Wrap it Up

When I first moved into my apartment building, I noticed there were two signs posted in the elevator in both Korean and English. The only problem was the Korean signs took up the entire page; five distinct paragraphs complete with bullet points, underlined phrases and multiple exclamation points. The English versions? Scrawled at the very bottom of the page, almost afterthoughts: “Sort the trash,” and “No trash in toilet.”

I’ve already tackled the first sign: I’ve become accustomed to regularly sorting my trash into various piles around the apartment, and taking down food compost on a daily basis. As I’m still not able to communicate properly, I like to think this redeems me in the eyes of my ever-present Super. He still can’t speak Korean, but at least he knows how to recycle properly.

Originally, I thought I could ignore the second sign. Trash in the toilet? Surely they must be referring to female trash, right? And so I went about my business. The only problem was my toilet never seemed to flush properly, and when I consulted the former tenant about the problem, he told me that in the short three weeks he lived there, he had the same issue and so rarely used the thing. This did not sound like much of a solution to me. Although there are public bathrooms on the ground floor of almost every building in Korea, I would like the option of answering nature’s call in my own home. I figured this wasn’t too much to ask.

I want to take this opportunity to apologize for what I’m about to write. But I’ve thought about this long and hard, and if my aim is to capture a true picture of my time in Korea (and it is), I figured I couldn’t just include the nice, rosy, good smelling things. I have to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Right? Right. And so we plod on.

While my toilet and I were fighting the first couple of weeks, I was also in serious discussions with my digestive system. It seemed that the constant stream of red meat, seafood, rice and seaweed was at odds with the strict diet of Subway sandwiches my stomach had become accustomed to in New York. And it was having none of it. As I saw it, I had two options: either locate a Subway in Korea and move my belongings to one of its comfy booths, or impose martial law on my revolting stomach until it got used to this new, Korean diet. After discovering there weren’t any Subways in Korea, my decision was easy; I was going to eat all Korean, all the time -- regardless of what my stomach thought about the matter. Eventually, it would get used to it.

The timing of both battles was unfortunate for both my bathroom and my social life. It seems a favorite pastime of foreigners after first meeting you is to come over and check out your new digs. I’m assuming this is partially to bring over some type of housewarming gift (usually alcohol, which is promptly consumed) but mostly to see if your school’s apartments are better than what they’ve been given. However, when said apartment is overflowing with the causalities of the aforementioned gastrointestinal conflict because your toilet refuses to complete its job, you can’t exactly host a housewarming party. Evading invitations with excuses ranging from “Oh, I still have to buy…light bulbs,” to “Next week after I get some…chairs in there I’m going to have everyone over,” only work for so long. I needed to figure out a solution.

However, bringing up your toilet troubles in random conversation is like asking your grandparents to talk about their sex lives; it’s just not something you toss out over dinner. But I had to find a way to stop my apartment from smelling like a refugee camp. The first person I went to? My sweet, unassuming and very helpful Super, Mr. Lee. Taking the elevator down to his office in the parking garage, I was rehearsing how to ask him what I should do about my toilet, without having him come up and see what I’ve been living through for the previous two weeks.

Unfortunately (mostly for him), he was waiting for the elevator when it arrived, and so while I stood there awkwardly weighing my options (walk away like nothing is wrong? pretend you just enjoy riding the elevator aimlessly?) he climbed aboard and asked me how everything was going.

    Me: Oh, you know, fine.
    Mr. Lee: Very good. Very nice apartments.
    Me: Yes.
    Mr. Lee: Everything work?
    Me: Yes. Well, actually I’m having a slight difficulty with my toilet.
    Mr. Lee: Toilet no work?
    Me: Yes, well, it's just a little --
    Mr. Lee: I come up.

My aim in talking to him had been to hopefully gleam some hidden trick in flushing, or plunging or both. What you need to do is plunge right as you flush. Flush, then plunge, then right before it’s full, flush again. Something. Anything. But now he was coming up to see firsthand what the American had done to his toilet.

The entire ride up I was sweating. Trying to think of ways to avoid having him come over, I was arguing with myself as to whether or not this was in his job description. A super fixes things in apartments, and sometimes they might have to roll up their sleeves and plunge. That’s what they do. It probably doesn't happen often. They must love their jobs. Who wouldn’t? He has a great job. I’m jealous of how great this man’s job is. I wish I could have the easy-going job of a Super. Maybe I should be a Super when I get back to New York. I wonder how you even apply to be a Super...

Before I knew it, we were at my door and he was turning the key. He has a key? After burning incense every day for a week, I liked to think the place smelled…woodsy? Like a campsite? On a landfill? Either way, Mr. Lee didn’t seem to notice and marched directly to the bathroom. The scene of the crime. Seemingly unnerved by the contents of the toilet, he calmly turned to me and asked

    Mr. Lee: You throw garbage?
    Me: No. Never.
    Mr. Lee: (pointing to toilet paper) Garbage. In toilet?
    Me: What? That’s garbage?
    Mr. Lee: In toilet?
    Me: But, that’s not garbage. That’s toilet paper. It’s meant for the toilet.
    Mr. Lee: No put in toilet. Understand?
    Me: What am I supposed to do with it?!
    Mr. Lee: Throw in garbage.
    Me: Seriously?

He continued to give me the eye for another minute in order to make sure I understood this decree that he had so clearly written on the sign in the elevator. Then he turned and plunged like I have never seen anyone plunge before. You could say he plunged the shit out of that toilet.

Thanking him profusely as he left, I was now faced with another dilemma: I was supposed to discard used toilet paper in something other than the toilet? And if you remember, trash bags in Korea cost over $1.50 each – which effectively ruled out the option of taking out the garbage on a daily basis, unless I literally wanted to throw away my savings. Sitting on my bed, I stared at the wall and started to laugh out loud: I had never before in my life put so much thought into toilet paper.

I decided to ask the Mormon, who was a Peace Corps volunteer in Mauritania and had regaled me earlier with stories of sleeping on roofs and installing her town’s first well. Surely she had experience in this area and after two years in the bush might (hopefully) lack my bashful disposition when it came to this toilet talk. I was right.

    Mormon: Yeah, you just wrap it up.
    Me: What?
    Mormon: Take clean TP and wrap it up.
    Me: And then burn it?
    Mormon: No, just throw it away.
    Me: But isn’t that how typhoid was spread?
    Mormon: What?
    Me: Nothing.

To be clear, there are toilets in Korea that do accept toilet paper. I'm just not lucky enough to live in a building where the plumbing can handle it. And apparently this is not uncommon in my part of Busan. After being introduced to the club (first rule of Wrap Club: don't talk about Wrap Club), I started noticing large trashcans with tightly secured lids located by most public toilets in my neighborhood. I also asked a couple other foreigners who confirmed the scenario; I was now going to have to start “wrapping it up.”
 

In my mind, there were so many things wrong with this situation – not least of which was that if any of my family or friends did end up coming to visit me, I would have to explain to them that the goal is to use as many public toilets as possible. But if you happen to be in my apartment when the kids need to be taken to the pool? You’re going to have to wrap it up. Which is when it struck me: I could wait for that awkward moment, or I could write a giant blog about it.