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.