New Beginnings
Every evening when I walk the mile from my school to my apartment, I write paragraphs in my head; long diatribes about all of the smells and noises and the soft lilt of my students' English. But by the time I walk the one flight up to my studio apartment, punch my code into the key pad, toss my shoes on the shelf by the door, light some incense to cover the smell of sewage that seeps up through the drains, and finally sit down, I'm exhausted. Physically. Mentally. So my stories have remained in my head, but tonight I've vowed to put at least a few of them into words.
I finished working at SLP Bundang on a Friday, hit up the Norae Bang, woke up the next morning, moved to Uijeongbu, and started work Monday morning. That Wednesday, I flew to Japan for one night to get my new visa. I was in Japan less than 24 hours and the entire trip was spent waiting in line. That Saturday, I spent the day dressing and undressing preschoolers for their graduation performances. The following week was spent in a training in Seoul on the books I would be using for the upcoming year. And on that Friday, I spent three hours decorating my classroom (for those of you who teach you know, two hours is not nearly enough time). And finally, on that Monday, I started my first day as a preschool teacher.
I wasn't ready. I'm still not ready. And I'm exhausted. My students are 6 years old Korean age, so they are 4-5 years old in the states. They are tiny and they speak no English. Within the first two days, two of my children were kissing whenever I turned my back. They even ran out of the class, ran down the hall, and hid when I went out of the classroom for a minute. I found them, huddled behind a box, lips smashed together, arms awkwardly strangling each other. When I scolded them, said "No" and made an X with my arms, they giggled. I probably would too if I was 4 years old and I'd just been caught kissing and someone not speaking my language started saying something I didn't understand.
Since then, other students have started kissing and now I have a kissing epidemic on my hands. Not exactly your typical issue and I'm still not certain how to handle it without scarring them for life. It's exhausting trying to control a group of 11 kids who don't understand you.
Last Friday, after the first week of teaching, myself and three other preschool teachers who started at SLP Uijeongbu at the same time as me, decided we needed to celebrate our survival. We met near my apartment, downtown next to the outdoor market that sells chicken feet and buckets of blood. I rarely eat out, and when I do, I usually feast on Galbi (Korean barbeque) or Shabu Shabu (Japanese soup), but we were all craving something western. After wandering around staring up at buildings in search of English names or pictures on the menus hanging outside, we settled on a place advertising Doria (which we later found out was rice with cheese on it), Lissotto (Konglish for Rissotto, but Koreans have a hard time saying R's), and Happy Shake (s left off intentionally). The restaurant was furnished with long tables and couches on either side and we settled in to the smokey atmosphere (you can smoke anywhere in Korea...including the gym bathroom that doesn't have any windows and the ventilation system gets pumped into the gym).
Halfway through our dinner, we spotted a group of young Koreans sitting next to us, gulping down what I assumed to be a bowl of Happy Shake. They must have noticed us eyeing their table, because midway through our meal, one of the girls walked over and gave us a piece of their cake. Later, after we finished our dinner, Jenny, a no-nonsense blonde from California, thought it would be nice to buy them a bottle of Soju (Korean alcohol that costs $1 for a bottle).
When the Soju arrived and Jenny began pouring shots for our already drunk table partners, they suggested, after much gesturing, broken English and horrible Korean, that we push our tables together. What ensued was shots of Soju (which I managed to avoid by claiming that I already poured myself one, holding up my full shot glass...that was never emptied), jilted conversation, hand gestures, and nervous drunken laughter. After several bottles of Soju (which I think is made out of household chemicals...sort of like Meth, only less potent), our new Korean friends suggested we go dancing at Rome Night Club.
Earlier, I had jokingly suggested to Jenny, Mark, and Danielle (yes, there are two of us) that we hit up Rome (pronounced Roma, in true Korean). It's a club I walk by every day on my way to work and I'm both frightened and intrigued by it. After piling into two taxis, we found ourselves outside, the eighties style neon lights flashing their welcome. Inside Roma, we were led to a large table next to the dance floor. Let me tell you about Roma. It was straight Las Vegas in the '80s, full of velvet booths in mustard, and strobe lights making our movements look like we couldn't stop dancing. Our new Korean friends ordered drinks and sides (large plates of food, that you get every time you're drinking). One of the Korean men sat down beside me, leaned over and said, "Boyfriend?"
"Yes," I shouted over the music.
"Changee?" (extra e intentional) he asked, as he put his hand on my leg. I shook my head and removed his hand. He put it back a few seconds later and I moved to the other end of the table.
Meanwhile, on stage, two men in white spandex bellbottoms and a woman in a red bra and underwear began doing quite possibly the worst dance I've ever seen. I started laughing, thinking I had somehow stepped into 1972. As I was watching the stage, I noticed a Korean woman clinging to the edge of her table while one of the male 'waiters' physically removed her, as her two friends continued their conversation without looking up.
"Mark," I yelled over the music to Jenny's partner. "Do you feel like something shady is happening?" I asked, looking at the rest of our group, gyrating awkwardly on the dance floor. Mark's smile told me he'd had too much Soju.
I felt it in my gut, like something wasn't right. I'd felt it earlier after we'd pushed our tables together dinner, but I'd blamed it on the spicy food. You're being paranoid. You're just feeling uncomfortable because you're the oldest one here by 5 years and your sober, I thought. I shoved my purse under the couch and followed Mark to the dance floor. But once I got there, the two Korean girls we were with idled back to our table, leaving the four foreigners to gyrate by ourselves. I grabbed Jenny.
"I feel like something shady is happening," I said. "Where did the guys go?" I had noticed a few minutes earlier that two of the three guys we had come with were missing. When I glanced back at our table, the other guy was no longer around.
The four of us half jogged back to our table, where the two Korean girls were texting something on their cell phone. On instinct we all began searching for our belongings. I found my purse, its insides scattered over the floor beneath the table. I heard Jenny frantically say, "Where's my purse? My purse is missing." She asked the two girls, but they didn't understand. I pointed to my purse, hoping they would make the connection.
"I check," they said, making their way to the front. They never came back. We grabbed a waiter/security guy and tried to explain, gesturing at my purse. He left and returned 2 minutes later with Jenny's purse and our bill. We were dumbstruck. Where did he get Jenny's purse?
I had watched her put her purse in the pocket of Mark's coat and zip it up. How had he managed to find it so quickly? "Here is your bill," the waiter said. It was a bill for 100,000 Won (a little over $100) full of things we didn't order, nor did we eat or drink. We were led downstairs to speak with the "Englishee speaking manager."
We were all under the impression that the cops had been called and we simply needed to tell them our plight. Unfortunately, that wasn't exactly what they had in mind. "You pay," the manager shouted, shaking the bill in our faces. Wait a minute...someone's purse had been stolen, mysteriously reappeared (luckily with only a few thousand Won taken), our Korean counterparts who had ordered and consumed everything had slinked away unknowingly, and we had to pay? For those of you who've worked in a restaurant or bar, you know $100 is nothing, something easily comped by understanding restaurant staff. "Did you call the cops?" I asked, less concerned about the money and more concerned with feeling at least a little sense of justice for being swindled.
"Yes, yes, we call," the manager assured me. Four the next hour and half, the four of us argued with the manager about that bill and about the fairness of the situation. Throughout the course of that time, we were laughed at, called stupid Americans, pushed and shoved, and told this was "the Korean way." Finally, after an hour and a half, a beautiful scantly clad Asian woman was called out from some mysterious back room. In perfect English, she began to translate between our two cultures. She looked at me and said, "I understand, I am not Korean either and the Korean way is very confusing, but he is insisting you pay the bill."
Hearing that, Mark took out his money, threw it on the floor and said, "Here's your money and we will NEVER come back here again."
"Never?" the manager asked quietly. I laughed. Was he serious?
"Never," Mark answered.
"No, no, I don't want your money. It is okay." Why were we arguing then? Did he really think if we payed the bill that we would come back? Mark bent down and picked up his money.
"Thank you," we all said, not really sure why we were thanking them, and turned and left. Two hours later, the cops still hadn't come. Needless to say, I've been feeling pretty anti Korea lately which is why it's taken me so long to write. There are so many things here that don't make sense, that are completely illogical and lately, I've been letting it get to me. But I'm settling in again, trying to get used to the stench that permeates the city and hoping soon I can make it into the mountains that surround Uijeongbu to touch the dirt of the forest instead of the dirt of the city.
I finished working at SLP Bundang on a Friday, hit up the Norae Bang, woke up the next morning, moved to Uijeongbu, and started work Monday morning. That Wednesday, I flew to Japan for one night to get my new visa. I was in Japan less than 24 hours and the entire trip was spent waiting in line. That Saturday, I spent the day dressing and undressing preschoolers for their graduation performances. The following week was spent in a training in Seoul on the books I would be using for the upcoming year. And on that Friday, I spent three hours decorating my classroom (for those of you who teach you know, two hours is not nearly enough time). And finally, on that Monday, I started my first day as a preschool teacher.
I wasn't ready. I'm still not ready. And I'm exhausted. My students are 6 years old Korean age, so they are 4-5 years old in the states. They are tiny and they speak no English. Within the first two days, two of my children were kissing whenever I turned my back. They even ran out of the class, ran down the hall, and hid when I went out of the classroom for a minute. I found them, huddled behind a box, lips smashed together, arms awkwardly strangling each other. When I scolded them, said "No" and made an X with my arms, they giggled. I probably would too if I was 4 years old and I'd just been caught kissing and someone not speaking my language started saying something I didn't understand.
Since then, other students have started kissing and now I have a kissing epidemic on my hands. Not exactly your typical issue and I'm still not certain how to handle it without scarring them for life. It's exhausting trying to control a group of 11 kids who don't understand you.
Last Friday, after the first week of teaching, myself and three other preschool teachers who started at SLP Uijeongbu at the same time as me, decided we needed to celebrate our survival. We met near my apartment, downtown next to the outdoor market that sells chicken feet and buckets of blood. I rarely eat out, and when I do, I usually feast on Galbi (Korean barbeque) or Shabu Shabu (Japanese soup), but we were all craving something western. After wandering around staring up at buildings in search of English names or pictures on the menus hanging outside, we settled on a place advertising Doria (which we later found out was rice with cheese on it), Lissotto (Konglish for Rissotto, but Koreans have a hard time saying R's), and Happy Shake (s left off intentionally). The restaurant was furnished with long tables and couches on either side and we settled in to the smokey atmosphere (you can smoke anywhere in Korea...including the gym bathroom that doesn't have any windows and the ventilation system gets pumped into the gym).
Halfway through our dinner, we spotted a group of young Koreans sitting next to us, gulping down what I assumed to be a bowl of Happy Shake. They must have noticed us eyeing their table, because midway through our meal, one of the girls walked over and gave us a piece of their cake. Later, after we finished our dinner, Jenny, a no-nonsense blonde from California, thought it would be nice to buy them a bottle of Soju (Korean alcohol that costs $1 for a bottle).
When the Soju arrived and Jenny began pouring shots for our already drunk table partners, they suggested, after much gesturing, broken English and horrible Korean, that we push our tables together. What ensued was shots of Soju (which I managed to avoid by claiming that I already poured myself one, holding up my full shot glass...that was never emptied), jilted conversation, hand gestures, and nervous drunken laughter. After several bottles of Soju (which I think is made out of household chemicals...sort of like Meth, only less potent), our new Korean friends suggested we go dancing at Rome Night Club.
Earlier, I had jokingly suggested to Jenny, Mark, and Danielle (yes, there are two of us) that we hit up Rome (pronounced Roma, in true Korean). It's a club I walk by every day on my way to work and I'm both frightened and intrigued by it. After piling into two taxis, we found ourselves outside, the eighties style neon lights flashing their welcome. Inside Roma, we were led to a large table next to the dance floor. Let me tell you about Roma. It was straight Las Vegas in the '80s, full of velvet booths in mustard, and strobe lights making our movements look like we couldn't stop dancing. Our new Korean friends ordered drinks and sides (large plates of food, that you get every time you're drinking). One of the Korean men sat down beside me, leaned over and said, "Boyfriend?"
"Yes," I shouted over the music.
"Changee?" (extra e intentional) he asked, as he put his hand on my leg. I shook my head and removed his hand. He put it back a few seconds later and I moved to the other end of the table.
Meanwhile, on stage, two men in white spandex bellbottoms and a woman in a red bra and underwear began doing quite possibly the worst dance I've ever seen. I started laughing, thinking I had somehow stepped into 1972. As I was watching the stage, I noticed a Korean woman clinging to the edge of her table while one of the male 'waiters' physically removed her, as her two friends continued their conversation without looking up.
"Mark," I yelled over the music to Jenny's partner. "Do you feel like something shady is happening?" I asked, looking at the rest of our group, gyrating awkwardly on the dance floor. Mark's smile told me he'd had too much Soju.
I felt it in my gut, like something wasn't right. I'd felt it earlier after we'd pushed our tables together dinner, but I'd blamed it on the spicy food. You're being paranoid. You're just feeling uncomfortable because you're the oldest one here by 5 years and your sober, I thought. I shoved my purse under the couch and followed Mark to the dance floor. But once I got there, the two Korean girls we were with idled back to our table, leaving the four foreigners to gyrate by ourselves. I grabbed Jenny.
"I feel like something shady is happening," I said. "Where did the guys go?" I had noticed a few minutes earlier that two of the three guys we had come with were missing. When I glanced back at our table, the other guy was no longer around.
The four of us half jogged back to our table, where the two Korean girls were texting something on their cell phone. On instinct we all began searching for our belongings. I found my purse, its insides scattered over the floor beneath the table. I heard Jenny frantically say, "Where's my purse? My purse is missing." She asked the two girls, but they didn't understand. I pointed to my purse, hoping they would make the connection.
"I check," they said, making their way to the front. They never came back. We grabbed a waiter/security guy and tried to explain, gesturing at my purse. He left and returned 2 minutes later with Jenny's purse and our bill. We were dumbstruck. Where did he get Jenny's purse?
I had watched her put her purse in the pocket of Mark's coat and zip it up. How had he managed to find it so quickly? "Here is your bill," the waiter said. It was a bill for 100,000 Won (a little over $100) full of things we didn't order, nor did we eat or drink. We were led downstairs to speak with the "Englishee speaking manager."
We were all under the impression that the cops had been called and we simply needed to tell them our plight. Unfortunately, that wasn't exactly what they had in mind. "You pay," the manager shouted, shaking the bill in our faces. Wait a minute...someone's purse had been stolen, mysteriously reappeared (luckily with only a few thousand Won taken), our Korean counterparts who had ordered and consumed everything had slinked away unknowingly, and we had to pay? For those of you who've worked in a restaurant or bar, you know $100 is nothing, something easily comped by understanding restaurant staff. "Did you call the cops?" I asked, less concerned about the money and more concerned with feeling at least a little sense of justice for being swindled.
"Yes, yes, we call," the manager assured me. Four the next hour and half, the four of us argued with the manager about that bill and about the fairness of the situation. Throughout the course of that time, we were laughed at, called stupid Americans, pushed and shoved, and told this was "the Korean way." Finally, after an hour and a half, a beautiful scantly clad Asian woman was called out from some mysterious back room. In perfect English, she began to translate between our two cultures. She looked at me and said, "I understand, I am not Korean either and the Korean way is very confusing, but he is insisting you pay the bill."
Hearing that, Mark took out his money, threw it on the floor and said, "Here's your money and we will NEVER come back here again."
"Never?" the manager asked quietly. I laughed. Was he serious?
"Never," Mark answered.
"No, no, I don't want your money. It is okay." Why were we arguing then? Did he really think if we payed the bill that we would come back? Mark bent down and picked up his money.
"Thank you," we all said, not really sure why we were thanking them, and turned and left. Two hours later, the cops still hadn't come. Needless to say, I've been feeling pretty anti Korea lately which is why it's taken me so long to write. There are so many things here that don't make sense, that are completely illogical and lately, I've been letting it get to me. But I'm settling in again, trying to get used to the stench that permeates the city and hoping soon I can make it into the mountains that surround Uijeongbu to touch the dirt of the forest instead of the dirt of the city.
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