You Know That You've Been in Korea Land Too Long When...

As I near the one year anniversary of my arrival to Korea, I find myself less and less observant of the crazy World of Korea Land. A random parade of giant golden frog statues on the backs of pickup trucks, flying through Deokcheon at dinner time? Big deal. Random Korean food stuffs? Whatever. If it's not still moving, I've probably already tried it (gotta draw the line somewhere). Two particular incidents over the past week have led me to realize that perhaps I've been here just a touch too long.

Over the past year, I've collected some random Konglish t-shirts to bring home as hilarious presents for Whoever. Konglish t-shirts are essentially just t-shirts that say random English words on them, or words that are almost English, in some bizarre order, with hilarious potentially consequences. I was looking through the t-shirts that I had bought over the year, when it dawned on me: I no longer find the Konglish t-shirts that I bought in my first few months here funny. I was appalled to discover that I had purchased such weak examples of Konglish t-shirts. Having been spoiled by the sight of awesome Konglish t-shirts on a daily basis, I no longer have any concept of what constitutes just a slightly funny Konglish t-shirt. Some days, the level of my English has dipped so low, that I can hardly distinguish between Konglish and proper English. A sad, but, true story. I spent five minutes in a boutique the other day trying to figure out if I would have found a t-shirt that said "wet heads" in huge letters, with other random words underneath, regarding keeping your friends close, funny. Conclusion? If I have to ask, I've been here too long.

There are roughly 800 hospitals in my immediate neighbourhood, to accommodate the 62000 Koreans who live within a 3 meter proximity to me. This only a slight exaggeration. There are so many hospitals in my immediate area, that one would have to try hard not to see a random hospital patient wandering around the streets in their gown, wheeling an IV drip alongside them, at least a couple of times per week. The first day that I encountered one of these, the patient looked particular ill and walked with a limp. I was convinced that she was a zombie and went home scared. This week when I encountered a pair of men sitting outside of the Home Plus (grocery store), both in hospital gowns and hooked up to IV drips, just chillin' out, I didn't even look twice. It didn't even dawn on me until hours later that two guys hanging out at a busy intersection in hospital gowns, hooked up to needles, is fucking bizarre. I'm not from Vancouver; I'm not used to that shit. Or rather, I'm not used to being used to that shit. I don't like being used to that shit! That shit is whack.

I could continue all day with further illustrations of how I've clearly been here too long, but won't, because it's almost 6am and I still have two fried computers to fix. Let's just say that my trip home in November can't possibly come too soon.

(As an aside, I will likely be back early next year, and will be continuing the blog from home either way. I look forward to pissing on Canada for a few months)

Barbie and the Pusan Bank Incident - Part 2

As I was waiting to have my money wired home from the local Pusan Bank, The Boss Man and the bank tellers chatted back and forth at one another. The Boss Man did his best to work as a translator between us.

The Boss Man: They say you can send 300 000 won now. Ok?
Me: Why only 300 000 won?
The Boss Man: They say 300 000 won most foreigners can send. Ok?
Me: No. I have to pay VISA. Tell them to look at my papers, which clearly indicate that I’ve twice sent much more than that.

The Boss Man and the bank tellers chat amongst themselves for a while again.

The Boss Man: They say new rule. 300 000 only. Only more if you can show them pay.
Me: You mean the pay stubs that you give me which show how much you paid me? I have those. All of those. Right here. *point to the stack of pay stubs on the counter in front of me, which the tellers had refused to take from me earlier*

The Boss Man looked relived that this might be over, and handed the pay stubs to the tellers. They chatted further, and The Boss Man began to look slightly less relieved.

The Boss Man: They say 300 000 won for foreigner.
Me: WHY?
The Boss Man: New rule.
Me: They said I needed pay stubs. We gave them those. Tell them that I’ve done this process with other branches of Pusan Bank and there was no problem.

The Boss Man and the bank tellers chat amongst themselves again. One of them picks up a phone, which The Boss Man explains to me is a translator who is going to explain to me what is going on. While The Boss Man’s English is good enough to get by, it’s not quite sufficient for explaining bigoted, fabricated bank policies.

Translator: Next time you uh, uh… Pusan Bank, you need uh.. more information.
Me: More information?
Translator: Documents. You need..
Me: Passport? Alien card? Pay stubs? The guy who pays me sitting right here? Bank information for Canada? Previous Pusan Bank statements which indicate that transfers have been made before? What else could they possibly need?
Translator: When send more than uh, uh, 300 uh, hundred… no, 300 thousand.. need documents. Legal…
Me: I have any legal documentation that they could possibly need. This is not a legal matter; this is a matter of institutionalized bigotry. I even have the guy who pays me, legally, sitting right here, and they can’t wire my money?!

Just short of breaking out into a tirade of expletives, I pounded the phone on the counter. “I’m done talking to him”, I told The Boss Man. The translation service that the bank called actually employed a guy who didn’t have working knowledge of English numbers, and spoke even poorer English than The Boss Man. And he was supposed to be able to properly explain imaginary bank policies to me? Oh.

The Boss Man and the tellers chatted again for a while, looking a touch uncomfortable to be in the presence of somebody so seemingly volatile. This went on for at least 5 more minutes – the bank tellers would explain something to The Boss Man, he would try to explain it to me, and I’d tell him to tell the bank tellers that I thought their bank was bigoted, that there was no reason they couldn’t send my money home, and that if they weren’t going to send it home immediately, I wanted to close my account. Now. I then pulled out my KB card (another bank here) and told him to tell them that I’d go there, where perhaps racism wasn’t all the rage. He was confused as to what I meant by racism. I pointed at my cheek and told him that they’d wire my money to Canada if I didn’t look so foreign. It was about this time that I started to feel a little bit embarrassed for having made The Boss Man the official translator between my temper tantrum and the fucking bank tellers.

In the end, the bank tellers agreed to wire my money that day, so long as The Boss Man promised to fax them something that they already had right in front of them: proof of payment from the place of employment listed on my working VISA. When I got back to Barbie Hagwon with The Boss Man, he had Rambo Teacher explain to me what the bank translator couldn’t: that Pusan Bank had a new, imaginary bank policy, whereby if you send more than 3 million won (about 3000 dollars) out of the country in one year, you need your boss to complete some bullshit paperwork in order to send any more. When The Boss Man then asked it was okay now, I nearly went off again. But then I realized he was just asking if I understood – not if I liked it. And really, The Boss Man was fantastic throughout this entire ordeal. So, I told him that all was well and thanked him profusely for his assistance.

I can’t even being to comprehend how utterly, fucking stupid this entire situation was. I later consulted with several of my friends, who also used Pusan Bank, to confirm my suspicion that my local branch was creating bank policy out of their asses. There was no legal reason for them to make it so difficult for me to wire money home. This was not a universal Pusan Bank policy. There wasn’t a single piece of documentation that they could have asked for that I didn’t have with me. The very man who sponsored my working VISA, the address of who’s institution is permanently etched on said VISA, who pays me out of his own Pusan Bank account, was sitting right there, with identification! Yet, they couldn’t just do their job. They were simply dicking me around because nobody has yet distributed the memo around Korea that dicking around foreigners just because you can, isn’t cute. My temper tantrum, complete with accusations of bigotry and cries of institutionalized racism, wasn’t exactly cute either. But that’s what it took

The Boss Man and I decided that next time I should go to a larger branch. I decided that if I have any hassles from Pusan Bank again, I will close my account with them. I’ve been here 10 months, and this is the first time I’ve had to deal with bullshit of this magnitude. Really, I’m fortunate. That said, if this nonsense ever becomes the norm here, I won’t be back.

Barbie and the Pusan Bank Incident - Part 1

Fuck Pusan Bank.

A couple of weeks ago, I swung by the Pusan Bank near my school so that I could wire some money home. Sending money home so that I can pay off the disgusting load of bills that are waiting for me in Canada Land is the primary reason that I came to Korea. Seeing the world and pretending that I’ve become more culturally enlightened is fun and all, but if it didn’t pay to be here I’d still be drinking Coors Light at my local drinking hole, wondering why opening day of the NHL season isn’t a national holiday. Anything that comes between me and the dissolution of my disgusting load of bills provokes ire that can only be extinguished by my causing a minor public spectacle.

While I had heard that dealing with the banks in Korea has the potential to be loads of hassle for a foreigner, my own experiences had been positive. Whenever I needed to send money home I made a point of bringing every piece of legal identification and paperwork involving payments (from my legal place of work) that I had at my disposal. Nobody had actually bothered to look at my pay stubs in the three times that I had wired money home, and one didn't even bother with my alien card, but no matter: I kept bringing them with me, in the off chance that this branch would require them.

Given that I usually spend no more than 20 minutes at the bank when I’m wiring money to Canada, I thought that the 50 minutes I had between classes that day would be plenty. Everything proceeded as usual, right up until the point that the girl who clearly had no idea what she was doing was asked to take over and finish the job that the guy who did know what he was doing, had been doing. How could this possibly fail?! After taking approximately 5 minutes to learn the system and sort out what exactly she was supposed to be doing, the woman proceed to stare at the computer screen and look confused. For ten minutes. Ten fucking minutes. Occasionally, when she noticed me glance at her with impatience, she would fiddle with the papers in front of her and pretend to do something. Then she would go back to staring. She eventually gave up trying to mentally manipulate the objects on the screen so that they’d make sense to her, and called the original bank teller back over. The two of them jabbered for a while, and then began speaking to me in Korean. Because the first several times that they tried to do this, where I explicitly told them I didn’t speak Korean, indicated to them that it would be a good expenditure of everybody’s time if they explained bank policy to each other, as I watched.

As it was clear that I was going to be late for my class at this point, I called The Boss Man. After explaining to him that I was having issues at the bank and didn’t understand what the hold up was, he told me that he’d be right over to bail me out. That was unexpected. I had expected him to be at least moderately annoyed with me, and hadn’t even considered the possibility that he’d come down to the bank to help me out. I had clearly underestimated his degree of awesome.

Teacher, There’s a Hole in Your Face!

Earlier this week when I was at the corner store picking up something or other, the man at the counter inquired as to whether or not my face hurt. A valid question, if you think that having a nose piercing results in constant, unrelenting pain. If you’ve never before seen somebody who is willing to poke a hole in the middle of their face in the name of beauty or expression, then you wouldn’t be a complete idiot for coming up with such a conclusion.

There was a time last June when, after a particularly terrible week, I decided to top off my call-in-sick-to-work day with a nose ring and booze. This was around the time that I couldn’t really hold down a job, because I was too much of an asshole to bother going. At the time I would insist that if the job weren’t so stupid, then I’d go. But clearly if the job was that “stupid”, that beneath me, then I was an idiot for continuing to work there. Rather than act like an adult and hand in my resignation, I decided that I’d rather spend my day poking a hole in my face and getting drunk. While I can’t remember what possessed me to get a navel ring when I was 17, I imagine that the reasoning was equally stupid. My piercings are not unique, nor are they even particularly cute. The only way that these may qualify as an expression of myself, is that they demonstrate a history of self destructive choices. At present, I maintain them for two reasons: On a vain note, they look better than the alternative (ugly scars). Also, I enjoy being reminded of what a douche I used to be (and still am).

When I decided to work in Korea, I figured that ripping out the nose ring was a forgone conclusion. Korean society is generally more conservative in regards to personal appearance than my homeland. Furthermore, my contract specifically called for no facial piercings. For once in my life, I planned on acting like an adult and treating my job with the proper respect. Hence, I removed my nose ring on the plane, probably somewhere over Alaska. I left the nose ring out for my entire first week of work.

And then I got curious.

Would I be able to get a nose stud back in after having not had anything in it for a full week? I’d heard from friends that theirs closed up within hours. While this had always struck me as exaggeration of epic proportions, I had never been able to test this. Until now. Naturally, I put aside 10 seconds of my Friday night so that I could force a stud back into my nose. It really only hurt a little bit. It was clear at this point that my friends were either lying or had absolutely no tolerance for pain. Or possibly that their nasal passages regenerate at a faster rate than mine.

Having learned that I have super nasal passages which don’t immediately regenerate upon removing a piece of metal from them, I determined that I could wear the nose stud on the weekends and then go to work according to dress code. Everybody wins.

And then my nose got infected. Of course.

It wasn’t a terrible infection, but it was red enough for a coworker and some students to take note. Everybody was concerned as to why my nose was so “sick”. I explained to my coworker that I had been wearing my piercing on the weekend, and that apparently taking it out and putting it back in all the time had irritated the hold. How unexpected! Naturally, she thought that I was an idiot.

It’s not really Korean-style to come right out and say that somebody is a fucking moron. Instead, she inquired as to why the heck I’d been taking it out in the first place. When I informed her that my contract called for no piercings, she told me that not only would The Boss Man not notice, but he wouldn’t particular care if he did. Didn’t I get the memo that I’m a foreigner and not held to the same standards as the Korean teachers? Or the other memo that states the final clause of my working contract: “Just kidding!” ?

From that point forward I kept my nose piercing in when I went to work. Every once in a while, one of my students will forget that we had the exact same conversation last week, and ask if my nose is “sick”. Then they’ll want to know if it hurts. I try to explain to them that it’s sort of like having an earring on your face. They are usually still horribly confused, which is just as well. It’s probably best that 10 year olds not understand why I desired to poke a hole in my face.

Where'd My Trashy Go?

I saw a garbage truck of sorts go by just a few minutes ago. Ten months ago, I wouldn’t have thought that spotting a garbage truck would be noteworthy. Ten months ago, the garbage disposal process wasn’t a complete mystery to me. The idea of truck going along the streets collecting garbage had become so foreign to me that I did a double take. I half expected little green men to march out, taser somebody, and fly off. This would have been more interesting than what actually followed.

I spent my first month in Korea dumping garbage into shopping bags, which I then threw into a bin outside of my building. When I was dropped off at my apartment upon arrival in Korea, my boss and coworker had pointed to these six bins at the bottom of the stairs and explained that this is where I throw stuff. Five bins for recyclables, and one for waste. So, that’s where I threw stuff. As it turns out, they had omitted a minor detail.

My quest to find garbage bags at the grocery store failed. After failing to find garbage bags in a number of grocery and corner stores, I became very confused. Fortunately the woman who lived here before had left a number of plastic bags behind, or I would have been swimming in my own garbage. A month went by before I finally got tired of handling my garbage with dainty plastic bags and asked a coworker what the deal was. My worker was shocked to learn that I had been using plastic bags from the supermarket to dispose of my garbage. “But… but... you can’t do that!” she informed me. “Well, I clearly can, because that’s what I’ve been doing”, I told her. Then, remembering that being an asshole is not a way to win favours with the locals, I added, “but it’s clearly not what I’m supposed to be doing, so could you please help me? I don’t want to upset the building superintendent”. Except that I probably didn’t actually say “building superintendent”.

Garbage bags are kept behind the counter at grocery and corner stores, and have to be purchased. Given that garbage bags didn’t fabricate out of thin air in Canada, I was neither upset nor shocked to learn that I would have to pay for them. Apparently each neighborhood has different bags, so you have to purchase the bags in your own neighborhood. A friend of mine here, a foreigner, later told me that Koreans don’t pay garbage taxes in the same sense that we do back home, which is why they have to purchase special bags. I have absolutely no idea how much truth there is to this. Nor am I actually all that interested in where my garbage goes in Korea. Or Canada. All I know is that apparently I was being a monster asshole by using regular plastic bags, and I’ve since rectified this faux-pas. I probably should have known better, but given that it dawned on me to search for proper garbage bags in the first place, even in light of serious culture shock, I’m going to give myself a pass here.

I had learned how to properly dispose of my garbage at my apartment building, but still had no idea as to what happened from there. All I know is that in ten months I hadn’t seen a single garbage truck and I had no clue when they emptied the bins at my building. Had I known, I could have gotten rid of the 4 huge bags of plastic bottles that are clustered near my door, by filling the plastic bottle bin right before the city emptied it. Instead, I’m forced to dump just a few at a time, lest I be a complete asshole and prevent people who recycle in a timely fashion from dumping a bottle by filling the bin. I’ve asked coworkers and friends from time to time what the deal is with garbage pick up here is, and nobody has been of much assistance. So, when I finally saw that garbage truck working its way down my street the other night, I was fascinated. That is, until I realized that it was going towards the supermarket at roughly the same pace I was, leaving behind it a trail of garbage odour. At this point I was sorry that I’d ever wondered about garbage collection in Korea at all. And you probably are, too.

Korea: Where Creepy is Not Actually Creepy

It’s omnipresent. Every time I step outside of my apartment and into the public eye, somebody is going to be staring at me. Probably multiple people will try to bore holes through me with their eyes. It’s similar to the degree of staring one might entice back in Canada Land were they to parade out of their house naked. In December. Sweaters, hats, sunglasses – none of it reduces the degree of eye rape that I endure. Conservative dressing has been known to reduce the number of creepy men that follow me around the subway platform, so it’s not a complete waste. Still. I long for the day that I can dress for 30 degree weather with humidity as if it’s actually 30 degrees and humid, and not leave the apartment adorned in a sweater and long pants.

Somebody somewhere would probably like me to point out that in Korea, one doesn’t have to be a menacing sexual predator to knowingly eye rape you or follow you around the subway platform. They’re just curious! And staring like it’s the last sight you’ll ever take in is socially acceptable here. Still. Twenty five years of conditioning has led me to immediately be suspicious of and disgusted by all individuals who stare at you like you’re tonight’s dinner, who refuse to let up after you’ve made it clear that their level of creepdom has been noted. It’s led to me being unable to deal with this behaviour on a daily basis without offering up the occasional retort.

Somebody somewhere would probably like me to know that retorting to the barrage of eye rape that I endure from the locals is socially unacceptable behaviour in Korea, and that I’m an appallingly rude foreigner with whom they would be embarrassed to be associated with. They wouldn’t be entirely incorrect. It is rude for me to retort here, especially to an older man. But I’m not sorry.

Somebody somewhere would probably be upset to find that I have something negative to say about Korea. They may feel that I’m being culturally ignorant, and that I clearly fail to understand the intricacies of Korean culture. While there are undoubtedly many things that I don’t quite get, I understand this particular aspect just fine; I merely think that it’s fucked up. Also, my bitchiness is not saved just for Korea. I have negative and positive things to say about everywhere I’ve been. I could do up a blog about why Canada sucks, and I probably will once I’m living there again. Where I’m living is the key here. I currently live in Korea. Hence, I bitch about Korea. At length. Some things about Korea are nice. But some things are terribly, terribly broken. That acting like a menacing sexual predator is considered socially acceptable is inexplicably fucking broken.

Somebody somewhere would probably like to opine that my definition of what constitutes menacing sexual predator behaviour is culturally bound, and that it’s ignorant of me to apply in Korea. This isn’t entirely incorrect. My concept of what is absolutely fucking creepy was formed in a culture that is very different from this one. In no way does this refute my assertion that this particular aspect of Korean culture is broken. In Canada, I’m expected to award even the most abysmal restaurant service with a tip. For me to leave nothing at all is considered by many to be rude. This aspect of Canadian culture is broken. It’s slightly less offensive to me than living in a world where menacing sexual predator behaviour is considered acceptable, but it’s broken nonetheless. Just because something has become culturally ingrained, doesn’t negate it from being totally fucked up.

I regularly wonder what behaviour, exactly, does one have to exhibit for your average Korean to sit back and think “Jesus fuck, hide the children!”? Aside from, “gee, they don’t look like they’re from around here”, of course. Because apparently all the indicators that give me the desire to flee in terror (some combination of: menacing staring, stalking, uninvited touching, unkempt appearance, and stumbling drunkenness) don’t apply here. Yet, if my students carrying rape whistles is any indication, apparently there is some code here which determines what creeps the locals out.

When I return to Canada Land, I will do so with my ability to use a butter knife seriously compromised. I will be confused when rice is not served at breakfast, saddened by the expense of public transit, and unsure as to how to work a dryer. I will not, however, have lost my desire to flee from those that creep me the fuck out. For this I can thank my inability to accept that broken aspect of Korean culture whereby acting like you might be a menacing sexual predator is A-Ok.

Barbie Versus Mullet

Foreign women are often wary when it comes to getting a hair cut in Korea Land. I’ve met many a woman who simply refuses to get a haircut for their entire year here. These concerns aren’t entirely illogical. While there are certainly Koreans with thick or curly hair, they are few and far between. On the whole, if you don’t have straight, fine hair, your hair dresser probably doesn't have as much experience cutting hair of your type. There are probably hair dressers here that haven’t a clue how to cut curly hair; heck, there are a number of those in Canada Land, where they don’t have a homogeneous population to fall back on as an excuse. This being said, I consider refusal to cut your hair for an entire year while in Korea to be overly cautious. If you pony-up and just get it done, the worst case scenario is that you either leave with a mullet or bangs cut half way up your scalp. A hair mishap like this is why God invented the bobby pin. I was willing to take this risk.

Those who realize that not cutting your hair for a year is ridiculous and unnecessary, tend to flock towards those hair salons that word-of-mouth has placed a well reputed English speaking hair stylist at. Should you desire to offer any input on the process without mime, this is sound logic. I heard word of such a hair stylist near Seomyeon (central Busan). The exact location is roughly a 40 minute subway ride from my apartment, and rather out of the way from where I work. In order to guarantee that I made it to work on time, I would have to wake up a full 4 hours earlier than usual. This plan was flawed.

Thirty seconds of careful deliberation determined that four hours sleep is more important than vanity. Instead of traipsing around town in search of a great haircut that might not be found, I opted to just try Random Haircutting Salon near my work. A friend of mine commented on my bravery; whether in admiration or mockery remains to be seen. Given that I’m at least a little vain, I didn’t go unprepared. I printed a photo from the internet of a haircut that was distinctly non-mullet and had a coworker help me write in Korea: no bangs, no hair shorter than shoulder length.

Upon my arrival at Random Haircutting Salon, I apologized for my inability to speak Korea and handed them the photo and notes. Within moments I was seated and having the life straightened out of my hair by three stylists. For some reason they felt that my overwhelming abundance of hair required more than one person to straighten, and that it was necessary to do this prior to cutting it. The rest of the appointment went more or less as you would expect a haircut to go; not particularly noteworthy.

Much to the dismay of my friend who had declared me brave, I did not leave with a mullet or a head full of bangs. My assumption that anybody with a pair of scissors and five minutes spent in hairdressing school could follow the photo and instructions that were provided proved correct. I wasn’t brave; merely prepared. Either I got lucky or the foreigner fear of Korean hairstylists is largely unfounded. I’ll put a dollar on the latter.

Barbie Reflects; Deeps Thoughts Are Lacking

I’ve been in Korea Land for six months. It’s countdown time, contractually speaking. I was going to try to write a meaningful summary of my experiences here so far, the good, the bad and the unmentionables. Somewhere between then and now I got the distinct taste of bile in my mouth over the thought of doing so. I’d really much rather discuss how I’d like the Washington Ovechkin’s to spend the first round of the playoffs bending over, how my white comforter is looking a trifle grey since I washed it with a red sweater, how there is a fine film of dust building up as a result of my refusal to clean my apartment, or why my potatoes look green. Should I still eat them?

Korea Land was originally intended to be a one year break from the rather bleak reality that was my life in Canada Land. The purpose was to travel a bit, pay off some debt, and take a hiatus from Everything That Sucked. I somehow failed to consider the possibility that this much time away from home would merely fuel my lust for travel and experience; that it would be asinine to ever again tolerate Everything That Sucked when I’ve come to realize that it doesn’t have to be That Way.

My father has been calling me out for being self centred for as long as I can remember; probably not long after I learned how to speak, which led to many an hour spent verbalizing thoughts about myself. That I blog on end about myself, people I know, and what we do, does nothing to refute his claims. Bearing this mind, I came over here hoping that time in Canada Land would just sort of stop. That is, that nothing of note would happen when I was gone. Nobody would breed, marry, or die. In my mind, these were simple requests to ask of the universe. I certainly don’t plan on doing any of those things anytime in the foreseeable future; it confuses me when people have other ideas.

When you make the choice to move abroad for a period of time, you do so knowing that life will go on without you ; you just kind of hope that it does so with little fanfare. I like to hear that everybody back home is healthy, happy, and that no, nothing is really new. Same old, same old! While weddings themselves are a bit of a snore, the after parties tend to be worth the price of admission. Knowing that I missed one saddens me a touch. Other people’s babies are cute and lovable. The best part about them is knowing that they aren’t coming home with you. It saddened me a bit to learn that my life long friend would have hers in my absence; I would have liked to have been there for it. Both of these things only sadden me because I’m missing them; at the core I’m happy for both of my friends. When another friend passed away suddenly in January, there was no happiness to fall back on.

Sometimes, there is no silver lining; no upside to lean on or optimism to be found. Time doesn’t heal all wounds; it merely allows for the worst to become bearable. Time allows us to make sense of what we can’t control by focusing on what we can. The choice to make a life change following tragedy resets the control scales. My choice was to see myself as a whole, rather than individual pieces to dissect. This will not undo the damage that has been done and might not even make me a better person; it’s the perception of moving forward, that my choices still matter, which is important.

Separation anxiety aside, six months removed from Everything That Sucked has done me a world of good. The extended holiday has been so good to me that friends from home occasionally express concern that I might not return. No worries – or an abundance of them, depending on how much you like me – I’ll be returning to Canada Land when my contract comes to an end mid October. To stay here would be to run away from Everything That Sucked; everything doesn’t have to suck quite that badly, anymore. Nor is my only option whatever becomes of Everything That Sucked. My promise is to return to Canada Land – not to stay there.

Big White Barbie Declares Korea Broken

This just in: Korea is broken. Totally. Fucking. Broken. So, incredibly broken, that I'm not even sure where one begins to explain it. The mind numbs just thinking about it. It appears that I've officially hit That Stage, whereby I feel that I've earned the right to take an obnoxiously negative and culturally ignorant Time Out. After more than two months of dripping in respectful commentary I'm long overdue for a long winded Korean-hating diatribe, if for no other reason than to make other foreigners embarrassed to be associated with me. Not that they shouldn't already be, but there seems to be some gross misconception here that I'm Some Kind of Wonderful. As my friend's back in The Real World are fully aware, this couldn't be further from the truth. Korea's manner of grossly overrating me is perhaps the only thing that it has going for it. That and my paychecks. And possibly the never ending flow of booze.

Now, before we decide to be huffy and get our panties in a twist over the cultural ignorance that is to come, let it be clear that I happen to think Canada is broken too. I've been bitching about how broken Canada is for the past 25 years. I'm tired of Broken Canada. That's why I came to Korea; I ran out of things to bitch about back home. So, without further ado, here are just a couple of reasons that Korean is fucking broken:

1) Koreans are socially retarded. I don't mean this in the sense that I'm socially retarded. They fail to pull off the Drunken Uncle Without Male Qualities character quite like I do. They skip Drunk Uncle and go straight to Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

To start, Koreans generally meet other people by being introduced via a third party. The Western Way of simply wandering around a bar and talking to complete strangers until you pick one to go home with is simply not done by Proper Koreans. Only Pregnant Foreign Sluts engage in such inappropriate behaviour. And the Japanese, of course. The result is that unless they've been introduced to you, you don't exist to a Korean. The only people that exist are those whom they've been introduced to. Hence, there is no need to be polite to 99% of the population. You can't be polite to people that aren't there! That's crazy talk. Hence, people jump ahead of you in line at the supermarket, shove passed you to get on the subway, and walk right into you when there is nobody else in the room. They're not being rude! You're just not there. Got it?

2) Despite their overwhelming desire to be one, many Koreans hate white people. The Hate-On is so strong that they fail to see the irony in it and appreciate this as the massive inferiority complex that it is. If anybody is equipped to recognize a national inferiority complex, it's a Canadian.

Everywhere you turn in Busan, there is a cosmetic surgery advertisement. For some inexplicable reason, Koreans hate looking Korean. Their ideal is to sport a "high nose", "small face", and a double-eyelid. In other words, their ideal is to have Caucasian features. Being held to such an impossible ideal is grossly unfortunate. Koreans that aren't putting their paychecks on the table to go under the knife in search of a Caucasian identity are no less attractive than those that do. Just don't tell them that! They won't believe you. I've tried.

Everywhere you turn in Busan that there isn't a cosmetic surgery advertisement, there is a little reminder of Uncle Sam. McDonald's, Burger King, Dunkin' Donuts, Hollywood, random MLB signs in shop windows, Coca Cola; Korea is almost the Canada of Asia in this regard. Almost. There is still a distinct Korean identity, which Canadians lack.

What results is that in spite of being held to a Euro-centric beauty ideal, in spite of the abundance of American imports, Koreans are primed from birth to believe that Koreans are the Best People on Earth. Absolutely no other nationality compares to the awesomeness of being Korean. The social hierarchy works something like this: Koreans, other Asians, animals, foreigners. Hence, Koreans pay Random Whitey's a relatively handsome wage to attend their school and Be White. A Random White Face at a private academy is gold to the school's director. Yet, because you're a foreigner, few people actually respect you. You're below chihuahuas on the social hierarchy. It doesn't matter that they want a nose like yours, watch American movies, and just had a dose of McDonald's for lunch. It doesn't matter that you're the native English speaker; the Korean teachers taught them English the correct way, damnit! They're not going to "change-y" it just because some foreigner thinks they know more about pronouncing the English Language than they do. Your place in this society will never be higher than rock bottom. At the end of the day, you will always be the Pregnant, AIDS Ridden, Dirty Foreigner Slut.

Rock on.

Barbie Tells The Boss Man What's What

Wednesday, December 19 is election day in Korea. What this means is that the annoying election vans that go up and down all the main streets, blaring really awful music and probably some useless slogans, will finally go back to the scrap metal heap where they belong. What it also means is that Barbie gets the day off. At least, that's what it's supposed to mean. Election Day is a National Holiday. I read my contract quite thoroughly and insisted that my school add certain details to it prior to my agreeing to sign it. Among these was a guarantee that I would not have to work national holidays. Of course, I don't have to work these anyways, but it's a Hell of a lot easier to deal with your boss when you get what you're legally entitled to written into your contact. As you can imagine, when I found out last week that the school would be open on Election Day and I was to treat this as a regular work day (read: no overtime, no "thanks for coming out!"), I was less than amused. Something had to be give, and it sure as Heck wasn't going to be me. Barbie's not much of a giver. Not! A! Giver!

I decided that the best approach was to wait until two days prior to Election Day to bring it up. Back in Canada Land, I would never have tried to pull last minute stunt like this. Yet here in Korea Land, everything happens at the last minute. Had I approached him a moment earlier, he would have forgotten by the time Election Day actually rolled around. Then, 27 phone calls later, I would have spent the entirety Election Day having the same discussion with him.

I intended to press the issue that I had been sick and needed the day off anyways, yet I was sure to carefully highlight the valid points of my contract prior approaching The Boss Man. Wisely done, as The Boss Man's response to my needing a day off was to babble about the school calender and how taking Election Day off meant reducing our already dismal Christmas holidays by another day. I politely pulled out my contract at this point and explained that while I understand the necessity of following the school calender, that I agreed to come to Hagwon Hell on the premise that I would have National Holidays off work and one week of winter vacation. The Boss Man takes the contract from Barbie and gazes at it in confusion, before grabbing his cell phone and disappearing for a while. I was grossly confused as to what was going on with him and moderately irritated, but I had brats to attend to for the next couple of hours, so I brushed the thoughts aside and made my way to Brat Haven to be fill my role as Big White Barbie.

The Boss Man apparently spent a good deal of time on the phone with other schools in the Hagwon Hell franchise, looking for advice on how to convince the silly Barbie that she does not, in fact, get all National Holidays after work. He was totally just kidding about that whole contract thing! Made you look!

Now, The Boss Man speaks limited English, so he decides that the best means of negotiation is to have one of the least fluent Korean teachers translate for us. Brilliant. The Boss Man starts off by explaining that foreigners at other branches of Hawgon Hell will also have to work election. I tell the Korean teacher to tell The Boss Man that other foreigners have a tendency to either not know what they are entitled to, or to be afraid to ask for it. I know what I'm entitled to and am not afraid to ask for it. The Korean teacher and The Boss Man ramble at each other for a while. Next, The Boss Man explains that Election Day is a "special holiday" that doesn't really count as a "National Holiday" like in the contract. Here, he's clearing insulting my intelligence. Never a good tactic.

I have many character flaws: I'm stubborn as fuck, I regularly say inappropriate things at the worst possible time, I lack tact, my fondness of black comedy has demented my sense of humour, I frequently overlook the obvious, I do everything at the last minute, and I bury my tragic insecurities with a guise of conceit. All that said, I'm relatively easy going. I can take good natured ripping; in fact, you're not really my friend unless you mock me from time to time. Yet, seriously insulting my intelligence is just a major, major no-no. So, when The Boss Man treated me as if I had no idea what I was talking about, as if I hadn't done hours of research on this garbage prior to even coming here, he was in for a real treat. Not only did Big White Barbie know how to read, but she had discovered the internet! And she wasn't afraid to stick up for herself! A dangerous, dangerous combination.

I tell the Korean teacher to tell The Boss Man that I am perfectly aware of what Election Day is and that it most certainly is a National Holiday. At this point I offer to gather some resources for them in Korean if that would help. The two of them blabber at each other for a moment and The Boss Man says that would be nice. So, I tell The Boss Man that I know where the Ministry of Labour is in Busan and that I can go there the next day. The Boss Man and Other Dude start speaking to each other a little more frantically at this point.

Conclusion? Barbie gets Election Day off. And The Boss Man giggles on his way out the door and kindly asks Barbie to never, ever go to the labour board.

Now, I am torn here. Should I be proud that I stood up for myself, or was this profoundly stupid? I more or less put all my eggs in on basket when I pulled the Ministry of Labour Card. Either I was going to get whatever the heck I wanted, or it was going to get really ugly. Given my financial standing at the moment, I can't afford to go home if things get ugly. I also can't imagine allowing my employer to walk all over me for the next 9 1/2 months. If I don't show some spine now, I'm going to get screwed later on because they'll assume that I'm just a Stupid Foreigner Who Knows Nothing. So, I pulled out all of the stops. And still got a ride home from work from The Boss Man that night.

Big White Barbie: 1
The Boss Man: 0

Barbie rarely picks a battle which she can't win.

Stay tuned for the rematch.

Barbie, Pay Phones and Soju Date Man

Prior to the stupidity that was my accidentally deleting the original Barbie Blog, I had posted a lengthy note which detailed a particular encounter with a drunken Korean. Here I will revisit said encounter with Soju Date Man, and comment on similar other events.

On Saturday, I finally purchased a cell phone. Up until this point I've either used a pay phone or leeched off a friend who had already joined the rest of you in the new millennium by getting a phone. During my first few weeks here, this resulted in many a drunken-call-home to my not-so-lucky friends back in the The Patch. They were forewarned prior to my departure that the drunken-calls-home were definitely going to happen. Whether or not they were actually prepared for the ridiculous blather that was spewed from my drunken sailor mouth in the middle of their afternoon is debatable.

My encounter Soju Date Man by the phone booth occurred during a drunken-call-home that may have gone something like this:

Rebecca: Hey! It's totally me! So, like, how is stuff?!
The Unfortunate Friend: Err, hi? Rebecca? Stuff is...what the Hell time is it?
Rebecca: Oh, uh, hang on, I'll check my phone. I totally brought my phone from Canada and it fully doesn't work, but it totally tells me the time and stuff! Woo! Oh, look! A whitey in a phone booth! Quick! Everybody stare! Uh, sorry. You see, sometimes people look at me here. Something about being white. Or something. You know...
The Unfortunate Friend: Rebecca, is must be almost 4am. Go to bed!
Rebecca: Actually, it's 5am. Get your timezones right, fucko. This is Korea! 5am is early goings! You have no idea, my Friend. Oh, look. More people looking at me! Woo! Random whitey in the phone booth! Call me!
The Unfortunate Friend: Um. Okay. So... how is stuff?
Rebecca: Stuff is fucking fantastic. I made friends tonight! I think. You see, the thing about making friends here is that nothing that happens in Korea actually counts. Everything I do is just to fill a void of time, before I come home. You know? Hang on, some random Korean wants to use the phone.
The Unfortunate Friend: If you say so, Becca...
Rebecca: Dude, what the Hell. He doesn't want the phone at all. I tried to ask if that was the deal, yo, and he spat out 'Soju Date?' in response. No, I don't want to go on a Soju Date with you. Honestly. Why do these people think that I want to talk to them when I'm on a pay phone? Do I look Russian?
The Unfortunate Friend: Maybe you should go home... you can always call me back later, you know.
Rebecca: No! I will not submiss to the sexual harassment of drunken Koreans by changing my daily routine! This is my neighborhood and I'm going to use the pay phone when I please! Uh... what the Hell? This guy is totally getting into the pay phone with me. This isn't a fucking restaurant where you can sit at my table! Okay, I'll call you back in 10 minutes. Don't worry, I've got this shit under control.
The Unfortunate Friend: Okay then.
CLICK


True story. Some random drunken Korean got into the phone booth with me and tried to strike up conversation, while I was on the phone to Canada. Needless to say, he went home alone. And by home, I mean a piss infested alleyway where he hopefully choked on his vomit shortly after passing out. Of course, this would have been well after he followed me up the street, continually tried to grab my arm, and refused to understand that "Fuck off and die" does not mean "Yes, I totally want your babies! My apartment is this way!!!"

Had I been at home, I would have gladly ensured there would be no babies coming from this fellow. Ever. Of course, this probably wouldn't happen at home. If I was being blatantly sexually harassed by some drunk idiot in The Patch, there wouldn't be at least 10 other drunken men also in the vicinity whom would stand back and watch in silent amusement. At least one other drunken idiot would have jumped in and tried to Save The Day. Then the drunken idiots would have boxed it out until they eventually passed out in each other's vomit, as I made my way home without further issue. Ah, home. How I occasionally miss you so. Only occasionally.

I wish that I could say that this was an isolated incident. It was the first time somebody either tried to join me in the phone booth as I was using the phone or otherwise interrupted me, but it wasn't the last. It's absolutely mind numbing how in the Hell people like that happen, but it almost makes sense when you consider the following: 1) Koreans don't have the same understanding of personal space as we do, and 2) foreigners are at the very bottom of Korea's social hierarchy. On one hand, Korean women are getting plastic surgery up the wazoo so that they can look more like you, parents are pumping more money into your hagwon because your white face happens to show up there from time to time, and Americanization is everywhere you turn here. On the other hand, there are students who don't respect you because you're "only" a foreigner, employers that don't take you seriously, and drunken men who will treat you like you're a sex trade worker. The latter refers to my experience as a female, of course, though I've heard various bits of feedback from my male friends about similar disrespectful treatment they've received from some women here.

On the whole, I don't allow the drunken idiots that try to join me in a phone booth to paint my picture of Korea. They're just part of the story. The Good is really good. The Bad is Super Suck. More or less like anywhere else I could be right now.

Big White Barbie Loves Needles

I love needles. There is simply no rush like the rush that comes with having some IV fluids pumped into your system. Prior to Saturday I had no appreciation whatsoever for heroin. Now I desperately want to try it out. Okay, not really. But I did need to go back to the hospital for more antibiotics. That's apparently how they make money here; health care is relatively cheap, but they make you come back every 2-3 days to spend more money. Those wily bastards! When all is said and done I will have spent 150 dollars at the hospital this week. No Christmas presents for you!

I enter the Emergency Room of the hospital sometime late Monday evening. Given that this is where I was last seen and the doctor whom advised me to come back on Monday did not indicate that I was to go elsewhere, it made perfect, logical sense that this is where I would go. Apparently logic does not apply to Mr Korean Doctor Man. Mr Korean Doctor Man, whom I had never seen in my entire life, rolls his eyes at me and explains that when he saw me last that he advised me to go check in as an out patient. Given that his English is poor, and my Korean is even worse, I let go of the fact that he is making absolutely no sense whatsoever. I smile, nod, say that I'm sorry for not knowing any better, then start wincing in pain and telling them that I need drugs noooooow!

The doctor finally moves me over to a cot and explains that they are going to run a bunch of tests on me. You know, exactly like they did two fucking days prior to this. He hasn't yet asked what is wrong with me, though he did take a moment to ask if I was pregnant. Being a foreigner there is at least a 95% chance that I'm knocked up, he figures. I explain that I'm not paying for tests which they already ran, and that he can check my profile if he needs to confirm that The Foreign Slut does not have HIV.

A few moments later I find myself lying on a cot, hooked up to yet another delicious IV. Joyful, joyful! I don't remember my first Korean IV experience taking 45 minutes to drip-out, but this one sure did. At one point, one of the nurses came over and draped a blanket on me. So there I am, lying in a hospital cot in a busy emergency room, IV in hand, eyes starting to waver a little bit. Just when I start to get comfortable enough to nod off, I see an elderly gentlemen walk by, do a double take, then run over to his son/friend/whatever, who happens to be in the bed beside me, and yap about how there is totally a Foreign Slut in the bed to his left! From this point until they finally left the room about 15 minutes later, this man made frequent walk-by-and-stares of my cot, loosely guised as trips to the water machine. Foreign Slut so pretty!!!

After Creepy Staring Man buggered off, I hoped for a few minutes of solitude with my IV bag. As with most things I wish for, it just wasn't meant to be. A moment later one of the nurses whom hadn't been dealing with me comes over to my bed and nervously hands me a slip of paper which says something to the effect of: "Hi! My name is something-or-other! I go to America in soon! You help me?!" I realize that this nurse is asking me to help her learn English. I want her to go away happy, so I smile and say "okay". She's acting like a kid in a candy store at this point, just about jumping up and down with enthusiasm. She nods back and asks "okay?!" I confirm that this is what I said, and she runs back to the nurses station and jumps up and down while telling the other nurse that Barbie totally said yes!

Now, I don't actually have any interest in doing private lessons here. Ignoring the fact that they're illegal anyways, I simply don't have the time. Or I don't want to make the time. My weeks involve sleeping in, work, grabbing dinner/drinks. My weekends involve sleeping in, grabbing drinks, doing something interesting during the day if I'm not hurting too badly, and getting the Hell out of here every couple of weeks. Anything that interrupts my routine is strictly prohibited. That said, I would consider it unwise to slight the women that are responsible for ensuring your immediate health and safety. So the right answer was "okay", regardless of my actual intentions. A few minutes later, both of the nurses are dropping their emails on me as they remove the IV.

An hour after admittance, I leave the hospital in slightly less pain than I was upon entry, with an even slightly bigger ego than before. In case anybody failed to get the memo, I'm sort of A Big Deal.

Big White Barbie Pees in a Cup

There are two topics which I pointedly don't blog about: my sex life and my health. Were I to blog strictly on the former, there would practically be no blog whatsoever. That is to say, I don't get a lot! And even if I did, it's not really my thing to write home about it. While I may live almost every last detail of my life on the internet, there are some things that have to remain sacred. As for my health, there is rarely anything going on in that regard that inspires me to ramble. The odd time that there is, it's either private or just not particularly interesting. Yet today, I'm about to break tradition and ramble off about one of things.

I woke up Saturday morning with the distinct impression that something was wrong. As a result of the discomfort, I was unable to get my hung over ass back to sleep; not the nicest 9am wakeup call of my life. I realized within about 10 minutes that I had no other option than to go to a hospital that day. There was no way that I was going anywhere for several hours, so I withered around in discomfort and pain for a few hours, as I attempted to sleep my stupor off. This was met with little success, so I finally crawled out of bed and made my way to the hospital.

There was some confusion on my part as to whether or not I could even go straight into a hospital or if I needed to find a special clinic. For all I knew there was a doctor wagon that parked next to the street meet folk. Thankfully, a friend of mine here cleared things up for me quite nicely and explained that no, there is no doctor wagon so, yes, just go to the hospital.

I knew more or less what I had, and after finally being granted a chat with an English speaking doctor, I explained to her my suspicion. Unfortunately, they had to be sure. This resulted in my peeing in a cup, giving blood, and having chest x-rays done. Yes, chest x-rays! I think that they were checking for kidney stones or some blah. All I know is that I had to have them done twice because I left my necklace on and navel ring in the first time. Had the radiologist spoken a lick of English, or I spoken a lick of Korean, this could have been avoided. As it was, they're lucky that I didn't show up to the x-ray room butt-naked. Or unlucky, depending on how you want to look at it.

Now, I was suspicious that they were going through a large number of tests because I was clearly a dirty foreigner, hence I was clearly lying about my condition and actually had a nasty sexually transmitted disease. Because in case you didn't get the memo, all foreigners in South Korea have AIDS. We're here to spread the love! I suppose it's possible that they were also just being thorough, but it only required one test to prove what my issue was. Yet, I accepted my place in the hospital as The Foreign Slut and went through the battery of tests; with little other choice, I figured that I might as well enjoy the tag, in spite of being totally unworthy of it.

The first test was simply a urinary analysis; in other words, it was Pee-in-a-Cup time! One of my favourite sports in university; I was right at home! I Pee-in-a-Cup like a fucking pro. Thankfully I'm very skilled with this, or I might have been put off by the nurse handing me what appeared to be an unsanitized beaker. In Canada I had grown accustomed to urinating in a nice little sanitized cup that had it's own special lid and a label just for me! That's simply not how we roll here, in Korea. Sanitation and labels are for pussies! I took that unsanitized beaker up the hallway to the hospital's public toilet, filled it like a fucking champ, and walked it back down the hallway to hand to whichever lucky random doctor or nurse I ran into first.

After they gave up their vain search to prove that the dirty Foreign Slut had syphilis, the doctor agreed to put me on antibiotics. For some bizarre reason, they like to administer as much as possible via the needle here. Hence, I was put on an IV drip for the first time in my life. After that half hour of pleasure I was given a goody bag of pills to pop, and was on my way.

With that, I successfully survived my first trip to the hospital in Korea. I couldn't fool myself into thinking that it would be my last given that they insisted I return again on Monday so that I could pay them even more of my not-so-hard-earned cash. Round two, coming at you sometime later this week!

And you thought I was going to blog about my sex life. Tsk tsk.

Big White Barbie Misses Poutine

There aren't really many material things that I miss from home. Busan is a large city and there is very little that I have been unable to find for myself here. Nearly everything that I would have listed as either essentials or trivial desires prior to coming and then some are available to me, often for cheaper than they would be at home.

I was told prior to departure that I ought to bring a lot of deodorant as it's extremely difficult to find here. Now, I'm not sure where exactly this rumour took off, but I found deodorant without even bloody looking for it. It is a little bit more expensive here and there isn't as much variety, but seriously: How essential is it for you to have your favourite kind of deodorant at 4 bucks a pop? My having to pay an extra two-three bucks per pop every couple of months is hardly going to break the bank. Given how little it costs if almost everything else here, it's a fair trade off.

It was also recommended to me prior to leaving Canada that I bring a ton of my favourite feminine products. God forbid I not use Tampax! If I don't have my favourite blue plastic applicator with finger grips I will just die! Seriously? This just in: Korean women menstrate too! And sometimes they even use feminine products to stop the flow! Hence, it was grossly unnecessary to pack a four month supply of tampons. I could have used that space for cans of gravy, the one thing that I seem unable to find in abundance here.

I didn't bring a computer or phone to Korea, nor do I intend on purchases either for a while yet. I'm driving my friends and coworkers here mad by refusing to foot the bill for a cheap phone. I'm cheap, okay? It's how I roll. Eventually I'm going to realize that this is dramatically impacting my social life, but right now I like that I can only be found when I want to be.

I could drag this post out... but I'm tired. My throat hurts. This morning I was in such a funk that I thought I was snapping. Again. Then I remembered that I just get horrible bouts of PMS. That is more than likely all it was, given that it went away shortly after I remembered that. Regardless, I don't really miss anything material from home at all. Everything I need to buy can be bought here.

The lack of cheap, abundant deodorant options is not to blame for my sleepless nights in Busan.

Big White Barbie Teaches Values

During class today, I took the liberty of copying down the text from one of the dialogues that my students are required to study at the opening of a new lesson. I was stunned to discover that while the curriculum may be rife with errors (I correct the textbooks on an almost daily basis), that it redeems itself by teaching this generation of Koreans some very important life lessons. Below is an excerpt of the dialogue:

Katie: Blah blah blah. I'm not as smart as you! Sad face!

Freddy: Your marks are better than Chloe's, you're not the worst student in class!

Katie: It's alright for you. You're the brightest student in the class. More sad face!

Freddy: That's not true. You're the most popular student in the class. You always help others. Everybody likes you. That's more important.

Katie: You really think so?

Freddy: Yes. You are my best friend.


Noting the important lessons that my students could take away from this short passage, I ensured that each student had a chance to read each part. It simply wouldn't have been right had my students failed to miss any of the following points:

1) When in doubt about your own abilities, comparing yourself to somebody slightly less fortunate is a totally appropriate way to restore your pride.
2) People who don't have the exact same problems as you will never be able to properly understand the difficulties that you have to endure.
3) It's okay if you're a fucking moron, so long as you somehow still manage to get everybody to like you. Popularity is the most important thing in life.
4) The fact that everybody likes you somehow refutes the assertion that you're a fucking moron.

While you may think that I'm kidding, I take my role as Life Advisor very seriously.