American Chopsticks

Movie Reviews from the 2012 Sundance Film Festival

2012-01-26T20:45:00.007+09:00

Rashida Jones and Andy Samberg in "Celeste and Jesse Forever."

Whatever happened to the “[T]hing Redford puts on where you ski all day and watch movies all night”? This is what I signed up for when I convinced Becca that we needed to go see the film she’d worked on, which was premiering at Sundance. But although I spent three days at a film festival, I came away having viewed only three movies, and having done no skiing! More on the sadness of what Sundance has become later. In the meantime, a few words on the films I DID see.

Celeste and Jesse Forever

A new take on the complex conundrum of relationships-turned-friendships. I really like Rashida Jones in Parks & Rec, but her character has been pretty flat this season and this film really gives her a chance to prove herself as a quality actress. Her comedy chemistry with Andy Samberg is what seals the deal for this film. The humor is decent and the writing is pretty good. Judging by the constant uproarious laughter around me, the audience loved it, and as of this week it’s already been purchased by Sony.

2 Days in New York

...was 2 days too many. If you already hate French people, this will completely warrant your opinion. In a twist on the typical French attitude toward Americans, 2 Days in New York grossly exaggerates French stereotypes [promiscuity, free-spirit, art, smoking, crescents, etc.] through the raunchy, hyperbolic bickering of a French family visiting their sister/daughter in New York City. Chris Rock playing Julie Delpy’s boyfriend lends itself to plenty of Obama/drug/[racist] jokes that such a film so obviously requires, and Vincent Gallo (appearing as himself) provides what I suppose is the story’s philosophical depth as the man who buys Delpy’s soul and refuses to give it back after she changes her mind about selling. The problem with the decent writing and jokes were that the script relied too heavily on the typical racism and raunchiness to carry it through. I did thoroughly enjoy a musical montage of still screens as the family toured New York, however. I didn’t hate the movie as much as those with whom I saw it, but I’m still not convinced my bouts of laughter are worth the nine stars this has already received on IMDB.

Liberal Arts

The 37-year-old star of Warner Brothers’ “How I Met Your Mother” is a versatile guy with hands in almost every creative pot there is: including his TV work, he has recently written a book, “One Big Blissful Thing,” as well as the screenplay for “Liberal Arts,” in which he stars, directs, and produces. He also contributes to the Los Angeles Review. His sophomore directorial project could be described as hippies in ivory towers, and combines his love of LA new age-ism with earnest strivings to be academically relevant.

“Liberal Arts” sends down-and-out thirty-something New Yorker, Jesse, (Radnor) back to his alma mater in Ohio for a professor’s retirement dinner, where he meets sophomore student Zibby (Elizabeth Olsen). She convinces him to listen to classical music and write letters to her. This is revitalizes Jesse and as he begins to fall for Zibby, motivates him to leave the funks of his lackluster, book-riddled life behind him. But in a Mrs. Robinson reversal, Zibby’s age and virginity eventually turn Jesse off and he breaks up with her, sending her off to console herself with drunken frat partying. Jesse himself ends up in one-night stand with his formal British Romantic Lit professor (played brilliantly by Allison Janney). Radnor’s typical discomfited post-coital presence and Janny’s matter-of-fact dismissal might well be one of the most comically awkward bedroom scenes in film.

Elizabeth Olsen is good—she is classic on screen and charmingly redeems the pathetic little character her role becomes. I’m looking forward to see more of her class on future screens. In what Radnor considers a brilliant casting role (I’d say more like bizarre, but it works), Zac Efron plays a random hippie student who befriends Jesse, and Richard Jenkins’ portrayal of an otherwise boring professor character leaves no complaints.

But unfortunately, although the script makes some excellent points about life and academics, most of these are either barely fleshed out (he makes too many to really link or develop them well) or the clever bits are overshadowed by an un-stimulating plot and cheap dialogue. The points about academics vs. real world, the value of life experience, and the beauty of growing old are ultimately weak or boring because they aren’t fully developed or supported by other story elements. I see where he’s trying to go, I think. But it stops short and the main thing I’m left wondering is whether the movie is telling us that a 15-year age difference is an insurmountable object to love.

Another problem is that Radnor’s character constantly seems like he has already anticipated the other actors’ responses. His lines seem unemotional, forced, and his reactions aren’t genuine. But this is somewhat understandable: after incepting, writing, re-writing, planning, and everything else, it’s no wonder that his script is old hat. It needs a fresh perspective that the writer/director/star can’t really bring at this point. It’s the old problem of Jack-of-all trades, master of none.

But in this case, it’s unfortunate that Radnor’s intelligence and the creative premise of the piece fall short in the film’s execution, despite the effort and organization logged in its creation. The editing was great, the cinematography lush, and the cast spectacular. Perhaps with a little experience and some designation, Radnor will one day execute his visions as brilliantly as he dreams them.

Elizabeth Olsen and Josh Radnor in "Liberal Arts."

2012: Making Things Happen

2012-01-25T09:46:00.010+09:00

Make it happen. Make things happen. Make, happen. OK, so my marketing/slogan skills aren’t that diverse, but no mater: take the punchiest of the three, just make sure it happens. 2012 is the year to get cracking, and I’ve got plenty on my laundry list.

The last few years I’ve informally adopted an annually changing personal motto (rather than specific "resolutions") that I’ve tried to emphasis thematically in my lifestyle, decision-making and personal philosophy during that particular year. 2010 paraphrased Shakespeare: “Fortune favors the bold.” 2011 rang out “Carpe diem ~ seize the day.” Now that the lunar calendar has rung in my very own year of the dragon, I’m focusing hard on living up to “make things happen,” really an incorporation of the previous mottos, but this year particularly I’m anxious to proactively pursue new avenues of education, work, helping others, and self-improvement. I want to think more, learn more, listen more, and explore more. Even if it means spending more money than usual, working harder than usual, sleeping less than usual, and taking more risks.

It kicked off with an off-the-fly trip to the Sundance Film Festival (and my first trip to Utah) to see my best friend’s assistant editing work showcased in the form of a film premier written/directed by Josh Radnor.

While I honestly can’t say much for the ultimate message of the film, the editing was, of course, brilliant, the cast was stunning, the accolades astonishing, and the premier party sweet. I also got to spend time with long-term favorites from the Korean era--Ily and Nick-- and take my first tour of Salt Lake City. We didn’t ski, we didn’t see half the films on our list, and I spent much more money than I probably should have, but we had a blast.

It’s been inspiring, and today after very little sleep and very much activity/excitement, I’m summoning up adrenaline and conquering some dragons. Making things happen, y’all. See you in the laundry room!

Elevenses

2012-01-06T02:00:00.006+09:00

Aragorn: Gentlemen, we do not stop 'til nightfall.

Pippin: What about breakfast?
Aragorn: You've already had it.
Pippin: We've had one, yes. What about second breakfast?
[Aragorn turns and walks off in disgust]
Merry: I don't think he knows about second breakfast, Pip.
Pippin: What about elevenses? Luncheon? Afternoon tea? Dinner? Supper? He knows about them, doesn't he?
Merry: I wouldn't count on it.

But unlike Aragorn, my grazing hunger and my British interests are keenly tuned to elevenses, and as I sup my own, I reflect on the elevenses of 2011, that is, eleven interesting and delicious things that happened or that I discovered.

Elevenses: Year of the [White] Rabbit, 2011:

1. Wearing a backpack in Southeast Asia.

Cambodia, Vietnam, Bali, Thailand, Laos.

2. Arrivals, O'Hare International Airport.

Whenever I come home, they roll out the red carpet for a limited time only. #worthit

3. Living with the Enemy: Inside North Korea.

한국은 정말 매력적.

4. For Us, Surrender is Out of the Question.

In the interest of solving international conflict and specifically the Burmese refugee crisis, my vote goes to Mac MacClelland and Mother Jones magazine.

5. Thinking critically.

And all-night summer vigils. And bicycles, and Leinenkugel, and chats and debates and laughter. And house-sitting. But not necessarily dog-sitting.

6. Music.

Always, everywhere...mostly live.

7. Spielberg’s Tin Tin.

But also Herge’s.

8. Vespa. It's a motorcycle.

500 ccs ≠ scooter!

9. Comedy.

Garfunkel and Oates, Parks and Recreation,

10. Mixing and Matching.

Curried lentil soup, basil-goat cheese bruschetta, quinoa and eggs, and POM margaritas, #ftw.

11. Jeff Bezos.

Thank you for re-Kindling my obsession with books and literature! (And kudos to Project Gutenberg and Open Culture for freely supplementing my supply!)

Year of the Dragon, 2012 (Eleven sub-plots in my plan to take over the world):

1. Commence kicking my bucket list.

A Humorous High Holiday

2011-12-23T06:47:00.004+09:00

Greetings, Earthlings.

The tidings of Kim Jong Il have brought amazement, yet hope, from the Far East as a new era of transition dawns, and we, too, embrace this season of advent and hope. Join with us.

Christiana, 11, bears a coincidentally striking resemblance to Wednesday Addams, aka Christina Ricci, but maintains an artistically domestic personality who delights her avid fan base in frequent short stories, various art workings, and novel excerpts, not to mention her tidbits of witticism. She has spent the year dabbling in ballet, baking, and pottery classes.

Susannah, 13, continues to lead the way in social disinterest and fashion rebellion, and is writing her Jr. High dissertation on the dextral preferences of domesticated pets. She is active in theatre and deadpanning.

Ethan, 16, no longer the avid woodsman, enjoys stalking FB and zoning out on popular TV culture addressing topics such as “70s” mores, and Josh Radnor’s never ending pursuit of his future children’s mother. A junior at the local Christian high school, he has claimed a basketball tournament trophy and floor hockey MVP as well as three of an opponent’s teeth in this year’s drop-in church floor hockey league. He is the first of his brothers to travel to Asia, and even set foot inside North Korea (possibly accelerating the demise of the Dear Leader?).

Charlie, 20, has finished yet another semester at community college with questionable merit, and has decided that academics do not fulfill his pursuit of happiness. Therefore, he has retreated into Mario role-playing, and spends his time hopelessly romanticizing life as a poet while quoting the lyrics of others. You can find his soulful outpourings at twitter.com/thehighboy.

James, 20, is alive and well and sends his greetings long-distance (he’s never at home, and rarely responds to technological communication). Eat, pray, love.

Jack, 22, dreams of becoming a moon-bounce tycoon and plans to divert his energies to self-employment in that field, after this year of post-grad employment at Farm and Fleet. His knowledge of local culture and euphony has enabled him to drum and guitar for a variety of bands including rock, 80s, and metal. Perhaps his true career lies with the circus.

Rebecca, 23, is a missionary to the stars, Hollywood stars, that is, and has landed her own role as transcriber extraordinaire at Pilgrim Studios in LA. The real draw is the free snack room on location, however, and she dons her pink sparkly helmet before whizzing to work, fearlessly interweaving the perilous LA traffic on her shimmering blue Vespa.

Donna, age undisclosed, is spending the holidays basking in her recently acquired university laurels and preparing for the next chapter in knowledge acquisition. She still cooks fabulous meals, maintains a legendary schedule and after trips to England and Korea this year finally agrees with Rebecca that the travel bug is an insatiable one. There is really nothing funny to say about Donna except that she is still married to Fred, (AARP), who continues to lead the fashion industry in red flannel union suits and threadbare overalls. He loves hanging Italian twinkling lights on deciduous trees (or bushes) and has discovered the thrill of twiddling his thumbs over pájaros furiosos. Fred is a local icon and, while certainly not at risk of winning any Nascar awards, still manages to enhance the comic relief of any situation.

Merry Christmas from the Coca-Cola Company, and the Highs! See you in the New Year!

GOOGLE, DIY, AND THE PLIGHT OF THE TRENDY TWENTY-SOMETHINGS

2011-11-03T06:23:00.002+09:00

“Having a personal philosophy is like having pet marmoset, because it may be very attractive when you acquire it, but there may be situations when it will not come in handy at all.” ~Lemony Snicket, Horseradish.

Lemony Snicket has a point: as pithy as your personal philosophy may be, without changing life experiences and flexibility, it can be utterly adorable, and completely useless. College taught me how to prepare a resume (filled with cheap and exaggerated experiences in order to market my young, inexperienced self more attractively) and a life “philosophy.” Goals are important—implied the adult instruction bombarding me from ever side—because they build character and channel experiences in order for you to successfully achieve the cookie cutter nine-to-five success that IS the American Dream. Which course, obviously, if you are a true Christian and ~~Republican~~ Patriot, you will follow devotedly.

Admittedly, the resume and “personal philosophy” I crafted help land me a job immediately out of college: teaching English at a private academy in Seoul, South Korea (as they say, “those who can’t do, teach.” However, being a teacher, I found this statement to be grossly unjustified!). Numerous revisions later, it’s also helped land me some job opportunities and interviews now that I’m Stateside for a while.

The turns my post-college experience have taken are becoming something of a trend for twenty-first century twenty-somethings. Graduates aren’t necessarily always jumping into grad schools or corporate cubicles. It’s the burgeoning trend particularly in Europe, to take a “gap year” before or after university to travel: experience culture, grow gaunt and unshaven while developing mystical philosophies, and come back with hard drives filled with photographs and thought-provoking blogs about changing the world. While this trend is slightly less common among US students, there’s no doubt that Lonely Planet travel forums are growing rapidly, fueled by a new generation that’s more globalized and tech-manipulative than ever before, disillusioned with the lack of jobs or burnt out from school and ready for a break from tradition..

On the other hand, “it’s not the economy, stupid!” Twenty-somethings can’t blame all their problems on a lack of jobs. There’s always something to be done, somewhere, you might just have to leave your childhood home to do it. English is becoming a booming export and those without degrees have opportunities on organic farms and English schools alike. Bars and hotels need service, and bartending is nothing at which to turn up your nose. If you’re willing to practice a bit and move to Vegas, you could rake in hundreds of dollars each night. But that’s beside the point. The need for cross-cultural and/or hands-on experiences has become more pervasive and despite this “despondent” economy, university graduates still have lots of super cool options.

After Googling myriads of overseas options, I found an opportunity in Korea through a friend of my college roommate, and left for the job the summer after graduation. I stayed for a year and a half. I didn’t really do anything pertaining to my “personal philosophy” but I worked hard and learned to be flexible. And I can’t say enough good things about living abroad. Life in Seoul was fast-paced, challenging, and “backwards” from my cultural norms. Yet through both frustrations and awe, I embraced new ideas, methods, and customs and experienced the best lesson in economics, politics, sociology, anthropology, real-world living, and diplomacy/peace studies I had ever had.

I also went backpacking, spending my vacation/post-teaching time traveling in southeast Asia. I highly recommend it: once you pay for a plane ticket living costs in SEA are cheaper than paying rent and the longer you stay somewhere, the cheaper it becomes. Be an anthropologist rather than a tourist. You will experience incredible things and gain a new attitude of flexibility and openness. Meet the locals; they will love you. Eat their food, help them carry their bags across town, jump into a game of soccer. Ask them about themselves and their country. Often what you know and learn has nothing to do with what you read, but about what you don’t read.

Now, Stateside and unemployed, feeling overwhelmed by the vast potential of an empty Google search bar, I’ve taken to devouring blogs of fellow expatriots and attempting DIY projects that include a healthy dose of kitchen experimentation, craft projects, and “educational research.” I’ve created several new recipes and cocktails, decoupaged several empty bottles, baked a few pies, mowed the lawn, applied for jobs, learned a lot of random information about Wiki-worthy topics, and started writing a screenplay.

Although I’m not living the traditional “American Dream,” perhaps the American Dream itself is evolving. Be willing to ditch your “personal philosophy” for adventures and experiences. Don’t settle for “settling down”…at least not yet. Use your twenty-somethings to do what you want, where you want. It’s ok to turn down or quit a job you don’t want, even in this economy.

In the end, “[T]he worst thing that can happen is that you won’t get the job and will spend the rest of your life foraging for food in the wilderness and seeking shelter underneath a tree or the awning of a bowling alley that has gone out of business”. . . and, I surmise, with a pet marmoset under your arm. Oh, Lemony Snicket, you do have such a way with words.

#OccupyLA: The Wall Street Spring?

2011-10-05T17:13:00.000+09:00

Dozens of people are camping out on the lawn of the LosAngeles City Hall, and have been since Saturday, hoping to make an impact inthe movement now known as Occupy Wall Street (#occupywallstreet). Thoughseveral thousand miles away from the hub, LA protesters are committed to thesame cause as their fellow citizens in New York: to protest the state of theeconomy, particularly the corporate banks and other federal institutions andheads who make up the “1%” of the populace, yet own and control most of thecountry’s finances. “We have lost our democracy,” I overheard one woman tellJapanese reporters. “There’s no reason why these oil companies have so muchpower. 99% of us are not included.”

The LA crowd (#occupyLA) is small for one that claims to represent 99%of the American population, but it’s understandable because the only mediarepresentatives in sight are either Asian or freelancers like myself. AlthoughABC and NBC vans lined the curbs of the Los Angeles City Hall Monday, the staffwas actually across the street for the Michael Jackson doctor manslaughtertrial. Yet even as the day wore on, the protest numbers were growing.

You can tell it’s been a few days now, that they’ve beenhere: the smell of unwashed bodies and sweaty shirts mingles with peanut butterand nicotine and the Port-a-John trailer (which to be fair is still fairlyclean). Hand-lettered signs and placards line the ground--many more than are actually hands present to hold them--available for anypasserby who cares to join the fray; there are also cardboard and sharpiestations for you to make your own. There are food tables and informationtables, a supplies fort to which people are encouraged to donate essentialssuch as water and toilet paper, a daily camp schedule, and even a library, fullof appropriate materials such as “The Capitalist System,” “Afflicted Powers,”and “Of Mice and Men.” People are friendly here: a few random guitarists andvisionaries are eager to strum and speak, a drum circle kicked off for a while,and naps and dogs abounded during the sunny afternoon.

But it’s always interesting at events like these to see thephilosophies and backgrounds that have inspired different people to join amovement. One of my fellow freelancers is a gentleman from Gonzo News (“Haveyou heard of Hunter S. Thompson?” he asked me. I assured him I was a fan) whois convinced that America should (and eventually will) revert to the bartersystem. "I just came from Burning Man

Right. If only Eve hadn’t eaten that apple…

Another girl I met has no job and is not a student, but has far-reaching ideals. "I just want everyone to have a voice," she tells me, passionately. Props for wanting to be intelligent and deep--now grab a book from the #occupied library and pull up some grass.

Then, of course, there are those exasperating folks tryingto take advantage of #occupyLA for their own supposedly relevant sub-causes.Take the determined young, cute guy on the bridge who stood vigil with hisgiant sign: “YOU CAN’T BUY THE EARTH.” A wonderful sentiment, to be sure, butwhen I asked him why he was #occupyingLA he said we needed to protect theenvironment and that the “1%” need to know that.

Hmm, first things first, Son. You can kill two birds withone stone but not any combination of bulls and bears.

Despite the differences, however, nearly everyone at#occupyLA does have one thing in common: most are ready to talk and bephotographed. As I interviewed a group, they eagerly jumped in and spoke out,not allowing the interview to fall stagnant (or give me an out). Then came thecall to the start the protest parade, but one boy in my circle hadn’t had histurn yet. “Will you be around here later?” he asked, grabbing his sign. “Yeah,”I said, and he started walking. “OK,” he threw back, in a rush, “I wanna talkbut I’ll catch ya later. I gotta march!”

Krama

2011-09-22T16:20:00.000+09:00

She wears a krama daily.

Wraps in around her head in the morning, when she’s making breakfast. Wraps it around her neck, mouth, and nose when she’s riding the motor—me on the back with my arms around the little ones squished in the middle, my own krama pulled loosely around my neck so my mouth is free. All of us wear the krama then, too. Phirun’s is blue, mine’s orange, Sovann’s green, and Mak’s is maroom color that makes me feel warm and smart just to see it. Everything good is in that krama, that scarf of Mama’s. Mak wears that every day, except when she dresses up. She has a gold, lacy one then. When Phirun was a baby she carried him in a green krama, tied down her waist and up her shoulder. Before Phirun came, she wore it around her waist. When Sovann did it too, Oam laughed and said, “You havin’ a baby, too?”

At school the boys don’t like the wear the krama. Sometimes we wear them like capes, like Superman. Other times we use them to tie each other up. But I like ‘em when I’m riding the motor. Keeps the dust and flies out.It’s not anything I think about, really; the krama, that is. Everyone wears one, and uses them for everything: wiping, carrying, securing. Only reason I’m even thinking about it now is because of something my teacher said today. I have an English class, and my teacher is American. Her name is April. I go four days a week after school. This is very unusual but Mak wants me to go because she says we don’t know how long this good fortune will last. April is very black, and very beautiful. We think big thoughts in her class.

So today April wore the krama, but we all laughed at the way she wore it, like a snake coiled up around her neck with its tail and its head hanging down on either side. She asked us what is the proper way to wear a krama. We showed her this way, and that way. Then she asked us different ways we use the krama. And we told her, this way, and that way. She was very impressed. Then she told to us the history of Cambodia, when the Khmer Rouge took over the government and killed so many in its slaughters and work camps. The Khmer Rouge, she said, wore special krama with red and white tiny squares she calls “checks.” They turned the national symbol of comfort and practicality into a fearful and degrading thing. Everyone feared the red-and-white checked krama during those terrible years.

My friends and I, we know about the Khmer Rouge, of course. And we know of this hateful krama, those colors which we rarely see now for sale in the markets. Last year, we went to the Killing Fields. I left the group for a while and I stood thinking, looking at the ground. I saw pieces of krama: blue ones, and red-and-white check ones. All dirty and coming up from the ground.

But now our teacher says we can redeem the krama. We are restoring dignity of our people in our country and making April smile every day. She says she has never seen more beautiful smiles than in Cambodia, tucked and folded amongst the krama. Here, there, and everywhere. “Your eyes smile,” she tells us.

“Let’s make kramas,” she says. “And send them to my country. We can make pictures that show how to wear and use the krama, like you showed me today. I will teach you how to make a business plan. You can teach me how to share your culture with my people.” We laugh, and we say we will do it.

This, she says, is what peace is.

Extreme Veganism and A Trip to the Moon

2011-09-10T06:00:00.006+09:00

Mushrooms, Moon masks, and Martians: Georges Méliès and his "A Trip to the Moon"/"La Voyage dans la Lune"The theater smells old: like dried up sweat and Chanel from the countless black ties and gowns that have sat in these red velour seats. But it was seeing Oscar in all his golden glory that made me realize I was actually in the Samuel Goldwyn Theater in Los Angeles, where I had pulled up in the Vespa as the sun set glowing and rosy behind the classically willowed Beverly Hills palms. The line of anxious theater-goers stretched around the block. The lady in charge assumed I was a student and charged me as such, then I was handed 3D glasses and an awesome print of the film I planned to see, plus a narration script. I found a seat in the fifth row, stage left, and received a few compliments on my sparkly pink helmet as I sat down.

Some professor made an unnecessary elaborate introduction, then Serge Bromberg came on stage to emcee with his brilliant piano playing, delightful French accent, and charming sense of humor, and the rest of the evening was magical.

The program was a full hour and a half of short films, beginning with a fascinating trolley ride of San Francisco a few days before the 1906 earthquake, continuing with post-earthquake footage, followed by ...

- "The Acrobatic Fly" (hilarious)
- "Japanese Acrobats"
- 3 Cinemascope 3D shorts
- Butterfly garden (Also hilarious)
- Metamorphasis
- "The Joy of Living"--a rather amazing French cartoon from 1907
- A risque train scene
- "After the Ball"
- India travelogue

Serge himself played piano for all of these, and in between showings entertained us with his film knowledge and wit. The creme de la creme was of course the restored, colored, "A Trip to the Moon," which was the result of more than a decade of hard work. The presentation, which opened the Cannes Film Festival in France this past May, has been updated by original composition from the French group “Air:" modern beats and sounds fused to create an absolutely fascinating (if someone dissonant) audio-visual production. Some notes about the film and its maker I've listed below. The showing was followed by a lengthy powerpoint presentation from the technical leader of the restoration project, and followed yet again by a second showing of the film, this time to apporpriate period music played live, of course, by Serge Brombart.

At this point, it was ten thirty pm, I'd been in the theater for three hours, and a Questions & Answers session was getting underway. Considering myself diehard enough, I left, thrilled at the fascinating experiences and memories. This is about the time of year that I would be attending the Chungmuro Film Festival in Seoul, and this event eased my recent hankering to attend a film festival.

About Georges Méliès:
Magician who bought Robert Houdin Theater.
Used Cinemascope 3D and trick cameras.
Made the first indoor studio for shooting film.
Created the “Star Films” logo to prevent pirates.

About "A Trip to the Moon":
First story film ever made.
Longest film of its time.
Most pirated film of its time.
Consists of 13,375 frames.

The Update:
- After opening the Cannes Film Festival this year, the program played at Telluride in Colorado. (This was its third showing and the first in LA/CA).
- One color copy found in Argentina partially decomposed as solid brick was found. Decided to melt it (further decompose it) under glass bell with chemical treatment in order to salvage the color bit by bit (took over two years!). They then took digital stills over a light screen. It ended up as a “Bucket of shards” which they painstakingly pieced together using intact B&W versions (about 4-5 from different parts of the world). The slides of the workflow during production were insane AVID nightmares including bizarre tactics like rotoscoping and multiple timelines and colored keyboards and who knows what mind-numbing, painstaking else.
-“It was a race to the finish, quite literally.” ~Tom Burton
- Interesting: No record of it being produced in color at the time, but it was probably ordered tinted by a Spanish patron, as evidenced by the French flag (now in Spanish color).

Memorable quotations used to describe the restoration process/film: “Turning a hamburger back into a cow,” (something I've deemed "extreme veganism"...perhaps I could market this catchphrase? “Making a Frankenstein,” “If I was gonna launch a rocket the first place I’d go is my roof.”

From the Telluride Film Festival program: Georges Méliès’s famous 1902 “moon with a rocket in the eye” masterpiece was the Holy Grail for film preservationists, long available only in battered black-and-white prints. But this glorious, hugely entertaining landmark— groundbreaking as fantasy and science fiction and for its special effects— was rescued in its original color version, frame by frame, by Lobster Films and the Groupama Gan and Technicolor foundations, in the most elaborate and expensive restoration in the history of cinema. How important is this film? It was the first archival work and first short to open the Cannes Film Festival. MOON is the finale of Serge Bromberg’s latest extraordinary picture show. What else will you see? San Francisco the day before the 1906 earth- quake, the first hand-colored films, Japanese acrobats and Buster Keaton going nowhere, plus other surprises gleaned from attics and flea markets. Serge accompanies it all with live piano and stories. Total run time: 100 minutes.

Take a Bite of My Heart Tonight

2011-08-16T09:45:00.004+09:00

It’s weird to think that people date multiple people (hopefully at different, multiple times) whom they think are their soulmates,

but then eventually marry ONE

(and then maybe later, another, and another…)

simply because, when it comes down to it, they happen to be dating each other at

The Right Time
in
The Right Place.

I think each person has multiple soulmates in the world.

This makes marriage both less important as well as more stressful.

Less important because:

A). Why not date around and experience all these soulmates, because you don’t want to miss out on any?!

And more stressful because:

B). Of course, to get married requires choosing to settle down with one soulmate despite the fact that there are probably more out there.

But it also makes commitment (or marriage)

That much more special because:

You are making a COMMITMENT to someone. Choosing him/her over someone else, knowing there might be someone else as perfect for you as the one you’re choosing. And love is about GIVING as much as GETTING. This isn’t about settling. It’s about choosing to invest in someone.

[And I guess this is why I’m considered one of two least likely people in my group of friends to get married at an early age].

It’s the last goodbye, I swear
I can’t rely on a dime-a-day love that don’t go anywhere
I learned to cry to someone else
I can’t get by on an odds-n-ends love
That don’t ever match up
I heard all you said and I took it to heart
I won’t forget I swear
I have no regrets for the past is behind me,
Tomorrow reminds me just where

Keep your arms high and your spirits higher

2011-08-10T14:54:00.015+09:00

Photo: DJ LA Riots, where I danced at Enclave's Lolla afterparty on Friday. NICE beats!

Best Ways to Sneak Into Lollapalooza:

1. Fly.
2. Case the joint yourself and find a weak spot.
3. Swing like Spiderman from the Congress Hotel across the street.
4. Impersonate some band and create a diversion before entering freely.
5. Build a giant catapult and vault over the fence.
6. Gang up on me and beat me up, take my uniform and wristband, divide it all amongst yourselves, and enter the park.
7. Bribe me with a thousand dollars.
8. Call a member of an obscure band you know and have their agent escort you.
9. Convince me with your wit and geniality and kisses.
10. Grab me some of that free energy drink being distributed from the truck cruising down Michigan Avenue and I’ll tell you.

You always hear about the ninety thousand people, Ray-Bans and overalls, Indian headdresses, T-shirts from every band imaginable, lobster corndogs, muddy port-o-potties, mud-stained Chucks, male nipples prevalent at Lollapalooza.
Fashion reigns a la individuality at Lollapalooza

This year, I volunteered to work (13.5-ish hours throughout three days) so I could attend for free, and it was a great decision. There’s too much to see, all overlapping each other’s time slots, and located at opposite ends of the (320 acre) park. But I got to see some of Lollapalooza the average attendee doesn’t get to see and I had all kinds of spiffy entrepreneurial ideas for how to capitalize on Lolla (Thereby paying for not only my tickets but also the mass vinyls, Lolla-phanalia, and food/beverage I’d like to procure)!

Best ways to make bank at Lolla:
1. Buy extra tickets to scalp for hefty profit on the sidewalks. I was offered $300 for my staff bracelet (one day only) on Saturday afternoon, but I would have been volunteer blacklisted (and it wasn’t even tempting. I really wanted to hear music).
2. Sneak in a sack-full of cigarette packs (and lighters) and sell ‘em. They don’t sell those things, but everyone wants them. Nine or ten bucks a pack and you make bank! (I’d import from DeKalb where they’re cheaper).
3. Repeat above using small flasks of alcohol. Security can get really lazy.
4. Buy Lolla-wear inside and hawk it on the sidewalks (again, hefty profit margins). I can’t tell you how many tourists approached me while I was working to ask if they could buy shirts outside. They couldn’t. But I could!

Oh, yeah. There was also music at Lollapalooza.

Friday, the first band I saw was Delta Spirit (the leader looks like a cross between Johnny Depp and Leo DiCaprio), Foster the People, who said they’d never played for such a big crowd, lead singer wore a white collared shirt which was drenched not long into the inspiring show (behind which me a group of weed-reeking bros sang along with every word—later, I bought the vinyl), then blitzed across the park and caught the end of the Smith Westerns (unmemorable) before rocking out of one of my favorite acts of the weekend, The Kills (who provide that true rock experience. The Mountain Goats were a bit of a disappointment live, as the crowd wasn’t into it and they only did a few songs I knew (they’re too much balladeers for the Lolla venue). I stayed nearby and chilled during Bright Eyes which was a great act warming up for Coldplay.

Here's a terrible video I tried to make while also rocking out. Fail.

Here's a much better video from someone else who clearly doesn't like The Kills enough to rock out to them while recording.

Coldplay had a great concert, starting with a recording of Jay-Z’s “99 Problems” while setting up, and complete with fireworks and balloons. They played a number of excellent crowd pleasers, and Chris Martin sweat enough for his entire band plus one. I’m surprised it’s not called the Chris Martin Band: the man is a frantic antic the entire show, and I barely remember seeing the rest of the guys. The show was a bit slow though, simply because Coldplay, to me, all sounds the same after a while. There was a cool graffiti piano though, and I had a pretty nice spot smashed in between bros and hos.

You slay me, Coldplay.

The next day I had time to kill before the work shift, but no one I had heard of or particularly “had” to see. So I wandered around and found J. Roddy Walston and The Business. Started with a country rock feel, and ended up being a pretty fun time. Couple people ditched shoes and whipped out their frisbees and hula hoops, and it felt like a real music fest for a while. An Horse was a cool Australian duo (I do love chicks who can rock electric guitars) who played under the scent of a woodchip covered concert ground when the day’s rain first started. Chico Trujillo was a fantastic high-energy mariachi-meets-reggaetone group from Chile, complete with eclectic costumes (flannel + swim trunks, holla!). Friendly Fires was a cool indie-rock UK band, but wandering over the Citi lounge tent to find a place to nap, Super Mash Bros next door at Parry’s totally hooked me.

I had to work after that, but later I booked it Lykke Li to catch a glimpse and a few melodious strains. Her stage was packed out though so I ended up listening while buying a mango-pineapple smoothie then going to Eminem. He packed out the standing space for TWO big stages plus the in-between and surrounding embankments. The most entertaining part of the show was watching girls in the front row (via TV screen) crying and singing and rapping their lungs out along with his every word. It was the fastest hour and a half of the entire weekend. But overall I felt somewhat gypped, and didn’t care for DJ Kon Artis’ bodyguart presence and album sale pitches. Bruno Mars also made a cameo, and Eminem chugged half a bottle of vodka on stage. That’s Recovery for you.

Sunday kicked off with Gold Motel, and for a feel-good, breezy, group they’re pretty solid (I do wonder how they’re all from Chicago and sing about California all the time. Kind of reminds me of myself). After a very long hot work shift I caught the second half of Flogging Molly with their Irish rock n’ roll, and absolutely rolicking time of Celtic tunes, dancing and revelry. Made me miss my Maeve! After the morning’s rain and a few earlier shows the field was turning into a mudpit/cesspool and the early drunks were already plastered in it, but spirits were high even as storm clouds rolled back in. Cage the Elephant played across the way and I caught a bit of it, but was too distracted at this point to get the full benefit of what seemed to be another energetic rock show. From there I made it to the second half of Portugal, the Man, of whom I’d bought a vinyl earlier and won the right to have it autographed later. I didn’t get to hear as much of the show as I wanted, but they closed with a cover of Oasis’ “Don’t Look Back in Anger” (one of the best noraebang songs ever!) and I was sold. As they finished the skies opened and the pounding rain delayed the next Arctic Monkeys show by nearly half an hour (screwing up my already tight itinerary). Concert etiquette was nearly nonexistent by this point, and a crowded, shivering crowd peppered with eye-stabbing umbrellas and riddled with lines of muddy idiots going and (worse) coming makes for a distracted and frustrated atmosphere. But the Australian band did well in their shortened time and once the old ladies in the crowd closed their umbrellas and everyone’s lighters started working again, it was a good show.

I took a break to spike a Maui smoothie and grab a vegan burger and then headed to possibly my favorite rave at Lolla this year. As we inched our way through inches of mud and layers of smoky haze toward the front, the rain hit again, this time in hail-esque sheets. Everyone groaned, expecting another horrible weather delay and freezing, frustrating wait. We still had 10 minutes to go before Deadmau5 was even supposed to show. But as the rain swept over us in torrents, his lights suddenly went on, and a beat dropped. He was on!

It was magnificent. That LED face: those glittery eyes and freaky mouth of lights. Those ears that you can see even in the dark behind thousands of gyrating bodies. That ironic kitty T shirt. That voice; that magnificent, flawless electronic entrancement. It was absolutely wild, and I felt anything but freezing. In fact, once we were all jumping and screaming, I couldn’t even feel the rain, I could only see it, far above me. I don’t think it ever touched the ground. And I wouldn’t have, either, only my feet were stuck in the mud. I managed to rave just fine, though. Deadmau5 isn’t dead. He’s SICK.

“Hold your wristbands high: the higher the better at Lollapalooza.”

Happy weekend: things you should know

2011-07-23T10:48:00.004+09:00

Happy Weekend! Things I learned this week:
1. Korean men, even those long assimilated in the U.S. are all indubitably ajosshi.
2. Eating lots of food doesn’t solve problems, rather, it creates more of them.
3. However, a good salad with hard boiled egg and almonds goes a long way in semi-healthy consolation.
4. Never order orange juice drinks (or anything that doesn’t come in a sealed bottle) from a bowling alley bar.
5. The reason people in Hollywood make movies is because they’re too poor to go watch them in the ridiculously expensive theaters.
6. People exert way too much energy talking about the weather. No, not climate and the importance of science. I mean the ubiquitous cold and hot snaps that have been creating conversation since Adam and Eve sewed clothes.
7. The American Dream based on a 9-to-5 (much less an eight-hour work day) is completely a myth.
8. Drive aggressively.
9. Asians are very bad drivers, even when they’re not in Aisa.
10. Writers should not act in AND direct their own plays.
11. Rich writers should not produce their own crappy writing.
12. Writing is actually hard work.
13. There seem to be fewer fat people in Los Angeles than in any other American city I’ve seen in quite some time.
14. And, more chunky people can be seen running here than anywhere else in the country.
15. If God answered one question, I’d want it to be this: “WHERE do the socks in the wash go?!”
16. Every man’s an island. And every woman, too.
17. I love sanuk shoes, and they’re from Thailand. Even better.
18. Arcade+dance club combines the best of child and adulthood. Why are there not more of these?!
19. When you actually have a pool, you don’t swim in it very much.
20. An episode or three of The Simpsons is the perfect nightcap before bed.
21. No longer do “cents” money symbols appear on keyboards.

"You thought you knew suburbia..."

2011-06-29T22:30:00.005+09:00

“You thought you knew suburbia…”

...intones the inside jacket cover of Shaun Tan’s illustrated short story anthology. Indeed, suburbia is one of those dreary, modern by-products of post world war cooke cutter neighborhoods and dreams of moral idealism. But in suburbia, Shaun Tan finds and captures cross-cultural lessons, creativity, and imagination, proving that fascination can be found within the most mundane subjects.

Peppered, no, fused with careful illustrations, this book is aesthetically and philosophically valuable. I love when pictures illuminate the text and don’t just repeat it. These illustrations do just that. If you read the words alone, then look at the pictures, or vice versa, you might get different perceptions of the foundational philosophies meant by the fusion of the two.
From Tan's novel "The Arrivals." My new Thanksgiving centerpiece.

A couple of my favorite selections are “Eric” and “No Other Country.” Both stories espouse cross-cultural understanding through unconventional means, for example, “Eric” is a foreign exchange student who is curious about his host family’s activities and culture…sounds normal, right? But the illustrations depict Eric as a mouse-sized alien who inhabits his host family’s pantry until he eventually returns to his home country, leaving behind a glowing collection of, well, read the book and ponder it yourself. “No Other Country” is about a family who moves to a new land, only to accidentally stumble upon a magical “inner courtyard”—a peaceful place quite unconvential to reality. “No other country has this,” explains the Greek woman at the end of the story. If only we could all appreciate each others’ national novelities, as well as our own.

But the book contains many more stories, snippets for thought, and intelligent musings. “The Amnesia Machine” contains political ponderings. “Stick Figures” and “Grandpa’s Story” use imaginative means to explain everyday occurrences and tradition, respectively. There’s no end to the delight this book brings. Read carefully, and pass it on. Who says reality can’t also be magical?

**Ed.’s note: Also try Tan’s wordless graphic novel, “The Arrivals.” Filled with art that I’d love matted on my wall some day, this touching (and again, unconventional) expose on an immigrant’s experience will leave you smiling and pondering outside the box (and spending hours researching Tan’s work online!) 5 stars.

Local Ghost Haunt and Historical Hotspot Gains New Owners, New Look

2011-06-29T12:45:00.008+09:00

ILLINOIS—Ghost hunters, interior designers, and history buffs alike will rejoice with the employees of Sycamore’s Carls Fargo Restaurant and Stratford Inn, who enthusiastically applauded the announcement of new ownership Tuesday at an open meeting in the restaurant’s Chamber Room. Rachel and Jennifer Bauer, sisters both of Wisconsin, announced their acquisition of the restaurant-hotel, one of Sycamore’s oldest establishments located on the corner of State and California Streets downtown. The Bauers, together with another sister currently of Manhattan, plan to update the building while maintaining the old-time charm (and mystery!) of the 1926 structure. The business has been owned and operated by the bank since 2009, and maintains most of its revenue through the hotel as well as party and reception bookings. Photo from http://bit.ly/mlBUTK

The Bauers bring a passion for travel, old buildings, people, and hospitality service to Sycamore as well as an ambition to preserve historical charm and “To give back to the community,” says Rachel Bauer. Their combined management, hospitality, and food service experience showcases a promising and energetic resume. During Tuesday’s open meeting, the Bauers answered a variety of questions from the staff and stated their intention to provide a fun yet professional working atmosphere for the staff.

Under a skillfully intuitive but under-resourced staff made up of mainly students and young adults, the Carls Fargo and Stratford Inn welcomes the new management as a chance to showcase Sycamore’s history and provide a comfortable atmosphere for local residents and travelers alike. Planned renovations include a restaurant and bar update, modernized hotel lobby and rooms, and a cafe. The Carls Fargo Restaurant will be closed for three weeks during renovations (effective immediately) and a name change, which will be revealed at its re-opening (currently scheduled for July 20, 2011). The hotel will remain open during this time.

Reuben Ellwood, the first mayor of Sycamore, a state representative, and member of one of “The” famed Ellwood clan of Sycamore and Dekalb, built a mansion on the property in 1882. Eventually, Henry B. Fargo of Geneva purchased the property and built the hotel around part of the original mansion. Tom Carls purchased the building in 1972, and under his oversight “The Fargo” became a local hotspot for evening dinner, drinks, and parties for the next two and a half decades. Since Carls’ retirement, the restaurant/inn has changed hands several times. [See more Fargo/Stratfod history here].

The building contains romance, mystery, and tragedy alike, as many long-time area residents and ghost hunters alike affirm. Thanks to the Bauers and their enthusiastic new staff team, this piece of Sycamore history will remain inspiring...and the ghosts alive and well!

**Ed.'s note: This article was written on the spur of the moment from the author's experience and memory, with few exact quotations, interviews, and first-hand verification. While completely factual and honest, it perhaps does not contain the depth of details she would like, and will be subject to minor editing. Please watch this space for upcoming details as the Carls Fargo Restaurant/Stratford Inn continues to evolve!

Golden Slippers

2011-06-21T02:32:00.005+09:00

IT was one of those muggy summer nights when sweat drips from every pore at the slightest body movement, and when it hurts to breathe. The sun was dipping into twilight and mosquitoes were thick around the edges of the woods, the lawn, the driveway. The heat forced the dissipation of outside smells: the sheep in the next door field, the stale grass clippings across the street, and the hydrangea, which had replaced the short-lived lilac blooms as the current live fragrance.

Viv scooted along the road; listening, thinking. She clutched the handlebars tightly, right leg pumping, purple Vans hitting pavement and bouncing airward twice before resting; left leg balanced firmly on the narrow scooter floor. Thud, thud, coast one thousand. Thud, thud, coast two thousand…. The purple vans kept time with her heartbeat.

Scootering is indifferent to thought: you can choose to lose yourself mindlessly in the rhythm or use the repetition to ponder wondrous things. A few activities are like that, mostly having to do with exercise or music. Thud, thud, coast three thousand. Thud, thud, coast four thousand…

And now Viv had both: the boy from down the road was driving by on his golf cart, as he did almost every night at dusk, with his boombox full of crooning classics playing out the back. Last night had been Frank Sinatra’s "Coffee." Tonight was Mitch Miller’s rendition of “Golden Slippers.” As a girl, Viv’s daddy had played old vinyl’s on his 1968 RCA Victrola, and Viv had always thought the tune was “Golden Summers.” It sounded so much more romantic, but made so much less sense when combined with the rest of the song lyrics. She was disappointed to learn the truth.

And that’s the way life is, isn’t it.

It isn't a question, because you’re only allowed one answer. Thud, thud, coast five thousand. Thud, thud, coast six thousand…

The boy on the golf cart waved and smiled, as he did almost every night at dusk. And because she only ever saw him at dusk, and because she was a little shy about looking boys straight in the eye, Viv didn’t quite know what he looked like. But the shape of his face was sanguine, and his haircut handsome.

And then he was gone in the red-gold haze of evening, Golden Slippers floating behind him, following.

She was drifting in and out of thought, as scootering allowed her to do. One moment she was lost in the bliss of sticky air bowing to her whims, the next, mulling over decisions to be made. Thud, thud, coast seven thousand. Thud, thud, coast seight thousand…Sometimes it was scary to Viv how much time she managed to muse away, doing nothing. Lost in reverie, lost in space, lost in impracticality...

But if time is money, and money is time, and you can’t take it with you, then to what end? Viv knew this last was a fragmented sentence. But when you think, you don’t always think in AP Style. Life is ambiguous. Fragmented. Non-linear. Destiny doesn’t happen in a line. Bananas don’t mix well with mangoes, because their tropics are different. Nothing that’s important can be measured in formulas or predictions. There is lots of unhappiness in the world. Some people give a damn. And some don’t. And what will I eat tomorrow? And when should I tell him I want to break up? And how will I know which job I should take, if I’m offered both?

And Vivien thought that reading “Slaughterhouse 5” was pointless. Why did so many boys from school like this book? But she decided to adopt that one annoying line that tied it all together because it fits the indifference, the ambiguity, the fate.

And so it goes: golden slippers, golden summers, golf carts with happy lads and scooters with bashful girls. Thud, thud. Coast…thud, thud. Thud, thud.

....

How To Execute A Wedding

2011-06-14T03:34:00.008+09:00

“Can I bribe you with twenty bucks to clean my bar for me?” he asked as he walked toward my bar, rummaging through his tips jar for a few crumpled fivers.

“Sure!” I grinned, elbows deep in my own clean-up operation. If it was anything like last time I had to clean my own post-wedding bar, it’d be a fair piece of cake and done in thirty minutes.

As Justin left for his after party and most of the guests stumbled out in high spirits, I walked confidently to his bar in the back where the night’s DJ was breaking down equipment.

Stop. Short.

Justin’s bar looked nothing like mine had after the wedding I worked. It was TRASHED. Melted ice buckets, empty of their soggy beer bottles, and caps littered the table and floor. The empty keg was leaking water and ice. A broken bottle of Stoley’s Russian vodka was everywhere, and I couldn’t imagine why fruit flies weren’t already swarming the blender, half-filled with banana split daquieri and heavily scenting the air with overripe fruit and sticky ice cream. Cocktail straws and umbrellas littered the floor, and real sand littered the bartop.

This was definitely going to more than a thirty-minute project, and it certainly was. But oh, what a fantastic wedding party! They had dancing (with a crowd-pleasing DJ), lots of drinks, lots of food and snacks, and ...NO wait time between wedding and reception because they didn't happen the same day!

As a bartender, server, or caterer I have worked at a lot of diverse wedding receptions, and combined with the few I’ve attended as a guest, and my consistent perusal of photography guru Hannah Persson’s excellent wedding work, I’ve formed a pretty good idea of what works and what doesn’t for weddings. In fact, my mom and I spent a quality forty minutes planning an ambiguous one last week, until my mom asked me worriedly, “We don’t NEED to plan one now, right?” I think it’d be super fun to have a wedding party, but just not get married! Yet.

The traditional underlying philosophy of [American] weddings is that it’s THE BRIDE’S DAY, and that everyone should bust his or her back, spend tons of money, and bow to every whim of the bride’s gracious, intelligent, and ingeniously creative directives. However, there are a few small snags in this well-meaning philosophy (one might term them, gaps in logic?!)

The first problem with this philosophy is that although the bride is indeed an important person to be honored, if you’re only trying to appease the bride in this scenario, why bother inviting 150+ other people? Just go to a justice of the peace (or Vegas, baby!) and then a nice dinner afterward. A good wedding will take the bride (AND groom’s!) personalities and combine them in a tasteful event that caters to the guests and showcases the happy couple at their best. Aesop’s fable about the unfortunate man trying to please everyone still rings true, but guests’ (and wedding party members’) convenience and enjoyment MUST be considered when planning. Example: don’t have hours between ceremony and reception. If you must, provide refreshment and entertainment. If the bride and groom aren’t drinkers, they don’t have to spend the $ to provide alcohol to guests. An alternative might be to at least provide a cash bar venue, or just a really really magnificent virgin punch. Bored people too easily become mischievous. And this could be disastrous to your wedding party and memories.
Bowling at a wedding, how cool is that? Photo by Hannah Persson www.hannahperssonphoto.com

Or, what if the bride has poor taste in, well, EVERYTHING? Friends and mothers, please step up to gently and tactfully remind the bride that magenta and lavender may not be the best wedding colors, or that lopsided tropical cakes look more appropriate for fifteen-year-old birthday parties.

Another problem pre-married couples face is budget. And why spend fifty million dollars on a wedding so you can live poor dissatisfied lives until you divorce fifteen years down the line? But then again, budget weddings don’t have to be crappy or unsatisfactory. And lavish weddings don’t necessarily lead to poverty or, for that matter, divorce.

Chic and classy budget weddings are certainly doable. Just ask the entrepreneurial folks at McDonalds. Even vegetarian eaters have options there these days, what with the McCafes and all. These weddings will provide a lot of room, little hype, and plenty of fun for the whole family. But seriously when it comes to budget weddings, why do you think niche magazines exist? Even if you don’t want to buy one, a few hours in a Barnes & Noble perusing ideas won’t hurt. Save $ by skipping “save the dates,” and use the $ on more champagne instead. And don't "save money" on photography; hire a good photographer. There's nothing worse than having crappy disposable Kodak shots of that $10,000 day.

If you can't afford to invite everyone, just make a grand appearance and advertise it to the media. That way, everyone can feel "invited" to the wedding, and can use their own funds to celebrate it.
Choose your wedding party aesthetically. Guests don’t want to look at ugly people: they have mirrors for that. If you must have VIP ugly people in your wedding party, please at least dress them sensibly. Pale-skinned girls shouldn’t wear hott pink, so if your heart is set on hott pink bridesmaid dresses, kick the pale-haired girl out or dye her hair.
And speaking of bridesmaid dresses, it’s SOOO NOT twenty-first century to match anymore. What is this, a twin toddler portrait session? Pick a color scheme and let the individual styles shine through while still complementing order and beauty. Or just skip the wedding party entirely, as the Koreans do.

Couples, make an effort to make the rounds and see the guests. And don’t do away with a receiving line thinking you’ll do this. Deciding to replace receiving lines in favor of “mingling” merely shortens time to the honeymoon. Receiving line first, THEN mingling (preferably while dancing). I’ve never seen a successful receiving line-less wedding.

Also, wedding registries may be useful, but tacky. Almost as tacky as Korean-style recording HOW MUCH MONEY each guest gives as they enter the wedding hall. Let's not beat around the bush: the only thing anyone wants is money. Then they can get whatever they want, wherever they want...or take irresponsible trips to Timbuktu.

TIP YOUR BARTENDERS! Don't be a grouch at weddings. Even if EVERYTHING went wrong beforehand, this IS the time to celebrate the bride and groom and give them a wonderful send-off.

Everyone will remember it because it was so awful. I’m pretty sure that is the worst thing that could ever happen. But don't fear it. Use your common sense, this blog, and those free-perusal magazines at B&N to plan and host the most-gossiped SUCCESS ever.

And, Jack Sparrow may just be a pirate, but his words carry merit that should replace our former ridiculous philosophies on weddings with this happy mantra: “Weddings? I love weddings! Drinks all around!”

[Ed.: You do know, however, "execute" has multiple definitions (see title). ]

Hospitality Begins at Home

2011-05-19T15:16:00.010+09:00

It’s kind of a buzzkill when you go outta your way to try to do nice things for people and they repeatedly reject you. That’s what’s been happening to me lately, yet for some reason, I’ve been dealing with it much more graciously than I normally would. Hospitality and genuine friendship are things that I’ve always championed on the surface, yet had trouble practicing if they truly inconvenienced me. Throughout college I had a couple friends for whom I’d drop practically anything, but as this continued I started bearing completely unwarranted grudges and moving further and further away from unconditional love for others and hospitality regardless of circumstances. Perhaps this is a quality that comes with age and maturity. Perhaps it comes from traveling and learning that relationships—REAL relationships—are key to diplomacy, which is key to peace. Perhaps these thoughts have been enhanced by the several missionaries with whom I've had the privilege to connect, and who are genuine people: friends, laborers, and motivators. In any case, today I’m developing empathy and I’m thankful for the opportunity to do so…and boy, have there been MANY not-so-pleasant opportunities to do so since I’ve been back in the States!

“The great thing is to direct the malice to his immediate neighbours whom he meets every day and to thrust his benevolence out to the remote circumference, to people he does not know. The malice thus becomes wholly real and the benevolence largely imaginary.” The cool thing about C.S. Lewis’ The Screwtape Letters is that it’s written from the devil’s perspective. Thus, the reverse of that quotation is actually the point Lewis is making, and a stellar word it is. I read the book for the first time last week: that I only read it for the first time at the age of 23 means I obviously haven’t upheld my end of growing up in an evangelical Christian setting. This quotation thoroughly struck me to the core, particularly because of my obsession with social networking as a means to perpetuate social justice and global awareness. I often spend more time and effort reading and pining over those suffering far away than I do working to develop relationships with my own family, and those around me. “Charity begins at home,” the maxim goes. And it’s true. This editorial from the New York Times kind of touches on that point, among other things.

There’s nothing like a good old-fashioned biscotti and some Stanley Cup playoffs to soften the heart and complete a sunny day on Clearwater Beach! My grandfather died a few days after I returned from Korea, so my mom, oldest brother and I flew down to participate in the funeral. Jack and I stayed a few days after Mom, who had to return for school. While there, it was surprisingly almost unbearable at times. Having three generations of women in the house (Grandmother and her sister, Mom and her sister, and me) with very different personalities and accompanied by various relatives and family members, was definitely a trying mix. I love each of them, but it took some forced reflection to maintain true grace and fellowship. Jack and I eventually found solace watching hockey with our great-aunt Terry, and talking everyone into lazing on the beach til we had developed delightful bronzes. We also had the satisfaction of really honoring our grandmother and making her happy. It was a time of not-always-easy learning, yet satisfaction.

Shortly after we returned from Florida, two Filipino boys came to stay at our house for two weeks. Although Ethan had graciously given up his (my old) bedroom for me temporarily when I came home from Korea, I had to give it up for the boys and relocate to the girls’ (my old-old) bedroom, where I slept in a tiny corner of a messy room, floor laden with wood shavings from the guinea pig cages and the nightly concert of their water bottle drumming and attempted escapes. It was ridiculous and restless, and I relocated yet again to: a friend’s back breaking sofa, a corner of the dining room floor, and finally the family room leather sofa, where I was awoken daily by my caffeinated early-bird mother. During this time I also helped my family, by shuffling back and forth to NIU, dropping off/picking up Sam and Wil. Although I always enjoy hosting students, it’s always the one drawback that we live so far from where there program takes place, and this year it was particularly taxing to make that hour round-trip drive twice a day.

But you know what? Hospitality and friendship are always worth it. Even if you don’t get immediate dividends (for example, my buzzkill example). Eventually, karma will come around.

One of the better aspects of being with the fam again was the perpetual bike-riding partners I had. These rides happened quite often, and I’ve become a Shawn’s (local coffee/sandwich shop) enthusiast. Last Tuesday, on my littlest sister Christiana’s 11th birthday, we biked to town and met mom at Shawn’s for blended spiced Chai drinks and bagel delights, then spent a few hours at the park with sidewalk chalk, Frisbee, and futbol. It was an excellent day of togetherness, despite the fact that the girls ride slow and nearly died of heatstroke a half dozen times! Tonight we're having a sleepover at the place I'm dog/housesitting. Who knew Wii's Wipe Out could be so ridiculously funny!

I’m filling most of my time visiting friends and catching up: developing relationships, catching up on old ones including this awesome chick and her wondeful bf, and helping to entertain LAURA HICKS, recovering from tonsil removal. I’m working part time at a local inn/restaurant/bar, meeting people and swapping stories as I make them bloody marys and salads. I’m also doing lots of research for a writing project I’m doing about Pitcairn Island. The islanders, descendents of the infamous Bounty ship mutineer Fletcher Christian, are very self-admitted hypocritical people. They like to put on a façade of hospitality for tourists and island guests, yet are in reality they can be quite vile. This is not at all the sort of person I want to be, and this self-improvement in the areas of hospitality and friendship are possibly half-consciously a result of this study.
Me and A Boy at Starved Rock State Park...I had forgotten that Illinois CAN be beautiful and historically interesting...despite the sunless day we went!

Guest Post: “Meet the HIGH family ☺”

2011-05-16T12:06:00.008+09:00

By: HASSAM DIMARAW SABAN

What is family ? for me Family is the group of people held together by bonds of love and affection. Is the family important? Definitely the answer is YES because family is your friend, bestfriend, boyfriend either girlfriend because you can share your problems to them and I’m pretty sure that they have the best advice or solution.

9:45 in the morning all the muslems had the opportunity to observed how the catholic performed their mass in the New Man catholic church. Me as a muslem its not new to went to the church because its my 2ND time to attended the mass, the 1st time was when we had our intramural in our school. Its not new but its also a good experience.

In the afternoon, everyone were excited to see who will picked up to them. 4:20pm we were in the bus and were nervous because we thought we will not make it, but “God is Good” and all of us made it at the exactly time. Then finally wil and I met our foster Dad named Fred High. He was really cool dad, when we got home, Im happy that I have a big ATE named Rebecca High. I have 3’ Kuyas named Jack High, James High, and Charlie High. I have a 15y/o brother named Ethan High who loved playing baseball. I also have 2 little sisters named Sussanah High and Christiana High. And last but not in the list our foster mom named Donna High. For me it’s a dream came true because Im dreaming for a long time that I could have a big brothers & sister.

This day I learned how to socialized to a new and nice people, and to knew what is life here in U.S.A especially the family life. Im happy that im with the HIGH family. Although were staying here for only two weeks I already loved this family and I’m hoping that when the time come that’s were going to leave god will give them more happiness, more strength and more healthy minds & bodies.

Ed.'s note: Sam (in yellow, next to me in this photo) and his teammate Wil, my foster brothers from Mindanao, Philippines, have been living with my family for two weeks. They are part of the annual Philippines Youth Leadership Project at NIU, in which my family has been participating for eight years (throughout the entire program's duration). This is a journal entry Sam wrote and shared with me after he first arrived at our home, and tonight I had the honor to attend his final cultural performance and program graduation ceremony at NIU, experiencing the history and promising future of the Philippines through dance, music, & dialogue. Job well done, Sam! I'm looking forward to seeing what remarkable vision and peace you will bring back to your home country, and share with the world. Love you, bro!

Lady Wanna Tuk-tuk?

2011-05-12T08:35:00.000+09:00

“You need Tuk-tuk?”

We were dazed and half-asleep, coming off an eight-hour bus ride across borders into a land where we no longer even recognized the alphabet so elegantly scripted on the signs of businesses and billboards.

“I have tuk-tuk. Where are your bags? Where are you going? Do you have hotel?”

It was dark, the streetlamps at the bus depot were mellow, and the bus pilots were rushing us to find our belongings and move away from the bus so they could drive on.

“Tuk-tuk? I can drive you. Where you want to go?”

We clutched our small carry-ons tightly, realizing with panicky dread that our big backpacks were no longer where we’d stowed them under the bus.

‘I’ve heard of this happening,’ I thought, heading toward the other side of the bus. ‘We should have watched more carefully. But the bus made few stops, and the passengers who had disembarked did so together!’
“I can take you on tuk-tuk. Where you want to go? I can find hotel. Cheap hotel. Where are your bags?”

The Germans--two boys, one girl--had disappeared, as had the one native-English speaking woman on the trip, a regular Cambodia border crosser. We were on our own.

The crush of Vietnamese passengers was closing in around me, and I fought the urgency to lash out. “Where are our bags?”
I grabbed the “conductor” who had seemed to be looking out for us earlier in the trip. “Where are our bags?” Eyes wide in surprise, he led us around the side of the bus where we knew we’d stowed them. The belly of the bus was empty.

“Where are your bags? You should always keep your bags with you!” The tuk-tuk driver’s unwelcome chastisement was the last straw. Enraged and exhausted, I turned to face him and was about to launch a nasty diatribe when I caught a glimpse of the Germans motioning to us from a ways away. They had rescued our bags along with their own, perhaps thinking that the pale faces should stick together. Or perhaps hoping to share a ride to Siem Riep, we soon learned. “Sorry, friends. We’re staying in Phnom Penh for a few days,” we responded. “Good luck!”

“Tuk-tuk?”

Relieved at being reunited with our stuff, Becca and I turned our attention to the persistent tuk-tuk driver, who showed us his carefully laminated and obviously well-used map, and we talked and haggled and he agreed to drive us around the backpacker area on the river and show us good, cheap guesthouses. He promised to stay with us til we chose one, and he kept his promise. Mr. Borat, the persistent tuk-tuk driver whose ass I almost kicked my first night in Cambodia, ended up being the best thing that happened to us in the whole country, possibly the best person we met the whole trip.
Our last morning in Phnom Penh, as Borat sees us off to the bus.

Planning a trip.
The hardest thing about planning a trip to anywhere in southeast Asia is that there is so much advice, and so many resources through which to sift, digest, and decide. That first night in Cambodia, we’d written down the names and addresses of a couple guesthouses Lonely Planet had recommended, but in the end, Borat found us better options. Yet there is no way we could have arranged Borat’s services, or the rates at the guesthouse we eventually chose, in advance. Lesson learned: flexibility is key, but do some research to prepare.

Here are some basic tips I decided worked best as I researched and traveled. Some advice was good, other was bad, and some I simply didn’t end up using for various reasons of flexibility. Pretty soon I’ll post kind of a tongue-in-cheek version to supplement this, but for those looking for a serious hand, here you go. My own dollar and a half for what it’s worth:

Research and planning: Don’t book too many guesthouses or hotels in advance, unless you’re traveling at peak season or unless you’re on a tight itinerary (the latter which I don’t recommend anyway! The more time, the better). We booked several places through Agoda. Occasionally they ended up being excellent, but sometimes were utter fails. And regardless, they usually cost more money than the little cabdriver recommendations we often found on arrival. I often feel safer having the first night in a new country or city pre-booked, but particularly if you arrive during daylight it’s easy to hail a taxi, tuk-tuk, motor, camel…whatever…at the airport or bus/train depot and get cheap doorstep transportation to a place fitting your qualifications. In fact, you probably won’t need to hail transport at all. It aggravatingly makes its presence known and by the end of traveling in southeast Asia you’ll be quite tired of “Tuk-tuk, lady? Transport?” every few steps.

Also, split transport costs with other backpackers in the airport. They’re easy to spot, and often in the same boat as you. Money is saved, and the local economy is still supported while you all get to where you need to go. If, as I suggested, you’re traveling with no particular reservation or guesthouse booked, sometimes the other travelers can recommend places.

Luggage: Backpackers should invest in quality bags. I actually borrowed a bag for my trip, but ended up finding an overwhelming quality selection in Hanoi, Vietnam. North Face and other brands in all sizes and colors line the streets of the French Quarter, and you can find bags virtually all over the country and into Cambodia, though they become scarcer as you move into Thailand and Laos. I had a frame which cushioned my back and took the weight off my spine: it was super easy on the back.

If you’re traveling a little more luxuriously, take a Samsonite 360. This sleek and sturdy luggage line sports 4 wheels that rotate 360 degrees, giving you the smoothest ride/haul through the airport you EVER had. I bought mine on sale at TJ Maxx a few years ago, and have raved about it ever since. Mom just picked up one this past week as well.
Travel light. This is an oft-reiterated maxim of travel advice, but aside from a handful of essentials and plenty of cash, you can’t really under pack. You probably DON’T need that extra pair of shorts, and keep in mind that sweat doesn’t seem to smell nearly as much outside of America, when everyone else is doing it too and you’re sweaty no matter what. It’s a comfort zone stretch! (except maybe not for you slobs reading this).

Lodging, Hotels and Guesthouses: Some may seem shoddy, but you really just want to see how secure they are. Are there locks on the doors? Is the front desk/entry carefully watched throughout the day and night? Is there working water? Air con is also probably more of a necessity than luxury for new SEAsia travelers. Hot water, Internet, and amenities will probably be nonexistent in cheap guesthouses and hostels, but quite often a small breakfast is included. Try to pay for a few nights in advance in order to bargain for a cheaper rate. And don’t be alarmed when the receptionist asks you for your passports. This is the norm in many southeast Asian countries: to keep your passports as long as you stay there. If you really get a creepy or unsecure vibe from a place, obviously don’t stay. Check out time is usually noon, but if you’re not catching a bus til 10pm, you can leave your bags at the front desk. This is common for backpackers all over the continent, and most guesthouses are very accommodating and will watch your bags with no extra charge so you can spend the afternoon doing activities, free from luggage-bearing.

Money: Fold your cash in half with smaller bills on the outside. That way when bartering for items the vendors won’t as readily see you DO have more money than you claim! Always have some American dollars on hand (particularly in Cambodia, where the national riel is devalued practically beyond use). Try not to carry too many large bills at once. Carrying multiple credit cards stashed in various parts of your person/luggage is probably a good idea. Travelers’ checks …what?!

Toiletries: Carry toilet paper or packets of damp wipes, and travel-sized hand sanitizers. Girls, bring your own tampons/pads as they’ll be tough to find.

Document everything while you can, and organize pictures as you go. You’ll be surprised how tough it is to process/remember the details and basics unless you take some notes, particularly on a more extended trip.

Drink LOTS of fruit shakes. And don’t be afraid to eat the street food!

Do a lot, but also rest a lot. Make sure you have lots of time for FLEXIBILITY reflection, and relaxation. Don’t be afraid to extend or shorten your stays in each place depending on what you’re feeling at the time. Don’t feel like you have to do EVERYTHING.

Get off the beaten trail. Get to know the culture, the locals. If you’re there for a length of time, establish yourself as a regular. In Kuta Beach, Bali, I frequented a restaurant with rare, consistent working wifi and decent black coffee. There was also a street stand of babi guling (roast suckling pig) where the woman got to know me and my taste for extra spicy flavor, as well as the local Mini Mart where the teenage employees would grab me new wifi codes as soon as they saw me coming. I love trying new things and places, so becoming a “regular” even in my hometown is sometimes difficult. But usually where coffee is concerned I can hone in on a favorite!

Don’t be afraid to carry on conversations with random strangers. You know that old warning you mom gave you as a child? Discretion and caution is still important, but joke around and smile at people, travelers and locals alike.

Culture. Reflection. Adventure. Kinship. That’s why I travel, why do you?

In Siem Riep, Ram models one of many ways to wear the "krama."

American Gods--Neil Gailman audio contest

2011-05-01T02:37:00.004+09:00

I interrupt this travel monologue for an important message from our sponsors :)

I entered a contest to win the opportunity to be the reading voice of Neil Gaiman's book, American Gods. The contest is only open for a few more days, and I need to be in the top 20 vote recipients to even be considered by the judges. Most of you guys know I love speaking, and a chance to sit i a room and read a book out loud in New York City sounds totally fun...so please listen to the clip and if you like it, vote for me, spread the word, and keep coming back!

Thanks guys...gals...peeps

http://neilgaiman.bookperk.com/engine/Details.aspx?p=V&c=29933&s=8039985

A Farewell to Bali

2011-04-25T14:23:00.007+09:00

Monday, 4.4
Oh that’s so classy, you middle-aged white people stumbling down the narrow, unkempt sidewalk: cigarettes hanging loosely from your lips as you grip bottles of booze and laugh coarsely, in your ignorance, in your dumb short-sighted reckoning that serves you well in your eat-drink-be merry philosophies. Your paunches are hanging out, your eyes are dark and tired, your feet are sandy and your necks are burned. The natives scorn you when you’re not looking, and when you glance their way they beg you to buy something from them, anything: rides on the backs of their motors, bracelets “hand crafted” in China, the world’s fastest “thirty minute” massages, penis-shaped wooden key chains; and you are drunk enough and reckless enough and pretentiously luxurious enough to buy them. The sunset glints on the water: probably the strongest the sun has shone all day. This beach is dirty; overrun by dirty people, filled with dirty trash. Mini Mart, the bastion of somewhat cheap snacks and drinks, free wifi which may or may not work at any given time, and sunset-driven oldies tunes on the front porch, is a comforting refuge which the overpopulating Aussies actually seem to shun.
---
“Massage, darling?” The girls chime, thrusting a wrinkled yellow pamphlet into my resisting hands. “Sorry, I already got one,” I responded truthfully. I had indeed, a few steps down the road, a few minutes previously. “Manicure?” they asked, not to be deterred. I declined, laughing, and waved as I continued to walk.

“Lady, massage? Mani-cue? Massage, lady?” A few steps further on, another duo thrust a pink pamphlet toward me. I refused and continued on, comfortable with the daily drill of trying to take even a brief walk in Kuta, Bali. All the locals are trying to make a living off the hoards of tourists and surfers who come to utilize Indonesia’s sun and waves, but despite the large amounts of money pouring into the country, locals remain adamantly and self-proclaimed poor.

Entrepreneurship and microfinance are bastions of small success and the improvement in local economies worldwide, and have been hailed as achievements in reducing the global poverty gap. But these small businesses need actual entrepreneurship. Entrepreneurship is defined as the creativity of innovative business models, generally beginning at a grassroots level and working into exponentially successful enterprises.

Microfinance in and of itself is not enough; it needs to be diversified. Instead of selling the same cheap lighters and Tshirts and massages for forty shops in a row and annoying tourists to the point of NO SALES, I have a few suggestions for the Indonesian business people. With their motivation and persistence, they could certainly succeed, given a few good business tips from this non-Business major.

1. DIVERSIFY. The key to good business is standing out and offering an attractive product or service that people will actually buy. Know the market and brainstorm creative ideas on how to attract customers who cannot get your product elsewhere, or at least close by. This is like, highschool econ, here. Or for some, common sense. Since all 39 of your neighbors on the block are already selling “Bintang” beer tank tops, but no one is selling USB movies, despite every other surfer dude who comes up and asks where he can obtain them, why don’t you invest in getting some movies on USB? A novel idea. Or, since all other 876253 travel agent stations sell the same rides to various points of the island, but NO ONE goes to ----, the important ferry point for budget travelers hopping off to nearby Java Island, why don’t you revamp your “transport” and be a little flexible for travelers. Just because your 85 taxi friends don’t do it, it doesn’t mean it’s a bad idea.

2. Don’t assume that people sleeping on the beach are going to happily wake up and buy your ice cream just because you’re shouting it at them. Be discreet salespeople: proactive, yet tactful. Learn to read expressions and use persuasive means (ie, reapeating “lady, lady, lady” or “buy something? Yes? Yes? Yes?” doesn’t necessarily equal a sale. In fact, it has observably sometimes resulted in a kick of sand to the face.

3. “Darling” doesn’t always work for a young girl trying to make a massage sale to another young girl. Use appropriate language and don’t stand on the street like a hooker if that’s not what you’re selling.

4. Have I mentioned, DIVERSIFY ?

If I really stopped to re-read what I wrote, I'm sure I'd be horrified. Perhaps you can point out the obvious errors; I'd be happy to discuss this topic at greater length and depth.

Bali-hai Diaries

2011-04-21T13:18:00.007+09:00

Saturday, 4.2
It sounds trivial to talk about how annoying those old women are: their quavering voices rising in broken, disrespectful English to hawk expensive Bintangs and Cokes. I mean no disrespect of my own to my elders, but these women are relentless. And trivial though it is, its constant ingratiating clamour has worn my patience thin.

Visions of Ubud: Two teenage boys in the field with shakers and bottles, practicing to trade flip flops and shorts for black shoes and white collared: to become bartenders for skinny caterers to giggling tourists. A girl in a gallery with big, brown eyes: eager to practice her English and exchange email addresses with a foreign peer. Banana pancakes: topped with shredded coconut, accompanied by the groaty, sludgy black water that is “kopi Bali.” And always, always: pale-skinned tourists in sunglasses at hats and loose-fitting pants, and the dark-skinned locals harping “Tax? Transport? Where you go?!” up and down the street.

A tour of the two-story Ubud market—scoring, among others, a Haruman shirt for Boy and a cool dragon kite for Dad—with small alcoves piled high in sarangs and T-shirts of myriad colors and patterns: overpriced “silver” and watches and wooden penis key chains and masks…oh, the masks and wooden carvings that collect dust until some intrepid and culture-probing backpacker must have it for his dusty museum back at mom’s house, where he goes once a year to wash his face and eat a hearty, home-cooked American meal at the kitchen table while mother cooks more food, washes linens, sits and stands then sits again, and listens to his tales of adventure and of sitting with Buddhist monks as they teach him in the ways of Prajñā and he talks of the sunsets on Batanbang and the séances on Kuta and the temple in and the crater on Buta but he doesn’t speak of the girls and the dirt and the travel-weary loneliness, because then she’d say, come home, come home.

Babi guling for lunch, sitting cross-legged on the floor, side by side, the locals and tourists mingling, the breeze reaching even the darkened back corners of the restaurant from the wide-open front, where slaughtered pig and mounds of rice are slapped on banana-leaf plates and served with cold drinks and straw-pierced coconuts.

Visions of Bali:
Standing in the street, arguing with drivers in the heat of the day, who are eager to work, eager to talk, eager to wile away the afternoon in heated, incredulous deal-making.

Gazing at the rice terraces, our awe only slightly diminished by the hoards of carefully herded tourists c/o courteous, eager-to-please chauffeurs.

Temples, temples, and more temples: worshipping Hindus, grotesque statues, dark caves and piles of offerings, the scent of incense lingering over everything, the rushing waters and healthy palms, the giant spiders and downing sun. Sarangs, cameras, and steps, always. Wooden carvings: buffalo skulls, coconut masks, wooden instruments.

A coffee plantation: possibly the highlight of this leg of the trip. Quet, with no tourists, and coffee that grows in trees (not ground-level bushes, apparently my memories of Costa Rica plantations are shaky?!) vanilla beans, passion fruit, and other wild growing things, and cages of weasels or "Luwaks." Sampling exotic coffee ("kopi luwak") after coffee after tea after tea, and chilling long beneath wooden shelters in the middle of the jungle, being plucked and presented with a giant passion fruit and the best of Balinese smiles.

A reflective chat on religion on the walk back up the hill, and waiting for banana-honey shakes in the deepening dusk overlooking more rice fields and hidden temples. The shy wife, happy that we enjoyed the fruit of her labors, the naked baby chased by his elder sister, the humble father, an artist prouder of his father's work than of his own, the modest home with lizards on the wall eating dragonflies and the TV playing traditional music and dance, the driver in search of his riders who had long disappeared.

A long drive back, the windshield wipers swap-swap, swap-swapping away the annual weekend Bali rain, our driver comfortable enough to harangue his way back to Kuta; back to the madness that is mud, Australians, motorists, drinking, the weekend.

A late night at a hole-in-the-wall bar, sipping frozen margaritas and chatting with a British Air flight attendant, a Texan bartender, a Dutch engineer, and other random stop-ins until...

Sunday, 4.3
“They say what goes up must come down but don’t let me fall…”

I awoke to the rain, and it barely ceased all day. I felt hungover, which was weird, but I braved it to find coffee and internet anyway, then came back and read Harry Potter, then napped and watched Parks and Recreation. Around 3pm I went down to find food and ran into Zach, so we had Mexican together and tried to find Ty’s wallet. We brought him back some Gatorade and a burger, and I crashed again while attempting to get through a few more pages of Harry Potter. The Mexican was ok but gave me a queasy stomach afterword. It’s been so long since I’ve eaten Mexican, that I guess my stomach can’t handle it! After waking and reading more, I went down and roused the boys around 8:45. We walked around and finally found a cheapish place to eat: I had chop chay which is basically stir-fry vegetables like carrots, baby carrots, green beans, etc . in a thin, tangy broth somewhat like sweet-n-sour soup. The boys and I had good conversation even though we were all a bit tired and Ty was still hungover. Talked about Bali highlights and war stories from our families (grandfathers etc). After that we stopped for a 90 minute massage, my first experience with hot stones. It felt marvelous and the massues was good: easily could have been in my Top5 if she hadn’t been so stop-n-go and spent too much time on my legs as opposed to my back (as usual). But I feel good and smooth now =) Time for bed but I’m not tired…wish I had internet up in here. B.o.B’s “Don’t let me Fall” is stuck in my head…weird because I woke up with Black Eyed Peas’ “Gone Going” stuck in my head. Dunno why… very lazy but good day.

Bintang DiarIES: Bali

2011-04-18T03:48:00.007+09:00

Thursday, 3.31
It was one mountain after another and so peaceful at the bottom: cows grazing, mothers clattering pots and pans inside their darkened kitchens while half-clothed children loitered on the doorsteps. Mainly a restful day: spent the morning exploring on the MOTO. What thrill, what freedom! I wish I’d discovered such a love earlier. Tried to go to Dreamland Beach and it was a pleasant, rural, out-of-the way tour, but I couldn’t get down to the beach with the rocks and mud going so steeply down. Collected the boys and we left the gorgeous bungalow overlook of a diamond drape, with the driver I’d been talking to all week. His name is Wayan, like 45% of the Balinese population (another 45% is named Made, and the remaining 10% are other names collectively). With backwards wistful glances we left somewhat regretfully for Ubud, the sleepy, hippie-art village in Bali’s center. Our hotel is like a temple: large, looming, stone, and cool inside. It has a pool where we spent most of the afternoon, even throughout the rainstorm that came and hammered glinting diamonds on the blue filtered top of the chlorine puddles. After showers, and naps, we roamed the streets and eventually found delightful dinner (I asked a local cabbie and he recommend): French roasted, pineapple-glazed duck with spinach ravioli and red wine. Post dinner, I immediately crashed and slept for ten hours.

Friday, 4.1.
I wish I could transmit the burning coconuts smell: unlike another burning smell I know, first tropically exotic, then something akin to soured nuts. Coconut shells burn fast, but their smell lingers longer than the flames.

Or describe how black his feet were and the sparks that flew: embers like angry entrails from a splintered dragon on his death mattress.

I wish I you could hear the “kecha kecha, kecha kecha” sound and toneful chanting of the men, their gleaming upper bodies heaving, their sarongs and sashes moving to their acapella beats.

I wish you were here to share in these experiences: the wonder, the anticipation, the disappointments, the exploration. Walking tour was nice today: seeing rice fields, monkey forest, temples, having a snack at a roadside warung, seeing an artist’s home and the “suburbs” of Ubud, then a lunch of papaya salad and marlin baguette sandwich (ty’s) before making it home just in time for a quick swim to beat the rainstorm. Tonight was the kechek performance which was a fascinating performance depicting a scene from the Ramayana. Dancing is less graceful, with harsher and bolder movements than in Laos. It was awesome to watch, and the “trance dance” hobby horse rider at the end was quite impressive with his bare feet running back and forth through blazing coals...

We walked all day through Ubud area: rice fields, monkey kingdom, more temples, artists, beggars, and a fried peanut snack under the shade of a roadside stand, where the girl picked a flower for my hair. Ty ate marlin for lunch and I had a delightful papaya salad. Yet we still feel like something is missing from Ubud. We haven’t felt complete since leaving the beaches. We’ll try again tomorrow.

Bintang Diary: Bali

2011-04-13T07:41:00.008+09:00

“What kind of lunatic would wanna be Cleopatra over Eleanor Roosevelt?!” Lots of time on my hands, and lots of P&R on my computer. It's onnnn.

Monday, 3.28
Went running this morning on the beach, which felt good. It’s tough to run on Kuta Beach, though. That place is a GARBAGE DUMP.

The trip I'd booked north to Lovina was canceled by the travel agency and I spent the morning arguing with drivers who wanted to charge me an arm and a leg to get ANYWHERE! I went back to yesterday’s coffee shop and did some internet research over coffee (best yet in Bali) and a pineapple shake. Finally made some decisions and finished packing. Then spent some time chatting with my book store guy on the way out…he offered to take me all over the island on his bike if I came back to Kuta and gave him a day’s warning in advance so he could close his shop.

It was a hot afternoon and my driver insisted that I didn’t want to go to the beach I told him, so he took me to a different one close by. I’m paying a bit more than I’d wanted to, but I did request (and receive) a small discount for booking two nights and paying cash in advance. The tiny Padang Padang Beach is across the street and down the steps: very small and nice but still too much trash and annoying women trying to sell stuff. Had some good rice, though, and spent the afternoon reading in the sun and a little swimming.

Met two boys--Zach and Ty-- who had just finished a year teaching in Bangkok, and we exchanged teaching stories as we watched the sunset. We agreed to meet up and find an ATM/resto or something later, but by the time I showered and left, it was dark. I walked a bit in one direction where the boys had said there might be a village, but the first restaurant I came to said there was nothing further down the road, and the nearest ATM was 15 minutes drive in the other direction! So I walked up that way hoping to catch a ride (where are the “Transport, lady? Transport?s” when you need them?!) but it started raining lightly and by the time I found a transport service at the surf shop it was pouring, so the motorcycle guys invited me to chill with them for a bit til it stopped and I could walk home. On my return I negotiated a giant Bintang from the hotel and watched a bunch of episodes of P&R until I got super sleepy, around 10pm. Amazing how much sleeping I can do here! Yet even though I’m hanging out at this tropic paradise, I can’t seem to fight the anticipation of the next adventure.

Tuesday, 3.29
I snagged some suncream off the boys but by then it was already too late. We spent a solid two hours just in the water, and met another solo traveler from England who just finished two years of teaching in Seoul as well! We had a fun afternoon chilling, talking, and then doubled up on motorcycles to hit up another beach for sunset. Windy there, but clean. We hiked up the hill as dusk slipped out of sight but one motorcycle wouldn't start. Luckily a large, rollicking Canadian rocked up. Eventually we realized that we needed to kick up the kickstand before the motor would start. To celebrate, we all went for dinner (FISH! I've possibly had more seafood since Becca left than I've eaten in the last year). It was fun. But interaction with cool people does give me a somewhat low. Highs, and lows. I kind of feel worthless this week. I feel like I’m not interesting; I have no talents, no particular knowledge of anything, nothing to really contribute to the world. I’ve enjoyed this vacation but it’s been purely self-centered: spending lots of money on myself and lots of unproductive lounging. I know that sometimes we humans need to take a rest, and to rejuvenate ourselves. But it’s been nearly a month now, and I don’t necessarily feel rejuvenated or ready to go home and tackle the world. Well I also feel like leather. A giant, old, wrinkled piece of leather that sat out in too many rains and dried without care. Maybe that just needs a cold shower and a night's sleep.

Wednesday, 3.30
Amazing food, amazing rest, amazing bike, amazing people, amazing FREEDOM.

“April, you’re like an angel with no wings!”
“So, like a person.”

Guess what I'm watching.
Just returned from a delightful dinner which I drove myself to on my motor bike, following Ty and Zach. It was a great ride: up and down dark hills on the quiet coast of deserted nighttime Bali roads. We had the most delicious dinners ever: mine was seafood curry served in half a pineapple shell, with apple crisp and vanilla ice cream for dessert. Absolutely fantastic: and we had a good hour and a half of company conversation as well. It’s nice to talk to them: I think we’ll travel on together from here. I love riding the bike: I wish I’d done more on it, and sooner. Today the mere thought of being in the sun made me sick, so I mostly stayed out of it. We took a morning trip (me on the back of Pruit’s bike, before I rented mine) to Uluwatu Temple: somewhat unexciting but gorgeous Cliffside view of the ocean. Then spent the rest of the day chilling out: rented the bike and found some good internet/coffee in town, then came back for a jaffle and Sprite on the beach but didn’t stay long because the sun and idiot American girls' chatter were collectively giving me a headache. So I watched some P&R and relaxed, then chatted with my Aussie neighbor about surfing and friend desertation while waiting for the boys who never came. Then I walked up the road thinking they’d be at the one local bar, so I had a Bintang and chatted with the bouncer/waiters while waiting: some interesting convo and an invitation to a club this weekend ;) Still no boys, so I went back to my place where they were waiting for me. Dinner, now another Bintang and some more P&R. I should be writing that dang script treatment, but it’s hard to force the creative spirit to revisit that. Maybe yet this week…tomorrow we head inland to Ubud.

Bali-Ho

2011-04-11T11:55:00.008+09:00

I have just returned to northern Illinois from 18+ months teaching in Seoul, South Korea. On my way home, I spent more than one month traveling around Southeast Asia. It was one of the best experiences of my life. Some of my notes and pictures from earlier in my travels are not currently in my possession, so I will storytell backwards starting with Bali, Indonesia (yet telling the week's tales themselves in chronological order). Some days are written more as letters, some are more journalistic style, others are literary in nature. I am trying to write not for anyone in particular, not even for me, but just to discipline myself to do SOMETHING, particularly related to a field in which I'd like to work.

Saturday, 3.26 Kuta Beach, Bali.

[Moleskin]
Are “fish roe” naturally an orange color? [EDIT: Wiki says “Yes.”]

Currently enjoying solo sushi after a lovely Indo sunset. I think I ordered enough for two people—grilled salmon teriaki dish and a “spider maki” roll—soft shelled crab tempura, avocado, and tobiko roll. No clue, really—the pic looked good! And a large BinTang to boot. Might finish with “kinako dofu”—a tofu-soya malt-brown sugar syrup dessert—simply because I’m intrigued! Also must remember to try Bali red rice.

Traveling alone isn’t as fun, but it will afford to opportunity to do a bit more creative photography and writing. I hope. I bought candles in hopes that I’ll be inspired to write later. If only I had wifi in my room; I simply couldn’t find a place with it today. Only the super expensive places had it. Traveling in Asia’s been good—a good way to acclimate myself out of Korean culture as well. I can get away with making small social taboos because I’m a tourist and more than that—an American.
I’m always embarrassed but try to adapt and learn quickly. I want to make my travel time count. It also helps lose some of the pride and ego to have to depend on others and to learn from them all the time. I hate the fact that I have an unearned ego…relationships and people sure teach you a hell of a lot, I guess.

[introspective rant and sentimental blah deleted]

The sunset tonight was gorgeous, despite the TRASH that is Kuta Beach. Agoda misled me and told me my Lovina Beach hotel was a short pickup from the airport, but the taxi drivers laughed in my face upon arrival in Denpasar—apparently Lovina’s a three hour drive! So I ended up at nearby Kuta: rife with mid-day drunks, slovenly Australian surfers, and persistent vendors hawking things in drastic English and grating tones. My room was difficult to find and is a hovel: the beach itself is a disaster. Surprisingly covered in trash and hawkers who WILL wake up sleeping sunbathers to ask if they need massages or bracelets or bow and arrow sets. Why yes, on second thought, perhaps I’ll take the latter. It might prove useful here.

But the sunset was calming. The cute kids and couples came out at this hour, and the elaborate kites for which Indonesia is somewhat known flew magically in the rosy haze.
Sunset beachwalking always reminds me of Becca because that’s usually the time of day when we’re at the beach together. She always works so late (although now that I’ve worked at POLY my relative time viewpoint has changed) and by the time we fight traffic to the coast it’s so late. One of my starkest California memories is the night we went to the Ivy in Hollywood. We splashed in the waves at the Santa Monica beach, then sandy and hot we got dried and changed in her car on the way to our reservation. It was a fine evening: we had lobster and various delicacies; I drank Perrier, she had a mojito. Looking back, we were both so young—so young to be doing such sophisticated and expensive and exciting things. When we went home and stopped halfway up her mountain at the lookout to see the city at night: lit up and sprawling, low to the ground and calming. But this is why I like Becca: she is exciting and challenging, and I think everyone needs a Becca in his/her life. Honestly. Directly and indirectly, she has taught me many things about life and taking advantage of it. I’ll miss traveling with her.

But I digress.

Compliments to the chef—this dinner is wonderful. Exactly what I needed and, shamefully, it looks like I’ll finish it all. Ryoshi Japanese –the place is empty but it shouldn’t be. I’m sorry to see the meal coming to a close.
“Your ass brings nothing negative to mind/I’m glad we’ve come together again…” …hahaha really? The only thing Ryoshi should change is its music selection.

Sunday, 3.27 Kuta Beach, Bali

Dear S.,

MiniMart makes the best pub. Free wifi, friendly people on the porch, a cooler full of beer and icecream, shelves full of snacks. There’s a bottle opener embedded in the tree outside, and 4 heavy wooden picnic tables are full of rollicking comers and goers.
Got up this morning and was too tired to run on the beach, so I decided some pick-me-up was in order. I found a café a flew blocks away with decently priced coffee and free wifi. It seems nothing is cheap here because it’s OVERRUN with Australian (mainly) tourists, so of course it’s lots of Western-focused food, crap, and salespeople. UGH.

But a pleasant hour and a half later, I hit the street to book a trip north where it’s quieter. I had a friendly chat with the two girls probably around my age who were running the bureau, and we ended up making a deal so I could go horseback riding today and do an all day stopping tour up through the island where it’d drop me off at Lovina Beach on the north coast (where my original hotel was booked) for $80 total. A bit pricey, but I bargained as hard as I could, and it seemed fair for the tours, and tomorrow’s includes food/drink. I made sure the tours had booked other passengers as well, because I didn’t want to end up solo.

I wandered around a bit more, bought a book and chatted with the booknook vendor. With only an hour left til pickup for the horseback riding, I took a shower (the buday has so much more pressure that I’m using it…never thought I’d see the day! Thanks for leaving me with the toiletries, too). I settled in my porch chair to read “The Reluctant Fundamentalist” and plowed through about fifty pages til I met my ride.

5 Aussies were supposed to join the group and we drove across town to pick them up. On arrival, however, the driver glanced them over and handed them a card stating that passengers weighing more than 95 kg woulnd’t be allowed to ride. It wasn’t his fault, it was the agency’s, but the Aussies were pissed because of their group of 5, 4 were overweight (none could have been much taller than 5’6” btw, either) except the boy, who looked like he was about 10. So they called the company to complain and get a refund, and I said I wouldn’t go if I had to go by myself, but the company promised that 20 others had signed up, and it wasn’t raining on the coast. So the driver, who was friendly but barely spoke/understood English, drove me over an hour while I alternately watched the scenery, attempted to chat and laugh with him, and read my book.

Even so, I ended up riding solo with my guide. His name was Kisnawan, and he used to be a jockey in Java. He was super tiny, super friendly, and spoke great English, so we got along very well for the 2.5 hour tour. While riding along the black sand beach, he told me all kinds of things and pointed out interesting sites. We went to a creepy bat cave FILLED with fruit bats to a disgusting measure, saw a temple, rode through a small village, and he taught me Indonesian phrases to say to the villagers. It was an afternoon of smiles and just what I needed. One thing I have learned during this stint in Southeast Asia is that there are few things more wonderful than a face breaking into a smile. Simply a smile, yet so rare on busy streets of Seoul or New York or even Chicago, especially in the winter. Here, smiles come as many as you give, and then some.
Being on a horse after so long was good, too. We didn’t canter, only trotted and walked, but we were on the beach so it was ok. And we forded some pretty big streams which was so trippy! Riding a horse while the tide comes in/goes out, and then while fording a monstrous stream nearly to my waist (while riding!) was cool.
The temples here are myriad: large, dark, dooming—like Asian Gothics. All of them have mossy statues of the five main Hindu gods, and most have pillars or ledges where daily offerings are placed. More than once, I observed cats and chickens making efficient use of the rice, crackers, and flowers—I wondered what they do with the incense and cigarettes. Some of the temples actually had the inverted swastika; the Buddhist symbol of love, but Kisnawan told me that those symbols were merely decorative and didn’t indicate that the temples were Buddhist. Kisnawan also told me that around Bali, as in the village we bypassed, generations live together in multiple small buildings surrounded by a walled courtyard and including the family’s own temple, thus the myriad amount, and their private, almost ominous presence.
I got back and showered, then set out in search of food. Kuta is dirty, noisy, and simply OBNOXIOUS: filled with arrogant Australian tourists and millions of annoying vendors calling out, “Transport? Transport?” and “Buy something, darling?” One funny guy with huge dreds stopped me as I walked by and I chatted with him and his travel agent friend for several minutes until I said I had to go, and they offered me two tubes supposedly of meth and coke. Even though I didn’t necessarily believe them, I said no and immediately left, ignoring their pleas to stay. Good thing I did: a block later I ran into some polisi, and later found out that drug users face DEATH penalty in Indonesia. Can you believe it?

I found some fantastic street food: "babi guling" ("suckling pig") and the lady who served it as well as the couple crouched next to me on the small plastic stools were impressed that I enjoyed the spice. I devoured the entire plate, then spent an hour trying to use shitty wifi at the Mini Mart while it rained.

Now “Land Down Under” blares from the speakers of the undoubtedly Australian hippies beneath me in this steamy guesthouse. I’m engrossed in this afternoon’s book purchase, so much so that I will probably finish it tonight (it’s an easy and not-too-long read anyway: "The Relunctant Fundamentalist." Quotations to follow.

Love, peace, etc.
--R.

Epilogue.

2011-04-09T13:34:00.000+09:00

I no longer live in South Korea.
At least for now.
How do I even begin to write again?

Noodles on the 7-11 Counter

2011-02-07T23:01:00.002+09:00

He slurped his noodles noisily, steam fogging his plastic coke bottle lenses as the salty tang of cardboard spice dripped down his chin. As he gorged, he half-consciously inhaled the woody permeation of the cardboard bowl and chopsticks and reflected on how, when he had first arrived, he’d scorned the sloppy noodle slurpers in disgust. So many things had changed since then. It was amazing how much one’s perspective could adapt (or conform) to its cultural context.

It had happened in ways more grandiose than conforming to noodle slurping, but even in simple things like temperature and currency and units of measurement, he no longer converted to the American standard, instead, he understood unflinchingly what -12 Celcius meant, and how far he was running when he ran 8km. He now referred to weight as “kg,” not kilograms, not kilo, but “kg.” The day he realized that was the day he knew he was changing.

Yet he still wondered if he would know how to be a proper adult when he returned to his home country, if he ever did. Here, it was so easy to live the care-free college lifestyle: work, money on hand, minimal apartment bills, no transportation worries, and the excuse of language ignorance when help was needed, particularly with housekeeping or banking worries. Since he’d moved here right after turning 21, he reckoned he’d have a few rough wakeup calls once he started making car payments and paying taxes and rent. He knew deep down that he was still a naive little puppy.

He had learned a lot through teaching, but much of what he had learned was simply how to mask his untrained instinct in a professional fashion. He’d also learned that the world of grown ups was surprisingly petty. He’d always thought grownups were smart, professional, and that they behaved according to a much higher protocol than immature adolescents and uni students.

Not so.

One of the first things he’d written in his journal upon entering the “professional” world was: “The world of adults is a curious thing. He’d met some of his best friends and some brilliant people abroad, yet he’d also met some of the dumbest. Overall, he realized that the world of adults is a majority of children, just bigger-sized, and with more access to creating permanent damage. How had he never realized this before? He’d always known there were stupid adults: but those were the hicks, the KKK, the flag-toting ignorami who didn’t really matter anyway.

Weren’t they?

Sometimes he wondered what the world would be like if it were made of smarter people, like himself. He acknowledged his own intelligence nonchalantly, as a matter of course, as if taking a casual bite of morning toast to soak his eggs and coffee (buttered toast with marmalade on Tuesdays just seems to follow). What if everyone treated children in the same way he did: in a professional manner, with high expectations but plenty of rewards and love for those who tried hard and especially those who succeeded. The problem, he though, munching through the last of his noodles, Is that people BECOME teachers of young children because they’re too stupid and soft-hearted to do anything else. The main proof being his encounters with elem. ed majors in college, whom, with the exception of one, had all been flaky, stupid, and endlessly busy with busywork and construction paper. If nothing else, elementary teachers weren’t very environmentally friendly.

But the majority of English teachers abroad didn’t even go to school for that career. So that wasn’t the problem with the idiots here. The problem with these weirdos was the binge boozing (and subsequent barfights, and pointless hours of smoke-infused conversation, in which killing time became a lifetime), and video gaming that not only consumed all freetime of certain unmentionable acquaintances, but also consumed water cooler conversation. I guess when you don’t own cars and you’ve got permanent women, and you don’t stray far from your neighborhood, and your mantra of “need to save money” becomes a constant due to excessive aforementioned boozing…

Oh, what the hell. Criticizing his coworkers had become the only focusable entertainment in the office these days. One and a half years into his job, and he was outrageously bored.

In fact, he’d been bored for a while, saved in the eleventh month by a schedule transition which gave him higher-level classes and less classroom time. A glorious Autumn passed in this way. All too soon, vacation was over and he was back to saving his school from another embarrassing demise by taking over more preschool classes. Despite his 12 hour work days, the teaching was 80% tedious, and the prep-time more so. He missed having to wrack his brains for charts and supplements to teach reading and debate to brilliant fourth graders and sixth graders. He missed the exhilaration of running upper elementary classrooms modeled after his own university experience, and having the students understand and apply that knowledge. Smart kids are awesome. Smart kids can rule the world.

It’s not even like you have to be a genius. Just use a little common sense.

He sighed and took a long, diminishing pull from his water bottle. The noodles were hot inside him: expanding his belly; making him warm. He nodded solicitously to the boys next to him, in letter jackets and skinny jeans, slurping and laughing over their own steaming noodles. Bowing to the shopkeeper who saluted him goodbye, he slouched his way home.

Nom Nom Nom

2010-11-21T02:47:00.006+09:00

Another Thanksgiving weekend in the good old ROK. Today was wonderful: I sacrificed the entire morning/early afternoon during which I was supposed to attend a makgeolli (rice wine)-making class in order to hack up and stew a giant punkin and toast the seeds, as well as create a whole new sweet potato dish. My house smelled delightful! I went to a coworker’s for the best turkey I’ve ever eaten (apparently the secret is deep-tissue butter massages…sounds horrible til you taste it) complete with some Uno, Toy Story 3, and pumpkin pie, my fave. Tomorrow it’s off to Round #2 at Metropolis Bar, where I spent last Thanksgiving. It’s really fun to actually be able to continue traditions from last year as well as start new ones: I feel like an old hand.

I’ve developed an increasing interest in food, particularly Korean food and unusual finds. I’ve started blogging more about it at The Taste of Korea and venturing out more often. It is extremely unusual to see Koreans eating alone, but there are a few local “fastfood” Korean joints in which I can get away with solitary meals and an underwhelming amount of whispered “Waygookin!” attention.

Since I’ve already posted several blogs, I’ll just link them here instead of re-posting in their entirety.

"The 'Lotus' Eaters: A Persimmon Smoothie"

"Feels Good to be a Gangsta: Oysters in the Alley"

"The Wonders of Pumpkin Duck"

"Whistlestop Snacks: The Convenience Store Crawl"

Mrs. Q recently asked for school lunch/nutrition haiku, and I obliged, thus follows:

Childhood
Nothing says lunch like
A mad rush for sandwiches
And a milk carton

Kiddos
Training on chopsticks
One dainty bite at a time
Korean children

Rice
Oh, ubiquity
Fruit of back-breaking labor:
Savior of the world.

Rice II.
Staple of the world
Oh, universality
Of empty white carbs

Campbell's
Did Andy Warhol
Reject spaghettios? When
He preferred the soup…

Korean Cafeteria
“Kids, for which meal was
Kimchi, rice, and fish-paste soup?”
“Breakfast, lunch, dinner…!”

Heyri Art Valley & What America Can Learn From S. Korea

2010-10-17T22:45:00.012+09:00

It just didn’t look like the jazz festival was gonna work out this time around, despite my free tickets. Since I hated to waste my early, abnormal Sunday morning shower and dress-up, though, I decided to make the best use of the day and head to the Heyri Art Valley, about two hours away via subway and bus. Today was a gorgeous Fall day in Seoul, another perfect October weekend. I could get used to these!

On the bus I sat behind a couple of blonde American girls talking to an English-speaking Korean couple they had just met across the aisle. The woman I asked to share a seat with smilingly offered me apple slices from a plastic bag, but when I murmured a few Korean phrases, seemed disinterested in conversation so we munched in contented silence, listening to the Waygookin chatter and watching city roll into marshland then into suburban hillside.

I got off one stop too soon but it was a quick walk up a leaf-strewn sidewalk to the Art Valley, and I was pleased with what I came across. A little confusing to navigate at first, since I don’t read Korean and all the maps are just that. I wandered around taking pictures of artists’ private homes til I stumbled into the “Clock and Blade” museum, an interesting little collection of ancient clocks and knives but a little overpriced at ₩5,000 admission. The lone and fairly young curator was super friendly and helpful, but I didn’t need to stay long and it was difficult lighting for photographs: too much light and too many glass windows and reflections.

After that I hit up the rotating “Gongan Purple “ gallery for some random, uninteresting art, then tried to hit up a ceramics gallery but didn’t want to pay another entrance fee. Got suckered into paying for a small gallery that was pretty disappointing except for a few naked backs:
Then, quite hungry, ordered a salad and coffee on the outdoor patio of an Italian-style wine house. The jazz they piped into the back was lovely and made me regret my decision to skip the festival, but I spent a pleasant hour musing over the "lists of 10s" I posted below and basking the sun. As a side note: it’s a very good marketing ploy for restaurants to serve water out of old wine bottles, as this one did. It made me re-think my decision to not order wine, although I remained strong and refrained, in the end.
After that, with renewed interest, I set out to hit up a few more places and found a strange gallery (93Museum), some great live music (Creedence and Jason Mraz done surprisingly well by a non-native English speaker!), some outdoor people watching, and a few wonderful gift shops. My favorite was the music box one (Moony Art), which had a giant musical cog piping out onto the boardwalk and inside tinkled the liveliest most delicate ear frenzy you ever heard. When I was attempting to make conversation with the employee, a little boy came in with his dad and started making some comments about “that foreigner can’t speak Korean…” and I laughed. His dad looked sheepish that I understood.

On my way out of the Valley I stumbled into a cool little “Cabaret Mechanical Theatre” of London fame with little wooden and brass mechanical animations. Pretty fun.
Sunday traffic heading back into Seoul wasn’t so fun, but I finally made it.

10 Things America Should Consider Adopting from the ROK:
-BYOB to sporting events
-Affordable cabs and food
-Late night service (clubs open til 7am etc)
-Galbi grills
-Quick service/repairs/construction
-Seoul public transportation
-Portion sharing and calorie posting
-Screen golf and noraebang (cuz only your friends care about your drunken caroling, not the entire karaoke bar!)
-Using obnoxious shouting and the “last word” policy to solve differences, instead of violence (for the most part)
-“Anything goes” fashion permissibility

10 Korean Things Which Should NOT be Adopted by the U.S.
-Blatant plagiarism
-Cosmetic surgery/mirror obsession and skin whitening
-Insane work hours
-Squatting toilets
-“Cute” whining
-Anorexia
-Paying extra for ice in beverages
-Crowds, and public unexcused shoving
-City architecture
-The way they ride bikes

Can I Have Some Cabbage With My Tater Tots?

2010-10-07T22:36:00.011+09:00

There’s something to be said for eating fermented cabbage with spicy pepper paste and vinegar. At least, that’s what they say in Korea. Sound appealing? Judging from the amount of elementary school kids who show up to class with red flecks of leftover lunch in their teeth, it must be tasty, too. Can you imagine an 8-year-old American kid listing kimchi, spaghetti, and rice as his favorite food choices?Eric was excited to each a generous serving of sticky white rice, one chicken nugget, “fish paste” soup, and a small serving of green kimchi with seaweed as well as noodles with meat sauce.

A northern Illinois native, I’ve been teaching at a private English academy in Seoul, South Korea for over a year. Although elementary/middle school children don’t attend until after their morning of public school, the preschool and kindergarten students attend full time and receive lunch at the academy. For almost my entire first year, I ate alongside the other teachers and students and learned much about typical Korean cuisine and nutrition. Since discovering Mrs. Q.’s blog last Fall, it’s been fascinating to compare food and educational experiences across cultures.

My academy has hired lunch through two different caterers and it always consists of rice and at least one type of kimchi or stewed radish, among various side dishes. Kimchi is the traditional dish of Korea, and can take on a variety of appearances and flavors. The main ingredients are cabbage, which is fermented in large pots, and spicy pepper seasoning. Homemade kimchi, gifted to me by a student. I didn’t eat all of it, but I did enjoy servings on occasion until my ultra-cold refrigerator frosted it over!

Additional lunchtime side dishes at my academy include ddeok (squishy gluttenous rice-flour cakes covered in varying sauces), fish or meat (always a small amount, seemingly only used to flavor the sticky white rice), egg-squid mini pancakes, seaweed or another thin soup (usually fish or seaweed), spicy squid, anchovies, fruit or cherry tomatoes, and perhaps shot-sized yogurt drinks for dessert. I find it incredibly strange that they eat ddeok with rice, since it’s essentially the same. Soy-marinated hardboiled quail eggs, dried seaweed, brown roots, and mushroom concoctions are some of my personal favorites. Potatoes and bread aren’t often eaten as part of main courses. Potatoes are sometimes eaten roasted or boiled and whole as an on-the-go snack. Bead is most often served with coffee, or sometimes my kids eat small sweet buns for breakfast.Teacher Jenny dishes up lunch for the preschoolers. This is the same meal Eric is eating in the first picture.

Picnic field trips with preschoolers are fantastic. Instead of PB&Js, they eat kimbap—a popular “fast food” which is almost like sushi roll—except you don’t always get sushi. You choose from a variety of fillings (breaded pork, kimchi, vegetables, tuna, ham and egg…) Most Korean mothers prepare this for their kids, or a roll costs between $1-$3 in a local shop. On field trip days, I roam back and forth among miniature lunchboxes, begging handouts. And the side dishes these children pack—they’re amazing: imitation crab, roasted shelled walnuts, fresh pineapple, and peaches and watermelon are all accompanied by adorable trainer chopsticks, a bottle of juice, and perhaps some cookies or a small bag of puffed snackage.Eddie, chopsticks in hands, gets ready to chow down on some kimbap and spam patties on field trip day.

At the public elementary school, many students have a full 40-minute class period for lunch, sometimes even an hour. Each day they eat rice and kimchi and drink water or white milk. There is often but not always a meat or fish, another vegetable side dish (though it’s rare to eat fresh vegetables here), and sometimes fruit. Occasionally, depending on the school, they get chocolate milk. Today, my third grader told me he ate noodles with black bean sauce, a popular Chinese dish. My middle schoolers say their lunch now is better than before, and for late afternoon study halls they’re served small dinners of noodles and other food. Wednesdays are traditionally “special” lunch days, with rice replaced by another main course.

A recent article and blog about rising child obesity in Korea, cited late-night academies, over-packed schedules, and the prevalence of convenience stores (sodium-heavy ramen, cookies, etc) and greasy street food as culprits. I agree entirely, and point out that in the long run these sacrificial schedules I the name of educational emphasis will backfire if the unhealthy irregular diets start affecting energy and development. Street food is delicious and convenient, but less than healthy.

However, what Korean junk food does typically have on its side is portion size, which is typically half the size of the same “serving” equivalence of a Western snack. For example, pop into the corner “Family Mart” for a can of Coke and you get a slim 250 mL containing 110 calories, instead of the chunky standard 330mL (12oz can) with 155 calories. Bottle sizes are smaller, too.

Even some of their junk-food beverages make an attempt to include nutrition value! From aloe juice to “Milkis,” a carbonated milk kids’ favorite, smaller bottles mean even sweet beverages are toned down. “Pocari Sweat,” a popular drink despite its gag-worthy name, is full of antioxidants and ions that make this vitamin water a healthier alternative. Indeed, it’s one of the most prevalent student-consumed drinks I’ve seen. Now if only they could pair the sweet drinks with fluoride in the tap water. For all the health I’m claiming I still see way too many kids here with mouths of metal, and in Korea that doesn’t mean braces—it means silver fillings! "Pocari Sweat" photo by Paula Morgan.

As South Korea moves from a devastated rural concentration to a tech-savvy, academics-oriented society, it now increasingly faces the same health and nutrition problems as the United States and other countries. So far, it's still managing to fit its skinny jeans. But as late-night academy hours continue and "American" fastfood lunches become more the norm than the specialty at elementary schools, (and now this kimchi shortage!) will those jeans continue to fit?

Drink Wine, Eat Pancakes (Soul Food)

2010-10-04T23:41:00.003+09:00

Is this recent Pew study really a surprise? Growing up in a very God-oriented evangelical family, attending church my entire life until university, attending a Christian university, and recently watching documentaries like “The Worst Family in America” (YouTube it) have left me incredulous at “Christians” and their blatant ignorance, unwarranted fundamentalism, and general closed-mindedness. Although originally it was motivated by the desire to sleep in and lack of convenient transportation, I think the real reason I stopped attending church when I was at Cedarville University is because several of my classes were so much religiously rigorous and challenging. Some of the classes for my required Bible minor were jokes, but even within my major’s core I had several strong Christian professors who relied not purely on “faith” to challenge us, although they admit that faith is ultimately a factor in all things. These teachers exposed intimately and drew on numbers of sources from all kinds of viewpoints. They forced us students to do a lot of work to draw our own conclusions, and played Devil’s Advocate no matter which side we chose in order to strengthen our arguments and reasoning.

Thus: I am speaking from an evangelical Protestant Christian (Baptist) background with a slight bit more than the average level of Biblical and religious knowledge. In this post I’m mainly decrying the Evangelical Christians who scored so poorly in the Pew study, and who badly need reform and renaissance. Take the quiz yourself and see how you compare.

I was recently listening to a podcast sermon from a pastor back home and although I love and respect this man, I was disappointed by the lack of real substantiation his lecture had. He was speaking on one of several overused, ambiguous evangelical themes: you are an important creation of God and you have purpose in life. Get out there and serve God.

I think the pulpit should indeed be a place to discuss philosophy, culture, and world religion. The pulpit should challenge its listeners and should seek to supplement the listeners’ own study, service, and interaction with culture. Sermons should not be politically oriented. But they should be informative and educational. One of the best sermons I’ve heard was by a guest speaker at Redeemer Church in New York City. He opened with a quotation by Kierkegaard, and proceeded to give an intellectually stimulating and theologically challenging message. Solid.

If the pulpit doesn’t want to do it, then Sunday schools and small groups most definitely have to. A church should foster Spiritual growth through the example of Jesus: challenging his listeners to learn, to tolerate and love others, to think for themselves (think disciples and parables) and not just adhere to the letter of ancient laws.

But even with more cultural engagement and education, ultimately religion does come down to faith. I found a good point on this Soul Pancake forum :

@jempiph "Please. This was obviously a pop history quiz, which has very little to do with actually understanding one's religion. In my experience, most atheists completely miss the point of religion because they over-intellectualise it as is if was supposed to be some sort of alternative scientific theory. Religion is about spirituality and faith, not facts, figures and theories."

Samples, Sir?

2010-08-25T01:23:00.002+09:00

She saw Alice running:

the long black hair, trimmed straight across the bottom, swished perfectly behind her quotidian white hairband. Alice didn’t see her—she was intent on getting across the street before the light changed. And even so, under the guise of a new haircut, the American teacher was just another foreigner on the streets of northwest Seoul—another cog in the machine of industrialism Bill had so aptly nicknamed, “The English Factory.” Alice had been one of hers and Bill’s favorites—Bill’s for her writing abilities and hers for Alice’s spunk and dry humor. As a fourth grader, she once wrote a novella complete with character development of a “nemesis,” and always played Devil’s Advocate during debate rounds. Yet I saw her vulnerable side, too. After yet another in a series of failed vocabulary “compulsory” exams, even steely-eyed Alice couldn’t hold back the tears on her walk home, and I’d hugged her and promised things would get better. With a brain like hers, used constructively, they only could. Alice was one you’d write stories about.

But I never did.

He cursed a little, not so much because he cared about the photographs as because he wanted to preserve his good spirits, his serotonin-rich mood, and to do this he needed a modicum of cooperation from the world of objects. ~Jonathan Franzen

Alternate names for the cigarette holder
Extensive asher
Asher extension
Filtre
Smoke compressor
Aperture flue
Smoking kazoo

4 little balls of sugar, orange. He likes to read the paper over orange juice. She picked it apart, over and over. The little green fuzz falls on the floor. Drinking in the morning is OK if you want to fall asleep while flying. She picked the blanket apart, even thought she knew it was bad for it. I didn’t teach the course, she said. It wasn’t me. Intellectual weight (Yeah, those tomes weight heavy on the brain). Sometimes she thinks better in the shower. The kid drew dinosaurs and danced.

With Love and Chocolate Animal Crackers

2010-08-23T23:27:00.005+09:00

This summer I've kept good old-fashioned kind of journals and writing notebooks. All day as I’m stuck in a stuffy classroom I want to write: fiction, book reports, newsy articles, folksy blogs. Yet every time I get a on a computer, I resort to surfing. Really, it’s more like being caught in a Web. From television torrents to Twitter, to Tubing, I spend immeasurable quality time filling my brain rather than recounting it. Of course, this is educational, but exclusivity does get a little depressing.

This weekend I decided to get caught up on emails and accomplished my goal so extensively that I decided to cut-and-paste them into a blog. I don’t like kitschy blog updates. In fact, I despise them. But knowing that a few specific people actually do read and want to know, I occasionally have to spice up my attempts at intellectualism with a mundane day-in-the-life.

It was a busy week at school with evaluations due and my last week of intensives (extra summer classes for mostly stupid children). As of today I'm down to 40-hour work weeks and words can't fully express the freedom this feels like and the optimism it brings.

Thursday I had an inexplicable urge to go screen golfing. So a little while after work I walked downtown by myself, took my laptop, plugged in some tunes, and golfed for almost two hours. It was awesome! I paid the equiv of nearly twenty bucks for unlimited golfing range practice and 18 holes, and unlimited snacks from candy to coffee to bananas. I don't know if I've explained this phenomenon called screen golfing but I love it. It's basically like you're playing Wii, that is, you hit balls into a screen. But these are REAL balls with REAL clubs and you wear golf shoes and stand on a motorized tee and everything. There are private rooms and you can play with a whole group. It was a really great time for me although I SUCKED! Clearly, I need to spend some more time there....

...but maybe not. I think I paid for the fun on Friday, with one of my worst "back" days in recent history. I couldn't think of anything else all day--it was all-consuming. I was supposed to go to Itaewon for a few parties but I couldn't even fathom riding the subway all that way so I went home and lay down in bed. Paula came over a little later and we went and had a beer while she ate chicken. I didn't want any, and afterward I didn't even make it through one episode of Breaking Bad before I was out, and slept til after 11am when I woke up to Paula letting herself in to get stuff she left behind and make cereal for herself.

Saturday: Pretend to clean and in reality laze around in the Air-con and avoid extreme humidity. Night: dinner etc in Hongdae.

Sunday: pool day with my Aussie and Mexican mates! Evening: goodbye dinner for Canadian big brother with Thai food in Itaewon. Tears shed. Half one’s social life here is spent attending goodbye functions for transient ex-pats such as myself. So life goes.

As for random life here, it’s good. I did indeed get to do quite a bit of traveling and learning about the Peace Corps on my recent 8-day excursion to the Philippines, as I spent the majority of the week with Jerica. One hint: don't vacation with the Peace Corps unless you're NOT looking for a rest! It's quite a busy and bustling life one leads as a PCV, even on vacation :) When I arrived in Cebu City toward the end of the week, I was shocked to find that the Philippines ALSO has modernity. Palawan is so rural and rustic that, although it was AWESOME to experience it the way I did, it was also pretty exhausting and strange contrast coming from modern, elitist, brand-label, tech-savvy Seoul (did I use enough adjectives?!)
I kept thinking that Palawan would have been HEAVEN had I gone there at age 11ish. That was when I was really into adventure books like Treasure Island, Captain Cook, The Wreckers, and stuff like Nancy Drew, etc. Pirates, mysteries, buried treasure, exotic islands all the way! Off shore Palawan, we went to all kinds of "secret lagoons" and "hidden beaches" that were straight up out of those books. It was amazing! It was also super refreshing to talk to Jerica and solve world problems over coffee and books ;)

The weeks are really flying by which is good and bad. Sometimes, like most of this week, I feel like I'm in limbo--just killing time til the next thing. Part of it is living completely apart from my family I think. I always feel like there’s stuff going on “at the main hub” that I’m missing. But after a year I would think this feeling would be somewhat abated—I mean, much as I love them I can't live with them forever! Sometimes I feel quite at home here. Other days it’s so unsettling. Overall it’s been a great experience though. It’s frustrating to be in limbo but I’m learning to enjoy life as it happens. Vocabulary purge: indecisive and angsty.

My contract would have been up this week—crazy to think that over a week ago (August 14-15) I celebrated my one-year anniversary which seems crazy!) but I re-signed for another six months. At that point I'd like to spend a month or two traveling southeast Asia, then possibly stop at a few places in the UK to visit people on my way home. After that, who knows?! I was thinking of applying to a "cultural ambassador' program in Spain for the next school year, but it'd be stipend-only and I'm not sure I'd like to/be able to spend a year not making money. I've also heard Delta might be opening jobs early 2011 and flight attending might just be something I'd like to do for a few years! I freaking LOVE airports, as you know.

I’m looking to get out of teaching, at least, teaching tiny tots. And maybe even teaching English. Maybe I’m lazy, maybe I’m indecisive, maybe I’m bored. Not sure. I’m glad to be here another six months but I’ll be happy to leave. Not sure I want to continue down the TEFL/TESOL/TOEFL/ESL/LOL (props to Kevin) path but it seems the best way to fund one’s own world travel.

Cubicle does blow, but I suppose it’s better than nothing. That’s why I’m not sure I can make it if I go back to America. I’m afraid of the prices and the jobs!

Korea is still the place to be as far as making money, but starting next year I hear there are going to be more hoops to jump through, such as FEDERAL criminal background checks etc. Sources say Taiwan is a lot more fun to teach in, and I’ve considered going there, because after five consecutive years living there you’re granted citizen rights such as local voting, business ownership, etc. How awesome is that?!

Today my kids were shocked to learn that my littlest sister is only 10. “But teacher, you’re SO much older. You’re an adult!” GROAN.

I miss you and chocolate animal crackers.

Badge of Honor

2010-07-18T04:53:00.005+09:00

I write like
David Foster Wallace

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

I analyzed a few samples ranging from blogs to senior research. But apparently I tweet like Stephen King.

Twitter-Me-Dee

2010-07-15T01:52:00.004+09:00

A sporadic sample of journal entries from the past two weeks which you would be regularly subject to if you chose to follow me on Twitter.

"I am supposed to be such a scumbag that people bring me diamonds in nothing but mayonnaise jars?" ~ Wow, Naomi Campbell. http://n.pr/aGIWvf

RT @TheEconomist: A national debate about the alarmingly high suicide rate in South Korea http://econ.st/90Uh0o #economist #suicide #southkorea

Apparently classic Hollywood (those blue Paul Newman eyes!) is the only cinema I can get thru in 1 sitting #nowplaying The Long Hot Summer

Solo dinner tonight KINDA smells like a barn. Gopchang Sundae 곱창 (Google it). I'm no ordinary foreigner.
Remember the galloping horse? This is sweet. http://n.pr/9C535l (via @nprnews )

Fans, like flipflops, totally lighten my mood.

Crazy taxi driver asked my age & called me a baby, laughed maniacally the whole way home, then called me a "chicken baby" & laughed more

I definitely woke up at 8am on a Saturday, watched Yogi Bear cartoons, then fell back asleep til noon. #ilovechildhood

I thought "clean and drunk" was an oxymoron til I washed my hair with Skin Food's potent 'beer hofs shampoo'

And...now I'm self-conscious about my hair which smells like a soapy microbrewery

Independence

2010-07-04T13:30:00.007+09:00

Way down upon the Swanee River
Far, far away
That’s where my heart is turning ever
That’s where the old folks stay
All the world is dark and dreary, everywhere I roam
Oh! Brother how my heart grows weary
Far from the old folks at home

Photo: Fireworks on US Army's Youngsan military base, July 4, 2010.

I think it’s my third (but not subsequent) Fourth of July outside America, and to help set the mood I went to a pro baseball game in Seoul yesterday with two of my all-American coworkers. It helped set a happy mood, but the only American thing about it was the splintered bat that a batter sent flying and the fact that all three of us wore flipflops (and were quite likely the majority of those who did).

Food: The first most obvious (and disappointing) anti-American aspect of Korean baseball was the lack of big pretzels, hotdogs, Dip n’ Dots (“Ice cream of the future!”), and long licorice ropes. However, nachos with cheese, dried squid, and patbingsoo, a traditional Korean mash of ice and rice and sugar and spice, flowed in abundance. So we girls opted to start with Pringles (light) and vitamin water, and our male companion scarfed Burger King and beer on our way into the stadium.

What is awesome, though, is that you can carry bags of food into the stadium with you: no more sneaking in candy bars and sweating beer cans and bulging coolers under your football-sized jerseys. Wizened old men hawk boxes upon boxes of fried chicken outside the park and ajummas sit patiently with buckets of frozen beers and hand-wrapped kimbap and noodles for those Koreans who can’t survive a 4-hour baseball game without chopsticks.

Drink: BYOB?! This is such a fantastic idea! They even provide convenience stores to make this convenient for you (although selection of beer brands therein is limited). However, for those elitist of us who thinking swigging cans is redneck and trashy, once inside the park the draught is $3.00 a pop. And it comes to your seat via backpack kegs and handsome young Hanguks. A very tempting way to get drunk, even if you don’t like beer! Ironically, the people drinking the most were the foreigners.

Technology: Between every major action, the screen shows an animated replay. It makes me feel like I’m in a Wii sports game. In fact, sometimes I am really surprised Korea even subscribes to traditional, hand-to-hand sports. With the abundance of screen golf, Internet cafes, and the alternative lack of sports teams and youth sports, it wouldn’t be a surprise if Korean MLB goes completely virtual one of these days.

Tickets: The rough equivalent of $12 gets you decent outfield seats away from the forced cheering sections. And for once, subway headaches make up for the non-issue of parking and paying.

Cheer: “Forced Cheering Sections?” you ask. Here is the biggest disparity between American and Korean baseball: the fact that in Korea, everyone is on the edge of his/her seats the entire regular season, run-of-the-mill, Saturday afternoon game. You choose your seat according to your team, and each side of the stadium has its own fantastically attired cheering leader, who dances on a stage and incites the crowd to rhythmic cheering and monastic chants. The playlist is eclectic and covers everything from “Dancing Queen” to “Angels We Have Heard on High.” Occasionally, cheerleaders in spindly legs and high-necked tops make special appearances. Even with the cheep cost of beer, however, there didn’t seem to be nearly as much flow as at American baseball games. Much of the wild cheering was done completely sober.

Uniforms: In typical Korea fashion they were cheap imitations of Western team names. LG Twins? I’m pretty sure there’s no reason why Korea would come up with “Twins” as a team name, if not for America. I hear Seoul used to have a “Unicorns” team, and this I would have loved to see!

But speaking of uniforms:

Sometimes the most frustrating thing about being in Korea is the uniformity of EVERYTHING.

One of the most tangible and blatant examples of this is the popular “same-same” phenomenon: couples wearing matching shoes or shirts or both and thinking that this is incredibly cool. Last summer, I posted about how kids in Korea spend so much time in school (and school uniforms) that their only fashion identity options are footwear and cell phone charms. This is still true.

I found this amazing comic strip back in the fall and passed it on to some friends with a hearty chuckle over how well this artist was able to portray my own experiences. A few months later I happened upon the strip again, but this time I winced at the very same fact that had lightened my mood a few months previous. Further into my time and experience in Korea, I had become depressed over the fact that everything IS INDEED “same-same,” all the time. This artist has the same experiences as me and thousands of other English speakers in Korea. He captures it humorously, but after a while you realize that it’s mundane and unchanging. A few months in Korea is enough to tell/show you all you need to know.

Eel catching at a raspberry wine festival on the West Coast. June 2010.

Another way this uniformity seeps through is that at first, making friends with fellow ex-pats here is astonishingly easy. Everyone is so used to the transient lifestyle that friendships are easily formed (and just as easily broken). 98% of other native English speakers in Seoul are English teachers, so you always have lots in common with which to break the conversational ice: stupid kids, snotty bosses, language faux pas. Here, an English teacher’s social time is divided between welcoming newcomers, partying farewells to those leaving, and attempting to retain networking through inter-web socializing. We all have the same experiences. Sometimes we can tell the exact same stories about “the funny thing one of my kids did today.” Maybe we don’t even have to change the names: the quantity of made-up English names for Korean students is low, and repetitious. I can’t count how many Sallys, Eddies, Julies, and Kevins I’ve taught thus far.

Koreans themselves are quite the same. I love some of them to pieces, but in Seoul at least if you meet one, you've met them all. They all say the same things: cancer is caused by eating burnt meat. Kimchi (and any other Korean food) makes you healthy. Japanese copy Koreans all the time. Riding bikes in a straight line is simply not in vogue. White skin is beautiful and if you sit in the sun you will die. Rote memorization of facts is the best way to achieve an education and go to Harvard. If you don't attend Harvard or Seoul National University you should commit suicide. [to be continued...] There is truly a lack of independence here. There is a facade of independence, but it's really only evident through personal academic drive to be the best.

My best pals at my taekwondo class, May 2010.

Working in Seoul feels like a hamster wheel. They consider 40 hours a week to be part-time. My job is constant on-your-feet, in-your-face interaction. By the time I’m done each day I’m exhausted, and trying to squeeze fitness and other activities in has proven a challenge (that I’ve both conquered and failed at this year!) During the week it always seems as though I’m in a never-ending cycle of despair. Even on my “early” nights off, a quick dinner with a coworker afterward and already it’s time for bed and cycle repeat!

World Cup Fever, June 2010. Pegasus preschool class.

Am I ready to be done here? Almost. Friends are leaving, work is intensifying, boredom and burnout hovers constantly. Summer weather and a new abundance of adventures has been keeping the breakdown at bay, but I think another 7 months will be more than enough. At the end of February, I’ll be moving on. I just wish summer could last forever.

I yearn for American independence, whatever that means.

"Korean Style"

2010-02-28T22:00:00.007+09:00

I’m not talking about the mullet perms, popular amongst five-year-old males and their doting mothers.

Nor do I mean the anorexic pride strutted by purse-bearing men and heel-teetering women alike.

Neither am I referring to the breakfast kimchi, the spit on the sidewalks, the matching couples’ outfits, the 2-inch-thick coke bottle glasses, the vibrant snowboarding and hiking gear.

All of these would fit, I suppose, into a discussion of “Korean Style.” But the Korean style I’ve fallen in love with is one that has been repeatedly and graciously forced upon me. It has taught me forgiveness, generosity, redemption, friendship, diplomacy.

As my pro snowboarding friend eloquently stated, I never go outdoors unless it means baking to lobster-esque qualities. As she so kindly avoided mentioning, I also suck at winter sports. When Masters Yun and Lee suggested a snowboard adventure after taekwondo class one Friday night, I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed.

It was a long, sleepy drive in the dark. We stopped to buy snacks and Master Lee insisted on picking up the tab. "It's Korean style," she admonished, as we protested. I know she doesn't get paid as much as I do, and she works at least as much if not more. She shouldn't be doing things like that for us. But so it went.

Once I hit the slopes at 12:30 that night, my 12 hour work day, hour-long taekwondo work out, and the hour-and-a-half drive to the mountain melted away. It was awesome, it was fun, and I felt 12 years old again with my bruised knees and stinging shins. The Koreans taught us beginners patiently and well, and helped us get our bearings on the slopes. Who knew cold COULD be fun?
Next-day bruising begins

For a few hours, that is. Soon enough, my body temperature started berating me, and I took a solo time-out while the others squeezed final runs in before the 4am closing time.

…I never would have left it sitting there in the States. But this is Korea, I reasoned, irrationally, frozen, at 3:38 in the morning, alone in a ski mountain snack lodge. She said she’d meet me here after one more run. It’s been half an hour—it couldn’t have taken her that long! So I sat and considered the dozens of snowboards similarly propped unlocked in the racks. I considered the middle-aged men clinking beer cans in cheers over their pork cutlet. I considered the pink-cheeked athletes outside, laughing on benches, waiting for the rest of the bustling slopes to wend bottomwards. I considered the staff, happily busing tables as their night shift wound down. I considered crimeless Korea, the place where free weights, random cleaning products, and drinking supplies are left peacefully on mountain hiking trails for anyone to use all summer long. And I considered my bladder’s persistence.

At 3:40 a.m. I made a dash for it.

At 3:43 a.m. I returned and rubbed my eyes. No way.

With snowboard I came, sans snowboard I would depart.

Although he spoke no English, the snack shop manager did his best. Of all the uselessly placed CCTVs in Korea, this particularly needy area didn’t have one. A man outside saw me standing listless and bleary-eyed: he asked me in English what was wrong and proceeded to help search for the board. He spoke with the manager. He offered optimistic predictions and condolences. My friends were still nowhere to be found.

The kindly man parked me kindly inside a drafty rental area where my friends eventually which was quickly filling with returnees from the slopes, dragging weary carcasses and well-worn boards to return. 4:05 am: closing time. I thanked him, but he waved his hand nonchalantly. "It's Korean style," he said.

It was a cold and obnoxious while until we were finally at the rental place, explaining the situation. I was peeling off wet clothes with numb and unresponsive limbs. The Koreans were arguing sternly. The owner was called, and we thawed by the giant space heater, bleary-eyed and weary.

After some time and persistence on Kim’s part, the price came down from the equivalent of $200 to $130, cash. I stumbled over to pay but Kim grabbed my shoulder and motioned for the group to huddle.

“One hundred thirty thousand won,” he said, solemnly. He pointed at me. “Eighty thousand won,” He placed his hand on his chest. “Ten thousand.” Then he proceeded to point to each member of our group and repeat “Ten, ten, ten.” My friends: an American coworker, a Canadian buddy, our two TKD masters, and their friend, all nodded quietly in agreement. I tried to protest. “No, absolutely not,” I said. “I’ve put you through enough trouble. This is all my fault, and I want to pay.”

Kim vetoed this idea, and began protesting, but Anahita spoke up quickly: “No, that’s perfect!” she exclaimed, whipping manwon out of her wallet before I could argue. The others followed suit. Even so, I was four dollars short, so Master Lee pulled out another handful of singles to help make the total.

“We are family,” Kim said. I couldn’t stop thanking them, embarrassed yet floored, and grateful. “It’s Korean style,” Master Lee said, red-faced, brushing off my praise.

Shortly after 5 a.m., we rolled into Family Mart and went crazy in the ramyeon aisle. When I pulled out my credit card to take everyone’s tab, they applauded. “Korean style!” It was embarrassingly the LEAST I could do.

We made ramyeon and mandu (dumplings) in the microwave and sat at a long table in the Family Mart, slurping the steaming feast and making small talk in broken Konglish. “You like baseball?” Kim asked in between bites. “I love baseball! I exclaimed. “And I like soccer—I used to play.” Kim’s eyes lit up and he spoke to Yun in Korean. “We will play soccer on Monday at taekwondo,” Master Yun said, grinning. “I cannot WAIT!” I replied.

And all too soon, the night was ended. A long sleepy ride home ended by toppling into bed for a few quick hours of sleep before onto the next weekend activity. I think it will remain one of my top memories of Korea.

So this is what Korean style means to me. Forget the skinny jeans and the bobbed bangs and the neon-dyed lap dogs. Korean style means family amongst strangers. It means a woman helping you carry your heavy grocery bag home as far as she can before you part ways. It means almost missing your stop in a cab because you’re too busy fighting for the privilege to pay for it. It means a free drink while you wait for your phone to be re-charged with minutes. It means a free washcloth from the department store simply because they don’t sell them individually. It means a spontaneous party of beer and snacks in a coffee shop with your flute teacher and her cronies. It means random acts of gifts and kindness from your Korean co-teachers, numbering more than even kind words from the foreign ones.

It means that despite my frequent lapses into stupidity, I’m loved. Is that what it truly means to be human? Or have I glimpsed heaven, here?

For additional reading on this heartwarming subject, read “Meeting Mr. Kim: or How I Went to Korea and Learned to Love Kimchi” by Jennifer Barclay.

The Way of the Tiger

2010-02-16T21:54:00.007+09:00

Yep: it was a weekend much-anticipated and quite enjoyed. We had one day off to help usher in the white tiger of 2010, and no, Lunar New Year is NOT just for the Chinese. 새해 복 많이 바드세요 Here is an interesting and timely story I found posted by author Paulo Coelho on his blog.

As for my own weekend, here's what I thought you should know:

Friday night kickoff with taekwondo, chicken burritos, friends, and youtube: check.
Andy Warhol exhibit at Seoul Art Museum, walk downtown, and homemade Lunar New Year meal: check.
Hookah and tea and philosophy and art and tears and curses until 3 am with a friend who’s had her heart broken: check.
Long-distance threat phone calls to India: check.
Early morning Lunar New Year homemade brunch on the floor with Korean friends: check.
Movies and laughter and indecisions and lounging: check.
Romantic candlelit Valentines dinner (for four): check.
Lots of Skyping and chatting with long-losties: check.
A complete day without once stepping foot outside the apartment: check.
Gift box of Spam and bottle of wine: received.
Various chocolates and junk food and first coffee in a week: consumed.
Well-rested: possibly. Content: definitely. Ready for work: no, thanks.

Laughter: the Best Medicine

2010-01-26T21:45:00.007+09:00

My little sister recently skype-interviewed me during her fifth-grade class, wanting to know about my "career" teaching English in South Korea. Talking about ME having a career sort of freaked me out. But in honor of my temporary occupation, I thought I'd post some highlights from said career. These are mostly quotations I pulled from elementary level (2-5 grade) writing assignments, and this is totally what gets me through some of those mundane days as a teacher. As the finale, I posted a hilarious essay in its entirety. All entries are posted with original spelling and grammatical and etc errors.

Help S.O.S
To get out of hunger we should give them foods. If you buy a tomato it could be helpful to send 2 tomatos. There is really many ways to help Africans. Like, sending books, opening schools, give them hopes. Hope is the best! -[Jaewoo, R4, from an essay on what he can do to help and serve his community and the world at lasrge].

“If You Burn Money, You Will Become Poor”
And if you become poor, you will have sicknesses. It is because if you are poor, you’ll have to sleep outside where dity things are. -[Elly, R5, from a "cause and effect" writing assignment].

Hi? President Obama,
Nice to meet you. I am Eddy. I am giving you this letter because of my Grammar homework. Ooops, sorry. I didn’t tell this. I live in Korea. Now, I will question few questions. Ow did you be a candidate? How did you get a Lobel Prize? Do you want to see your Uncle? (because seeing your uncle was the first and last). It is finished. My wish is you answering the questions. P.S. I want to be president like you. -[Eddy Cheong, Rs2-1, from a letter to President Obama. This was one of a handful of equally and even more hilarious such letters, some complete with clippings of the Chief with his family and vibrant comment-captions. Possibly the winning quotation from Hannah: "I am surprised you won because you are black"].

To victor
You grow up so poor
But now you work hard
You are use to doing your job
Busy three jobs
You have heart of gold
And you are healthy
You are nice
You are in seventh Heaven
And you help the baby so you
Have a heart of gold

-[Ariel, formerly RS2-3, from an assignment to write a journal entry. I'm really not sure why she produced this because it wasn't even her typical work. I could be wrong, but I think she copied it from one of those 5-n-10 notebooks with an awful translation of a cheesy love poem on the cover].

My Lovely Dad

Do you like your dad? All children have their father, but some children doesn’t have dad. I will tell you about my dad.
My dad’s nickname is ‘monster’ because he likes beer and if he drinks beer he is doing everything like a monster, but I likes he sometimes because he drinks beef very much sometimes he gives money to my sister and me. And I can go to PC Room, but my mom is really weird because if my dad is giving money to us she is hitting dad and says like “you idiot!” and he catch his eye and fighting. When I’m looking mom, dad’ re fighting I thinking about dog and eat’ re fighting and cat is winning. I don’t like this time and next time my mom ask to my dad like “do yu know what did you do yesterday night?” of course my dad going to be dangerous. Now I will tell you about how looks like my dad. My dad has lots of pimple like a really mad toad and he has really short beard. If I touch that I thinking about needle. Sometimes he drank beer his teeth are yellow like corns and his mouth smell are someone wear socks 100years. And If he goes to a beauty salon he says “please do not cut the whiskers” I think he’s thinking he is some idol star But I like this dad!! -[Cindy Cho, R5, from a writing assignment to "describe someone you know"].

[When teaching in Seoul, do as the children do].

The Trouble with Hispaniola

2010-01-14T23:18:00.009+09:00

Photo caption: Even "wealthier" Haitian immigrants live segregated lives in the Dominican Republic (photo: R.W. High, 2007)

Planes flying to Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic, also fly on to Port au Prince, Haiti before third-legging it back to Miami, Florida, the original point of origin. Dr. Dennis Sullivan, now a professor at Cedarville University, practiced medicine in Haiti for almost four years in the 1980s, but 20 years later nothing much has changed in the country.

“Let me tell you a little bit about that trip from Miami to Santo Domingo to Port au Prince,” he says, sitting back in his chair and keeping an eye on the audio recorder in front of him. “[You’re flying in] low altitude planes. As you fly from Santo Domingo to Port au Prince you’re flying right over the center of Hispaniola and so you’ll see this beautiful lush green mountainous country below you, which is Dominican Republic, and as you approach the country of Haiti you can see, at the frontier, this abrupt border as the green completely gives way to brown. It’s one of the most incredible sights from air that you can imagine. As you look from the air you will see that the terrain below is nothing but desert-covered mountains. Furthermore, if you look at the waters around the Caribbean Ocean around Haiti, you will see the rivers, which are very, very muddy—brown muddy rivers—you can see the rivers washing out to the ocean and you can see the dark brown eddies . . .”

Sullivan is not the first to call Haiti an ecological disaster. Blamed primarily on government mismanagement, the country is the poorest in the Western Hemisphere and has more than once been brushed off as being beyond hope. Noted anthropologist Jared Diamond noted Everyone familiar with Haiti whom I asked about its prospects use the words “no hope” in their answer. Most of them answered simply that they saw no hope (Collapse 354). Sullivan himself left Haiti after several years of seeing very little progress. Across the border, however, the Dominican Republic, while certainly no Caribbean Dubai, is slowly improving in infrastructure and boasts increasing tourism revenue.

Ever since Muhammad Yunus won the Nobel Peace Prize for microfinance self-sustainability research in 2006, microfinance has taken off in the international arena. Some are seeing the possibilities for these pragmatic economics to alleviate poverty in both Dominican Republic and Haiti. Hundreds of MFIs, or Microfinance Institutions, which make small loans to impoverished entrepreneurs, have sprouted up world wide since the 1970s. Many publications and studies are touting microfinance as the solution to alleviating world poverty. Even the United Nations named 2005 the International Year of Microcredit, saying,

Microcredit and microfinance have changed the lives of people and revitalized communities in the world's poorest and also the richest countries. We have seen the enormous power that access to even modest financial services can bring people. With access to a range of financial tools, families can invest according to their own priorities — school fees, health care, business, nutrition or housing.

The International Year of Microcredit also stated that of four billion people who live on less than $1400 a year, only a fraction have access to basic financial services. “With this huge unmet demand, the Year of Microcredit 2005 called “To build inclusive financial sectors and strengthen the powerful, but often untapped, entrepreneurial spirit existing in impoverished communities.” (www.yearofmicrocredit.org)

However, studies show that despite massive global poverty, often microfinance cannot even be implemented until structural and institutional changes are made within the country to ensure a stable and self-sustainable environment. Studies in the Caribbean have shown that often programs do not work on Hispaniola because of the typically paltry loan sizes or because countries do not want to work to implement structure after depending so long on aid handouts. Additionally, cultural insensitivity and poor strategy have contributed to untargeted relief waste. In fact, according to Haiti in the Balance, and analysis of aid in Haiti, the reason aid has often failed in Haiti is because t aid programs often target it as if it were a better-off Latin American country, and ignore the socioeconomic, racial and historical differences: “Donors seemed to go on to adopt an assistance model more appropriate to Latin America. Such a model assumed economic, social, and political stability. In reality, Haiti was more like a least-developed, fragile, post-conflict sub-Saharan African country” (6). Once again we are reminded of the parallels between Haiti and Africa, where anti-democratic, oppressive, self-serving leadership are common. (Harrison 32)

Among other problems, borrowers who cannot make enough profit to ever repay the loans fully and expand their businesses maintain the cycle of poverty. This is especially problematic in Haiti but is also stagnating in development and progress in the Dominican Republic. However, the DR is years ahead in terms of progress and so is able to better tackle problems and build self sustainability on top of subsistence. In determining whether microfinance has been a noticeably effective deterrent to poverty and alternative to traditional aid in alleviating poverty on the Caribbean island and whether there is home for economic progress in Hispaniola, it is important to examine the two nations of Hispaniola and analyses historical and current trends that compare and contrast aid, relief, and infrastructure in the two countries and how they now affect attempts to build self-sustainability through micro-financial enterprise and entrepreneurship, particularly for women.

[Editor's Note: Given the recent chaos in Haiti, I thought I'd go out on a limb and publish my undergrad senior thesis project regarding the devastation of Haiti, the disparity between it and the country with which is shares an island, and whether anything can be done to save the country. I particularly focused on the relatively recent (and Nobel-winning) theory microcrofinance, and spent four months of my life buried in books and papers and telephone/email interviews regarding the subject. I have since used Haiti as an illustration in multiple Korean elementary classrooms for social studies discussions, and now have spent a lot of time re-reflecting on the country. When my contract in Korea is up, I hope to make my way there and dive into reconstruction.]
This thesis will be examined in four parts: Introduction, history, microfinance, and conclusion. For the full PDF, click here: Hispaniola

New Journalism

2010-01-07T22:05:00.006+09:00

* November *
She knows she should probably sleep now, but now she’s too keyed up. She fancies a shot of juice—Haruki Murakami makes juice drinking sound incredibly sensual and appealing—more so than the literary-favoured whiskeys and wines. She wasn’t at all craving it before, but now juice sounds good. Orange, perhaps, or grape: what she has on hand.

The grape looks good in the fridge and she pulls it out and shakes it thoroughly. The white seal is still on the bottle: it’s not too late to resist midnight temptation and put it back. But no, the espresso mug comes down from the shelf: the blue, of the his-n’-hers Corona crown duo she won at a Mexican festival. Pink stays on the shelf, because baby blue complements the throaty purple.

But grape juice cannot be drunk alone, and the clove cigarette box long ago lay empty. That Hopeful President has banned them in the US, and they don’t seem to exist here. So she munches a rice cake semi-contentedly, and drinks the juice.

Now that the fridge is open, songpyeon and kimbap become irresistible as well. One of the former, two bites of the latter, and a completely unnecessary meal has come full circle.

Well-fit, she returns to the bed. The catch-all, the couch, the recliner, the threadbare, back-aching expanse that takes up a good third of the small room. She lights the candles with an experienced flick of an old Bic lighter and the tuna flavored rice that permeates the skin of her long fingers is masked by the aroma of pumpkin and cinnamon.

Shivering, she closes the big window in the balcony porch and shrugs into the (Japanese?) kimono her best friend had purchased one Christmas in (Chinatown?). It is surprisingly warm.

And she writes.

* January *
It has been writer’s block for days and the sludge once called coffee is cold in the bottom of the cup. Flicks a lighter aimlessly and wanders into the kitchen for lack of better inspiration.

If only as much time was spent engaging in worthwhile activity as is spent eating. Spies the sludge and considers a warm up. The fridge is full, but there is nothing to eat. There is orange juice, unopened, a month-and-a-half old. Doesn’t feel like drinking orange juice, but opens it for lack of better inspiration.

Washes down cold and calming, expiration date 12.25.2009: not long past. Reflects on that day, a happier time. The day of two Christmases.
One good juice deserves another and down it goes.

How’s that coffee holding up?
Yeah, warm it up a little.

Surfing the freelance jobs, those jokes: those worthless time-suckers. Contemplates one assignment, “How to Make a Life-Size Red Panda.” No further details. Too much effort. “How to Start a Tin Sign Business.”

Toggled to Twitter. Quiet, this time of night. Already read today’s headlines. A BBC Big Whig is retiring. Peoples’ Choice Awards are awarding the same five people and shows that have already won everything this year.

Gum is a better investment than food. Gum exercises the jaw; keeps the lips firm and supple and gives that Hollywood line. Costs less than food and staves hunger pangs. Can be refreshed periodically as needed. Relieves stress.

Freelance opportunity: “How to Diet Using Chewing Gum.”

Now the inspiration isn’t lacking. But the fingers hate it. They won’t listen or respond. Sometimes the greatest trouble with the head is its remote distance from the heart. Sometimes the greatest trouble with the heart is its obstinacy.

I'll be Home for Christmas!

2009-12-17T00:19:00.009+09:00

When I first started singing the song this season, I figured it’d be the first year it would only happen in my dreams, as the song goes. But around the start of my homesick despair, the week of Thanksgiving, the bug my mom had planted weeks earlier started to resurface. Plans to Taiwan were being shot down at every attempt, and I was becoming less and less interested anyway. At this point it seemed just as logical (or insane) to travel home as it would be to go anywhere exotic on my own. And my usual harebrained travel schemes just weren’t appealing anymore: not with the invigorating thoughts of Mom’s fresh baked goods and lasagna and soups heating up the kitchen; the usual madness of carpool coordination in a houseful of drivers and broken vehicles; and the clamor of constant piano and drumsets and barking dogs waking me up early every morning.

I was freaking out when tickets started skyrocketing, by my best friend and all-time kick-assing-est travel agent was able to snag me one for just under $12thou. I’ll be flying out around noon Christmas day, and arriving in Chicago around 3pm Christmas Day.

I'll be home for Christmas.

I suppose a small mundane update on my life is in order. I usually leave that to Twitter but I feel like this week is a good time to do it since I just passed my 4-month anniversary in Seoul. School’s been rough, but my R4 students have finished up an awesome batch of persuasive speeches and an informative magazine about animals. We’ll be celebrating with a “Christmas Bonus” party in the next week or so. R5s blew me away with some astonishing debate prep, and our showcase for Christmas week will be shaping up nicely. If they beat Joe’s MAG5s, my wallet’ll be empty: I promised them pizza for a win.
* Homemade eggnog, a Western necessity and fashioned with surprising success in Korea ghetto-style :)

I’ve had a very creative month thus far with my younger students. Cool lesson plans (homemade Pit!) and even spur of the moment educational rabbit trails have been really fun. Today during a 2nd grade social studies lesson about Jamestown and Plymouth, students were examining textbook illustrations as commenting on the colonists’ canoes. I explained that these were not canoes, they were rowboats. They had never heard of such a thing. They immediately understood when I sang a few lines of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” and we proceeded to learn the round at the top of our lungs for the next 15 minutes.

Christmastime and the newly added incentive of going home hasn’t harmed, either. Ask my Uni roommate: Naomi will vouch for my inexplicable boost in charm and wit around this time of year. I’ve had Christmas music going constantly…spicing it up with variations discovered on AOL’s AMAZING Christmas music station. Armik’s Spanish guitar discovered through the World Christmas option is my new favorite. I play the music all morning during my preschool classes as well, particularly in art when we’re coloring. Yes, WE color. They fight over Teacher’s drawings ;)

Christmas is NOT commercialized here whatsoever. At times it’s a relief, at times, I miss it. I put up a $10 string of fabulous Christmas lights I managed to snag in Namdaeumun—which is a traditional marketplace with a few shops decked out for Christmas. The only place I’ve really seen it. One guy tried to charge me $18 for a few feet of tiny lights! Christmas lights make me happy and you can be I’ll be getting my fill of that good old American Christmas commercialization when I do some morning-after shopping at home…I haven’t seen the new Target since it was remodeled and it’s been quite the talk of my little home town.

At the insistence of my Korean coworker, Eileen, I have begun taking weekly group flute lessons at the local department store. It’s been a blast. The teacher formerly taught a flute orchestra in Russia, and although she speaks very little Konglish, we manage to get along and I’m starting to force my shamefully rusty self back into some semblance of musical discipline. It’s been great getting to know Eileen as well. We often eat Korean food together after lessons, and hope to start Tae Kwon Doe classes after the New Year.

Unfortunately, I’ve replaced working out with Internet TV and torrent movies, and am recently obsessed with finding new Christmas movies as well as the recently finished first season of Glee. NEVER thought I’d get into that after Highschool Musical made me gag, but the show is really fabulous. I’m halfway through the first season and haven’t watched anything so voraciously since Weeds. Episode 7 has some particularly pungent one-liners. For example: “We’re dealing with children. They need to be terrified. . . .Without it their bones won’t grow properly.” This completely describes my feelings toward my preschoolers these days.I love the music. As for Christmas movies, I recommend “Joyeux Noel” for its seasonal sentimentality and highly discourage “The Shop Around the Corner” –a rare James Stewart failure and the original “You’ve Got Mail.”

But despite my lapse into the cursed single adulthood bad habits, I’ve also been getting out the house nearly every night to socialize with a fantastic group of fellow ex-pats in my neighborhood. One girl is headed home to Fargo, ND this week so we’ve been trying to squeeze even extra time in. It’s been good to talk and laugh and learn with and from this international group. Tonight a girl just passing through en route to Texas entertained us with stories from her recent trek to India/Nepal and upcoming nine month sabbatical to a Tibetan Buddhist monastery in Canada. It’s things and times like these that refresh, inspire, and encourage me to carry on… yet to break free from the potential to despair and get lazy. I’m not always faithful, but I’m learning. I’ve also been more regularly attending an International church during this Advent season and connecting more with the 20s-30s group, which has been a lot of fun. It’s kind of a far trek, but lately I’ve been making it a real priority.

I’m only 21. Sometimes I forget that, and it just strikes me, so. I've always been such a nostalgic, and I often feel like I'm 90 years old. I also find myself thinking I sound like my mother! It's the whole teaching thing...

But nothing matters at the moment. Cuz I’ll be home for Christmas.

Failure

2009-12-06T20:47:00.001+09:00

The seat was warm.

His music preceded him; a few surprisingly melodic snatches on a battered harmonica.

He was wrinkled; cubic zirconia studs in each of his large leathered lobes. Shoulders hunched forward in a standard olive green overcoat, he staggered with the off-beat roll of a hurrying subway car.

He dropped the arm that held the instrument to reveal a droopy under bite, proffering his other grubby hand to a nearby passenger. The passenger, an American girl, nudged her male companion who immediately offered the ajushee a few coins. The man accepted them soundlessly, remotely—as if it was expected. He added them to a zippered pack around his waist, and moved expectantly to the next foreign sucker.

I feigned poverty and shook my head slightly, and hesitated, he moved on down the long row of soulless eyes whose emotions and feelings, if any, were carefully hidden beneath the obscurity of l'humanité en masse. A few more harmonica blues wafted on with him.

The girl nudged me. “How many of these people do you think are heading to church?” she asked.

I glanced again down the line of glassy eyed passenger, dozing or meditating in their glittery ties, polyester suits, heals, and faux fur collars.

“50%.”

She didn’t respond, so I asked her the same.

“More than half,” she answered, and said nothing more.

The seat was warm. I love these heated subway seats.

We sat in silence. I mulled thoughts of being late to church myself and what I’d possibly eat and do afterwards.

Suddenly, she turned to me again.

“Always give what is asked of you,” she said.

Feeling guilty, I gave a paltry tithe at church an hour later. Perhaps the ajushee is cackling merrily amongst broken green bottles in the gutter, having spent the genuine tinder of gullible foreigners. Perhaps he’s sitting at the hospital bedside of a beloved. Perhaps he’s huddling over the stovetop of a streetfood vendor, waiting for a hand-sized portion of dukbokki. Or maybe he’s in heaven giving witness to the ones who gave to the Christ Child and the ones who sat stonily in church.

He who gives to the poor will lack nothing, but he who closes his eyes to them receives many curses. Proverbs 28:27

One man gives freely, yet gains even more; another withholds unduly, but comes to poverty. Proverbs 11:24

Reading the Culture, Pt. 2

2009-11-22T00:32:00.004+09:00

25 August 2009 Tuesday--Perhaps the reason dangling charms on cell phones are so popular here is because it’s all they have to accessorize the inconspicuous monotony of their school uniforms—which many kids wear late into the evening as they go from one academy to the other long into the night. Of course, they also accessorize with shoes. What else do you entertain yourself with when you're a mini genius with parents breathing down your neck because you’re not yet a doctor at age 14?!

I love the convenience/cost of public travel here, but not for long periods of time. I really hate humanity in that sort of setting—I feel like all of our worst failings and pent-up horrible-ness comes out in a crowd.

Case study #1: Last Sunday at Nowon station a man boarded my subway car who just didn’t fit the normal Korean subway crowd. He was darker, swarthier, and bigger, with an easier American way of draping himself across the seat that was familiarly American. His gold earrings bounced with the movement of the train as he laughed comfortably with his lady friend. They spoke in fluent Korean, though, so I surmised they weren’t foreigners.

Case study #2: The next weekend, I was engrossed in the sounds of Genius (Apple’s Genius, that is) as I hiked down the mountain when I crossed paths with a dark-skinned hiker. He was fit and sported a sleek wooden walking stick, a far more traditionally classic look than the popular carbon fiber ski poles. But what really set him apart was his hair: long and grey, it was flecked white, pulled back in a tight ponytail, and accompanied by a scraggly beard. He looked like either a very tan Korean or maybe a Mongolian. he was dressed in impeccable hiking gear, as all Koreans. While seeing a people of varying backgrounds, ethnicities, and intelligence levels in the forest preserve near my Midwest American university was quite normal, it surprised me in retrospect to realize how taken aback I was by seeing here anyone the least bit out of the ordinary.

I’ve been struck with this realization that all Koreans conform to the group thinking social pattern in everything they do. Even the hott trends in fashion which would be individualized and accessorized to the extreme there as much as creatively possible are not here. Everyone looks wacky and ridiculous here, but none of them stands out because they’re all basic copies of each other. A short time is all it takes for the foreigner’s eyes to become adjusted to the difference. After that it stays the same. The difference is simply the cultural divide, not the malleability of the people. The weirdness becomes just commonplace. Nothing changes, day after day; For the most part, people live expression-less, conformed lives. Trends are huge, but transient. They come and go. Everyone gets on board simultaneously, then everyone disembarks in the same manner.

It is evinced by the preschoolers who contentedly play “rock-scissors-paper” to decide who will copy the other’s coloring page first. It is evinced by the 2nd graders who will only play games in class if they can team up with their table partners. It is evinced by the exact replica of shops and stands and vendors selling rows and piles of exact replicas from leggings to bookmarks to lense-less glasses to shoes to jeans to food.

I once observed that Korean students are forced to stay so long in uniform that the only way to uniquely distinguish themselves s to accessorize with cool shoes and cell phone charms. But I have discovered that even most of those are copies of each others—imitations attempting to individualize but afraid to actually do so.
Perhaps it’s no surprise, then, that many Koreans seem racist. They don’t quite know how to evaluate variations in their midst. And in the past, it seems that infiltrations to their culture have met with less than satisfactory endings (Japanese and Manchurian occupations, etc).

Translated into society and Korea’s place in the world, emergent from history, I wonder what this means for the future of the country.

Reading the Culture, Pt. 1

2009-11-15T17:28:00.007+09:00

“How's SK taking Kim's death, from what you can see?”

My friend queried via Twitter, mere moments after I read the announcement in the news myself that Korea’s former president Kim Dae-jung had died. I had been in Korea for less than a week, and I had no idea how to respond.

I could speak one word of Korean, I was living with also-new-to-Korea Americans, and I really had no idea how to respond to such a question. It freaked me out a little: if I was supposed to be working toward some sort of hazy dream career in international journalism, how would I ever be marketable if I couldn’t form such a simple opinion? Was I an idiot for not being able to ascertain their attitude regarding a momentous event?

I couldn’t even attend the state funeral that weekend: I had already paid to reserve a spot white water rafting out in the country. Instead of spending the weekend analyzing black suit-clad crowds and immersing myself in the bereaved culture, I spent it with loud foreigners splashing each other with rafting paddles.

My response at the time was merely my honest observation: it seemed (according to media reports) that a lot of people had thronged outside the state building where the funeral was held. Thus it seemed that the highly popular Kim was definitely mourned by a respectable number of citizens, and at least the face of the media who decried his untimely passing.

As the week progressed, it also became apparently that even stern North Korea had held a soft spot for The Sunshine Man, and was edging toward less ominous relations with the South while paying its memoriam to a beneficiary even they couldn’t deny.
So I walked downtown, stood in the streets drinking coffee, munching corndogs, trying to get the firsthand experience. I was determined not to fail this first opportunity to pursue real international journalism.

Language was a problem once again. I couldn’t just casually ask the corndog vendor what she thought of grandiose politics over grease, food fumes, and change. I couldn’t question the twenty-somethings with their Cass beer bottles and ramyeon wrappers and piles of Parliament cigarette ashes, deep in beatnik philosophizing at the red plastic table outside the corner 711. I couldn’t interrogate the businessmen in shiny polyester suits and faux leather man purses waiting to board Bus 1142 to Nowon.

I couldn’t talk to anyone, really. School kids in uniforms with backpacks, plastic bags and clutching various fried foods and be-trinketed Samsung mobiles as well as each others’ hands wandered by, noisily. Most of them probably spoke smattering English, but conversation here was impossible as well, even if I chanced upon an elementary or highschool student intelligent enough to engage me.

Nor had I really seen anything in the way of protests in the city since I’d been here. My first Saturday, I had passed an Anti-American rally in a park somewhere. I didn’t know where I was, and I didn’t know they were even anti American until my supervisor Joe pointed it out. I’d seen nothing since.

It irked me that I couldn’t eavesdrop on subways or in coffee shops. Normally one of my favorite activities back home, I couldn’t even somewhat follow conversational lines here like I could among the Hispanics in DeKalb or LA. My iPod was spending quality time with me here. But while that fact was surely enlightening me on postmodern American adolescent philosophies (in fact, I’d even downloaded some K-Pop, or Korean pop music), it wasn’t helping me understand South Korea’s political climate.

Sigh.

“How does one ‘feel’ or determine the political climate of a country—especially in a country where one doesn’t even speak the language?” I asked my friend Mara.

Mara: ever the refreshing friend; fellow product of a Liberal Arts Christian university that, despite some massive shortcomings, has produced some superb critical thinkers and a few brilliant people. Cynical and optimistic by turn, Mara, unlike many foreigners, challenges me to think further than the handsome Korean boy coming on to me at the bar.

She has seen some rallies, she said, but not many. The real way to sense political climate is to observe the culture. Even if you don’t understand the language, you can see and evaluate what is going on around you based on body language, attitudes, what people wear and read. You can hear murmuring at school even among students, and you can start picking up on things as you make Korean friends, or mingle enough with other foreigners who discuss Korean coworkers and friends.

As we shared observations and postulated opinions, my sense of self-doubt began slipping away. I can read people, I can take what I observe and make it into hypotheses.

... TO BE CONTINUED ...

Photo credit: http://www.nation.co.ke

Save[or] the World

2009-11-12T21:05:00.004+09:00

I’m in that stage of life when it’s really easy to live solely for oneself and lack the responsibility or true caring of/for others.

Even the few closest to me whom I was honestly willing to do anything for a few years ago have fallen further and further from my maniacally rising ego. It’s a self-inflicted attempt, I suppose, to compensate for a lack of big-ego qualifications (in other words, since I don’t deserve accolades, my mind builds myself up to a point where theoretically I should deserve them). In fact, when my best friend adopted/rescued a dog this past spring I was more than a little annoyed merely because it seemed a huge inconvenience: a passing whim that would increase responsibility and decrease the ability to pleasure oneself at leisure.

My generation, coupled with my own personality, encourages me to seek out the refugees and experience “the taste of adventure” as I “save [or savor?] the world.” Volunteering for a few months here and there, tweeting and blogging about humanitarian efforts and social issues, reading the news and discoursing earnestly with fellow academics and globetrotters in foreign cafes and cyberized venues are the rage—the defining mantra of my university generation.

But it doesn’t mean I do anything, and it doesn’t mean I overflow with generosity and selflessness toward those around me. I’m really quite horribly selfish, and I have let that selfishness get in the way of nearly everything I’ve done for the past few years.

I don’t know how it crept up, I really don’t. Yet even my once carefully honed spirit of generosity has fallen by the wayside, and I will admit that the joylessness I’ve brought about both myself and others throughout my college and recent post-grad life has been because of an ever-growing selfishness. The determination to plan my life and stick to it accordingly and get stressed or upset f it doesn’t turn out right has become a defining characteristic of my paltry, worthless life.

Tonight is the night I articulate these growing realizations and dreads.
I renounce the mind-eating stress that eats at my mind, rips at my soul, bloats my stomach.

I renounce my secret self-exaltation and ambitionless desire to socialize via the web on my own fat bed while maintaining a façade of globalized interests.

I renounce my time-wasting obsessions and habits too numerous and time-wasting to specifize.

I renounce my unfounded dismay at the adoption/rescue of a lovable creation of God….my friend’s mischievous but vibrant husky. Maybe I'll even follow suit. I’ll adopt/rescue a hedgehog. Cute little buggers, they are.

And now, I’m off to save the world.

Children

2009-11-01T23:21:00.014+09:00

Two extra hours of volunteer work on Thursday night putting together a haunted house completely paid off on Friday. Watching tiny children scream and cry and run for their lives (in a controlled setting, of course) was strangely enjoyable. The rest of the fulfilling day was consumed in Halloween origami and candy consumption. Lest I lose sight of the rewards still attainable within the inevitable daily grind, the following anecdotes:

Life can only be understood backward, yet, it has to be lived forward. - Søren Kierkegaard

It's always somewhat depressed me to think that humans take so long to develop both physically and mentally. It seems a waste to spend 22 years just learning how to think, and then the rest of a lifetime still developing that process. Some never learn at all, which is not only depressing but also angering. Someone recently said the ages from 25 to 30 are the best in one's life because you're old enough that people take you seriously but young enough to still have carefree fun. But despite the fact that coworkers and friends here call my 21-year-old self "baby," my relatively young age is standing me in good stead. This week, my youth may have scored a few points toward tenure as teacher at POLY.

Last night one of my fifth grade classes experienced a long exprobation about the importance of respecting the teacher and completing homework. I pulled my favorite tone: one of those “deathly quiet,” intimately intimidating timbers which has proven pretty effective here.

I think it hit home.

Me: “I know you all have lots of work to do, and that POLY is not your only school. I know that if I call some of your parents to report you, they won’t care. But that doesn’t mean you don’t need to respect me, and do your homework. I’m not just another one of those people saying you need to do this, either. I’m not much older than you. I am twenty-one years old. I’ve had to do homework for many years, and I’ve known how it is to be so busy with schoolwork and everything else. I had to do lots of homework just last year. But I can tell you that doing your homework will make you a better person in the long run. I wouldn’t be teaching you here if I hadn’t done my homework.

Suha: But teacher, you’re 21? That means you’re still student?
Me: No, I graduated university.
Them: Only 21? How is this possible? What kind of schools do they have in America?
Suha (incredulously): But teacher…that means you are very smart!
Me (discreetly smug): It means I know what I’m talking about, and you should listen to me.

There was silence in the room, and a new respect in their eyes. It will be gone and forgotten by next week, but at least for that lecture, there was peace, and a new temporary resolve on their part to complete the two pages of homework I assigned.

These munchkins make my living overseas possible. They’re not the reason I came, but they are the means by which my coming was made possible. I’ll be the first to admit that kids and teaching has never been a dream of mine (yet I recently realized it’s been my main source of income since I was 16). But they’ve turned out to be a bonus (admittedly a mandatory one) and I find myself smiling over on weekends when we’re apart. These are the kids who eat dried ramyeon and shrimp chips instead of Pringles and potato chips, who love old Mickey Mouse and Tom n Jerry cartoons, who regularly whip out origami frogs in class and Samsung touchscreens laden with large dangly charms. These are the kids who spend their days in one academy after another, who don’t do much homework, but still manage to function in two different languages and two different worlds.

Dino-crazy

Steve, grade 2: Abridged monthly writing test prompt: Describe your best friend."He's not very good at soccer, but he knows ALL the dinosaurs."

Txtbk Assignment: Using sequence words, tell your reader how to do something. Don’t forget a topic sentence!
How To Catch a Dinosaur
I will talk about how to catch dinosaur.
First, go to time machine.
Second, find a dinosaur that fights. Then tickle dinosaur’s nose.
Next, watch the dinosaur cough.
After that, land on another dinosaur.
Then, shout at dinosaur’s ear.
Finally, It will be mortified and catch with net.

My Parents' Bedroom
[Just the sound of this cracks me up...]
Cindy, grade 5: Txtbk Assignment: Describe your favorite place, using vivid adjectives, similes and metaphors.

My favorite place is my parents’ room….The claimax [sic] of my parents’ room is the king size romantic bed. It feels as soft as cotton candy, it smells as fresh as herbal, the blanket color is as red as red wine…

Twitter-pated
Brian, grade 2: Textbook assignment (the week after I required the students to create Twitter accounts for writing class): Complete and illustrate the [story about a giant bird].

"Lord Voldmot was there with his pupils. He gave my [sic] magic wand. I spoke, 'Twitter!' A mammoth bluebird came out and killed them. I became the most famous magician in the world."

Resolved: People should not eat meat (5th grade debate):
On vegetarians: "Vegetable people have only bones." (transl.: Vegetarians will shrivel and die without meat.
Response: "There are still fat vegetarians." (transl.: Vegetarians are capable of obtaining enough nutrients and then some.
On warranting their arguments: "It says in a book..."

Creativity
MAG3 is the most creative class. They've done excellent sculptures, sugar cube architecture, comic books, and painting among other things.

Better Than Noraebong

2009-10-26T00:34:00.008+09:00

For all the plans that fell through last week, my first experience hosting an international visitor in my new homeland ended, I thought, quite entertainingly and appropriately.

First Int'l visitor (Becca!) and I outside Gyeongbokgung Palace near Insadong.

That is to say, it ended with a 4am cabride after a couple of hours of sidewalk singing at the top of our lungs with one of those live guitars that are so rare in Seoul. It was better than noraebong, the standard inexpensive karaoke that usually accompanies such nights on the town in Seoul. Rubbing hands up and down our arms for warmth and passing around fried snacks in shifts, we belted out vinyl-quality competition from the Beatles and Janis Joplin to old Korean ballads such as Ariarang to classic croons like Moon River. It included a small amount of vomit (the natural accompaniment to breaking a Soju cherry), masked by the waft of the candy maker next to us, who leisurely melted sugar and formed crystalline cookie cutter shapes well into the night. Many hearty cheers, a lot of warm laughter, and the jocosity of “the wee sma’s” camaraderie: three American girls, two Korean girls, a handful of Korean men, a Swede, and random passerbys . All this was preceded by a respectable live jazz club experience and a few pubs in the relatively quieter little dong called Heyhwa. At least for me as hostess, it seemed a jaunty bon voyage. I can only help she felt the same!

Visitors are asked to remove their shoes outside one of the buildings of Gyeongbokgung.

The week has been busy in many more ways, however. Open class, wherein anxious, disapproving mothers descend upon POLY school (and my preschool class) for inspection, monthly tests and evaluations, written debate exams for upper elementary students, and Halloween preparations have consumed much of my work time this week. In between, I managed to find the best bulgogi (spicy barbequed meat) ever, spend more money than I’ve spent the rest of my time in Korea, and accomplish some random adventures with one of my favorite people ever. Becca helped decorate my sitting room in traditional Korean style as well which is awesome. I've been using candles for ages but incense does wonders! Pics up soon. I’ve also started formulating plans to possibly spend the Christmas holiday in Taiwan with another absolutely wonderful person.

Mara and I on an all-too-brief shopping venture in Myeongdong.

On an unrelated note, a friend recommended this article today via Twitter that supports my recently developed philosophy regarding church attendance (which should not be misconstrued as an excuse for why I have not made regular church attendance a habit in Seoul). It’s a thought-provoking and, hopefully, action-inciting article.

And while I’m musing in my unstructured, untrained philosophical mood:

Life is too short to not take advantage of it. Yet why do we always make things so complex and busy and unsavorable for ourselves? Life is sitting there. Yes, it’s forced upon us in a way, but since it is, we decide what to do with it. We create the complexities in our minds and let small encumbrances become heavy burdens or impassible roadblocks. We spend the majority of the time wrapped up in ourselves but not even in letting ourselves enjoy things. We strive for some far off distant future of success and happiness that never comes and never comes. We ignore relationships and overlook opportunities to broaden horizons while yet enjoying the oft-cited “simple pleasures.” Why does it take the human being so long to develop and prepare for adulthood only to mourn what’s left? And why do we live for ourselves yet still find ourselves so unhappy?

Eat, drink, and make others merry. In doing so you will be merry yourself. And you will die merry, too.

Just finished reading Meeting Mr. Kim. Not bad.
Currently reading: Murukami’s The Wind Up Bird Chronicle.
Book evaluations due soon.

Boy Likes Girl

2009-10-17T01:23:00.005+09:00

Hollywood did not invent scenes like the following:

Setting: 3:45 pm, midweek, second grade, the middle of the totem pole as far as school intelligence rankings go, and one of the more mischievous. Still, an enterprising and personality-driven group. Not the brightest crayons in the bunch, and certainly not the dullest.

CAST OF CHARACTERS:
Kevin is one of the smartest and most mature. His uncle works for Samsung (and he never lets anyone forget this). This is the young and unexpected lover, trying to win the damsel (GaEun's) heart.

GaEun (young damsel) seemed intelligent at first, and perhaps she is, but her homework and quizzes do not reflect this. She is a reader, though, and her pink roller backpack often doesn’t have room for the library she carries in her hand. She brought The Diary of Anne Frank during the first week of class after I mentioned in off-handedly during a vocabulary lesson.

Perhaps she is a dreamer, too.

Dong Ho’s quiet sensitivity could very well be gay. (In this story he witnesses young love and perceives what others his age might not). Really, this is neither here nor there, but seems the sort of appropriate brief literary observations that add to overall quality of writing. Unfortunately his quiet sensitivity could also mask complete stupidity. This has yet to be determined. The others are worth mentioning, but not here.

Dong Ho raises his hand and I settle in for a long, painful soliloquy.
Kevin drops a pencil and picks it up. As he stands back up, he slyly drops a piece of candy on GaEun’s desk.

Remember Disney’s rendition of The Jungle Book? When the girl at the watering hole drops her jug and Mowgli droolingly goes after it. “She did that on purpose,” says Baloo.

GaEun’s look of disbelief only spreads as she looks up at me and back at Kevin. Disbelief blushes into a gorgeous beam that explodes into a grin that would cause an artist working in that corner to rent his smock in anguish at the way the shadows lifted and the light changes when GaEun smiles.

She can’t stop.

Dong Ho’s painful monologue stutters on, but my rapture at this mid-class transaction overflows and I meet GaEun’s rapturous eyes and grin knowingly. Dong Ho’s stuttering ceases in a smile of relief. It seems his stuttering was a polite attempt to overcome the distraction of adolescent love during his academic pursuits.

Dong Ho could very well be gay.

Kevin, in typical non-plussed fashion, slyly eats candy out of his bag when he thinks we’re all still preoccupied.

The girls in the front of the room continue in their half-aware states. The boys in the back have yet to cease poking each other with pencils and papers and giggling idiotically about whatever it is they do.

I reassemble Dong Ho’s still unarticulated thoughts for him and continue with class but our triangle of knowingness: Dong Ho, GaEun, myself—we’re in better spirits for sharing this unpronounced moment.

GaEun puts the little IceBreaker, carefully, in her pencil case.

2 Posts in a Week?! Must be a Holiday...

2009-10-08T23:25:00.012+09:00

Chuseok--Harvest Festival--행복한 추석

Warm rice ball with bean/cornmeal powder, fresh off the mill-wheel. Korean Folk Village, 10.03.09

Struggling with a wooden yoke, despite the fact that it was empty! Korean Folk Village, 10.03.09

A carpenter carefully works on traditional wooden masks used to celebrate Chuseok, the Harvest Festival of Korea. KFV 10.03.09

The new-to-me mobile phone didn’t work when he said it would, and my SOS call didn’t help, so he invited me back down to Itaewon for a check-up. Frustrated with the length of cellular sacrifice I had already made since arriving in Korea, I scarfed down a sandwich after work on the night before Chuseok holiday began and took the 40 minute subway down to the foreigner district by myself. After dodging the mid-week-drunk sluts and soldiers congregating near the station eateries, I ducked into my cell phone shop…and right into the middle of a heated argument. It seemed a Korean landlord was upset over some bookkeeping issues, and while he ranted, the Pakistani in charge calmly showed him the books.

Now I’m a particular fan of SHOWING not TELLING in my writing, particularly through strategic use of dialogue. Unfortunately, the dialogue in this scene was not of discernable tongue for me, so forgive the liberties I’ve taken in transcribing what I THINK was being said at the time. No disrespect is meant, merely authenticity of translation.

Korean Landlord (pacing and gesturing): Why you no pay full rent this month wei-guk-in?
Pakistani [Cell Phone Store] Tenant: No, I have spoken already: I paid in full. See, the book?
KL (screeching): You have not paid! I make brown wei-guk-in pay with much interest-ee!
PT: I added the numbers like this, and it is not my fault your grandmother has requested that you host the family Chuseok celebration. I will not pay extra rent to fund your soju and spam this holiday.
KL (still screeching and pacing): NO! NO! NO! You are ruining my life with your lies! Many won you owe! A curse from ancestors upon you and your desert dogs! My people eat your people! And, I call police!
PT: Why don’t you have some coffee and a pipe with me and we will discuss this calmly like two good businessmen.

As the second Pakistani fiddled with my phone, two policemen did indeed arrive. Unfazed by the irate Landlord who hovered at their elbows and jabbered in their faces, they questioned the Pakistani tenant, who looked stressed and anxious, but remained calm. I happily noted the police seemed to put no stock in their fellow countrymen’s ludicrous attitude, and they left after a few words of warning to both parties. The Pakistani came out from behind the cell phone counter and mixed the Landlord a paper Dixie cup of instant coffee from the water purifier next to the door. But they hadn’t quite finished...

KL (loudly): A curse upon you, cell phone dog.
PT (loudly, with a dismissal wave of his arm): A curse upon you, cabbage whore.
KL: Good day to you, sir. Anyonghaseyo.
PT: Good day to you.

In much calmer moods, the Korean wandered out onto the front step with his cup and his clipboard. The Pakistani returned to his place at the counter with a cup of water, and my own Pakistani unhooked my phone and handed it over. “All set.”

On my way home I stopped with some coffee on a McDonald’s patio and started figuring out the very confusing phone. Three American dudes swaggered up with a tray of quarter pounders and orange Fanta and asked to borrow my chair. They seemed nice enough until they started speaking conversationally.

“Oh man I gotta take a picture of this!”
“Dude no way.”
“I can’t believe I’ve eaten a quarterpounder in two countries!”
“Dude that **** stays in your stomach.”
“Not after a couple of beers and soju.”
“Yeah that ****** gooood.”
“Oh man check this out.”
“Here man, take a picture of me with this ****** burger.”
“**** this place is awesome.”

At this juncture, I returned to the comfort of my headphones and began the journey home.

FRIDAY

First full holiday day off! Lounged all morning, skyped, cleaned, read. Hiked up my mountain in the late afternoon sun and wrote some letters. A gorgeous fall breeze and sufficient sunbeams on top of iced coffee put me in a stellar mood to reflect on thankfulness. The city was SO QUIET..barely anyone to bump into on the mountain, and since I could actually hear and feel nature around me, I left the iPod silent in my pocket. Quite the unusual experience in a city as busy as Seoul.

Celebrating on Chuseok Eve with gift from a student! My new favorite snack: songpyeon!

Made some vegetables/egg mess in the skillet for dinner, then met some friends for Korean food/plum wine, then hit up a Japanese bar for some wicked fishy anchovies (eyeballs intact), various fish stews, and hot and cold sake. Very chill evening, good times. Mostly guys, Korean and Western, plus me and my coworker Amanda ;D

SATURDAY
Took a relatively early weekend subway then bus to the Korean Folk Village for some legit Chuseok (Korean Thanksgiving: Harvest Festival) celebrations. Hamboks, the traditional voluminous silkwear of the day, were everywhere, and the children were absolutely adoreable (see photo).

It was perfect autumn weather, and my four compadres and I had a great day (despite my back pain which flared unrelentingly) seeing a Korean wedding, photographing everything from cabbage to ponies, riding small carnival rides, and eating warm rice cakes with bean flour.

Families celebrate Chuseok with jumpropes at the Korean Folk Village 10.03.09

Missing part of an arm, this Indian welcomed us to one of the most ghetto but awesome shooting gallery-on-wheel rides ever! Korean Folk Village 10.03.09

Elvis wearing Hambok! KFV 10.03.09

The full day culminated with tour of the coolest hookah bar I’ve ever seen and moved from that to Hongdae where I ended up staying until 8am! It was a random night, but just kept going: meeting Koreans while keeping tabs on inebriated acquaintances who treated us to ghetto batting cages, the best spicy beef I’ve eaten, and luxury noraebong (karaoke) until 6am!

SUNDAY
Slept until 2, octopus bibimbap at a hole-in-the-wall with friends, a long walk with the iPod in the dark and cold. A good Day of Rest. Happy Thanksgiving! Chuseok jal bo nae sayo 행복한 추석

Traditional sailing ship at the Korean Folk Village 10.03.09

Lightening Tomorrow: Asian Assimilation Continues

2009-10-02T01:01:00.022+09:00

Disclaimer: To those concerned after reading my previous post, I generally DO have control of my classrooms. In fact, the situation aforementioned, I was in control. It was just one of those chaotic days when we were all having fun through the random things that happened! Education was still present ☺

That said, assimilation into South Korean culture continues!

A few weeks ago I found an advertisement for a big pop concert featuring some of the big names in Korean music with which I’m already familiar (grocery stores and 7-11s are great teachers of cultural trends). Randomly I found out a coworker and her friend were talking about going, so two weekends ago, we excitedly took the subway downtown to the World Cup Stadium to pick up our reserved tickets. To our astonished elation, we foreigners were directed past the sweating, crowded lines of Koreans to shaded booths where we were immediately offered assistance in English—and VIP tickets!

(As a side note, on multiple occasions, I have encountered situations where I am offered a discount for being a foreigner, but Koreans have to pay full price. Wouldn’t one think it’d be the other way around? This tactic seems to be one of Korea’s ways of trying to attract more tourists and visitors to Seoul).

The concert was fantastic. Held in the outdoor stadium on a perfect late-summer night, we heard one excellent band after another. “Asia is One” brought stars from all over the continent from as far as the Ukraine together, and for us, at least, it was a smashing success. The only weird thing was the crowd on the floor where we were seated sat the entire concert. No mashing, no cheering. Fans segregated by band favorites cheered madly from high in the stands, and finally for the last band I couldn’t stand it: I was on my feet cheering loudly, and the masses followed suit. Big Bang is the Kanye, the Jonas Brothers, the Lady Gaga of Korean music. Fabulous.

I could continue forever with random observations about the night. But I’ll leave the subject with a brief anecdote about the girl next to me wearing a face mask to ward off the pervasive swine flu germs. Halfway through the show, I looked over and the girl was gone, her face mask left on the seat of her chair. The Rapture without me?! But then her clothes would have been there, too. So I figured she must have left and gotten sick of the mask. But a while later, she re-appeared and put the mask back on! Doesn’t that entire exchange somewhat defeat the purpose of it?

Anywho, another long but often rewarding week was concluded with another adventurous weekend with coworkers/new friends via 2.5 hour subway ride to Incheon, which Korea is trying to cultivate as a whole new modern and globally attractive metropolis south of Seoul. For the next month, a “Global Fair” has taken over several hundred acres near the burgeoning city. Here, the air is cleaner, the wind is fresher, and the sun looks just a little brighter. Cranes top the few tall buildings; everything looks like the future under construction.

Once again, we foreigners were treated to discounted tickets, and after accepting this forced discrimination in our favor, wandered blissfully around the Fair. Somewhat akin to Disney World and/or EPCOT, this flaky attempt at recreating “It’s a Small World” was…well, quite like nothing I had ever seen. But it was humorous and well intended, at any rate. We walked the false-fronted streets of France and England, smashed together across from the tents of Mongolia, the cooley carts from China, and next to the fountain square boasting naked white replicas of Michelangelo’s works and other Grecian treasures. There was an astonishing parade of strippers dressed in paint and thongs, chained to floats and dancing to odd English enunciations of Disney-esque songs (global representatives of Africa). Korean moms and dads excitedly waved and pointed these indecendies to stroller-bound children. It was an interesting spectacle.

The America representation was a small half-circle of Indian teepees, a covered wagon, and a classic RV trailer, circa 1960. The only food anywhere was Korean, but nothing special: just the greasily scrumptious street food you can find on any Seoul corner: only at double the cost, here. I splurged for a half-mango on a stick, then we finally settled at the one restaurant in the area: a French café which served three options: sausage sandwich, cheese sandwich, and cheese plate. The cheese sandwich with red wine and iced coffee was small, but delicious. Good cheese is nearly impossible to find here, and I already miss it.

After a calming extended luncheon, we took seats at the BBoys Competition: the world breakdance competition, which was the main reason for our trip. It was FANTASTIC! I couldn’t believe some of the talent we saw (except from the US, which surprisingly made it past the first round, but basically sucked).

Japan won. Other notable teams included Portugal, Poland, China, and France.
Incheon/the Global Fair looks awesome lit up at night. I think that’s sort of their goal: the motto is “Lightening Tomorrow.” In typical Asian translation fashion, It’s a little off.

I finally attended a church which was comforting, almost indecent in its American feel, and spent the day at Starbucks with fellow church attendees. Why are so many evangelical (particularly Baptist) pastors have Southern accents and strange attitudes…almost of pride (my home pastor excluded, of course. I love Steve). It was the worst communion I’ve ever tasted, but it felt good to worship in fellowship again.

The first few school days passed uneventfully, but with the pregnant anticipation of a four-day work week and the obligatory preschool celebratory events for Chuseok, Korean Thanksgiving. Parties were planned, gifts were beginning to make their rounds, and outfits and goodies were being prepared. However, two first graders tested positive for swine flu, which caused no end of uproar among the preschool mothers, who insisted on forcing a school vacation for them. Meaning no work in the mornings for the rest of the week and the beginning of the next, a severe paycut, and the end of Chuseok celebrations at POLY school.

However, one second grader did bring me some delicious songpyeon, the traditional rice cakes filled with a peanut butter-tasting honey-and-seed paste. Delightful! Tomorrow is my lovely Friday off, and I’m planning to do some hiking or running in the morning, then find something to do in the afternoon before a house party, then Saturday will be all sorts of festivities at the local palaces, which, as tourist attractions, are practically the only facilities open this weekend. Should be a fun weekend of yet more assimilation!

I have found a DELISH pumpkin candy at the local “Wal Mart.” It’s gooooood.

Portugese breakdancers (red and green) face off against last year's international champions: Korea. Portugal went on to beat Korea in the first round, but ultimately lost to Japan, the 2009 champions.

Tales of a 4th Grade Nothing

2009-09-23T23:04:00.006+09:00

Today in my last-of-the-day, overtime, lovable self-absorbed think-they-know-it-all class of Returnee 4th-ish graders, we:

*Collected homework barely anyone had completed.
*Unwrapped each others' suckers.
*Regaled each other with stories about cell phones: ours, others', past, present, future.
*Took a short quiz over six brief articles we've read from Time for Kids over the past three weeks (did ANYBODY pass this quiz?)
*Reviewed trends and skinny jeans.
*Listened to classical music and tried to name Tangos until Beethoven's Fifth (during which we air-directed, instead).
*Ate suckers.
*Headache (mine).
*Lost a tooth (Linda, due to the suckers).
*Regaled each other with horror tooth stories of our own.
*Somehow this excitement inspired three girls who have never talked to VOLUNTEER reading expertise in class.
*Fought over who was going to read the next paragraph.
*Talked about the delightful taste of blood.
*Discussed vampires (three girls offered to lend me Twilight in English).
*Regaled each other with random stories about siblings and cousins who are 21 like Teacher.
*Argued over the prevalence of ladybugs vs Asian lady beatles in the United States.
*Read the life cycle of a lady bug (egg, larva, pupa, adult).
*Bell ends class.

8:20pm: I walk home and take advil for the first time since arriving in South Korea. With a smile.

Snippets

2009-09-13T22:39:00.000+09:00

{Last week, I started a post in Word but couldn't remember how to access my blog with the Korean-language sign-in page. Honestly. Then ten and eleven hour work days caught up with me. So here are some snippets from the week before this past one, then a few thoughts from this recently closed week/weekend.}

**********************
"TEACHER!"
"Yes, Daniel?"
"TEACHER! AH! UM! UM! UM! AH! Richard is Korean!"
"Richard, no speaking Korean! Daniel, what did you learn about tattling?"
Ugh, stop stuttering and don't raise your hand unless you're ready to say something immediately!
//
"TEACHER!"
"Yes, Kaye?"
"TEACHER! AH! UM! UM! UM! AH! Finishee!"
"Did you color it like I told you to, Kaye?"
:blank stare:
"Kaye?"
"UM! AH! UM! No."
"OK well you're not finished until you color it so grab your crayons, ok?"
Do you seriously not listen AT ALL?
//
"TEACHER!"
"Yes, Kevin?"
"TEACHER! AH! AH! UM! UM! UM! I don't know."
Do these kids listen AT ALL?! What am I doing here?
Preschoolers all morning are the hardest part of my days. But I love teaching debate and TIME magazine for kids to 4-6 graders. Social studies, grammar, writing, reading and vocabulary with 2-6 graders is also kind of fun for me. It reminds me of the olden days as a little homeschooler "doing school" in the warm kitchen and occasionally pitching in to help a little sibling. One of my second grade classes made Twitter accounts for a writing class assignment. This week they're supposed to be using strong adjectives, although I have yet to see some winners. But I love these kids. Follow me and find them! www.twitter.com/greenblanket

*****************
The downside to hiking around Seoul on a Sunday is that everyone and his chiwawa and great-grandmother (literally) is on the trail...in full trekker’s regalia. Hiking in summery Seoul under pollutant sky invokes a humid sweat, but the breath of fresh air, breeze, and view from the top--albeit somewhat obscured by smog--is worth it.

******************
It’s always the subway ride home that’s most uncomfortable: packed to standing room only at least until the major transfer stop at Nowon, and bodies oozing the rotten egg, un-deodorized fragrance that characterizes many but men in particular on humid summer evenings. Everyone is trying to get home before the subs shut down at midnight, and most bad moods are magnified as bags, backpacks, and feet get shuffled and shoved.
The subway ride there is usually not as bad, especially if you are lucky enough to spend the whole trip on one line, and get on at a less popularized station, in the middle of the day. That means a seat to relax and read, or doze off to a melody of iTunes and distant overhead announcements. I miss driving occasiaonlly, but it makes so much more sense to use public transportation! The Seoul Metra system is one of the most efficient ways to get around—and for English-speaking foreigners, it’s easy as well. I was navigating with general ease my first week here, although I still like to carry my pocket map when traveling.

*********************
Dreams created by an evening of Chocolate Fondue: in which my twin brothers have a photo shoot with the Jonas brothers and random girls from the Disney channel (it was difficult to wake up for work. I was so confused!). But the chocolate fondue night was fun. I met other ex-pats a few weeks ago at a "Mexipalooza" fest in Seoul that was randomly advertised on Facebook. Since then, they've included me in some wonderful times including my first all-nighter out and about in random dongs of Seoul! Sadly, a few of them are leaving Korea soon, but the advantage is that I've inherited some much-needed furniture/accessories!

**********************
Today after a hike I wandered to Insadong, where I saw the "national treasure 2" of Korea in Tapgol Park, an ancient stone shrine complete with dragon and scenes from the life of the Buddha. Then I wandered up and down Insadong, famous for its arts, galleries, and souvenirs. I adhered to a strictly cultural meal of sweet custard bread tarts, fresh-squeezed kiwi juice, un-USMidwestern corn on the cob with salt but no butter, spicy Korean kabob. I also found some paper lanterns for my apartment.

**********************
Reading "Angela's Ashes" this week has increased a summer-inspired desire for fish n chips. Ironically, I found a pub about an hour away that serves two-for-one on Tuesday nights. The trick will be finding a partner to share this delight, but that is the goal for the week! Currently reading: Tom Friedman's "Longitudes and Attitudes," a collection of comments and thoughts surrounding and regarding September 11, 2001. Next craving: Middle Eastern food?

Observations from the Heart of Seoul

2009-08-31T01:01:00.000+09:00

The color peach: it’s a curious thing, their fascination with it—often bordering on obsession. A color I, at least, think washes things out, is boring, is plain. The fanciest blouses and stilettos are peach, fingernail polish and visors, purses and ruffles. Preschoolers at my hagwon fight over the peach-colored scissors, and the peach-flavored crayons and pencils always seem to wear out faster than the others. Koreans seem to prefer the blandest shade possible, and somehow this doesn’t surprise me.

Cranes on buildings: a testament to the quickly aspiring city: the economic growth and architectural boom that has caught the nation off guard and resulted in a façade of maturity which conceals startling naiveté. Every cluster of skyscrapers sports a few of these giant machines, standing out like robotic arms against the mellowing sunset sky. Seoul is immense, sprawling, and as one approaches even on the highway its myriad pockets of skyscrapers filled in between with continuous buildings makes even Los Angeles seem puny.

Neon: It’s the epitome of Korean cultur. Reminiscent of the GI-run post-war enclaves of the 40s and 50s—when promiscuity and good times ran rampant in the aftermath of destruction and deprivation—it’s gaudy, and it’s everywhere. Even when it seems inappropriate, rainbow-ed neon is the favored mode of advertisement.

Camping and Fitness: Koreans love the whole outdoors/fitness scene, but the way in which they facilitate this is odd to the foreign eye. Approaching the city, lining the road, are plenty of camping areas where hundreds of tents have been erected and families mill about in full outdoor adventure gear—in the middle of the city. This is no White Pines or Appalachian Trail—think The Long, Long Trailer’s modernized trailer parks. The same goes for hiking: why these people need their giant hiking backpacks, killer boots, long sleeves and face masks for a 40-minute jaunt that has me sweating in shorts is beyond my comprehension. They also have random weight and aerobic stations placed in strange places: at parks, mid-way up mountains, on the side of a busy highway. Free weights are never stolen, and old folks can often be seen resting with fans in between sets.

Televisions on subways: Apple/Mac hasn’t caught on yet here, but rarely is a subway rider without a phone, portable television complete with antennae, mp3 player, or all of the above. Even old men use their Simpsons decorated cell phones to play bingo and catch up on the latest soaps (known here as dramas), while the teenagers watch pastel-clad choreography in the style of High School Musical and the Bros. Jonas.

I have my full-time schedule now which starts Tuesday and runs til March. I start at nine every day. Two days I week I finish at 6:40pm, one day a week I finish at 7:30, and two days a week I finish at 8:15. It’s going to be a long year.

Green Carpet Rolls Out for Chungmuro Film Festival

2009-08-24T23:55:00.000+09:00

SEOUL, August 24 2009—Korea rolled out the green carpet (American translation: red carpet) for national and international stars alike as it opened the third annual Chungmuro International Film Festival. Pre-purchased tickets to the American omnibus “New York, I Love You,” were the only way in to tonight’s premier gala, which commences 241 films over the next eight days.

Eager spectators clutching tickets crowded as close as the red-shirted volunteers who guarded the carpet would let them stand, and even a mild summer evening was causing sweat stains as shoving crowds moved in buzzing continuity. Offset by Seoul’s ever-gracing mountains at nightfall, the grandiose performing arts arena Sejong Center was the prime setting for South Korea’s hospitality.

Samsung was everywhere: on the cell phones teenagers held high, trying to capture what seemed like a B-list of celebs; on the cameras journalists importantly poked through clustered shoulders and over bobbing heads; on the high rise skyscraper across the street next to the new foundation where cement trucks churned (testament to the ever-present architectural expansion in Seoul).

Following the theme, “Yesterday, Now, and Forever,” a variety of classic and new films from a multiplicity of nations will be showcased in various venues across Seoul. The lineup includes Ashton Kutcher’s new erotic thriller “Spread,” Allan Ball (American Beauty)’s “Towelhead,” China’s "Red River" by director Zhang Jiarui, South Korea’s own “White Butterfly,” and classics such as Bette Davis’ infamous “All About Eve” and Marilyn Monroe’s “Some Like it Hot.”

Tickets can be purchased online in advance at http://eng.chiffs.kr/eng

Safely on the other side of the world

2009-08-17T16:23:00.000+09:00

I had a dream that I was lying on my bed at home, comfortably propped on many pillows in the dark. The shade was up, and outside in the dark the galaxy was moving past rapidly as we approached the International Date Line. A large orange planet, or moon, hovered statically–large and looming, as if I was seeing it through my Canon’s zoom—as the shadows moved around it and as dark space flew by. I was calm in appearance, but violently scared. The moment was nigh: we were about cross that line and who knew what would happen afterward. Then Becca came in. She was scared too, but instead of discussing our fears we somehow managed to have an argument over some trivial matter. Typical. But then, she hugged me for some reason, and I pointed at the glowing orange mass outside. She sat on the edge of my bed as I continued to lie there, and we felt the darkness speed by and shuddered that ever-present hulking ball of color.

‘Til I awoke, and we had crossed the line.

[Moral derivative: Don’t fall asleep on planes while watching Star Trek and flight paths simultaneously]

There's a Gaping Field of Sunlight

2009-06-09T04:50:00.000+09:00

There’s a gaping field of sunlight that shouldn’t be there.

You’re walking along, in the shadows that always make early summer days in the city a little bit chilly. There’s sun overhead, high overhead. It makes the sky look bright; makes you wish you were in Central Park with a dog or a lover or a bike.

You’re walking, and it’s quieter here than in midtown Manhattan. Quieter than the superficial shoppers made 5th Avenue. Quieter than the cabs make Broadway as they drive endlessly and wrecklesslly. Quieter than the lights make Times Square.

There are men working on scaffolds, a few pedestrians, perhaps tourists but mostly city folk. Businessmen on cell phone breaks, women with bags and children, a few assorted hippies carrying coffee in sunglasses and boots, the corner grocer poking out for a breath of street air, a Mexican bakery employee sweeping vigorously. A few vendors with pretzels and Tshirts.

Then all of a sudden, it’s there. You can see it from the shadows across the street. But then you step across and into the sunlight.

Squinting, because this great big light shouldn’t be here.

You’re not used to it. It doesn’t belong here.

There are some people clustered at the chain link fence ahead of you, and to the side a ways, a more bustling crowd moves in and out of the subway entrance. There are big escalators leading up and down, but they don’t move fast enough, and from top looking down you can see the varied movements of the escalator riders.

Some people at the fence are taking pictures, but it seems sacrilegious. You sneak a few, casually, pretending you’re not even photographing.

And you move on. Around the long blue boards that serve as a ten-foot wall, so you can’t see inside. You can hear some construction work, and see the cranes rise from an acre-ous cavern. It’s been eight years, but you marvel at the rebuilding that’s been done, and the fact that the other buildings, shops, apartments, were not touched. And any damage they sustained has been rebuilt. Coffee shops are still selling donuts and coffees, and the souvenir grotto still hawks miniature Lady Liberties. The New York Times and the Onion still empty quickly from the stands on the corner.

You haven’t been here since it happened, in fact, you’ve never been here. That’s why it seems like ti happenend yesterday; why there should still be ash in the air and glass in the streets and firemen in the hole.

And you start to see tourists again. Mourners, weepers. You despise that they’re here, yet you’re one of them.

There’s a memorial that costs ten bucks to see. Fuck that. You can’t believe these people are even trying. You keep walking, see the bronze memorial plaque, peek through the blueboard wall peepholes at the dirt and the machinery and the hardhats. It’s so bright in there. On this side of the void, on the sidewalk, it’s shady again. You picture a sunny gap that big filled with grass, and kids play soccer, and flying kites, and picnics.

Even if you lived here, you wouldn’t get used to the sunlight.

It shouldn’t be here.

Faith in the Firehouse

2009-06-04T14:03:00.000+09:00

: Chaplains and the integration of faith in the FDNY.

By Rebecca High

NEW YORK, MAY 26, 2009—Six muscular men converge on the kitchen: two grab handfuls of peppers and begin preparing them, two start rolling sausages, one stands at the sink. The sixth grabs a cookie sheet. They are dressed alike in navy blue shorts and T-shirts; their laughter is loud and uplifting. This is Brooklyn’s Engine 257, and these firefighters have just returned from responding to an emergency call.

One of them pokes his head into the room where Father Delendick sits with a cup of coffee. “It’s the monsignor!” he says, a welcome in his voice. “Can I get you anything? Top off your coffee?” he asks.

“No, thanks, I’m fine.”

The firefighter re-joins his comrades in the kitchen, where lunch preparation is now loudly underway. Outside the door, another fireman in blue shorts and shirt throws loads of sheets into a washing machine. Sirens wail in the distance: one of the trucks is still out on call.

When asked if they ever get tired of the firehouse community, they respond quizzically, as if the thought would never have struck them otherwise.

“No, never.”

It seems that this attitude is not usual for firefighters, and firefighters comprise more of a religious community than do many churches. That is, at least, according to Monsignor John Delendick, the chaplain coordinator for the New York Fire Department. The NYFD is one of the largest, finest, and most competitive fire forces in the world, employing over 11,600 uniforms.

Delendick says that faith and character values are vital in sustaining the stress and bravery that firefighters must daily endure. “They live true Christian lives,” he said. “When push comes to shove, they always take care of each other.”

Firefighters have become somewhat cliché: the traditional helmets and sensational valor of dashing into a burning building to save lives has inspired countless Halloween costumes, childhood dreams, and elementary school visits to the firehouse.
But the cliché immortalization of firefighting carries legitimate reason. September 11, 2001 illustrated the fervor with which firefighters went above and beyond the call of duty to save lives or die trying.

Delendick attributes the heroism and passion to core values and qualities that firefighter embody. “People join [the NYFD] because they have certain values, and they have to find a place to live out their values,” he said. He cites generosity, compassion, and commitment as central to firefighters’ character and ability to continue heroic work in the face of severe stress and fear.

“We were at a fire at a bodega once and they [put out the fire] very quickly,” said Delendick. “And afterward one of the firefighters came out and said, ‘I’m glad we took care of that. They probably don’t have much insurance on that building, they probably sunk their whole life savings into that store, and now they’ll probably be open tomorrow.’ That to me is a person of compassion.”

Joseph Potasnik, a Jewish rabbi who is one of New York’s six appointed fire chaplains, agrees. I have never in my life encountered people as religious as members of FDNY,” he said. “I’ve seen people who pray who go to houses of worship religiously but when u have people who are ready to sacrifice their lives to save lives that to me is a level of commitment that one doesn’t find in too many places.”

Paul M., a firefighter at station 24 in midtown Manhattan, agrees that they bond in a family-type unity: “Everybody wants this job.,” he says. “We basically do everything together . . . in your family you try to help out each other, and it’s the same here. We all watch each others’ backs, in the home and here. That’s just the way it is.”

It’s not always easy keeping up one’s spirits through such stress, though. “I guess we all keep each other going,” says Paul. “We kid around a lot, play a lot of pranks on each other.” for firefighters, their value of life is extends throughout all aspects of their lives, and is sustained by a unity and oftentimes faith in something more cosmic, and more powerful, than mere physical closeness.

The chaplains of FDNY display the same type of closeness, and although they spend less time in the firehouse than the firefighters, they make relationship building a priority. Father Delendick says he often eats lunch with the firefighters, and has even gotten to know many families back home. “Being a chaplain, you get to be with such great people,” he said. “I can visit all the stations, and the least I can get is a cup of coffee. They’re my family.”

Rabbi Potasnick says one of the main reasons for the successful cooperation of firefighters is their willingness to integrate faith with work, and to work together no matter what individual beliefs they have.

“I sometimes say I wish some of our Jews would come to the synagogue as often as John Delendick,” he said of his Catholic colleague. “He’s a man for all faith.” He says Delendick is a regular attendee of graduations, memorials, and promotions regardless of whether he shares their faiths. It is out of the respect for each other as humans, Potasnick says, that firefighters and chaplains come together, and this bears truer testimony to their values.

“You leave your denomination at the door when you walk into a firehouse,” said Potasnick. “Not that you discard your religious identity, but you don’t let it separate you from anyone else.”

According to Potasnick, this attitude has been enhanced by Septmeber 11, when 343 firefighters died in the line of duty. Stories and memorials abound, and tears are never far from the eyes of the chaplains when they are reminded of their comrades.
“We don’t forget after a death or a tragedy,” said Potasnick. “You’re not forgotten, and it’s not just about being there in the moment.”

“Not in FDNY.”

A funny thing happened today on the Metro...

2009-05-31T15:04:00.000+09:00

En route to D.C. for dinner.

He sits down and cradles the brown bag in his lap, clutching the gold-rimmed wine glass in one hand and balancing himself with the other. He’s wearing short green bathing trunks, generic brown flip flops, and both sunglasses and a towel around his neck. His face is freckled, his hair flops over his eyes in a way reminiscent of Robert Kennedy.

The train car is loud: it fills with a large group of trying-to-be-stylish 30ish still-single women, all with too many hot pink Mardi Gras beads around their necks. It’s a bachelorette party of confusing diversity, and the bride-to-be is an obese whale in a gray dress that fails miserably at holding in her abundant breasts. She is decked in a pink boa and necklace shot glass to accompany the beads, and a be-pinned sash that advertises her celebratory status. Her glasses are the wrong fit for her fat face, and she spends a lot of time adjusting the waist of her underwear.

Robert Kennedy pours himself a cap and downs it. The car fills, and the train leaves. There are too many women in short skirts and beads standing all over the subway, swaying back and forth as the rails guide and constrict. Robert Kennedy strikes up a conversation with the ladies across the aisle, in back of the gray whale.
He’s from Mobile, Alabama. They chat for a few: the car gets louder and more boisterous. He leans over to the gray whale and fills her shot glass with red wine. The ladies cheer and scream, and make gray whale down the drink.

There is much clapping and stamping and camera flashing in the car.
Not be outdone, the unrelated man directly across from her offers his own contribution: white wine. She protests loudly, and the car gets louder. The pink ladies are obviously trying to re-live their college days through this Bachelorette party. Gray whale is getting disconcerted.

Now the party is really getting underway. The car stops and seating shifts. Now a third male needs his own moment in the spotlight. He’s the cutest so far, in brown flip flops, black colored short sleeve, and camo shorts. He says something to one of the swaying pink ladies, who squeezes into a newly available seat. He hoists himself onto the pole, and proceeds to writhe around it, grinning with Cheshire-cheese and lolling tongue. The ladies shriek in delight, and the cameras go wild.

This deserves an encore.

Continuing to work his tongue into architectural (sexy?) displays, he slowly begins to unbutton his shirt, and suddenly, he’s not so cute anymore. Gray whale is getting more and more uncomfortable. Suddenly, his shirt is off and he’s leaning over her, black hairy chest (prickly?) almost in her face. She cringes and covers her face with her hands. The car has erupted in delight.

The attempt at sensuality fails, however, and he steps down, amidst catcalls and congratulations and hearty laughter.

Mobile, Alabama has taken this opportunity to re-join his friends in front of the car, with good seats to all this entertainment. The floor around them is littered with peanut shells, and he munches lazily: it matches his subsequent drawl of admiration for the pole-dancing camouflage wearer.

Pole-dancer, however, is satisfied with his achievement. He thinks it was so successful; he is now sharing innovative ideas with his friends. Apparently, the goal of his stunt WAS fame and fortune. Gray whale is fidgeting with her underwear and complaining, embarrassed, to her girlfriends. As the bachelorettes giggle and analyze the situation, and Robert Kennedy drunkenly cracks peanut shells, and everyone else chuckles at the free entertainment, Pole Dancer says something to his friend that reveals what all humanity craves.

Something like, “That could be on YouTube.”

I'm much better at Twitter than Blogspot

2009-05-30T00:14:00.001+09:00

An update from the firehouse (because I'm losing reader interest through my lack of posting):

Red Tape is Killing our NYFD Heroes of the Faith Story

2009-05-21T13:35:00.000+09:00

Never knew there could be so much bureaucracy, even in New York City. No wonder nothing gets done. I’ve been reading my Didion book this week, and an excerpt from this evening’s selection describes today’s beat reporting perfectly (simply substitute SFPD with NYFD):

Context: Didion is doing investigative reporting stuff with druggies, and spends some time talking to a young friendly police officer about causes and cases. Suddenly, as she jots down a quote, his attitude changes.

“Just one moment,” Officer Gerrans says, and leaves the room. When he comes back he tells me that I cannot talk to him without permission from Chief Thomas Cahill.

“In the meantime,” Officer Gerrans adds, pointing at the notebook in which I have written major problems: juveniles, narcotics, “I’ll take those notes.”

The next day I apply for permission to talk to Officer Gerrans and also to Chief Cahill. A few days later a sergeant returns my call.

“We have finally received clearance from the Chief per your request,” the sergeant says, “and that is taboo.”

I wonder why it is taboo to talk to Officer Gerrans.

Officer Gerrans is involved in court cases coming to trial.

I wonder why it is taboo to talk to Chief Cahill.

The Chief has pressing police business.

I wonder if I can talk to anyone at all in the Police Department.

“No,” the sergeant says, “not at the particular moment.”

Which was my last official contact with the San Francisco Police Department.

Adventures at the Union League Club

2009-05-21T13:21:00.001+09:00

MANHATTAN, N.Y., MAY 18--I have no problem dressing up and drinking Merlot while juggling a china plate of gouda, watercress and grapes. When a beautiful British voice entertains me while I do as much at the Union League Club in New York City, it's even better. Such is the life of a journalist, and I have no problem appreciating the perks that go with minimal status and tough hours one endures as a reporter.

I was barely under way with my generously proportioned Merlot by the time Kate had downed two glasses of Chardonnay. Subsequently, she was half passed out in her chair around ten minutes into the keynote, while I was still munching some delectable Gouda.

Jonathan Sacks has a delightful voice, and delightful humor to accompany ready wit and brilliant knowledge. His Q&A was like a fireworks finale, wherein he rapidly gave a timeline and synopsis of various religious landmark dates throughout history, from John Winthrop to Lyndon Johnson and beyond. It was breathless, it was unhesitant, it was spot-on.

We mingled long; brushing shoulders and touching hands with some of the elite. It’s not often one gets to thank an important Veggie Tales figurehead for his free sponsorship of one’s attendance at such a prestigious event (Eric Metaxas).

Investigative reporters have a different way of thinking, and it is incredibly challenging and invigorating, when not absolutely discouraging because I simply am not experienced. Manny Garcia and I had some chats re: Haiti, my sr. research, and investigative reporting. He, Kate, Tim and I exchanged stories over Chinese afterward.

Why are the best times had over food or at least drink?

Only thing is, I’ll have to wear the same dress to the Harvard Club our last night :/

City Sunday

2009-05-21T12:57:00.000+09:00

When Kierkegaard opened the 10:30 service, I knew it was going to be a good day.

It’s not often that church combines intellect and theology to a challenging and inspiring point. It’s not often that I feel awake enough to get up for church either, but I was determined to go. We had a brisk walk to the subway, and I chatted with Longinow about his war-romance poster child parents.

The liturgy was unusual for me, but invigorating. The introduction referenced Kierkegaard. The choir replaced the contemporary worship team and drum set that most Baptists display, but it wasn’t the be-robed, stuffy kind of choir. They were the typical church choir: mostly older middle aged people, disproportioned in favor of the women, wearing varying styles and shades of black. We sang with them:

Be still, my soul; thy God doth undertake
To guide the future as He has the past.

The pastor was the yuppie sort, obviously brilliant, with an M.Div, a smart wife, and he reads the New Yorker. He wore a navy suit and yellow tie, and he leaned into the microphone at a slightly uncomfortable-looking angle the entire sermon. When is the last time I heard a pastor using the New Yorker as an illustration in church? It was brilliant; refreshing, accessible.

Thy hope, thy confidence, let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.

The sermon on pride in Habakkuk 2 is the second reference to Habakkuk I’ve heard since I’ve been here, and of all obscure passages in the Bible it’s totally random to have happened this way. But it convicted me of pride and inspired me to get rid of the guilt and hatred and pride that still re-surfaces about my stolen travesty. I put a lot of personal pride into those things, and I let them define me. Yeah, they came in useful, but they were too big a part of my life.

Be still, my soul; the waves and winds still know
His voice who ruled them while He dwelt below.

Afterward, it was hard to pass up California pizza kitchen with a crowd like that, but Allison Blum and a trip to Greenwich Village was about to make up for it!

A Starbucks reunion and chatter fest later, we munched piles of rippled potato chips and the most delicious pesto-chicken-tomato sandwiches I’ve ever had. It was the Grey Dog café, where among unique wall photography one painting showcased a sad-eyed dog and the motto: Coffee: morning’s best friend. The crowd was younger, more hippies: I felt at home here, these are kind I’d consort with at school. A blond Mohawk, a purple v-neck, some ripped fishnets. All these talked loudly and picked over large sandwiches, mainly downing comfortable brown mugs of cappuccinos and talking music and rebelution. The skinny waiter in the brown checks, open half way down his lithe chest, and his hat, slid throughout the room, cleaning tables and whisking away dirty plates. Good thing his black jeans were so skinny. He wouldn’t have made it through the crowd, otherwise.

Pounds heavier, we meandered across the street to the Unoppressive, non-imperialist bookstore. True, there were many liberating books on hand, such as Man Rey naked prints, various books on sexology, and the inevitable Sinatra. But as Allison pointed out, there was also the collection of C.S. Lewis, a supporter of the war and Western influence. I picked up and put down a few guides on Korea. What I wanted was Joan Didion. We walked.

Three men swing-jazzed around a café table in the park, a couple, arms slung across each others’ shoulders sauntered by, and families shuffling strollers chased dogs and children. The streets of the Village are of a 20th century quaint sort. Cobblestone streets and trees remind one of Boston’s Beacon Hill, and Korean karaoke joints and Jamaican jerk restaurants on the same strip could be Yellow Springs, Ohio.

I’d never seen public dog runs before. All of Sunday’s singles were out with their dogs for consolatory company. Nearby, men in sweatshirts and jeans stood languidly, conversing near giant chess boards, where Allison said they play for cash.

You’d think the world’s largest used bookstore would be cooler, but The Strand was too crowded and industrialized, which defeats half the appeal of used bookstores anyway. And they didn’t have what I wanted.

We did find Didion at another tiny nook, run by another impossibly skinny beatnik. He was pricing a stack of books for a seller, although since there were shelves out the front door I didn’t think he was wise to add to his collection. I overpaid almost $10 for Slouching Toward Bethlehem.

Weak coffee, and a few parks, poodle commentaries, and probably over 100 more city blocks completed our time with Allison. As we were headed back to our room, exhausted, Tim was on his way to a lonely dinner. So we joined him.

We met Lapke, a world-renown Himalayan mountain climber who owns the crap shop next to our complex. Finding a captive audience amongst the plastic Empire State Buildings and colorful, sweatshop tshirts of his enterprise, he regailed us with stories in broken English about his travels in the States, his attempts to obtain family visas, and his membership and perks in the International Lions Club Association. He hasn’t seen his family in a year.

We eventually snuck up a building to see the Empire State building up close and in live nighttime color. The city is amazing, and truly, it never seems to sleep. It’s a wonderful feeling to know you are able to go outside and buy food or talk to strangers or have a drink at 4 am.

And here we are. I miss having space to run, and a place to work out. I miss my family, and friends, but not terribly since I know this is temporary. I don’t miss the stars yet. The lights shine brightly, but there’s darkness.