Archery! And Phelps. And More Archery.

There have been times this past week that I've wondered what happened to all the Olympic sports that don't involve shooting at things, lifting things, Park Tae Hwan or Michael Phelps (which sounds more like P-ehl-suh when spoken in Korean).

After returning from Daegu at 7:30 this morning, I spent my day sleeping and watching Olympic tennis on the internet. While this may strike some as lame, for me this is a pretty fantastic day. The only thing that would have made it better would have been if I could have called up Dominos and ordered a pizza. My Korean sucks, so if I want a pizza I have to walk down the street, point at pictures, and then carry my pizza home. Given that I had two very important matches to attend to, this was not an option.

In case the above hadn’t already made this evident, I’m a huge sports geek. While tennis is my ball of choice, I have been known to fall into dweeb mode over hockey, figure skating, gymnastics, various track and field events, swimming, and even golf. Yes, golf. Watching Sergio Garcia find new and exciting ways to lose to Padraig Harrington has become a favourite annual event of mine. As a sports geek, I consider it my biennial duty to take in as much of the Olympics as possible.

Having been raised on a steady diet of Olympic sports like swimming, track and field, and gymnastics, I’ve come to expect certain things from my regional broadcasters. These things generally do not include a heavy focus on archery, weight lifting, shooting, handball, or judo. A week of increased exposure to these Olympic sports has led me to conclude the following: archery and shooting are interesting for no longer two minutes at a time, weight lifting is interesting for no longer than ten seconds at a time, judo is okay, and handball is rather awesome. Oh, and Koreans tend to do fairly well in most of these events. Who knew that they kicked Summer Olympics ass?

There have been times over the past week where I’ve flipped through the three stations offering Olympic coverage, and found myself wanting to chuck the remote at the screen. When expecting to find live gymnastics team finals, I found a badminton match, more archery, and the 317th replay of Park Tae Hwan winning South Korea’s first ever swimming meal. This was one of those times.

During class this week, I decided to bring in some English news papers to encourage discussion with my students, many of whom had told me that they have enjoyed watching the games this past week. To start the class, I polled them on what their favourite sports are, and then brainstormed to see how many different sports they could provide the English name for. Archery and weight lifting were almost always among the top three that they thought of (they rarely knew the word for these, and would act-it-out for me instead), which tended to be rounded out with swimming, taekwando, or judo. This is bizarre to me.

While I’ve enjoyed my exposure to a different sporting culture, were it not for a series live streams of international Olympic awesomeness that I managed to find the internet, I would certainly be cranky right now. Yet, if I were at home, I’d likely be whining about the inane commentators. I have spent the few moments that I’ve picked up live streams from the United States, Canada, or parts of Europe whining about jingoism and craving objectivity. The commentators may well be equally inane here, but my failure to understand a word of their potential inanity, renders my Korean commentators almost completely unnoticeable. And that’s more or less just how I like it. Now, if I wise up next time and pick a place that shows the sports I like and speaks a language that I don't understand, I'll have one less thing to bitch about.

Ugh, Mornings.

I do not like mornings. Mornings do not like me. We don't speak the same language. I remedy this by refusing to get out of bed and speak, for as long as possible. When I'm forced to sleep in a room with other people, I pretend that I'm still sleeping well after I've been awoken. Should somebody decide to step on my toes and attempt to engage me in conversation, it's likely that I will snarl at them, before rolling over to face the other direction. I suppose that it would be more accurate to say that I hate people in the morning. Mornings themselves are relatively inoffensive. Left in peace, I can enjoy a nice sunrise or a book before dawn. What I can not enjoy is idle chatter before noon. I do not like people in the mornings. People in the morning do not like me, because I snarl at them and just generally act unpleasant.

School is out for summer. In Korea, what that means is that while public schools have closed for summer vacation, students will spend twice as much time at hagwons as usual to make up for the lost time. While I come from a culture which values leisure time and hobbies, here, my students spend so much of their time in a classroom that I'm surprised they manage to develop any hobbies at all.

This week, I'm getting a slight taste for what it must be like to have no time whatsoever for a personal or social life, by taking care of some extra classes for The Boss Man in the mornings. Summer vacation is a good time for The Boss Man's wallet, as he can charge parents for extra classes, where their overworked, exhausted children can be pushed further towards complete fucking burnout.

As much as I'd like to complain about how exhausted I am, I get to spend my weekend sleeping in, watching the Olympics on the telly, reading, writing, and scratching my ass. My students will likely spend Saturday in school, and at least half of them will study on Sunday. A few of them will find time in there for a computer game or a riveting archery competition on the TV. I really, probably shouldn't bitch.

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.

Barbie Plays Nice

I should probably write something nice.

My negativity is rarely anything more than healthy dose of honesty, yet I occasionally feel the need to balance it out somehow. After my recent bitch about how poor little me has to endure the eyes of millions boring into me on a daily basis, I should probably share a little anecdote regarding positive encounters with the locals. They do happen. Often, even. It’s just way more fun to bitch about menacing sexual predators than it is to lament, “Gee, that fellow was nice. His momma raised him right!”

The new schedule, which I found when I arrived at work on Friday, mandates that I work seven classes that day. Ending the week with seven classes is total balls anyways, but it was especially balls this past Friday. I had just flown in from a trip to Jeju Island, arriving in Busan around 10am. And I hate flying. It tires me and makes me queasy, so I pop inordinate amounts of gravol. While this alleviates the queasiness, it further tires me and makes me feel just a touch stoned. That last part is actually kind of awesome. Now, if you’re thinking that receiving my class schedule on the day that I’m due to start said schedule is rather ridiculous, you wouldn’t be entirely wrong. That’s more or less just kind of how they do things at hagwons around here; last minute schedules are pretty much par for the course. Frankly, given the minimal amount of prep required from me, it makes no difference whether my boss hands me the schedule a week early or 10 minutes before class. I really don’t mind that he procrastinates almost as much as I do.

The seven classes went by in a blur, since I was more or less half asleep that day. Also, it was the start of a new session, which means that a third of each class consisted of me handing out new books and ensuring that the students write their names on them. I have learned from this that a number of my students can’t remember how to spell their English nicknames. I’d propose that they pick a name that is easier for them to spell, but suppose that would send the wrong message: when the going gets tough, quit and pick an easier route. While that’s certainly a mantra that I’ve employed far too many times, it’s not one I would want to impose on a nation’s youth (especially not when there are far more important values to impose, such as: Staring is rude).

After my last class wrapped up I headed towards the subway, which is about a 10 minute walk downhill from the school. This is lovely at the end of the day; not so lovely in the early afternoon when it’s hot and humid as fuck. I regularly arrive at school with a pool of sweat surrounding me. While waiting at the cross walk, I saw an older gentleman approaching me. I knew from the look on his face that he was going to try to speak to me. A quick glance in his direction also indicated that he had bathed recently, did not move like a menacing sexual predator, and wasn’t wielding an axe. So, I was somewhat at ease when he finally greeted me. He asked me the usual questions: where was I from, what was I doing in Korea, did I like Korea, where did I work, how old was I, blah blah. Koreans tend to have different ideas of what constitutes personal information and privacy, so the line of questions might be considered a little bit invasive to somebody back home. But I don’t mind. Sometimes people here, usually older, are genuinely happy to see a foreigner wandering around and are either curious or want to extend a welcome. It’s nice, really. This particular man was just one of those people.

It’s difficult for me to accept some cultural differences, on account of my being a bit of a cultural ignoramus and all. But other things I like just fine. Like cheap eats and drinks. And inexpensive train fares. And random people welcoming me to their country. It’s not all terrible.

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.

Flashing Lights: The New Bad Man Repellant

I’ve been a little lax on the posting lately. This is primarily because, while I’ve been keeping track of everything in the old fashioned paper and pen way, I’ve been too lazy to continue thinking once I get home. That and I’ve been a little cranky and pathetic recently, making my ability to complete projects even more crap than usual. Sniffle. I chalk this up to the exhaustion that comes with passing through my 34th I Hate Korea Phase. It will pass. Maybe.

A while back, my students began showing up at school with orange plastic doohickeys dangling from shoelace necklaces. They were too ugly to have caught on as a trendy Must Have, even for here, so I assumed that they must serve some sort of function. My suspicions arose further when I saw that if one of the students threatened to pull the cord that dangled from the bottom of the orange plastic blob, the others would cover their ears and grimace, as if something loud and terrible was about to occur. Clearly my new goal for the day was not to persuade my students from saying “change-y”, but to find out what the loud and terrible was.

Given that the students were reluctant to share the loud and terrible with one another, it was going to take a little effort on my part to get to the bottom of this. At least, that’s what I thought. Then I remembered that some of my students are 8, which usually makes being tricky a practice in futility. After the first few students merely giggled uncomfortably when I asked them what was with the orange doohickeys, one of my younger introductory level students decided that he would let me into the loop. He pretended to pull the cord, then waved his hands around and made a beeping noise. I asked why he needed this, and he proceeded to look embarrassed and giggled like the rest of the class. It wasn’t until later that afternoon that one of my students finally provided me with the why: “Teacher, there are bad men”.

Right. Of course! Half of my students had taken to wearing what were essentially rape whistles. The exact same model. I later learned that the hand waving my student had done during his demonstration was meant to indicate that there are red lights on the side which flash when the cord is pulled, presumably because Bad Men are known to be scared of flashing lights.

I feel much better for my student’s safety having learned this.

Student Requests Wham!; Teacher Obliges

Two things happened today. Independent of one another, each event may have been considered terrible. In combination, what resulted can only be described as magical.

First, Al Student decided that there was no time like when Rebecca Teacher was rambling on about plurals to request music. “Rebecca Teacher, you know that song… that song, with the… you know...” Al Student stands up and proceeds dancing at this point, to illustrate the soundtrack that is looping in his mind. I stare at him blankly. Al Student has a penchant for interrupting me with randomness which is rarely relevant to the lesson but is almost always related to English class in some way, so I tend to give him a pass on these distractions. Al Student is frustrated that the music hasn’t moved from his mind to reality, and stops dancing. “Rebecca, you know… wake me up before you go…. Go?”

As it turns out, today was Al Student’s lucky day. I assured him that I knew it and waved him over to my desk. I pulled my MP3 player out of my desk, cued up my copy of Wham!, and told Al Student to listen. Al Student began dancing again. “Teacher, song is so exciting!” I smiled and nodded. I wrote “Wham!” on the board and asked why on earth he knew that song. He told me that he had no idea and went back to dancing.

The other students had started playing tic tac toe during this exchange, totally oblivious to the awesomeness of The Wham! Experience.

Reflecting on this later, a couple of things beg explanation. To start, of all the songs that Al Student could possibly have had floating in his head… Wham!’s ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go Go.’? Really? Is there a nifty new Korean computer game that sports this as its theme song? Because not only would that explain everything: that would be awesome. Let’s just say it’s that; any other explanation would compare inadequately at this point. With that solved, there is a second question: why on earth is Wham! readily available on my MP3 player? I’m reminded of the time that I was rocking out to the theme to Jesus Christ Superstar on the subway one day. My friend looked at me, horrified, and asked: “Why?” After responding with the obligatory, “Why wouldn’t you have Jesus Christ Superstar on your MP3 player”, I advised her that I thought it was ridiculous, ridiculous things make me happy, so I had added it for purposes of immediate ecstasy. A short time after that, I retired Jesus Christ Superstar and found room for Wham! Everybody wins: Me. Al Student. Wham.

Of course, next time somebody takes a listen through my MP3 player and says something like “Rebecca… Will Smith? Really?” I can save myself some shame and claim that one of my students requested it.

And Then Things Got A Little Lispery.

It was bound to happen sooner or later: The dreaded pronunciation lesson. Nearly 9 months of teaching and I’d managed to avoid it. But it had never entirely left my mind; I knew it was coming.

I finish my week early Friday evening with a couple of our most advanced students. They’re well behaved and actually like learning, so I enjoy my time with them. One of the required activities in each unit at their level is a review of basic pronunciation of (and ability to differentiate between) similar English sounds. The students are provided with three sentences, each missing two words. The missing words are a pair which contain similar English sounds (thigh/sigh, Sue/Zoo, etc.). The objective is to listen to a CD rhyme the sentences off and fill the correct word in each blank, then read the sentences back to me. Given the level of these student's English, the activity is fairly elementary and bordering on ridiculous. Hence, I usually pass on simply playing the CD and instead try to build conversation topics out of the material provided; a challenge when the sentences are often even less intelligible than “She let out a sigh as she cut the chicken thigh”.

The aforementioned sentence brings me to Friday’s pronunciation activity, which focused on differentiating between “s” and “th”. Given that I don’t properly differentiate between those sounds myself, my teaching this lesson as usual would have ineffective; hilarious, but ineffective, inappropriate, and probably unprofessional. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said either “mouse” or “mouth” in context relevant to the lesson during one of my other classes, only to have a student think that I said the other one and end up horribly confused. I’m perfectly happy lisping my way through the English language; I just have enough sense not to intentionally teach a generation of Korean students to develop my speech impediment. It’s been pointed out to me that many of them are going to do it anyways, on account of it being difficult to produce such a subtle difference in sound that apparently doesn’t exist in their own language. Still. Some of my students have an excellent ear for language, and it would be wrong of me to teach them incorrectly for no better reason than my own amusement.

It pained me to do it. I couldn’t go through my usual turn-the-pronounciation-lesson-into-a-discussion plan. I really didn’t want to do it. But I took one look at the lesson, which clearly stated “Differentiating between ‘s’ and ‘th’” and enthusiastically spurted: “Yeah, that’s not going to happen... Today we’re going to do something fun and different and listen to the CD!” My two students looked very confused. I didn’t have the heart to tell them the truth: that Barbie Teacher sounds much like a 5 year old.

Quite Possibly the Worst Student Nickname Ever

It is common for Korean students at hagwons to adopt English nicknames. There may be several really fantastic reasons for this, but so far I’ve uncovered just two. First of all, every single one of my Korean co teachers has told me that they adopt English nicknames so that the foreign teacher has an easier time learning the student’s names. I’ve always thought this was a terrible reason, as it discourages us from learning the student’s real names; while I don’t necessarily link names to identities, I do consider them important. It also effectively eliminates what would otherwise be an excellent chance to improve our Korean. Korean names are, to simplify, composed of Korean sounds. Being forced to verbalize them on a daily basis would improve both our accent and our ear for the language. It’s from this frustration that I’ve deduced a second reason for the adoption of English nicknames: English nicknames are composed of English sounds. Any venture that requires English students to practice English sounds is a worthy one. Even if it results in unintentional hilarity that really ought to be embarrassing for everybody involved.

It’s not uncommon for the students, or their Korean English Teacher, to select an English nickname that nobody in the English speaking world would ever assign to a human being. For example, just the other day one of my students stopped short of begging me to switch his nickname from “Howard” to “Genesis”. I looked at him quizzically and asked, “The beginning of what, exactly?” Howard Student looked confused. After explaining to him what his desired name meant, he agreed that this was less than awesome. As further illustration, one of my students has been assigned the name Gate. Apparently his mother insisted that he be named after Bill Gates and somebody dropped the ball on either naming him “Bill” or “Gates”. While even “Gates” would be adequately stupid to suffice a mention here, seriously: why drop the “s”? Now, instead of carrying the name of a millionaire dweeb, he’s represented by the word for a movable barrier which covers an opening. We may as well just rename him Hymen.

It’s also not unheard of for the students, or their Korean English teacher, to select an English nickname that nobody in the English speaking world would assign to another human being. That is to say, that they may select the name of an individual who happens to be infamous rather than famous. And this unfortunate hopefully-not-a-growing-trend brings us to what I intend to be a weekly supplement, but probably won’t on account of Total Laziness: Student Name of The Week. I informally polled a number of my friends, and while I should probably save the best for last, I simply can’t sleep another night knowing that I’m withholding this level of Absolute Awesome from the world. Of course, by "the world", I mean the 5 of you who actually read this far. So, without further adieu, I share with you the best English nickname ever; and by "best", I do mean worst: R. Kelly Student.

No, seriously.

R. Kelly Student.

Yeah, that R. Kelly.

Take a few moments to digest that, if need be. It really doesn’t get any better. There is absolutely no reasonable explanation for this. Somewhere along the line, somebody dropped the ball. Huge. And the end result is that some prepubescent kid in Korea has named himself after a suspected pedophile. Yes, R. Kelly was recently acquitted on all counts of diddling. That doesn’t make this okay.

Thankfully, R. Kelly Student is not one of my own. If he were, I would spend my days in class with him wondering if he had any idea that R. Kelly was suspected of diddling. It would dawn on me that perhaps the kid knew and thought he was pulling a hilarious prank. Or worse, he knew and felt that R. Kelly was a real man’s man; a role model, even. Here, I start to feel queasy. But it gets worse. Much worse. I realize eventually that it’s quite likely that neither the student nor his Korean Teachers have any idea that R. Kelly is a suspected diddler; that R. Kelly Student simply fell in love with the “music” of R. Kelly and decided to honour his idol. The idea that somebody might feel that moved by R. Kelly’s “musical works” might actually be more upsetting than the possibility that we have a future diddler on our hands.

When I get to about this point in this line of thought, I start to convulse and try to forget that this ever happened.

But it did.

Subway Shushery and the Trichotomy of Absolute Sex

If you look like a menacing sexual predator, the odds of me taking you seriously as a human being decrease exponentially. This is not so much a reflection of my shallowness as it is a reflection of human nature. We tend to have a natural aversion to those things which appear liable to eat us and our babies. Hence, bunnies are cute, cockroaches are ugly, and people who look like menacing sexual predators are deplored. As such, should you have the misfortune of resembling a menacing sexual predator, it’s in your best interest to work against the grain of nature and try to look like less of a creep. This would include such efforts as bathing regularly, not growing a pedostache or unbuttoning the top few buttons of your shirt so that your chest carpet billows out, and not drawing negative attention to yourself by acting like a douche. Cussing out the only foreigners on a subway car while your chest hair meets your neck and the glisten off your pedostache is hardly noticeable under the glimmer of your comb over, is probably not a good start to this journey.

It was probably a Tuesday. Shanna (who missed that day of kindergarten where we learn to use our “indoor voices”) and I were on the subway to somewhere. Probably in search of food. Something or other was being discussed. It was probably about me, and I was more than likely doing most of the talking. A fellow to our left was carrying on a terribly loud phone conversation. He was significantly louder than either of us, though I didn’t particularly mind. Maybe it was important. Or maybe he, like Shanna, missed the lesson on indoor voices. No matter. There were more important things to worry about on the subway car that evening.

A particularly creepy looking man of the “I like ‘em young… real young” persuasion was sitting down the bench from us. Choosing to ignore the loudest man on the train, Surefire Pedophile looked down our way and made a shushing gesture. “Subway! Voices! Shhh!” he advised us, in that creepy my-voice-is-raw-and-I-could-sure-use-some-baby-blood-to-soothe-it voice of his. He then repeated his shushing gesture for good measure, just in case we had failed to catch it the first time. Immediately threatened by his disheveled appearance, this did not sit well with us. And by us, I mean me. Shanna began speaking a touch louder, as I debated what this guy hated more: foreigners, the English language, or women. Surely there had to be some reason for his shushing us but not the louder man, and what fun is it if I don’t assume the absolute worst? I settled on the belief that it was all three: he was clearly a racist, xenophobic misogynist.

Sadly, this trichotomy of Absolute Sex is not found as a preference on most dating sites; further evidence that all the good ones are taken.

Canada Land When, Teacher?!

Every few weeks, somebody from home remembers that I’m alive somewhere in the world and emails me to ask when I’m coming home. I don’t mind one bit; it reminds me that somewhere in the world, to somebody, I’m at least a passing thought. In turn, every few weeks, I spit out a detailed, lengthy response of my plans from here until the end of eternity, because concise has never really been the adjective for me. In spite of some emotional set backs, The Plan has changed minimally since December. Yet, every few weeks a new email rolls in. As my wordiness need not be encouraged, perhaps this will spare the world a few thousand more of my words by decreasing the email flow for just a short while.

My work VISA is due to expire in mid-October. I spoke to The Boss Man today in the hopes of getting the ball rolling on an extension; somewhere between November 1 and December 1 ought to do the trick. For financial reasons, I’m likely to return home immediately following my contract. At this point I expect to be showered with the admiration and copious amounts of beverage that come with having not seen somebody in well over a year. Just shortly before I wear out my welcome and people start to remember me as I am, rather than as the fantastically flawless and worldly friend that they’ve been building up in their minds during my absence, I’ll more than likely return to Korea. I'll seriously consider other spots, such as Taiwan or Vietnam, but am rather fond of familiarity. The time line on this is likely mid January to early February. That ought to give me more than enough time to spread the love at night while spending ridiculous amounts of time in the library during the day.

Oh, how I miss going to the library. Any library with an abundance of books in a language that I’m literate in, with more words on more pages than I could possibly ever read, would bring me to tears right about now. I miss certain people, too, of course, but if I had to pick just one …

Every now then some of the emails that I receive wondering if I’m still alive in the world somewhere express a similar sentiment: “but you just have to come home, Rebecca Teacher! And stay! What am I going to do with out you?! *sniffle*” It’s cute, really. Melodramatic, but cute. I imagine that those who stop to wonder these things will probably do whatever it was they were doing for the previous 12-14 months that I wasn’t part of their life. Given that some of you have married, popped out babies, and died in this time, I suspect that life will continue to happen without me in arms reach. Now, why it is that I don’t consider a lengthy return home to be the best option is a fair enough question.

When I’m bored and in the dumps, I make a point of perusing the Canada Job Bank. Doing so reminds me of what a good deal I have here. As tempting as it is to return to the world of serving or being a corporate office drone, I think that I’ll stick to kimchi and goobery children, thanks. While there is nothing wrong with being satisfied in either a service or a corporate drone position, I have tried both and know that doing either causes my brain to slowly shrivel until I finally lose almost all will to continue getting out of bed in the morning. In other words, I’m not one of those people. I may not quite know what satisfies me or where to find it, but knowing what doesn’t please my fancy and avoiding those things is as good a place as any to start looking.

One of these days, when I get my thoughts together and can focus on one thing for more than two minutes at a time, I’ll apply to graduate school. Of some sort. I’ve considered law, journalism, education psychology, teaching, advertising, and a number of other things. Life would probably have been much easier had I not been born academically inclined. Options are a peril for the attention challenged among us. Ideally I’ll find this focus sometime around the fall of 2009 or 2010. Until then, I’ll stick with the option that affords me the time and money to live my life rather than hate it.

The Princess Bitch Problem: Solved?

The Princess Bitch Problem: Solved?

I begin every Monday afternoon by giving the Princess Bitches the benefit of the doubt and treating them like they’ve developed into respectable human beings within the past week. I’m always wrong. It usually takes about 30 seconds before all Hell breaks loose and I’ve lost my smile for the hour. Today, Hell broke loose in the form of wood bugs (woodlouse. Or something appearing as such. Entomology has never really been my thing).

The Bitches danced into the classroom, glaring briefly in my direction before putting on fake grins in the hopes that today might be the day their asshole behaviour earns them a game. They were wrong to hope for this. The plopped into their chairs and immediately broke into conversation in Korean. I was confused as to why they hadn’t bothered to take their books out and take aim at me yet, when I noticed that Bitch, The Younger (BTY) had brought a friend for show-and-tell. Sadly, nobody had informed me that today was show-and-tell, so BTY putting her bug-friend on the table and watching him squirm struck me as random. And obnoxious. I hate bugs. Of course, Bitch, The Older (BTO) didn’t want to be one upped, so she pulled out her bug for comparison.

I hate bugs. I especially hate bugs in the hands of horrible people who are liable to throw them at me when they don’t get their way later. This shit was not going to fly. After being complete ignored when asking The Bitches to put the bugs outside where they belong, I grabbed a tissue so that I could remove them myself. The Bitches either thought I was going to kill their bug friends, or didn’t want to part with their only friends in life, and absolutely lost it. Much screaming and yelling ensued. Finally, BTO put both of the bugs in her backpack, thinking that this was an acceptable solution. She was wrong. I asked her to remove her backpack from the classroom on account of total grossness. Not wanting to give up her title as the most spoiled seven year old ever, she pitched a fit, clutched her bag and curled into fetal position with it. None too amused, I flung open the door of the classroom and told her to get out. For once, she listened. BTY followed, because at some point in life somebody told her the merits of learning from the best (of the worst).

I read a few pages from my book before stepping outside to find out what The Bitches had gotten themselves in to. While I may think they’re horrible, horrible children who will grow up to be terrible, terrible people, I still consider myself responsible for them for 45 minutes per week and don’t wish to see them get hurt on my watch. The Bitches hadn’t gone far before finding The Boss Man, who was already in the loop as to what was going on. He sifted through their backpacks for their books and pencils so that they could return to my classrooms without being gross. I thanked him for his fulfilling his weekly obligation as mediator between The Bitches and Barbie Teacher, and led the girls back to class. I had a plan.

The Bitches had made it very clear in previous weeks with me and the other teachers that they have minimal interest in learning from us. Countless complaints to The Boss Man have led to countless calls home to their mother, which has resulted in no positive behavioural modification whatsoever; if anything, they’re acting worse. I’ll be the first person to admit when I screw up. Nobody loves riding The Train of Self Loathing more than I do. Sadly, in this case, I’m clearly not the cause of the problem; I simply can’t find reason to beat myself up over it. While I’ve done little in recent weeks to improve things, it’s unlikely that children who can’t muster up a modicum of respect for any other present elders are going to suddenly have a change of heart and think that it’s due time they start listening to Barbie Teacher. Hence, my solution is to give up on them.

When they returned to the classroom, without their bug friends, I opened their student books to the correct page and turned on the accompanying CD. Intermittently throughout the lesson I would change the track on the CD and check that they were still on the correct page. Once this was complete, I put some worksheets in front of them. All the while, I enjoyed listening to my MP3 player and reading a book. Sometimes one of them would look my way and say something in Korean, which was barely audible over my tunes, and I would grunt in response. Oddly, they actually seemed to work better when I completely ignored them. Perhaps being obnoxious is less fun when they don’t have an attentive audience.

I imagine that some people may find my behaviour terribly unprofessional. I’m not going to disagree. In fact, I’m open to suggestions as to what might suffice as a viable alternative to barely falling short of refusing to teach them. Just keep in mind that the other two teachers that deal with The Bitches have the same issue; the only difference is that I now refuse to waste my energy getting upset with them when I could use it during the hours of time after this class spent with students who actually want to learn.

Cane My Bottom, Please.

One of my co teachers stopped me in between classes last week to ask permission to ask me a question. Every now and then I like to respond to this silliness by telling him that he can’t, and it’s totally lost on him that I’m just kidding. After yanking his chain, I eventually field his questions because that’s what they pay me for. I tell him as much, and he fails to be as amused by me as I am. This particular teacher tends to ask lots of questions, which is fantastic. I spend many an hour at work in disbelief that I’m getting paid to do next to nothing; helping my coworkers teach English makes me feel like I actually have utility.

This is what they pay me for:

Tony Teacher: Rebecca, can I ask question of you? What is ‘cane bottoms’?
Barbie Teacher: Errrr?
Tony Teacher: Cane bottoms.
Barbie Teacher: Come again?
Tony Teacher: Cane bottoms!

Either because I’m slow or because I’m still not accustomed to deciphering the awkward language that litters our hagwon’s texts, I didn’t have the faintest idea what he was going on about.

Barbie Teacher: You mean… the bottom of a cane? *makes gesture as if holding a cane*

Yes, I actually responded like that. To be fair, his English is somewhat broken. It was entirely possible that he was speaking of the parts of a cane. That’s honestly the first place that my mind went on this one. I might be at least part idiot.

Tony Teacher: No, no, no. *makes a gesture as if to hit somebody in the ass with a stick* Cane bottoms!
Barbie Teacher: *horrified face, quickly wiped away by denial* Errr… can you show me the phrase in context?

I was at a loss as to 1) why he was asking me about caning and 2) why he was wording it as “cane bottoms”. More so, I was still hanging on to the hope that he was looking for a word for the bottom of a cane.

Tony Teacher: *opens his book to a lesson about rewards and punishments*

I realized at this point that I had no choice but to accept what most people would have deduced several minutes earlier: that “cane bottoms” was, in fact, being used to refer to the act of caning. Given that caning isn’t something that I’ve been exposed to in my lifetime, I prefer to think of my delayed understanding as naivety rather than stupidity.

I’m probably wrong.

A Serious Scarcity of Social Savvy

I’m a woefully awkward social peon. I was tempted to write 'pariah', but that's a matter of skewed perception. I’m just not socially savvy. My interpersonal skills could use some serious work. As I’ve gotten older, my social awkwardness has improved to the point that it can occasionally be mistaken for quirkiness. But just occasionally. Last week an acquaintance of mine aptly identified me as “socially handicapped” following a social blunder that was typical Me. Frequent dates with my friend Beer have resulted in my being mistaken for an extrovert, but don’t let Beer fool you; Beer serves no other purpose than to bring out the Bunny in me, an attention whoring alter ego who is wondering if anybody has seen her pants lately. Without Beer in abundance, Bunny doesn’t come out to play, and the odds of my being socially awkward increase exponentially.

An illustration of just how lacking in social savvy I am was drawn for me when I was out at the bar on Tuesday night. Practicing restraint that night, the plan was to take one drink slow then call it an early night. For once, The Plan was right on course. I knew a couple of people mingling around the bar, whom I greeted shortly before taking my brew of choice to a chair near the billiards table. Shortly after I began taking in my beer and the billiards game, the owner of the bar approached me. I recognized him from the countless other times that I had chosen his location to drown an idea with a Bud (my unfortunate taste in beer has been well documented). He introduced himself to me and asked if I knew anybody else there; if I didn’t he would be more than happy to introduce me to some of the other foreigners. His gesture was genuine; I’d seen him do it numerous times for others before me. I struggled to find a tactful way of pointing out that I did, in fact, know the people standing within 4 feet of us. I didn’t want him to feel bad for offering to help. I smiled and explained that I knew a few people, that I was just a little out of it that night. He accepted my explanation gracefully and explained his need to make sure that everybody is having a great time. I reassured him that I was, and all was soon well in his world again. I resumed my position by the billiards table and pondered the reality that I’m occasionally so socially awkward that I can be in the middle of friends and still look like that shy girl that doesn’t know a sole.

Some day soon, I’ll be chasing one of my friends around the bar trying to ensure that they’re having the best time possible. I’ll suggest that we do some shots, or introduce them to random people that I hardly know because at that particular moment I see a direct correlation between the volume of acquaintances present and the quality of my friend's enjoyment. Whichever friend I've chosen to annoy that evening will smile, nod, and humour me, because that’s just what I do. All will temporarily be will in my world. Later, when Beer has left the building and Bunny has found her pants, one of my friends will laugh at my efforts to be the great savior of the socially awkward. The irony will not be lost on me. Should I temporarily forget, Another Tuesday Night is no doubt right around the corner.

Barbie Teacher and the Princess Bitch Fiasco

People occasionally make the mistake of believing that I’m kind. Their confusion is understandable. I am That Girl that gives a complete stranger 10 bucks because he lost his wallet; That Girl that will sleep on her floor so that the other repulsively drunk people have somewhere comfortable to crash; That Girl that shows Random New Guy around Busan in spite of being atrociously ill, because it’s his birthday and she can’t imagine letting somebody down like that. You know, That Girl. The one that grates from time to time because she’s always in your face in search of being needed, but you can’t bring yourself to get rid of because you never quite know when you might need 10 bucks and a place to crash. I’m also That Girl that chirps out idiots while in line at McDonalds, that doesn’t hesitate to tell creeps not to creep, and skips out on your birthday party at midnight because the beach party up town sounded like a better idea. Really, I’m a bit of an asshole. Today’s offense involves referring to children as Princess Bitches. In this particular case, it’s true, but given my current occupation I would do well to show some restraint and simply refer to them brats. Sadly, the word brat just isn’t doing it for me. Princess Bitch it is.

My first class of the work week begins whenever it is that the Princess Bitches decide to roll in. The Princess Bitches are sisters, ages 6 and 7. Every Monday they storm into the classroom, leaving the door open behind them, and break into conversation about me in their native tongue. They intermittently break from their conversation so that they can look at me and giggle. After about a minute of this, they get their workbooks out of their bags and toss the in front of me, giggling. Their conversation, still clearly about me, continues as I mark their notebooks. Upon the return of their notebooks, the Princess Bitches then take another couple of minutes to take out their student books and pencils. Once they’ve finally done so, I begin the lesson. If I’m lucky, the lesson carries on for about ten minutes before either Princess Bitch the Younger decides its nap time or Princess Bitch the Older decides that it’s a good time to slap The Younger. At this point the Princess Bitches are finished learning for the day and begin requesting games. When I advise them that we won’t play any games until the lesson is over one of them cries, the other pouts, and I count down the seconds until class is over.

While I always expect the worst from these two, today the Princess Bitches caught me by surprise by seriously upping their game. Class was going smoothly for once, largely because the girls knew that we only had about 15 minutes of material to cover and then it was Game Time. I was pleasantly surprised to find that it appeared we’d actually make it to Game Time for the first time in a month. Naïve, Barbie Teacher. Very naïve. I failed to realize that it was only a matter of time before one of them managed to get their Game Time privileges revoked. With only one more minute of good behaviour required, The Younger decided that there was no time like the present chuck her student book at me. Needless to say, I called the game right then and there and told them that I hoped they were as excited as I was to practice dialogue for the next 20 minutes. The Princess Bitches responded by putting on their backpacks and leaving. Normally I’m thrilled to see them go, but there was a serious flaw in their actions: class didn’t end for another 20 minutes. There was no way that this would fly with The Boss Man.
One may read this and think that the issue here lies with the one who created the Princess Bitch moniker rather than the Princess Bitches themselves. This person would be wrong. I’ll be the first to admit that I have absolutely no training whatsoever which would make me a qualified educator. While I’ve learned a lot in my 8 months here, there are still many flaws in my style. I’m not too proud to accept the responsibility when I’ve failed as a teacher. If it wasn’t for the fact that the Princess Bitches treat their two Korean teachers in exactly the same manner, I’d put the onus squarely on me. The only difference between the experience of my coworkers and mine is that my coworkers have the misfortune of being able to understand the Princess Bitches when they bicker in their native tongue. Apparently they spend a good deal of time complaining to whoever their teacher is that day that they don’t like them one bit and prefer whoever it is that isn’t teaching that day. Then they throw their books, hit each other, and ask if it’s time to play a game yet. I suppose it’s possible that all three of us are horrible teachers, but consider it more likely that poor rearing has resulted in a complete lack of discipline. When in doubt, blame Mommy and Daddy.

After debating the merits of chasing after the girls once they left the classroom, I decided to take matters to The Boss Man. Had I gotten angry and scolded the girls, they probably would have giggled at me and ran away anyways. If they chose to stick around rather than run away, they probably would have made faces at me and scolded me in Korean, like The Younger did last week when she waved her finger in my face and said: “bad, teacher! Bad!” Getting angry with them is a waste of energy, but I had to do something. As much as I find these children vile, they’re still children who I consider myself responsible for during our 45 minutes of scheduled time together. The thought of them wandering outside and playing in traffic wasn’t going to sit well on my conscience.

This wasn’t the first that The Boss Man had heard of the Princess Bitches, and he didn’t seem terribly surprised to find that they’d been acting up. A wild goose chase later and we eventually found them about a block up the street hanging outside of the elementary school. As The Boss Man summoned them back to class they complained to him that I hadn’t played any games with them that day. I explained to him that I was about to play a game when The Younger decided it was throw-the-book-at-Barbie-Teacher time, and that I refused to reward bad behaviour. The Boss Man looked rather embarrassed and quickly put The Younger in her place. At this point The Younger decided that she no longer wanted a game, a lesson, or anything to do with me. The Boss Man apologized and advised me that we’d call class for the day and that he’d speak to their mother and the other teachers about this. I thanked him profusely for his help and refrained from pointing out that I was pretty sure their mother wouldn’t be terribly impressed to get a copy of the memo that her children have been poorly raised.

The Princess Bitches probably returned home that night in tears and blamed the entire fiasco on the big bad foreign teacher. Tomorrow, when it happens again, they’ll blame Rambo Teacher and after that, Anna Teacher. It will be clear at this point that everybody at Barbie Hagwon is ganging up on the Princess Bitches, who will be rewarded with cake for the hardships that they have to endure. Next week, when they return to Barbie Teacher’s class, they’ll be as terrible as ever. Sometimes, all you can do is smile and not care.

Rambo Teacher Brings His Drunk to School

One of the teachers at my school has adopted a not-so-English English nickname. His chosen name lends itself fairly well to what our students prefer to call him, Rambo Teacher. I was going to offer to rename him, but didn’t think that would fly. If he sees no shame in spending his work week being referred to as such, who am I to judge? So, Rambo Teacher it is.

On Tuesdays and Thursday I’m provided with a dinner break after my 4th class of the day. My 4th class consists of a mix of males and females that range from 13 to 15 years of age. They’re chatty, rowdy, and have little interest in learning from me. When I declared class finished last Tuesday, they immediately broke from their English banter and began snipping at one another in Korean. While my Korean is terrible, I understood enough to follow that they were joking around about Rambo Teacher.

I hate few things more than finding everybody else amused by a joke that has passed me by. I want laughs, too! In search of answers, I held Tom Student and Riley Student back to inquire as to what it was they were saying about Rambo Teacher. Riley Student giggled and informed me that Rambo Teacher’s face was really red. I nodded and pointed out that sometimes, sunburns happen. Tom Student, who has a potty mouth which rivals mine, interjected to reject my hypothesis that Rambo Teacher had a touch much sun on the weekend. Tom Student and Riley Student exchange words, probably debating whether or not they ought to fill Barbie Teacher in on the hilarity. Within a minute, Riley Student was ready to cave. Tom Student took advantage of her pause for breath, a rarity on her end, and briskly walked out of the classroom. He preferred to pretend that he had no part in deducing what she was about to share with me: “Teacher… no sun burn. Rambo Teacher… he…” Riley Student reached for an imaginary glass in front of her and chugged back an imaginary shot. “Rambo Teacher, soju!” she told me, looking awfully pleased. Amused as I was at the thought of Rambo Teacher being so half-in-the-bag that he was still sporting soju flush at 6 in the evening, I found this rather unlikely. If anybody was going to show up to work half-in-the-bag, surely it would be Barbie Teacher? "Riley Student, it’s called sunburn. Look it up”. Riley Student shook her head at me and giggled on her way out of the classroom.

After collecting my things, I went to the staff room to seek out my coworkers and fill them in that our 5:30 thought that Rambo Teacher had gotten his drunk on at school. Rambo Teacher looked extremely embarrassed, showing only a hint of relief when I explained that I had pointed out to the tykes that he was obviously sporting sunburn, not a soju flush. He told me that he really hoped the students believed me and didn’t tell their parents otherwise, then quickly changed the subject to something else. Likewise, I let the subject drop.

The next day when Rambo Teacher appeared at work with his complexion more or less back to normal, I refrained from asking any further questions; a rare exhibition of tact.

Bob Student is Trashy

My students regularly provide me with material via their unintentionally hilarious utterances. Broken English is expected; without it, they’d have no use for me here. I like to think that mocking my students for their broken English is below me; I also like to think that I have unshakable self belief. Denial, denial, denial. Should one of my older students make a seriously unfortunate English blunder, I refrain from smirking and make a point of explaining the difference between what they meant to say and what they actually said. Given my inability to have emotions without wearing them on my face, this is harder than it ought to be. When one of my younger students makes a grossly inappropriate blunder I simply correct them and hope for the best. There really isn’t good way to tell an 8 year old why they shouldn’t replace the “Tell” in the “Tell Me” song with “Finger”, is there? A truly horrifying two minutes of my life that was. Thankfully, Bob Student’s English blunder last week wasn’t quite that awkward.

While in Itaewon last weekend, I bought an inordinate amount of Real Gum; that is, mint flavoured American gum. Korean gum isn’t awful; it’s just not as minty as what I prefer to snap. My students went completely gaga last time I brought in Real Gum for them. Their excitement was soon quashed by sour faces upon tasting a mint much stronger than what they’re used to. They would wave their hands in front of their mouths and say “teacher, hot!” I would smile, nod, and agree. There are few things that I enjoy watching more than other people making foul faces in response to things that I give them, so I decided to share the Real Gum love and pass some around in one of my evening classes. After humouring them throughout their chorus of, “ooh, teacher! So hot!” I tried to proceed with the lesson plan. Failure ensued.

As I was beginning to discuss the objectives for that day’s lesson, Bob Student decided that it would be a good time for him to speak. He was wrong. My response to this is usually to make a face at him then put a check mark beside his name on the board and threaten to remove him from class if he doesn’t learn how to be quiet when I’m speaking. Barbie Teacher hates to repeat herself! Sometimes I’m too tired to go through all the motions and resort to blowing a whistle at him instead. I returned from lunch break one day a few weeks back with the best 20 cent purchase of my life: a beautiful, blue whistle. My coworkers were extremely confused when I ran into the staff room to blow it at them; they had thus far failed to notice that my immaturity is off the charts. Blowing the whistle more or less has the same effect as putting a check beside their name, but is significantly more amusing for me. On this day I opted for the face-and-check method, largely because I was too lazy to sift through my purse for my whistle.

Before I could properly scold him for interrupting me, Bob Student waved his hand at me to indicate that he had garbage to dispose of. In other words, I had provided the entire class with gum and then went to scold one of them when they wished to get rid of their garbage in an orderly fashion. This never happens. Bob Student should have received a reward for the most unlikely behaviour by a Barbie Student. Ever. The children generally take whatever candy I give them, immediately pop it in their mouths and then throw their wrapper on the desk or the floor behind them. Manners; they’re a lost art.

Bob Student looked at me innocuously with his ball of gum wrapper and said, “Teacher, I’m trashy”. Double take. “Bob Student, you’re what?” “Teacher, I’m trashy”, he repeated, waving his garbage. I was tempted to have fun with this like I did with the Short Bus conversation from last week, but for once, professionalism won out. I spent the next 30 seconds explaining the correct way to ask me where the garbage is, and another 5 after that explaining why Bob Student shouldn’t run around in circles telling people that he’s trashy. If it’s true, they’ll already know.

Dude, Where's My Steak

I woke up Monday morning in Itaewon (Seoul) with swollen eyelids. While this wasn’t terribly noticeable to my unobservant company, it was rather disconcerting to me. This called for sunglasses indoors. After perusing through What The Book? (a fantastic book store in Itaewon that was so stock full of English titles that I nearly lost my pants), hunger set it. The consensus was that our hangovers weren’t in the mood for Korean. The Tall One’s pleas for Mexican were immediately vetoed by my lactose intolerance. The Shanster, who is even more of a Yes Person than I am, was patiently waiting for somebody else to make a decision. The Tall One and I finally decided that we should trek back to The Rocky Mountain Tavern, home of my Coors Light (my love of weak beer has been duly noted, thanks) and Caesar salad from the night before. I remembered being disappointed to learn that The Rocky Mountain Tavern thought that Caesar salad could exist without some form of bacon, but allowed the fond memory of Coors Light dripping down my throat to impair my judgment such that I thought returning was a fantastic idea. Oy.

The first of several servers that we would be dealing with that day approached our table to collect drink orders. The Shanster, who always orders Sprite, spit out her request immediately. I had the audacity to look towards the beverage menu. The server responded to this highly offensive gesture by immediately walking away. Interesting. A few minutes later another server returned to take our food orders, as the previous one was clearly under the impression that seeking knowledge as to what there is to drink is a sign that one isn’t terribly parched. The Shanster and I ordered steak and whatever-came-with-it. The Tall One is neither man enough for steak, nor did she receive the memo that it was Steak Time. She ordered chicken quesadillas. I managed to sneak an order of gingerale (more or less the best nonalcoholic carbonated beverage ever) on the end by making sure not to foolishly look at the menu while doing so.

Twenty minutes pass. The Tall One begins to get a little fussy. I ensure her that they’re taking a while because I requested my steak well done; I have a fancy for burnt food. The Shanster looks unconcerned, probably because she had tuned us out twenty minutes earlier. Just as the words of reassurance were spilling from my mouth, the server who took our food orders gingerly approached our table. With a post-it. And no food. He sheepishly leans on the booth and asks which of us ordered steak. The Shanster and I answer in the affirmative. Our server, who looks truly sorry to be a part of this moment, advises us that he is sorry. Terribly sorry. There isn’t any steak. The three of us exchanged stunned looks of disbelief before I flap my trap: “Dude, we’ve been waiting 20 minutes”.

Mind numbing.

In twenty minutes, with only two other tables to take care of, neither of the three servers or the cook thought to pass on the memo that there was no steak. How the fuck do you possibly drop the ball on that? I’ve been a server. You take an order, bring it back to the kitchen, and return to the kitchen when it’s ready for pickup. If there is a problem with the order, the kitchen immediately notifies the server. Absolutely nowhere in that line of communication, over the course of twenty minutes, did anybody stop to think: Dude, where’s the steak? What do you mean there’s no steak? I’m going to spend my next five months in Korea randomly asking people: “Dude, where’s my fucking steak?!” and nobody is going to get it. And nobody should. Because this is not something that one should even conceive of having possibly occurred. Blasphemy.

Our server looked rather ashamed and apologized profusely, before asking if we’d like to order something else. A brief team meeting brought us to the consensus that we were far too lazy to get up and go elsewhere at this point. The Shanster and I ordered chicken fingers. I figured at this point they’d screwed up so epically that things could only improve. This was kind of like that time I didn’t go to intro biology all semester long and thought that I could pass the course merely by skimming the textbook 6 hours before the exam. Or that time that I thought eating three tins of cheese balls over 24 hours was a good idea. Or any time that I’m found near the tequila. What seem like great ideas at the time, scream so obviously of imminent failure that only I would bother to take them for a spin. Your suspicion that I’m at least part idiot is not incorrect.

The Tall One forgot that we were too lazy to get up and go elsewhere and decided to run off and get a coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts down the street, in order to blow some steam off and hopefully suppress her desire to go postal on The Rocky Mountain Tavern. The Shanster and I waited for another ten minutes before they finally brought The Tall One’s quesadillas. Apparently it takes half an hour to cook chicken; that, or they had to slay a cat out in the back alley to conceal that there wasn’t any chicken either. A few minutes later, our chicken fingers followed. Saddened as I was that this was not steak, I was willing to make the best of it. I watched the Shanster chew her way through one without keeling over and decided that it was safe to proceed. I was horribly mistaken. One bite lead to the discovery that my chicken finger tasted a trifle strange and felt a little slimier than it ought to. One look determined that the chicken was pinker than pink. Uncooked chicken fingers; just the encore I was looking for after twenty minutes of No Steak.

All kinds of special.

Disbelief. Yet, still too lazy to leave the restaurant. Afterall, I had swollen eyelids and a sports injury to boot! After picking through all of my chicken fingers to confirm that it wasn’t my imagination, that their cook is in fact 5 years old, we called the server over to collect them. I absolutely abhor being rude to my servers. Thankfully I was simply too tired and mind broken to muster up words. Unable to look at him for fear of either screaming profanities or breaking into hysterical laughter, I handed the server my basket and said: “Not cooked. Not cooked!”

Eventually they brought me another set of chicken fingers. Oddly, I didn’t feel like eating at this point. I needed a bloody coffee. While the delivery of the coffee itself went smoothly, they dropped the ball on cream and sugar. Who drops off a coffee without offering cream and sugar? Once again, the server was gone before I could open my mouth with another request. This alone would normally be enough to stun me, but I was still struggling to understand what the fuck happened to my steak.

Seventeen dollars. Seventeen dollars for shoddy service, No Steak, black coffee, uncooked chicken fingers, and scores of lost brain cells that will never regenerate. The upside if that this has provided ample material with which to amuse myself for the rest of time. But seriously… where’s my fucking steak?

Barbie Teacher and the Short Bus Chronicles

You really shouldn’t need a reason to be happy. And if you insist on being sad, there really ought to be a damn good reason for it. My own default is such that it’s painfully easy to wallow in self pity; it’s a lot harder to put on my happy hat and sing a happy tune. The truth is I used to be completely unable to do so. Reality, should we chose to accept it, changes everything. Knowing that the world has lost somebody who never needed a reason to smile or put others before him makes me want to be more like my friend; I’ll never do it quite as well as he did, but a little bit of effort goes a long way. Or so I keep telling myself. In my last week I may have swallowed bottle after bottle in search of the end to my own insecurities, and I’m probably going to follow this up with more of the same. Yet, rather than write about my struggle towards self love, I’m going to ramble about something amusing that happened in class a while back, if for no other reason than the hope that it might make somebody else smile.

Tuesdays and Thursday end with one of my most advanced classes. Given that my most advanced class can almost have conversations with me, this isn't exactly saying a whole lot. That being said, from time to time I have rather enjoyable banters with these students. The load of suck is that I have to stay an extra hour to do it. I regularly debate whether or not this is worth it, with mixed results. On this particular Thursday, Rhea Student decided to be cute and show up 20 minutes late. I love it when they do that. In the same way that I love Fran Drescher’s laugh. Or rough anal sex. In other words, call me a prude, but I’d really rather that they not show up at all at that point. In spite of my annoyance, as it turns out, the ridiculous banter that was about to hand wrapped for me could not have happened had Rhea Student not stumbled in late.

Rhea Student has a penchant for punctuality, so her tardiness drew the attention of Kevin Student. After allowing 30 seconds of what sounded like light hearted Korean mockery, Rhea Student threw her book at Kevin Student. Confused, I asked Kevin Student what he had just told her. He calmly explains to me that Rhea Student was late because she “took the short bus to school”. Rhea Student promptly throws another book at him. At this juncture I had two options: I could either tell Kevin Student that he’s not being nice and to cut it out, or I could play dumb and ask what this whole “short bus” deal was all about. Consummate professional that I am, I chose the latter. Frankly, I was so surprised to hear that “short bus” as a euphemism for retard might translate similarly to Korean, that the former option didn’t even cross my mind. I had to get to the bottom of this. The result was more or less as follows:

Barbie Teacher: Kevin Student, what does “short bus” mean?
Kevin Student: *naïve face* Rhea took a taxi to school! Short bus is taxi!
Rhea Student: *throws pencil at Kevin Student* No! NO! That’s not what it means!
Barbie Teacher: *innocent face* Is it a bad thing? Is he insulting you?
Kevin Student: No! Taxi man!
Rhea Student: Yes! *looks sad that she has run out of items to throw*
Barbie Teacher: Well, how is it an insult? What does it mean?
Kevin Teacher: No, not an isult! *smirk* *insert three minute conversation, complete with illustrations, about how some busses just happen to be shorter than others*
Rhea Student: Teacher! He lies! He's calling me... like stupid!
Barbie Teacher: *chortling* Kevin Student, tell Rhea you’re sorry.
Kevin Student: Rhea Student… I’m sorry that you rode the short bus.
Rhea Student: *pouty face*

In other words, 5 minutes of awesome later and neither of them definitively confirmed my assumption that “short bus” serves a similar purpose in Korean as it does English. Later, I naively asked my boss what “short bus” meant. For a split second he appeared to be thoroughly embarrassed for me, before concealing his pity with a puzzled look and shrug of the shoulders. Either way, I walked away happy.

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.