The (Not So) Temple Tale.

So, I finally did it. The thing that every fellow foreigner has been ranting and raving about since I set foot on this peninsula: a temple stay.

Let me just preface it by saying that it was NOTHING like I expected, and, from the stories of others who have done it (as well as the itinerary itself), nothing like how it was supposed to be.

In the event that you've never slept in a Buddhist temple, let's start by exploring all of the things on the list of "supposed-to-be"s, shall we?

How it was supposed to be:

I'm told that it's supposed to be a very soul-calming and mind-opening experience. (Despite the fact that I'm definitely 100% Christian, I couldn't turn down the opportunity to have my soul calmed and mind opened, especially while residing in a place that is anything but.) Upon my arrival, I was supposed to be whisked into a room where I would learn all about Buddhism and temple protocols, and then made to change out of my regular-people clothes and into the baggy, gray, MC Hammer pants and Karate Kid shirt and belt similar to what the monks were wearing. (No one ever mentioned anything about having to shave my head, thankfully.) After having changed clothes, explored the temple grounds and getting settled into our women-only shared room, I was then supposed to have dinner with a monk and learn more about the Buddhist faith, various meditation techniques and exactly the things that temple life entails. I was also supposed to use this time to ask questions, which of course I had. After having my mind simultaneously calmed and blown via new information (I'm an info. addict, and I am NOT ashamed! Ha!) meditation, and temple tea, I was supposed to shower and retire to my pallet on the floor of my shared room (being extra careful not to kill so much as a mosquito, as Buddhists do not kill anything) and allow my newly-calmed mind to drift off into sleep in preparation for my 4 a.m. wake-up call. (This was all supposed to happen by 7p.m., in case you're curious.) After having awakened (That phrase was a bit of a challenge. You never realize how "use it or lose it" complex grammar is until you teach ESL!) before the sun, I was supposed to get lost in meditation and melody of the special drums being played by the monks. After being taken to yet another level of calmness, I was supposed to sip tea while discussing ways for world peace (Okay, so maybe that part was just something that I just imagined would happen, but you never know!). At around 6 a.m., I was supposed to have breakfast (vegetarian, bien sur) and meditate enough to be in complete harmony with the universe, drink some more temple tea and then prepare for my departure from the temple in an eternal state of bliss.

Now if you think for una segunda that even a watered-down version of the above story actually materialized, then I gotta bridge to sell you in Brooklyn. No, really...


How it was:

Where do I even begin? When we arrived, we were ushered to our shared, "women only" sleeping quarters, and allowed to explore the temple grounds. Never were we given our "Hammer time" pants nor our "Grasshopper/Wax on, wax off" shirts, which was a little disappointing for me. (Hey, I was really trying to get into the whole enlightened-minded-people-wear-the-same-clothes-as-the monks thing. Plus there was nothing calming about my multi-colored floral print dress.) While waiting for dinner, I hiked through the woods in said dress (And not a single mosquito bite! Amazing..) and had a 5 second conversation with a monk that we something like this:
Monk: "Hi. Where.are.you.from?"
Me, the soon-to-be-enlightened-chick-in-the-corner: "Oh, hi. I'm from the USA."
Monk: Smiles. "Very good. Nice to meet you."
Me: "Thank you. You, too."
Monk walks away.

Little did I know at the time, but, aside from a few orders given to me in Korean from the one female monk that I encountered (The next morning, she would also hand me a colorful bead bracelet with a glow-in-the-dark swastika in the middle. Apparently, Hitler stole it from the Buddhists. Who knew??) that would be the extent of my conversation with them. So I made small talk with the other foreigners who were also apart of the group to attempt to kill time. Dinner came and went sans fanfare, and again, there was more talking to foreigners. (I've never actually met anyone from Alaska. How's life up there? Cold? Is ice fishing really as boring as it looks? Do you make daily liquor runs to Russia?) Not exactly enlightening conversation. There was tea, but in light of the fact that it was like 95 degrees outside, I passed on that, too. Sadly, the most stimulation that I derived from "dinner with the monks" (sitting BEHIND us and eating in silence) was discovering that Alaska gets 20 consecutive hours of sunlight in the summer, and the slight sense of anxiety that I experienced while trying to eat every single thing that I had placed on my plate after being told that the monks are very serious about not wasting even a tiny morsel of food. (In the same breath I was also told that at some temples it is also customary to drink your dishwater as a sign of  humbleness and harmony with the universe. Here's the part where I am actually happy about my unconventional temple stay experience.) The buck stopped there.

So, rather than meditating myself to sleep after dinner, we instead left the grounds to go to an expo of sorts, which was fine, because it was expected. What I didn't expect was watching our group leaders get inebriated while at said expo. (We were staying in a temple for goodness sakes! Really??) Turns out this was merely a preview of what was to come. Some other things that I didn't expect to happen:

-When we arrived back at the temple, I hopped off the shuttle and into a cloud of cigarette smoke. Apparently, our bus driver had decided that the entrance to the temple was an ideal spot to light up.

-After navigating through the nicotine, I entered the "women only" room (under temple rules, men were supposed to be prohibited) only to find that the men who had helped organize the trip were literally setting up mini tables for an impromptu makalee (Korean rice wine) party and chopping up watermelon (On our floor. In the woods. At night. In 95 degree weather. On the floor. Where around 15 women had to sleep and NOT kill forest-dwelling creatures.) and using super sticky/sweet rice cake as chasers. Completely incredulous, I glanced across the table to see our bus driver taking shots!? What the??? This "party" lasted well into the night, and eventually dwindled down to ONLY the very men who had initiated it, as the rest of us were exhausted. (I later found out that some older women had even taken their pallets outside in an attempt to get some sleep. Of course they would have never challenged the men. See "Hierarchies" story.)

-After we finally figured out a way to coax the men out of our room, the younger women trip organizers' extremely loud Korean chatter even later into the night and 1st thing in the morning. Read: No sleep.

-After having gotten intoxicated while at the expo, and staying up til the wee hours of the morning chatting, the ability of our group leader to change our wake-up time, and have it extended by 2.5 hours (which was only so that we could have breakfast if we chose to). While it may have seemed like a good idea at the time, it also meant no monk music nor meditating.

-Open, communal showers (No, I still haven't jumped on that bandwagon yet, as I receive enough staring from Koreans with my clothes on, thank you.), which involved a lady leaving the shower area but coming back to peek through the door at me, and then having a different lady(?) sit next to me the following morning and rub the skin on my arm and knee in amazement.  (No, I hadn't shaved the previous night.)

-Cursing at the temple. Need I say more?

-Upon our return to the city, group leaders wanting to have dinner and drinks (with an emphasis on drinkS) after our long weekend of bus trekking, prolonged sun exposure ("sweaty" doesn't even begin to describe it), and lack of sleep. On a Sunday evening. (See: "A Short Story About Time")

After all of this hoopla, I actually began toying with the idea of drinking dish water. Would it really have been THAT bad?? I mean, I only used like 3 dishes anyway...






Oh, and did I mention that the main group-leader lady who stayed up late chatting and drinking, and who conveniently got all of the temple rules changed to suit her desires is--by her own admission-- a devout Buddhist??

A Short Story About Time...

It's not really yours. At least not in Korea.


Your employer can arrange various dinners, marathon drinking sessions, karaoke gatherings, and team trips mere minutes before you're scheduled to leave work, and you're expected to attend them all. What's that you say? You had "plans"??? Bah! 

This cultural norm also trickles down into social situations. Korean friends (especially if they're older than you--remember heirarchies?) think nothing of scheduling activities in your free time prior to finding out if you're actually "free."

And of course, everyone's always shocked when you are not actually available as you were "planned" to be.


                                                                     The End.

The Tale of the Longest Bus Ride EVER...

Those who are close to me would call it inevitable, while I will just settle for the term "mind-blowing."

So I usually find myself largely ignoring old Korean men, as their stoic and perpetually angry expressions are extremely off-putting, if not completely intimidating altogether. Generally speaking, they are just not very happy/active individuals.. (Although there was that one time, when, after having slept for a mere 3 hours before having to work at an event outdoors, I decided to take a quick nap whilst walking through the park--Hey, it's called multi-tasking!--and upon opening my eyes I saw an old Korean male riding a UNICYCLE off in the distance. (How he was able to obtain a real-life, uber-fun unicycle in a country where the general populous doesn't have time to enjoy life I shall never know.)  I nearly tripped over my own two feet out of shock and utter confusion. And then I laughed hysterically (maybe it was the extreme fatigue??) until he disappeared out of the park. Priceless.) That being said, they usually don't bother me, aside from the routine stares that I get from either being A) non-Korean, B) not white, or C) all of the above. So everybody's happy! Or not...

I don't know whether or not the price of tea in China has changed (Ha! Such a stupid phrase..But alas, I love it. Sigh.), but for some reason these "adjosshis" (as old Korean men are referred to here) have suddenly taken an extreme interest in my existence??

 So I'm on one of the last buses coming back to my area on a week-night. As I am so entranced by my music (so as to remain awake and to keep my mind off the length of the bus ride), I do not notice the fact that all the people have gotten off, and I am the only passenger left until the bus abruptly stops and I hear the bus driver (also an adjosshi) yell something to me. So I look around, apologize, and quickly exit the bus VERY confused, as this bus was supposed to take me to my final destination, but whatever. So upon exiting the bus and seeing legions of Korean teenage boys dressed in school uniforms (it had to be after 10:30 at this point), I realized that I was at a bus station of some sort. Luckily for me, other buses were departing, so all that I had to do was chase the next one (Literally, as buses do not stop unless they are flagged down and chased. Silly people who actually WANT to ride buses!) and hop on. As it was at it's point of origin, it was refreshingly empty, and I resumed listening to my music and getting mentally prepared to the long ride ahead. After remaining relatively empty, a few stops later a group of people boarded. Anticipating the need for seats, I moved my bag into my lap from the seat next to me. Whhhhyy 'o whhhyyyy did I do that??? A few seconds later, out of the corner of my eye I observed an old man who was walking down the aisle take notice of me, and then sprint toward the seat next to me. SO I just turned up my music and proceeded to ignore his existence, as is common. (Again, Koreans=not bubbly individuals.) Imagine my surprise when he began to scoot closer and closer to me. I instinctively moved closer and closer to the window each time, until there was no room left and I realized that whatever was happening was no coincidence. So as I continued to ignore him, he starts poking me in my arm/side to get my attention. Annoyed at being poked, I look up to see him smiling (scary, given that they.don't.smile.ever. I'm pretty sure that he even had a gold tooth in the back, too!?) and pointing to his business card, which has magically appeared in his hands. I smile politely and take the card (using TWO hands of course, so as not to offend), and then nod slightly to show respect. After pretending to read/take interest in what it says (actually it was mostly written in English?? Something about being a wedding planner? Huh???), I start to put the card in my bag. He then, grabs my hand and attempts to speak English to me using a series of random verbs and pantomiming. Since I somehow understand him, I nod in agreement. He then resorts to Korean to ask me about going on a date with him, eating, drinking ("a little"--his exact words--which is also a complete lie. After attending a festival a while back, I noticed that the pamphlet said, "You think you drink like fish?? Well, Korean drink like WHALE!!" No arguing that!), and seeing a movie (I think?? maybe I'm getting him confused with another one from yet another bus...). (Side note: these are the same people who are known to openly insult white men who are even walking with Korean women. Koreans will tell you that they are "one race," and they are doing everything in their power--especially the old men--to main that distinction! Keep that in mind.) It's then that I realize his motives, and pretend not to have understood any of his requests. I smile politely and turn back around to face the window. I then feel him vigorously patting the left area of my chest (The fact that I'm a girl makes it a wee bit more than that.) with one hand and touching my knee with the other. Mortified, I turn around and push his hand away. "What are you doing? Don't do that" I tell him, but he is so excited to talk that after stopping, he resumes, only this timely slower, and even more child-like. He's now telling me that he is happy to meet me and that he works with people who are getting married. Again, trying not to be rude, I tell him, in Korean, "don't do that" and wave his hand away. I look around the bus and there are only a few, nearly life-less bodies scattered around, all collectively engulfed in their perpetual tiredness. (Not that they would've cared anyway. He's a king an old man, he gets do do whatever he so chooses, be it "right" or "wrong.") At this point I'm annoyed AND exhausted, so I simply pretend not to understand that he's telling (Asking? Yeah right!) me to call him at that moment so that he can have my number, (of course I do no such thing) and that he will be waiting for my call the next day for our "date." Sir, as far as I'm concerned, we've already had one, which ended with you making it all the way to second base, thank you very little!!! Thanking GOD that my stop is finally approaching, I go to push the button and realize that he's waving good-bye. Nice. After nearly an hour on this bus from one part of the city to the next, it's revealed that he will also be getting off at my stop. Perfect! Thinking quickly, I hang back and wait for him to get off the bus, all the while making phone gestures with his hands. "Call!" he demands.

And yet again, no tip.



(I sprint to my apartment, relieved that I'm off that bus and away from the old Korean man with the gold molar who will be awaiting my call the next day. I chuckle at my luck, not realizing that two not dissimilar situations were about to happen to me again on two different buses a mere two days later...Yiiiiiikkees...)

The quest for "High Nose, Big Eye, Small Face"

Koreans are surprisingly vain; there's no question about it. More so than Americans (and I didn't think it could get any worse than America...) Given their reputation of having one of the best education systems in the world (no comment!!), I naturally assumed that the focal point of their lives would be education. Ha! Boy was I wrong!

You see, while high academic achievement is important (to the extent that it sets you up to be able to make the most money possible--and Koreans LOVE money!), I would argue that physical appearance is even more important. Nearly all of the students carry around mirrors the size of their heads (no exaggeration), and even larger, full-body mirrors can be found everywhere from the hallways to the principal's office. (Oh, and don't forget the public restrooms, where there are mirrors in each individual stall, placed strategically at the eye level of the person sitting on the toilet at the moment. You're on your own if you want hand soap, though...)

So it comes as no surprise that while teaching teenagers, and working around women, the topic of "beauty" comes up on a daily basis. As the students are applying whitening cream to their faces and using toothpick-like devices to poke their eyelids into forming what Koreans refer to as "double" (i.e. Western-looking) eyelids (Well, the ones who haven't yet had the surgical procedure done. After we returned from our first holiday break of the year, I was shocked to see all of the students who were still wearing surgical tape around their eyes, apparently having taken advantage of their break from school to have their eyes done.), they always tell me how much they adore big eyes, "S-line" body shapes, and small faces. (I'm starting to think that this "big eye" obsession has become a little too extreme, as all of the female news anchors--and some actresses, who, I'm told, would not be taken seriously by their fans without it--have gotten so much of the skin around their eyes cut off that they look like real-life Anime characters, just plain freakish.) As far as the "small face" goes, there are ample billboards advertising plastic surgery procedures that involve chopping off pieces of the jaw and cutting it into a more slender, rounded chin, complete with before and after pictures! Nose and breast jobs are no big deal--only a few thousand dollars and a few stitches, and voila, you're set for life!

The men want to be beautiful too. My neighbor casually told me about his male friends' seemingly unnecessary procedures, from nose jobs, to chin jobs, to space-between-the-nose-and-upper-lip jobs, along with his father's use of special shoes to look taller (Hilarious, considering that this is a place where you have to remove your shoes constantly in public places. When I mentioned why this very fact might pose a slight problem to his father's ingenious plan, he told me that his father's strategy is to always be the last person in the group to take off his shoes before entering a building, and the first person to put them back on on the way out, even if it means that he has to drastically shorten his time to eat or handle business.), and the fact that many Korean men routinely go to beauty salons to have their hair permed. (He also spoke nonchalantly about all of his mother's voluntary surgical procedures, which was a little odd, given that he told me that she had also had to have very necessary surgery to remove cancer from some part of her body. How does that even work??)

Back to my point about being "set for life." Again, in a place where it's common for students to go to school from 8:30am to 10:00pm (and then study at private academies until midnight), and the government just recently made it illegal to have school on Saturdays (Though there are many ways around this, with the most common being to simply lengthen the school year and shorten holiday breaks. Calling Saturday school "optional" also helps.), not only do you have to include a professionally-taken photo of yourself on your resume, but most people attach pictures that look NOTHING like their actual faces?! Yep. I believe they call it "photoshop." Every.single.picture is photoshopped here. Resume pictures, social networking site pictures--even family photos! After having to have some pictures taken for my official documents here, I was floored to discover that the very well-meaning photographer had even photoshopped the pictures of me?!? When I pointed out to my co-teacher the fact that my eyes weren't quite as large as in the picture (He even added a cartoon-like twinkle to my eyes. A TWINKLE.), and that my skin wasn't exactly so flawless and creamy, she nodded with satisfaction and simply said, "More beautiful."

I am told that I am lucky that photographs aren't required on my domestic resume, because in Korea, employers are only interested in hiring beautiful people.

By the looks of it, the word "beautiful" is a pretty euphemism for people whose facial features are "not ethnically Korean."

Beware the Yellow Dust!!!

So apparently in doing my pre-Korea research, I missed the part about there being yellow dust storms. (Please don't bother asking me "how" it is that I was able to overlook such a major aspect of the Korean climate, as I've already asked myself that same question too many times. Ah well, I'm here now!) As any red-blooded Korean will tell you, the dust migrates over from China, each spring, is a byproduct of China's sacrifice of trees for economic growth (Can't eat trees!) and it is beyond obnoxious. (The word "China" is italicized to illustrate the deep disdain that most Koreans feel towards China--and Japan, too, for that matter. When I innocently inquired as to why that is, I was told "Because China gives us the yellow dust and the Japanese STOLE our cherry blossoms!!" True story.) They will also tell you that it can make you sick when inhaled on days when the levels are particularly high, and that you should invest in (okay, so they only cost like 2 bucks) a face mask that covers your mouth and nose. (Which probably half-way explains why all the little babies in the park look like tiny surgeons!) When I actually did some research on the yellow dust storms (after an entire day of being fully exposed, no doubt), I found out that it can also irritate your eyes and skin. (Wait. Skin?? My pores are already plenty clogged, thank you very much. They will most certainly NOT be requiring any help from China...) From what I can tell, it doesn't really seem like a huge deal for anyone who is over the age of nine and under the age of 90, and who doesn't have any major problems with allergies. In fact, some days when the dust is at it's highest levels it's kind of cool to watch it (literally) blow through the trees. (I'm a dreamer, what can I say?) Well, at least I used to think that watching dangerous dust blow was cool, until I realized that that this "cool" dust is more closely related to the word "pollutant" than it is "fairy," and that its magical journey through the trees eventually ended in my eyes, nose, and throat. (And heaven forbid that I have to visit the ear, nose and throat doctor here again. The guy that I saw was wearing one of those creepy headbands with the big, metal disks in the front like you see in cartoons, his nurses were all silent and wearing shagadelic prints, and his medical apparatus looked like video games from the 80s! Plus he sent me out into the world (unbeknownst to me) with white stuff oozing from my ears. I aint goin' back! You can't make me!!) Being the rebel that I am, I underestimated the dust and spent an entire day at the park. By the end of the day, I could literally see it comfortably chill-laxin' (and I don't even like that word) in each of the individual curls in my hair, from root to tip. (No exaggeration.) It was then that I discovered that yellow dust wasn't to be taken too lightly. (I can only imagine how much dust I had actually inhaled, yikes. Good thing God created nose hairs!)

Despite my colorful (but accurate, none the less) depiction of the great annoyance that is "yellow dust," there is plenty of good news. First of all, the news (and U.S. military websites) issues daily forecasts and warnings to stay indoors during peak times. Second, there are still plenty of low-dust-level days, and it has yet to inhibit me from doing anything that I've wanted to do. Further, I'm told that, due to global warming, spring only lasts for a short time here anyway. (Hey, you can't have your cake and eat it too.) While some people have had some difficulties, I think that I can say that I really haven't been bothered by it in any major way so far.

If you ask my pores, they may tell a different tale, though.

Here, Hierarchy Rains...

There are some things that you just can't learn in the classroom. When I was in grad school, I took a course about managing the human resource aspect of different cultures. (Or maybe it was about managing multi-national corporations?? Yeah, something like that.) So of course I learned about the heavy emphasis placed on status in many Asian cultures, especially within the workplace. What they didn't tell me, however, was the fact that hierarchies exist within every.aspect.of.Korean.life..

A small digression about making friends:

Being the friendly little fairy that I am (and also being new to the country), I wanted to meet as many people as I could. While meeting fellow foreigners (I use this term because in Korea, anyone who's NOT Korean, despite his or her actual country of origin, is not only considered, but also called a "foreigner."), was no task at all, meeting Koreans of the same age is not as easy as walking in a bar and striking up a conversation. (There goes my plan!) This comes as no surprise at all when you consider the fact that they work insanely long hours, are painfully shy, and generally prefer to mingle with people who are already in their long pre-established circles. (When I asked my friend why she didn't bother to invite her good friend out with us so that she could meet another girl, who had just returned home to Korea after living in the U.S. for 7 or 8 or 10 years, she frowned and retorted, "but she doesn't know her." When I pointed out the fact that I (an obvious outsider) had been introduced to both girls, she politely explained that "Korean girls are shy to meet other Korean girls, but it's okay for you because you're a foreigner." Yeah...) In the end, every single Korean male or female that I have met thus far has been a result of my being introduced from another person, and that chain leads all the way to the first person that I met here (co-teachers don't count!): my neighbor. Kinda crazy when you think about it...

Okay, so you came here to hear about heirarchies. (Try saying that 10 times fast. Or not.) Well, it goes without saying that age is the number one thing that determines your daily life, from how you address the store clerk to the type of endings you use for your sentences to even which verbs that you use to describe a situation. (For example, if you want to say that someone is asleep or eating, the verb that you would use would depend on the age of the person completing the action. Con.fu.sing.)  So it's waaay deeper than the pultry "sir" and "ma'am" that we use in the West. Your age (determined by the lunar calendar, which already makes you older than you really are), goes so far as to determine even how you address your school mates and--get this--siblings?! Older and younger siblings get called by different names completely, and there are 4 different words that can be used to address your older siblings depending on the sex/gender (synonymous here) of both yourself and of the older sibling in reference!

Speaking of "referencing people," you usually don't call people by their name. (This includes family members and "friends," which further emphasizes how loosely Koreans use the word. For example, if you meet any random person and they discover that you are both the same age, they will very likely refer to you as their "friend," since no one is of higher status than the other person. Fortunately, many younger, more worldly, Koreans have taken to using American names, so as to get around the whole "my-friends-can't-call-me-by-my-name" thing when dealing with foreigners.) Rather, people are generally addressed by their status (or a combination of one of their names--can't remember which one right now, but one is acceptable and the the other is deeply offensive--and their status), which is why it's so important to know who's higher up in the food chain, during any social interactions. Which is how I quickly learned that when all of the younger Koreans that I encountered asked me my age (Why does the bartender, who is female by the way, really need to know how old I am? Same goes for the nice lady in the museum... Turns out it wasn't the good genes!), they were trying to determine our respective statuses, and thus, establish the roles of each party for the duration of our relationship, however short.


Or maybe they just really wanted to know how to refer to me while talking to their co-workers? "This distinguished person would like a mimosa" versus "That foreigner over there wants to know what time the exhibit closes." (Literal translation of actual words used.)



Call it tomato or tomahto, but in Korea, it's the difference between a mere drizzle and an outright downpour.

The Tale of the First School Dinner...

It is here where it would all begin..Where my outlook of my school, relationships, and of the entire Korean peninsula would be shaped, forever altered from what I initially believed to be true...

So I got word that we would be having our first (after) school dinner right before it happened (as is typical for being on the receiving end of information here). Given all the stories that I had heard about the mandatory, boring, dull, mandatory nature of these functions, I was naturally annoyed that I had to attend one. (As is the general nature of school functions that involve foreign teachers, the Korean staff converse amongst each other and the foreign teacher is largely ignored and left thinking, "Why am I even here??" ...Or the foreign teacher is the central talking point, which also leaves s/he wondering, "Why am I even here??") So this is what I was up against..Bring on the boredom!

So after an all-staff dodgeball game (which was actually pretty hilarious to watch--all these teachers wearing 4-inch platforms and scurrying away from the ball as though their very lives depended on it!), we go to an expensive Korean barbeque restaurant, where you cook the meat yourself at your own table, and the bottles of rice vodka (it's called "soju") and rice wine ("makalee") are seemingly innumerable. I, of course, was seated near Mrs. C initially, but after about an hour of watching her sip her one teeny, tiny shot of soju (drinking scares her, as does riding a bicycle--which is why she never learned to ride one) and listening to her chat incessantly about nothing to the other older ladies who were also seated at the table, I decided to go mingle with the other teachers, who seemed to be in a completely different world of joy and merriment. (This lone gesture would be the cause of all future drama surrounding this lady. No exaggeration.)

So I slide over to the "fun" table (quite literally, as we were all sitting on the floor, shoe-less), where my favorite/secret co-teacher is sitting, along with a few other (older) male teachers. As my co-teacher and I are chatting and enjoying the services, naturally, the men decide to join in on the conversation too (despite not actually speaking English). The computer teacher yells my name and suggests that we do a "love shot," and--as this is a purely "me, too" culture--then the music teacher suggests the same thing, followed by the teacher whom I affectionately refer to in my mind as "He Who Clicks," as, despite sitting next to him for months, I still lack any idea as to what it is that he teaches. In any case, he can always be found sitting stoically at his desk for extended periods of time clicking his mouse, slowly and methodically. (I guess I could just ask him what he teaches, but where's the fun in that??) So the laughter and "love shots" are flowing (saying "no" is considered deeply offensive), and all is good with the universe. Of course this didn't go unnoticed by Mr. S., who quickly came to make his presense known. He suggests that we do a shot (thankfully not of the "love" variety!), and then calls my name and yells that he is single. I smile and politely (always politely--these are some of the most sensitve humans on Earth) assert to him that he is, indeed, nothing of the sort. He then asserts, incredulously, that he is, and that he is actually "playboy," all the while patting his chest with both hands simultaneously. Seeing that ignoring his antics wasn't working, I then ask my co-teacher if Mr. S. is married, to which she replies with a straight face, "of course." So I just shake my head and pretend to be engulfed in eating cooked meat wrapped in leaves, hoping that he'll get bored and drop the subject, which he does. (In all honesty, I strongly believe that the fact that he remained so adamant about denying his marital status is rooted in a whole different issue unique to Korea called "weekend couples." It's too far off the subject to discuss here, but maybe I'll talk about it in a later post?) Naturally, as the jokes and flatteries are flowing, I spot Mrs. C. glaring over in my direction on several occasions, which I conveniently ignore. So goes the mingling and masticating, and alas, it's time to leave the restaurant.

The second phase of school dinner is the singing-room session, where a few private karaoke rooms are booked and filled with--yep, you guessed it--more alcohol. (Despite their love of public baths, Koreans are painfully shy when it comes to singing, speaking, or breathing in front other people, so the massive amounts of soju, makalee, and beer are as necessary as the very microphones used to sing!) So as we're walking to the singing room, Mrs. C. tells me that she felt "left out" while I was talking to my other co-teacher, all the while using the tone of a whiny three-year-old. Just as I am politely explaining to her the fact that it's not fair for me nor the other teachers for me to only talk to her all the time, someone yells my name and grabs my hand. Confused, I look up to see that it is none other than the very important man who presides over all of the school staff, third in rank (which is oh so important here) under the principal and vice principal. (Now not only does he not speak English, but he has probably been the least friendly of all the male staff since my arrival--very shy of course, but oftentimes pretending that I don't even exist!) So now I'm in a complete panic, as this is a culture where people don't even hug or shake hands as a form of greeting, and you NEVER touch someone who is your superior, ESPECIALLY if they are of the opposite sex (Translation: male). A few seconds pass, and I realize that he has no intentions of letting my hand go, and he is, instead, holding it and leading me in the direction of the singing room. Mortified and confused, I look around to see if there are any witnesses around to put an end to this awkwardness, and I spot Mrs. C., whose looks like she's just seen a ghost (as a woman and of lower rank, she was completely powerless to do anything about it), my favorite co-teacher (whose even more powerless) and, who but the very principal and vice-principal (the proverbial kings of the castle  school, and the only people who would have had the power to speak up). They, too, are wide-eyed and speechless, staring at me staring at them. Realizing that no one was going to do anything, and that I needed to make my discomfort obvious, I shake my head and put my hand over my face, and allow this man who I wasn't even sure liked me, lead me down the sidewalk and across the street while everyone watched in shock. (It's interesting to note that we--yes "we"-- nearly got hit by a car, as with his newly-found confidence, Mr. Closeted Cassanova (as I'll now refer to him) decided that he didn't need to wait for traffic to pass, and that, because he was holding my hand, he could instead just traverse the busy street and command oncoming traffic to stop by simply holding out his hand in front of the cars. Judging by the frowns on the faces of the drivers, I'm assuming that they didn't find my presence nearly as magical as he did, but--by the grace of God!--it worked, and we both walked away unscathed.)

 So we get to our destination, and (thank goodness for narrow staircases!) I am finally able to let go of Mr. Closeted Cassanova's hand (without being impolite). I quickly find my secret/favorite co-teacher, and everyone's singing and mingling (except for Mrs. C., who is now seething with envy), and enjoying the night. It gets a little blury here, but at some point as I'm hopping from room to room and rapping along to (upon their request for me to sing, of course) songs like Nelly's "Shake a Tailfeather" and Sean Paul's "We Be Burnin" (Side note: What the heck was I thinking, choosing those songs???! Thank heavens those people didn't speak English! AHAHAHAHAHA!!), a few other male teachers (whom I had never met/seen?) pull me aside and decide to practice their English by engaging in very basic conversations. Of course they also want to toast to something like every half of a second, but by now I'm used to it. As I'm taking to one teacher--out of the blue--Mr. Closeted Cassanova (Mr. CC) walks over and sits next to me. He then proceeds to interrupt the talking teacher's sentence (in Korean), and says something like "go away now." The talking teacher looks surprised, and then continues to talk to me, and then Mr. CC hurls mean Korean sounds (hey, it is a tonal language, after all!) toward him and--get this--proceeds to frown and wave his hand in front of his face rapidly as though he is waving away a pesky mosquito on a hot summer night. The talking teacher, being the obedient Korean public servant that he is (no, really--that's what Korean teachers are referred to as), grabs "his" drink (maybe he simply picked up someone else's old drink, no way to tell really) and walks away like an embarrassed puppy literally with his head down and his tail between his legs (okay, so maybe the tail part isn't literal, but you get the point). He didn't look at me or come anywhere near me for the rest of the night. O.o  Meanwhile, Mr. CC decides that he wants to "talk"...(Used lightly as he.doesn't.speak.English.) Yikes.

The remainder of the night goes on without as much fanfare as before. Mr. S is completely plastered (red face and all), and he has elected to use his turn to sing songs to me. (Maybe this is where he got the genius idea to sing Korean ballads to me later? I'll never know.) "He Who Clicks" is falling on his knees a lot (probably not a good look, on account of his oldness and all), and even through his inability to maintain his balance using only his own two legs (Why o why were humans cursed to be born with only two measely legs?? Tripods almost never lose their balance; surely there's something to be learned from them!), he retains his Korean-style, expressionless face. At some point Mrs. C, having had enough of my fraternizing, stormed off and left completely. (Though I can assure you, she wasn't missed.) At their request, I "sing" (Ha! I suck at singing!) one last song, choosing Sean Kingston's "Beautiful Girls" with no pun intended at all, and then, it's time (Speaking of, what time is it anyway??) to go home.

As I'm waving down a taxi to share with a nice teacher whom I'd never met (but who apparently is aware that we are "neighbors"), I'm told that, upon Mr. S.' request, they would like to continue drinking elsewhere. They explain that by Korean standards, it is still early, and that the party is, in fact, just beginning. Luckily for me, a taxi has appeared (we'd been waiting for a while), and I run toward it while yelling slurred good-byes, ready for it to whisk me far away to my apartment. (Turns out the nice lady wasn't as inebriated and confused as I thought--we were indeed only a 5 minute drive away from home. Imagine that!) I enter my apartment and prepare for work the next day. It's only Tuesday....


The next day, all of the male teachers act strange around me, and generally try to avoid making any eye-contact with me at all. All except Mr. S., of course, who has no shame. He waltzes over to me and tells me that he has a headache and makes gestures indicating a stomach ache, too. I nod in understanding, though I am feeling fine. Mr. CC generally looks flushed and ashamed, and when I finally run-into the principal and vice-principal, they are in such shock with not knowing how I would be reacting that when I greet them they just stare at me with wide eyes, afraid to say a word.


(This would all pass of course, and a few days later, Mr. CC pulled a move from Mr. S.' figurative playbook and stood in my path so that I would have to speak to him. I did so and smiled, as I continued to walk to class with Mrs. C. (who was still bitter, but containing it for now). After we had passed him, Mrs. C. looked back and began to laugh. When I asked her what was so funny, she said, "after you say hi to him, he is only looking up at the sky and smiling.")

 We were indoors.