me a little of Pamela Anderson's late night TV vehicle VIP, which stopped just short of being soft porn, and featured similiarly, uh ... talent-challenged actors. Hey, I liked VIP. I'm not ashamed to say it. Not ashamed, you hear me? Not ashamed!

4. Aaaaand, speaking of Kevin Costner, The Postman, which, if it didn't feel the need to drag out each scene into super-melodramatic spectacles worthy of Titanic, would have been an okay movie. What can I say, I have a weakness for Kevin Costner Movies. I even liked Waterworld. And I've seen Tin Cup. Though not in a theatre. The Postman is based on a David Brin book that contains a far, far weirder ending than the movie. I won the book in some writing contest years ago, and loaned it to RG, who loaned it to Tricia Reixach, who never gave it back. It's like the Chris Isaac tape I loaned in junior high to a friend who insisted she gave it back to me, but I don't remember that and to this day think she in fact did NOT give it back. Rachel Rosensweig, you owe me a copy of Heart Shaped World!

Lest you think I am all bitterness and bad taste in movies, I finished today a collection of short stories by Alice Munro (thank you again, M. le Roi). I'd been reading a story a night, but finished up the last three in a blaze of impatience tonight. Reading adult literature for the first time in ages and viewing an old favorite like Dirty Dancing makes me feel not old, but merely older. Possibly wiser too. And glad of it. Though at the same time, saddened.

Yesterday, I went to an excellent lecture on religion in Korea that cleared up a lot of questions I've asked over the past year about why Christianity "took" so well here and why the hell Koreans act the way they do. (Respectively: a vaccuum left by the rejection of Buddhism by the Neo-Confucian founders of the Joseon dynasty, plus a post-Korean War nationalistic move toward western values after the Japanese colonization period; and Confucianism, Confucianism, Confucianism.) Makes me want to go to grad school. I freakin' love learning. Love. It. Maybe I should go get a degree in East Asian Studies. Or Religious Studies. ARGH. WHY CAN'T I DECIDE WHAT TO DO?!?!?!?

Sorry.

Dr. Gil, who is a Protestant, said that he didn't find much of the spirit of Jesus in Korean Protestantism. I think he might have written the article I read a few months ago about Korean religion, because just as in the article, he mentioned the "this-worldliness" of Korean religion, both Christianity and Buddhism. Which is to say, the point that some very big Christian leaders here make is that if you're Christian and try to lead a Christian life, you'll be rewarded in this life with success in the business place, happiness at home, bright kids who get accepted into the best colleges, and a nice home and car. Same with Buddhists. A practical goal with little to do with either Jesus' or Buddha's messages.

The lecturer said that Buddhism and Christianity were, to him, the most radical of religions in their origin, both led by men who challenged the values and precepts of this world, and proposed an entirely new take on existence; namely, seeking otherworldly peace from hatred, avarice, desire and ignorance in nirvana/the Kingdom of God.

I am reminded of a conversation I had with a coworker who will be attending a seminary in Philly next year, in order to become a minister. I said that Buddhism and Christianity, as well as all the other major religions, shared some basic similarities. His response was that he didn't see how that could be, since "they are so different that if one is right, then the other must be wrong." Sigh.

Yes, We Have No Thanksgiving!

Last year on Thanksgiving, I went to a party thrown by missionaries and played Uno. This year, some of those missionaries are gone, already on a different mission. In the end, they didn't get into North Korea, and since their mission was only for two years, they are now slowly dispersing to other parts of the world or other stages of their lives.

Seems like a bit of a waste, to be honest. I finally asked Father Njoroje a couple weeks ago why Catholic priests and nuns move around the world, and his answer made a lot of sense. The priests in my class, for example, are scheduled to stay in Korea for a couple years, learn the language, help the needy, and then move on to another location. Fatigue sets in after a while; you don't want someone to turn into a nutter a la the father in Poisonwood Bible. But the young missionaries I had Thanksgiving with last year never made it into their target area, and spent the whole two years learning Korean and simply living in South Korea. Huh.

My dressmaking friend Tex is going to stay here and work as a teacher at the international school where her boyfriend also works. The way she told it, the director of the school said to her boyfriend, "I feel like I'm supposed to offer [Tex] a job here." In other words, God means for Tex to stay in Korea, possibly get married to her boyfriend, and resume teaching kiddies.

I wish that God/Yahweh/Allah/J.C./Buddha/Vishnu/etc. would speak to me as clearly as __ seems to speak to Tex. Then I think, maybe __ does, and I just don't listen. Or can't hear. That's the kind of thing that makes me nervous. Then I remember that I believe that if there is a __, __ is a watchmaker type, and that __'s given me the capability to observe, ask questions, analyze, think, and decide for myself. Darn watch! Darn inability to come up with a mortal/deity-neutral pronoun!

As usual, I've got a lot to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. Just now, for example, the assistant director of the publications department told me that I didn't have to finish the stuff she gave me yesterday by the end of today. Hallelujah! I was wondering if I would be able to finish it today before taekwondo -- I don't think I could have. Now I've got the weekend to work on it. It's eery how you sometimes get cut a break just at the right time.

Time to take off from the office. Happy Thanksgiving, all, and a special hello to b.c., who knows what to do when the turkey's armpits are still frozen.

Moved, Speeched and Tired

I am obssessed with the photos from Dave/Steph's and Maggie/James' weddings.

My dad and grandmother oversaw the move on Monday, so I just left for school in the morning and, after work and some studying, came home to a new apartment. It's much larger than the old one, but the occupancy has also doubled, so we'll see how it all works out. Monday and Tuesday I came home after my grandmother and great aunt had gone to bed, so the apartment seemed very spacious.

I love setting up after a move. Yes, it can be tedious, but if you have, say, a speech to give in class on Wednesday, Tuesday night is a fantastic time to stay up until 1 am unloading and arranging your books artistically in the bookcase.

Sometimes I think that the most enjoyable moments in life are the ones that you steal between and before obligations and tasks.

The topic of my speech was divorce in Korea, which has skyrocketed up 250 percent in 10 years. Last year, for every 1,000 people in Korea, there were 3 divorces. In 1992, there were 1.2. Comparatively, last year, for every 1,000 people in the U.S., there were 4 divorces. But the last time that there were 1.2 divorces per 1,000 people in the United States was 60 years ago.

Lest you think that it took Korea 10 years to hit a divorce rate that the U.S. hit in six decades, I'll mention that the divorce rate in the U.S. actually hit the 4 in 1,000 mark in the 1980s (it then continued to go up throughout the eighties and subsequently decreased in the nineties). But even so -- still roughly four times as fast. As the sociologists are fond of pointing out, social changes that happened over decades in the west are taking place here in a matter of years.

Every Beginning Comes From Some Other Beginning's End (or, Our Beginnings Never Know Our Ends!)
Heading may be longer than entry. Okay, not really.

It's 11 on a Sunday night and I'm packed up, ready for our move tomorrow. This apartment complex is going to be destroyed to make way for new, more expensive apartments, so me, my dad, my grandmother and my great-aunt (that's what you call your grandmother's sister, right?) are moving in tomorrow to an apartment that my aunt owns.

I don't mind moving. I made my first one as an 8-month-old carried onto a transpacific flight, and moved to two other cities after that before college. I sometimes think that I must have somehow absorbed the excitement of moving in my cradle, because I remember asking my father when I was 5 and we were living in San Francisco when we were going to move. I wanted to, you see. Starting new, starting fresh. All the usual cliches and associations.

I looked at all my stuff in my room, packed up in two suitcases, a travel backpack, a large plastic bin, and a couple other assorted containers, and I thought, man, how is it that when you don't even like acquiring things, you end up with this much crap? Most of the stuff I've acquired here is probably school-related, notes and books and things like that. I'm loathe to get rid of it, but I'll probably do so when I head back to the States for good.

Do places retain any sense of their occupants? Just about a year ago, I moved into this apartment from my boarding house, a quick, single-evening, single-carload run. If this building weren't to be demolished in a few months, would it hold the imprint of my changing during this past year? I got to know my dad again in this apartment, improved my Korean, cried over John, and ... matured, I guess.

I kind of wish this place didn't have to vanish in the next year, replaced by something bigger and newer and cleaner, because then someday in the future I might be able to come back and walk past the street with all the gingko trees, hanging heavy with golden leaves, and see in my memory the uniformed high schoolers walking together in packs to school in the morning. I might be able to pass the pharmacy where I bought my first Korean contact lens solution. I might be able to start up the stairs of building 114 and remember thinking about how strange Korean apartments seemed in the fall of 2002.

I might be able pause in the stairwell and remember the nights I smoked cigarettes out the window, looking up at the sky and feeling so badly about my breakup that I wanted to disappear like the bits of ash I flicked out into the street. I might be able to peer into apartment 504 and recall the summer day when Maiko and Etsuko came over and had Japanese stew and took a nap in the afternoon sun. I might be able to look into my old room and think with compassion of the times I cried in the dark about hurting John, or think with contentment of the times I woke up and lay lazily on the warm floor staring at the ceiling for hours on Sunday morning.

I might take a peek into the tiny, low-ceilinged bathroom, with the temperamental washing machine on one side and the toilet on the other, and remember with a smile how I used to run the hot water for many minutes in the winter, so that the room would reach some modicum of warmth before I took a shower. I might look at the small steel counter, dented in the middle, and dredge up a memory of making seafood stew with my dad one day, and playing with Mr. Squid. Poor, dead Mr. Squid!

I'd like to think that places hold memories of you. But they don't, do they? The memories are in my head, and the place is special to me, not vice versa. Tomorrow, I will start holding memories of another place. But tonight, at least, this place is still home to me.

Oblivion
Thanksgiving isn't marked on the calendars here, obviously, so I'd have forgotten about it if it weren't for friends sending me early Happy Thanksgiving greetings from the States. I seriously think I'd forget Christmas if it weren't marked on the calendar. I'm not kidding. When making out a first draft itinerary for my trip with Wendy next month in Southeast Asia, I scheduled us for travel on Dec. 25. On a second pass through the itinerary, I had this nagging feeling that there was something that week that might affect flight schedules... what was it? And then I remembered that Dec. 25 is Christmas. Crikey.

These days I really have to write every appointment down, or else I forget it. Homework goes down in my appointment book too. As well as errands I need to run and things I need to buy. I know some people would say that I'm organized, but it's really my sieve-like memory that scares me into jotting down all these notes.

Last night, after taekwondo, there was a special little feast of hong-oh (in English, a skate, a type of fish) at the studio. The owner of the studio had brought some back from a trip, and so we all sat down and had some. It was pretty incredible. As in, it's incredible that people thought to eat fish this way.

Hong-oh is prepared by letting the dead fish lie there for a few days. Just before it reaches the inedible stage, it acquires an intense, almost alcoholic smell. When eaten, the taste is two-fold: first, you taste virtually nothing, like with fresh fish. Then a strong, bitter, burning taste takes over. And then, if you're me, you take a swig of beer and swallow the remainder, unchewed.

The studio director said that in the Jeolla region, if this fish isn't part of the wedding package sent to the bride, the wedding's called off. Heh.

Give Me Neo or Give Me Death!
Just kidding. Although Keanu is beautiful.

I'm in the computer lab at school and there's a fine picture of Keanu Reeves as Neo as the desktop picture, all spruced up in his high-collared duster. It appears that Neo traded up from his raincoat-like Matrix 1 outfit to a -- is that a herringbone pattern? I don't know what herringbone is, but it sounds plummy, so let's say it is -- woolen Brooks Brothers-y overcoat. Or is that tweed? Gray tweed? Hm. If wool, a very good choice for the rainy fight scene.

I was talking with my friend Hyo-jung last night and mentioned that I'd seen Matrix 3, and that Keanu is, like, a total FOX, and like, rilly, rilly HOT and cute! Okay, see you in gym class, okay?

Ahem. Anyway, I said that he was arum-dap-da (beautiful), which is normally used to describe women, but in this case, I think we can all agree, applies to Keanu. She said that there's slang word for that: ghot-mi-nam, or: flower-beautiful-man, and that it was created about the time when the tough guy look gave way to a more feminine style for men in Korea.

Korean Democracy -- Still an Adolescent
Ooh, don't like that title. But it'll have to do.

It never fails to surprise me that democracy is still so new in this country. You'd think that after the Korean War, what with the American presence and all, a democratic government would have been set up snap boom bang. The situation wasn't like the one we are seeing in Iraq now -- there was no significant underground resistance taking shots at American soldiers, for one -- so... oh, wait. American attempts at setting up democracies. Yeah. Forgot about that.

In video class today, we learned about the time period in which the video we're watching takes place. The drama we're watching, A Winter Clover, focuses on two students -- one a shy, studious sort, the other a rough and gruff toughie -- and their interaction with a teacher at their school. (Side note: then, as now, high school students had to wear uniforms, but the uniforms of the 1980s are clearly modeled after military attire. I've seen Korean military academy cadets of today wearing uniforms that aren't as stiff as the outfits the students in the film wear.)

The toughie tries to straighten up his act after he meets the new, young literature teacher, who encourages him to read the classics, and praises his recitation of a poem (an inside joke, since the "poem" is actually a well-known song in Korea). He seems to be on his way to rehabilitation, when one day, on the way to the teacher's house for her birthday party, he and his nebbishy friend encounter some street toughs.

The street gang starts a tussle, and the toughie, defending his friend, slams the members of the gang down, but is then immediately caught by the police. Despite the pleas of his friend and teachers, he is sent to "Sam Chung Gyo Uke Dae" (Three Cleansings Education Program). This program was begun by a military dictator, Jun Doo Hwan, who happened to also be president during this period. He promised that he would clean up society, and did so, by throwing anyone who committed any kind of crime into this education program -- even for misdemeanors. A bit like Guliani's zero tolerance policy, actually.

As you might guess, the streets did become safer (just like Iraq under Saddam!), but while actual criminals were caught, a good number of people were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. A total of 60,000 people were sent to the re-education program. Of that number, several dozen died while being "educated," while another significant percentage suffered such severe mental stress that they developed post-tramautic distress syndrome, and other psychological illnesses.

We also learned today that in 1980, a historic event happened: the Gwang-ju Massacre. In May of 1980, college students in Gwang-ju, a city in the south, like college students all over the country, were engaged in a protest against martial law and for democracy. When the army was called in, the soldiers beat and killed a number of these protesters in a stunning display of violence.

The news of the day mentioned only that the army had suppressed a group of unsavory characters in Gwang-ju. Only later did people find out that these students had been protesting for democracy.

Lewis, who delivered the report on this event today, said that he had asked a couple of young Koreans (college-age) living in his boarding house about the Gwang-ju Massacre, but that they didn't know enough about it to tell him anything of substance. He had to go to the internet to find the facts. Our teacher, who is probably in her mid-30s or so, said that young people today aren't interested in the sadder parts of the recent past.

I Saw the Matrix
Note: At least three MAJOR spoilers, so don't read this if you want to watch the movie tabula rasa.

Last night I wasn't sure, but by this morning, I had somehow decided that I liked Matrix 3.

Following Matrix 2, the third installment -- well, let's just say that it could have been, like, Titanic-bad, and still come out smelling like roses. Matrix 2's biggest crime was not that it was incomprehensible, but that it was boring. And superfluous. Okay, maybe that's two crimes.

In comparison, Matrix 3 moved with some energy and purpose toward a final goal. (That's gonna help any movie, obviously, and you might say, "Hey, Matrix 2 had a difficult role to play, being the middle child," but I would then refer to you to Empire Strikes Back, my friend, because that's a case of the middle child outshining both its dashingly original but hastily amateurish older brother AND its meticulous but sap-sodden younger sister.)

I'm still baffled by a number of loose ends that may or may not have been on purpose (oh, those tricky Wachowski brothers!), there were cliches (you can call them tributes if you want) all over the place, and that damn Merovingian shows up, again for no conceivable purpose, but the final fight scene was nifty enough, the final message was deep enough for the likes of me, and Trinity gets in a couple cool moments that make up for her having to stand there during the completely gratuitous Keanu-Monica Bellucci kiss scene in 2 . (I do think that Gloria Foster's absence really made a difference, though -- her replacement does as good a job as one could after such grounded, rich performances, but can't possible live up to the original cookie-baking, chain-smoking Oracle.)

I liked that Neo was blinded, I liked that Trinity died, I liked that we're not sure if Neo dies in the end. No one wants to imagine the erstwhile Symbol of Positivism and his babelicious partner screaming at each other that no, it's your turn to take the kids to macrame class or whatever. Of course, the most moving scene is when Trinity dies -- though I must say, Trinity's dialogue is a hell of a lot better when she is, um, silent -- and Neo, crushed by grief, weeps into her shoulder. Judging by the collective sniffling and clearing of throats in the theatre just after that scene, the Korean audience (who must have been even more perplexed than I was by the story) agreed with me.

Besides the fact that we're all programmed, on a certain level, to enjoy a good death scene, this particular scene was the highlight of the movie in that it helps us actually connect with Neo. I mean, the temptation of Christ and the hubris of Oedipus -- that's all supposed to pull us closer to those figures, right? There's no drama to a hero who has no weakness, can feel no sadness, and does no wrong. One of the major flaws of Matrix 2 and 3 is that we lose the Thomas Anderson aspect of Neo, the nebbishy, confused, "whoa" and "I know kung fu" spoutin' human side of Keanu's character.

We get a few moments of that side in 3 , mostly played for laughs, such as when Neo runs after the Trainman's subway car, only to find himself back in the same station. Who wouldn't curse after a moment like that? But when Neo says, "I'm scared" to Trinity, who believed him? I didn't. The only place where any true emotion manifests is when he's huddled next to a dying Trinity, whom he can't see, listening to her so calmly tell him that she can't go any further with him.

The rest of 3 was pretty cool, action-wise, and provides enough intellectual meat for a couple days' worth of subway rides, but the heart of the movie was all there in the death scene. All 120 seconds of it.

Shh! Maiko is asleep in my room. She's staying here this weekend because some creepy Korean guy on the train followed her to her subway stop and begged her to have a drink with him and now keeps calling her. "Do you know the word 'stalker'?" she asked. Why yes, I do! Apparently, this is not unheard of in Japan either.

A Korean friend of hers called the guy, pretending to be her boyfriend, but the guy called again, so her friend also called the guy's office and talked to his boss. When I expressed some surprise at this extreme measure, Maiko said that this was what someone in Japan would do also, in order to exert even more pressure on the stalker to stop what he was doing. Whoa. In the U.S., I wouldn't be able to even see the lawsuit coming, it'd be headed here so fast.

On an unrelated topic, sneezing twice in Japan means that someone is talking about you. Sneezing three times means that something good is coming your way. Start counting.

I told the woman at the hagwon yesterday that I couldn't teach there. Yay!

Last night I had dinner with my friend M, the one who is thinking about getting married to her fiance. That's right, she's already affianced (sort of), but she's not 100 percent sure.

Having been to two weddings recently of three dear friends, I have to say that I don't get it. I'm pretty sure that One-Armed Maggie, Def and Stave were 100 percent sure about their chosen partners far in advance of their weddings.

Of course, they didn't undergo a matchmaking session set up by their parents, which is how M met her fiance. And they weren't being pressured to get married the way M is getting pressured. At age 27, she's considered near expiration, I guess.

The social pressures I do understand. But what perplexes me in the extreme is M herself. Her fiance is someone from the town her parents are from. He's never been abroad. He's hardly even been out of his province. He's said outright that he wants his wife to stay at home and take care of him and their children. He doesn't want her to keep her male friends after they get married. When she said she wanted to, he said he couldn't stop her, but that he wouldn't meet them.

She's got a master's degree, has a good command of English, has lived abroad, is opinionated and strong-willed, has ambitions, and, as she said, was "brought up to be a scholar." She knows that if she gets married to her fiance, she'll probably have to give up living in Seoul, her friends here, her job -- everything, pretty much. And yet she's considering it. Very seriously. Like, 85 percent sure she'll be married to him by next spring.

As I've said before, it may be just M -- she's a pretty conservative Christian, and she mentions God a couple times per every conversation of length that we've had. But it's not like she's SO eager to get married that she's taking the "he'll do" attitude. She wants kids, but isn't dying to have them right now.

In the end, despite my efforts to be open-minded and culturally accepting -- I just don't get it.

A hagwon (private educational institute) here wants to know if I'd be interested in giving a workshop on college application essays in the winter. I've been avoiding replying.

I'm not sure that the timing would work out anyway, as I'll be in Southeast Asia til Jan. 11 or so, but I feel weird about the whole concept. I don't really feel qualified to do a workshop on this topic. I mean, I could just spout what the books say, but that seems like a cop-out. They could just go buy the books, you know?

On the other hand, I don't really feel that qualified to read three translations of a Korean essay and recommend which translator to hire, but I just did.

Took my test this morning and left 5 minutes early -- a first -- after getting bored. I just didn't feel like checking my answers.

Maiko is due to head over to my place tonight. I'm psyched. Love overnight guests. So come visit me, dang nab it! Who knows how much longer I'll be here? I am, however, going to finish those darn What Color Is Your Parachute? exercises by the end of this month, so maybe I'll have some clue as to when I'll go back next year.

A Vaguely Good Day, Even Though ... Well, You Know

In order to get to my 9 am midterm on time, I scrambled up the stairs of the train station this morning just as a train came in. I rushed toward the nearest door, saw that it was jammed with people, and headed toward the next nearest door, on the threshold of which I slipped and fell on the rain-slicked floor in a spectacular, Olympic-worthy skid that widened the eyes and dropped the mouths of everyone just inside the train door. I landed on my butt and my right elbow, and a second later, after the pain message reached my brain, I winced, rolled over, and hobbled into the doorway. I muttered under my breath, "Well, even so, I got in."

So beginneth the day. The day that followed the day that I knew I'd have. But this day, though nothing particularly good happened, was just fine. She was yar, as Tracy Lord says admiringly in The Philadelphia Story.

The test was eh. I did fine on the video exam we took on Friday, so I'll score a couple points lower on the one I took today (writing is my poorest subject -- I can never keep the grammar rules straight). My friend Gyung-li, who hopes to go to college here (she's from Beijing), found out that she passed the Korean language proficiency test required for entry, so that was happy. She called her dad in Beijing and said that he was so happy for her, he cried on the phone. (If she hadn't had passed, she would have felt this past year to have been a waste, not to mention the prospect of preparing yet another year just to apply to schools.)

I had lunch with just about everyone in my class, except the Korean-Hungarian teenager and the Russian woman. (The Russian woman looks a LOT of Masha (aka Bond Girl), my junior year roommate. Same huge brown eyes, impossibly long eyelashes, delicate facial structure, brown-blond hair, slender, long-limbed frame. Weird. Or maybe not? There is no physical look that says "American," but in other countries, I guess there might be a quintessential "look."Interesting.) "Everyone" comprises: Father Peter, the Kenyan priest; Wanloc, the Cambodian pastor-in-training; Yoko, the Japanese-language teacher; Aki, another Japanese woman; Hatsumi, another Japanese woman; Mayu, a cuter-than-should-be-allowed Japanese woman sporting two tattoos and the slowest speech speed in the so-called free world; Hank, the Taiwanese man who actually really wanted to go to Brazil; Sister Maria, the Chinese nun; and Lewis, the New Zealand sheep shearer. Quite a crew. Oh, and me.

After lunch, I got a message from Maiko, my Japanese friend, who works full-time at a Korean office. She was going to see the doctor, and asked me to come with her (though very obliquely -- she never really quite asked, just mentioned where she was going). She's been suffering from some kind of nasty intestinal thing, and has been eating gruel, essentially, for a week. I sat with her for 20 minutes or so as she received a saline drip, and listened to her.

She's been having a rough time of it lately. Her office sounds like the office from hell -- people are quitting left and right. She was yelled at this Saturday because she comes in at 8:45 am during the week and the boss wanted her to come in at 8:30 (though he never told her this). Her boss also tells her stuff like, "Why bother having a language exchange partner? Your Korean is so bad, it's not going to help." The few remaining staff have told her she should quit, and after 9 months of working in unhappy conditions, for very little money, she realized the bad outweighed the good, and resolved to quit at the end of the month. Thank goodness.

Maiko's going to come and stay with me and my dad for a few days, while she recovers from this bug, and I'm psyched -- I've always loved sleepovers, and it's nice to feel like I can do something for someone.

Maybe that's why today was yar -- I felt useful.

After Maiko went back to work (I know!), I found a couple classmates studying for the test tomorrow, and went through grammar forms with them until 6:45 pm, when I left for taekwondo. (I'm not taking this test thing too seriously. Curious.)

Taekwondo was fun, as it usually is, meaning that I was drenched with sweat and totally relaxed by the end of the hour. Jin-lo, the 16-year-old taekwondo master, teased me about my bright red nails again: "Nuna [older sister], you've got to stop catching and eating mice." This is what people say if you've got bright red nails or lips, as an alternative to, "Why the hell are your nails/lips so freaking red?" I told him, "But they're so tasty..."

Two new students came to class today, and the director, as he likes to do, pointed me out to them after class, saying that I traveled quite a long way to come to class (45 minutes or so). He also mentioned that I graduated Yale and was accepted at Harvard Law.

I felt a bit of dread when he said that, because no one there knew that until then. Sure enough, in the changing room, Bonnie, whom I've mentioned here before as the 16-year-old who hates me for some reason, suddenly took great interest in me.

"Did you go to law school or something? Where? Oh wow, Harvard? You must be so smart! Where'd you go to college? Yale? Oh my god, you must be so smart. Is everyone there really smart? I wanted to be a lawyer once. Now I think maybe a military lawyer. Did you do lots of extracurriculars in high school? What did you do? We have to do extracurriculars at my school too [she goes to an international school]."

Confucianism places much, much emphasis on education (scholars are the most highly regarded people in society), and Korea is the most Confucian of all Asian countries. So it makes sense. I just don't like it. My Japanese friends don't react this way, all oohing and ahhing over where I went to school. It doesn't suddenly make me someone worthy of speaking to.

After Bonnie left the room, one of the college students asked me in Korean what the deal was, and I explained the situation. Since she's majoring in law, I asked if she was planning to become a lawyer. She shook her head. "In Korea, you don't automatically become a lawyer if you graduate with a law degree," she said.

"Then what do you do after you major in law?" I asked.

"Work for the government, or maybe the police."

"Do you want to work for the police?"

She smiled. "It's a secret."

"Oh! Okay." I absorbed this. "But are you really going to be a police officer?"

"It's a secret," she said again, still smiling.

"Okay," I said, smiling back. "So IF you were going to be a police officer -- is that very tough?"

"Yes, the competition for any government job is pretty extreme."

I nodded. The difficulty of finding a job in Korea is a topic we've talked about in class -- young people with no experience (i.e., recent graduates) have a very hard time getting employment. As such, the retirement age is dipping lower and lower because the youngsters want a chance to step into the positions the geezers -- nowadays, people in their 40s! -- occupy. No wonder everyone wants to move abroad. No wonder there are so many visa violations on the part of Koreans.

Anyhoo. I said my goodbyes, promising to keep her secret (though I'm not sure she understood me, to tell the truth) and left the studio for the street, where my dad was waiting in the car to pick me up. I told him about the director and Yale and Bonnie, and about Maiko on the way home. Which seems sweeter to me because of this day. My, she was yar.

A Vaguely Bad Day Even Though There Was Nothing Inherently Bad About it

Before I left my workplace last year, I talked to one of the marketers, a short, energetic, ever-smiling and extremely steely black woman named Linda, who's about my age. I told Linda, "I know that I'm going to have bad days when I just hate it over there, but I need to remember that there are going to be good days and there are going to be bad days."

She immediately said, "Yeah, but you know what, Helen? That's life. You're going have good days and bad days wherever you are."

This is a piece of wisdom that I've carried close to my heart this past year, and have benefitted from it. But if I could go back and revise my initial statement, it would go something like this:

I know that that I'm going to have days when the heating in the classroom isn't on and it's 50 degrees outside.
I know that I'm going to have days when I have annoying conversations about the LSAT in the hallways of language school with another American.
I know that I'm going to have days when the ride to work seems interminable, and there are no seats. I know that I'm going to have days when I can't sit or stand comfortably because my back hurts from carrying my schoolbooks and my dictionary and my taekwondo clothes.
I know that I'm going to have days when I go to my preferred cafe in Bandi and Luni's bookstore and the seat is really uncomfortable and my feet are too hot in my boots and I can't concentrate on studying, even though I've got a test the next day. I know that I'm going to have days when I hear the sound of an American voice and I look up and see two white guys walking through the foreign language section and I think, "I'm one of you! Talk to me! There aren't enough white people here and it freaks me out!"
I know that I'm going to have days when I wander through the foreign language section after studying and wonder why I haven't read anything of substance for a year.
I know that I'm going to have days when I walk into someone accidentally and, mentally off-kilter from that, take the train in the wrong direction, realize that three stops later, get off at the extremely crowded Gangnam station, see that I can't cross over to the other side without paying again, remember that I have only one trip's worth of money on my ticket, resign myself to wait for the train, stand there waiting for 10 minutes while the crowd grows exponentially, and squish myself into the train with the rest of the hordes. I know that I'm going to have days when I finally get onto the right train half an hour later and the car temperature is about 80 degrees when I'm dressed for 50 degree-weather. I know I'm going to have days when there's a funny smell in the subway car that makes me nearly faint and I just want to get a big stick and beat everyone else off the train.
I know that I'm going to have days when all I notice are the things that aren't American.
I know that I'm going to have days when I miss the sweetness of American men, and the forthrightness of American women, and the attempt to pretend, at least, that everyone, regardless of age, gender, race, and class, is equal.
I know that I'm going to have days when I feel alone.

Nothing inherently bad about today. Just one of those days, in just one of those lives.

Yes, I'd like some cheese with my whine

As my jewelry-making friend Miki once said after describing a trip she took: "Okay. Now it is time to complain."

1. Credit agencies suck!!!

Just before leaving the U.S. last month, I got a letter from my credit card company saying they were canceling my credit card because of a delinquency on my credit report. Sodding credit agency!!! A year ago, before moving here, I fixed a couple errors on my credit record at all three major credit agencies, and thought everything was kosher, but there's no bloody end to it, is there?

So I write to Experian, telling them that I've never been delinquent on a credit card, so send me the damn report so I can request an inquiry.

Today, I get a letter saying that they can't process my recent request because they need two proofs of my current mailing address and my previous U.S. address. Okay, I only have my Korean ID card, which states my current address in Korean, and I have no other "proofs," since my dad takes care of all the bills. Even if I were living on my own, in a boarding house, say, I couldn't provide "proofs," because everything is done in either cash or electronically these days -- hardly anyone gets a paper bill anymore.

I just KNOW that when I explain these things, I'll get grief about SOMEthing, because that's the rule of the universe when it comes to utilities and public services, and it's GOT to be the same for credit agencies. Which suck.

2. Mosquitoes suck!!!

All during the summer I couldn't sleep well because of them, and now, well into autumn, they're still hanging around, living off my blood. Just now, I got bitten on my big toe and the top of my foot.

It's not just me, either -- my classmate Lewis said he got up 4 times last night to kill 4 different mosquitoes.

3. People who try to make a point by deliberately leaving out salient facts suck!!!

Last weekend, at the Halloween party, the Korean language exchange partner of Joe, one of the co-hosts, explained to me, Maiko, and Joe that it was very hard for Koreans to get visas to visit the U.S., even for holiday. An art student, he said that he'd always wanted to go to the Met, but had never gone because his family didn't have enough money. It costs about US$100 just to apply for a visa, and then you have to go through an interview. Plus, he said you needed $3,000 or so for some other condition (because of language difficulties, I was not clear about what you needed the $3,000 for).

I looked at Joe and said to him, "Sometimes I feel bad being an American, don't you?"

He shrugged. "Well," he said, "there are reasons why the U.S. is hard on Koreans who want to visit. In the past, young Korean women used to go on a tourist visa and get married while there to an American."

I found this rather bizarre, so I changed the subject. But the art student seemed to have a chip on his shoulder after this exchange. (A little patience if you don't mind, as I set up the scene -- more scope for whining, you see.)

The art student kept saying that he'd take Maiko home, but as Maiko didn't seem to find this prospect too enticing, I figured he'd get the hint. At some point, I told Maiko about a couch that was free in Ronnie's room, and she left me and the art student out in the hallway to go sleep. The art student asked me why I'd suggested that Maiko go into the room.

"'Cause she's sleepy," I answered shortly. Jeez, does she need a reason? Is she supposed to stay out in the hallway and be really uncomfortable just because you want her to?

"'Cause I was going to take her home, you know," the art student said.

"Then go in and wake her," I said blandly.

He looked at me quizzically. "Isn't that weird? I mean, it's weird to me. But isn't that weird to you too? Maybe it's a cultural thing."

"Yes," I said, "it's weird to me too."

This only stopped him for about an hour, though, during which, at some point, he accidentally stepped on my arm while I was lying on the floor drowsing. When I cried out, he crouched down swiftly, and I, assuming he wanted to apologize, said, "It's okay."

"Oh," he said, "I was just wondering why you made such a big noise when I didn't even step on you very hard."

Sleepy and stunned (what the fuck is your deal?), I said, "You startled me out of my sleep."

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry."

A little later, he opened the door to the room where Maiko was sleeping, not bothering to ask if I'd move first. Since I was lying in front of the door, he of course hit me when he opened it. What an ass. A few minutes later, Maiko stumbled out, sat down next to me, buried her head in her arms and asked pleadingly, "Why does he keep waking me up?"

What an ass.

The point is, though... er, hm. Hm? Ah, yes. Well, while talking with my friend Hye-jong (who told me that Koreans aren't familiar with the term "Twinkie" as a epithet for racial traitors) the night after the party, she explained that yes, it is hard to get a visa, but you certainly don't need $3,000, and that there was a reason why it was hard for Koreans in particular to get approved: in the past, a lot of Koreans disregarded the rules.

"I know people who went on a tourist visa and just applied to a school while they were there on holiday," she said. She also verified that it's particularly hard for young, unmarried women in their 20s, because there were a lot of cases of young women going to the States on a tourist visa and getting married while they were there.

She paused after this for a moment. "They don't have to be quite so mean, though, in the interview. They do make it really hard."

Thank god for people who are willing to lay all the facts down. Without any background information, I felt crappy being American and hearing about how America makes it hard for poor Koreans to even come and visit. With the information, I still feel, well, ambivalent, but at least I know there's some rationale behind the strictness. I hate it when people ignore the facts.

Okay, enough ranting for tonight. Tired. Must sleep.

Yesterday was the big college entrance exam, the one for which high schoolers study around the clock for the prior 12 months. And when I say around the clock, I really mean around the clock -- going to school at 7 in the morning, finishing in the afternoon, going to a private study hall to study well into the night, then going home to sleep around midnight before starting all over again.

Yesterday, no shooting was allowed at shooting ranges, in order to avoid possibly startling students out of their concentration.

This exam, and all the stress that comes with the extreme competition, is a definite problem in Korea, acknowledged by Koreans as well as outside observers (including the UN, which cited Korea in its 2002 review of countries where children's rights are violated because of the educational system here). Too many people, not enough spaces.

Speaking of tests, I've got a midterm tomorrow in my video class. For the life of me, I couldn't settle down to study this afternoon. Good thing I studied semi-seriously on Tuesday.

Mawwiage

I am chomping an Asian pear as I write. Brimming with juicy pear goodness. My dad and I went on a short hike on Sunday and bought 10,000 won (about US$8.50) worth from a farmer's market.

I had dinner with my friend M tonight, and got the lowdown on her current marriage crisis. She was set up by her parents with a guy in May, and to both her and the guy's surprise, they hit it off. So both sets of parents are really anxious that that they get married as soon as possible, since M's already -- gasp! -- 28 (Korean age -- I'll explain it another time).

The thing is, M's not 100 percent sure that she wants to marry this guy. As she puts it, she thinks he might be the one, but she's not sure, and she's not even sure if she would ever be sure -- about anyone. To complicate things, it's apparently an old superstition that if a man marries at age 29, he'll have a shorter life span than if he marries earlier or later, and since her guy is going to turn 29 next year, they'd have to get married in the next 7 weeks or wait until 2005.

Right.

In the more prosaic realm, M's whole life is now based in Seoul -- job, friends, alma mater -- whereas this guy is in a small city in the southeast, and has to be there for the next three years because he's fulfilling his military service there. So if she moves down there, she'll have to find a new job (not an easy thing to do in the current economy), new friends, blabbity blah. Or they live apart until he finishes military service.

Additionally, this guy would like a stay-at-home wife to take care of him and the kids, and M doesn't know if she wants to do that.

So while the happy couple is trying to sort out their feelings and figure out if their goals are compatible, the mothers, in the meantime, are scoping out wedding locations for next month.

I don't think this is necessarily a Korean thing; it might be a M thing. But it's not a scenario you'd run into in the States very often.
-----------------
Some people are just full of crrrraaap

Got a little story for ya.

Saturday, Oct. 20. DC. The night of Maggie's wedding in DC, after I'd made it back to Palace of Booboo and chasseed into Wendy's party wearing my pink bridesmaid outfit, I met a Korean foreign exchange student who looked at me, did a double take, and said, "Are you Korean?"

Yes, I said. Well, an overseas Korean (gyopo).

"Oh, so you were born in America?"

"No, but my family immigrated here when I was 8 months old, so..."

"Oh, so you're a Twinkie," she said, nodding her head.

"Umm," I hemmed for a second, simultaneously annoyed, shocked, and amused. Thinking that she probably didn't understand the connotations of that phrase, I replied, "Well, I do like white people!"

She smirked -- oops, I mean, "smiled" -- and nodded. She introduced herself as a Korean exchange student. "Nice to meet you," we said to each other in Korean. She condescendingly -- I mean, "approvingly" -- raised her eyebrows and congratulated me on my knowing the phrase.

The beautiful Aarti, who was sitting next to me, looked at me when the woman walked away and said, "I can't believe she just said that."

"What? Twinkie?"

"I can't believe she just called you that." Aarti sat silently for a second before turning to me. "I'm really offended on your behalf."

I shrugged. "Maybe she doesn't know what that means here," I offered.

"Then someone should tell her that's really offensive. I'm going to talk to her."

"You go, Aarti," I replied, bemused and wishing I had the courage to confront someone like that.

"Excuse me," Aarti addressed the woman. The woman turned to us again. "Hi," Aarti smiled. "A little while ago, you called my friend a Twinkie, and I was wondering if you knew what that meant here."

The woman looked warily at her. "Twinkie? That means someone who did not grow up in Korea, who grew up somewhere else."

"I see," Aarti responded. "Well, I thought you should know that here in America, it means something insulting, and that people might take offense if you call them that."

The woman shook her head. "No. It is not insulting. It means that you don't know Korea, you didn't grow up Korean. But it is not something bad."

"I understand that," Aarti said. "But here it means --"

"It means a racial traitor," I broke in.

The woman turned to me and repeated, "No. In Korea it does not mean that. It just means that you do not know Korea."

"I understand that," I said. "And in Korea I won't be offended if someone calls me that. But here it means something offensive, and so even though I understand where you're coming from, you should know that it can be hurtful here in America."

"No," she replied. "It is not meant to be hurtful. It just means that you do not know Korea. You see -- will you understand me if I use Korean slang?"

"No," I said.

"You probably cannot even pronounce my name correctly," she said.

"I'll try," I said.

"Okay, it's Gun-ok."

"Gun-ok."

"No."

"Gun-ok."

"No."

I shrugged, giving up.

Aarti tried: "Kun-ok."

"No."

"Kun-ok."

"No."

"Well, so we can't pronounce your name," Aarti impatiently said. "No one can pronounce my name either."

"But if you pronounce my name wrong, it means something different. Gun-ok means precious jade. Kun-ok means big jade."

Aarti steered the conversation back to the issue at hand. "As I said before, I just want you to understand that calling someone a Twinkie here means something offensive."

"No," the woman said for the 15th time. "It is not offensive. In Korea --"

"I've been living in Korea for the past year, and I've never heard that term," I said.

She looked at me. "Your friends would not say it in front of you," she said.

Totally stymied by this remark, I lapsed into silence. Aarti, as she explained later, decided at this point that the woman was merely stupid and unable to understand modification of social behavior to fit the surroundings, and turned to me: "Hey, do you remember any other Hostess products? What about those pink Snoballs, huh?"

I murmured something back. A few minutes later, I retreated to Wendy's bedroom, where I lay down on the bed, feeling winded. A little later, I heard one of Wendy's guests, a guileless and gentle Canadian, ask Wendy what that had been all about. I sat up, tucked my pink bridesmaid skirt under my feet, and tried to explain that this attitude of "you're Korean but you don't know Korea, shame on you" had been much more prevalent a few years ago, and that I sort of understood the resentment, if it had been that. Talking with Alex was actually quite soothing.

"So basically she was just crazy," he said at one point.

"No, not crazy, just... I don't know. Like I said, that attitude used to be a lot more common. I just didn't think I'd run into it here!"

Which is all true. But the worst thing about the encounter was that it made me wonder if my Korean friends do secretly resent me, or think of me as spoiled or unappreciative of the doors open to me because I have an eagle on my passport. Maybe they do call me Twinkie when I'm not around.

So on Saturday night, I told this story to my friend Hye-jong, who said, "I've never heard that expression used in Korea. I only know about it because I lived in the States for two years. She must have picked it up there."

I looked at her with something like relief. "So basically, she was full of shit."

"Well, maybe she was trying to apologize but she didn't know how -- but anyway, I've never hear anyone say that here. I mean, they might know about Twinkies, the snack, but not about the other meaning."

"She said that my friends wouldn't say it in front of me," I said, determined to see it through to the end.

Hye-jong shook her head. "Well, I'm your friend," she said, "and I would tell you."

I believe her. And I'm grateful. But good lord! That woman made me feel like shit, and for what? To save face? So she wouldn't have to say, "Oh! I didn't know that was hurtful, I'm sorry"? Either she was incapable of seeing that I was upset, or she didn't care, or she didn't know how to get out of it once she pretended that it was an expression used in Korea. I suppose, to be charitable, we can opt for the first or last. Otherwise, I'm forced to conclude that some people really are just shitbags.

Eh? Whadijya Say?

I reported on Friday that I had messed up my taekwondo test, and so had not moved up a belt, moving up half a belt instead. In the time when tigers still smoked cigarettes, I remember my brother taking taekwondo lessons and moving up half a belt at a time, getting a little black stripe at the end of his belt when he stayed in the same color. Those were the days when instructors would push down on kids' shoulders while they were doing the splits, to make them go down further. Ouch.

Well. Either the teaching method has changed, or my taekwondo director is especially lenient, or I'm really, really good, because I didn't just NOT fail my test, I actually skipped a belt!

The problem: I heard the director say that both of us orange belts would now be ban dthi, dthi meaning belt and ban meaning half. So when I went to class yesterday, I was startled to see the assistant director coming toward me with a brown belt in his hand.

When I managed to splutter out that I thought I hadn't even moved up to green belt, much less brown, he said, "Oh, if you do really well, you get to go up two belts. And if you do really, really well, you get to move up three. And if you do really, really, REALLY well -- you still move up only three." He's a kidder, that Jin-lo.

I seriously thought the director had made a mistake, but I kept it to myself and felt a bit of a fraud as various other students congratulated me. In the same class period, the director used me as an example for one of the kicking exercises, so I felt very confused. I'd been convinced that I'd screwed up on Thursday during the test, and that I definitely wasn't going to be able to get a black belt before I left Korea (whenever that is). But here the director was all sunshine and compliments, so... what the ... ?

After class, I took the opportunity in the changing room to ask a black belt: "Uh, on Thursday, the instructor said I'd moved up ban dthi... I thought I hadn't even moved up one belt. What does ban dthi mean?"

She furrowed her brow at me. "Ban dthi? Ban...? Ohhhhh!" She smiled. "Bam dthi! It's another name for brown belt."

My turn to look quizzical: "But what's bam?"

"Bam... you know what bam is, right?" she asked. I nodded, yes, I know that bam means chestnut in Korean.

"Well, bam are brown, so sometimes that's what you call brown belt."

I suddenly got a huge grin on my face. "I thought I hadn't moved up at all!" I exclaimed.

She laughed. "You're doing so well, how could he not move you up?"

I think I might love taekwondo.

Now, for a dose of realism: I do think that the director may be slightly misguided in moving people up so fast. I've only been doing this for two months, and I'm about halfway to black belt already. Admittedly, the penultimate levels seem to take longer -- and getting a black belt is only the first step in, like, a 9-year process to becoming a master -- but I'm not sure that it's helpful to move someone like me up so fast -- I still feel very much like a beginner.

I realize that with the number of foreigners in his class, the director is being savvy -- foreigners generally don't stay long enough to really master the art, but if they didn't see themselves moving up, they might just leave the dojang (studio). On the other hand, if you have all these fairly unqualified black belts running around because you've moved them up so fast, isn't that kind of like grade inflation? You never know who really earned it.

On the other hand, I'm not about to return my brown belt for green.

Just remember, if someone says they're a black belt in taekwondo, don't forget to ask them what dan. Just scoring a black belt -- heck, I think I may be able to do that before leaving Korea.

Getting a black belt would be very gratifying, but ultimately, the reward is really in the journey in this case. The thing about taekwondo is that it may not be the most efficient form of martial art (as J used to point out), but the series of moves you have to learn for each level requires concentration and focus, and there's simply nothing else that can be on your mind when you do them.

I miss playing piano for the same reason -- you can't think of anything else when you're doing it. The stuff that weighs on my mind -- John's situation, my mother being alone in L.A., my aunt and uncle aging by their lonesomes in Tacoma, whether I'm going to go to law school, what my purpose in life is, whether I should find another job here, how I'm going to plan my next trip, if I'm currently offending or hurting anyone, when I'm going to write those thank you notes -- the raucous voices that ring so loudly in my personal Parliament have to zip it, and for an hour at a time, there's only me and this body, trying to kick, punch, whirl, and move the way the black belts do.

Kiahhh!

What's with the Drunken Boys?

Second weekend in a row that men have apologized for their drunken behavior. What is it with me this month?

I had really been looking forward to the Halloween party held by Lewis (the Kiwi), Ronnie (the Canadian), and Joe (the American), because the last time there was a party at their house, I had a fantastic time. It was the beginning of the summer, everyone from our class came out to have a good time, and I ended up sleeping over, next to a smelly French guy and aforementioned Lewis, wondering and smiling at the strangeness of it all. At that point in the year, I was really down in the dumps because of my breakup with John, and the party was one of several that started erasing the blue haze over everything. So, I had great expectations of this party.

I should have known better.

Most of our old friends didn't show up, and a good number of people -- even though they knew some Korean -- were speaking English, putting those who didn't know English in an awkward situation. I had brought my friend Maiko with me, and she said she felt a bit odd, trying to follow Americans, Canadians, Irishmen, New Zealanders and even some Koreans who were talking mostly in English.

I guess I wasn't in the mood to socialize with new people or something (a more and more common occurrence), so I stuck close to Maiko, who knew pretty much the same people I did (around 4 in number). The night wore on, though, and we did have a nice conversation with my speaking teacher, who was cool enough to come to the party.

I had arranged with Lewis the day before to sleep over, since I figured the subway would be closed before I felt like leaving, and he said, "Of course! If you don't mind sleeping with another friend, though -- Antoine [the French guy] will also be staying over." No problem, I said.

However. By the time the party stuttered toward its end, there were more than a few people who decided, at the last minute, to sleep over rather than go home. Maiko also decided to stay with me, but before we could grab a spot, three people fell asleep in Lewis' room, three in Ronnie's room, and an unknown number in Joe's. This left the space outside their rooms for the rest of us. It was a goodly number of square feet, actually, but it was unheated and unblanketed, and generally uncomfortable to sleep on.

I felt okay, fairly unsleepy, but Maiko was nodding off, so I suggested that she might be able to squeeze into Lewis' room. Unfortunately, when I opened the door, someone was VERY close to someone else, and I thought, "Oy. Is that what I think it is? Maybe not. Maybe so? Doesn't matter. Get out." I'm not quite sure what was going on there, just that there was just no way that Maiko would want to sleep next to it.

So we stayed out in the drafty hall space until morning, drowsing on and off, chatting periodically with the six others who were stranded there -- no, wait, three of them were asleep, actually. One of the others, Eamon, stalwartly fulfilling Irish stereotype, kept drinking through the night. Maiko and I started thinking about leaving around 7 am, and Eamon said, "Wait, let me finish this bottle and I'll go with you."

We sat down resignedly to wait, near our bags on the stairs, but this wasn't good enough. first he insisted we have a conversation (me and Maiko). So I started telling a story: "A long time ago, when tigers still smoked cigarettes, there lived an obnoxiously drunk Irishman." That got some laughs from the people still awake. After finishing the story (the Irishman gets eaten up by the tiger, natch), I asked Eamon if he were ready to go.

Nein, meinen freunden. At this point he kept asking us to come and sit down next to him, but when we did, he got up and opened another bottle of beer! Which he then proceeded to knock over! Partly on me!

At that point, we left.

I got home around 8:30 am, and slept til 6 pm. Around 7 pm, Lewis called and apologized for the lack of sleeping space.

The next day, Eamon messaged my phone and apologized as follows: "Solaris-like memories surfacing... apologies for drunken behavior."

"Ah fuggedaboudit," I messaged.

"Eh?"

"Brooklyn accent: forget about it."

"No hail marys or anything?"

"I don't believe in that stuff. Fuggedaboudit."

"How about extreme unction?"

At school today, I told him, "No extreme unction either." I also refused to tell him what exactly he'd said and done while drunk off his rocker and slurring his words on Saturday morning, even though he earnestly asked what he'd done. Because (surprise, surprise) he'd totally forgotten. Lewis, who had witnessed the whole "please sit down and I'll tip some beer on you" scene, also had no memory of it.

Well, if ye don't rememberrr, ye don't get to have a nice summary of what ye did, do ye? Next time, dooon't drink so much.

Must admit, though, it's funny to see someone be so anxious about something they did in a drunken stupor. Heh heh.