Maarten and I had talked about snow hiking earlier in the year. He suggested Seoraksan for our excursion. The mountain is set within a large national park on the eastern coast of Korea. The nearest city is Sokcho, which is situated right on the coast and about three hours from Seoul by express bus.

Okay, now that the boring stuff is out of the way, let me get to business: It has been quite some time since I last wrote. I won’t get into that here, but I will mention that part of it is probably due to the amount of time I spend studying Korean. My increased studies have made me more confident in getting around the city, and it really came in handy for this adventure. Previously, I would have been terrified to hop in a cab and tell the cabbie to take me to the bus station, purchase a ticket, and go all by myself. In fact, I wouldn’t have been able to do it. I’ve progressed to the point where I can do all that and not feel completely uncomfortable. It’s a very small but important feat. The scenario I described is also exactly what I did a couple of weekends ago.

I came to work in flannel pants under jeans, and my brand new jacket. Slung over my shoulder was my trusty backpack (I bought specifically for my move to Korea). The pack wasn’t stuffed completely full, but it held the essentials: My camera, some clothes, a toothbrush, gloves, and this ridiculous hat I got in Jamsil. My feet were wrapped in the glove-like embrace of new, stylish hiking boots I bought just for this occasion. All summer, I scrabbled over Korea’s craggy peaks in old New Balance sneakers, but that wouldn’t do for Seoraksan. I also had my brand new 아이젠 (aijen) – crampons. They’re actually quite awesome. They consist of steel chains with spikes stretched between a silicon frame that stretches over your boots. Neat, huh? Very easy to put on and take off.

With my equipment in toe, I ducked out of the office as quickly as I could. I ran straight out to the main drag in front of our building, and stuck my arm out level from my body – the way one hails a cab in Korea. I got in the back seat, throwing my pack to one side and told my silver-haired driver, “동서울 터미널 가주세요.” (Dong-Seoul Terminal gajuseo – Take me to East Seoul Terminal, please) With a nod and curt “ne” (yes), the cabbie sped off from the curb, darting into the rush hour traffic in a manner that has taken me seven months to get used to.

I knew the terminal was near Gangbyeon subway station, but I didn’t know exactly where it was. As we approached the subway station, the cabbie pulled a u-turn (another stunningly dangerous feat to pull in Seoul, but as common as anything else) and said, “Should I pull over here?” I told him that’d be fine, paid my fare, and got out, scanning the kalaidescope puzzle of neon and backlit signs for 동서울 터미널. Instead, I noticed several people carrying luggage, and followed them into a large building. Bingo!

The next ten minutes were spent thus: Above the ticket windows, there were lists of cities. Thank goodness I can read Korean, because nothing was written in English. I scanned for Sokcho, my destination city – Sokcho, Sokcho… No Sokcho. What the shit? I walked around some more, trying to seem casual, like I belonged. I was the only foreigner in sight, though, and surely stuck out like a 6’2″ sore thumb.

I finally got fed up with looking for certainty, went up to a window and simply said, “Sokcho?” The pretty, but rather bored looking woman behind the woman said, “Yes, the next bus leaves at 7:00. 20,000 won, please.” I handed over two green 10,000 won notes, took my ticket, and walked off to – where? I had no clue where to go. I looked at my ticket. Okay, departure date, departure time, seat number, I understood that much. Ah ha! 승차홈 must mean something. I pulled out my trusty cellphone and punched the characters into the dictionary function. Nothing. Shit. I looked around and noticed large boards with the names of cities on them. At the top of each, 승차홈 was written. I still don’t know what that means, but I assume it has something to do with each door being assigned to specific destinations. I quickly found 승차홈 4, and sure enough, it had 속초 (Sokcho) written on it.

Fifteen minutes after I found the appropriate bus, I was seated in my spacious window seat, staring out the window as brightly lit nighttime Seoul flowed past. Soon, though, the window fogged over from the steamy breath of 30 sleepy passengers on their way to the coast. I took quick stock of my fellow passengers – not a single other foreigner. Unsurprising; why would a foreigner go to Sokcho for the weekend during the winter? I opened my book and started reading, and the time began to slip by.

Three hours later, I was at Sokcho terminal. It was quite small, simply a large, unheated room filled with seats facing one large, flat panel TV. The ticket windows were to one side, with a small market for road snacks occupying the other end. I sent Maarten a quick text: “Arrived. You here?” A minute later, I received, “Still 30 minutes away. Grab some beers or get us a room if you’re really bored!”

Although my Korean skills have improved, I didn’t feel like attempting that transaction, and settled for one I’m much more familiar with: Entering a small 슈퍼 (Syupeo – aka “super” aka “super market” aka “tiny corner market run by an old lady”), heading straight for the cooler, grabbing a couple of Cass beers, and handing over 5,000 won. Having completed my mission, I pulled my gloves from my pack, shoved them on, and walked outside, beers in hand. I was able to just about finish both by the time Maarten arrived (early, I might add).

My phone rang. Maarten. I answered, “Oi!”

“Tonerrrrrr! Where are you, man?” Maarten asked.

“I’m in front of the terminal. Are you-” I began to reply.

“Ah! I see you! Turn around!” There was Maarten, walking toward me up the sidewalk, waving.

“You won’t believe what happened. I’m so mad I’m literally shaking,” Maarten began in a rush. “I was on the bus, right, and the driver said, ‘Hey! Get up here!’ to me and the other girl with me on the bus. But he used panmal! (side note – there are levels of politeness in the Korean language. It is a major insult to use an inappropriate familiar form of speech with a stranger) So I said, ‘Ajusshi, you know you can’t speak panmal with people you don’t know, right?” Maarten told me.

Another side note: “Ajusshi” is somewhat like saying, “sir.” It really means something like “man” or even “older man,” but it is simply used as a polite way to get the attention of a man, or as a way of addressing a man you do not know. Apparently, though, this ajusshi was quite old, and a pissed off ajusshi as well.

Maarten continued his story, “So then the guy says, ‘I’m no ajusshi! I’m a grandfather! My son is 48! You come to Korea, you had better be able to speak Korea! This is our country!’ Can you believe that? I was speaking to him in Korean! How dare he speak to me that way? I was shaking with anger. I could feel it in my chest! I chuckled, and we walked off to find a hotel.

Hotels in Korea can be interesting – well, the cheap kind. As you drive along any major highway, or come to the edge of a city, or even stumble across the right (wrong) part of town, you’ll find love motels. They advertize to the folks looking for something in the by-the-hour department. We didn’t exactly find one of those, but we did manage to snag a cozy – er, smokey – room in a hotel right by the harbor. As soon as we put our stuff down, we decided to hunt down some beer.

We walked up the street, hoping to find a place with some people. We chose at random, and found ourselves in a nearly empty room. The karaoke equipment stood unused and darkened at the front of the room. A bored-looking woman in her 40s brought us seaweed and some unknown, crunchy snack. Maarten wolfed down the seaweed, and I ignored both. We drank a couple large bottles of Cass, wondering where all the patrons were. Sokcho isn’t that small a town.

Maarten asked the ajjumah where her normal Friday night clients were.

“At home, I guess,” she replied, without a trace of humor. Maarten and I gave up and left.

As we walked, we changed tactics. That is to say, we decided to adopt some tactics. This time, we’d look for a bar that seemed interesting. And that’s when we saw the sign – Dumb Bar.

It was hidden in a dark, dank alley, protruding less than a meter from the brick wall from which it hung. The name was ridiculous by our standards, but this was the land of shops like, “Fucking Beautiful,” and, “I Hate – Wine & Coffee”. What also drew us in was the weird, handcrafted, and comparatively ornate door to the joint. It seemed to be made out of crudely hammered sheet metal, with a wavy top, flame-like spikes above the jamb, and a totally unnerving awning made of the same material featuring some sort of horn. Dumb it may be, but uninteresting, we knew it was not.

We walked up narrow wooden stairs to the bar on the second floor. Surprise – it was as lifeless as our previous choice. One man – presumably, the bartender – sat at a computer monitor on the bar. He turned to look at us as we walked in, mildly surprised, greeting us with the typical “eoseosohseyo” (welcome).

The bartender (I never caught his name) paid us a lot of attention. Obviously, we were the only people in the bar, but he also shared our interests. We learned that he moved to Sokcho from Seoul with his brother to open the bar in order to fund other activities, such as hiking and scuba diving. We told him of our plans to climb Seoraksan, and he began to quiz us about our equipment.

“Do you have aizen?” These are chains one straps to one’s boots in order to gain footing on the snowy slopes. We call them crampons, where I come from. “Yes, we do.”

“You have thermals?” Yes.

“Gloves?” Of course.

“How many pairs?” Well… “One pair each.”

“Jinjja?!” (Really?!) “You need two pairs at least!”

“We think we’ll be fine.”

“No! Here. Please, take these North Face gloves. Here, try them on. No, really, I insist, you have to take these; your hands will get sweaty and wet, and you’ll need an extra pair.”

The bartender had disappeared in the back room of the bar, and returned with brand new gloves, complete with tags. After trying to get him to take them back without luck, we thanked him profusely and begged our leave. After all, it was getting late, and we had a date with dawn the next morning.

Back in our hotel, we took a close look at the gloves. They were obvious fakes, to the point of hilarity. Still, Maarten and I agreed that when we got back to Sokcho in two days, we’d give them back to the bartender. If he wasn’t there, like he said he wouldn’t be, we’d stuff them in that ridiculous door of his.

Maarten settled into the smokey bed, and I stripped down to my flannel pants, got down on my floor mat, and immediately fell asleep.

I saw a man. I saw a man I barely recognized. Sure, I had a few beers tonight, but clearly, I’m coherent. No, I saw someone I didn’t really recognize because I came here nearly a year ago, and I’ve changed.

I looked at my hair. It was sticking straight up in the center, and the sides were normal. It was pretty goofy.

I looked at my eyes. They’re still light brown. I watched until they tracked away from their counterparts in the mirror as they investigated the face before them.

Earlier, I had shown Robbie pictures from my brother’s bachelor party, and some pictures from just before I left for Korea. I looked much fatter then, and we both had a good chuckle as Robbie’s glance shot between my face and the pictures.

“Man, you were fatter. It ain’t no fuckin’ joke.”

“I know.”

Later, still in front of the mirror, I looked at my face. The same thoughts struck me then that had struck me before: You look older. Granted, I’m turning 25 next week, which isn’t old, but it’s much older than I was. And I’ve seen much more than I had before.

Essentially, I looked in the mirror, just a few minutes ago, and saw a person I barely recognized. Call it a moment of clarity, or call it a drunken halluciantion, but I saw it, and it made me think. I just hope other people get the same chance to consider themselves.

Let me see if I can quantify, in broad strokes, the range and frequency of emotions that an expat may experience.

33% of the time is ecstasy. Ecstasy is defined by a simple thought, a phrase that flashes through the minds of many of the expats I’ve met here: Oh my God, I live in Korea. It looks ridiculous to me even now; trust me, it is often followed by, (especially after one has been here for some time) “Oh come on.” It’s the knowledge that something new is very close by, or maybe even happening right now. This becomes less frequent as time passes, but even after 9 months, I still feel it. Just the other day, I was walking to my favorite watering hole, and glanced up at the almost comical profusion of neon lining the urban canyon walls around me, and I had that same thought… Followed closely by the second.

66% is some kind of average between being content, and being apathetic. This occurs just after the so-called “honeymoon phase” has passed, and the expat becomes adjusted and/or comfortable in their new life. It can be anything between gray as ash and hazily colorful.

33% is the choking depression that follows certain realizations or experiences. I’m thinking mainly of the realizations that one makes in my position: Perhaps you’ve sacrificed a relationship, given up on a career, or you’re simply homesick. Regardless of the reason, you feel, hear, think, taste something that brings that sacrifice back into full sensory focus, shattering the ecstasy or apathy. The effect is akin to a punch to the junk, or more appropriately, a slap to the face. Actually, I think I prefer the ice water metaphor – Once, I jumped into the Snake River in Washington in March. I was hit by the freight train that is the cold of a winter river, completely losing my breath and ability to think. That’s exactly what happens when you hit this 33% zone.

Part of the appeal of leaving one’s country, and abandoning some extremely tough things to abandon is the journey through the process of figuring out how to deal with it. Trying not to go to excess in those periods of ecstasy, illuminating the hazy apathy, and regaining one’s breath when the realization that you’ve lost things you love strikes.

I have been thinking about drinking and why I do it nowadays. At first, my gut’s reaction was to say it’s because I live in a country in which I barely know the language, far from my friends, subjecting myself to loads of change. Now, though, I think that’s only part of it.

These days, I’m fairly well adjusted. I can speak, read, and understand Korean well enough to go do whatever I need to do, if pressed. I’m not afraid to go outside of my normal routine. So why do I still booze so much more frequently than before I arrived here? Is it because I’m no longer in school and don’t have to worry about work after work? Possibly, but as I read Obama’s words, I realized what it was.

Remember the Stalinist pig and the reformist bitch? They remind me of the academicians I was surrounded by in graduate school. I remember the academic arguments that, prior to joining the ranks of academia, I thought were so admirable. Those of you who know me, know I formed a strong aversion to the vocabulary, attitudes, and mores of the academy. I would do little things to, I don’t know, I guess rebel against academic norms. I’m not saying I’m proud of acting a little foolish, I’m just exploring my observations.

Graduate school is now about 9 months behind me. I’ve left the country – the continent! – and have a 9-5, so to speak, yet I drink more now than ever. Why the booze? I still feel that aversion. I am proud of my academic accomplishments, I recognize that I have some skill derived from and useful because of school, but whenever I feel like something is expected of me, or that I should behave a certain way, I feel the tug from the old neighborhood watering hole. On Fridays, I tell my coworker, Julie, “My beerometer’s pegged,” and motion with my arm like it’s the needle of a gauge, quivering as it strains to show the true desire I have for a drink. She laughs, and I’m not sure she fully understands because her English, while good, is not perfect by any stretch of the imagination.

Yesterday at dinner, I said, “I’m not going to drink on weeknights this week. Well, not counting Monday night, since it was a holiday. And not counting Friday, because that’s the weekend, and I gotta drink at our R&D party.” Well, I’m breaking that little promise as soon as I finish writing this. I had no real desire to hit the sauce until I read “Stalinist pig,” and “reformist bitch.”

Shit. Leave your angry ideologies at the door! They weren’t even talking to me, nor did I have to deal with them, but I still know their type. Time for a fuckin’ drink, man.

p.s., If anyone still even reads this, especially my grad school friends, please don’t take offense. I think you’ve all heard me say this before, or at least guessed it, but this doesn’t mean I hate or look down on any of you; I simply don’t care to be a part of that social group in an exclusive (or at least close) sense anymore. Love you all bunches and bunches.

I am filled with hope now, when there was only pessimism and cynicism. I am filled with pride for my country for the first time in my adult life. I feel vindicated for the 8 years we have had to endure under the tyrannical rule of a villain.

I know that America can still be great. I knew it could be great before, but even with John Kerry, the feeling was hedged by doubt. There is no doubt with Barack Obama. America will be great under his leadership. I can say that because he will be a leader. He will not be a dictator, attempting to usurp our rightful, democratic power as the people of a great nation. He will help us down the path America must follow; through war, pestilence, and poverty. He knows he can try to help us make the right decisions, but he will not try to make them for us. He will unite not just the United States of America, but the world.

The government of Kenya declared today, November 4th, a holiday. I received text messages from my Dutch, Canadian, and Korean friends here in Seoul congratulating me on receiving such a man as my next President. I heard the cooking ajumahs at work excitedly saying, “Obama! Obama!” I saw millions of other young people declaring their support for a great man – Barack Hussein Obama – on Facebook.

I’m not afraid or ashamed to say our next President’s new name – I’m proud. I am proud because that one is a beacon of hope. He is the face, the image, the essence of a new direction for America and the world.

I feel like a giant weight has been lifted off of my chest, and that not even the economy can get me down. We have a new great American ready to lead us.

May the Universe, Buddha, Yahweh, Allah, God, or simply our fellow citizens bless us, President Elect Barack Hussein Obama II, and the United States of America!

I saw this on someone’s Facebook page, and started to do it without the intention of actually writing anything down. I typically find these things to be silly little exercises that serve no other purpose than to postpone boredom. However, as I listened to the songs that came up, I felt compelled to recount little vignettes that sprang up from each track.

1. Opening Credits: Gronlandic Edit – Of Montreal

A good start! I loved Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer and listened to it on more than one road trip. It has generally good connotations. This song in particular, though, fails to elicit anything past a vague emotional response.

2. Waking Up: Two Halves – My Morning Jacket

Meh. Too bad I really didn’t like this album. What does it make me feel? Nothing. Well, that’s not true. I felt pretty pissed off when MMJ released this festering, stinking pile of shit called “Evil Urges.” I haven’t been so disappointed by a new album by anyone in quite some time.

3. Falling in Love: Three Hopeful Thoughts – Rilo Kiley

This song certainly doesn’t make me think of falling in love. Plenty of other songs in my library do. I really enjoy this album, but this song is one of my least favorite tracks from the disc.

4. Fight Song: A Thread Cut With A Carving Knife – Stars

Okay, sure, it’s my “fight song.” But not in the university-fight-song sense. That would be silly. However, if we’re talking boy-girl emotional fight, perhaps with screaming, I’d say okay. This song is about people so fucked-up-sad that they want to die, but can’t bring themselves to commit suicide. Oh yeah, that reminds me: The only way this would be appropriate for me would be if it only applied to when I was 18 or 19. I think that’s the only time I’ve been such a silly shit, pining for women that either didn’t want me, I couldn’t bring myself to ask for, or women I couldn’t quit. Ugh.

5. Breaking Up: Dreamin’ Man – Neil Young

This one’s slightly better, I suppose. At least it has a melancholy quality about it. Neil Young, especially Harvest Moon, reminds me of my childhood and my mother. It does not remind me of breaking up. Very little music reminds me of breaking up. When I break up with someone, it is for one of two reasons: One – I do not want to be with that person anymore because our relationship is shit. In that case, I would continue listening to my music with the same relish as usual; perhaps with more, but not to the point of emotional attachment. Two: I do want to break up with someone, but harbor no ill will toward her or the relationship, but find it necessary to break up. In this case, my music situation is the same. Perhaps I might avoid songs that remind me of the good thing that has passed, but it is more likely that I simply continue my life.

6. Prom: Undertow – Stars

Whoa! Seriously? Two Stars songs isn’t strange, but two from the same short EP is. It’s also interesting that these two songs by Stars came up considering how much I’ve listened to them here in Korea. Prom was a long time ago, and it was much less than magical. Undertow is a pretty song. Prom, for me, was with a very nice girl who happened to be Mormon, and thusly taken home before 1am (or something like that. I can’t remember the exact time, but I remember it being “early”). When I took her home, her parents immediately turned on the floodlights to preempt any smoochery. I immediately went to a party where I killed a bottle of rum, made out with my best female friend, and tried to hook up with a 21 year old girl (with hilarious lack of success).

7. Life: Plenty is Never Enough – Tenement Halls

This is a song I listened to every few minutes for a month or two when I was in college. I guess it makes sense, since I do that a lot with music. This song reminds me of the snow of Pullman during a time when I was single and happy (as opposed to single and unhappy, in a relationship and unhappy, or in a relationship and happy). I remember running in the cold on hard ice, getting drunk with Eric on $2 micro night, and trying to regain my self confidence.

8. Mental Breakdown: Irish Goodbye – Maria Taylor

Ah ha. Well, this merely proves how ridiculous this concept is. This song makes me kind of want to party a little bit. Either that, or it reminds me of a trip I took to California in grad school. Probably both, because all I did there was have fun with my best friends. We did a lot of good evil, if you know what I mean, and I will remember that trip as one of two outrageous road trips that didn’t end in failure and misery. Although I did see a man get beaten in the streets of Oakland with a baseball bat and was subsequently chased by his attackers. Remind me not to go back there.

9. Driving: Stacked Crooked – The New Pornographers

The New Pornos, regardless of the song (as long as it comes from The Electric Version or Twin Cinema), remind me of my senior year of college, a generally happy time. I believe this particular track takes me back to when I lived in a house with my then-girlfriend’s friend, Ashley. It was a beautiful summer. The sunsets seen from our front porch were painted in spectacular golds, reds, and purples; the colors only seen in great expanses in places like Pullman, with wide-open fields and dusty air.

10. Flashback: Fire Island, AK

Sigh. This really isn’t working. If it were to be my choice for this song, I would chose the one most apt to push me into a near-lucid flashback: Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels), by Arcade Fire. In fact, fuck it, I’m going to write about that, not this song (although I really do enjoy it). Neighborhood #1 affects me like few songs do. My brother gave me Funeral well before I went to France when I was in college, but I didn’t like the album until I went to Paris and Bordeaux. I listened to the album almost non-stop. For some reason, this song is the song that really takes me back there. It is very difficult to describe, but I think it’s the epic nature of the song and of my experience in France that somehow melded together to form an intense trigger for memory. I’d write more about it, but I already wrote a short story about some of my time in France. That was hard enough.

11. Getting Back Together: So Let Go – The Good Life

HA! Are you kidding me, iTunes/Fate/Gods of Music? You had me “So Let Go” for my “getting back together” song? Oh, Irony, you are a tricky bitch. It’s probably somewhat obvious from the song title, but this song is about letting go – in the metaphorical, relationship-oriented fashion. There’s no good story behind this song. I merely enjoy it. It helps when I’m sad, but it came to me at a particularly happy time in my life, and I was able to appreciate it for what it is: a really good song. I don’t have any emotional attachment to it, and I’m glad, because I feel like this would only attach itself to some horrific breakup, and the song would then be ruined forever.

12. Wedding : Chicken Pox – I’m From Barcelona

Uh oh. This one is lame. Yeah, I like the song all right. It reminds me of grad school. It was a pretty good time. Other than that, nothing to report. I haven’t listened to this track in a while, but I can safely say nothing is attached to it. I was temped to skip it, but didn’t, obviously. You can’t become emotionally attached to every song.

13. Birth of a Child: Under the Blacklight – Rilo Kiley

F’reals? Okay, here’s what I see in this one: My kid has just been born. For some reason, the birth is rave-themed. Everyone is waving glowsticks and getting into the hospital’s drugs. The baby doesn’t cry, he (or she) merely waves his (or her) hands like one of those douchebag ravers. That reminds me! Once, Tyler, Eric, and I decided to try to go to a Mariner’s game. After stopping at a wholesale wine seller to pick up some fun for the game, we walked toward Safeco Field. The stadium is in the industrialized section of Seattle, and there are a number of warehouses that have been converted in to music venues and the occasional rave hotspot. Outside of one such establishment, we past a pack of the weirdos, all standing in line for something. Tyler, being the hilarious turd that he is, walked up to some black-clad fellows, started waving his hands like a raver, yelling, “Light show?! Light show?! Light show?!” into their faces. I was laughing much too hard to register their reactions.

14. Final Battle: Genocide – The Offspring

Whoa! An appropriate choice by The Fates! I mean, kinda. It’s off of The Offspring’s Smash, and it’s called “Genocide.” I guess that’s pretty appropriate for a final battle. This entire album reminds me of junior high. I was in my wannabe punk phase (which was more pitiful than most wannabe punks, because I didn’t try very hard, obviously). I’ll be honest, here. When I listen to this shit, I don’t feel bad about my past, because I was having fun, but I was having fun mostly, well, alone. I would blast this stuff in my room and either surf the Internet via dialup, or I would read or daydream. By myself. Kind of sad, but it’s the truth. Just picture a younger, scrawnier Tony doing that in his off-time, fantasizing about being cooler, kissing girls he liked, or something else fairly juvenile.

15. End Credits: Love Fool – The Cardigans

Let this one be a testament to the honesty of this post. Okay, okay, the only reason this is included is because I fully recognize that after reading 15 explanations of songs that only mean something to me, very few people will actually finish this post (I bet if anyone does beyond my parents, it will be Elizabeth K. Weaver). The entire reason I have this song is – wait, wait. There are two reasons. The first (and primary) reason is seventh grade. I believe that’s when the movie Romeo + Juliet came out. Yeah, I saw it. I was impressed with the visuals, but absofuckin’lutely hated Baz Luhrmann. Therefore, I had to keep the fact that I enjoyed the movie in the closet. Well, that and it would have been dangerous for a 12 or 13 year old boy to say he liked that movie. In any case, that song made me want to love someone well before I understood what love was. The twangy, poppy guitar, catchy beat, subject matter, and Nina Persson’s ethereal voice affected me in a nice, immature way. Regardless of immaturity, the feeling stuck. But most importantly, it’s also attached to the innocence of that time, so when I listen to it I can go back to being a pre-teen/early teen which, despite my self-deprecating commentary, was a decent time (lack of worries, complex relationships, all of that).

So, what began as a way to prove to myself that little surveys like this are still ridiculous and deserve to be confined to LiveJournal (or some such nonsense) has been a (hopefully, slightly funny) recap of disjointed portions of my life. Thanks for tuning in, and I’ll write something about Korea the next time I don’t drink wine, gin, beer, and a shit-ton of soju in one night and blast my weekend straight to blackout hell.

The class, though, is somewhat of a joke. The curriculum is okay, I guess, but they start us out in high form. That’s really nice if you are a business person or something, but I don’t need high form for much. I want to talk to my friends and other people my age. “Yo” form is much more appropriate. Furthermore, since the class only meets 3 hours a week (I am unable to take the 5 day per week class because of time constraints), it will take a full six months to finish Level 1. That was unacceptable.

I voiced my concerns about my class at lunch the other day, and Mark suggested that Gloria be my private tutor. She actually accepted, and at first said that payment would not be necessary. I nipped that idea in the bud, though, because not only is it unfair not to pay her, I also need payment to sort of legitimize my education. That way, I’ll feel like I’m paying for something, so I had damned well better get my money’s worth. Mark also suggested that if I fail to complete my homework, I still must pay for the session, but Gloria should not teach me on that evening. I think that’s a fantastic motivator, so that will be the arrangement. I think we’ll start week after next, three days per week. In the meantime, I’m going to continue teaching myself from my 가나다 book.

I’ve been texting my Korean friends mostly in Korean lately, which has been helping quite a bit. I really enjoy it, actually. Hopefully in a year I’ll be conversational. Maybe even in 8 months. I’ll keep my meager readership posted.

I’ve also started going to the Happy Suwon Language Club with Ji and Se-jun. It’s really fun! We have dinner in Suwon (the commute is kind of a drag, but I think it’s worth it), then beers afterward. During dinner, we have “Korean time,” where we must only speak Korean, followed by “English time.” It will be so rewarding as my Korean skill grows and I’m able to converse with my new friends. Speaking of the HSLC, here are a couple of pictures:

I snapped this as I blasted across the Han River on Line 2 of the Seoul Metro.

This is the Happy Suwon Language Club. The joker is my good buddy, Se-jun.

Other updates:

With every day that passes, I grow more comfortable in my decision to tell everyone back home that I don’t intend to go back to America anytime soon. With the economy the way it is, I feel even better about it. Granted, the Korean won has devalued like crazy, but I would be hard-pressed to find a better arrangement anywhere else in the world. Even more importantly, I still love my job. The stack of books I’ve written displayed on my shelf grows almost monthly.

Unfortunately, the economy also spells doom for my travel plans. Japan will have to wait. The yen has strengthened as the won has weakened – substantially. I would lose hundreds if not more than a thousand dollars in the conversion alone, if I were to go to Japan. So, either I’m staying in Korea for Christmas, or I’m going to go somewhere cheaper, like the Philippines or Thailand.

I’m not out of things to say, but I’m going to stop writing. Some things are best left unsaid, and this is not an interesting story; merely an uninteresting update. To my fellow Americans: I miss you. Oh dear, I think I hear an angry, soju-drunk man outside… Time to go investigate…

“Janet bought ten tickets to an opera or something. Do you like that kind of stuff?” I explained that, having been educated in a private Montessori school, I was not unfamiliar with opera, and would enjoy attending one. He showed me one of the tickets, and I realized it was not an opera at all, but a performance by the Korea W Philharmonic Orchestra (essentially pronounced in Korean as, “Ko-ri-ah W Pil-ha-mon-eek Oh-ke-su-tu-ra”). Mark told me I’d get a ticket for sure if less than ten wanted them, but if more than that were interested, we’d have to raffle them off.

By Friday, there was enough interest that we had to have a raffle after our monthly meeting. Furthermore, three of the tickets were for the VIP section, and we had to choose who would receive those as well. To make a long, boring story shorter, I ended up being the recipient of one of the VIP tickets. We decided that we would go to a Canadian Thanksgiving party at Maria’s, then head out together to the concert hall.

I was excited to wear my suit – and to see if it still fits. So many people have told me that I look skinnier since I moved to Korea, but I haven’t lost weight. I still weigh about 80kg, but I have somehow lost fat. My face looks thinner, the pants I brought from America don’t fit well, and I had to add a hole to my belt. Regardless, I was eager to don the suit, bought a short 11 (whoa… 11? I guess that’s not so short…) months ago. Indeed, the pants are too loose, but I still think I pulled it off.

I showed up to the Thanksgiving dinner in my finest, but immediately loosened the tie and collar as I downed as much delicious North American cuisine and wine as I could. The soiree was a blast, but soon the time came to leave for the concert.

Our cabbie was spectacular, but with that in mind, a segue/explanation of Korean cabs: Cabs are invariably driven by ajusshis. An ajusshi is simply a middle-aged-or-older man. They are often grouchy, undoubtedly skilled but intense drivers, and unlikely to speak English well if at all. Occasionally, they will “treat” foreigners (as we are called) to rides around half of Seoul before delivering them to their destinations. Can you imagine why they might do that? Indeed. Do not fall asleep in a cab if you don’t want to pay an exorbitant fee upon arrival at your destination.

In any event, back to our cabbie. I, along with Kelly and Jadwega, got into the car and handed the ajusshi one of our tickets. He scanned it, exclaimed comprehension, and started to drive off, but swiftly turned and said, “What time?” I figured he meant “What time does your event start,” so I told him, “8:00!” He nodded grimly, said, “Okay,” downshifted, and floored it. He deftly maneuvered his Hyundai Sonata through the legendary Seoul traffic, and delivered us in record time. We actually arrived 10-15 minutes earlier than our comrades, who actually got underway before us. Apparently, their cabbie was of the caliber I described in my segue.

Together and at the concert hall at last, we found Jay, one of the Korean teachers from work. He looked at our tickets, and told everyone where to go. Maria, Abby, and I, however, were in a spot of trouble. Apparently, VIP tickeholders needed to arrive 30 minutes early to be seated. Jay assured us that he could get things rolling, which was true. We were able to get tickets, but not together. That would just not do – we’re all far too social for that nonsense. The ticket agent offered to downgrade our seats, though, so give us some next to each other. We took that option in the interest of camaraderie.

The orchestra looked spectacular, as did the hall. The performance was also comfortingly familiar to anyone who had been to one before. The orchestral rituals were the same, as was the attire and general aesthetic. However, this was a special performance honoring the Republic of Korea’s 60th anniversary! As such, some of the songs featured traditional instruments. Used during the show was a taepyeongso, an oboe-like instrument, and a gayageum, a spectacular stringed instrument. Both pieces were my first experiences with traditional Korean instruments, and I was very impressed.

While I thoroughly enjoyed the exposure to Korean tradition, what really caught my attention was a song called (I think), “Wine and Manner.” The soprano singer began to sing this song, and it sounded more jovial than the rest, and it was. I picked up two words in her song as soon as I heard them, for they made me start – makgeolli and mekju. The former is my favorite alcoholic beverage, a sort of sweet/tart rice wine. The latter is the Korean word for beer (you likely know my attitudes toward that particular beverage). It was fairly clear by the way the singer shook her finger that she was chiding over-drinkers, and a later conversation with Jay confirmed my assumption. Indeed, the song was satirizing the Korean drinking culture of soju binges and chants of “one shot!” (this call means one must finish whatever drink they’re holding in one shot – even if it’s a full mug of beer)

I’m going to back-track here for a moment, but I needed to save this for last because it’s embarrassing. Likely, those few who read this will never get this far, but in the sake of honesty and posterity, I must record it. I said the cultural infusion from the traditiona instruments caught my eye most sharply – but that is a half truth. In normal conversation, yes, that is what I say, and it is almost the case. However, what, or I should say who caught my eye the most was our hostess of the evening – a former Miss Korea – Lee Ha-nui. All I can say is that she was the most captivating Korean woman I’ve seen yet (yes, much more beautiful than Lee Hyo-ri). She, too, is a gayageum player, as well as a Seoul National University student and graduate student.

I immediately professed my undying love for Miss Lee and desire to propose marriage (not to her, but to Maria). Of course, during intermission, we saw her a few feet away. I couldn’t help but stroll casually past to get a good look – stunning, obviously – only to grow red-faced and hurry back to my colleagues. Maria, though, thought it would be a good idea to go tell her that there was a poor, young, foreign man pining for her across the hall. Luckily, Maria’s plan was thwarted by the end-of-intermission bell. Oh well. It was not meant to be.