11/28/07
Thank you all for responding and sharing your stories of first nights. I am thankful to have had such a stressful entrance into this country. There was moment in the bathroom stall when it all clicked, and I realized I was in complete control. I wasn't a victim of circumstance, I could do whatever I wanted, I had the power, the skills we all possess, and all I needed was to believe it. I think it will be a beneficial lesson for this journey.
In August Chris (my partner of 2 years) and I began plotting our escape from our stressful and only minimally rewarding jobs in social services. It had been almost four years since my last real overseas adventure, and I was starting feel restless. I found advertisements for teaching English in Korea on Craigslist and soon found that Korea pays foreign teachers more than I was currently making as a Family Support Specialist. And as an added perk, they pay for housing and airfare.
After discussing it further, we began the process of applying for jobs. In September we were both offered teaching positions in South Korea. Chris left at the end of October and is currently teaching at an English immersion village north of Seoul in Paju (approximately 2 hours by subway from me).
And now, here I am. I've been here 4 days and already it feels like months. Each day holds so many adventures, unfolding like napkins. I'm stumbling through each day, fumbling with my language, reaching deep into the chasm of sounds and coming forth with grunts and moans. I am not elloquent. I am not graceful. But I am trying.
On Saturday, after a solid night of rest, I ventured out into my neighborhood. I live in Bundang, a suburb of Seoul. It is a planned city, built in 1989 to accomodate the overflow of people from Seoul. It is a city, not a village, built where farm land used to run rampant. My neighborhood is plush with restaurants, cars parked wherever there is room, delivery motorcycles, machine shops, and no sidewalks. For the first block, I tried to walk where the sidewalk might be, but quickly realized the street was more practical. I weaved in and out of cars, dodging motorcylces, there crates strapped to the back piled high with bags of kimchee and bulgogi.
For lunch, I walked next door to the restaurant next to my apartment. I asked, in my shaky Korean, if anyone spoke English. Everyone shook there head. I glanced around the restaurant, noticed the wall of shoes to my left and the short tables with pillows on the floor and suddenly felt overwhelmed. I motioned toward my apartment.
"Take away?" I asked. The man nodded and handed me a menu, pointing to several selections. I pointed at something and he took the menu. I stood in the doorway, not sure if I was supposed to take my shoes off if I was only waiting for take away.
There are so many things that confuse me. When my food came up, the man grabbed a pan and walked toward me. With the entire wait staff standing behind him, smiling, he demonstrated that I was to put the soup in a pot and cook it when I got home. I nodded, my stomach growling, and realized the gas in my apartment had not been turned on yet. So much for a hot lunch.
Back at my apartment, I stared at the bowl of soup, full of seafood, tiny crawfish, clams, and squid, and put it in my fridge. Not yet brave enough to venture into a restaurant by myself, I found the ramen bowls at the convenient store down the street. I poured water into them from the minimart's hot water jug, pushed the paper lid back down and walked the 10 minutes back to my apartment, careful not to spill the scalding water.
On Sunday, I ventured out to scavenge for food again. As if reverting back to my ancestors, where food and survival were the only goals throughout the day, I began my hunt and found myself sitting at the sushi bar at a Japanese restaurant, after a confusing introduction of miscommunication between Korean and English. Again, I pointed to something on the menu that seemed a reasonable price for one person. When the food began to arrive, I wasn't sure if I had ordered something for four people or if this was the standard amount of food for one person.
I set to work, nibbling at each item they brought out, but not sure if I was eating them correctly or in the correct order. I ate the salad with spicy dressing and raw tuna first, but when more and more items began to appear I started to lose my rhythm. The sushi chef was enjoying the sight of my pathetic demise as I stared somewhat bewildered at my plate. He picked up a pair of chopsticks and began pointing to items in front of me, motioning how I was to eat each of them. I learned that the rice on sashimi is never to be dipped into the soy sauce, only the fish; that if they hand you a whole fish, you are meant to pick it apart with your chopsticks, picking out each piece of fish; that if the wasabi is too hot, you should take a drink of your miso soup; that kimchee tastes just like what it is--fermented cabbage; and that the thing that looks like green tapioca pudding is not green tapioca pudding and is really just a tasteless mush.
By the end of my meal, I was not only full, but also humbled and grateful. I started my first day of work on Monday. Mrs. Choi picked me up from my apartment to show me how to get to the school. SLP is on the fifth floor of a ten story building in the busy district of Migeum. I had walked past it many times on my adventures through the city, but never noticed. The buildings are stacked from the bottom to the top with signs, indicating which businesses are in the building, and the door to enter the business are hidden among the store fronts.
For the first week, I am only observing the classes and next week, I will be taking over classes for another teacher who is returning home for the month of December. In January, I will be getting my own classes. The children here are not like the children I have worked with in the States. The worst misbehavior I've witnessed is a child telling a teacher he didn't like her. Most of the students are younger, roughly first grade, and can read and write in English almost fluently. Some of the students are lower lever beginners, which are the ones I will be teaching and even they have a pretty good grasp on English. Most of the curriculum is planned out, at least all of the books are supplied, and I just have to decide which lessons I want to do for each day. The entire system is a bit confusing, but I'm sure I'll get used to it.
All in all, after the confusion dissipates, I think I will be just fine. I know I will have more stories after I teach my first classes. So, in my first few days, here are the things I've learned: red lights are only a suggestion, so are sidewalks, I am severely underdressed no matter where I go or how cold it is (women are always in skirts and heels), just because the sign is in English does not mean anyone inside speaks English, take out food has to be cooked when you arrive home, when children are born in Korea they are one year old, ramen tastes the same no matter where you live, and laughter is universal.
In August Chris (my partner of 2 years) and I began plotting our escape from our stressful and only minimally rewarding jobs in social services. It had been almost four years since my last real overseas adventure, and I was starting feel restless. I found advertisements for teaching English in Korea on Craigslist and soon found that Korea pays foreign teachers more than I was currently making as a Family Support Specialist. And as an added perk, they pay for housing and airfare.
After discussing it further, we began the process of applying for jobs. In September we were both offered teaching positions in South Korea. Chris left at the end of October and is currently teaching at an English immersion village north of Seoul in Paju (approximately 2 hours by subway from me).
And now, here I am. I've been here 4 days and already it feels like months. Each day holds so many adventures, unfolding like napkins. I'm stumbling through each day, fumbling with my language, reaching deep into the chasm of sounds and coming forth with grunts and moans. I am not elloquent. I am not graceful. But I am trying.
On Saturday, after a solid night of rest, I ventured out into my neighborhood. I live in Bundang, a suburb of Seoul. It is a planned city, built in 1989 to accomodate the overflow of people from Seoul. It is a city, not a village, built where farm land used to run rampant. My neighborhood is plush with restaurants, cars parked wherever there is room, delivery motorcycles, machine shops, and no sidewalks. For the first block, I tried to walk where the sidewalk might be, but quickly realized the street was more practical. I weaved in and out of cars, dodging motorcylces, there crates strapped to the back piled high with bags of kimchee and bulgogi.
For lunch, I walked next door to the restaurant next to my apartment. I asked, in my shaky Korean, if anyone spoke English. Everyone shook there head. I glanced around the restaurant, noticed the wall of shoes to my left and the short tables with pillows on the floor and suddenly felt overwhelmed. I motioned toward my apartment.
"Take away?" I asked. The man nodded and handed me a menu, pointing to several selections. I pointed at something and he took the menu. I stood in the doorway, not sure if I was supposed to take my shoes off if I was only waiting for take away.
There are so many things that confuse me. When my food came up, the man grabbed a pan and walked toward me. With the entire wait staff standing behind him, smiling, he demonstrated that I was to put the soup in a pot and cook it when I got home. I nodded, my stomach growling, and realized the gas in my apartment had not been turned on yet. So much for a hot lunch.
Back at my apartment, I stared at the bowl of soup, full of seafood, tiny crawfish, clams, and squid, and put it in my fridge. Not yet brave enough to venture into a restaurant by myself, I found the ramen bowls at the convenient store down the street. I poured water into them from the minimart's hot water jug, pushed the paper lid back down and walked the 10 minutes back to my apartment, careful not to spill the scalding water.
On Sunday, I ventured out to scavenge for food again. As if reverting back to my ancestors, where food and survival were the only goals throughout the day, I began my hunt and found myself sitting at the sushi bar at a Japanese restaurant, after a confusing introduction of miscommunication between Korean and English. Again, I pointed to something on the menu that seemed a reasonable price for one person. When the food began to arrive, I wasn't sure if I had ordered something for four people or if this was the standard amount of food for one person.
I set to work, nibbling at each item they brought out, but not sure if I was eating them correctly or in the correct order. I ate the salad with spicy dressing and raw tuna first, but when more and more items began to appear I started to lose my rhythm. The sushi chef was enjoying the sight of my pathetic demise as I stared somewhat bewildered at my plate. He picked up a pair of chopsticks and began pointing to items in front of me, motioning how I was to eat each of them. I learned that the rice on sashimi is never to be dipped into the soy sauce, only the fish; that if they hand you a whole fish, you are meant to pick it apart with your chopsticks, picking out each piece of fish; that if the wasabi is too hot, you should take a drink of your miso soup; that kimchee tastes just like what it is--fermented cabbage; and that the thing that looks like green tapioca pudding is not green tapioca pudding and is really just a tasteless mush.
By the end of my meal, I was not only full, but also humbled and grateful. I started my first day of work on Monday. Mrs. Choi picked me up from my apartment to show me how to get to the school. SLP is on the fifth floor of a ten story building in the busy district of Migeum. I had walked past it many times on my adventures through the city, but never noticed. The buildings are stacked from the bottom to the top with signs, indicating which businesses are in the building, and the door to enter the business are hidden among the store fronts.
For the first week, I am only observing the classes and next week, I will be taking over classes for another teacher who is returning home for the month of December. In January, I will be getting my own classes. The children here are not like the children I have worked with in the States. The worst misbehavior I've witnessed is a child telling a teacher he didn't like her. Most of the students are younger, roughly first grade, and can read and write in English almost fluently. Some of the students are lower lever beginners, which are the ones I will be teaching and even they have a pretty good grasp on English. Most of the curriculum is planned out, at least all of the books are supplied, and I just have to decide which lessons I want to do for each day. The entire system is a bit confusing, but I'm sure I'll get used to it.
All in all, after the confusion dissipates, I think I will be just fine. I know I will have more stories after I teach my first classes. So, in my first few days, here are the things I've learned: red lights are only a suggestion, so are sidewalks, I am severely underdressed no matter where I go or how cold it is (women are always in skirts and heels), just because the sign is in English does not mean anyone inside speaks English, take out food has to be cooked when you arrive home, when children are born in Korea they are one year old, ramen tastes the same no matter where you live, and laughter is universal.
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