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.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
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)
-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)
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
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!
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!
Thursday, September 11, 2008
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.
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.
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