Not-So-Sexy Kitten

We knew it was sketchy when there wasn’t even a sign on the building, just big, black numbers reading “1121″, which matched the address printed on my Groupon receipt. My suspicions were confirmed when, after being let into the building by a waify, pale girl, the door to Suite 106 read “sprinkler system”. We called the phone number, and an angry sounding woman answered.

“Hi” I said. “We are supposed to meet Lolita at eleven for beginner pole dancing, but we can’t seem to find the right room. Suite 106 says sprinkler system.”

“She’ll be there soon,” the woman answered curtly.

“Wait, but are we in the right place? The door is locked, and it says sprinkler system,” I say, suppressing a laugh. Why do Josey and I always seem to end up in these situations?

“Lolita is on her way”, the woman replies, and hangs up.

We go outside to stand in the sun and take a few deep breaths. We are both incredibly hungover, and realize that spinning around a pole is probably not the best cure for headaches and nausea, but we are committed because Lolita is on her way.

Soon she pulls up, gets out of her car, and introduces herself as Helen, or Lolita, whichever we prefer. She has already been Lolita in my head since I scheduled this class, so calling her Helen just doesn’t seem right. And who wants to learn how to pole dance from a girl named Helen anyway?

We go into Suite 106 and it isn’t the sprinkler system at all. It’s a dimly lit room with two antique couches and a display of feathery, tassel-laden lingerie and high heels. Through some velvety curtains is the studio lined with mirrors and equipped with six shiny, intimidating stripper poles.

Josey and I sign a waiver saying that if we manage to flip ourselves upside down on the pole and lose our grip, crashing down to the floor and giving ourselves a concussion, Lolita will not be liable. Then we get up and stand next to one of the poles and wait for Lolita to tell us how to be sexy.

Before she says anything, she takes off her clothes. I guess it’s more natural that way, but I leave my pants on. Baby steps.

The first move is called the Sexy Fireman, and it is then that I realize my sweaty hand syndrome is going to be a huge hindrance in my pole dancing future.  I grip the pole, cross my ankles, and spin, only to come sliding down in the most ungraceful, unsexy manner. I wipe my hands on my shirt and grip the pole again. I am shaking from last night’s alcohol surging through my body, but I steady myself and try the Fireman again. I don’t slide this time, but I must’ve had too much momentum because I go spinning around at what feels like 100 miles an hour—also not sexy.

I look over at Josey and she isn’t doing much better than I am. She’s got the grip, but one of her legs is splayed out to the side like a dog peeing on a fire hydrant.

The next move is called the Sexy Cartwheel, and involves gracefully circling your legs in front of you in a wheel shape, one after the other, in one fluid leap. I look over at Josey again, and she’s got the death grip on the pole as she holds her breath and jumps both legs to the left. I try, and bang my shin against the pole as I try to sweep my legs over the side.

“Slowly, gracefully,” says Lolita, who manages to make us feel extremely awkward, even though she’s the one in her underwear.

After the failed Sexy Cartwheel, we take a break from the pole and move to the floor for Sexy Kitten and Wag the Tail. I slide around a bit, whipping my hair when she tells me to, and “wagging my tail”, even though none of it feels sexy, and my hangover is only getting more miserable. We use the Sexy Get-Up to move into a standing position, which is a combination of a squat and the “bend and snap” move from Legally Blonde.

Back at the pole, we move to the Four Corners Dance, which doesn’t require gripping the pole—a nice break for my sweaty palms. This is the first time I feel like I’m doing something right and manage to forget about my throbbing head as I frolick around the pole to Enrique Iglesias singing “Tonight I’m  F***ing You” (the unedited version).

The last move we learn is called the Dragonfly, and basically involves leaning backwards against the pole with your feet about four feet in front of you and hip distance apart. You then thrust your pelvis up and down while making “come hither” motions with your knees (her words, not mine). The way Lolita introduces this move is by saying, “you guys remember the old classic, the Dragonfly, right?”, as if this was something we may have experienced growing up. And although it did look like a move one might make while giving birth, I’m pretty sure the Dragonfly was not something my Mom ever did around the house when I was little.

With ten minutes left of class, and our hangovers at peak intensity, Lolita asks us to choose our favorite moves and combine them into a sexy routine. I decide to give it my all, and I wipe off my palms and muster up some strength. I combine the Fireman with the Cartwheel, slide to floor and Sexy Kitten my way into the Sexy Get-Up. Lolita looks proud of me, which is a sentence I never though I would ever write.

We exit the studio and return to real life. It feels like years have passed, and I can already feel calluses growing on my hands.

All I know is that I have a new-found admiration for woman who make dancing on a pole look effortless, and from now on I’ll probably think twice before buying any old Groupon that comes along.

Budgeting

I have become a master scrounger. Bargains, freebies and thrifty steals call out to me like a foghorn in a sea of overpriced boutiques and eateries. Living in an exciting city like Portland, with too much time and not enough money, narrowing down activities that are easy on the pocketbook is crucial for survival. Luckily, I inherited frugality from my Dad, and seem to naturally drift toward cheapo fun. For this post, I have broken down thrifty living into these three categories: Food, Fun, and Hygiene.

Food: Anyone who has ever perused the bulk section in the grocery store knows the importance of sampling. Now, imagine, the bulk aisle transforms into an acre of stalls—the white flour bin suddenly becomes barrels of organic apples, the maple granola morphs into dark chocolate-coated cherries , and the trail mix turns into pistachio encrusted chèvre—each stall offering a self-service sampling of the local, gourmet goods. Welcome to the Farmer’s Market. Give yourself an hour, and you can munch your way from starving to bloated (I don’t know why they put the salsa booth next to the fudge…) without spending a dime.

Fun: The words “frugal fun” bring me right back to seventh grade when, without a drivers license or adequate allowance, fun was found in the form of dress up and prank calling. I’d like to think that much has changed since then, but dress up is still one of my favorite activities. One of the best places to find great costume material is “the Bins”, a giant warehouse full of troughs that are piled high with Goodwill rejects. Yes, these items were rejected from Goodwill, and are one grimy truckload away from the landfill. Be prepared to wade through pit-stained tees and soggy sweats to find the gold, and as my friend advises, wear gloves, avoid the needles, and breath through your mouth. Once you’ve made your selection you walk up to the cashier, dump your findings on a scale, and pay by the pound. Last week, I paid $4.75 for a Columbia fleece, blue blazer and black pleather Dominatrix dress. Not bad, eh?

Hygiene: Luckily my penny-pinching hasn’t led to eliminating bathing, and I hope it never does; however, deodorant is ridiculously expensive for being a waxy, glorified cancer stick, so I have developed a better method for smelling nice. The first floor of Nordstrom is stacked with beauty and perfume counters, a breeding ground for sample size freebies. Without committing to a purchase, one can simply act interested in a product and leave with a trial size 0.5 ounce portion. It’s the perfect way to get a wallet-sized spritzer for days when showering  just doesn’t fit into the schedule. Unlike Farmer’s Market, these samples are not given out by the armful, and this generous service should not be abused by greedily collecting from all the counters every day of the week, but tough times call for a little extra help, and if a Jo Malone perfume spray helps me win big in that interview, it was totally worth it. I promise to go buy the real thing with my first paycheck, maybe.

brunch @ screen door

dirty mittens show @ eat mobile festival

a few stragglers @ eat mobile

Home

After much contemplation, I have decided to revive the blog, and though it might no longer be appropriate to call it “Catch Me If You Korean” (“Catch Me If You Ameri-Can” is more fitting anyhow), I’m not going to change the name.

Some people claim to experience reverse culture shock, as if being thrown back into the country in which you spent 95% of your life would be as confusing and strange as stepping foot in, say, Korea for the first time. I had never believed this was possible until it happened to me.

Arriving at the Seattle Airport with a wide load of luggage spilling over the $4 smarte carte, offensive body odor, and bloodshot eyes from watching three consecutive movies in the dark during the flight, I drifted toward Starbucks and picked up a salad from the cooler case. Like a zombie, I placed my items on the counter and waited for the cashier to type the price on a calculator for me, just like the friendly Korean cashiers do in case I don’t understand the language. But she didn’t. She just asked me a question in lightning-fast English, and expected me to respond just as quickly. With a dumb look on my face, I fumbled around for the dollars buried at the bottom of my bag. I still hadn’t spoken at this point, but at the last minute before walking away I turned back, made slow eating motions, and said, “fork?”  The cashier, obviously confused as to why I was air-chewing, handed over a plastic fork from a jar in front of me.

Blame it on the jet lag, or the strong, Oregon beer I had at the airport bar, but I just couldn’t manage a normal interaction with anyone that first day back. English sounded so abrasive compared to delightful Korean chatter, and I was constantly distracted by all the eavesdropping I could now enjoy.

Things got better, even if jet lag woke me up at 4:30 every morning, and I quickly fell back into my old habits of eating Nancy’s yogurt for every meal and playing with my gay cat, Buttons. Even though sometimes it feels like I haven’t really changed, personal growth and maturity have revealed themselves in little ways. For instance, at the dentist I was able to politely refuse the syrupy dental hygienist’s forceful suggestion to have my teeth X-rayed for the third time since last April. Usually I crumble under the “doctor knows best” credo, but that day I stated, as clearly as I could with that tiny mirror pressing against my tongue, “No thankth Kathy, no X-rayth today.” After much protesting on her part—her blue lids batting in befuddlement—she backed off and gave me the silent treatment while flossing my pearly whites. Kathy did perk up however, after I told her about my friend getting a tattoo on the inside of her lip that read “BUTTS”.

Finishee

I don’t know how to sum up my six months in Korea into one blog post, worthy of all the adventures and memories, but here it goes. I didn’t have any grand epiphanies, but I can offer a few Final Thoughts, similar to the end of a Jerry Springer episode, but hopefully less revolting.

Exactly six months ago, I wasn’t even sure if going to Korea was a sure thing, and all I knew about the country was that Seoul is the capital, but now I understand what Mr. Jung means when he says I was Korean in another life. I think that in itself is pretty spectacular, and has shown me that, when you mix together a desire to travel, some spontaneity, and a few Google searches, the possibilities are endless.

I have never wanted to be a teacher, and I still don’t, but there are definitely worse things than hanging out with silly Korean children all day, being taught funny pranks like dongchim (where a student sticks his or her finger in the butt of an unsuspecting victim), learning that the word for wrist is “hand neck”, and being forced to question everything I knew about animal sounds being universal. In Korea, frogs don’t “ribbet” they “geggul geggul”, and dogs “mung mung”, and cats “yow yow”.

I will always be paranoid about writing someone’s name in red, because here that means death is imminent. The streets will seem quieter without the constant K-Pop blasting out of the stationary stores, and I might get lost at night without the neon signs lighting my way home.

And please be patient with me if, when I see you next, I       speak     very    slowly    and    enunciate    every    word    more    than    necessary      and if I’m miming things like “I am hungry”, or  cross my arms in a X shape when saying “no”.  Or when I add vowel sounds to the end of everything, like “cheese-uh”, “beach-ee”, or my personal favorite “finish-ee”. These habits have become second nature, and it will take some time to break them.

Also, excuse me if I am reaching across the table and eating off your plate, even at fancy restaurants, because here meals are communal, and I will most likely get bored with my one dish very quickly.

Moving here was the best decision I could’ve made, having just graduated university, and although the experience has been unforgettable in millions of ways, I am ready to move on to whatever may be next, whether it’s working in Portland or volunteering in Haiti.

If any of you readers have had the slightest inclination to do what Josey and I did, my only advice is DO IT. Don’t worry if you don’t like kimchi or are worried about being a good teacher. You will learn to make the most of (and maybe love) both of those things, while meeting great friends and, did I mention getting a generous salary?

Tomorrow I leave for Southeast Asia for one month… but I’ll leave you with the last batch of Korean photos.

Wise Man

Two profound things have happened to me in the last week. I’ll start with the most important and most recent one: my encounter with a real-life wise man.

It was a cold and windy Korean night and I had just finished teaching 8 classes of rambunctious third graders. My options for the evening were either lesson plan for tomorrow or go to the supercool gym I just joined (profound thing #2–I’ll get to this later). I opted for the gym, but it was a struggle to get out of my cozy apartment and onto the bus, packed like sardines with Hyundai Motors employees returning from work.

After my workout I chose to take a cab home, which is rare, but it was so cold I couldn’t stand at the bus stop any longer. A cab happened to be loitering at a nearby corner, so I hopped in, and was greeted by and enthusiastic “Hellowhereareyoufrom??”

This was no ordinary soap opera-watching, race car-driving cabbie. Daniel, as I soon learned was his English name, had majored in French literature and history from Seoul National University, and spoke perfect English. He also knew an extensive amount about Oregon. We spoke some French together, and then he told me he wanted to move to America for one extremely important reason: a girl.

As soon as he started telling me this story, I could tell his mind had gone from finding my apartment to reliving those glorious days of being in love. His driving slowed, he was gazing off into the distance (which made me a little nervous) and his voice seemed to raise just a notch. Her name was Patricia, and they wrote letters back and forth (remember letters?) for years when they were growing up. Then, when he moved to university, he lost her address, and could only remember that she was from Grand Rapids, Michigan.

“My heart died that day”, he told me. “I have loved her for 25 years, and my heart still aches for her every day.”

At this point, we were going the completely wrong direction of my apartment, so he turned off the meter and said he wouldn’t charge me, if he could finish his story. I said, “Of course, this is one of the most romantic things I’ve ever heard.”

He spent years searching for her and waiting to hear from her, but there was nothing. Eventually he fell in love and married a Korean woman, but she died not long into their marriage.

But this is where the story gets exciting. Using the all-knowing powers of the internet,  he tracked her down and learned she is a schoolteacher in Alabama, but for some reason his emails keep being returned. I could tell the anticipation of finally making contact with her, after years and years agonizing over their lost connection, was driving him mad.

“Will you help me?” he asked.

This encounter was unraveling like a scene from a chick flick, so I thought, if this were actually a movie, there’s no way the girl would refuse to help the lonely, love-struck taxi driver. So I decided to dive right in and agree to help him. He gave me her name and all the information he had about her, as well as his contact information, in case I found her and needed to pass on his phone number.

We finally found my apartment, but I sat in the taxi for another 15 minutes listening to him tell me about how life has ups and downs, and how we must cherish the beauty in every moment because we never know when everything might change in an instant.

“If I’d known that losing her address would be the worst mistake I’d ever make, I would’ve tattooed it to my chest.”

So that was my encounter with the wise man. I will never forget him and his lazy driving, romantically tragic life, and thoughtful words to live by. Patricia Kuhn, from Grand Rapids, Michigan, there is a Koran taxi driver who hasn’t stopped loving you for 25 years.

Profound thing #2 is that I have found Korea’s hidden asset: spinning class. Dressed in the provided black gym outfit, I dance on a bike for an hour while sweating bullets. The moves are choreographed and the disco ball has flashing neon strobe lights, but I wouldn’t expect anything less from Korea.  It’s invigorating, and I’ve added it to the list of Korean things I will miss when I leave in two short weeks.

An Attempt At Poetry

We just returned from our Winter vacation travels around Korea. Long bus rides led to this feeble, yet hopefully entertaining, poetic account of our trip. Try to ignore the extra syllables stuck in places they don’t belong.

We’re leaving Ulsan on a holiday break,

not sure if we’re making a silly mistake.

Not knowing the language can make it real rough

to figure out all of that critical stuff,

like busses and taxis and cheap love motels,

and avoiding those foods causing Jimmy’s “Peanut Hell”

We made it from Ulsan to Yeosu and Boseong,

while wearing a hat with a monkey’s long fur dong.

In Boseong we ate, sipped, and soaked in green tea,

then headed to Mokpo to feast on kalbi.

These sleepy ghost towns weren’t all that exciting,

so we watched MTV in the motel black-lighting.

Next came the best little town of them all,

a place called Jeoju, where the buildings are small,

the police aren’t scary, the houses are old

and the wine is for tasting, which helps in the cold.

On the corner is where we met Rocky and Rex,

who served us cold beer and a ton of tex-mex.    

We played cribbage and jenga, and listened to Zepplin,

it was getting real late, like almost eleven.

I screamed like a baby at the crashing-down tower,

and then screamed again at the sideways-jet shower.

That morning we woke to a blanket of snow,

and searched for some food- Where is it? I don’t know!!  

Map in hand, we looked for Jeonju bibimbap

after walking in circles a cab found the spot.

Gold bowls filled with rice, egg and long veggie strands,

and a cook who went pee without washing her hands.

We scarfed, even though Josey’s tooth has a wobble

from a highly-debatable shower-head squabble.    

Then I sat in a humongous pelican beak

that smelled like the homeless had taken a leak.

By now it was time to say farewell to Jeonju

and get on another long bus ride to Muju,

a town at the base of a magical mountain,

with skiing and sledding, and maybe a fountain?  

By now Jimmy’d suffered through Tyra’s “Top Model”

and then had to pee in a bus water bottle.

Whiskey and house wine on the way to the top

left us cold and confused when we missed our bus stop.

We trekked through the snow for a warm place to dine

and Oh Thank You God saw the Dominos sign.    

Pizza, sweet pickles, and fake garlic slop,

was this really worth the trip up to the top?

Too late to go sledding, too poor for a villa,

we sat and drank coffee, and saved up our scrilla.

Two hours, four crosswords and one arcade later,

we found the right bus with the help of a waiter.  

Down off the hill, we were not filled with woes,

at least we still have all our fingers and toes.

I snuck into a motel, which left us all snickering,

but lay wide awake as the light kept on flickering.

Power on, power off, it insisted on strobing,

eyes open, eyes closed, in my brain it was probing.    

Eight hours later we’re holding back tears,

but now we can head up to Seoul for New Years.

Squashed on a bus, a man sleeps on my shoulder,

at least he prevents me from getting much colder.

In this sub-zero weather, it’s that much I owe him,

plus, it’s material for this silly poem.

Arriving in Seoul our bones turned into ice,  

so we found a warm cafe with hot soup and rice.

The city was lit up with bright decorations,

preparing for that night’s New Years celebrations.

But before we could party it up in the streets,

we had to go purchase some beer, wine and treats.  

I loaded the card and charged to the plastic,

but who cares? This city is f***ing fantastic.

11 p.m., one hour till countdown,

we hopped on the subway and headed toward downtown.

Folks from all over the world filled the streets,

with fireworks, sparklers, and hot street food eats.  

We pushed through the mob toward the big, famous bell,

thousands of people—was a claustrophobe’s Hell.

Goodbye 2009! Anyang eh kaseyo!

New Years resolution? Avoid foods with mayo.

The crowd was real rowdy, must not lost my wallet!

as we welcomed “o-ten”, as Jimmy will call it.  

New Years in Seoul? Sure does beat Eugene

(though I always will love my yellow and green)

Christmas

My clock reads 23:59, leaving one minute left of Christmas 2009, the most un-Christmassy Christmas I have ever celebrated, but cheery nonetheless. Hiking in a lovely pine forest, sledding on fake snow, and making a scrumptious (non-Korean) feast can only leave a person smiling and happily immobile from too much holiday food.

Next comes a week of traveling along the West coast of Korea until we make it to Seoul for New Years Eve. This might be the last chance I get to explore the other half of this little gem of a country.

Happy holidays to all you blog-followers. I love knowing you’re out there and interested in my adventure over in the land of Hello Kitty, cartoon mascots and penis parks.

Here are a few pictures from the last week or so. Much love this holiday season…

Show Me the Money

First it was the plastic surgery ads on the bus, showing liposuction and eyelid slicing demos on the TV screen for everyone to watch on their way to work. Then it was all the designer knock-off carts along the streets, the “Ogg” boots, and the lack of any cars from before 2003.  Presentation and image are highly regarded in Korea, often more so than reality. You must have a logo on your shirt, your Hyundai must still have that new car smell, and you get bonus points for having gone under the knife at some point, even if your salary is less than the cost of a one of those knock-off Louis Vuittons.

When this desire to gloss over the bad is combined with Korea’s obsession with education (especially English), severe consequences arise. I have students in class that are falling far behind their peers because of obvious learning disabilities, but who are overlooked by their teachers and school because the overall progress of the class would slow if they gave those kids special attention. On the rare occasion that I am even warned about a student’s disability, they are referred to as “troublemaker” or, in one case, “hopeless”. The pressure on Korean students is high enough, despite the lack of assistance for those requiring more one-on-one attention, and sometimes I feel guilty for contributing to this rigid education system.

After public school is out, students go to a private English Academy (called a Hagwan) where they study until 10 or 11 at night. Even elementary-aged kids. Middle school and high school students stay even later, until almost 1 am in some cases. Then they wake up and do it all again, 6 days a week.  I have asked many Korean teachers how they feel about this outrageous system and I haven’t met one that believes it’s a good idea. This crackdown on English fluency by age 18 only started about 10 years ago, and has become increasingly demanding each year. That explains why the government is willing to pay under-qualified 20-something foreigners a luxurious salary to be here.

Appearance and presentation take many forms, often more lighthearted than the troubling prison system they call English education. For example, the other night I went out to dinner with Mr. Jung and a few co-teachers to celebrate the end of the semester. We went to a fancy Italian restaurant and I immediately started drooling before even opening the menu. We ordered $30 steaks, soup, and a smoked salmon salad to start. I couldn’t contain my excitement as the waiter approached carrying many large, beautiful platters full of our food. The first thing placed on the table was the platter of sweet pickle slices. Next came the salmon salad— a pile of shredded iceberg lettuce smothered in mayonnaise and tossed with a stingy handful of cubed salmon chunks and sliced black olives, elegantly placed in a decorative porcelain bowl, of course. The steaks were delicious, but barely the size of my palm, and were garnished with one measly slice of tomato. I left starved. The bill was over $200.

Tonight was another teachers’ dinner, but at a traditional Korean restaurant where the chefs know what their doing, both in making the food and serving it. There were over 30 dishes, and all delicious. On the way home, I rode with a funny man named Johnson, and interrogated him about what to do for his girlfriend for Christmas. I asked him about romance in Korea, something I have not cared to experience first-hand, and he gave me some very insightful information.

For the reasonable price of about 300,000 Won ($300), you can hire “date planners” to set up a romantic evening for you and your significant other. They will come to your house, prepare a T-bone steak, blow up some balloons, sprinkle rose petals on the floor and bed, sing a few songs, and take (and frame) pictures of the happy couple. I thought this was a joke, until I looked at Johnson’s face and saw the look of sheer disappointment that he cannot afford to do this for his girlfriend. I tried telling him that all that hooplah really doesn’t matter and planning a nice date on his own is just as meaningful, but I don’t think he believed me.  I wanted to tell him that this date-planning business sounded more embarrassing than romantic, but he would have been offended, and we still had a good 15 minutes left in the car together. He said, instead, for Christmas he’s just going to buy her a diamond-encrusted gold cross necklace. I said, that sounds great, and then we sat in silence and I watched his GPS screen take me home.

DVD Banging

Aside from the jimjilbang (bathhouse), another Korean past time that I would like to bring back to the U.S. is the DVD bang. Bang means room (there are many great  bangs in Korea—DVD bang, jimjilbang, noraebang, sarangbang…) but a DVD bang is like your own private movie theater. Imagine it’s a Friday night and you don’t want to stay home and watch a movie on your tiny laptop screen, but you don’t feel like the bars either. The DVD bang is the perfect in between, the best of both worlds. Social activity with minimal effort, plenty of entertainment, and all the food and booze you want to bring into your own private theatre.

There is at least one on every corner, so if one doesn’t have the movie you want, you just pop on over to another next door. The entrance walls are lined with DVDs, ranging from Pixar to porn, and once you’ve made your selection, you’re ushered to a small room where you’ll find a large, cozy bed/couch and a movie theatre screen spanning the whole wall.

The only downside to DVD bangs? They might was well be Love Motels for high schoolers, so it’s wise to rent a loud movie that can drown out any neighboring nookie.

While the frigid weather has made DVD bang-ing a regular activity, it also makes the school kids extremely restless because they can’t expel all their energy out on the playground, and must do it in my classroom instead. This wasn’t a problem until three weeks ago, when the curriculum changed and I had to start teaching out of this horribly boring Phonics workbook. The kids have been miserable, which makes me miserable, so last week I decided to throw them a bone and let them just act crazy. I taught them the song “Five Little Monkeys”, which is about five monkeys jumping on a bed and one-by-one they each fall and bump their head. The kids loved it and acted it out over and over again for an hour, two days in a row. I think I earned their love back after that and they’ve been putting up with Phonics Hell ever since.

There’s not much to say about Thanksgiving other than while all of you were eating stuffing and pumpkin pie I was eating seaweed soup and fish cakes. I can’t believe it’s already December. Time here is flying by, and I’m already anticipating how much I’m going to miss it here.

Pizza

I have been adopted by a second grade teacher at my school— at least for the next 2 months. This is the family that took me to the temples, the park, and to see that horrible movie 2012 that I had to pretend I liked because they all loved it and kept asking if California really looks like that. I said yes, minus the giant earth cracks and tsunamis. After the movie, we went out for dim sum and noodle soup, both of which are eaten with chopsticks. Our table was right in front of the restaurant’s TV, so most of the people were staring in my  direction for the duration of our meal.

The dim sum fell apart immediately once I grabbed (stabbed) it with my chopsticks, creating a messy pile of meat and veggies on the table. I gathered the hot filling into a napkin and moved onto the noodle soup. Trying to eat slimy noodles with metal chopsticks is like trying to round up fifty slithery snakes with one stick, and then put them in your mouth. I splattered and burned myself a dozen times, with the restaurant audience watching me instead of the TV.

Most of what I do with this family revolves around food, which is not a problem. Last night I taught them how to make pizza. They picked me up at my apartment and we went to Home Plus to buy the ingredients. I said we needed sauce, and they took me to the ketchup aisle. I asked what they like on their pizza and they said ham, corn, and sweet potato, so that’s what we bought. The mom bought octopus, but luckily she didn’t ask to put that on the pizza too. Turns out, a pizza lesson is not a small affair in the Korean home, because they invited another family over for dinner, and suddenly the pressure was on. I immediately forgot how to make the dough, how hot the oven should be in Celsius, or how long to bake it for. I dropped the rolling pin and got flour all over the place, couldn’t open the tomato sauce jar, and my eyes started watering profusely while cutting the onions.  I meegooked my way around the kitchen, and it wasn’t long until the pizza was hot and bubbly right out of the oven. We served the guests and I watched as they tried to eat it with chopsticks. First they’d rip it apart, then gather the toppings and cheese onto a small section of crust, but it would slide off on the way to their mouth. It took about 20 minutes to eat one slice. Who’s laughing now?!?

There are also new pictures of friends, some of my students who put on a great English play, and the little suburb of Ulsan called Eonyang here