Saturday, July 31, 2004

In Japan!

In Yokohama, where because of the imminent typhoon, it is oddly cool. Went to the Chinatown that Yokohama is famous for and ate very well thanks to Maiko and her parents. It's always so interesting to see where your friends come from. Maiko has her mother's face but her father's nose. They're both very sweet people. (Which might sound condescending but isn't meant to be. I just liked them.)

It is a bit odd to see people who look so Korean but speak a totally different language. I should speak English here, as it's taught as a mandatory subject in school and is more widely understood than Korean, but Korean keeps coming out, because I keep thinking everyone should understand it. They all look Korean, dammit!

I delivered the suitcase of Maiko's stuff that she had entrusted to me back in April as sort of a guarantee that I would eventually visit Japan. I'm finally here, and in Maiko's tiny cubbyhole in the apartment she shares with Kaori, a friend. It's small, and every available space is in use, but so artfully decorated and organized that it doesn't seem cluttered at all. They have a balcony that looks out onto the high school next door, and I went out and had a smoke, enjoying the cool breeze and quiet suburban air. Maiko joined me a bit later and we both looked at the full moon. The thought struck me that all over the world, a full moon looks the same.

Friday, July 30, 2004

Off to an ex-imperial nation
 
Cram the last few things into my trusty and decidedly un-ergonomical black travel pack that's served me since 1996, and I'm set for Japan.

When Maiko left in April, I suggested that she leave some things with me -- that way she'd save on shipping costs while also guaranteeing that I'd visit Japan (and her) before I left for the States. I was supposed to go in May, and then June, and then the typhoon season started in Japan, and then I dithered for forever about going to visit KB, and then I decided not to but figured it made more sense to quit work before going to Japan, and finally here we are, 18 days before I leave Korea, and I'm finally going to Japan. Where it is the dead of night and 81 degrees Fahrenheit in Yokohama (feels like 87 degrees), and where it is hitting the low nineties in Kyoto during the day (probably feels like 100 degrees). And where a typhoon is supposed to hit on Sunday.

Oh, this trip is taking place under the best conditions, alright. I'd like to think of it as a sign -- the next time you have a struggle between your heart and your head, hk, for god's sake, go with your heart and buy a ticket to [     ] already. (KB's country, where it is a delightful 50 degrees during the day in his particular part of town. Damn.)

The typhoon just means a lot of rain for me, which I hope against hope will make things slightly cooler, if nothing else. But dear me, I left town last fall just after a typhoon and headed into DC and One-Armed Maggie's wedding with a hurricane nipping at my heels.  Typhoid Mary, you've got some competition in the natural disaster/fatal disease category (judged together since 1996!).  

All this as a long preface to: possibly no new entries until August 11 or so. I'll see if I can get around to a terminal once in a while, but , you know, between eating deadly blowfish sushi and buying small, irrepressible cute products, I'm not sure I'll have time. In the meantime, stay cool. I'll try not to eat heat either (a cool Korean colloquialism for going just mad with heat).

Strange goodbyes
 
My last few minutes in this office, in this building, in this job. I did a quick fly-by with the human resources assistant director and said goodbye to everyone in the company, which was awkward but mercifully quick. I've cleared out my drawers, my files, my emails; given away my bottle of moisturizer; collected the Korean Food Guide I helped edit. It's just a matter of walking out the door.

I felt a moment of sadness pulling the notes to myself off my little desk calendar, the one listing the Korean words for "revision" and "proofreading marks" and "manuscript" and the one with a few basic editing rule regarding the use of italics (first reference only, and not for proper nouns) and numbers. And I just felt a pang placing the last document I'll edit on my colleague's desk. He's a good guy. Most of them are.

They haven't found my replacement yet, though they're interviewing folks now. I wonder who will occupy this seat next. Will they be like me 22 months ago, clueless, anxious to make a good impression? Nothing, I'm sure, like the late-everyday, bored, confident quit-a-holic that sits here now, typing out the last blog from work. (Just a matter of time, though.)

Yes. Time to go.

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

I learned from a coworker today that the assistant director of human resources didn't put up my leave date on the company intranet, so it's a good bet that no one other than the three people I told knows that the day after tomorrow is my last. Which is damn awkward, 'cause who announces their own departure? A task best left to others, or an anonymous note on the company bulletin board.

I'm guessing that since I've had two other "quit" dates in the past two years, after which I ended up coming back to the company, the human resources guy didn't want to prematurely announce my quit date this time. But really, this is truly and seriously my last day! No coming back! Forget the last two times I said that -- I really mean it this time!

In just over two days I'll be in Japan. I've done so little preparation, it's not funny. I'm going to the bank and Insadong tomorrow to get gifts for people, and that's pretty much it. Oh well. Since Maiko and Mayu are going to be holding my hand throughout the trip, there's little stress involved. Except the anticipation of the 100-degree weather in Kyoto. I'm melting already.

For the past couple days, I've had dinner and hung out for the evening with Korean speakers, which has tired me out. Thinking and speaking in Korean still requires a lot of effort, but I've reached the point where I can understand someone who's not speaking simply for my behalf. Or at the point where I can pretend to understand everything and get away with it.

On Monday I had a beer with a history of science professor for whom I did some editing work (which paid for my new glasses!). I must admit, listening to him talk about going here and there for conferences, and the work he's doing as part of a committee that will recommend whether to pursue stem cell research in Korea made me wonder all over again why I am going to law school. But that's old hat.

I'm all over the place today, but a week or so of not sleeping well will do that to you. It's the old triumverate again: heat, light, noise. Oh, and mosquitoes. I have a habit of going to sleep late, these days around 2 am. Because of the heat, I keep the door and window open these days. My great-aunt wakes up around 4:30 am, so I do too. I go back to sleep, closing the door, but two hours later wake up panting because it's stifling in the room. I open the door, shove earplugs in and put a sleep mask on, but reliably wake up two hours later for no discernible reason other than my mind's secret ambition to drive itself mad. But I've found you out now, you terrible schemer you, and I'll beat you at your own game!

These days I find myself looking at westerners on the street with a strange longing. It's been over nine months since I've been in a country where the natural hair color of all the inhabitants within isn't black, and the natural eye color not brown. I miss diversity. I miss looking at diversity.

However right or wrong the decision to go to law school is, I know I'm ready for a change. I can't stand my job anymore, as cush as it is, and I'd like to be back in an English-speaking country for a while.

Thinking about it that way makes me feel better.

Tuesday, July 27, 2004

Quotable

"I have an orange. I am so happy. Do you have?"
     -message on the side of a large, sturdy orange bag held on the lap of a fellow on the subway
 
"Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant, filled with odd waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don't always like."
     -Lemony Snicket's "The Slippery Slope," which I was reading today in the bookstore in the legal reference books aisle

"COOLER 93"
     -the front of my t-shirt, bought for 3,900 won (USD$3.33) at Wangshimli Station, Seoul

Monday, July 26, 2004

Can't resist

The latest Harry Potter movie came out in Korea on Friday, and my friend Suzi and I went to see it on Sunday. If the advertising for Azkaban here came out several months ago (huge 9-foot tall posters that feature Harry, Hermione, and Ron separately), the movie must have been hyped all to hell in the States. Even so, I can't resist putting my two cents in -- and it won't even be two cents, I promise. More like two won. Which is such an infintessimally small amount, I won't bother converting it.

When English language books are as expensive as they are here, and when you live far away from your schoolmates, you reread the books you have. A lot. I'm very fond of the Harry Potter series, so I reread 1-4 to the point of memorization. No exaggeration. 

The first two movies pretty much sucked. It was interesting and fun to see the visual interpretations of the fantastical creatures and doodads in the books, but the kids couldn't act, the timing was all shot to hell (every damn moment offering any hint of emotion was wrung out to embarrassing lengths), and the pacing dragged. When you read a Harry Potter book, you don't want it to end. Films 1 and 2 failed the books miserably.

Azkaban is much, much better -- the best one by far. There were a few crucial details that were inexplicably left out and would make the film very confusing to those who haven't read the book -- though it's a fair bet that no one in the audience would belong to that category -- but the kids have picked up some acting skills and the timing was spot on and the landscapes were beautiful and the movie didn't drag. I knew it was long, but it didn't feel like it was over 2 hours. 

The magic world that Harry Potter is set in is a brilliantly imagined, beautifully romantic smoke screen for several themes of a more prosaic nature, most notably Harry's longing for his dead parents. Only one scene in the first movie stayed with me: Harry sitting in front of a magical mirror late at night, mesmerized by images of his family, whom he's never known. It nearly brought tears to my eyes.

I remember virtually nothing from the second film. Damn, Chris Columbus, how could you mangle such a great story?

The scene that sold me on this latest installment is a bit more quotidian. Harry's grown up a bit (and what a great source of interest for the viewers at the same time as it's a great source of anxiety for the producers -- what if the cute kids turn out to be ugly adolescents? what if Daniel Radcliffe got a growth spurt or something and shot up taller than Rupert Grint, whose character is supposed to be taller? what if Emma Watson started suffering from extreme acne? as it turned out, the only non-screen-friendly development is Daniel Radcliffe's neck, which has the long, thin, spindly look of someone growing very fast. now, where was I?) so the sorrow and loneliness of a 13-year-old orphan sitting in front of reflections of his family has given way to an adolescent anger when he finds out what Sirius Black did.

But that's not the scene that got me. (Sorry, got carried away on a tangent. It happens. Often.) It's a small, completely unimportant scene that lasts less than a minute but humanizes Harry and makes his world seem real in a way that even the books don't quite do. Harry and Ron and two friends are sitting in a room in Hogwarts, the wizarding school. One of the boys is hooting like a monkey and flapping his arms. He stops, and the group laughs. The next boy takes a piece of whatever they're eating and trumpets like an elephant. (The sounds are clearly from real animals.) The group laughs even harder. Ron takes a piece and snarls like a lion, to the boys' utter delight. Harry -- you don't even see his face, just the back of his head as steam shoots out of his ears. As the shot moves outside their window into the snowy air, you can hear the boys screaming with laughter, someone saying, "Look at his ears!"

The director doesn't dwell on the moment, which makes it work even better. From flipping your eyelids inside out (and other stupid human tricks!) to crowding into a closet and closing the door to see if crunching down on a Peppermint Lifesaver really does emit a spark (it does!), that's what you do with your friends when you're in your teens -- you sit around and hang out and amuse yourselves with utterly stupid activities. That tiny little scene made the movie for me. Harry became real. 

That's my two won on the film. (And I didn't even have to include any spoilers!)

Oh, and by the way? There was a kid sitting behind me in the theatre who kept kicking my seat. Did the parent say anything to the kid? No. Did I shoot nasty looks at the kid? Of course. Was I hard-pressed to keep from grabbing the kid's leg and saying quietly, "Listen, shorty, if you kick my seat one more time, I will cut your foot off and use it as a doorstop"? Yes. Do I hate kids? One guess.

Friday, July 23, 2004

Period Talk
(sorry, guys)

I lied yesterday, and I'm not proud of it.

Today, you see,  I should be at a small island off the western coast, with 30 children and a handful of adults. The taekwondo annual summer camp. Surf, beach, fun. Last week a couple of the girls in my class urged me to come, and in a moment of weakness, I agreed. Forked over the 100,000 won (about USD$85). And then more or less immediately started regretting my decision.

I was on the fence about going until yesterday evening, when I had a short chat with my recently married uber-religious coworker Myung-soo, who pointed out: you hate kids, you don't really know anyone who's going well, and your relative is having a birthday? I think you better not go.

And just like that, I was decided. Hey, can you make all my decisions for me?

(She did, by the way, agree that I should not go visit KB.)

So I went to taekwondo class, and found the office in disarray with food, drinks, inner tubes, etc. And couldn't say the words.

So I waited til the end of class, and quietly said to the director: "I'm sorry, but I can't go."

"WHY?" (not shouting, just the usual loud voice)

"Um, something came up?"

"IF SOMETHING'S GOING TO COME UP, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER FOR IT TO HAVE COME UP YESTERDAY OR THE DAY BEFORE."

"Yes, sir." 

"SO, WHAT CAME UP?"

"Um, just... something."

"WELL, WE'LL SEE ABOUT GETTING A REFUND FOR YOU."

"Oh, no, that's okay, you don't have to -- refund, uh, it's not necessary to repay me."

"NO, NO, WE'LL FIGURE IT OUT."

"Thank you, sir. Sorry."

A bit later, one of the women in the class was giving me a ride to the metro station, and she asked me cautiously, "So, what came up?"

"Oh," I said hesitantly, not wanting to say "I realized I hate kids, don't really know anyone who's going and have a relative's birthday to attend." Then it came to me: "Well, I, uh, got my period." (Which I didn't.) "And I, uh, didn't know how to explain it to the director..."

She was already laughing. "Oh, I know.  I sometimes miss a week or two of class because of my period, and he'll joke, 'Where were you, studying abroad or something?' He can't possibly imagine a reason like that. I usually just say that I'm not feeling well or something."

"Oh!" I said, "that's a good one! I'll have to use that next time."

So it came to be that I used the time-honored excuse of junior high schoolers during gym class to get out of going to a summer camp.

Which I feel sort of ashamed about, since in the States, using your period as an excuse is, well, really junior high. But it seems less immature here -- just last weekend my coworker used that as an excuse to not go to the mud festival... although now that I think about it, she may have just not wanted to go either. In Japan, women are allowed "menstruation holidays" once a month, though few women use them, out of embarrassment and a desire to appear equal to men.

I'm of two minds about the whole thing. It doesn't seem very equal to have a gender-based day off. On the other hand, there's no denying that for certain women, getting your period can be extremely painful, discombobulating and uncomfortable. I don't know any woman who'd say that they liked having their period -- unless it's to confirm that they're not pregnant. (And there was that Sex and the City episode where Samantha rejoiced over hers because she thought she'd hit menopause.) It seems unrealistic to try to gloss over the fact that women get these hugely inconvenient events every month, or that those events can really put you out of commission emotionally and physically. But I do hate it when people dismiss a woman's anger or irritation as a symptom of menstruation.

Either way, I didn't help things very much by using the period excuse last night.

Thursday, July 22, 2004

Deconstructing Granny

My grandmother, as I have mentioned numerous times, has aged very well. She not only looks 55 instead of 75, she has the energy of a 55-year-old. A really active 55-year-old. She goes out for pizza. She works in her garden. She goes on trips with friends and family. She downs an occasional glass of soju or whiskey. You would never guess she had back surgery in December. You would never guess she was born during the Japanese occupation.

Her mother lived until the age of 95 or so, so longevity is in the genes (unfortunately, since she's my step-grandmother, they're not really in MY genes -- rats!). Her happy-go-lucky, go-with-the-flow, don't-stress attitude has no doubt helped her get through a war, a couple miltary dictators, and abject nationwide poverty. I think her younger brother, whom I met two weekends ago for the first time, also shares that kind of stolid practicality and sanguine openness about life.

Her younger sister, however, though relatively hale and hearty also, does not. I don't know much about my great-aunt's life, but I see through her interactions with my grandmother that she is definitely the beta dog in the relationship. Partly it stems from being younger, partly from the fact that my grandmother has a very distinct and powerful personality that can overshadow others around her. Hey, the woman is bossy, what can I say? And this, I think has helped form my great-aunt's demeanor: she is physically smaller, quieter, less assertive. She has the air of a woman who has put up with a lot of shit in her life -- but silently.

My grandmother and her sister go out a lot together, but my great-aunt is more likely to stay at home. She doesn't seem to have friends like my grandmother does.

I happened to be at home on Tuesday morning and was sitting around with my great-aunt, answering her questions with minimal thought and courtesy. I think I picked this up from my grandmother, who often orders her younger sister to do things. I don't remember what I said, but it was slightly impatient, as I was tired and not in the mood to answer questions. Anyway, my great-aunt astonished and alarmed me by starting to cry a little bit.

"I don't want to live," she said. "I don't want to live."

Trying to jolly her up, I asked, "Do you want anything? I'll buy anything you want."

"I don't want anything."

It turns out that she had worked as a subway cleaning woman until two years ago, so I suggested that she start work again.

"No, I already quit and received my retirement pay [about USD$4,000 or so], and who's going to hire me at my age?"

She said she had no friends, and that she was too old to travel, so basically ... she didn't want to live anymore.

The moment passed quickly, and my great-aunt reassumed her usual quiet (though not slow to smile) air.

I made up my mind to be nicer to her, and to spend more time with her.

Aging scares me, and not because everything goes south. These past few months, during which my friends have one by one left Korea, and during which I haven't had much to do, are a little bit like what I imagine old age to be. Your friends die off, you don't work anymore, you make work for yourself because you're bored. If you're like my great-aunt, who is by either nature or nurture a quiet, inwardly directed person, the loneliness seems more acute than if you're like my grandmother, who is by nature or nurture a confident extravert. My grandmother of course has days when she feels lonely or bored, but she'll announce that she's bored and find something to do.

I think my great-aunt is probably more sensitive of a person than my grandmother, but less happy. I hope the two aren't linked, because I'm definitely not the confident extravert.
-----------------------
Non sequitur

I've almost, almost completely given up on the idea of going to see KB, except for the fact that:
it's currently 88 degrees F in Seoul (feels like 95) and soggy as a sock left on the floor of a locker room;
it will be 86 degrees in Tokyo the day I arrive (July 31), with matching humidity; but 
in [        ], where KB resides, it's a beautiful, chilly 36 degrees out today.

Oh, the sweaty, miserable, dripping humanity!

Monday, July 19, 2004

Down and Dirty
(or alternatively, The Very Cruel Weekend)
 
After that disturbing Friday night, I went to the beach on Saturday with Hank and Etsuko. The Boryong Mud Festival is held every July in Daecheon Beach, on the west coast of Korea. For some reason this festival is heavily marketed toward foreigners, and I saw more westerners in one place than I have in nine months. Perhaps because only westerners would be willing to pose with only their bathing suits, covered head to foot in mud? Seriously, Koreans don't wear swimsuits to the beach. We saw a couple men in swim trunks (and a few in tighty Speedo-type things -- ew), but not one woman in a swimsuit. They all go into the waves wearing shorts and shirts. Bizarre. 

Being the tail end of the monsoon season, we were worried that we were going to be rained out, but miracle of miracles, somewhere along the 3-hour bus ride, the rain stopped. I woke up from one of those motion-induced naps and couldn't figure out what was different about the landscape for a moment. Then it hit me -- weak sunlight. No rain. I watched as brilliant green rice paddies rippled in the breeze.
 
We got  into town and had to catch another bus to the beach, and then walked around for quite a while searching for a place to sleep. Because of the festival, places were going for ridiculous amounts -- 100,000 won for a decent room (about USD$85) that in any other town would have gone for half the price. After looking at a tiny closet of a room with a smellerific bathroom in the hall that was going for 50,000 won, we walked outside and were hailed by a fellow across the way. After seeing what he had to offer for 40,000 won, we couldn't believe our luck. Yeah, no central air and a little moldy, but neat and spacious.
 
After dumping off our stuff, we went out for a long walk on the beach. Inspired by kids, we dug a very big hole, which unfortunately wasn't very deep, as the sand kept sliding down. However, we did find some clay about six sinches in. At least, we hope it was clay.  
 
Playing in the sand whetted our appetites, and we went to dinner at one of the dozens of shellfish restaurants in town. (This is the first of the cruel weekend experiences.) You sit down around a metal container topped by a grate-like grill. The employee using tongs, brings over a red-hot charcoal briquette to put under the grill, and a basketful of shellfish to put on top of the grill. The shellfish start bubbling as they are baked alive, and pop open when they've given it up, at which point we gobbled them down.
 
A couple months ago, I went to Sokcho, on the eastern coast, and accidentally ate of a fish that was still moving. I literally cried, I was so shocked. This time, I still felt sorry, especially when a large oyster opened and closed its shell, clearly wondering what the hell was going on, but instead of bursting into tears, I moved the guy into the center of the heat. Better that it die quicker, I reasoned, and my companions agreed with me. 
  
"We should have some soju," Hank suggested, "in case there's parasites in the shellfish." I was skeptical about the efficacy of this cure, but amenable, so we polished off a bottle of soju with the fresh-as-fresh-can-be seafood.
 
After dinner, we went out to the beach again to see the fireworks, which were pleasing, as fireworks always are. Launched from a ship off the coast, they lit up the night sky over the water, scaring a few fishies, I'm sure. The fireworks finished around 11 pm, and energized by the coffee we had after dinner, we wandered around some more, noting the location of the inflatable mud slides and the mud makeup table. We finally ended up at a small amusement park, and watched one ride that was being DJed by a particularly amusing fellow. The ride was a cross between one of those gravity rings that spin you round and round until you're flattened against the sides, and a .... uh, actually, I don't know. Basically, you get into this ring-shaped vessel and are whirled around and bumped up and down, and the point is to hold on and not get tossed into the middle of the ring. I can't describe it, but the DJ was very funny, picking on a couple of people every time as he prompted the machine to rock and jump at their part of the ring.
 
We kind of wanted to ride it, but Etsuko and I were worried about motion sickness, so we went on one of the Swashbuckler rides instead, with the pirate ship that swings back and forth until you're at a 90 degree angle from the ground. I don't know if the woman next to me was taller or if the safety bar just didn't go down very far, but I kept lurching against the safety bar everytime we swung up. Fun! Not. Add to that a touch of nausea, and I was screaming just to have something to do besides hurl. In fact, I screamed so much, I nearly lost my voice yesterday.
 
After the Swashbuckler, Etsuko and I felt a little queasy, so we promptly went to a convenience store and split a bowl of instant ramen three ways. I love that about Korean convenience stores. They have hot water and chopsticks, so you can have your Cup-O-Noodles straightaway, sitting at one of the plastic tables outside in the summer. But ramen isn't just Cup-O-Noodles here; there's a huge variety of instant noodle flavors and kinds of noodles. 
 
A cold shower (there was no hot water) wasn't the best soporific, but we made do and slept in our 40,000-won room with the fan on and a mosquito coil burning.
 
In the morning, we quickly ate a simple bread and milk breakfast outside, and went to go play in the mud. Hank, being more adventurous, was the first to go down the inflatable slide and into the large mud tub. Neither was very muddy -- all the mud was brought to the beach in industrial-size plastic tubs, which makes me wonder just where the famous Boryong mud really is. Anyway, Etsuko and I also finally shed our inhibitions and slid around in the muck as well. 
 
We went to the beach to rinse off, and enjoyed the waves that were at least in part created by the water scooters (for the LIFE of me, I cannot think of the English word, but you know what I mean) going back and forth just beyond the designating swim area. We then -- still dripping wet -- had lunch at a BBQ place, where the owner was at first like, no, you can't come in, and then changed his mind. As long as we stayed in one place, he said, we could come in. Very nice people in Boryong.
 
After lunch we bought some mud products (a mask for Hank's girlfriend in Taiwan, moisturizers for me and Etsuko), and headed back to our digs, where we washed up. Then we got on the bus to Seoul.
 
Very satisfying weekend.
 
Oh, but the cruelty! I forgot. Actually, the second cruel act of the weekend took place today, so technically not part of the weekend, but let's just count it as such, shall we? 
 
So I went to a market called Moran Market this morning with my grandmother. Moran Market is a real country-style open-air market, where you can get clothes, fresh octopus, eels, dried moles (you know, the blind little guys underground), turtles, silkworm larvae, dried frogs, herbs, a dozen kinds of grain, plums, toys, live bunnies/dogs/chipmunks/lizards for pets, and Chinese herbal medicine ingredients, to name a few. But most impressively and memorably, you can select your own chicken, duck or dog to be butchered and taken home.
 
I saw a cage of cats, too, but they're used only for medicinal purposes, according to my grandmother.
 
The live dogs are all kept in large cages, crowded and panting with the heat. They look pretty similar, and much different from the pet dogs and puppies being sold 30 feet away. Somewhat German shepherd-like in appearance (though slightly smaller), they all had dirty blonde fur.
 
The dead dogs are either chopped up or skinned and (I believe) blow-torched -- they looked a little like plucked Peking ducks, lying on top of counters or, unbelievably, on top of the cages of the live dogs. The dead dogs that still were dog-shaped uniformly still had snarls on their faces, teeth bared. I saw one with dried blood coming out of its nose and unseeing eyes. 
 
I wondered out loud to my grandmother how the dogs are killed -- I glimpsed what looked like a jugular cut on one of the corpses, but not the others. She said that they're strung up and then struck on the head. I've read that the fearful rush of adrenaline caused by this method is believed to make the meat tastier, but I've also read that this method isn't used anymore, in favor of more humane (?) electrocution.

I pulled out my camera to take a picture, but a vendor stopped me. "You can't take a picture," he said. "The vendors here will make a huge fuss." I was about to push the point, but my grandmother hustled me along, and I lost the opportunity. I suppose what with Bridgitte Bardot's campaign and general world opinion against the eating of dogs, dog meat vendors tend to be a bit sensitive on that point, and foreigners shooting pictures of the dogs have not been received well, according to this article. There's a lot of issues tied up with eating dog meat, some of them persuasively addressed here.
 
If you know me, you know I hate kids and I love dogs. So what I'm about to tell you might not make much sense, but... I ate dog meat stew today. After seeing those dogs locked up. After seeing the bare, blow-torched carcasses lying on top of the cages. After having had and loved a pet dog as a kid.
 
I admit, it was a bit difficult to swallow the meat while thinking of those dogs in the cages just a few dozen feet away. But there were also ducks and chickens caged up nearby, and I wouldn't have felt so bad about eating them. And just two days ago, I'd waited in anticipation for clams to be boiled alive in their own juices on top of a flame before popping them into my gullet.
 
Point is, it's an arbitrary line, and it was more important to me to try something that's part of Korean culture than to stick to a highly subjective standard. That being said, this is part of Korean culture that's not THAT widespread now -- dog meat stew is mostly eaten in the summer, by older men. In the food tent we ate in today, there were a few older women, mostly with their husbands, but mostly groups of men in their 50s and older. Dog meat stew is believed to be beneficial for sick people -- my own grandmother said that eating it years ago, when she was very, very ill, helped her get better. Plenty of Koreans, particularly young people, have never eating dog meat, and don't intend to.
 
So why did I? Curiosity, for one, and yeah, a little bit of "well, I ate dog meat once!" bravado. I don't think I could eat it again -- I had a hard enough time today, but it was more, I think, due to the possible cruelty done to the dogs in raising or killing them. The meat itself is tender, with no particularly offensive or outstanding taste. It's certainly a taste you could get accustomed to, though.

Friday, July 16, 2004

Zero at the bone
 
It's me. Girls like me. Women like me.
 
That's the answer to why disgusting, lecherous western businessmen think they can go to China, Taiwan, Korea, Vietnam and the rest of Asia and have young girlfriends in every city with no obligations, no commitments and no respect. That's why they can view Asian women as passive dolls to be played with, with no ramifications. That's why they think they can put their arms around Asian women they don't know and plant kisses on them and get away with it. Because they can. Because women like me let them.
 
Okay. Back up.
 
I skipped taekwondo tonight to go to my friend Trace's birthday party in Itaewon, the notorious playground for expats in the middle of Seoul. Trace is a career soldier in the army -- started out as a buck private and worked his way up to a comfortable living. He loves Korea -- married a Korean woman (from whom he is now divorced), is conversant in both spoken and written Korean, and has traveled all over the country. I like my friend. I think he's a good guy. But if a person is to be judged by the character of his friends, my friend is a fucking low-life.
 
Everytime I go into Itaewon, I step into this weird world of transplanted America -- the music, the videos playing on TV, the faces of the people in the bars all say I'm not in Korea. Trace's birthday bash was at a bar he frequents, and his friend, a low-level American mover and shaker in the Korean entertainment circuit who is married to a moderately famous Korean singer, was footing the bill.
 
(I met the Korean singer tonight, incidentally, and was shocked at the extent that she had remodeled her face -- nose, eyes, possibly chin. She really didn't look Asian anymore. Ilion had described his wife as incredibly beautiful. Why, because she Michael Jacksoned her face into something it's not?)
 
I had invited my Taiwanese friend Vivian to come with me; she'd met Trace at the same party I had, a year ago (in fact, the very party from which I went home with KB to sleep over at his place the first time). We were greeted enthusiastically by Trace, whom we haven't seen for several months, and we sat down to eat some food.
 
We were joined a bit later by Ilion, who, just like last year's birthday party for Trace, spent most of his time boasting about his huge house, where "everyone in Seoul wants to have," his business in the Philippines, his connections in the biz in Korea. If he's to be believed (and why not?), he runs a cock-fighting business in the Philippines, has a huge house there, knows all the politicians, and is somewhat of a gangster.
 
Not his words, of course. He said that he knew a lot of Taiwanese mafia, so I asked him if he were part of the Philippine mafia, and he denied it, but what else do you call a man who openly says he's had a couple of men killed for crossing him? Trace said earlier that he was planning to go work for Ilion after he retires from the army, and when I brought up that fact with Ilion, he said "Yeah, I need a man I can trust. Trace would never fuck up. He knows what would happen. Ask him -- he knows I know some people over there. But I know he would never fuck up, and he knows I could never hurt him. I'd just probably tell him to go home."
 
Who did you have killed? I wondered. "I have a cock-fighting business over there," Ilion said, "you know, chickens. I bet a couple thousand dollars on a fight, and the chickens cost a couple hundred dollars. So this guy decides to steal a couple of chickens. So I have these guys cut him up into pieces and put them all over town. As an example."
 
"You couldn't have just scared him?" I asked, half horrified, half thinking he was pulling my leg.
 
"No," he shook his head. "It's a different world there." He paused for a minute. "I'm not a bad guy -- I didn't pull the trigger, I have guys do that for me. I'm not a killer. And I give money to the families -- $5,000."
 
"And that's a lot of money there," I said, wondering when I had entered the set of The Sopranos.
 
"Yeah, it's a lot of money, and those families, they thanked me for it! They said the guy was a no-good fuckup anyway, and they were happy to have made money off him! I mean, they lo -- hey, if the village needs water, I build them a well. I'm the only guy in town who drives a Hummer, the only guy in town with a $65,000 car. So they know who I am. If I tell them to vote for a certain politician, they do it because they trust me. They know me."

After this remarkable exchange, another friend of Trace, Willy, sat down next to me. Willy. Overweight, reeking of cologne, with obviously dyed black hair pulled into a ponytail and ruddy complexion. Forty-six years old. From Cleveland, Ohio. A marketing guy, in the steel industry, who said he had been selling steel-production machines at $5 million a pop in China. Due to the Chinese government's fear of an economic bubble burst, though, Willy wasn't doing much work lately.
 
Vivian and I arrived at the bar around 9 pm and left around 10:30. Every few minutes during that time, Willy held my hand, put his arm around me, kissed my cheek, or pulled me into an unwilling embrace. While also telling us that he had two girlfriends in Taiwan, one 33 years old and the other in her twenties. While also telling us that he liked northern Chinese women because their skin was lighter, because they were "passive and just my style," because women from Shanghai and Beijing just "weren't his style." While also showing us a picture of his Korean girlfriend (who looked no older than 30) hanging from his keychain. While telling me that I was "cute," "beautiful," and a "heartbreaker."
 
At first, I figured it was more trouble than it was worth to say something to Willy about the skin-crawling embraces and kisses. He's drunk, I thought, and affectionate, and it's gross, but it'll stop if I don't respond. But as the seconds ticked forward and Willy didn't desist, I felt increasingly uncomfortable. Panicky, almost. Violated. Disgusted.
 
I disengaged my hand from his, saying lightly, "Oh hey! It's my hand!" I didn't look at him. I inched away on the sofa. Any fool could have seen that my body language was saying NO. I tried to divert his attention by telling him that Vivian was from Taiwan, which was low of me, because then he grabbed her hand. She was good, though -- she smiled and said, "Oh! It's just like holding my father's hand."
 
Just before we were about to leave, Willy leaned in close and asked, "Can I take you out to dinner sometime?"
 
"You have a girlfriend."
 
"Hey, I'm a firm believer that if you have a ring on, you stay faithful. I'm a pastor. [!] I believe in that. But if you don't have a ring...."
 
"I'm afraid I'm leaving in a month."
 
"In a month? That's too bad." And he leaned back.

Vivian and I left.
 
We walked to the subway and I apologized for inviting her to the bar. "That's okay," she said, "I saw a lot. Their lives are very different. But I felt sorry for you. I didn't like the way he kept touching you, and holding your hand or my hand. Are you okay?"
 
I shuddered. "I feel gross. He was disgusting."
 
She frowned. "I think Trace is a good guy. And even Ilion, he has a kind face. But that other guy..." 
 
After parting ways on the subway, I sat and tried to figure out why the hell men like Willy think they can get away with treating Asian women with such disrespect. Why do lecherous old fucks like him get away with it? And would they get away with it in the U.S.? I don't think so. Maybe with young, economically powerless girls who don' t know that they deserve more. Then something Ilion said snagged my memory.
 
Upon finding out that Vivian had married a Korean man, he made a face and said, "Why?" He proceeded to lecture: "Korean men, they're hard core. That's why Korean women, when they meet a man who will cook and clean -- I do everything for my wife. I can cook anything. I hired a cleaning person because I don't want my wife to do that stuff. I'm half Italian and half Philippino, and the Philippinos, they take care of their women. So when a Korean woman meets a man who will do that, they realize!"
 
Is it the sexist hierarchy in Asian countries, then, that makes these situations possible? Are Korean (or Philippino, or Chinese, or Vietnamese) women running away from a patriarchal system that treats them poorly, toward a more sensitive-new-age-guy culture? Or are they young and economically powerless and don't know they deserve more? Or do they simply recognize relationships like the ones Willy has as financial transactions?
 
I suppose it differs according to the country. I've heard of men going to the Philippines or Vietnam, renting a house, and hiring two women -- one for cooking and one for fucking. They couldn't get away with that in Korea -- women have more power here. But then how can a disgusting amoral shitbag like Willy get away with having a Korean girlfriend and asking me to have dinner with him sometime?
 
Okay, there are disgusting amoral fucks everywhere in the world, both male and female, who are not necessarily examples of class and ethnic domination. But -- but the question remains: what makes men like Willy think they can get away with it?
 
And the answer? Because they can, yes. But also because of women like me. Because I didn't do any one of the half dozen things that would have put a stop to Willy's kisses and hugs. Because I didn't change my seat. Because I didn't turn to him and say, "Please stop doing that, it makes me uncomfortable." Because I didn't answer, "The reason I won't go to dinner with you is that you're a repulsive, boring fuck who has no respect for women." Because I didn't look at him with the "back off" stare. Because when he said, multiple times, "oh, she doesn't like me" in a coy tone, I didn't say, "You're right, I don't, and stop touching me." Because I didn't say upfront, "Look, I went to Yale and I'm going to Harvard Law," which has the effect of freezing  men like Willy in their tracks, because they don't know how to behave around an intelligent woman. Because when he asked if he could hold my hand, I didn't say, "No, you can't, because your touching me makes my skin crawl because you're old enough to be my father, and I'm not one of your 'passive' Chinese women, I'm American-born and bred and you know you wouldn't be able to get away with this shit in Cleveland, Ohio, and why the FUCK do you think you can get away with it here?" 
  
I didn't do anything.
 
Why? Why? Why? How could I have just sat there and taken it?

Pouring, pouring, POURING rain today. I'm wearing a skirt that just goes past my knees and three inches of it were wring-worthy wet by the time I walked the 10 minutes from the subway to the office. Tomorrow I'm going to a little town on the western coast called Boryong for their annual mud festival. There's certainly gonna be a lot of mud.
 
Had a fit of decisiveness (if I could just capture the hormones or whatever that causes me to be decisive in these weird spurts and pill-ify it, I'd be so happy) yesterday and decided, okay, enough be enough, I'm going to quit on July 30, go to Japan on the 31st, return on the 10th, and leave Korea on the 17th. No going to [         ], no going to Mongolia. Vpppt.
 
So, depending on ticket availability (a big factor, actually, since August is high season for everything), I'm all set. I'm steeling myself against the inevitable moments of doubt and regret about not going to see KB. The funny thing, as I noted in my private journal last night, is that if things had been just a little less extreme, I'd have been swayed into going. If [       ] were not quite as far from Korea as it is. If the ticket were just a few hundred dollars less. If KB had a slightly less -- well, you don't need to know that. It made me laugh, though, last night. And in laughing, I knew I'd be all right.

Thursday, July 15, 2004

It's a living

Yesterday I went out to dinner with my coworker and discovered that she makes less than me.

I make, after taxes, about 1.1 million won a month, which is about USD$950, for working 12 hours a week. (I used to make a couple hundred dollars more when I worked 22 hours a week.)

My coworker, who works full time, makes 990,000 won after taxes. That's about USD$850.

True, she's an "intern", which is just a fancy term for "working on contract, with no guarantee of employment after this year, making 80 percent of what a first-year employee would make." (Brilliant, whoever thought of that and implemented it at my office last year.) Even so. If she makes 80 percent of a first-year employee... I really don't know how people can live on that in Seoul. (See how I avoided doing math there?)

According to this international salary calculator , which could be total crock for all I know, the cost of living in Seoul is higher than in Washington, DC. More specifically, if I were making $850 a month in DC (or $10,200 a year), I'd need to make $13,566 in Seoul for a comparable wage. (No math, I told you.)

According to a survey by Mercer Human Resource Consulting, which could be a baldface lie for all I know, Seoul is the seventh most expensive city to live in. It outranks New York City (#12) and San Francisco (#38). It's still behind Tokyo (#1), London (#2) and Moscow (#3), though. (The survey covers 144 cities and measures the comparative cost of over 200 items in each location, including housing, food, clothing, household goods, transportation, and entertainment.)

Bottom line: I really don't know how people survive here, if my office's salary system is any indicator. My coworker did say that our office is known for its ungenerous wage scale. She also said that employees at big corporations make a little more, but often work until 10 or 11 at night. Which no one at the Foundation does.

If you're single and either living at home or renting a cheap place with someone, I could see managing all right, but for people with families, I just don't know. No wonder most couples are dual income. And no wonder the birth rate is dropping.

Wednesday, July 14, 2004

Into each life...

...some rain must fall, so the song says. But lately, too much has fallen in mine. Which could be said of everyone in Korea, Japan, and most of the eastern Asian Pacific region. It's monsoon season, after all. It doesn't quite rain every day, but it's pretty close.

[On a completely random note, my coworker just told me she got her wisdom teeth out two days ago. But here they're called "first love teeth," because you get 'em just around the time you start noticing the other sex. I like that. I'm not sure where the wisdom thing comes from.]

So. Rain. It's lovely and healing and raging and destructive and it makes the mountains in the back of the office silvery gray with mist. It keeps the temperature down sometimes, and other times it makes for unbearably soggy heat.

It's depressing right now, is what it is.

It could just be me, though. Yesterday I felt all decisive and clear-headed, and it was raining, and today I feel wishy-washy and foggy and it's raining, so ... I guess it must be me.

Yesterday I went with my grandmother to exchange a brassiere she'd bought me (along with the 17 pairs of underwear) and was surprised to find that rare is the bra in Korea that goes above an A cup. [Sorry, fellas, this can't be of much interest to you. But ladies? Can you believe it?] The woman at the store showed me some B cups but they were definitely "old lady" style, so I rooted around and finally found an unoffensive pattern and color that came in B cup size.

Unfortunately, all the matching pants (British usage; better known in the U.S. as "panties," but for some reason "panties" sounds sort of ickly to my ear. I'm not sure why I think that, but I'm reminded of an old high school mate who could not stand that word. "The p-word," she whispered to me when she first explained her aversion. "You mean 'penis'?" I asked, confused. "No," a nearby friend said, amused, "she means 'panties'." Ah, Sonia D., where are you now?) were enormous XLs that my grandmother declared were a better fit for her than me. I suggested we buy the set and divide it between us, but she nixed the idea. So I settled on a pair of pants that were approximately the same color, but the woman wanted 5,000 won for it (roughly USD$4.33), so I decided I didn't really need another pair of pants (17 new ones are enough for, say, 5 years).

When I indicated that the bra was enough, my grandmother mentioned that I was just that way, that I always paid for my own things with my own money rather than accept hers. The woman at the store seemed impressed, and declared that I was a kind girl. I'm not sure what mixture of cultural factors led to this statement, but I think the following have something to do with it: 1. Older people always pay for younger people they have invited out. 2. Consumerism being as rampant as it is here, a young women who decides against buying something is something of an oddity. 3. Self-sufficiency for young women is not yet widespread.

After the B-cup bra-buying, I went to meet my KA friend Melissa at Lotte World (department store, amusement park, grocery store, movie theatre and ice-skating rink all in one). With about an hour to kill, I walked around the underground shopping mall and found these jeans that are 15,000 won (USD$13), skin-tight, and -- get this -- are the right length. Cheap, sexy, and the perfect fit -- what else could a girl want? But, thought I, I will not make an impulse purchase. I will wait. And also, I feel weird about wearing something that fits tighter than the casing on a tube of pig intestines (otherwise known as soondae, commonly sold at pojangmachas).

So I'm waiting for Melissa, not buying the jeans, skirt, or dress that I also suddenly discovered I like, rilly, rilly needed, and I aimlessly go through old messages on my cell phone. And come across a couple from KB, back when he was here in late February and early March. I read them over with a smile. And I suddenly thought, oh, fuck it. Just go. You wanna go, so just go. Life is short.

And I felt suddenly very happy.

I hung out with Melissa for a couple hours and then walked around Lotte World again, wandering and looking for a decent place to study. And consciously not buying the stuff I was lusting after. Ooh, but I want those jeans, I thought. Call it an experiment in style, but I need those jeans.

But I shouldn't spend money if I'm going to [ ]!

But I want those jeans. I want to spend freely. I don't want to be worried about 15,000 won for jeans, or 100,000 won for a weekend camp with the taekwondo studio, or 10,000 won for lunch for my grandmother and me.

Yeah, well, that's the way the cookie crumbles. You go, your bank account flatlines. That's the price you pay.

Not just that. I also pay in time, opportunity cost, and let's not forget the inevitable emotional fallout. As RosaG so wisely pointed out to me earlier this week, anytime spent with a crush is later dwelled upon and obsessed over 5 to 10 times the length of time actually spent in presence of crush.

So don't go. Life is short and all that, but when the cons outweigh the pros, sometimes you gotta wise up and let things go.

Oh, all right. [Sulk.]

But you know, after I had that little exchange with myself, I felt ... not happy, but refreshed, sort of. Clarified.

Funny enough, I got an email from One-Armed Maggie last night that encouraged me to listen to my head/wallet. As for visiting, she wrote, "just say as long as he pays for the ticket you'd love to come!" Which is what Miss D said a month ago when I started thinking about this nonsense. You cold, girl!

Even I know, on some level, that it is nonsense. "You would spend X amount of dollars and fly X amount of miles to see someone who said he'd fallen for someone else? [And never told her, let's not forget that!] What are you crazy? You're either crazy or you're rich beyond belief, because girlfriend, no man is worth that! Where is your pride? You're worth more than that!"

But then again: "I know it sounds crazy and maybe it is, but life is crazy. And short. And you gotta grab these opportunities when they come, because --"

"What, opportunities to be a fool?"

"What's the joy in being sensible all your life? Look, I love traveling, I love seeing how people live, I may never have as good a chance as I do now to visit [ ], especially with a built-in tour guide and host, and let's face it, no matter how earnestly you say you'll do X and Y later on, life moves on and you're going to be going to law school and it's a whole different life starting this fall, get it? New opportunities'll open up, and going to [ ] will fade to the background. Besides, what if ... well, what if there's a chance?"

[Disbelieving silence.] "You really think KB's gonna fall in love with you in the four or five days you're gonna be there? You need to get a new dealer, 'cause the one you have now is giving you hallucinogenic shit."

"Yeah, I know it's not realistic. But still -- the thought of not going and wondering what would have happened... I don't want to have regrets like that."

"I'll tell you what would have happened. You would have had a great five-day booty call, gone home, been unable to not have expectations, been inevitably disappointed, and learned a lesson I thought you ALREADY learned in March, which is to expect more for yourself and not to fucking settle -- but not before spending three months, during which you should be focused on law school, brooding and being depressed about it. Repeat after me: Not. Worth. It."

"Still --"

"Shut it."

Tuesday, July 13, 2004

Looks

I eat a lot of strange things here in Korea, as you might expect. Thanks to my grandmother and great-aunt, I probably eat more traditional Korean food than most. A couple weeks ago, they bought a load of young green chili peppers, and they are amazingly good -- small, thin-skinned, fresh, rarely spicy. We dip them into a thick soybean paste (miso to most of us) and have them as side dishes. I've taken to munching on them as a snack, late at night when I get home from taekwondo, along with slices of raw onion.

Yeah, I wouldn't kiss me either after one of my little snacks. But there's no one here in danger of trying to do so -- sad for me, but lucky for them, since they'd faint dead away from the smell.

I must admit, I haven't been eating very well for the last month and a half or so. I wake up late, go to work or to meet someone by 1 or 2 pm, go to taekwondo, and get home around 10 pm. I have "breakfast" (only in that it's the first meal of the day; then again, breakfast is pretty much the same as lunch) once before I go out and then sometimes dinner before taekwondo, but more often a small snack. And then depending on how hungry I am, I might snack on something late at night at home.

With the irregular eating and regular exercise, the predictable has occurred -- I've lost a couple pounds, and the pounds left tend to vote Muscle a little more than Fat these days. People at work and my old school mates have commented on it, and even I can see that my face looks thinner. My old department head said two weeks ago, "hk, when you first came to work here, you looked like a student, but now you're a lady!"

Koreans make comments on appearance that would horrify Americans. Or at least send them for a loop. One coworker, at the same office function, said to me, "Your skin looks really good! You used to have acne -- what happened?" It used to unnerve me, but -- like everything else -- I've gotten used to it.

My old classmate Etsuko divides up my time here into three periods. The first was the original long-haired, bespectacled hk that first arrived in Korea. The second was when I cut my hair short in the spring last year. And the third was in the summer, last year around this time, when I switched to contact lenses and got my first straight perm. I'd say that there was a version 3.5 between then and now, after I came back from the States in the fall loaded with several pounds of J1's excellent castoffs.

I guess this slimmer, "lady-like" me is the fourth hk in seoul. New and improved.

I look a little more like a Korean girl these days, which is probably why people have noticed the differences approvingly. It's not hard to do, replicating one of the look, since there's only so much diversity. It helps that all clothing stores sell virtually the same clothes, with a slight variation in price. I always felt like being well-dressed in the U.S. was out of reach; since I could never tell where the really sartorially smart people bought their clothes, I just muddled my way through stores buying what was on sale and seemed to fit reasonably. Here, it's so easy, even I can do it.

When I first got here, I thought that Korean style was a little weird, and I still do think so about certain combinations and frills and bows and such, but familiarity didn't breed contempt for me. I can't say I completely like everything worn here, but I can definitely find things I don't mind wearing. That I even search for, in fact, when I'm in one of those wonderful underground shopping areas. You know, where the bras are USD$1.80 and the shoes are $8.57.

I've even gotten used to men's styles. Pink polo shirts? Hey what's wrong with that on a man? Large pink heart dangling from the cell phone? So what? Permed hair? Yeah, it's kind of girly, but I don't think it makes the guy look less masculine. Well... okay, no, that might be going too far. (Especially the singers with the really permed out hair that looks fussier than a show poodle. Looking at them makes me understand why Asian men are fetishized in the gay community.) Point is, there's a different aesthetic for men here, and I've grown used to it.

'Course, that doesn't mean I want to date any of them.

Friday, July 09, 2004

Both

I'm going to miss Korea
I was riding the subway to work today when a group of schoolboys, probably in junior high or so, got on at Hakdong Station. They wore light blue button-down short-sleeved shirts and dark blue trousers. Their heads were almost uniformly short puffballs of black hair. Some of them wore glasses, some of them wore knockoff Converse sneakers. No one's voice had started to break; no one's skin had started breaking out.

Nonhyun Station. Two seats close to me opened up, and two of the boys sat down. They gestured to another classmate, a short, younger boy with prepubescent cherubic good looks, to sit down on their laps, which he did for a few minutes. It was as natural and unself-conscious as a mother seating a child on her lap.

Banpo Station. Across from me, a seat opened up, and another boy started toward it. But he saw an older woman, short, squat, a little heavyset, probably in her 40s or so, also approach the seat, and steered off away from the empty seat, leaving it for her.

Express Bus Terminal Station. As I prepared to get off the train, I looked at the three boys huddled near the door, looking at something one of them was holding. One of them had his arm slung around his buddy as they looked at whatever it was, draped over the shoulder carelessly, in an unthinking gesture of affection and friendship.

As I walked to my transfer, I saw two security guards strolling through the station. They wore light blue button-down shirts and dark blue pants. They had caps on, and gold insignias signaling their official status. They were probably in their late 40s or early 50s. They looked like the kind of men who would down a couple bottles of soju together after work in a pojangmacha (sidewalk food vendor) on a regular basis, the kind of men that would sling their arms around each other without a thought, the kind of men who are obnoxiously loud and astonishingly generous, the kind of men those boys on the train might grow up to be.

I'm not going to miss Korea
Every single doggedman time I get off a subway car, I ask myself: Why is it that no one in Korea can figure out that standing to the side of the door (as opposed to filling up two-thirds of the doorway) and letting people off the train first speeds up the process for everyone? Even if you're standing there waiting and not pushing your way in, you're still in the way, get it? People cannot leave the train with you blocking their path. Move.

Tuesday, July 06, 2004

Burdens and bitches

Yesterday I came home to find 17 pairs of underwear waiting for me, bought by my grandmother, who keeps saying that she would like to buy me stuff before I leave Korea. Seventeen pairs!

At first I was pleased but not wild with enthusiasm, since they weren't the style I'd buy myself. But then I realized that this was a perfect gift for my upcoming lifestyle. You remember college life, don't you? When you're a student, your underwear count determines how long you can go without doing laundry. With the little collection I've built up in the past few months, I can probably get through the first semester with no more than a handful of visits to the laundry room!

Which is way more information than you wanted to know. But there you go. Just try to forget it now. Can't, can you? Mwah hah.

I fell to talking about law school finances with my dad last night, and suddenly became unspeakably depressed about it. It would be one thing to go so deeply into debt if it were something I really, truly wanted to do. But it isn't. My dad offered to help out with the amount that I have to put in, but I don't feel comfortable taking his money, for a number of reasons.

My Taiwanese friend Vivian told me that I should just take the money, because, "it's different in Asia. Parents are happy when they can help their kids," she explained. "I think your dad will be happy if you accept his help."

My dad himself mentioned something similar when I told him that my grandmother had offered to buy me my glasses two weeks ago. (I'd refused.) "It makes her happy to spend money on you," he said.

I guess. But I still don't like it.

Thinking about how much doubt I'm feeling about my next move, I took a look last night at the journal I'd kept in the months before moving to Korea in 2002. Reading it reminded me that I had vacillated about coming in the fall or the winter, and that I had been terribly, terribly anxious about coming to Korea.

Maybe going to law school is the same thing. Maybe it's just nerves.

Like before a wedding.

To the wrong guy.

Just kidding.

Speaking of wrong guys, I was astonished to see how much of a total bitch I was to John the last few months of our relationship. That's seriously what I thought as I read over some of my entries recording conversations we had had: "God, what a total bitch!" The really astonishing thing is that I didn't realize how controlling, emotional manipulative, and passive aggressive I was being. (Hi, mom!)

This isn't me just saying that because I'm trying to sanctify John. I know I've done that to some extent before. Lord knows John had and has his faults, like the rest of us. But this time, I really was horrified to read about my actions.

For instance, on Aug. 27, 2002:

Last night John told me that he got a job paying $15.50 an hour, selling knives. That he's only going to take one class this semester, to ease into school. That he thought about it and decided it's the best thing to do, and that he'll do the full course load next semester.

I told him I disagreed, and that upset him, of course.

Then I called him back and was very upset. I told him -- first, he never asked me about what I thought, he just decided this on his own. Second, the break was for us to do things we had to do - his thing being school. I didn't think we had taken a break so he could take one class and work. And finally, I tried to explain the real me, the real reason I was upset. Me. That I wanted him to be something else. And I didn't know whether to try to shape him into that, or entirely let him be, or what. But the bottom line being that I didn't love him for himself, as he does me. I love him, but on condition, and I don't know how not to.

"Do you know how that makes me feel?" he asked.

I interrupted: "I know, it makes me feel like crap too!"

Finally, he said, "I don't know what to say to you. I think the break is for you to figure out what you want from this relationship, and for you to see if someone else is better, I guess. And I guess for me to figure out what I want too. I appreciate that you want me to be something more than I am. But I'm going to make my own choices. And it's really on you, I guess. I love you, but you have to decide what you want from this relationship."

He suggested I talk it over with my shrink. And then he said, "I have to go, I need to finish The Odyssey in two days."

"I know," I said.

"I love you," he said.

"I know."


You see what I mean? What a mean, immature, withholding bee-yotch.

I know I've grown and changed more in these past two years than any other two-year period of my life. I hope that maturation extends to my behavior in relationships. 'Cause lord knows I don't want to be that bitch. A lifetime of apologies wouldn't be enough to make up for the shit I pulled with John.

Sunday, July 04, 2004

Weekend report

Happy 4th of July! Here, as you might expect, there was absolutely nothing to indicate that it was anything else but a normal day. Albeit a very rainy day. Fortunately, Typhoon Mindulle (Dandelion) was downgraded to a tropical storm today.

I think I need to downgrade as well. Or at least start shifting. About six weeks from now, I'll be leaving Korea and ending a two-year stretch of my life that's been like no other two years in my life. Before I start the frenzied must-check-things-off-the-list period that characterized the month before I left DC in 2002 -- which, incidentally, blocked out all emotions except anxiety, which itself only exhibited as odd pains in my head unascribable to anything else -- I think it might be wise to ma-um jongni. Ma-um is "mind; spirit; heart; soul; idea; thought; mentality" while jongni means "regulate; arrange; put in order; adjust; readjust; straighten out; dispose of." You get the gist.

I stopped writing about the weird and wacky world of Korea some time ago, because things don't seem so w-and-w after a year and a half. And so this blog has become just a regular ole journal. I feel like I could be hk in anytown. Which is not necessarily bad. But life is just life, you know? How many times can I write about going out to eat spicy chicken barbecue and then going to a karaoke bar with friends before it gets old hat? I'm not a newbie anymore. I just live here.

Hm. Why am I writing this? I suppose it's part of jongni-ing too -- the recognition of what and who I've become. Huh. I think you'd better be on the lookout for some serious navel-gazing in the next few weeks.

In the meanwhile... so this weekend, I went to a tiny jazz club in Daehangno with my Korean-Danish kung-fu master friend. I haven't been to Basic Jazz Club since the last time I went with my Korean-Danish kung-fu master friend; also, I haven't seen my Korean-Danish kung-fu master friend since the last time we went to Basic Jazz Club. Which was in fall of last year.

(Oh c'mon. As if you wouldn't repeat that phrase three times if you had a Korean-Danish kung-fu master friend.)

He's still around and planning to live in Korea for the foreseeable future. Not making too many efforts to find his birth parents, though he's considering going on a TV program that does that kind of thing. The drawback is that the program demands the taping rights for any reunion that might occur between adoptee and parent, and Korean media is comparatively invasive. I'm not sure if Koreans are just less shy about screaming, crying, throwing things, fighting, collapsing dramatically, etc. on camera, or if the media is less shy about capturing it all on film for the 9 o'clock news.

On Saturday I went to the office and did some work, then met Yuri to see a movie in a DVD bang (room). These are places where you can rent a video (now mostly DVDs) to watch with your friends in the privacy of your own blacked out little room, complete with couch, ashtray, and um, tissues. Because doesn't everyone need tissues when they see a movie? Hm.

See, the rooms in the DVD bangs have doors with windows, but you can't see the people watching the movie. In fact, there are some places where there aren't even any windows in the doors, but I believe they are illegal now, because if you live in a society where most young people live at home until they get married, privacy is a premium, ya know what I'm sayin'?

DVD bangs are not necessarily de facto sex rooms (there are love hotels for that, my dear, and many equipped with aftershave, lotion, and Eros shampoo and conditioner -- no joke, it was the actual name of the shampoo Maiko and I found in a hotel we stayed at somewhere), but they're certainly conducive to certain activities.

Which is why I am glad to report that in the last year or so, convenience stores have started selling condoms. (I know what you're thinking, but I didn't find out about it that way. I just noticed them lying on a shelf one day and asked a friend.) Before, you had to go to a pharmacy to get them. I wonder what the actual usage rate is, though. A bartender friend of a friend told me that of the female friends he has, almost all of them have had abortions.

And I'll just leave you with that.

Thursday, July 01, 2004

On my mark: 3. 2. 1. Bored.

Okay, I'm not so excited about that email anymore.

But I am still bored.

To be honest, I feel like I'm marking time here. School's done, work's blah, taekwondo feels repetitive (though I started learning a new series of movements today, so that was exciting). When I have freelance work, it's often more tedious than not. When I don't have freelance work, I'm half-heartedly learning Chinese characters and doing a crap job of translating Auster's Red Notebook.

Working on keeping up my Korean seems like a futile exercise, since I'm just going to lose it all when I head back to the States. What did I come here for if I'm just going to forget everything I learned in 1,000 hours of instruction?

Matt Sal says I should relax and enjoy my free time, since the immediate future is decided and taken care of. But I am type A, after all (no, really: A+ blood type and everything), and I can't relax for long without starting to feel like I'm wasting time. I'm really not good with free time.

Long goodbyes. I hate them at the airport, I hate them at farewell parties, I hate them at the Copa, and I hate them with croutons. This period feels like the long goodbye from hell. It would be one thing if I could just skiv off and travel instead of hanging around Seoul. But I feel like I shouldn't empty my bank account here (not to mention the oppportunity cost of not working for six weeks) if I'm going to be taking out USD$30,000 in loans this year alone. In any case, at heart, I'm bored because most of my friends are gone, and traveling alone'll just exacerbate that loneliness. I must say that I'm really feeling for Etsuko, who will be working here until next April, and is already suffering from major friend-withdrawal symptoms.

On a completely different topic: I was watching the Discovery Channel last night, and saw a clip of an Indian movie from the 1960s. Watching the stylized dancing/acting and listening to the peculiar high-pitched singing reminded me of my last year of high school, when I happened to be hanging out with a lot of Indian Americans, and of my first year of college, when I was dating an Indian American guy. The clip reminded me that there have been periods of my life when a lot of my friends seemed to fall into one category, and I was the odd one out.

There was a phase after college when everyone I knew in DC was Jewish, thanks to my friendship with Nina and through Nina, Fearless T. I went to a Kentucky Derby party hosted by an orthodox Jewish friend one year, and upon opening the door to her apartment, I realized that 1. I was about the only woman not wearing a hat and a long floral skirt (the non-observant and Reform Jews arrived after me); and 2. I was the only non-Jew there (that was true for the whole party). Which was awkward, but in retrospect, very funny. I think nowadays, I'd find it funny at the moment.

Here in Seoul, I have often been mistaken for Japanese, because 1. usually I'm in a group where Japanese people outnumber non-Japanese; and 2. there are so many Japanese students learning Korean, thus I speak Korean with a slight Japanese accent (or so I've been told). I suspect too that I don't fulfill the Korean image of an American (I'm not usually speaking English, I'm not loud, I'm not demanding. Hey, just stereotypes, remember?). Anyway, at Sogang -- just like any given Korean language institution -- the majority of students are Japanese, so naturally most of my friends are Japanese. And there have been many, many times when I'm the only non-Japanese person in the group.

Being the odd one out is really wonderful, because you learn so much. I was introduced to those great Indian movies in high school. I've been to more shabbat lunches than any shiksa's got a right to go to. And I know how to say "I am not Japanese" in Japanese.

Of course, being the odd one out is also lonely at times. I never ran with the Korean American crowd at high school or college or post-college, even though some of my KA friends did (the ones I was close to, though, generally didn't either). I mentioned Kamp Konifer, the kamp for Korean Amerikans, a couple of posts ago -- I hated it with a passion, because I felt so left out and weird and different and nerdy and ugly and I really don't need to go on, do I? I was certainly awkward then, even for the awkward set, but even now, I don't think I'd enjoy being there.

One of the things I noticed about bigbro and J1 when they visited was their familiarity or knowledge of certain facets of Korean culture. Like, they knew about yogurt soju. They had had yogurt soju. Whereas I'd never even had plain soju before I got here. bigbro and J1 were involved with KA stuff in college, and while they have a diverse range of friends, I get the feeling that Korean culture, filtered by and adapted for the KA experience, was an organic part of their lifestyle. For me, Korea was much more of a foreign land.

Sometimes I wonder if I came here to see if I could belong somewhere. Be part of the majority for once. See how it felt. I never consciously thought of that as a goal. But even if I did have that thought somewhere deep inside, I don't think I could have predicted how disconcerting it is to look like everyone else but feel like a stranger.