Godzilla is 189cm tall and lives in Seoul…

At roughly 189cm, I am a tall one.  Here.  There.  Anywhere.  189cm–roughly 6’3–is sizable no matter where you are.  But in Korea 189cm means something completely different.  It is colossal, huge, borderline freakish.  On my first day of class I discovered, to my dismay, that my height was not an asset, but an obstacle, an irreversible consequence of Nature, unnerving to even the most confident student.  My challenge: I would have to convince my students that I was not Godzilla.

At precisely 6:29am I strode into the classroom, feigning confidence, books tucked under my right arm.

To be fair, everyone is timid on the first day of class; no one ever knows exactly what to expect.  This applies to both the teacher and the student.  But imagine walking into a classroom, trying your best to exude a blend of confidence and approachability, and hearing a collective gasp escape the open mouths of your students.  Terror is not something you want to foment on your first day of class, unless, of course, you are a second grade teacher.  But these students–my students–are adults and pay good money for English language instruction.  If you intimidate them, or if they feel uncomfortable with you as a teacher, they will switch classes, or will leave the institute altogether.  The teacher-student dynamic that takes place in the classroom is actually one of a language institutes best (or worst) forms of PR.  Put simply, a good teacher will both keep and attract students, while a poor teacher will drive them away.  Word spreads quickly, too.  So, ease and approachability have everything to do with the success of this equation.  In fact, ease and approachability were what I wanted to establish the moment I entered the classroom on that morning.  But, my size.  There was no way around it.

Knowing I had some ground to cover, I set my books down and greeted everyone in the warmest tone possible.  They were not convinced, and stared back at me–blankly.  I asked them how they were doing; they continued to stare.  I swear one girl’s mouth remained agape for the larger portion of my introduction.  I also discovered that jokes, while theoretically the best ice-breakers, are completely useless, unless your audience can understand them.  I was about as funny as Jeff Foxworthy, who, coincidentally, is never funny.  Not an ideal situation on my first day of class.

Stumped, I realized that, unless I wanted an empty classroom the following morning, I would have to adapt to the unfortunate situation.  Faster than you could say ‘Natural Selection’, I pulled up a chair and sat down.  It wasn’t until I did this that my students began to relax.  Now eye-to-eye with my students, I opened up the floor to questions.  All was quiet until one student slowly raised his hand and asked the inevitable: “How tall are you?”  My answer: 189cm.  Their collective response: a ‘gasp’ mixed with nervous laughter here and there.  The situation repeated itself in each of my six classes.

Physically lowering myself to their level seemed to have had a positive effect on how they perceived me, though; I was no longer threatening, something to be intimidated by.  Only then did I notice a change in the atmosphere, as hesitation and intimidation gave way to curiosity.

(You encounter this phenomenon of physically lowering oneself to eye level here, often in nicer restaurants, where the waitress will kneel on the ground, elbows propped on the table, to take an order.  Though bizarre at first, you feel less rushed than back in the States, where ‘Flo’ towers over you, shamelessly chews gum, taps her pen against her notepad, glancing around the room, annoyed, as if she wished she were somewhere–anywhere–else)

In this case, I scored big by physically lowering myself down to my students level.  I saved face.  Seated as I was, they seemed to trust me more and began asking questions that had nothing do with my unusual dimensions; but inquired about my origins, home, university degree, family, interests and hobbies, among other things.  Needless to stay, I stayed in the chair for the rest of the hour.  And for the remainder of the day.

Sometime last week I had a student of mine–a middle aged woman–tell me that she selected my class because she heard I was, “very big, but gentle.”  When she told me this, I sighed–deeply–relieved that 189cm was not too big to love.

Cheers

Yes, coffee can…

It was more awe-inspiring than any one of the many sky-scrapers jutting into the skyline.  And more incredible than the efficiency and timeliness of the local public transportation.  It even surpassed the wonderful cultural show seen at a theater, complete with fan dancers, wild drums, a smoke machine, and a fairy-like opera singer, who danced and sang like a spring bird.

Sometimes it’s the little things that amaze (startle) us the most.  I had one of those encounters a few weeks ago at a 24 hour convenience store.

It was early Sunday morning and the streets of Gangnam-gu were empty, and with time to kill I was in search of a cup of coffee.  Because nothing is as bitter, sweet, soothing, and overwhelmingly experiential as a cup of coffee on a slow morning.  To sit and enjoy a cup of coffee–to sit and enjoy anything, for that matter–is to momentarily escape the exigencies of the clock.

To my dismay, all the cafes were out-of-service for the day, with darkened windows and lopsided ‘Closed’ signs, dangling from the front doors.  Bemused, I walked up and down the street, looking for any place–or anyone–that would pour me a hot cup of coffee.  No luck.  So, I turned to the only place that would take me in: a 24 hour convenience store.  I entered and began to browse the drink selection; teas, soft-drinks, milk, and water stared back at me from the cooler.  Completely uninterested in all of the above, I turned to leave.  As I stepped towards the door, though, I noticed to the left of the main cooler was a smaller one, filled with chilled coffee.  An acceptable compromise.   I made my selection and opened the cooler, reaching…

No sooner had my hand wrapped around the cylindrical container, then I pulled it back–violently–my hand stinging, slightly burnt.  I was confused.  I could have sworn this was a cooler.  Again, I opened the door, though timidly this time.  Sure enough, the cans were all as hot as a fresh brewed cup of Joe.  Except the coffee was not in a mug, but a can.  Hot.  Coffee.  In.  A.  Can.  In my mind the bulbs flickered, then blinked on: hot coffee in a can!

Primitive, I know.  Kind of like when ‘Og’, the Homo sapien, struck flint against rock for the first time, creating what we now call ‘fire’.  That’s how I felt in the moment.  Earlier on, I mentioned how sometimes it’s the little things that amaze (startle) us the most.  This was certainly one of those ‘little things’.  (Okay, so perhaps it’s a bit unfair to compare the my discovery to Og’s, but I doubt he knows the difference, being fossilized and all…)

I bought a can, not even sure of the brand, flavor, or quality.  And it wasn’t all that bad.  A bit sweet, but surprisingly aromatic, nutty, and smooth for hot coffee in a can (I just invented all that descriptive jargon, by the way).

I was intrigued for exactly a week, consuming it daily, until I discovered that I could get a real cafe Americano, made with real Italian espresso, at a real cafe, for only a few cents more.

The moral of the story is that, though an ingenious invention, hot coffee in a can has it’s limitations.  Truthfully, every other form of coffee reveals it’s limitations when pitted against real Italian espresso.  And that should come as a surprise to no one.  It’s the difference between a soggy, canned Worthingon Swiss Steak patty and a cut of real steak, sizzling on your plate.  It’s the difference between Honey Nut Cheerios and Oatey O’s; Bruce Lee and Steaven Seagal; the Dallas Cowboys and the Washington Redskins; the color blue and the color periwinkle.  Nature has wrought many inequalities in this world, and hot coffee in a can is just one of them.

But, coffee in a can, please understand, believe me, and don’t make a fuss when I say: “it was good while it lasted.”

Cheers

‘Shyness’ and the teacher-student relationship

She approached me after class, timidly, her eyes doing everything except meeting mine.  Her group of friends hovered in the rear of the classroom in a half-circle, whispering inaudibly.  As a teacher, I encounter student ‘shyness’ on a regular basis; teachers are respected here–revered, even.  But this was different.  She continued to shuffle towards me–sideways now–her head tilted slightly downward, eyes glancing up and down.  I hate to admit it, but I had to literally bite my tongue so as not to laugh.

“Have a great morning, ” I said to the last students as they filed out the door.  She stopped about a meter away.

“Can I help you,” I asked in the most disarming, soothing tone I could come up with.  Someone outside of the room might have thought I was speaking to a frightened cat.

“Will you come to lunch with me and my friends and Steve,” she asked, her voice wavering.

“Well, of course!” I responded, warmly–professionally–trying my best not to scare her in my excitement.  After all, food is food, unless it’s kimchi omelet.

More importantly, though, cultivating extra-classroom relationships with your students is like money in the bank; loyalties and bonds of mutual trust develop, impacting directly what takes place in the classroom.  You become friends, an arrangement that benefits both parties for a number of reasons: 1) students are provided with what is–essentially–free ‘face-time’ with a native English speaker (the running rate for under-the-table private lessons is around 50,000won per hour, or $50 per hour) and 2) as a foreigner, you suddenly have a host of local tour guides at your disposal.  Believe me, Lonely Planet has nothin’ on these guys.

She relaxed after I accepted her invitation, then returned to her group of friends to relay the news, visibly relieved that the hard part was over.  For me, the whole experience was bizarre for the following reason: it is an odd sensation, knowing that you are ‘respected’ and ‘revered’.  (On a side note: initially, I thought my students were ‘shy’ because of my physical size.  Frankly, I am noticeably large in comparison to 99% of all Koreans.)

The point I want to emphasize here is where I fit in the social ‘hierarchy’ and how that contributed to her ‘shyness’.  Officially, as a teacher, I am third on the list, behind ‘king’ and ‘family’.  The ‘shyness’ I encountered, and encounter on a regular basis, was just an outward symptom of this undercurrent at work in Korean society.  Her ‘shyness’, hesitant tone, and overtly submissive demeanor indicated where she placed both of us in that hierarchy.

I was the ‘superior’ and she the ‘inferior’, a teacher-student dynamic that, I believe, occurs to a lesser extent in the United States, where the student has more leverage.

To explain: in the States you can openly challenge a teacher during a lecture, question their methodology, rip their syllabus apart, and argue your grades, even.  I’ve seen it done before.  We all have.  Overwhelmingly, I believe this teacher-student dynamic, where the student is at eye level with the teacher, stems from the elevated status of the individual student, considered to be ‘master’ of his/her own future.  Though the teacher is there to facilitate that future, it also seems to be the view that they can just as well be an obstacle.  And if the student feels like this is the case, that his/her individual prerogative is being compromised by their ‘superior’, they have the right to challenge or critique–openly.  Here, it is different.

I’ve encountered this ‘shyness’ elsewhere, too.  If I make an error in front of the class–for example, if I ask them to turn to the wrong page number–they will correct me, but not without that submissive tone and demeanor.  Usually, one or two will timidly raise their hands to inform me what page we should be on, embarrassed that they have to correct me in the first place.  Also, if we complete an exercise quickly and are left with a few extra minutes, and I ask the students what they would like to do with those minutes, without fail, I get blank stares in return.  Here, the teacher never ‘polls’ the students for anything.  They just teach and the students listen–attentively–without raising their hands to ask or object.  I have learned that the key is to pretend I know what I’m doing at all times and to be executive in all things.  If we have a few minutes of extra time at the end of an exercise, I decide what will happen in those minutes.  The Korean classroom is not a democracy.

As I mentioned, it is important to develop friendships with your students outside the classroom.  But, strangely, this does not, in any way, compromise or undermine the hierarchy.  Koreans are very hospitable and enjoy being together, and they absolutely love taking you out to eat or to a coffee shop.  And it is here where you, as a teacher, can cultivate loyalties and interpersonal relationships with your students–factors that will lead to a healthier, more productive classroom.  Perhaps this is not the case at the secondary school or university levels.  But it certainly is the case when it comes to English language instruction, where face-time with students outside of class actually reinforces what takes place inside the classroom.

It is a strange dynamic, almost inverse to what exists in the States, where teachers and students rarely interact outside the classroom for ‘professional’ reasons, but where the teacher is also revered to a lesser degree.  Here, at least in the world of English language instruction, face-time outside of the classroom plays an important role in the teacher-student relationship, yet the hierarchy–namely student respect for the teacher–is not diluted, or undermined in the process.

Lunch proved to be a huge success.  And, though the students were a bit timid at first, they quickly warmed up once they saw I was relaxed and enjoying myself.  Perhaps it was the fact that I was ‘fluent’ with chopsticks that won them over.  Later, over cups of hot tea and coffee at a cafe, they ventured to ask me questions about my personal life, my family, my fiancee, and what I thought about Korea in general.  In turn, they were warm and receptive, answering openly the questions I had about Korean culture and about their personal lives.

The next morning in class the students were ‘business as usual’–i.e., respectful, timid, and expectant–yet there was a slight gleam in each of their eyes that was not there the day before, telling of new found trust and familiarity.  But you would never notice it, unless you stood directly in front of them for 1 hour a day/five days a week.

Cheers

Mandarin

I have a one-hour break at 8:30am.  Up since 5:30am, my body urges me to retreat to my room for a bit of sleep; but ambition tells me otherwise.  Ambition tells me to use that free hour to begin formal Mandarin classes.

I am two days into the lessons and am absolutely loving it.  Of course, I’m learning elementary stuff–i.e., the basic vowels, where and how to apply the 4 different accents, scripted dialogues, and vocabulary.  The instructor is a patient Korean girl who has a degree in Chinese and lived in Northern China for a while.  She seemed genuinely surprised the first morning I entered her classroom, nearly performing a full squat to slide into my diminutive desk.  Because the desks are small here…really.

Most of the sounds she asks us to make are near inconceivable.  But we make them the best we can, observing diligently the subtle movements of her mouth, as she walks us through vocab lists and dialogue scenarios.  We must look and sound like absolute bufoons.  But it’s fun.

And the best part: it only costs $23 for two months of premium language instruction.

Now that’s a bargain.

Cheers

Self-imposed moratorium on Kimchi

I decided not to eat kimchi for an unspecified amount of time and here’s why:

Subconsciously, I was sick of kimchi a long time ago.   Even before I left the States the kimchi ‘jokes’ had already begun.  At first, I laughed.  Then, I fake-laughed.  Eventually, I couldn’t even bring myself to fake laugh, but was reduced to a polite smile and nod.  “So, are you gonna eat lots of kimchi over there,” was usually how the ‘joke’ would begin, the comic staring at you, eager-eyed, mischievously, anticipating a response of some sort.  I was never quite sure what the punchline was, precisely.  But looking back, I suppose the punchline hinged on you not knowing what kimchi was so that the comic could be the first to explain.

So, what exactly is kimchi?  And why the moratorium?

The most common form of kimchi is made of ‘baechu’, sliced cabbage leaves that are spiced, then left to marinate, or ferment, sometimes with fish.  ‘Distinct’ is probably the right word to describe the flavor, but ‘potent’ works, too.  Think sauerkraut with a spicy, Asian flair to it.  It is–hands down–Korea’s preferred side-dish.  And by ‘side-dish’, I mean it accompanies everything from soups to elaborate barbeque, steamed vegetables to white rice, and, of course, just about anything that comes out of the sea.  It is eaten for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  They even sell it in little plastic packets at convenience stores.  And just when you thought it wasn’t ubiquitous enough, the Kimchi Field Museum is but a short taxi ride away from my apartment.

No matter how many times you eat it, the first bite never fails to surprise, a dynamic blend of bitter and spicy.  It’s the type of flavor that consumes all other flavors inhabiting your mouth at the moment; and it is similar to mouthwash in that regard.  Truthfully, it can be quite tasty, when paired with rice and vegetables in a sushi-style wrap.  But it remains, ultimately, a flavor alien to the average Western palate.

My trouble with kimchi began yesterday almost immediately following lunch.  Several types of kimchi were served: regular kimchi, fried kimchi, and something that resembled a ‘kimchi omelet’, sliced triangularly, like a pizza.  I tried all three.  At first, the fried kimchi was good.  I remember immediately noticing how subdued the taste was compared to regular kimchi .  The kimchi omelet came next.  At first, it wasn’t all that bad, but after a few bites I had to force it into my mouth.  To give you some context: I rarely–if ever–have to force myself to eat anything.

No sooner had I swallowed the last, eggy bit of kimchi-omelet, then I excused myself, my stomach turned.  I felt nauseous.  Sick.  My mouth filled with unnatural amounts of saliva–the way it does when you’re about to…well…puke.  I exited the building and stood outside, clutching my knees, breathing like a racehorse at the end of the Kentucky Derby.

I was sick for the rest of the day.  Not once did I throw up, surprisingly.  But that taste–that acidic reminder of kimchi, fried kimchi, and kimchi omelet–lingered, as a specter, for hours.

As a result of this inopportune experience I have declared a moratorium on all types of kimchi for no less than a week.  My reasoning: I would rather take a breather and return to eating kimchi at a later date than ignore the truth–namely that I am not prepared to sustain a diet where kimchi is the cornerstone flavor.  It is better that I discontinue until further notice.

Like I said, I am not the picky type when it comes to food.  Until yesterday it was ‘anything but mayonnaise’, really.  But that has changed.  It is now: ‘anything but mayonnaise and kimchi’.

Cheers

Ps. I’ll be sure to tell you when I start eating it again.

Airports

Not all airports are the same.  Some are large and streamlined, filled with elite duty-free shops, modern art and architecture, there to impress.  Others are large and old, a bit worn around the edges, with out-dated pleather waiting areas, and floors covered with greasy carpet, there because they ‘have’ to be.  One of the many entertaining things about airports is that they reflect–albiet superficially–the culture/level of affluence of the world around them.

The Swiss, for example, somehow find it in their budget to make you never want to leave Zurich Airport.  Trust me, I enjoyed two overnight layovers at Zurich and slept soundly on the soft, zebra-striped couches in the international terminal.  The experience was so pleasant that during both layovers I had a difficult time deciding whether to stay in Zurich Airport or leave to inject my Francs into the local economy.  I ended up staying in Zurich Airport.

The personnel at an airport can be telling of what kind of world you are about to enter, too.  For example, at Ben Gurion International Airport in Tel Aviv it’s awfully hard to figure out whether they want to keep you there forever, or hustle you out as fast as possible.  Searches are commonplace.  A polite customs official actually made me drop my pants to see what was behind my zipper.  I assured him there was nothing he would be interested in behind my zipper, but he insisted.  Hm.  They seemed genuinely ruffled that 1) I had entered the country in the first place and that 2) I was now trying to leave.  Very confusing, indeed.

On the other hand, Warsaw Fryderyk Chopin Airport in Poland has hardly any personnel at all (to be fair, I was there years ago, so things might have changed).  You could–conceivably–land, pick up your bags loaded with smuggled goods and foreign agricultural specimens, and exit the airport without ever having to show your passport or declare a thing.  The case is similar at Rome Fiumicino International Airport, except you can’t help but notice the ‘dogana’, or customs.  They are the unshaven ones dressed in gray, fascist-era uniforms, seated in a semi-circle, lazily eyeing you up and down while arguing about yesterday’s big match.

In short, each airport tells a different story.

Seoul-Incheon International Airport looms tall, is sleek and gray, and glows like the Starship Enterprise.  Futuristic and orderly are the best words to describe it, though I was nearly flattened by an erratic floor-waxing zamboni, polishing the floor at 11:00pm.  I think the guy was asleep at the wheel, or drunk on soju.  From the outside the airport really does look like someday it might take off and disappear above the clouds to do a lunar landing.  It sounds like a joke, but that is the best way to summarize South Korea’s recent history.  One moment, devastated.  The next, capable of the impossible.  And as you drive towards Seoul the city’s glow swells, starting slowly at first, then becoming more concentrated as you move closer to the epicenter.  It is endless, the city.  And it is as wide as it is high, the lights of human achievement extending well beyond the capacity of the naked eye, reaching towards the stars, as if to symbolize the heights this nation aspires to.  It is all very impressive.

Cheers

An Asian Education

Yes, I am definitely in Asia.  An odd statement, I know.  But, for an American born and raised in quiet, green Southwest Michigan, the reality struck me harder and faster than a Ping Pong ball at an Olympic Ping-Pong match, or one of those warp-speed bullet trains found in Japan.  I am–officially–in a different world.  And I can see it.  Hear it.  Feel it.  Everything I know, or thought I knew, about travel, culture, history, politics, food, current events, language, and a whole host of other things is, essentially, worthless.  Or, at best, worth a bit less.  What I mean is that my assumptions about how the world should/should not work became defunct–obsolete–the moment I set foot on this continent.  It is a strange sensation, both liberating and terrifying.  I am a stranger–a foreigner–in an unfamiliar and unexplored land.   At least they have Dunkin’ Donuts to guide me home at night.

I recently mastered stainless steel chopsticks, so I’m off to a good start, learning the little things that will help me bridge the gap.  I’ve been telling myself–perhaps erringly–that ‘the gap’ isn’t actually that big, that I’m making it out to be something it’s not.  Perhaps.  But overconfidence in my own cross-cultural acumen could spell my end, so I’m planning on playing conservative until I wrap my mind around this place.  Timid?  No.  Just conservative.  I’ve decided to apply the old strategy: “watch, listen, and learn.”  I’m just a postulant–noticeably wet behind the ears–when it comes to ‘understanding’ Asia.

This is not my first time out of the United States–far from it, in fact.  So, why am I really ‘feeling it’?  Put it this way, of the 7 or so continents (the number fluctuates, depending on who you ask and what continent they call home), I know more about Antarctica than Asia.  OK, a definite overstatement, but you get the point.  I am out of my element, a ginger of unusual stature, raised and educated in the ‘Western tradition’, dropped into a sea of dark hair and non-ginger complexions, in a land where the language seems near out of my reach.  To date, I know roughly 5 words, enough to get me into trouble or bail me out of trouble.  I’m not sure exactly which one it is yet.

Indeed, there is so much I do not know, there is so much to learn.  Allow me to clarify exactly how unprepared I am, using my diurnal interaction with the New York Times as an example.

The New York Times is my preferred source for online news.  On any given morning, you will find me browsing NYTimes.com with a cup of coffee in hand, sometimes black, but more often a healthy light-brown, doctored with cream and sugar.  Invariably, I will begin my review of the day’s events by clicking on the section ‘World’ listed in the sidebar on the left-hand side of the page.  The options are as follows: Africa, Asia, Americas, Europe, Middle East.  Usually, I select the section entitled ‘Middle East’ first, having spent two enjoyable, dirt-caked Summers in the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan as an archaeologist.  So, I am drawn to it, first, by familiarity and, second, by the sheer volume of newsworthy material contained in the section.  Most of the news coming out of that region is, well, headline news.  And there’s lots of it.  Europe is up next.  It comes second on my news reading list for 2 reasons: 1) I lived in Europe for more than 2 years and to this day feel the ‘pull’ that took me there in the first place and 2) the news in the ‘Europe’ section has–significantly–less headline power than the section ‘Middle East’, hence the number 2 position.  In ‘Europe’, I end up reading articles about the life and works of Oretta Zanini De Vita, the renowned Italian food historian, or Nicolas Sarkozy’s alleged nepotism, or how a ‘hypnotizing’ mushroom ‘hunt leaves Russians bewildered’.  Certainly enjoyable, but lacking in importance, unless Russian mushrooms and the the history of pasta make your world turn.  ‘US’ news comes second to last, unless it has to do with Healthcare Reform, where in that case it might even beat out ‘Middle East’ for the top spot.  Then there is a brief run through the Op-Ed section, which provides me with a generous helping of witty entertainment and highly-partisan food for thought.  By that time, I have either finished my second cup of coffee or the first one has gone cold, where I usually gulp it down, close Firefox, and put my Macbook to sleep.

The point is that I rarely, if ever, select ‘Asia’ in my reading.  And now I’m here.  In Seoul, Korea.  For roughly a year.  Frankly, my New York Times reading habits are going to have to change.  Dramatically.

The purpose of this blog is for me to document my Asian Education in style, for the world to see, laugh at, envy, and cheer for.  I have a sneaking suspicion that I will play the forgettable role of the Ugly American from time to time, as I learn the intricate ropes of my new environment.  But I will have my redeeming moments, too.  And you will hear about them.  It is my sincerest hope that in these ‘redeeming’ moments when, by some miracle, I manage to transcend everything I am culturally mute/deaf/blind to, I will move smoother than Otto von Bismark on X-Lax.

But, smooth or no smooth, Otto or no Otto, make no mistake when I say, “I will always stand out here.  Always.”

Cheers