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”.
