As I’ve noted before, the school that I work at is intense. Where most hagwons sing songs in English and watch old episodes of Friends as part of their 45-minute classes, our kids sit through three-hour sessions twice a week, taking home piles of homework that they complete on paper, online and on the telephone. They read, write, memorize and regurgitate pages upon pages; while I can barely get it together to study my Korean in the eighteen hours a day I’m not working, my kids manage to complete not only the mounds of homework for our academy, but also their regular school’s requirements as well as the work for the five or six other academies most attend. Six days a week. So while I’m disappointed I caught one of my kid’s tossing his classmate’s pencil case out our seven-story window tonight, I can’t say that I’m surprised.
One of the features of our school is a round-the-clock video surveillance system that looks like it was installed by Cheney himself; there are motion sensitive cameras in every room, hall and closet that record both video and audio and save the footage for up to two weeks. Ostensibly this footage is for “training” purposes, but is more regularly used by our director on a near-daily basis to monitor the activity in our classroom and to ensure that we’re sufficiently motivated and following our school’s decree that we refrain from sitting during class time. This system is also utilized by parents who wish to see their student’s performance, or in case of any behavior dispute that may arise. You know, like throwing something out a window.
My school works on a thirteen-week term, and as we just began the Winter term, two weeks ago I was given a whole new crop of kids and classes. Now a slightly more seasoned teacher, I was excited to introduce myself to a new set of terrified faces and thought that I had seen most of what I would deal with for the rest of the year. Until I met Rob.
At ten years old, Rob is probably one of the smartest students in the school. Generally a happy kid, I was initially impressed by his willingness to answer questions without prompting on the first day of class. While most of my kids stared wearily at this new, bald adult that would bring them nothing but more work, Rob was happily rattling off his family history during our initial ice-breaking game. It wasn’t until the third hour of class that I realized his problem was not in speaking, but rather in not speaking. Every twelve seconds his little hand would shoot in the air – a gesture that turned out to be a mere formality because it didn’t matter if his hand was up in the air or up his nose, the kid could not stop talking.
Teacher! I think I know that the answer is, um, B. Or is it C? At first I thought it was A, but then what I starting thinking is that if Robinson Crusoe wanted to be a carpenter, he wouldn’t have been on that ship. What’s a carpenter? Is this story real? When’s your birthday? How old are you? Are we going to have an ice cream party? My favorite ice cream is chocolate. But I don’t like chocolate bars. I do like socks. Have you ever seen an eagle?
Now, I love it when my kids speak English – I will gladly veer off topic if I can get a genuine classroom discussion going, just praying that the footage of a long-winded debate on whether or not Paris Hilton is a good person isn’t going to be watched as part of my monthly review by our Head Instructor (Good class overall – but why did you spend twenty minutes explaining the plot of The Simple Life?) But I’m pretty sure if Rob were in America, he would have a creative acronym attached to his student file. His body is constantly in motion and if he’s not talking, he’s drawing on his pants or turning his test into an ornate origami creation or loosening his shoes and attempting unsuccessfully to kick them up and over his desk which usually results in them halfway across the room and me having to do my best to reign him in.
The thing is, amidst the cyclone of activity the kid generates, he manages to get near perfect scores on all his tests and – for the most part – contain himself for the better half of three hours, which judging by the strained look on his face, I can tell is a Herculean effort. It’s for this reason that I don’t really come down too hard on him; I remember how difficult it was for me to focus when I was his age, and I only had to endure a fifth of the education he’s subjected to. It wasn’t until tonight that he forced me, reluctantly, to punish him.
Every hour we mercifully give the kids a five-minute break – a time that I use to either retreat to the teacher’s lounge and try to shove some food in my face, or stay in my classroom and play music while fielding questions about the state of my scalp. Again, I wish I were kidding, but to my kids the fact of my baldness is a never-ending topic of discussion.
Tonight, I opted for the teacher’s lounge on my last break and returned to the classroom after the bell rang to find Cookie, the one girl in a class of seven, asking the boys if they had seen her pencil case. Giggles ensued, partially because at the end of the last hour I had decided to begin adding “Monster” to the end of Cookie’s name, but mostly because it was now clear the boys had done something to the pencil case in question. Finally, a boy in the back informed her in Korean that her pencil case was outside. Unfortunately for them, this was the wrong day to attempt using Korean as a secret language – I had just learned the Korean word for "outside" this morning in class and could not have been prouder of myself for actually retaining my vocab lesson.
Me: What do you mean it’s outside?
Silence as the entire class stared at me, in awe of my sudden Korean.
Me: Why is Cookie Monster’s pencil case outside?
One boy: I didn’t touch it.
Another boy: Me neither. I don’t know.
Another boy: It was Rob.
Me: Rob? Did you throw Cookie Monster’s pencil case out the window?
Rob: WHAT? NO! ME? TEACHER NO! I SWEAR!
I had no idea who was telling the truth and didn’t want to place blame prematurely; for once I was grateful for our creepy surveillance system. Pointing up to the camera, I announced I would be reviewing the tape after class and whoever threw the pencil case out the window would be receiving a call home later that evening from our director. As most Korean mothers are beyond fanatical about their children’s education and behavior, this is the ultimate threat.
Hoping that there had to be some other explanation (a slacker student from another, lesser academy ran in during a break, came in and tossed Cookie’s pencil case out the window and then sprinted right back out? It could happen, right?) I reluctantly watched the video of the classroom emptying for the break, and then in awe as Rob returned one minute later, talking on his cell phone and walking directly to Cookie’s desk, seemingly on autopilot as he grabbed her pencil case and headed directly for the window at the back of the room. It’s at this point he could have escaped getting caught; but while Rob paused for a second before chucking it out the window, one of his classmates came in just in time to see him drop it, yelping in glee and excitedly running over to the window to watch it fall down seven stories and onto the street.
Watching my director make the call home to Rob’s mother after class, and hearing her response that this “would never happen again,” I couldn’t help but feel bad for the kid. Yes, I know that throwing things out windows is something that should probably be addressed, but how many times had I acted out like Rob as a kid – and how much more would I have acted out if my entire childhood was spent in a classroom? Moreover, I can’t imagine how much more trouble I would have gotten in if there had been cameras to catch it all on film, to be played and replayed by my teachers, principals and parents.
I’m still not sure how I’m going to handle the situation in class later this week – I don’t want to call too much attention to bad behavior, but at the same time I want everyone to understand what is acceptable in my classroom. Regardless, I’ve decided to slyly mention that as both the windows and the camera are located at the back of the room, there is one window directly underneath the camera that is just out of view of the lens. Does everyone know that the entire room, from HERE to HERE is on camera? Not this one window, but EVERYTHING ELSE? So ANYTHING in THIS area is on camera. And while I’m sure Rob will be busy shredding his seat or highlighting his forearm, the next time he wants to act his age, I bet he does it in the two square feet where I won’t be forced to have evidence.
Anyone who knows me can attest to my love for showers and baths. I’m sure it’s closely related to my love for singing extremely loudly in a tiled room, but wherever I’ve lived, I’ve always set up some sort of stereo system in or around the bathroom and generally rocked out.
However, bathrooms in Korea are of a different breed than anything I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure if it’s a size issue or a plumbing issue or what, but most Korean bathrooms see no reason to separate the shower from the rest of the room. No wall, no curtain, and normally no fixed showerhead, which forces the tenant to hold the nozzle over them as they try to squeeze between the toilet and sink (and sometimes a washer machine) that are all jammed in a room most Westerners would use as a shoe closet. In fact, I’m lucky with the size and layout of my bathroom – my shower area, while lacking a curtain or wall, employs a fixed showerhead and is far enough from the toilet that I can almost forget its there. And true to form, shortly after I moved in I bought a pair of speakers for my iPod that are now perched on the cabinet and allow me to continue rocking out in Asia. A fact I’m sure my neighbors appreciate.
The only thing I’m missing is a bathtub, which to most people isn’t a big deal -- however, I’ve been addicted to taking baths for as long as I can remember. When I found out my apartment freshman year of college only came with a shower, I would show up at my best friends’ place (who didn’t realize how lucky they were to have a bathtub) with a stack of CDs, a towel and my rubber duckie at least once a month. Seriously.
Knowing there was no way I could possibly go an entire year without taking a bath (I’m not sure how anyone could), but also knowing that none of my newfound teacher friends had tubs at their places either (Hi, I’m Travis. Can I use your bathtub?), I was in a mild state of panic. Until I heard about the jjimjilbang.
Because most of the country didn’t have access to proper bathing facilities until the post-war buildup of the 1970s, people got the job done at public bathhouses called oncheon, hot spring spas which pumped in natural mineral water that’s apparently plentiful throughout the region. As people’s living conditions improved, they kept the bathhouses in operation, adding on different amenities including sleeping rooms, gyms, theaters and restaurants – these new and improved versions are called jjimjilbang. But the amazing part is they kept the “public” aspect of it by not really raising the price, and you can soak all day for around five dollars. I had found my bath.
Doing some research (i.e. asking my Korean teacher), I found out one of Busan’s biggest and best bathhouses was around the corner from the university where we take classes. After getting directions, I set off to see what this was all about.
Entering the giant complex situated behind a four-star hotel, I honestly had no idea what to expect, and while she had written down directions, my Korean teacher had failed to inform me of any etiquette that I should heed. As usual, I was pretty sure I was about to make a fool of myself in some capacity – but four months later, I’ve gotten used to it. After a short escalator ride I was greeted by a perky woman at the front desk who handed me a key and pointed towards the men’s locker room. Not mentioning the entrance fee, I wondered if I had gotten lucky and come on a free day. Do bathhouses even have free days? Like museums?
I guess I should stop here and say that I’m not exactly a naked person. I’ve never been the guy at the party who suggests skinny-dipping or streaking – I’m usually the guy who is strategically on a beer run when such suggestions are made. It’s not like I’m the kid who went swimming with a turtleneck at the pool – I just think there’s a time and a place for nudity. You know, right after the shower and right before you get dressed. While I had been warned that the jjimjilbang was strictly nude, I hadn’t really processed what that meant in practice.
I found out it meant this place was basically a giant, Korean nudist colony. (And to stifle any snickering – mostly from my mother – there’s nothing all too appealing for me in an undressed Korean man. No offense.) Finding my locker, I stashed my clothes and tried to appear as nonchalant as possible as I quickly made my way towards the bath entrance, which was marked by a set of glass doors.
Not having any idea what to expect, I was floored when I entered the main room – a giant area the size of a football field filled with at least six large pools surrounded by bubbling hot tubs, waterfalls, trees, fountains and a juice bar, all under a magnificent atrium skylight that looked to me to be roughly the size of St. Peter’s Basilica. The far wall was covered in stones, complete with a bridge that led to a grotto area with yet more bubbling pools. The left side of the room wound up into a second level where you could get a professional massage, or just relax in two saunas, a steam room, a mud bath, and six more hot tubs. Done yet? Not quite. Another bridge on the second floor led to a patio area that had three separate pools (very hot, hot, and freezing cold) and one final outdoor sauna.
Getting over any shred of self-consciousness I was harboring, I quickly jumped from pool to pool. As if the natural mineral water wasn’t enough, almost every pool had a different herbal soak. Ginseng, lemon, rose, jasmine – and those were just the ones I could read. The list went on and on and I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to leave. Ever.
An hour later and sufficiently saturated, I made my way over to the juice bar, where I had seen people with yummy looking smoothies. Instead of simply pointing to someone’s drink, I decided I was going to read something aloud from the menu and impress the bartender with my Korean. After a quick glace – long enough for me to gather I didn't understand what any of the items were – I pointed to one and read the Korean aloud.
The Bartender: (In Korean) Really?
Me: (Mostly happy I understood his Korean) Yes, really.
The Bartender: Uh, ok.
Pulling out what looked like a Capri Sun container, he jabbed a straw in the side and slid it across the bar. Turning it over, I discovered why he had double-checked my order; I had asked for a root juice, similar to the kind they give out at the pharmacies here when you’re sick. Far from the satisfying smoothie I had anticipated, I now had to choke down this brown liquid that tasted like a mix of actual tree bark and deer toenail clippings and for no apparent reason, was making me sweat profusely. Laughing directly in my face, the bartender brought over sugar chips to take the edge off; I had made it just over an hour before making an ass of myself. Not bad, actually. Paying with my locker key anklet (so this is why you pay when you leave…) I quickly got back to the pools.
Koreans take their bathing very seriously, and will miss no opportunity to distinguish themselves from the Chinese, who they decry as filthy. The room was lined with showers, at which men covered themselves in soap at least three times before they got anywhere near the baths. Once in the pools, they knew what they were doing. An older man who wanted to practice his English informed me the best routine for my “skin and well-being” was to jump from the extremely hot tubs into the freezing cold water. Really? Because I was pretty sure my Western well-being was doing just fine sticking to the warmer regions. Never wanting to appear rude, I took a deep breath and flopped into the cold pool – which is about the time I yelped like a little girl, causing the entire complex to turn and stare at the foreigner they had been trying to ignore. Good, Travis. Way to not be rude.
Humiliating moments aside, what struck me most about the day was how universal the place was – kids ran around with their friends while their dads joked from beach chairs next to business men talking deals and soaking their feet as monks quietly padded around; everyone thoroughly enjoying the time they were taking out of their insanely busy day to just sit and marinate. In a country where the population seems to be determined to work themselves to death in the name of progress, it was refreshing to witness an entire building of people taking a much deserved break.
Thinking I was done, I made my way back to my locker and began to get dressed when I noticed people putting on matching shorts and robes and heading through another set of doors on the other end of the locker room. Not wanting to be left out, I found some shorts and a robe and made my way down a staircase into what apparently was the common area for men and women. Again – my jaw hit the floor as I wandered around and found a restaurant, a play area for kids, a movie theater with big, comfy leather chairs showing Finding Neverland (for free), and five or six sleeping rooms.
The sleeping rooms were large, igloo looking domes that could house 15 occupants sprawled out on the heated floors. I popped my head into one that featured charcoal purified air and having no intention of doing so, quickly passed out for a nice, hour-long nap.
After waking up and getting my bearings (where am I and why am I wearing patterned shorts?), I contemplated grabbing a bite to eat at the restaurant -- but then I got a nagging feeling this all seemed too good to be true. The perky front desk girl had to be waiting with a hefty bill for me by now – there was no way they didn’t charge by the hour, or by the tub, or by some other method that was going to leave me broke after my day at the spa.
Close to five hours later, I sheepishly made my way back at the front desk to assess the damage. The bill? Seven dollars. The place was only missing some music for me to rock out to. Next time I'll bring my speakers.
Living abroad during the holiday season is a time when most foreigners get together to commiserate the distance separating them from their families and the giant, home-cooked goodness that generally accompanies all the festivities. Thanksgiving has always been my personal favorite; there’s no need to worry about presents or church or sitting on a fat man’s lap, we get to do the one things Americans do best – eat. All day. The only problem is that since I left home for college in France, I’ve spent more Thanksgivings away from my mother’s kitchen than in it. Just ask her; she’ll tell you all about it.
As I’ve had my fair share of impromptu turkey dinners cobbled together at the last minute, I figured this year would be no different, and fully expected to sit down to a Thanksgiving meal that had side dishes of kimchi and a fish head or two thrown in for good measure. So when I received an email from a more veteran teacher at one of my school’s other branches in Busan asking if anyone wanted to get together at her place to expand our waistlines in honor of our forefathers, I accepted. A day later, she emailed everyone back, letting us know that of the sixty or so teachers that my company employs in the city, forty were planning on attending. In her apartment. Forty people. Plus turkeys. Now, my place is one of the bigger apartments that I’ve seen in Korea, but you would have to crowd surf your way to the bathroom if I tried to stuff forty people in it.
Seemingly undaunted by the imminent stampede on her apartment, subsequent emails went out regarding the plan: for ten dollars a head, we would be supplied with a turkey dinner catered by a restaurant that used to feed the large contingent of American soldiers who were based in Busan until just over a year ago, when the U.S. base closed. Along with beer and wine, we were encouraged to bring any side dishes that we wanted to cook – but were admonished not to worry too much about food, they were certain there was going to be plenty. For forty people. In one apartment.
What sounded like a good idea at first was now starting to make me think maybe I should just skip the holiday altogether; I couldn’t see how there would possibly be enough food for the small army of hungry foreigners it was promised to, and if I couldn’t eat myself into a turkey coma, three bites of stuffing would only make me more homesick. Prodded along by the Texans, we decided that if we couldn’t fit in the door or there wasn’t enough food, we would politely excuse ourselves and relocate to the closest bar. Sounded like a plan to me.
Following the detailed directions that were emailed around, we rode the subway for an hour to Haeundae Beach – Busan’s flagship shoreline that’s depicted on most postcards of the city – and then took a five minute cab ride which deposited us at the base of a gigantic apartment complex. As most of the country is covered in mountains and so space is limited, following their economic boom in the 1970s Koreans developed an affinity for monolithic apartment high-rises; self-sufficient entities that house thousands and are equipped with amenities ranging from grocery stores to gas stations and rows of restaurants. While they could not be prouder of these, all I see is a giant firetrap. But that’s just me.
Hunting around the complex’s multi-level garage, we spent just under a half-hour walking in circles and trying to find the building number I had scrawled on a piece of paper: building 112, apartment 5105.
After locating the building, we were greeted by a video intercom, which we struggled with unsuccessfully for five minutes until we were able to squeeze through the automatic sliding door after a departing tenant. This is about the time we started to notice the lobby seemed very upscale. Marble hallways, plants, a bubbling fountain. Perhaps this was going to work out after all.
Taking one of the biggest elevators I’ve been in since arriving in Korea, we got off on the fifth floor and were met with apartments 501-510. Puzzled, we called the elevator back, climbed in and realized that the building had fifty-one floors. Apartment 5105 was on the top floor. My ears popped twice on the way up, and when the elevator doors opened, I could feel any sense of thanks that I had been slowly tapping on the way over (list three things you’re thankful for…) immediately overpowered by intense jealousy.
One of two apartments on the penthouse floor, their door was open and we walked into one of the nicest places I’ve ever been in – Korea or not. Their foyer was the size of my apartment, with giant, wood cabinets on either side that could have easily fit my dinky twin bed and all my belongings with room to spare. Placing our shoes alongside the thirty or so other pairs that were neatly arranged along the wall, we walked down a gaping hallway that opened up into the kitchen and a living room with floor to ceiling windows showcasing views of the entire city. Making a concerted effort to close my mouth, I was introduced to the host and a handful of my fellow teachers and then quickly excused myself to explore the rest of the palace. Three bedrooms. Two bathrooms. Two living rooms. One jacuzzi bathtub that required all my self-control not to lock the door behind me and jump in. The place just kept going – and I had to remind myself multiple times that I wasn’t in the ambassador’s apartment, these people were teachers, paying less for the entire place than I paid for my share of a small, Spanish Harlem apartment in New York. This is why people move over here for a summer and end up staying for twelve. After getting over my surroundings and asking if they needed any roommates, house sitters or squatters, I finally settled in and was able to appreciate what was going on around me.
Comfortably spread out among the five rooms that were open to us, over forty foreigners from across the world sat down to inhale six turkeys, at least twenty pounds of mashed potatoes, corn, stuffing, salad, rolls, pasta, green beans, pierogi (I have no idea, either), squash – the table went on and on. You could tell this restaurant used to feed the army; like I had wished for, the food just kept coming and at one point I looked up to find half of us sprawled out, lying prostrate on the floor and rubbing our stomachs.
Australians, Canadians, Brits, Kiwis, Irish, and even a couple of Koreans – while one would struggle to find anyone in the crowd who could locate Plymouth on a map, this was, in a way, what the whole holiday was about. The natives – the more senior teachers among us who were able to locate these amazing apartment deals and arrange the unbelievable catering – helping the newly arrived make it through our first winter in a strange and faraway land.
While I still would have given my left arm to be surrounded by my family, if I had to be away during the holidays, I couldn’t have asked for nicer surroundings and more accommodating hosts. Hours later, waddling out to find a cab for the journey back to our neighborhood, the Texans and I were amazed at our luck in being placed among such great people – and then began plotting how we could steal their apartment. You know, just like the pilgrims did three centuries ago.
To say I’m impulsive is akin to saying Kim Jung-il has control issues; once I get something in my head, it usually ends up happening. That afternoon. Which is why I was only mildly surprised to find myself flying down a Korean highway on my newly purchased moped last week, attempting to read the road signs and find my way back to Busan. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
While I would generally consider myself a compassionate person, whenever I would hear about someone getting into a motorcycle accident, I couldn’t help but think, “well, who said it was a good idea to hurtle yourself in front of cars going 75 mph wearing less protection than a high school football player would wear in the locker room?” Moreover, I just couldn’t understand the appeal of motorcycles – maybe it’s because I don’t have any hair for the wind to whip through, but to me bikers had always just looked like lazy people with a strange affinity for leather and an aversion to peddling.
After four years of living in Paris and seeing half the city darting around on fun looking mopeds, this opinion was slowly chipped away at until I found myself dreaming of pulling up to school in a red Vespa, fresh from a ride along the Seine and infinitely happier because I didn’t have to take the Metro with the rest of the commoners. I’m pretty sure the only thing that stopped that daydream from becoming a reality was my student-sized bank account. A problem I don’t have in South Korea.
The seed was planted by the Texan, whose friend had recently bought a motorcycle for next to nothing, and was now free to roam the streets of Busan and explore the surrounding mountains on a whim. The more we talked about it, the more I realized that I wanted a moped. More than that: I needed a moped. It made perfect sense; if I could find a cheap enough bike, it would cut down on my transportation expenses (because, you know, I live across the street from where I work…), provide endless hours of fun and would help me with my Korean. The last point is my default rationale for doing pretty much anything in Korea – I imagine almost every activity will somehow further my understanding of both the language and the culture. Most of the time this just results in me making a fool of myself, but I do have to note that my Korean is (slowly) moving along. Regardless, the ball was now officially rolling. And by “ball” I mean boulder, and by “rolling,” I mean down Kilimanjaro.
After spending nearly every available waking hour over the next two days monitoring the online bulletin boards on which foreigners buy and sell things in Busan, I found what I deemed the “perfect” bikes: an Australian man was selling two bikes, one motorcycle and one moped, for the amount of Won I would normally spend on a night out. The only thing (because of course there’s a catch) was that he lived in a city that’s about 45 minutes from Busan by car. And he didn’t have a digital camera or pictures to send us. And if we didn’t come Friday, there were already two other people lined up to buy what had now become in my head My Bike. I wouldn’t normally believe this last detail, except I had seen firsthand how quickly scooters and motorcycles were sold online, and considering what a good deal these bikes seemed, I was surprised he hadn’t sold them already. Clearly, this was destiny.
And so on Friday, after a noon meeting at school and before our classes started later that afternoon, I informed the Texan that we needed to get the bikes now, hailed a cab and headed off to a town we had never heard of, to meet a man we didn’t know to buy a pair of bikes we’d never seen. The entire ride there, we were glued to the windows of the cab, attempting to remember directions for the trip back. Ok, we’ll need to go left after the flagpole, but stay on the right side of the river. But before that we have to pass that farmer’s market and the construction site with the barking dog. How much farther do you think it is? Should we be writing this down? Did you bring a pen?
It only occurred to me as we were paying the taxi and climbing out that we didn’t exactly have a contingency plan in place if the bikes turned out to be less than perfect, or if only one of them ran, or if the nice sounding Australian guy on the phone turned out to be a serial killer who lures unsuspecting foreigners from Busan who were too stupid to believe someone could not have access to a digital camera in the year 2007. But after meeting him and seeing his ponytail dreadlock, curled chin hair, and four kids running around an apartment that looked no bigger than my studio, I understood the technical difficulties and was frankly surprised he managed to post anything online.
The Texan’s bike was located in his apartment complex’s garage, and the two quickly left for a spin around the block, leaving me alone in the garage and contemplating why I place such utter faith in complete strangers. This is probably how he does it. Takes one away, slices him up and then comes back for seconds. I also quickly realized that in all the commotion before they left, he had failed to point out My Bike. Standing among three or four good looking scooters, I was relieved to find that it didn’t matter which one was for sale – they all looked to be in fantastic condition and I began molding my daydream to fit the models that I was now faced with.
It wasn’t until after they came back five minutes later and the Texan had confirmed that he would buy his bike that I was informed My Bike was at the shop for a “tune-up,” and the Australian had just planned to take me down there in his car and have the Texan follow us on the bike. Of course you planned this. Here it is. I just hope it’s quick. A gunshot, or maybe a clean stab. Hopefully there’s no tying up involved. Trying to mentally signal the Texan to go get help, I climbed into his car and we set off towards the town, with the Texan following behind.
Grateful to arrive at the bike shop five minutes later, he led me to a side alley that was littered with mopeds in various stages of decay surrounded by old tires and cigarette butts. Rounding the corner, he pointed to a funky looking red bike ahead of us, and I finally met My Bike. While she was nothing like the mopeds in my daydreams, she was red, had definite spunk and I instantly fell in love. Which was a good thing, considering she was the only bike in the place that seemed to have a working motor and I was miles away from Busan with no other way to get home. All in all? The perfect position one wants to be in when purchasing a vehicle.
After settling the transaction, the Australian left us on the side of the road with vague directions on how to get back to the highway that would lead us home. Realizing we were beginning to run short on time (it was now 3:15 and we were expected to be in work clothes and teaching English by 4:30), we quickly hopped on the bikes and were off. Which is about the time I noticed that while I had convinced myself that I would be returning to Busan the proud owner of a moped, I hadn’t dressed accordingly for an hour ride home in November. No gloves. No jacket. Oh, and no directions. But who’s counting?
Definitely taking multiple wrong turns, we somehow ended up finding our way back to Busan, but we had managed to enter the city clear on the other side of town from our school. At 4:15, which gave us fifteen minutes to get home, change and make it into our classrooms on time. Randomly zipping through traffic and down side streets, we soon found ourselves blocks from the building where we take Korean lessons, which we knew was directly on the other side of a pretty significant mountain from our school. Happy to have regained our bearings, we darted towards the mountain and began the ascent.
Now, when I say I bought a moped, this is kind of a stretch. She’s basically a bike with a (tiny) motor, and so when faced with a steep mountain climb, she struggled valiantly for three and a half minutes and then began rolling backwards. Now knowing there was no way we were going to make it to school on time, I had no choice but to stash my bike in the woods, attempt to remember what the surrounding trees looked like so I could come back for her, and jump on the back of the Texan’s more able motorcycle that got us up and over the mountain and back to school only fifteen minutes late. While our director was not thrilled with our tardiness, he said simply, “I glad you alive.” Me too.
As I only have one class on Fridays, three hours later I was hailing a cab to take me back over the mountain so I could grab my bike and attempt to find a route home that didn’t involve any inclines steeper than a speed bump. Trying to explain in my broken Korean to the cab driver that I only wanted to go halfway down the mountain involved an enormous amount of pantomiming and pointing at my bike helmet, and ultimately resulted in me just barking “stop!” and tumbling out of the cab in the middle of the woods. As the cab pulled away, leaving me on the side of a mountain in the pitch-black darkness, my mind again mulled over exactly how I got myself in this situation.
Clutching my bike helmet, I began my trek down the mountainside, squinting into the darkness trying to locate my bike that I was convinced by now had been stolen, towed by the police, or carried away by whatever animal was about to kill me in the night. Surprising myself, I eventually found the bike twenty cold minutes later, intact and next to a little stream that I hadn’t noticed when I hurriedly ditched it earlier that afternoon.
Riding away, I attempted to follow signs for parts of town that I knew were in my general direction, and was introduced to driving a scooter in Busan. From what I learned on my two-hour journey back to my apartment in the freezing cold, traffic rules do not apply to vehicles with less than four wheels. I was honked at for not running red lights, encouraged to ride on the sidewalk when the road got too crowded, and generally observed an “any means necessary” style of driving.
Only partially terrified, I also began to truly enjoy biking and began to see why people argue in favor of this means of transportation. There’s something to be said for traveling outdoors, and while I quickly bought a good pair of gloves and a warm hat, even a bald guy can enjoy the wind at his face and honking Korean buses at his back. And while I have become slightly obsessed with my bike and now leave my building through the garage just to check on it, I’m still having some trouble seeing how this affection for a bike translates into a full leather outfit complete with tassels. But hey, it’s only been a week.
One of the things that attracted me to the private English academy that I ended up working for was their class structure – for a brand new teacher, it was extremely comforting to know that basically every minute of a three hour class has already been planned out. During our week long training in Seoul, we took extensive tests on the order of each class: five minutes for attendance, ten for homework check, fifteen for the review test and so on. As my company has schools across the country and is generally regarded as one of the most prestigious academies for parents to send their unsuspecting kids to, the main offices in Seoul have worked hard to ensure that every classroom that bears our company logo, no matter its location, adheres to the same rigorous curriculum and standards. Thanks to this centralized system, my class in Busan is no different from a class in Daejeon or Changwon or Seoul. In theory.
The only problem with this class structure is that while it works for the first couple of weeks, as the kids’ English improve and they become accustomed to the routine, they slowly creep ahead faster and faster, and soon what used to take thirty minutes now takes five and you have the better part of a half hour to kill. Some nights, I’ll spend longer on certain sections (and who can give me another example?) but on some nights, I knowingly veer from my script to tell a (hopefully related) story, or get the kids thoughts on the reading, etc. Most nights this results in a great classroom discussion where I’ve managed to get the kids engaged and all clamoring to speak English over their peers. And other nights I lose control.
I’m not even sure how tonight’s discussion started. The book we’re reading in this particular class deals with the history of rock and roll music, and so for the past couple of weeks I’ve been playing the corresponding songs off my iPod and talking about their effects on popular culture. Fats Domino. Chuck Berry. Elvis. The Beatles. Needless to say, I’ve been having a blast, and still can’t get over the kids who have never heard The Beatles. I didn’t know that was even possible.
This class is usually my quietest group of kids: five junior high school girls and one lone thirteen year-old guy. They’re all very smart, but it’s taken me almost ten weeks to get them to let their guards down – something I accomplished by making an ass of myself pretty much every night. But slowly, as the weeks dragged on they began to talk more, ask questions and generally come to life.
And so tonight, in the middle of a sprited discussion on whether or not Beyonce’s music qualified as rock and roll (but Teacher, the book says black people and R&B started rock and roll. So she’s black and sings R&B. That’s rock and roll, right?) somehow the conversation meandered into the profanities that have come to populate many rock songs.
One Student: Many bad words in music now, right Teacher?
Me: Um, well. Yes, I guess there are.
Another Student: Bad words? What is bad words?
One Student: Yes. Son of bitches?
Me: (mouth open)
Another Student: Oh! Yes! What about shit? Is shit bad word, too?
Another Student: Ass?
Another Student: Hell? (slowly, trying to remember) What...the hell...are you talking about?
Yet Another Student: (happily chiming in) Shut the f*ck up?
We might be reading the same books and doing the same tests as kids across the country, but I bet they weren’t doing that tonight in Seoul.
When I woke up this past Saturday with a slight sore throat, I immediately blamed my director, who had taken us out for dinner and endless bottles of Soju on Friday night. When the sore throat blossomed to include a fever and the inability to swallow much beyond water, I was perplexed. This was the third time in as many months that I had these symptoms – and I have already been through two different doctors who had both given me the Korean shot in the ass (of what, I have no idea), an IV (again: no idea) and a bagful of colorful pills to choke down for the next week. The problem was with each doctor’s visit, I could never really articulate my symptoms much beyond pointing at my throat and grimacing. Conversely, I never had any idea the names of the fistful of pills they were directing me to take three times a day. While I’m enjoying that the health care is virtually free, my Korean class has not delved into enough medical vocab to keep up with my frequent flier status at the local clinics and so I have little to no idea what I’m subjecting my body to.
So, on Monday I found myself once again walking around my neighborhood looking for a doctor. I didn’t want to go back to the first guy, who my students later informed me was a gastrointestinal specialist – which would explain the framed illustrations of colonoscopies that adorned his walls. The second doctor I visited at 3 a.m. in the “emergency room” of the closest hospital – not because it was truly an emergency, but simply because I couldn’t sleep and figured someone there would speak English. Right? Wrong. Turns out, it was a good thing it wasn’t a life-or-death situation; after entering a space that truly lived up to the “room” part of its title, I had to wake up the doctor who was snoring loudly on three chairs pushed together, who basically prescribed the shot in my ass while still asleep.
I’d like to say that after a solid month of Korean class twice a week, I was finally able to converse with my new doctor. However the first month has focused on the alphabet, the two (two!) numbering systems, and memorizing mostly nouns for vocabulary. When were we starting verbs? Monday. Where was I during Monday’s class? Stumbling around my neighborhood, trying to read the neon building signs and figuring out which floors looked like doctor’s offices. A general rule: any building with a pharmacy on the ground floor usually also houses a doctor’s office, medical clinic or a dentist's office. Which I walked into before abruptly turning around after seeing the familiar earpieces.
Settling on a fourth floor “internal medicine clinic” in a building not far from my house, I shared the elevator ride up with a newborn, her parents and a friendly old man attached to an IV who, judging by the Dunkin’ Donuts cup in his hand, had just run out for his morning cup of coffee. Why let a little thing like an IV get in the way of that?
The clinic was nicer than where my previous attempts at health had taken me – dark, hardwood floors led to a waiting room lined with plants and fountains. I wondered if this was some kind of private clinic and if I would be forced to return to the Colonoscopy Wizard after they rejected my health insurance. But, after flashing my card and performing my usual throat-point-and-grimace routine, I was told to take a seat and the doctor would be right out.
Five minutes later, after watching the old man wheel his IV from room to room, chatting with everyone in the place and sipping his coffee, the doctor came out and excitedly introduced himself, proudly showing off his near fluent English. Ushering me into his office, he immediately demanded to know where I was from.
Doctor: Canada? England?
Me: The U.S.
Doctor: Oh good! I love America. I’m going to America. Maybe I’ll see you in America!
For the next ten minutes, he told me about how he studies English every day so eventually he can move his family to America, preferably the West coast, and continue to study medicine, preferably at Stanford, and his wife, who is very beautiful and is a nurse, not at this clinic but at the hospital down the street – have you been to the hospital? – is going to also study when they get to America and after they both have jobs then they are going to have kids, preferably two, and did I know anyone in California? Is it very warm all the time? Do you even need a coat?
I’m constantly amazed that after almost eight years of Bush dragging our name through the mud on a near daily basis there is any goodwill for us left in the world. But this man could not have been more excited that I held an American passport, and nearly passed out when I told him that my school employed four more teachers from the Land of the Free. He immediately grabbed his business card, scribbled down his cell phone number and insisted that I call him so we can all go out for drinks one night (“I buy, don’t worry”) and talk more about everything American.
Only after I agreed that we would indeed hang out did he get around to asking me what was wrong. Finally relieved that I could do more than point and grimace, I told him how my throat has basically been hurting for the last three weeks, and how I’d been to two previous doctors who had given me shots and IVs and pills but I don’t think they understood when I told them it wasn’t a common cold and I needed antibiotics. Nodding knowingly, he had me open my mouth wide and say, “I love Americaaaaaaaaa.” Just kidding. But he might as well have.
Confirming that I had been walking around with tonsillitis for god knows how long, he promptly ordered a shot in the ass (I seriously think they’re addicted to it) and another round of pills. I tried to get him to tell me what the pills were, but his English only got us as far as “they will help you feel better.” Well, I hope so.
Sharing the elevator down with the old man, who now had his coat on and looked like he was going to take his IV for a spin around the block, I stopped at the pharmacy where they quickly filled my prescription and threw in a bag of deer antler juice for good measure. (The total cost for both doctor and meds? Six dollars.) I still have no idea what I’m taking, but at least now I know the doctor is invested in me getting better, if only so he can have an American drinking buddy.
I go back and forth on whether or not I’m a good teacher pretty much on a daily basis. It’s not that I think I’m a bad teacher, but when it comes to explaining the past participle preterit perfect, or any of the other finer points of the English language, I have found myself ending lectures with, “You know. It just sounds right. Right?” Which is normally when I’ll do something goofy to make the kids laugh and forget they were asking me what exactly a prepositional phrase is and why you can’t end sentences with them. (You can’t?) At the end of the day, I side with the school’s logic that whatever my faults when it comes to the technicalities of grammar, the kids are better off learning English from a native speaker so they are exposed to both the language and the culture; and trust me, if you dropped any of my kids off on the streets of New York tomorrow, they’d do pretty well for themselves.
But every once in a while I find myself having to articulate cultural norms or rituals that when enunciated, sound inescapably bizarre.
Last week, in the middle of explaining the vocab word “cast,” I decided to delve into multiple meanings, one of which being what doctors put on someone when they break a bone. Cast. Which in turn sparked a wider conversation on who has and hasn’t broken bones, ending with the kids asking which bones I’ve broken.
Me: I haven’t broken any, yet. Knock on wood.
Rapping quickly on my desk, I looked up to find ten confused faces staring back at me. Slowly, every student in the class started knocking on their desks and looking at me, puzzled. I spent the next fifteen minutes trying to explain that knocking on wood signifies good luck and why knocking on metal or concrete just wasn’t the same. But how many knocks, Teacher? And how hard? And what if there’s no wood?
Or
As I teach middle school kids who have pretty much been at school every day since they were born, it seems that in any given class, half the students are sick. Coughing. Wheezing. And sneezing. Which is probably why I spent the first three weeks battling every bug the kids tossed my way. The only thing is in Korea when a person sneezes, there is no custom to say anything directly afterwards. Everyone just goes about their business like nothing happened.
Now, I’ve always thought “God bless you” or even the tamer “bless you” was ridiculous – who am I to bestow a blessing? And just because you sneezed? On the subway? Really? But it wasn’t until I moved here that I realized how deeply ingrained the reflex had become. I spent the first week or so blessing any unsuspecting Korean with allergies that sneezed within earshot – until my kids reminded me that A.) it’s weird and B.) no one understands what I’m saying anyway. So now every time a kid sneezes I have to physically restrain myself from imparting God’s love. Fine, heathens, have it your way.
Or
My kids have their big exams coming up, and tonight while reassuring them that they’ll all do fine, I told them that I would keep my fingers crossed for them regardless. They immediately demanded to know which fingers I was crossing and why. And what does crossing mean, Teacher?
The lesson I concluded with? We are all weird.
When I was “hired” by my school via email back in New York, I was told my employment was conditional on my successful completion of a week-long training program and, in big black letters: PASSING A MEDICAL EXAM. At three separate points during the interview process, I was reminded that immediately upon my arrival in Seoul, this medical test would be administered, and should I fail, I would not be hired. Or reimbursed for my airfare. Or allowed to stay at the hotel. Or helped with any travel arrangements I would need to make after basically being kicked to a very foreign curb.
The problem was that while they reiterated the words “medical exam” in nearly every correspondence, there were no specifics as to what exactly they were testing for. I assumed that a drug screen was pretty mandatory, but beyond that would they be booting people with medical conditions that they simply didn’t want to deal with? And what was involved with the medical test exactly? Pee in a cup? Blood? Hair? Running on a hamster wheel?
Ever the hypochondriac, I immediately began worrying that my rare and terminal cancer I’d been unwittingly carrying around for years was going to rear its ugly head and not only would I be given two weeks to live, I wouldn’t have enough money to do anything on my Things to Do When I’m Told I Have Two Weeks To Live list. And none of those things were in Seoul.
I’m only slightly exaggerating my hypochondria. After spending a couple months working on the PR for a multiple sclerosis medication in New York, I had slowly convinced myself that I had MS. I would be writing copy that helped illustrate the symptoms for the disease, and suddenly notice I had all of them. Headaches? Check. Sudden forgetfulness? Check. Random tripping and falling? All over it. This lead to me actually scheduling a MRI during a lunch break. It was in the waiting room where I came up with my Things to Do When I’m Told I Have Two Weeks to Live list. During all of this, I managed to convince my roommate that she too was afflicted with the irreversible disease, and explained that she should also go in for a MRI as soon as possible; the earlier the disease is diagnosed, the earlier treatment can begin. Two weeks later, we both had beautiful pictures of our healthy brains and the rest of our friends making fun of us.
So by the time I arrived for my first day of training and was told the medical exam would be later that afternoon, I was pretty sure it was going to be leukemia.
After a short morning introduction (why waste too much time training people who might be carrying deadly diseases around?), we were given a map to the hospital that consisted of two landmarks – the training center and the hospital, with what seemed like one short road connecting the two. Just go left and then straight and then right and you’ll see it. We had been in the country for less than twenty-four hours, were still jet-lagged out of our minds, and had no idea where we were, let alone where the hospital was. And so, equipped with what might as well have been a map of Toledo, forty or so foreigners bumbled “left” down the street.
Fifteen minutes later, almost positive we had gone the wrong way, we slowly began passing people wearing hospital robes strolling down the street. Unable to ask “where’s the hospital and why aren’t you there?” we just kept walking upstream and eventually found the party – the hospital parking lot and stairs were littered with patients milling around. Some were in wheelchairs, others toted around their IVs, and the rest were nonchalantly chatting and smoking. This wasn’t abnormal to me – outside most hospitals you find patients gathered, getting some fresh air. The difference here was patients weren’t just standing outside, they were steadily coming and going from the hospital grounds – each dressed in identical hospital scrubs and slippers, some carrying shopping bags from their excursions.
Still consumed by my pending prognosis (which would inevitably have to be translated by an unsympathetic nurse in broken English: “you die soon. Sorry.”), it wasn’t until I moved to Busan that I began to notice similarly attired patients wandering around the streets of my neighborhood. I have done absolutely no research and have yet to ask my kids about this, but after seeing the tenth patient of the day while getting a slice of pizza tonight, it will be the first topic of discussion in class tomorrow.
I’m all for patient freedom and I’m sure when I come down with whatever is going to tragically cut my life decades too short, I’ll want to get out of my sterile room and grab some air. But from what I know about medicine, the rooms are sterile for a reason. Squatting on the street corner and smoking cigarettes is probably not recommended by your physician – and as far as I’m concerned, if you’re not healthy enough to put on proper clothes, you’re not healthy enough to be standing next to me at the grocery store. Coughing. But then again, maybe getting apples and ruining my appetite all in one shot was on their Things to Do When I’m Told I Have Two Weeks to Live list.
After one of our breaks in class last night, I returned to find a sketch my kids drew of yours truly on the board:
I laughed for five minutes straight. And then gave them a pop quiz.
While I’m busy opining about how old I look, I realize this insecurity may be highlighted by the fact that I’m in a country surrounded by people who look perpetually younger than their age. And tonight I found out why.
One of the things I’ve liked about being a teacher in a foreign country is that anytime I have a cultural question, I have forty to fifty different kids who are eager to explain away my confusion – probably because I’m offering extra credit for anyone who can do so in proper, complete sentences. It is in this way that I’ve managed to piece together certain nuances that aren’t readily available in Lonely Planet.
My school, like many things in Korea, is very technologically advanced. Most of my “paperwork” revolves around the computer in my classroom. If I mark a child absent in the system, his parents receive a text message within the first half-hour of class, letting them know their kid is not in his seat. I download every lesson plan, test, and handout from our server that’s updated by our research and development department located in Seoul; conversely, the kids are able to log in to the system from home, see their grades and complete their online homework. Very efficient. Very 2007. And very Korean.
From my screen, I can summon up all kinds of information about my students; test score averages, attendance records, which regular school they attend, what grade they’re in, etc. Most of this is useless to me, however I did skim over their grades and ages shortly before I began the term; being a new teacher, I thought I could gauge what level they’d be at by their age. But when I compared my first on-screen roster of thirteen year-olds to the class full of young faces staring back at me, I was a bit confused. Shrugging, I figured puberty must hit late on this side of the globe and was just happy they were so talkative. It wasn't until Sherry's birthday today that I began to question everything.
Sherry, the young woman who works at the school’s front desk, reminds me of a Korean Air stewardess: she constantly has a smile on her face, understands only rudimentary English, and is happy to get you a cup of tea but looks like she might stab you with a chopstick if you don’t say please. The first face I see when I get off the elevator and the last person I say goodnight to as I leave work, she’s always waving and smiling, which until my Korean vocabulary progresses to include verbs, is as far as our communication usually gets us. She, like the rest of our Korean staff, works tirelessly and I honestly don’t understand how she stays so chipper. They deal with parents all day and then kids all night – easily pulling ten to twelve hour shifts, while the Western teachers stroll in for our six-hour teaching stints and stroll right back out making double their salaries simply because our parents taught us “hello” instead of “an-young-kah-say-oh.”
So when I found out it was her birthday when I arrived to work tonight, I wished someone had told me sooner so I could have gotten her something. But the more I thought about it I realized this was my first Korean birthday and I wasn’t sure if my Western customs applied. Should I have gotten her a card? Flowers? A giant bottle of Soju to ease the pain? Feeling (familiarly) incompetent, I wished her a happy birthday and was shocked to hear that she was turning 27. The thing is, she doesn’t look a day over 14.
Back in class, my kids, eager to get off subject and always amused when they get to tell their teacher something he didn’t already know, informed me that in Korea people have two ages – their Korean age and their Western age. Their Korean age begins roughly around the time of conception (a tradition which I’m sure FOX News will no doubt be subscribing to shortly) and so babies reach age one when they come kicking out of their mother. Also, as I came to understand it, Koreans who are counting back in this manner also really celebrate their birthday on the lunar New Year – which to me just sounds like even more of an excuse for the whole country to get really drunk together. But I’m definitely not arguing.
According to this math, it’s possible for a baby to be two years old and only off the umbilical cord for two days. No wonder there’s so much pressure on the kids to succeed – they’re already slacking from day one. What? Are you just going to sit there? You’re almost three years old. Shouldn’t you be walking, talking and beginning calculus?
When I asked them their Western ages, my kids happily revealed that instead of being the teenagers I thought, the class was full of eleven and twelve year-olds – which, from what I remember about being that age, is a big difference. I think this explains their willingness to shout out answers in class and (gasp) speak in front of the opposite sex. As for Sherry, I found out that we’re the same age. A fact I had to prove to her with my passport. “But Travis. You so bald.” Annnnd there it is.
