The Holiday Edition

Hello, festive readers!

I hope your halls were bedecked with holly, ivy, and any other assorted shrubbery you find suitable for the holiday season which came upon us like cinnamon to snickerdoodles




and also like snickerdoodles to my thighs.






I'm afraid that the title is a bit misleading as this edition isn't so much about the Holidays but about my time here as I gently ROK.

To tell the truth, and I'm always trying to do more truthin', I despised being here.


"Mr. Blackmeeeer, why are these people prone to snot rocket in the middle of public areas?"



That's right. Blog as I might, Korea hit me in a wrong kind of way from the first day of work on. Things just weren't right. Erratic driving? Hooker shoes in summer? Sweltering humidities? HOF restaurants? This place was preaching obstropulosity from the mountaintops and I wanted them all to sit down so I could do them a seminar on proper living.


"HOF" is the bloody stupid translation for the word "hops". These restaurants serve the finest in Korean eating: beer and fried chicken. And in Geoffreyland, these two things are pronounced "boo and hiss".
That's right: Kentucky hissssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.



Proper living does not include the scent of poo and urine and cigarettes and bad perfume all in one place. It's simply too much for the nostrils and pharynx to deal with (the pharynx is the body part involved in the gag reflex, pharyngeal reader).



Proper living does also not include freaking out when your child has an infantessimal scratch on their finger and does not require a lengthy phone call to a Korean co-teacher to discover the origins of said blight.

Proper living does require that one occasionally relax and not stress about work, which is what I must do come 12:00am. At midnight my time it will be the 1st, and I'll be hogtied, basted and stuck in the oven at 215 (look Mommy, I be a turkey!) if I'm going to spend one moment of my break worrying about my job.

For a while I was worried about losing my job. I had no reason to believe so, but I just...couldn't get it out of my head that if I did so much as use my chopsticks to eat rice (a taboo here in the ROK) I would be escorted bodily from the country, which, depending on whom is issuing said eviction, could be quite exciting.


...and here we see the airport police arresting the only living proof that humans have cross-bred with oompa loompas.


But I digest, this here is about hating Korea. Grandpa was right, it's definitely a little gross here. And no matter what my recruiter told me, it is not open-minded or accepting as a culture, either. Conformity is the order of the day, as is kimchi, which I've already discussed (disgust?) ad nauseum...literally.

CONFORM!

The fun thing about communism is: sure, you have to eat rice and marrow soup out of goat hooves but you become a superb high kicker!

Yes, mommies are insane here. Yes, a teacher's job at a hogwan is especially difficult because of the mommies. Yes, there are some REAL communication differences. Yes, the idea of sanitation here borders on barbarism (that's barbarian, not, like...barbers).


VS

Although...I wouldn't count ALL barbers as sanitary (or sane for that matter...)


BUT! There are a few benefits, and they are fairly good 'uns. Sit close and we'll talk. No big whoop.

The first thing I found that I LOVED about Korea is: the subway system. It. Is. Awesome. I can get ANYWHERE I need to in Seoul and beyond and I get there on time. Everytime. Sure, occasionally the stops smell like open sewers full of blackwater and, from time to time, crazy people try to sell you stuff. But if you listen, it's possible that they're selling something rad. It's a hit and miss with those people.



He's selling...some....thing...?

The second thing, and this is a biggie, is Dongdaemun. Dongdaemun, as some of you have heard me rave, is the textile and fashion capital of Seoul. I don't really count the other "fashion capital"s because they are selling fashion that has already been put together. In Dongdaemun you shop for the fabric, take it to a tailor and get a custom made piece of clothing for YOUR body. AND! The made-to-measure and bespoke tailoring is a fraction of the price one would pay for a READY-TO-WEAR suit in America. Shirts, hoodies, jeans, polos, suits, ties, boots, leather; whatever you want, you can have if you have the money, the patience and the shopping stamina.


DONGDAEMUN! I quiver with joy upon entering, which makes the locals reeeeeeeeeeeeeally nervous.

The third thing is the land. The land which remains undeveloped is gorgeous. It's majestic, lush and ancient. It speaks to me in a way that the square kilometers of concrete sentinels never could. Not that sentinels are overly chatty. Especially not the concrete ones. I particularly enjoy the mountain at Jichuk station. It makes me smile everytime I see it.


I think THESE hills might actually be alive. Is that creepy?

The last thing has to be the friends. I love the people I'm working with and I love the friends that I've made at church. They fill me with such hope and love that I can't really express how much it means to me to have them in my life right now. I need 'em bad.


REAL friends dress like ABBA and sing and dance at a dance studio on Halloween AND WIN A PRIZE!

So that's about it for now, I think. Tomorrow I will go and enjoy a film and a night out with more lurved ones.

Missing you all, I assure you <3

The Living Section

Be not fooled by the fluffy tittle to this entry of the blarg, frapcious reader. This issue will be just as hard-hitting as the last one. Hard-hitting like Oprah specials.




So I realize it's been a while. Work has been preciently dramatic and "things" have been happening. And by "things" I mean I've been constipated for a couple of days. And also someone is getting fired and there's a different hysterical teacher weeping down their paperwork and into the children's ebon tresses on a nearly daily basis. I was almost there today, but luckily someone else ended up crying, so I'll have to make it up later with a double. Double crying day = double fudge Baskin Robbins.


=


See? Math HAS become useful in the real world.

So let us turn to the most pressing matter in the world today: fashion. Without periodicals such as Vogue and GQ, where would we turn for our sartorial enrichment? No, QVC doesn't count. No, not Wal*Mart either.




There are people in this world who can be given all of the ingredients for success: entrenchment in American advertising, inundation with the best costume designers the world cinema has to offer, a rapidly increasing economy and thusly increasing contact with the outside world, and still...STILL...those people can choose to pick up on maybe the dumbest thing allowed to be manufactured as "clothing" and hang onto it for dear life. Or they can wear nice things in a wrong and obstropulous manner.

Men's Waistlines

Trim, slim, enviable, 14-year-old girl; these all adequately describe the waistline of the average Korean man between the ages of about 18 to 29. These men wear exquisitely tailored pants, shirts, vests, suits, jackets, overcoats (yes, their overcoats are tailored here, and yes...we should be doing it at home). The shapes they cut in their clothing are what come out of the pens and pencils of Ralph and Yves and Hugo as they sit in their severe wingback chairs and press their fingers to their temples.

HOWEVER! Most of these suits incorporate some kind of shiny weft or blend. There's nary a natural fabric to be seen because, if it's natural, it won't look shiny enough and a suit ought to be damned shiny!





SHINY I SAY! It would seem Koreans enjoy flash not only on the outsides of their buildings but also on the outsides of their bodies. It's only a matter of time before a gentleman late for work can advertise (in neon lights) the brand of cigarettes he's going to smoke as he grunts his frustration and excrement into an unsanitary porcelain receptacle.

You read that right: they smoke on the turrlet.

Anyhoo, the men here all look fairly well-done. And then...they get what they deem is an important position...and all hell breaks loose. In this case, hell is any sense of where their chests begin and their waists end. For some reason I have yet to suss out, the men over thirty wear their pants up. No, I mean...UP. U-P UP. They can have conversations on their cell phones without ever taking them out of their pockets, and I ain't talkin' Bluetooth here, techno-savvy reader. Hmm-mm no.

It's as if they get a new pair of slacks on their thirtieth birthday that has the crotch sewn in down at the ankles. They get that mighty bank manager assistant position (from their crooked second cousin) and soon their pants are as high as an elephant's eye.


"This is known as the high and squatty. Not for the faint of thigh or the low of underbits."


Not attractive. I've seen one hoist his pants three times in as many minutes and each time he got closer and closer to dividing his own torso in half with his inseam.

Also in fashion right now is the lady 'do for men. Needless to say I've seen lots of nice middle-aged women here who turn out to be dudes with Debbie Reynolds' old hair on. I have no idea what's happening anymore.


Lady's Fashions

Well...it's fairly clear that prostitution is legal in the ROK. Even if it isn't, the fashion of the Hollywood call-girl seems to have made its way into the hearts of the twentysomething set here. No longer able to wear their old high school uniform, which undoubtedly originally lured their boyfriends to them, they attempt to play riffs on a theme. That theme is "Bad Girls" by Donna Summer.



The skirts here are merely tube tops being worn on the wrong end. This much I can forgive but leopard print? Is this Miami or Queens? I just don't think so!


I haven't seen hide nor hair of a Jew or Jewess in some time, so to find an answer to this textilic conundrum, I must delve further.

The other favorite is the shapeless large sweatshirt or sweater that doubles as (shock) a dress.



Dear Korean 20-year-old Woman, A SWEATSHIRT IS NOT NOW, NOR HAS IT EVER BEEN - EXCEPT FOR A DISASTEROUS ALBEIT BRIEF MOMENT BETWEEN 1979 AND 1991 - OKAY TO WEAR A SWEATSHIRT AS A DRESS. What's strange is that the culture is weirdly prude. How can we counteract showing all of that leg?

How?

READER HOW?!


STIRRUP PANTS! I cannot contain my righteous, fervent, immmolating anger and disgust. Have we learned nothing from our past mistakes? Was ALL of Korea asleep when we, the mod'ren world, turned our backs and sniffed at such frivilous caprice and went our seperate way, kicking our day-glo spandex shorts and shoudler-pad-infested jacket collection into the everloving fashion furnace? Yes, seems to be their collective yet crappy answer.

Also on the lady front is a love for boots purchased from the local hooker-witch bargain emporium, serving all of your red light and ritualistic pagan needs. Not only are they mostly boots of the knee-high variety, the heels are as treacherous as a night out with Lindsay Lohan; there's a one-in-three chance you'll end up with either a concussion or a magical STD.




I told you: wiccan trollops, unite!

I digress. And undress. And redress. That's how I spend my time in the subway: imagining people in better clothes. But then I come home and look at my revolving wardrobe of five pants and three shirts and think "what right do you have to tear these people apart when you couldn't fit their wardrobe up over your left thigh?"

The answer is: I'm no fashionisto, I'm an aesthete. The difference? Aesthetes get to eat whatever the hell they want and get to spend less than $100 for a pair of jeans.

I WIN!

Eatin' ROK

Ravenous Reader,

I'm certain that, as you sit there at your computer box, sipping your caffeinated beverage of choice (yes, Diet Coke counts, Mormons...)you are wondering (as you often do) about how my life is going, because, let's face it, if you're reading this tripe you've nothing better to think about.

Well, I'm fine. I'm also somehow lighter, thanks in part to the cuisine in the ROK but mostly thanks to the insane amount of stair climbage one encounters here on a daily, nay, hourly basis. Much to my chagrin though, my thighs are bigger than ever. I've been issued a citation for disturbance of the peace due to the decibel level my thighs reach as they rub together in their fleshy, rhythmic way.

Okay, I haven't been issued a citation yet but it's only a matter of time before my femoral friction begins emitting sound waves loud enough to crack the pavement and I become the world's largest bespectacled grasshopper.

Thighs aside (don't read into this too much, innuendous reader) I would like to have a sit-down chat with you about food here.



Are we comfy? Then let's begin.

I had my first taste of Korean cuisine back when I was working at Todai: Portland's premier overpriced sushi buffet. The company's name and theme are Japanese but the management and ownership is exclusively Korean. Thus, my boss James made certain that the Korean staple below was included on the buffet daily.



The above is known throughout the land of ROK as kimchi (pronounced Kim, like Kim Fields AKA Tootie from "The Facts of Life" and chee, like "cheap pile of cabbage"). I instantly loved the pickley, spicy, crunchy, chewiness of the dish. Don't ask why. I was really into hot sauce at that point in life. So here I am, ages and ages later, faced with the beloved side dish (or "banchan" as they're known here) and let me tell you: it's still pretty good. Admittedly, there's a different taste here than there was in the US. I think the stuff at Todai must've been made nearly daily ('cause...ya know...it's cheaper to make the crap yourself than import it from Korea. That and Todai, like my mother, loves a bargain). The kimchi here, ironically, tastes like chemicals and cayenne pepper. That's about all you can taste/smell for the next couple of hours so make sure you sample some of what's on your plate prior to partaking in this dragon-breath-inducing veggie dish. It'll be nice to just get a feel for the real flavor of the food before kimchi sets up permanent residence in both your taste buds and the space in between your second and third molars.



Most of whatever else I eat comes from school or home. School lunch is always an adventure and nearly always edible. Actually, the cook is quite good and I'm pretty sure the school is lucky to have her. The soups are always fish-based and top-notch (and well-hyphenated). There's always some kind of meat portion which you know, Worcestershire-addicted reader, pleases this hefty carnivore greatly. There's always rice and, of course, kimchi. If cook is feeling extra sassy, she'll do a fish as well as beef and then top the whole thing off with a gentle parcel of salt-cured, roasted seaweed which really turns my epicurean crank, most especially when coupled with the aforementioned rice.

I have to eat with the four year olds but...what the hell. I'll do anything for free food.


Anything.


On the whole, I have been eating fairly well although there are ways to get into trouble even here in the land of the trim waist and the slim hip. America, while she gave ROK capitalism, also gave her nutritional advice. Considering all our beloved country has done for my pantsize and the size of knickers and bloomers across the globe, it's a fairly dim prospect for the dear old Republic. For instance, I run into Koreans almost daily who proclaim that items like cookies and cake are "too sweet".



Too sweet indeed...

HOWEVER! They have no problem (nor shame) in shoveling in Dunkin' Donuts and Cold Stone Creamery ice cream every chance they get. Sure, they're joyous, well-lit, fun-loving places now but in a few years this same race, the race of 6% bodyfat and even less percent patience for anything that doesn't have a blinking neon sign on it, will not be able to see its own ample buttocks without the help of some specially placed mirrors and flood lighting. I see them starting to traipse merrily down the same road we did: deep frying everything in sight after coating it in panko bread crumbs and then dipping it in ranch dressing.


One of their more monstrous abominations: the french fry coated hot dog on a stick.

Now why didn't WE think of that? I'll tell you why: the fat from our dimpled glutes has finally clogged our arteries and our minds.

Be forewarned Korea. I have seen your future. It isn't pretty...

...and it has a daughter named Darleen.

Other than the above foods, Korea has a lot of really strange things to offer up, but I'll try anything once and, of course, twice if it's dessert or is misspelled on the menu. I've only had the food poisoning once since I've been here and that was only because I got impatient at a shabu-shabu restaurant and ate undercooked chicken (this is a restaurant where you do your own cooking, so...I had to curse my own name as I retched my "Welcome To Korea" meal into my blessedly western-style turrlet at home).


Fish heads, fish heads, roly-poly fish heads...

The weirdest thing I've managed to sink my teeth into thusfar has to be the fish egg sac soup and fish-with-the-heads-still-on I had during my weekend training last month. The sac was one of those things where you just close your eyes and hope it tastes more like salt than anything else.

No, it didn't taste only like salt, but I ate the suckers without blinking. We don't want to be thought uncultured, do we, squirmish reader?

I thought not.

The adventures in asian cuisine continue as I eat my way through the remaining 10 months of my stay here. I can't believe the time has gone by so quickly.

Keep in touch!

Lurve,
Geoffwah

The Plastics

Yearning Reader-

I am doing fine. I know you were worrying that I'd been overtaken and eaten alive by the 5 year olds or that I'd accidentally wandered into the DMZ, as I am apt to drift gently into generally hazardous areas of this, our wide world. These are not the cases...

Wait. These are not the case? This is not the cases? This is not a case? I cannot fit into that case? This case is too small. This case is not tall...

I am now absolutely certain that, by the end of this year, I will no longer be able to speak English with careless abandon like in the olden days of my reckless, nonstop verbal diarrhea. No, petrified reader. I am sure that I will have no choice but to carefully select each and every phrase so that I don't end up spewing word salad. And for those who don't know what word salad is, it's the one salad you probably won't find at a major Mormon function.


THIS IS NOT WORD SALAD
(Come to think of it, what the hell is this?)

Okay, now down to what this post is actually about [shockingly, it is not about salad].

For a reference of who The Plastics are, please review the image below at your gentle leisure.



The above group of four girls appear in the film "Mean Girls". There, as you can see, are four girls. One of them is actually an infiltrator who conspires to bring the REAL Plastics down but becomes one of them along the way (kind of). The infiltrator, Kady, is actually quite a nice girl but becomes nasty as she starts to hang around with The Plastics more and more.

Now for the real life Plastics. It took me two weeks of teaching these girls before I understood just what was going on. There are four girls in the class. To protect the names of the actual girls, I will be using the names of the corelating characters from the film.

Regina -



Regina is the ring leader of the group. With a few well-chosen glances and muttered (I'm assuming) profanity, she can cut down a girl in the group and turn friend to enemy in seconds. In school terms, she's a frienemy: a person who pretends to be your best friend but who, in all actuality hates you just as much as you hate them. You just stay close so that you don't turn on each other because, hey, peace is like, a lot easier than having to wage an all-out social battle. She's cunning and smart, which makes calling her on the carpet extremely difficult.

The other problem is that she works her evils in Korean and behind my back. I can turn to the whiteboard, blissfully expounding on the benefits, nay the necessity, of actually putting an "ts" sound at the end of the word "pants", and when I turn back around, one of the girls will be in tears and Regina will look me straight in the eye and pronounce pants with a proper "ts".

Evil. Genius.

Evil genius.


Gretchen-



So Gretchen is just mean, really. She's very sweet when she's getting her way but you had better not cross her or...well...let's just say that Regina isn't the only one who can cause tears. She's a prodigy, speaking of tears, at fake crying and can really work herself up into a dither over someone touching her eraser.

Oh, by the way, if you come to Korea, don't touch other people's things. Seriously. Not even an eraser. 'Cause they may cry and then their evil best friend will come over and dry their tears while comforting them in a language you don't understand, saying things that probably mean "don't worry about that Humpty-Dumpty-lookin' palooka, I'll make sure he never touches your eraser with his pudgy, pasty, American sausage fingers again, see?". It's just a wild guess, but I'm sure that it's eerily accurate, even down to the 'Jersey accent.

PS Does the word "eerily" look really strange to you?

Karen-



Okay so Karen is actually a sweet girl and has been victimized by Regina and Gretchen in the past but does gang up against the fourth girl. She obviously sides with Regina and Gretchen so that they won't pick on her. And, get this, she brings them snacks. Snacks. Just for Gretchen and Regina. The two of them sit there eating the stuff like they invented gold and smugness all in one fell swoop. It makes me want to pull their hair out.

But I don't.

No, really. I don't.


Stop looking at me like that!


Kady-



Okay, well Kady is really sweet. She's a nice girl who spends the majority of her time trying to make the rest of The Plastics laugh, which disrupts class. I guess I'm getting my comeuppance. For years I spent class time making people laugh so they didn't kick my tubby action down a grassy knoll, or worse, a well-chosen stairwell. Usually, like Regina, if the teacher called on me whilst causing a mirth or a merriment, I could come up with the answer he or she was looking for while I was shimmying or doing a Carol Channing impersonation. Sadly, Kady does not have this ability (apparently, Carol impersonations don't translate very well). She is really not a bad student but she is so insecure about her own knowledge that she will actually change a correct answer if The Plastics whisper an incorrect answer in her ear. Intentionally. Which they do. All the time.

Ah, Kady. I wonder how she'd do in a normal class. Probably very well. I have seen her team up with the other Plastics against Karen from time to time, but only during really bad fights.

I see these girls every day.

They are 7 and 8 but I'm already having Middle School flashbacks.

They do EVERYTHING earlier over here.

Strangely enough, the one thing they don't do earlier over here is bedtime, which is sometime after 10 for these kids. This probably prepares them for a life filled with late meetings and even later drinking, riding the subway, puking on the stairs, wobbling into the elevator, tripping over their own stoop on the way into their apartment and knocking themselves unconscious until 5 am, which is most likely an hour late for their first meeting.

Yum.

Ilsan: Engineered Serenity

Today, as most other days, I waddled my way to Ilsan Lake Park. Ilsan is the city I ended up roosting in and to tell you the truth, I could have done much worse. The city is part suburb/part planned community. It was created (as in a city did not exist in this location before Ilsan was built) for those of a certain income to live outside of the density and rush of Seoul while still living a comfortable distance from work (roughly about 20 minutes by subway).

I guess the main feature of Ilsan is the manmade lake park, called Hosugongweon. It really is a marvel of planning, the park spans a stunning 5km stretch, the smooth, glassy surface of the lake reaching 3.9km around. In the mornings I like to jog here. Well...I say jog, but I mean sort of...waddle and jog. Okay, I mostly just jog the crosswalks, something you have to do anyway here because...ya know...you'll get run the hell over if you don't. That may sound like an exaggeration but...someone got run over on my first week here, right outside the windows of the school so I've become a bit paranoid when it comes to trusting the driver's here.

The rule of thumb is that the drivers have the right of way. Even the crosswalks signs pause before letting pedestrians through, a full five seconds behind a green traffic light. Driving here is not a privilege, it's a symbol of status. "I have enough money to own a car and drive it like an insane person" seems to be the message behind the many Jaguars and other expensive vehicles littering the streets at all hours. Yesterday morning a bus ran into a little white coup right in front of my apartment. Apparently, as I'm told, the drivers here aren't trained like they are in America, or more accurately, they aren't trained at all. One could lose "face" if one were to be confronted with the insinuation that, though one is the CEO of Random-Mart, one doesn't know the first damned thing about driving. The problem with not losing face is that, later on, someone else will likely lose their left heel or the ability to walk in a straight line or their ability to have an unbroken nose.

At Ilsan Lake Park one is able to see, at all hours, every "type" of Korean citizen. The most infamous and hilarious of these is the "ajumma" or "Auntie". This is a woman who, having reached the ripe old age of 38, has doffed any kind of sense and instead become obsessed with becoming 25 again. To turn back the wheels of time, these matching sweatsuit clad aunties will powerwalk with their arms pumping impossibly high, clenching...well...clenching everything clenchable, I'm certain. These are women on a mission, a mission to turn back the hands of time with a good moisturizer, a neat perm and what can only be described as the backpiece of Darth Vader's helmet turned around to the front. They look ready to simultaneously gamble, weld and take over the universe. These tinted visor/screens are rampant and sometimes, mirthful reader, accompanied by a face mask to complete their assertion of intergalactic couture. Hysterical as this looks (imagine a brown poodle hiding behind the sneezeguard of a salad bar), I'm told there is a purpose. Apparently these women want to look as pale as possible, since their generation particularly revered the pallid and wan among them.

These same women, at times, will stop me in my tracks to ask me if I'm American and then poke my stomach, I think just to check and see that I'm not smuggling children in there. Trust me, Ajummatic reader, there's nothing in there but fat and regret...oh and also a little fried chicken from last night. Yummo!

Also at the lake are the couples, some of them in the nauseating sartorial phenomenon known as "couple wear". It's not that they think that wearing matching outfits looks good, it's just a way for the women to show how much power they have over their husbands. "Look at me! I can get this successful business owner to wear a pink polo and high-waisted plaid slacks!" It's gross, but effective.

There are also mommies "Omma" and daddies "Appa" all around, documenting every breath that their child takes, showing how good daddy is with the children so that he can feel good about spending most of his waking hours at work. -sigh- I feel bad for a lot of these kids but...especially bad for the mothers. It really is kind of like the 50's over here: Daddy comes home from work to find the house clean, the children happy, the mother looking fabulous and all he has is fun time with the kiddies. Meanwhile during the day mother is wrestling with the kid, disciplining, shopping, menstruating, all of those things, just so that the husband can come home at 10pm to play with the kid, eat and pass out for four hours until work starts again the next day.

Picture Donna Reed.




Now stop picturing Donna Reed.

Okay, that was just an experiment.


Overall, the lake is a lovely place to go. Lots of ponds and bridges and lily pads and goldfish. It's really gorgeous and, though it's manmade, it has a peaceful dignity all its own. I like to go early, about 5:30. Only the elderly and the ajummae (not the official plural but I like it) are there. No children. No construction. It's really serene. The olden ones and I like to do our stretches. Somedays I feel like one of them...trying to make the best of what I've got. I also like to sit and meditate for a while, closing my eyes and trying to empty my mind for a while before my day begins.

It helps to take the edge off when the kids decide to channel the very powers of Beelzebub later on in the day.

School: Students

First off, I'd like to give a September 24th birthday shout out to Maman (pronounce "mamaw", it's southernified French for "Mom"). Usually she and I celebrate with Grandma (my paternal grandmother) at some point in the middle of the month, but seeing as how I can't be there, I'm going to take this opportunity to say I hope their month is particularly gentle and that it bursts forth with all of the lurve and chocolatey goodness they can handle.

And now: the students.

Where to begin? The students here are what you would expect: adorable, tiny and thinner than their teacher. The jerks. What's amazing is how young they are but how distinct their personalities are already. They are so distinct, in fact, that for several of these miniature human parcels, I have afforded them the privilege of a nickname. The children are split into three ages: 7, 6 and 5. What you may not know, yearning reader is that, in the ROK, you are 1 year AT BIRTH.

That is correct: AT. BIRTH.

So, not only have I lost a year coming over here (I celebrated my 29th birthday this month), but the children in my classes are not 7, 6 and 5 but rather 6, 5 and 4 with a 3 year old thrown in for good measure (in this case, good measure = 25% increase in mental instability and also a 25% increase in stress-related pastry intake).

The Magnificent 7's

These kids, being the oldest, have some of the biggest personalities on campus. They are generally easier to teach but not necessarily so and can remind you in certain crucial moments that they are still children; children who can be lifted up against a whiteboard and told just where the colored pencils are supposed to go after use. The roster goes as follows:

1. The Executive - This child is perhaps the most self-possessed, intelligent, reasonable people I've run across ever. This includes you, sesquipedalian reader. Yes, even you. He seems to bear the spirit of a man who will succeed in whatever he tries. And, given his penchant for suit wearing and his bespectacled visage, I feel sure that one day he will run his own country. That country won't be able to put S's on the ends of their words properly but we'll have to forgive them for it, given that they'll find the cure for cancer, build the perfect tennis shoe and probably figure out a way to tell who keeps breaking wind in the elevator every morning and then shutting the stench in for the next unsuspecting stupe (usually yours truly). Yes, the Executive will do it all and he'll control the lives of those beneath him with a decisive and gentle touch.

2. The CEO - I can see her at the head of the conference table at Coca-Cola, firing those who deserve it because she will suffer no fools. I wish you could see the CEO in action as he delegates responsibilities to her subordinates who seem more than grateful to be given any kind of task from on high. She seems to survey a person's soul before speaking to them, weighing each and every possibility before she speaks. She seems severe but really she's adorable. Adorable and kinda severe. Like a bob-cut. She knows she's headed for the top and she knows which of the others is indeed not.

3. The VP - This boy and the CEO are the most popular students at the school. The VP is athletic and gregarious without being overly so. He's got a good sense of humor and a decent work ethic and, though he has a rough time with semi-complex consonant clusters beginning with "s" (think slurp and struck), he has a good eye for words and a fairly good memory. He works very well as a foil to the Executive and really completes the top tier trio.

4. The Princess - Okay, so there are some cultural things that are incredibly different and subtle cultural things that I'm not picking up on quite yet. I understand that. However, I can spot a princess from a mile away and this girl is it. She can disrupt the entire class if she doesn't like what we're working on. She can get other, smarter kids, to guess wrong by whispering the incorrect answer in their ears. She knows instinctively: when her seat is being taken or eyed, when her pencil box is in another's possession, any person's weak spot, and finally how to fake cry. She is the best. Real tears and everything. Incredible. I don't think she gets a lot of actual attention at home. I think she gets presents but no attention. She's a little like a princess locked in a tower so...sometimes I give her a little attention but...the rest of the time I just tickle her.

5. The Sickly One - He's little, with see-through skin and pointy cat teeth. He will follow the VP anywhere and is in love with the CEO (actually...they're kind of an item). As with most of the kids, he can be good. He can also be hilarious, using his daily handkerchief (that's right...this kid is making some kind of fashion statement in lime green) as a headwrap or bra. He has a mischievous giggle and can be rather naughty but he's usually fairly good for me.

6. The Valley Boy - I don't know how it happened but this kid has the most adorable Silicon Valley accent. You should hear him say "o". It's more like "eau". He's one of my better readers and is the smartest, by far, of all of the kids in his class. He enunciates and answers questions readily. I have his brother in another class and the both of them are a little ahead of the curve. I'm sure his parents must spend time with him. He's aces, even if he is from the Valley...somehow.

6 in the city:

7. The Babysitter - this girl will be a babysitter before she's ten. I can almost guarantee it. Extremely imperious, she loves lording her intelligence over the other children and lives to be teacher's pet. My first day at school, she came and wanted a kiss and hug. Freaked out, I ran into the storage closet and pretended to look for "supplies" until I heard her leave. She's also extremely good at manipulating adults because she makes sure you're watching when she sulks and goes to sit by herself in a room. Instead of responding with "because you scolded me teacher" when I asked why she was upset, she merely pretended not to know why I was asking and turned away, resting her head on her hand. Amazing. She's gonna drive her boyfriends actually insane. Wee!

8. The Teddy Bear - This kid...I don't know what else I can say. I just love his guts. He's so sweet, so energetic, so funny, he always wants me to pick him up and at times throughout the week, he'll grab me about the knees and proclaim his love by using about 73 "very"s in the phrase "I love you very much". I met his mother today who was about the only warm and friendly parent at today's "parents meeting". Teddy Bear is always a joy to have in class but can sometimes barely contain his enthusiasm and can get a touch rambunctious. Ah well. It's worth it.

9. The Tiny Adult - There is a girl; so composed, so well-adjusted that it makes me doubt how far I've come in my life. If I had half of her wherewithall I wouldn't need stress-related pastries. She's sweet, well-spoken, well-mannered, and doesn't go in for the drama that the Babysitter seems to crave. They are, by the way, BFFs (that's best friends forever, confounded reader of a certain age). If she got her learner's permit next year, I'd call her for a ride.

10. The Legion of Satan - This is no overstatement. The children (4 in the US, 5 here) in this year know every button to push. Within seconds I feel powerless, overwhelmed by their numbers as they turn off the lights, jump on the tables, escape the room and beat each other senseless. They are irrational, blood-thirsty hounds of hell but...they're just so damned cute. All of them. There's the pretty one who looks like a girl but isn't and should be in commercials. There's the smart one who ACTUALLY READS ENGLISH and understands everything I say (which makes it even more vexing when he pretends not to understand). There's the one girl, a tomboy, who always either wants to be held or to hit the others. There's the impishly naughty boy who makes you laugh, even as he defies you to your face. There's the pouty, sullen one who likes to shut himself in the cupboard. Last but not least is the country boy, a recent infant who speaks little Korean and even less English as snot pours down his face. I love them. I hate them. I love to hate them. I hate to love them, but I do. They work, breathe and destroy as a singular entity, so they just get the one entry.

School: Co-Workers

After catching up on my sleep(-ish)I got to school and was pleasantly surprised by how absolutely bright and colorful it is inside (unlike my apartment complex which looks like a big gray elephant trying to disguise itself with a wardrobe circa 1985 - and yes, I mean hot pink stirrup pants). If Dr. Seuss imagined himself a school it would look like this, only it wouldn't have the Disney characters painted on the wall. It is rather nice to come here everyday and see Peter Pan and Ariel. They seem to be sympathetic, understanding faces; friends who have known me since "way back when". In this case "way back when" means back when I could sing all of "Part of Your World" without missing a word. And so, I guess "way back when" includes right now, while I'm singing a Little Mermaid ballad and getting stared at.

-sigh- It feels like I never left home. Here I am, enormous, at a computer, singing like a woman to a crowd of people who either don't understand me or are a little frightened but cover it up with giggles.

Speaking of which!

Co-workers

I s'pose let's start at the top. The director is Mr. Kang and I've met him quite possibly four times in the two weeks I've been here in the lovely ROK. He's a terribly busy man but makes time to bow and smile and make extremely small talk. I'm told he's the man to go to when I need things for the apartment but...I'm slightly afraid I'll do or say something offensive to him in the process. That's how I am with most of the kind people here: I just know I'm gonna...make a chicken noise or...burst forth into song & dance and end up in the slammer with a couple of Korean trannies and a drug smuggler from Canada (eh?).

Next is Principle. She's very nice but always looks at me like I'm on my last strike. I don't think she means to, but...she does. Everytime we talk, she asks me into her office. Each time, I prepare myself to pack up and come home. The first time she came, her face was unfathomably passive and neutrally pleasant. I girded my loins and shuffled in after her (shuffling, in slippers we shuffle). I sat down, hands and asscrack sweating. She sat down and looked at me. She opened her mouth and asked "How is your apartment". I nearly fell out of my chair. And seriously? That was it. That's all she wanted to know. Generic small talk ensued, I left, end of story. I haven't quite figured out what's happening there but she obviously takes small talk VERY seriously.

There are two men who work here who I can't recall the names of, EVER. I know one is "Uncle Joe" and one is "Uncle Park" but...neither of them seem very uncley and I refuse to call anyone "Uncle Park". Uncle Park...it sounds like the crappiest amusement park ever. So you go and, I guess, get noogies for a couple of hours? Or is it a dedication to famous Uncles? Uncles Fester, Buck and Frank in the loneliest parade since the "People who still give a damn about Steve Guttenberg" parade?

(Attention shoppers: the aforementioned SG parade never occured but probably would have consisted only of said Guttenberg himself...maybe)

Yeah, I don't think the Uncle Park would work out. The whole place would smell like Brut and the only thing they'd sell in the souvenir shop would be Tommy Bahama and some weird, postwar railroad memorabilia.

The one who I think is Uncle Joe is the VP of the company but jokes with me that he's the janitor. He's a stiffly jolly sort of guy and loves to come into a room to practice a single English word. It's always kind of a shock because he...kind of "proclaims" the word...like from the diaphragm...while you're working. I'm always caught off guard by his vocabulary choices; words like "intestine" or "beard". The other uncle fields phone calls and probably is the grease that keeps this well-oiled machine greased up and working like an oily, greasy machine; a machine that makes little English speakers. Oily and greasy ones.

Next in line I think must be Christine Teacher, who is divine and reminds me of my friend Hanh back home. She's the office big sister, faux reprimanding the uncles and director when they don't know something about the world at large. She's the one we all come to when we have a question about the materials like "What the hell is a Phonics Chant?" and "Well what is the purpose of having a Phonics Chant referred to in the materials when the Phonics Chant has never been heard of?" She's a joy and understands the ins and outs of a company such as this.



Anyhoo...next is Maria Teacher, who is grand. She's very much "down" (which means she understands the way life works and is very street savvy). She's nice to go to with problems if you need a pep talk and even for a serious talk. We had sushi the other night. I'll touch on that in one of my future sections dedicated to cuisine.


Don't let these Anglo names fool you, fervent reader. No, these are dyed in the wool native Korean folk. Some have been to the states, some even grew up there but they have two names. Not like I have a first name and a middle name. Hmm-mm. They have an entirely different name not on any birth certificate but certainly on their in and out boxes and definitely on the lips of all of their students. What I wonder is: do they use these names when they go home? Do they insist that their husbands, friends and neighbors refer to them as Jennifer and Stella as they go for shopping and shabu shabu (that's boiled meats, carniverous readers)? And where in the blessed mirth do they get these names? Could Ella have chosen hers after being moved by the dulcet tones of one Ella Fitzgerald? Could Candy just really enjoy junk food? And could Swan be overly fond of birds and/or my high school English teacher?

Who's to say.

Swan and Shenna are the "helper" teachers. "Helper" teachers do many menial tasks and some very very crucial ones, mainly coralling and disciplining the 5 year olds when they get out of hand. Swan and I eat lunch with these, the youngest of our charges and try to keep mayhem from breaking out before the kids have had at least part of their lunch inside of them (in whatever fashion we deem necessary) rather than down their fronts or, as is sometimes the case, down our fronts. Shenna is particularly sweet and we like to have mini cultural exchanges now and again as we both try our best to speak each other's languages. Shenna is much better at English than my pathetic attempts at Korean (called Hanguk here). For these two ladies I am extremely grateful.

Last and certainly not least are the two other native English speakers here at the school. Liane and Alecia are South Africans from Cape Town and speak both English and Afrikaans. They are lovely and extremely spirited but in very different ways. Liane is easygoing and flowy. She reminds me a lot of Danelle Dullum and her sister, Denise. She's quick to smile and gets the attention of the younger children without much effort. She's slight and trim but insists that she adores cheese (which she does, actually). If you need a sympathetic ear, hers is the one to chat into for a bit.

Alecia is also laid back but very firm with the children. She doesn't give them an inch and tends not to care if they throw tantrums, etc. I must learn from these two. I'm always trying to break up fights and put out fires (no, not actual fires...yet) and I need to let it wash over me sometimes and let things be. Alecia also seems to be very sure of herself and I think that really helps me to feel grounded and remember that I do know who I am.

That's everyone at work. They're a great bunch overall and I look forward to getting to know them better.

Probably best of all though, before I leave you, remote reader, I must say that I love the cook. I learned to say "delicious" and she has learned to say "thank you" in return. She doesn't speak English but she does speak the language I know best: delicious food.

Yeah, it's a language. Look it up, smart guy. I'll wait.

(Insert the sound of Geoffrey leaving quickly here)

The eagle has landed, y'all! (Part Two)

I spent the next day or so with the fambly, desperately trying to get all of my crap to fit into two suitcases and a backpack. After a little "So Long" get together at the the abode, it was choo-choo choo-boogie and off to Seattle one last time. I attempted to check my luggage, but was five pounds over the limit on one case. The solution? No, you cannot just "pay a fee" to get your heftitude onto the train, exuberant reader. You have to chuck half of your items into a box that, surprise surprise, you must buy from the line. They sold me a box, Ryan and I quickly but joyously crammed the box full and a few strips of tape later, I was on my way. This go 'round, however, I was not at a window and in yet another place (this time a train car) which smelled of incontinence. I spent the majority of my time trying not to think about the craziness involved with an airport and suitcase wrangling. There was a movie playing on the monitors in the train but it kept fuzzing out about every five seconds, so I gave it up as a bad job and tried to sleep sitting up. When I got to the station, I tried to reclaim my luggage. HA! No such luck. Some dude at the Portland end of the line had forgotten to give me a tag for the heavier (now not as heavy) suitcase and I was left with a grumpy, 7' tall blond woman telling me she needed my claim ticket or I'd have to fill out paperwork. Swell. After checking the luggage tags, noting that they matched and that the luggage was, ya know, a set, she let me on my jolly way. Outside, I grabbed a cab to the Korean Consulate.

This time the lady at the counter seemed glad to see me and after looking over the passport for several long and probably dramatically unnecessary minutes (but...it was good drama, so I kind of enjoyed it) she gave me my passport, complete with Visa. With this final step accomplished and after performing a small and gentle impromptu jig in the elevator, I hopped back into the cab and dashed to the Marriott near the airport.
Let.
Me.
Tell.
You.

The Marriott was all it was cracked up to be. The staff was smooth and helpful in a way that made me wonder if they hadn't taped a "Kick Me" sign to my back. After checking my back in the mirror, I settled into my gorgeous room. I got two beds, as I am big enough for two people (three in Korea!) and I do lurve a good sprawl. I watched a lot of TV and relaxed, taking a little jaunt out to Pike Place Market to do a bit o' souvenir-ing and trying to get used to being on my own for real. It was a great experience, except I bought this really cool Tibetan bracelet that ended up turning my wrist green (how do you say "lame" in Tibetan?). After that I jazz-leaped my way over to Nordstrom's and bought the cuff links. Not that I needed them, I just...didn't want the salespeople to think I was some kind of jerk. Come to think of it...that was dumb. I'm never going to see them again. HOWEVER! I have some gorgeous cuff links to wear when I'm feelin' fancy in my pantal region.

The next day was take off time. I spent the night previous weighing my luggage in the gym at the Marriott, trying to get them below 50 pounds. Ultimately I left a torn pair of jeans and a broken backpack behind. Big whoop. I got to the airport and there seemed to be a problem with my e-tickets but, luckily the attendant there helped me out and it was on. I had done reasonably well with the push/pull thing but wasn't too excited to repeat it in Korea. The first flight was to be just under 10 hours, but I spent the time pleasantly enough, watching movies and guessing which of the airline staff had secret affairs going on. I counted 3. They think they can hide those lingering glances but...I've seen enough prime time television to know when something is going on. Oh yes.

We had a brief and humid layover in Narita airport (Tokyo, Japan). This was the beginning of the sweat. It started slowly but by the time we boarded, it was raining from my scalp again. We stopped for an extra long time here because one of the passengers HAD to go pee pee before we reached our cruising altitude. I mean...seriously...you're getting on a 4 hour flight and you don't pee beforehand?! I mean...I hadn't but this guy should've known. He got his just desserts when I glared at the back of his head for five minutes while we spent a good half an hour getting back into flight line. He couldn't see me but the hairs on the back of his head knew shame that night.

I was antsy all the way to South Korea from Tokyo. Why? Well...the thing is...while I was at Pike Place I bought some dried fruits for my recruiter's assistant as a thank you for helping me get to Korea. When you're making your departure, they hand you this little thing asking if you're smuggling babies or produce into the country. I checked "No" on the produce and tried to convince myself that fruit lost its produce status when you dried it and put it in a Ziploc bag with a label. The rain became a monsoon and I'm certain the person on my left thought I was having a stroke or heart attack or a combo of the two with supersize fries and a diet coke. I left the plane and tried to look tired rather than nervous. I went through the line and got my passport stamped. At this point I was hot, moist, melting, irritated, nervous and feeling slightly insane, like you do when you go to an overnight party and everyone has pledged to stay up but nobody wants to. I shuffled downstairs and collected my luggage. Crazy thoughts entered my mind. Maybe I could just...open my suitcase and eat the suckers right there at the baggage claim. Maybe I could pretend that a friend had left them in there as a nice surprise for me and I had NO idea I'd even taken them with me overseas. Maybe I just walked right past the guards who accepted my claims ticket, glared and let me through. I met with my driver who spoke no English and drove exactly like I was told he would: Maniac on crack. At least it was over quickly. Seoul went past us in a blur and we ended up in Ilsan.

Ilsan looks like if Vegas had some kind of Asiatic outpost which had been organized by a 10 year old girl. Tall buildings, crammed with various businesses in their many compartments, each with a brightly colored label...in NEON! Most of Korea seems to prescribe to the Lisa Frank train of color theory: the brighter - the better. The brighter and more varied the colors and neon and a cute mascot - the best (click here for some examples of Lisa's work http://www.lisafrank.com/default.cfm?page=Gang)My co-worker, John, showed me up to my apartment. It's actually really nice. The floor is quiet. My door is keyless entry (with a keypad instead of something I have to carry around on a chain). The apartment is a studio/loft. There is no bedroom per se but there is a nice loft space above the kitchen and then the living room extends beyond the two. The bathroom is modern (no squat toilet! YAY!) with a glass partition for the shower.

I'll get to the showers in another post.

The apartment has about everything I need to survive: TV, iron, ironing board, washing machine, drying rack for clothes, pots and pans and plates and utensils, a toastah, and a bed. The bed is something my brother and mother would love. It's in the realm the bed business calls "extra firm" but which my sacroiliac calls "a pine slab". Actually it's not been bad. The only drawback is that the windows in my apartment are roughly ten feet tall. Without. Curtains. Remember where I live? Lisa Frank-threw-up-on-a-neon-factory Land? Great for advertising. Not so good for sleeping. I had my first dream a couple of nights ago. It's been rough on that end. I finally collapsed, exhausted and sweaty into bed, notified that I would be heading into work at 9 am sharp the next morning.

To be continued.

PS I may stop with the day-by-day unless something special happened and do topics instead. Or I may do both. We'll see what kind of time I'll have. Hope you're all doing well! Thanks for the comments and the e-mails!

The eagle has landed, y'all! (Part One)

So here it is: my inaugural post. I know that there are a lot of other blogs you could be reading. There are plenty of anything you could be reading; the news, a David Sedaris book, the nutritional information on the "health food" you've been eating, and in a desperate pinch "The Reader's Digest" which, given the saccharine content, is bound to give one indigestion. This blog, however, is a way for my friends and family to keep up with me as I teach baby chirruns in fabulous Ilsan, Gyeonggi in the Republic of Korea (know to us Amurricans as South Korea and referred to as the ROK from here on out).

This story started, as so many do, long before I even arrived at my destination. At times I felt that I had been thrust back into the middle ages, being given some monumental quest to undertake and prove myself worthy of my ultimate goal. To those gentle readers who don't know already, the Visa process (that's international Visa for your passport, not Visa for your $1000-a-week shopping habit) is extraordinarily lengthy. Beyond that is the incredible rigmarole you face as you actually move your life to another city/country/continent. Doing so required me to master the art of pushing one large piece of luggage whilst simultaneously dragging an even larger piece of luggage. Those of you who know me can bear witness to my inability to do most anything gracefully. I do it with flare, yes. Of course. I wouldn't be me if I didn't do it with a robust sense of style but...to do it while putting one foot in front of the other as opposed to one foot in front of the other and then into a pothole or chum bucket; it's quite a task.

I took two trips to Seattle before the whole luggage business. Well...one trip before the luggage, one trip with. The first trip was amazing to begin with. I sat in a window seat on my first train ride ever, marveling at the natural beauty of both Oregon and Washington. On the train you see parts of the states that you don't get to see any other way. It was breathtaking. I got to Seattle and stepped right out of the station, into a cab, then out of the cab and into the hotel and up to my room. It was like the movies; it couldn't have gone more smoothly. I think that was where the smoothness ended. I was unpacking my things, including a french-cuffed white shirt that I absolutely love, when I noticed that I had not packed my cuff links. Insanity. I searched twice through everything and decided that, since it wasn't there, I'd try my luck at Nordstrom's which was just up the street. Happily, I waddled into the Nordstrom's feeling that the movie magic may still have been in the air. I chose some simple but tasteful cuffs and handed my card to the natty salesman as we chatted easily about international travel and the bane of being too cultured. That's when I saw a little red sign on his monitor. He turned and simply asked for another card. I was quite certain that I'd had more than enough in the bank and so urged him to try it again. By this time I was sweating like I'd just taken a shower and forgotten to dry off. I was literally melting before his eyes. Again with the little red square. I recall, every time this happens to me, my mother relating a story about her card getting rejected. I have no idea why. Long story short: instead of leaving the store with a pair of simple/tasteful cuffs, I left with a "held item" receipt and a fat red face.

My letdowns didn't stop there, lurving reader, no no. I faced further disappointment as I went out to check my bank account. Not only did I not have the money in my account that I should have, I had only enough money to buy dinner and breakfast at the only restaurant in Seattle guaranteed not to thrill: McDonald's. Buying dinner and breakfast, however, would leave me only enough money to get my Visa the next day and leave me with no way to get back to my train station, other than walking which, considering my duffel weighed nearly as much as I, would have been some kind o' schlep. I awoke the next morning, feeling sure that my money would finally appear in my account (as the bank employee I had called previously assured me that the money would be there by Wednesday morning). I arrived at the ATM and was met with the previous balance, less the cost of my dinner. Furious, I waddle-marched back to the "hotel" and dialed the toll-free number of my "bank". I put these in quotes because, well...the hotel smelled of urine and my bank only exists in some kind of fiber optic ether. I was on the phone with the geniuses at HigherOne for the better part of 45 minutes, only to find out that the employee I had been talking to forgot to factor in the one day postponement imposed due to the holiday (Memorial Day). Nothing could be done and my money would be there the following day, which didn't help because I needed the damned cuff links for the interview I was to have in roughly two hours and I needed the extra cash to get back to the train station.

I got to my interview, sweating up a storm and wearing my french cuffs, secured with a couple of impromptu shirt button cuff links (and no, I was not wearing ONLY the french cuffs). I handed all of my materials to the lady at the desk, smiling and trying my best not to let the sweat roll down my nose. She asked for the Visa payment and I slid my card under the partition. She looked at me, as if she had looked at me time and again for the past five years, having tried the same trick over and over again, saying "I think I told you we need cash". Cash. Great. I have less than $60 in my account and no way to get out the $45 or $50 she needed. Grand. Then a crazy thought came to my mind.

"Do you take money orders?"

"Do you have a money order?"

Ah...touche. She rolled her eyes and told me just to go in and get my interview over with. Fat red face number two of my little trip. The interview...the one I went all the way to Seattle for, staying at the Ur-Inn and eating McDonalds and getting embarrassed in front of the Nordstrom's sales staff, was about two minutes long. Maximum. I came out to the waiting room and, audibly for my mostly American audience, she said "come back with money". Thanks lady. Jesus loves you even if I can't at the moment. So I left wondering where in the sparkling hell I was gonna get a money order from.

I knew I had to find a 7-11. I'd used the one near my home so many times and was sure that 7-11 would pull through for me. I asked some McDonald's employees where the nearest 7-11 establishment was and was told that it was a straight shot down about 6 or 7 blocks. Down I went 6 and even 7 blocks. 7-11? Not so much. I asked a couple of construction workers if I was on the right track. Apparently I needed to go down and over a certain number of blocks. Ah well. At least the McSmartguys didn't point me in the OPPOSITE direction. So I was on my way. I arrived at the 7-11, happy to finally be nearing completion of my now seemingly impossible task. I asked if they did money orders. Affirmative. Great, I'd like one. You don't take cards for money orders? Oh that's fine, I'll just buy something and get cash back and the buy the money order with cash. Ah, you don't do cash back. Excellent. Is there somewhere nearby that might do cash back? The response I got was an "over there" and a half-hearted nod in a general direction that could have only meant both "outside" and "get the hell out of my store". So I began to meander in a direction for several blocks. Luckily I ran into a friendly businessman who pointed me aright "just down this way and over this way". I arrived at a RightAid, which did, in fact, aid me. I bought one money order for $45 and one for $5, just in case the fee was $50. I waddle-trotted back to the Consulate and completed my $45 transaction. My good friend at the desk told me that my passport would be Visa'd by about 3:30pm which was great because my train left at 2:20. Convenience. Yes. Ahem.

After that, all I wanted to do was get back to my hotel room and relax, watching another episode of "Dirty Jobs". The one the night before was fascinating, all about how toxic pidgeons and their droppings are. I headed back to the RightAid and on my way felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked around and saw no one and that's when I noticed a flock of pidgeons passing overhead. On my left shoulder was a gentle parcel of toxic, diseased, germ-ridden pidgeon crap. Lovely. Back at the RightAid I retrieve my $5 and use their restroom to try and clean up. Amazingly, this particular RightAid used post-consumer paper towels which, in the process of cleaning the poo off, managed to leave their own brand of flaky, fibrous droppings. By the time I was done, it looked like I had been barfed on and then pushed into the sawdust by a couple of mean second graders. $5 in hand, I asked the store clerk if there was a way to get back to the train station. As it transpired there was a free ride zone, of which I took great advantage.

As I neared home, I took out my phone and called my friend Ryan for a ride. The operator living inside of my phone chimed in and let me know that my phone was disconnected and that, should I choose, I could reinstate my phone within 30 minutes.

Not without the proper funds, sweetheart.

Without a phone all I had left (after a nauseating meal of a water and a Snickers bar, no time for McDonalds) was $1.50. It wasn't enough for a bus ride to Ryan's place (where I was staying until my ultimate departure) but it WAS enough for three phone calls. My first fifty cents were eaten by a phone, which charged me even though I hadn't gotten through. The second and third fifty cents were stored in a paper dollar bill which, upon inserting said dollar into a vending machine to get change back, was promptly eaten. Luckily, a train attendant saw my problem and offered me the use of the station phone.

Long story VERY short, I got a ride from Jon Hastings, a marvelous friend from church, who went WAY out of his way to come and pick my crazy self up and drop me like a trig class at Ryan's.

The fun was just beginning.