Dear Family and Friends,

Well, I am a week past my blog return date of December 16^th. Happily, I did finish that darn manuscript for teacher training but that rush of words completely gutted my writing voice. It has begun to return in incoherent bits and drabs but…

Of course, now Christmas has arrived and tonight, through the doors of Daegu International Airport walked my sister Emilie. She is here to celebrate Christmas with me and to visit during her week’s vacation. I was so happy to see her that (despite my best intentions), I cried. You’ll forgive me, I hope, if I plead Christmas celebrations and time with a beloved sister while I continue to neglect this blog?

And yes, Koreans celebrate Christmas – in both strange and readily recognizable ways; I cannot wait to tell you about this and more.

Merry Christmas!

Love,

Laura

PS: This unusual Santa can be found at my newest, bestest Daegu discovery - a bakery called Choi's Patisserie in downtown Daegu. Although, sadly, when I last caught sight of Santa, he was a bit worse for the wear: his eyebrows had deflated and his boots had been flattened (he must've gained weight while munching on yummy Choi's cakes).

Dear Friends and Family,

Almost four months in Korea and I continue to wonder about this place and its people - although I’m far, far from the first Westerner to feel this way and to write about it. Back in the 1980s, journalist and now-bestselling author Simon Winchester became intrigued by Koreans and in 1987, he took a long, exploratory walk and wrote a beautiful book entitled Korea: A Walk Through the Land of Miracles. Although frankly, his experiences and my own seldom match – I suspect for various reasons including time (1987 is eons ago in a rapidly changing country) – nonetheless, his story is never far from me. The beginning is especially memorable and I’d like to share. So the following is an excerpt of Winchester’s first chapter “In the Seamen’s Wake:”

* * * * * * * * * *

This story starts a very long way from Korea – indeed, very nearly halfway across the world from Hendrick Hamel’s ‘dangerous and difficult Kingdom’ – on a gloomy, rainswept, industrial street in Newcastle upon Tyne.

Newcastle was where I had my first job on a newspaper in the middle sixties: it was a grimy and then rather depressed old place tucked away up in the far northeast, a place of deep coal mines ad half-closed factories that were worked by men (the luckier ones, that is – many had been out of work for years) who still wore overalls and cloth caps, drank the strongest beer brewed in Britain, and had a tradition of making the sturdier items of advanced society – things made of iron and brass and heavy alloys, things like battle tanks and cantilever bridges, artillery pieces and cranes, telescope mirrors, power-station turbines and railway locomotives.

But it had a softer side, too. As robust and no-nonsense a place as it might have been, the Newcastle I came to know was a city surrounded by and shaped by a wild and starkly beautiful countryside, and a place whose whole life and economy and folk history were dominated by two mighty waterways that were born high up in the nearby hills, the River Tees and the River Tyne.

The Tyne! Such – or so it seems at this distance – such a grand old river and such grand old memories! The Tyne remains for me, and probably for anyone who has ever fallen under the subtle spell of what they call Geordie country, one of the great streams of the world. It is neither a very long nor in truth a very great river, yet somehow in its brief passage from source to sea it managed to capture all the alluring mixtures and contrasts that make England what she is – grace and power, rustic charm and ironbound sinew, breeze-ruffled heather and hot industrial oil, lonely moorlands and bustling factory gates. These contrasts exist in many river passages, perhaps, but in the case of the Tyne seem to represent so accurately all that for which the country once stood and all that had been for so long part of the leitmotiv of Empire.

The Tyne rises high in the broom-covered hills near the border between England and Scotland. It chuckles merrily through narrow gorges and across small waterfalls. It matures and lazes through meadows and prosperous suburban villages. It washes grandly between the old cathedral cities of Newcastle and Gateshead, cities of grey sandstone and marble monuments, vaulted railway stations and imposing city halls; and finally it passes by the low-lying, swampy slakes of Jarrow and Wallsend - the latter named for the eastern end of the might wall Hadrian had built to protect Rome’s English dominion – on its way to the cold and grey heavings of the North Sea. And in those last ten miles of its brief course, by which time it has widened and deepened and slowed to a kind of majesty, the River Tyne became over the centuries the home of an industry that perhaps more than any other made the northeast of England famous throughout the world: on the lower reaches of the River Tyne they build ships.

Vessels of war and passenger liners, gritty little tramp steamers and sleek container ships, ugly grain haulers and bulk carriers, motor vessels of every imaginable type that now ply between faraway ports, Baltimore and Capetown, Pago Pago and Papeete, Shanghai and Port Moresby, Colombo and Mombasa and (with a cruel irony that will shortly be apparent) the Korean ports of Inchon and Pusan, and a thousand places besides. Anything that was made of iron, and that floated, and that was made in England seemed to have some inevitable association with the River Tyne. So many of these ships in their uncountable armadas have, on some ‘tween-deck bulkhed, an oval brass plate with the engraved name of the shipyard and a final phrase of simple geography that still stands out proudly like a mariners’ seal of approval – made, the plaques say, in Newcastle upon Tyne.

When I arrived there as a reporter in 1967, they had just started work on the last family of truly great ships ever built on the river. The first, the flagship, was called the "Esso Northumbria," and she weighed in at something like a quarter of a millions tons – a supertanker, everyone called her. The people of Wallend, where she was built, were glad indeed after many months of short orders and short time – to have won the order to build her. I was fascinated by her construction. (I had been brought up in Dorset, and the biggest boat I had ever seen was a six-man whaler built of teak.) Each weekend I, along with scores of local people, would drive down to Wallsend to watch her progress. I would walk down to the tiny lanes of terranced houses where the shipyard workers lived, and I would watch her mighty hull rise behind them.

Week after week a wall of steel, fireworked by rivet throwers and welders, resonant with hammering and flecked with red lead and rustproof paint, would rise higher and higher, blocking out the view, the light, and the wind. Wallsend housewives who where normally muffled to the eyes would walk to the shops in summer dresses. The icy gales that so often roared across the river had been stopped in their tracks by the "Northumbria’s" ever-growing hull, which, within its cobweb of cranes and scaffolding, climbed higher and higher into the sky.

And then one day in early May 1969, Princess Anne came by, a young girl in a big yellow hat and a warm yellow coat, and ended it all. She cracked a bottle of champagne over the bows of the mighty new ship. With a roar of drag chains and a muted roar of pride from her Geordie builders, the "Esso Northumbria" was let go. She gathered speed down the slipway, slid effortlessly into the dark waters of the Tyne, performed the traditional curtsy of buoyancy to the thousands waiting on the river banks, and proceeded downriver to be fitted out and to undergo her sea trials. Then, probably (for I lost track and now cannot find her in "Lloyd’s Register of Shipping"), she took off for the distant destinations of the petroleum trade, like Kharg Island and Kuwait, Philadelphia and Kagoshima, and all the oil ports of the world. Newcastle upon Tyne would never see her again. (She was broken up in Taiwan thirteen years later.)

The housewives in Wallsend complained that night that their protective wall had suddenly vanished and that cold gales blew grittily up their terraced streets once again.

What the women of Wallsend may then also have vaguely suspected, and what the months and years would confirm, was that Newcastle upon Tyne, and indeed the River Tyne itself, would never see so great a vessel again. It was not simply that the "Esso Northumbria" and her sisters were the last of the massive supertankers to be built there; they were also the last really big ships to be built in the English northeast. The "Northumbria’s" launching and the empty slipway she left behind were powerful in their symbolism. They represented in a mournful way the formal close to a lengthy and glorious industrial era – the end of a historical chapter for the Tyne, for Britain, for Europe, and, one might say, for the once-ascendant countries grouped around the Atlantic Ocean. As each tanker vanished downriver and out to the ocean, so it became the turn of the nations grouped around the Pacific to take up the duties of the Old World and begin to accept the benefits and the responsibilities of being the world’s new industrial powerhouses, for the remainder of the century and beyond.

Sixteen years after the "Northumbria" had gone I traveled on assignment for a newspaper out to that Pacific Ocean, and I spent a couple of weeks in the Republic of Korea. On the Wednesday of my second week I flew down to a small seaside town in the deep south of the country, an unloved place with the unlovely name of Ulsan. And in Ulsan I came to realize in an instant just why the River Tyne, so very far away and to these people so very unknown, was in the throes of dying.

For here, on a huge plain below a heather-covered bluff jutting into the Sea of Japan, was the headquarters of the shipbuilding division of a new Korean ‘miracle’ company called Hyundai. I was shown around, I remember, by a young man named Lee Seong Cheol (though some of his cards gave his name in a more Westernized style: Mr. S. C. Lee). He was an assistant in the company’s protocol division. What he showed me would make Tynesiders – any Europeans, indeed, and many Americans too – shiver in their shoes.

Any one of the yards on the Tyne, in the river’s heyday, could possible manufacture four or five ships at once – in wartime, perhaps, or during a period of grave emergency or extraordinary prosperity. The Hyundai Heavy Industries Company’s shipyard at Uslan, however, could make forty-six ships at once. And it could do so without any of the romantic Victorian nonsense of tallow and drag chains and bottles of champagne and princesses in flowery hats. Out here it was all much more business like – the yard had seven immense dry docs, and when a hull was finished the dock was simply flooded and the monster was floated away. In one of their docks – the biggest – they could build a million-ton tanker; two more of them could hold a 700,000-tonner apiece, two more could each build 250,000-tonners like the "Esso Northumbria," and one each could accommodate a 400,000-ton and a 350,000-ton monster – or any combination of smaller vessels that they buyers appeared to need. Three million six hundred and fifty tons of shipping could thus be manufactured at any one time in the Hyundai yards.

And superquickly, too. From the moment the immense plates of steel were cut in the foundry shops until the moment that dry-dock sluices were opened and the sea waters were allowed to float a new behemoth away, took the Korean workers only nine months. With a further nine months spent in the fitting-out yard, this meant that any new Hyundai vessel took just a year and a half to make. A ship order at Hyundai took half the time it would in a European yard – and at a price a good 10% lower than the nearest-priced competition (which happened to be, rubbing in the prosperity of the New Pacific, just across the sea in Japan).

Eighteen thousand men worked at the Ulsan yard. They worked six days a week. They started at 6:30 am with thirty minutes of compulsory jogging. They then reported for work at the yard at 7:30 am, and laboured uncomplainingly until they were allowed home at 5:30 pm. They had an hour off for lunch – invariably they would be handed a plastic box filled with the mess of Korean cabbage known as kimchi (which now has so much status as the country’s national dish that a museum has be dedicated to it in Seoul). They were permitted two ten-minute breaks, one at ten, the other at three. A worker of average diligence, competence, and seniority was paid about £300 a month. (Although, two years later in this story, this sum came to be regarded as so derisory that Korea suffered a period of major industrial unrest, with rashes of strikes and riots, [but] back in 1985, when I made my first visit, the workers seemed docile and content and behaved peaceably enough.)

They enjoyed, in any case, many fringe benefits. The men lived in Hyundai dormitories and ate at Hyundai canteens. They wore Hyundai clothes – even Hyundai underclothes and Hyundai plastic shoes – and were given, at appropriate times in the year, appropriate Hyundai gifts. They had a Hyundai motto: Diligence. Co-operation. Self-reliance. (The word "hyundai" simply means ‘modern.’) They read Hyundai newspapers. They watched Hyundai films. Every possible need, from the moment of a young man’s application until the moment of a foreman’s retirement, was taken care of by Hyundai. And further, to ensure that an employee, a member of the Hyundai family, spent as little time as possible in the uncomfortable and unknown world beyond Hyundai’s protective wings, he was allowed only three days’ holiday each year – and many of them seemed reluctant, so Mr. Lee informed us with gravity, to take even those.

I daresay most European shipbuilders could have learned a great deal from a visit to Hyundai – about styles of management, about efficiency, about the means of inculcating keenness in a work force. But the Europeans I met didn’t seem to want to know. They just seemed overwhelmed and rather miserable. During my expedition through the yard I had an instructive conversation with one shipowner from the Old World, a Swede, as lugubrious a man as a caricaturist might wish. He had come to Hyundai to inspect his company’s new ship, a 160,000-ton bulk carrier called the "Nord See" – a vessel that might once have been build on the Tyne but was now being finished in Hyundai’s Dry Dock Number Two.

I stayed with him for a good hour as he shinned up the "Nord See’s" companionways and clambered down her bulkhead ladders, peered at her tracery of pipework, measured the officers’ swimming pool (‘Nice time they’ll have in this, eh?’ he grinned, rather bitterly I thought), idly polished the brass journal at the end of her waiting propeller shaft, and knocked at the solid oak of the wardroom door.

Then he came out into the hot late-summer sunshine, and we clambered down the steps onto the dockside, and he looked admiringly up at the great wall of rust-red steel with fireflies of welding torches glittering here and there along its immense length. He turned to me and said, with a note of real sadness in his voice: ‘You know, I think that Europe is quite finished.’

I prompted him to explain. He warmed to his miserable theme as only a Scandinavian could: ‘There was a time, you know, when we were past masters at building things like this. Ships so grand, so beautiful… But now, looking at this… Oh, sure, from my owner’s point of view I’m pleased. We’ve saved some money, we’ve got a ship delivered on time, everything’s fine in the balance books. But seeing how they do it, these Koreans – I just can’t see how we can continue to have any real industry at all. I suppose what I mean to say is, I don’t see how Europe can survive in the face of competition from miracle workers like the people here. For that’s what this is – it’s a sheer, bloody miracle.’

And that, I suppose, is when my fascination with Korea began.

* * * * *

I knew, as my Swedish companion had, that Korea had quite literally rise form the ashes of recent ruin. Just thirty-two years before this particular autumn day, a war that had lasted for three years, claimed 1.5 million casualties, and raged quite pointlessly up and down the playing-card-shaped Korean Peninsula, had been concluded: a cease-fire had been announced, a truce that divided a nation in two and separated it by barbed wire and minefields and ever-vigilant guards was put into effect. And South Korea, utterly devastated and demoralized, an emasculated shambles of a country, started shakily to get up onto its two feet again.

And get up it most certainly did. With an effort that, more than any other post-war recovery effort in the world’s history, appears now to have been superhuman, truly miraculous, Korea stood, then took a first step, then began to work with confidence, then to trot, and finally to run until – as now – it has started seriously to challenge the world’s industrial leaders, with a seemingly unbeatable combination of energy and efficiency, national pride and Confucian determination.

There was no shipyard in Ulsan thirty years ago. There was not even a company called Hyundai. But now the Hyundai plant at Ulsan is one of the best and most productive in the world; and the men who had the idea to make it thus, and whose pride and visions have kept Korea’s shipyards and Korea’s car plants and, indeed, the Republic of Korea as a whole forging ahead and pulling away from all others, were, it seemed to me, true miracle workers.

I was not, I confess, either terribly interested in studying nor competent to explore the mechanics of Korea’s industry, nor the unfathomable mysteries of Korea’s economics. The price of steel plate and the costs of fuel oil, the insurance rates for the Strait of Hormuz and the cumbersome tables of freight rates for the North Atlantic Conference remain among the arcane that I could never hope to master. But I was, I soon discovered, fascinated by the Koreans themselves, by the Korean people. How, I wondered, had they managed it? What was it that had allowed them, or had perhaps impelled them, to become so hugely successful when all the Cassandras would have marked them down for Third World ignominy, for poverty, for oblivion. In short, what sort of people were they?

* * * * * * * * * *

This question, what sort of people are Koreans?, is a question that I’d like to answer myself, for myself, and for all of you while I'm here. Hmm...

Well, with, as always, thoughts in every which direction,

Laura

PS: The Hamel that Winchester refers to is Hendrick Hamel, author of the Description of the Kingdom of Corea, written in 1668 – the first Western account of the Hermit Kingdom.

Dear Family and Friends,

Please accept my apologies, again, for my previous long blog silence. I am well in health and not much worse off in spirit – but I am terribly busy and very likely to re-lapse into silence until after December 15th.

I should explain that the Korean school calendar, unlike the US school calendar, runs from March 2 – December 31st. For me, this year’s approach of Christmas is complicated by final test proof-reading (for others) and planning final lessons (for me). This is distracting – but what is downright arduous is that I have agreed to teach sessions at an “English Camp” for English teachers during the January 2007 school break. I believed that this would provide good teaching experience. In fact, I still believe this; however, I have found that I will be paying for this experience with the time and effort that it will take to write a 23-paged “manuscript” for the class while the compensation is… underwhelming. That said, I continue to draw my regular salary (good deal) and the experience will be good. But I now have less than 10 days to plan curriculum and write the manuscript. While this is within my capabilities, my blog postings will suffer.

Please forgive me if this is all ‘til December 16th – but (as always), I have lots more to share with you all.

Cheers!

Laura

A few reasons why I love Korea...

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

1. Daegu city - and its plethora of upside down stalagmites as seen from Woobang Tower...

2. Moments of quiet beauty...

3. When something familiar becomes utterly Korean – these are hermit crabs and their painted shells are en vogue in the elementary set. And really, who could resist?

4. Being goofy...

5. Discovering (for myself) commonalities between seemingly disparate cultures...

6. And beautiful sunsets.

And that I have so much more to see and learn! Ciao! --Laura

Dear Friends and Family,

Pavlovian conditioning works and I'm walking proof. Here in Daegu, as grey winds blast deadened leaves from the trees, I have been acutely aware that in the States “the holiday season” is in full swing and I have been tortured, tortured, by visions of tasty roasted turkey, browned in the oven, soft stuffing, steaming mashed potatoes smothered in gravy, cranberries sweetened with oranges, and pumpkin pie. I have found myself struggling to reconcile my deep desire to explore while the call to my roots, to my traditions, to my family grows stronger. They say – and I don’t know who they are – that the “holidays are the toughest time to be away.” And oh, yeah, I can confirm that. Perhaps it is my absence, perhaps it is Korea, or perhaps it is the combination, but this year I fully understood that the importance of Thanksgiving is the re-visiting one’s roots and holding hands with family. I lusted for turkey – and I cried for my loved ones.

Real, roasted turkey is an almost impossible commodity here in Korea. Believe me, I’ve looked – which has become a lesson unto itself. In the States, we take the flood of cultures for granted, especially in the food arena. Grocery stores cater to multi-ethnicity while countless restaurants peddle fast food, American “down-home” food, fusion cuisine, Chinese, Mexican, Japanese, French, Italian, Ethiopian, Vietnamese, Indian, and Thai foods and so much more. In contrast, Korea is an insular, self-sufficient country that adores its own food and is convinced of its cuisine’s healthiness (and holiness) to the point of being inhospitable to other cuisines. While a smattering of Japanese and Chinese restaurants can be found in Daegu, other Asian foods, such as Thai or Indian, are rare. And I’ve so far found the Western food here crap: McDonalds, Pizza Hut, Dunkin’ Donuts are fairly common and while they are somewhat popular, I suppose that their presence only serves to enhance the Korean notion that Asian food – Korean food – is vastly superior.

Happily, I’ve learned a lot about Korean food since that first time that I peeled grapes. Although I continue hold to the Korean cultural norm of not dining alone, I have become relatively comfortable eating at Korean restaurants. A typical restaurant experience: we walk through the restaurant doors, take off our shoes and leave them in a memorable spot. Next we seat ourselves at a table that lies low to the ground and usually has a gas burner of at its center. We sit cross-legged on cushions and immediately, a tray full of small bowls is brought to the table filled with kimchi (naturally), trays of leafy greens (lettuce or sesame leaves), pickled vegetables, bean sprouts, steamed green vegetables, and perhaps tiny dried silver fish salad, an almost clear soup, Korean potato salad with pumpkin dressing, and there is the potential for countless other side dishes. Interestingly, despite the ubiquitousness of rice in Korean cuisine, one must usually request rice. Just after the bowls are placed on the table, we diners lean over each other and pluck desirable bites while for the main event, the center gas burner is next lit. Although soups can be the main event, their ingredients tipped into boiling broth and simmered to completion, the most common “entrée” appears to be “ssaaam” – my personal abbreviation for the dish’s soy bean paste called ssamjang.

A plate of raw bacon-like pork and a bowl of sliced garlic is proffered by the waitress just before she starts the cooking process by stretching the meat onto the already hot grill. The meat sizzles and spits and cooks, the garlic slices become golden and from there, one diner takes over supervising the meat – turning it over, moving it from the hot center to the warm part of the grill, using kitchen scissors to slice the meat into bite-sized pieces. When the meat is cooked, diners take a lettuce or sesame leaf in one hand, place a piece of meat into the leaf, add garlic, the bean curd sauce (ssamjang), and perhaps pickled radish, rice or any other side dish that appeals. Creativity is its own reward and when you have assembled your mouthful, you fold the edges of the leaf into a package (if you are really skilled you use your chopsticks for this) and place the delicious roll into your mouth. Variations to this “ssaaaam” dish are endless – varying the meats (i.e. using marinated meats such as beef bulgogi) or chicken is possible, as is exchanging the fresh leaves for seaweed. What remains constant is the cooking method, the wrapping, and the ssamjang sauce. Yum.

Korean food, rightly has the reputation of being spicy hot; however (knock on wood), I have yet to eat anything that has been too hot for me. This has surprised me – my history of tolerating hot food has been spotty - but have come to believe that Thailand proved a spice tolerance builder for me.

One thing that continues to touch and amuse me, is that everyone here seems to worry about what I eat. Koreans are borderline as bad as Italian matriarchs in this regard. The other morning, my alarm didn’t go off and I awoke 10 minutes before my appearance at school was required. Scrambled and frizzy, I just barely made it on time where there was gentle laughter and then concern about what I had had for breakfast (I had an apple and yogurt in my bag). And to this day, I continue to surprise students and fellow teachers alike when I place a fair portion of kimchi on my metal tray. Students will ask, “Laura, do you like kimchi?” And I smile innocently and reply: “Of course. Do you like kimchi?” To a student, they look surprised and laugh and say “Of course.” Here in Korea, I find myself constantly assuring Koreans that (a) no, their food is not too hot for me (although I’m careful not to dare them to make it hotter – they could) and (b) yes, I really like their food.

Although I have become fairly comfortable with Korean food, every meal continues to have an element of surprise to it. I love the constant surprise and I love the food; however, a few weeks ago, I discovered that I'm also getting sick of Korean food. Never in my life have I had so many continual meals of the same ethnicity. I thrive on a variety of cuisines and my craving for non-Korean food has resulted in my making conscious ventures to western restaurants (although I still have yet to break down and eat at McDee’s or the like) and buying a membership to the place with the most western goods in the city: Costco. I cannot tell you how badly I miss decent pasta sauce (am even having a hard time making it myself due to inferior cans of tomatoes), fresh motzerella, sweet basil, turkey, good sandwiches, the ability to buy “foreign” foods in grocery stores, and the ability to bake at home. Even more than all of this, I miss the ability to go to restaurant for whatever kind of cuisine I’m in the mood for. That said, I have much more exploration to do – and I am optimistic that I’ll find a few acceptable non-Korean alternatives.

Getting back to Korean food, I am developing favorites. I adore kimchi – especially when fried on the ssaaam grill. But I have developed two favorite meals. My rumored favorite is bibimbap: a bowl of vegetables, topped with rice and red chili sauce and mixed. As a girl who does not even deign to mar her salads with salad dressing, I was surprised to find myself scooping warm rice onto a perfectly nice raw salad – but one bite was all it took to convince regarding the brilliance of this dish. And when I’m that dreadful combination of hungry + lazy, I walk myself 5 blocks to the local food market. I order myself some variation of diibuki (rice-cakes in an alarmingly bright red chili sauce with tofu and vegetables), pajon (green onion pancakes), another jon (pancake – with variations like cabbage or shredded pumpkin), noodles in sausage casings, kimbap (resembles sushi rolls), and sweet rice cakes. I’m beginning to have low, low level conversations with vendors as they place each dish in a clear plastic to go bag and then double bag my order in a black bag with handles. I drag my purchases home, spill the diibuki into a bowl, grab a metal pair of chopsticks, pour myself some barley water (this replaces water in my little home as I still haven’t found a Korean water that I like). I place my own low table on the bed, arrange the food on top of it and turn on the Daily Show. I end up full and perfectly happy to be dining in Korea.

Bon Appetite!

Laura

My friend Cathy once commented that “pears in the United States are tiny and not very good.” At the time, I let this comment pass with only a skeptical lift to my brows; a favorite supermarket staple of mine is fresh Anjou or Bartlett pears. But I have learned that there are few treats better than an Asian pear and that the trick to turning them into best of treats? Peel them. V. Korean. And v. good.

Love, Laura

Dear Family and Friends,

Today is the day in which I cross into my fifth month abroad. It is a day in which I will continue to perplex my students with a barrage of “native English” and a day in which my mother is likely to assist a baby into the world. But mostly it is a holiday in which you, my family and friends, will gather together in your respective homes, put together a feast, will squabble, will sup, will toast your blessings.

And while today is a day of public feasting, a celebration of goodness, and a time to give thanks; for me, far away from my family, my friends, and my favorite feast, today brings much homesickness and a bit of introspection. I’ve found myself reflecting on my journey so far, what I’ve learned, what I have yet to learn, and what I have to be grateful for. I find that I am grateful for the opportunity to travel, grateful for my health, incredulous of my luck. And yet, thus far, I do not have the words to express the importance of my journey. To explain the reason why I departed from those who love me. To define what I hope to discover.

Instead, in my head, over and over, I’ve turned and returned to the varied and extraordinary kindnesses that have meant so much to me. From the family who flew from afar to say farewell… to the close friends who said “I will miss you but I’m glad that you are going.” From the friends who threw and attended my good-bye feast… to the unshed tears of both my mother and father as I turned and walked through airport doors.

And then there was the kindly smile that greeted me at Wendy House, the friend who sat down and had me laughing within moments of making her acquaintance, and the playful grin from the tutor with two children and two husbands and two cats. There were “the boys” who made me laugh, who distracted me into dipping my feet in concrete, who held classes so smooth that my goal became to emulate them, who waited for us to ride the Big Wheel, who “oohed” when my friend’s home was secured and “oohed” again when my friend’s baby was born, and who stayed up late to assure me of assistance when I needed reassurance most. There were the wonderful, wonderful students who smiled at my bumbling and later praised me for it, the proffered expertise that allowed me visit an ancient wonder, the lady who harbored my treasured baby, the generous insights into everything Cambodian, the companion that taught me to stroke silks, the companions with the smarts to win us a quiz, and the face of a formerly frolicking friend plastered against my café window when I was lonely and so very alone. There were the girls who sent me into giggles as I hauled durian and dragon fruit into W House, the cab driver who delivered me safely to the train, the super tuk tuk driver who whisked me away from a rainy market even after I had driven a hard bargain, the gentleman who rescued me with my first and only motorcycle ride, and the many eager conversationalists who inquired “where are you from?” and laughed when I replied “the United States. Where are you from?”

I am grateful for the white-bearded man who provided me a wide target, for the friend who treated me to tea in a city garden oasis, for the ladies who accompanied me into slicked street as I bid farewell to the lights of Bangkok, and ever so grateful for the Korean guiding teacher who balanced my unbalanced cabinet and held his countenance when tears rolled down my face. I am exceedingly grateful for the co-teacher who thoroughly introduced me to teaching high school in Korea and allows me to vent in his direction, grateful to the lady who took my arm and treated me to her smile plus a mug, grateful for the teacher who always says “how can I help you?” and notifies me when “the cafeteria has called” (i.e. it is time to eat), and even for the teacher whose enthusiasm for English Lit makes her face glow while working with students shrinks her. And I must, must be grateful for the students who clap as class begins, for the students who nod through reading class and for the students who beg “please, no more talking about this, teacher.”

So many kindnesses from so many… the gentlemen who simply gave me the computer cord that I was crazy for, the lady who pointed me to the subway change machine, the companion who knocks on my door and asks “how about a walk?” not to mention the companions that I’m amassing who share both my consternation for the Korean language and my love for adventure. Last night, I couldn’t decide whether to be dubious about or grateful to the crazy, tweed-clad Korean gentlemen, who kept “helping” me at E-Mart and subsequently inspired me to join him in a curbside line dance.

Throughout these times and back in the States, I’ve been fortunate enough to have friends who correspond with careful thoughtfulness, friends who mail spices with aromas that can be followed from some distance, friends who send me laugh out loud global warming postcards, friends who send chocolate that weeks later I continue to taste mentally. I have been so fortunate to have friends who send pictures and book reviews, friends who inflate my ego with compliments on my writing, friends who hog-tie others into reading my prolific story-telling, friends threatening to visit Asia, and friends who do not allow me to loose touch with the ups and downs of their lives.

And there has been, and hopefully always will be, the kind family who send me letters packed with poetry, who pick out stocking gifts in October, who have trouble typing because my black cat clutches. Family who PDF me political cartoons, family that signs every missive with “I love you and miss you,” family that surprises me with warming clothing, family that supports me to the point of buying a thousand dollar plane ticket and is cheerfully resigned to bringing a large suitcase.

Although unable to yet give you the words to define or justify my journey; I nonetheless give thanks for the kindness that I’ve received. And while I’m unable to celebrate Thanksgiving in the traditional and preferred way of clutching at my family’s hands and cutting into turkey, I will picture you all, hopefully warm and dry and safe and comfortable and happily celebrating, together. And you may picture me, in the colored lights of darkened Daegu, Republic of Korea, laughing with friends and enjoying the traditional American feast of a hamburger and fries and beer.

I love you all.

Laura

Dear Friends and Family,

If you were a third year in Korean high school, you would spend most of your senior year studying for the KSAT (Korean SAT). You would spend holidays, such as Chuseok, studying and even miss out on school festivals – although not all would be lost because you would end your hectic studying with lots of sticky rice cakes and even more good wishes from friends and family.

Last Thursday marked the culmination of the seniors’ studying and all over Korea, the third years sat for the KSAT exam. The day previous, our school held a "good luck" ceremony, which I managed to miss, but that reportedly involved origami airplanes filled with written good luck messages. I was sorry to miss that sight; however, I did not miss out on the goodies. Every day last week, rice cakes of some sort were placed on the teachers’ desks. My friend explained that we teachers “haul in rice cakes” because giving sticky rice cakes is a traditional way to encourage good scores so that the students can gain admittance into the University that they wish to attend.

Although I remained unclear why we teachers also deserved rice cakes, I was happy to throw my support behind the tradition by spearing colorful cakes with a toothpick and carefully lowering them into my mouth.

After a few days of chewing on the third years’ rice cakes, it seemed doubly unfair that on Thursday, while they were arduously taking their test, I lazed through a cloudy morning and then hiked one of Daegu’s favorite spots: Mt. Apsan.

Mt. Apsan is a forest covered hill that affords lovely 980 meters high views of the city and unfortunately, the route to the observation point was rather poorly signed. From Apsan’s base, I selected one promising stone step-clad path and walked up and up, enjoying the scenery, craning my head to listen to Buddhist chants in the distance, and greeting the elderly mountain climbers around me in Korean. Many loved that I greeted them in Korean and their smiles were hardly diminished when it became obvious that all I could say in Korean was “greetings.” Many were happy to point me in the right direction until one gentleman pointed to the path that I was on and used the Korean gesture for “no” (crossing of the forearms). I conceded to his wisdom with “nay” (yes) and thanked him – but didn’t understand what he was warning me against so as soon as his back was turned, I continued on and not five minutes later, found myself at a rock-edged dead end. I sighed, retraced my steps half way down the mount, and then returned upwards, this time using a ridged, concrete road. The road appeared long and steep and I had to keep promising myself “just to that next tree” or “just to that dirt pile.” But as I climbed, the Buddhist chants became louder and louder… until the road leveled and I was standing next to a small temple complex that had been taken over by a construction crew (I couldn’t tell what they were trying to do) and a public toilet. I glanced around for the singing monks (they were inside or a recording, I wasn’t certain which), used the remarkably clean toilet and then continued up another stone step-clad path. And eventually huffed and puffed my way to the top.

A cool wind must’ve scattered the clouds and as the sun shone with little warmth, I was able to see all of Daegu City and the hills beyond. It was beautiful. And so was the Starbucks chocolate cake and mocha that I treated myself to afterwards. My cheeks still slightly stinging, I returned home and in belated solidarity with the third years, got started on my homework.

Rice cakes anyone?

Love,

Laura

PS I: Mt. Apsan’s 980 meters = 3,215.2231 feet. Too many rice cakes aside, I had legitimate reason to be puffing.

PSII: Intriguingly, the Korean verb "붙다" (to stick to something) is used both in the case of rice cakes and admittance to the University. Frankly, this won’t particularly help me to use it in a full Korean sentence, but is good to know, eh?

Dear Friends and Family,

One morning I went for a run and as I neared home, I popped into the corner store across from my apartment to pick up water. Having not yet discovered a brand of drinking water that I like, I selected a promising green bottle from the ‘fridge, paid, and took it home. Upon securing the lock behind me, I advanced to the kitchen sink, untwisted the lid, tipped the bottle back for a hefty slug, and immediately spat whatever I had bought back out. It was terrible; I was thirsty. And piqued. Without hesitation, I poured the offending liquid down the drain.

A few days later, a compulsory faculty social lunch was announced and at 12:30 on the dot, the faculty room emptied and we all streamed towards cars. We drove about a half of mile, parked and trooped into the backroom of a restaurant that had been prepared for our arrival. We folded our legs next to low tables and picked tasty bites from bowls with our chopsticks while pork and garlic fried on the gas burners in the center of each table. I was seated with other ladies one table away from the table with the principal, vice principal and other important school officials. I was able to enjoy my lunch while noticing that bottles of traditional soju were brought to the important table and the men were pouring it for each other. As the meal progressed, their smiles grew deeper and their laughter louder.

Towards the end of the meal, the men asked me if I’d like to try soju. I was curious and readily assented. The waitress drew up to the table with a green bottle and a familiar label and it suddenly hit me, I had already tried soju! I laughed and while I very properly supported one wrist with one hand and held out my shot glass the other, I explained. “Hah! Korean water! Soju is Korea’s water!” one of the teachers laughed and I laughed with him.

What is soju, you may ask? Soju is the Korean alcoholic beverage and in Korea, the consumption of soju is nigh inevitable. Soju is a social beverage and has a number of social niceties – minefields – attached to its consumption. I was debriefed before that first faculty lunch. First of all, if a superior hands you a glass, you must accept the soju and at minimum, you must make the pretense of drinking it. Only empty glasses may be filled and if one’s glass is about to be topped up by a social superior, one must hold the glass with two hands, which in actuality means holding the glass in one hand and reinforcing the glass’s support with your other hand, a ritual that apparently originated from dangling hanbok sleeves. You may not fill your own glass – others are expected to do it for you. Not that an empty glass is a concern, there is always someone eager to fill your glass for you. Believe me. And there is also some rule about not looking elders in the face while drinking soju – but I’m doing my best to avoid a situation in which observing this rule becomes necessary.

Anyway, now that I’ve learned to identify “Korean water” (ha ha), I enjoy the stuff although I remain terrified of causing social offense. Happily, my mistakes so far remain laughable… and I’ll drink to that!

--Laura

PS: You may wonder: what does soju taste like? I understand that soju’s main ingredient is rice but that it is apparently combined and distilled with another grain such as wheat or barley. The result is clear-colored, cheap, a tad sweet, and potent. Good soju has been compared to vodka. As a sometimes vodka and sometimes soju drinker, I find this an apt comparison. Some prefer to mix soju with a Fanta soft drink but I find this concoction too sweet. I’ve learned to like soju as it comes, once I realized what I was drinking.

Cheers!

Dear Family and Friends,

One of my favorite aspects of my sojourn in Korea is that everyday has the potential to offer something unexpected. Today’s unexpected occurred when I returned to the faculty room after class and found newly installed metal pipes protruding out specially placed window holes. The pipes are anchored to the ceiling via metal light fixture frames and lead down to shiny metal gas burning stoves. I was informed that these stoves are quite effective for heating rooms – and there now two in the faculty room, poised for action.

My surprise at these stoves spawned a discussion between us kindred English speakers (Korean, British and American alike) of the use of the word “stove” vs. the word “furnace.” We often have discussions like this. Without any dictionary guidance, I advocated the use of stove, as one can cook on these stoves. I’m not sure if this advocacy was bold or dumb. I must remember to look this up. I often find myself researching random English language questions like this.

Anyway, as I returned to my desk and pondered the best angle to sneak a picture for you all, I wondered: like earlier unexpected things that I’ve “discovered,” how soon will it be before these stoves are incorporated into my life to the point that I will no longer notice them?

Beats me. And now I must say "ciao" to you all because my toes are cold and I need to turn my ondol on.

Laura

Dear Friends and Family,

I don't know about you, but I've always thought that every date that involves duplicate numbers should be celebrated. You know, 1/1 (oh, wait we celebrate that one). Ok, well, you know, 2/2, 3/3, 4/4... 11/11. Happily, I am not the only one that holds this view and here in Korea, brave pioneers went one step further. On November 11, 1994, a few clever Korean middle school girls decided to exchange a popular stick snack called Pepero to wish each other “tall and slender growth.”

Hmmm... actually, while sorry to spoil a wonderful story, I must retract the above Pepero legend. Instead, strong rumor has it, that clever Lotte, one of South Korea’s chaebols (corporate conglomerates) and maker of Pepero snacks, likely invented this day of Pepero's in a spirit akin to Valentine’s Day - sans cards and cloying hearts (although many of the Pepero packs have Hello Kitty on them). Anyway, 11/11 in Korea is an unofficial holiday in which companies sell breadsticks dipped in chocolate, Peperos themselves, as well as other romantic gifts to celebrate love. A friend and I celebrated by snapping pictures of a 7-11. Romantic moments are truly in the eye of the beholder.

Beloved teachers also receive Peperos. Sadly, I didn’t get any Pepero – perhaps because I am not beloved or perhaps because Pepero fell on a Saturday this year. However, on Monday, one of the seniors, a girl that I do not even teach, brought me some traditional Korean candy (called yuk – is a yummy pumpkin taffy) and a sticky-rice cake filled with bean curd for “kindness rendered” to her. I was touched beyond pepero.

A belated Happy Pepero Day to you all,

Laura

A philosophical quandary for you to ponder: what would you do for a long soak in hot water?


Dear Family and Friends,

A few Fridays ago, I packed a change of clothes, climbed aboard the subway to our Dongdaegu station, bought a train ticket for $7 and less than two hours later, my train was sliding through yards of metal port containers and I had arrived at the world's fourth largest sea port and Korea 's second largest city, Busan.

This was the first time I had departed from Daegu to explore Korea on my own and my objectives were simple: to explore Busan, to take a bath, and to see the sea. Finite time and pleasant autumnal weather were most pressing and to my amusement, I found my more detailed agenda dominated by an odd compulsion to visit hilltops.

V. odd.

Upon disembarking at the Busan train station, I walked to the city subway and followed Lonely Planet instructions as best as I could figure, exiting the subway to narrow streets, tasting a salt breeze while ducking the occasional car and peering around for comprehensible signs. Finally, I was corralled by an old man with a flapping flannel shirt and gold-filled teeth who hurried me through the door of a building, up two sets of darkened stairs and into a room that appeared sparse but clean. As I’m determined to train myself to stay in places below my preferences (more travel, less $), I impulsively decided to stay; however, it wasn’t long before I discovered long, black hairs on the pillowcase and a questionable stain on the bed. I wasn’t pleased but had to be resigned. Sadly, so far, I find cleanliness the one travel amenity that I cannot seem to do without. That night I slept with a towel that was once white covering my pillow and on the far side of the bed.

Anyway, after dropping my backpack at my guesthouse and obtaining a key hooked to a 10 inch wood block, I popped back on the subway, disembarking at the film district of Busan. My first visit to Busan coincided with the famous Pusan (Busan) International Film Festival (“PIFF”) and with a little trouble, I located festival tickets sales. I went to the window, placed the PIFF guide flat against the glass and said "English" through the microphone. I didn't care what film I saw (all a part of the adventure, I assured myself), which was fortunate as I found myself in a 1000 person theatre, watching a French film with English lining the bottom of the screen and Korean subtitles scrolling down the right side. Titled "Flanders," the film could be a sure-fire winner at Cannes, with loads of ugliness and fallible characters. Afterwards, as we jostling on our way out, a guy asked what I thought of the film. I couldn’t escape my western diplomacy as I replied that "I found it typically French" and in turn, he told me that he found it "disgusting." I couldn't disagree. The experience was notable but the film was not (in my opinion).

After my artsy-fartsy International film travails, I found myself in a crowded, brightly lit shopping square, unwilling to return to my not-clean guesthouse and not really in the mood for a bar. So I checked with LP, realized that a notable tourist attraction was close by and open for another hour. With one eye on Busan’s tower and one eye on my path, I walked ‘til I came to 200 steps, climbed those, past a gorgeous Korean wooden temple thingy complete with a bronze bell, through a park, over to a ticket booth, paid 3,000 W and took an elevator ride to the top of the tower. Busan is lovely at night with a myriad of lights and wavy reflections off its bay. I enjoyed the view, returned down, and was just about to embark down the steps when a fireworks display began in the distance. Bemused, I stood, craning my neck while trying not interrupt the couples that cuddled and “ooh”ed at the fireworks. It is only human to admit spasms of loneliness during those moments.


Upon opening the front door to my guesthouse, I was startled by the sight of my elderly proprietor changing his pants in a brightly lit room underneath the stairs. He was quite unstartled by my presence and kindly interrupted his changing to dig out a bottle of water for me. And his wife sat up from her nest under the covers to give me a friendly goodnight smile.

I wondered if they had slept under stairs their entire lives.

As I brushed my teeth the next morning, water gushed directly from the sink to a hole in the floor. I did not even peer into the shower. I walked myself a mile or so to Starbucks, ordered a mocha, an unhealthy cinnamon thingy, and an International Herald Tribune. I curled myself into a velvet chair and wallowed for breakfast. Eventually I returned to my guesthouse, bade farewell to my proprietor, placed my backpack in a subway station locker and climbed aboard a bus to go - where else? - uphill to visit a Democracy Monument was a reputedly amazing view. After approximately 30 minutes of anxious bus meandering, I realized that I must be going the wrong direction so I got off, crossed the street, and an hour later was relieved to pay tribute to democracy by freely peering over monument walls. Busan is fourth largest port in the world and there appeared to be hundreds of ships anchored in a mist-covered harbor.

After I had looked my fill, I went downhill, on bus, retrieved my backpack and commenced a search for a mid-priced hotel with clean bedding and showers. I stowed my backpack at one Angel Hotel and embarked took off yet again on the subway. Next destination: another big hill. Duh. But this hill had the added attractions of a big public bath at its base as well as a cable car and hiking.

I was determined to find the bath building first as nothing was going to deter me from a long soak, come hell or well, obviously I’d welcome high water. My tourist map firmly in hand, I walked windy streets searching for the bathes but I couldn’t locate them. And this was frustrating: I was searching for the largest public bath in Asia and I couldn’t locate it with a map and 40 minutes walking. Grrr. However, the cable car was easy to spot so I finally gave my bath quest a rest and followed the sight of the cable cars until I had arrived in a park dug out of a steep hill and was passing vendors hawking marinated chicken meat on sticks and smiling at children riding a teacup ride while their parents snapped pictures with their cell phones. I contemplated the teacup ride (it looked fun!) but instead bought a 5,000 W roundtrip ticket up. I climbed aboard the cable car, which had at first had plenty of breathing room but by the time the doors shut, the breathing room was gone. As the cable car began its slow ascent up the mountain, I began to shake with what I can only call mild terror. Although the view of Busan was spectacular, all I could see was an American military prowler jet slicing through cables and us screaming against the windows while plunging into the rocks below (ala Italy). I was the first off that cable car, almost bursting down the roped off path, although careful not to knock into the old man with a cane. This cable car fear is going to be a problem for a girl with a penchant for views on high.



After calming on a bench, I hiked to the East Gate of an old fortress. The forest through which I walked was hardly the wilderness that we in the US expect. Instead, equal to the number of trees was the number of picnic blankets spread with food and the hiking trails were clogged with people. As I picked my way along a path, I was surprised to be passed by several elderly men, eschewing the sounds of nature and instead listening to loud rock music (ok, valid point: there was little nature to be heard). And one of those men was playing the Beattles at full volume, I swear it. Anyway, using my fledgling Korean to navigate, I made my way to a not terribly exciting gate all the while enjoying the weather. During my return, I managed to diverge from the path and get lost amongst the picnickers and trees. While frantically using every sense I had to find my way, I decided that I’d better return via cable car but this time I ensured that I was first in the car so that I could sit on a bench while clutching at the windows on the way down. Safely at the base of the hill, I set off for my much needed bath.

It had been 3 and a half months since my last bath at the Davis in Bangkok and as I am fond of a rather good bath, I was feeling pretty desperate. And this LP entry was most intriguing:

Heosimcheong Spa – reportedly the largest hot spa in Asia - is packed with soaking tubs and saunas on the 4th floor, with a capacity for 2000 people. Massages and a scrubbing service that removes dead skin are available for an additional fee. Guests are welcome to stay as long as they like and take a break in the third floor snack bar (use one of the spa’s robes).

See? Doesn’t that sound good? And I was damn well not leaving that district of Busan until I had had a message and a long soak. It turned out to be a good thing that I was determined because my second attempt to locate this bathhouse were, at first, no more fruitful than my first. And just to add to my confusion, the logo for bathhouse and for yeogwan (guesthouses) is the same and there had to be a thousand yeogwans in the area. I spent almost an hour pulling out the map, deciding on a new strategy to locate the bathes, walking, pulling out the map, new strategy and more walking. And who says only men refuse to ask for directions?? Finally, as the sun sank behind the hills, my grubby self walked into a swanky hotel, asked for directions and discovered that the baths were attached to the very hotel that I was in, above a large wedding reception place (that I had walked by and ruled out based on it looking like a large wedding reception building). Thank the maker.

I crossed the hotel sky bridge and found myself in a swarming, wood-paneled lobby. I made my way to the counter, inquired about a massage and a helpful man slid a plastic jelly bracelet with small key attached onto my wrist and guided me to another lady who stood in the entrance to what was obviously a woman’s locker room. I was motioned to locker number 1254 and through gestures, instructed to leave my shoes (only) in the locker. Then the lady attendant smiled and bowed and I made my way deeper into the room. There was a large mirrored dressing room, a counter with two ladies dispensing bath accessories and cotton pjs, and naked women everywhere. Keeping my eyes carefully averted and trying not to look as well, foreign and alone and lost and embarrassed as I felt, I soon found a large, long locker labeled 1254 in which to strip down next to and stow my clothing in. But I was the only foreigner in sight and, naked or clothed, I knew that I was about to attract hundreds of stares and it was just more than I could handle to explore the baths while naked. I just couldn’t do it. So I compromised by stripping down to a camisole and jeans, climbed some plastic carpeted stairs, and found myself in a large room filled with pools.

The woman’s soaking room was enormous and dominated by a great glass dome above while below the dome was a large pool divided by a low granite wall and flanked by stone turtles, water streaming from their mouths. Surrounding the main pool were smaller pools, some darkened, some surrounded by rocks, some crowded, some still, some steaming hot, some ice cold; there were pools within caves, long pools, and even long cascading waterfalls to stand under. In one corner, there was a large room with both standing showers and sitting showers where women were scrubbing themselves down. After getting the lay of this utterly foreign land, I turned up a set of side stairs, passed an open air lounging area shaded by a wood screen and in the deepest corner of the next story, found a row of gleaming plastic tables where naked women were being scrubbed and hosed by other naked women. There was a helpful sign detailing serves rendered and while contemplating my options, I retraced my steps and found myself stopped by a helpful lady who was concerned about the water that was wicking through the hem of my jeans. I thanked her, rolled up my jeans and returned to the locker room.

This time I pulled off my clothing, took a several deep breaths, pulled in my tummy, stuck out my chin, and walked into the bath area. I attracted a fair number of stares but even in Korea staring is not polite behavior so it wasn’t as bad as I feared. I dutifully took a cleansing shower and ready for my soak, I walked into the main bath arena only to be stopped by an attendant, who kept pointing at my head until I realized that she meant that I had to wash my head too. Oh. So I returned to the showers, wet my head and freely walked to the main pool, stuck a toe in to test the temperature and then slipped in and down the entire way into the water. I crouched towards the uncrowded side of the pool and settled myself into a perfectly warmed bath. I wanted to close my eyes and just savor the soak but I was too curious about what was going on around me. There had to be more naked women in that building than I had seen in the whole of my life. Women holding babies, sleeping on lounge chairs, crossing from pool to pool, scrubbing each other in one corner, ordering drinks at a refreshment bar, and amicably chatting with each other, feet dangling in the water. Bathing in Korea is a social experience.

After I had soaked for a bit, I consciously made my way upstairs to the massage and scrubbing corner. There I pointed to my selection on the menu and was motioned to lay torso down on a table. A lady wet me, scrubbed every inch of me, oh and I mean every uncomfortable inch, with a rough mitten. I then turned over and she put very gloopy mud mask on my face, did something to my head and then scrubbed my front. When she had scrubbed as many dead skins cells off as possible (big job!), she strategically pummeled me for a few minutes before shooing me back to the baths. With renewed vigor, I explored several pools, trying out the lavender-smelling pool, the pepper-smelling pool (there were labels and yes, one pool was purple and the other was black), and the 44 degree Celsius pool. Finally, hungry, I returned to the locker room, dried myself and borrowed a pair of cotton pjs. Happily they fit, so I pulled money from my locker and went down a staircase directly from the middle of the locker room to the third floor.

The third floor was mixed sex, the men were wearing different colored cotton pjs, and had an intriguing number of conveniences including mechanized foot massage machines, a large space where men and women alike could rest on woodblock pillows, a bank of computers where one could surf the web, and very hot or very cold igloos to lounge in. Goggle-eyed, I passed nap rooms and found a cafeteria, where a few minutes later I was provided with a tray containing a bowl of bimbimbap (rice + salad + hot sauce = bibimbap - one of my favorite Korean dishes), miso soup, kimchi and perhaps one other side dish. I sat at a low table and ate my nummy dinner while attempting to unobtrusively observe the people around me. There were several families enjoying their dinners along with several couples, several single men and me. When I was done with my dinner, I wandered back upstairs, enjoyed the pools for a bit longer and finally called it a day.

Later at my hotel, I discovered Korean television, which seemed comprised of game shows punctuated by unexpected noises, soft-core porn, and CNN. My bed was clean and crisp and I nodded off with a book.

Before leaving Busan, I needed to wet my feet in the pada. So the next morning I forced myself away from the heavenly bed, utilized the very clean shower, checked out, placed my backpack into another strategic locker and took myself to the beach.

As I emerged from the subway into daylight, the breeze stirred my hair and elicited a smile from me as well as from the people around me. By following the crowd and the breeze, I found myself at Haeundae beach – a white sand beach, flanked by tall condo and hotel buildings and crowded with people. Off went my flip-flops, up rolled my jeans, out came my camera, and into the water I went. I strolled in the surf and sand for a good few hours – savoring the people-watching, so many Koreans dressed in long-sleeved shirts and jeans and sweaters just sitting on the beach, and the rocks and the water and the breeze. I walked from one end of the beach to the other and then climbed past the Westin hotel, found myself paying 3,000 W for rice cakes to a vendor who took my picture (good racket she has going on there) and then weaving amongst slow walkers to a viewpoint with a fake lighthouse. I loved the sea and the waves so much that I wore new camera batteries out and it was at that point that I decided that it was time to go. So I walked past the Westin, waved to the rice cake lady, enjoyed an unexpected beach meeting with a fellow EPIK teacher, got on the Busan subway, collected my backpack from its locker, and soon I was on a train, heading home. Half way home on the Daegu subway, I was joined by one of my most congenial students and he and I had a very nice talk almost all the way home.


I cannot say that I got a feel for the people of Busan, or even for the character of Busan, but I can say that I enjoyed the view, the view and the view. And my personal answer to the philosophical question that I posed re: bathes: I would walk naked around 400 Korean women and pay $30 for the privilege. And here’s the thing, I’m likely to do it again.

Shall I go back to signing myself off as Crazzzzy Girl?

--Laura

PS: I went to work the next day and announced to my British co-worker that I had finally had a bath after 3 and half months. Despite his British ancestry, he was dutifully horrified and we are yet joking about this. Another friend told me that under my bath criteria, he hasn’t had a bath in two years. The horrors!

Election Day 2006 – After greeting my students this morning, I put on my most serious face and said to my students:

“Ladies and Gentlemen, there is BIG news coming from the United States. Have you heard?”

Their collective response was blank stares at me coupled with knowledgeable nods. One student replied for the nods by telling me and the rest of the class that “There is an election in the US today.”

“You are so smart.” I smiled. “There IS an important election going on in the United States today. So what do you think CNN’s top headline is?”

Confused looks all around.

“Uh. Duh.” I told them. “Britney filed for Divorce!” Their reaction: startled laughs and chatter around the room. “Ladies and Gentlemen this is big news! You want to know about American culture at its finest? This is a perfect real-life example. On the day of an important election, the top news story: Britney Spears!”

You gotta love real life American culture.

Dear Friends and Family,

Ok, so I was joking earlier about the necessity of you calling the US Embassy on my behalf to entreat for a shower and some sleep. But I was not joking about the actual scheduled visit and one afternoon last week, a first generation Korean-American and the current US Assistant Ambassador to Korea, arrived at Taegu Foreign Language High School to speak to and with our 176 juniors.

The students trooped into the auditorium clutching copies of two NPR "This I Believe” essays, one was written by Colin Powell and the other by Yale Law School Dean Harold Koh. I hadn’t read the essays but ever-susceptible to NPR, immediately decided that the speaker was an American after my own heart. As the students seated themselves throughout the darkened auditorium, my British co-teacher and I settled ourselves towards the back while our Korean teachers handed out photocopied signs that said “Agree” on one side and “Disagree” on the other. The signs incited chatter and there was a fair bit of goofing off with the signs in my row, the goofing being particular to my seat and the one occupied by the Brit next to me.

When the Assistant Ambassador assumed the podium, the audience respectfully quieted. He started slowly and spoke English, indicating that our talk was two firsts for him: it was his first time speaking to a high school audience (he usually speaks to universities, I think) and it was his first time speaking directly to a group in English, usually he must pause for a translator to convey his words. He began by presenting statements on PowerPoint slides and he asked students to raise their agree/disagree signs in order to voice their opinions. The students liked this. Actually, so did I. But he then turned the topic to the ideas in the “This I Believe Essays,” using words like freedom and democracy in a well-meant attempt to demonstrate how Korea & the US share similar values. I am sure that he sincerely wanted to engage the students but the concepts and his delivery were a bit too abstract to be comprehensible, for myself and for our students.

Happily, after his speech, the Assistant Ambassador opened the floor for questions and things became a bit more lively. As the students were pondering the usual “do you have any questions?,” I raised my hand and said into the quiet: "I have a question." This resulted in a collective "ooooh" from the students but I concentrated on the podium and asked the assistant ambassador to define "freedom" - which he had used pretty liberally throughout his talk. His response was vague (so to would be mine if I hadn’t thought this out ahead of time) and I cannot say that I was impressed. And nor were the students. Then the students began to raise their hands, were called on and stood to ask questions. Some students were able to ask the questions off the top of their heads while other students wrote their questions on their agree/disagree signs and then read their questions to the speaker. And no one of the questions that followed mine appeared easy to answer. Students asked "why attack Iraq?," "what does he think about Korean peninsula reunification?," “what is it like living in Korea as a Korean-American?,” “does he regret not being raised in Korea?,” and "doesn't North Korea have the right to defend itself, including with nuclear weapons, just as the US does?" He was clearly unprepared to answer such questions – and it was rather amusing to watch him flounder. He had been forbidden to talk about North Korea but did his other replies were quiet and sincere. I was touched by how hard he tried and better understood his dilemma when he later told me that in the year that he's been in Korea, he's never had such difficult questions. And in that year he’s been in Korea, he’s never been asked about Iraq.

My favorite part of the talk, by far, was observing the incisiveness of the questions and surmising the thinking behind them.

Since the US Assistant Ambassador to Korea’s visit, I’ve opened my junior classes by congratulating my students on their questions and by sharing with them how impressed the Assistant Ambassador was with them. I then ask if they have any questions that they’d like to run by me. One class let me talk for a few minutes before informing me, gently, that they really didn’t care. I grimaced and laughed and changed the subject. Another class was completely quiet and then one brave young man raised his head and said quietly: “North Korea?” That was all. But I – we all – knew what he was asking. And I did my best to answer the question, without prejudice, and including my understanding so far derived from living in Korea. Chances are that it wasn’t a definitive answer, but I am fairly certain that I and my fellow citizen from the Embassy got points for effort.

Hey, why don’t YOU all chew on the notion that North Korea has a right to self-defense???? In the meantime, I think I’ll see about that long ago-promised sleep and shower.

Good luck. --Laura

PS: "This I Believe" essays are fantastic - and I'm not just saying that because I'm NPR deprived. You can find them on the web at: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4538138.

Dear Family and Friends,

Autumn in Daegu has been inviting. The lanes beckon with brightly colored foliage and the days are savory. Two Sundays ago, for the first time since my arrival, it rained and simultaneously the season switched from Indian summer to autumn, with its ever-lingering chill.

Yesterday morning, it stormed. Violently. I was on the phone with my mother and unable to note the building storm but I noticed the daylight dimming through my bathroom window, the day turned to dark and there was an ominous stillness before crashing rain. As I strained around the phone cord and excitedly reported the storm to my Mom, it rained so hard that drops were shoved through my bathroom window screen and wetted my toilet seat a good 3 feet away. Lightening kept flashing and there was barely a pause before the thunder. It was hard and furious. Again, I was slightly distracted by my phone conversation but I was able to dash from window to window to enjoy the storm from every angle after it knocked out the connection and ended my call. The storm lasted a half an hour and afterwards, the streets were empty and wet. Yet soon the sun emerged and the streets became populated and dry by the time I walked to the grocery store. I wondered if this storm's ferocity was normal and was told that it is not. One Korean told me that she pulled her car over to wait out the storm and another said that the storm's fury made her feel that she should go to church.

Since yesterday's storm, the weather has shifted to actually chilly, though not yet freezing. This morning, we shivered in my classroom during first period. Today's skies cleared to the appearance of sunny warmth and I twice walked outside and then had to dash back inside for my coat. Lunch talk included confirmation that early Siberian winds have arrived. And this evening, when I returned to the faculty room after class, the wind whipped through my sweater and suddenly even the gold-colored trees couldn't distract me from shivering.

Still shivering a bit, tonight is the first night that I've switched on my "ondol" flooring as soon as I stepped in the door. Apparently nowhere at a similar latitude are winters so cold; apparently the winds of China and Siberia sweep down the Korean peninsula. Ingeniously, ancient Choson Dynasty Koreans came up with a way to alleviate the cold and capitalize on the notion that heat raises and they began heating the floor through the "warm stone " method dubbed ondol. A historic ondol floor was made of 2 inch blocks of stone, supported by columns of stone or brick and the space between the supports provided a path for hot gases that heated the stone floor and heated rooms. Interior room floors were layered with oiled paper on which household members would go about their daily activities including eating and sleeping. Ondol heating was used for centuries until shortages resulting from the Korean War and then the build-up of (my favorite) multi-story housing altered the materials used to create ondol flooring: floors are concrete covered in linoleum and there are pipes underneath the floor to circulate water warmed by an oil or gas boiler.

My boiler is on and while trying to fit together the words to describe the weather around me, I am training myself to sit because sitting on Korean floors for any length of time is not as easy as the Koreans make it look – especially since I have short, plump, unaccustomed legs. So I'm typing at my low-level table and fidgeting between sitting cross-legged and stretching my legs straight. But the warming ondol holds me at ground-level as little else could. How long will it be before I'm sleeping on the floor?

If you pose "ondol flooring" to Google, scarily, several links to studies with titles such as "Buttock responses to contact with finishing materials over the ONDOL floor heating system in Korea" will pop up. They study materials and temperatures to best warm one 's buttocks?!?! Even more scarily, I have a funny feeling I 'll be conducting studies of my own. I 'll advise you all of the results. Next spring.

I understand that autumn has heavily descended on the dear States. Sending my toastiest regards,

Laura

You know who... taken at the Daegu Arboretum
and posted to please the sister who complained that I never post any pics of me.

Ciao! --L