I had been asking several students about their favorite pastimes in conversation class, when the topic of drinking and Korean culture surfaced.  I had seen the topic before.  Curious as to why the topic came up so often, I asked them to give me a critique of their own culture.  The questions I asked were relatively simple and I wasn’t expecting much.  After all, alcohol forms an integral part of the human diet the world over, save Adventists and Muslims.  But her response threw me for a loop, and sent me turning over rocks in search of an explanation.

When you encounter extremes, or variations of what you are accustomed to, your mind is forced to ask in order to comprehend.  This is what happened to me when I observed Korean drinking culture for the first time.  Not because I have never observed drinking culture before, but because I saw that the drinking culture here was more a form of widespread alcoholism.  Systemic.  Entrenched.

You see it in the many advertisements and restaurants, and in the streets.  Where I currently live, in an area known as the ‘Manhattan’ of Korea, it is not uncommon to see groups of young men–professionals–still dressed in their suits and ties from work, staggering around in a drunken glee as early as 9:00pm.  I can’t even begin to count the groups of older gentlemen I’ve seen carousing in the early evening, men my father’s age, arms slung around each others shoulders, like schoolboys at the beginning of Summer break.  Another interesting sight are the groups of tipsy young women who walk up and down the streets at night, giggling and chattering like birds.

You see it in the classroom, too.  I’ve had students come to class at 6:30am, gray in the face, reeking of old cologne, sweat, and cigarette smoke, completely hung-over.  One student, a petite girl, missed class on one occasion, informing me that she had drunk from 12:00pm to 3:00am several days earlier.  Two days later she was still visibly hung-over.  Another student missed an exam, explaining to me with bleary eyes that he had to celebrate an important deal with a client and was therefore ‘sick’ on test day.

So, what do Koreans drink, exactly?  The choice drink here is, without argument, Soju, a clear liquor traditionally made from rice.  Soju is fairly inexpensive and can be consumed with a meal, or on its own; but always in a group.  A Korean friend of mine explained to me that a bottle of Soju actually has an odd number of servings, which means that, if you are drinking in an even-numbered group, there will always be at least one or more empty soju glasses at the end of the bottle.  The odd number of servings is no coincidence.  To compensate for the empty soju glasses at the table, you must order a second bottle.  The cycle repeats itself to the point of drunkenness.  I imagine it makes for good business, if you are in the liquor industry.

There are a few simple explanations that come to mind regarding the issue of Korean drinking culture.  First of all, the Korean work ethic is prolific, exhausting, and impressive.  Expectations at work, school, and home are comparatively high.  Put simply, society has demands.  The pressure is enough to make any Westerner buckle.  Drinking eliminates said pressure, opening the door for a brief moment of ‘freedom’ where, in essence, one can operate outside the bounds of society’s many expectations.  Koreans also drink for the sense of togetherness that alcohol brings; the feelings of isolation that come with working long and tedious hours dissolve as the shots are passed around.  In addition, drinking is a legitimate step in the deal-making process; specifically, drinking with your business partners and clients is important for PR and building trust.  The parents of the bride and groom even consume shots of soju to celebrate the union at a traditional Korean wedding.

Looking for a different perspective, I ran some of my thoughts about Korean drinking culture and, specifically, my student’s comment by some friends of mine, one a Korean-American, the other, a Korean who has spent a considerable amount of time outside Korea.  Both of them–almost immediately–pointed me back one hundred years to 1910, when the Korean peninsula was forcibly annexed and colonized by Japan.  During this dark period, Korean material culture was systematically destroyed: centuries worth of documents and records were erased; Korean martial arts and traditional wrestling were banned; and many of the country’s national treasures also disappeared or were taken to Japan.

The people suffered, too, immeasurably.  Koreans were forcibly conscripted into the Japanese military, or were made to work–humiliatingly–for their occupiers as laborers.  The disgrace did not stop there, though, as tens of thousands of Korean women were forced to serve the Japanese troops as “comfort women”, a blot which remains a dark and controversial topic to this day.  Their land was taken, too.  By the end of the Second World War there were close to 1 million Japanese settlers on the Korean peninsula.  Japanese was even made compulsory in school.  Korea was, for lack of a better word, “raped”, her culture dismantled, her land seized and redistributed, her people humiliated.  Korea, the “land of the morning calm”, all but died during those years.

The loss of material culture and the reminder of what had been were soon compounded by the tragedy of the Korean War (1950-1953), which set the peninsula back even further.  In the aftermath of these events, restoring Korea to its former glory came secondary to survival.  Buildings were erected—thoughtlessly—with only progress on the mind; and few attempts were made to restore the aesthetic qualities—the quaintness—that had characterized Korea for centuries.  The architecture that emerged after the Korean War, a form of architecture perpetuated to this day, was drab, gray, and functional.  The “land of the morning calm” would never look or feel the same.

And so they grieve.  And in this grief there is a sense of shame and loss.

The story of Korea’s recent past reminded me that there are moments in the course of human history that shape our collective consciousness.  We all have defining events in our narrative, moments where something was forcibly taken from us, where something was broken.  The Jews have the Holocaust; the Armenians, the genocide under the Ottomans; and Americans, the crumbling of the Twin Towers.  We may not see it or feel it on a daily basis, but we are all deeply influenced–driven–by the specter of collective tragedy.  My point is that the Korea of today is shaped by the forced removal and suppression of her culture and people nearly one hundred years ago.

This grief is embodied in the Korean idea of Han, which one Korean theologian sums up as a “feeling of unresolved resentment against injustices suffered, a sense of helplessness because of the overwhelming odds against one, a feeling of acute pain in one’s guts and bowels, making the whole body writhe and squirm, and an obstinate urge to take revenge and to right the wrong—all these combined.”

One could easily counter the whole notion of collective grief in this circumstance by pointing to the recent successes of the Korean economy, a miracle on its own and a veritable force for the twenty-first century.  Is that not a sign of recovery?  Perhaps.  But does material productivity and technological progress necessarily equate emotional recovery?  Peace?  Stability?  I think not.

One of my favorite songwriters, Ben Harper, in his song “When It’s Good”, sings a line that speaks to my student’s comment:

“Some drink to remember, some to forget, some for satisfaction, some to regret…”

This is Han, the unseen, immutable vein of grief she so simply expressed, but that we all, in the end, share.

When I began teaching one of the first things I noticed was the signs of physical exhaustion apparent in many of my early-morning students.  They were slower than the late morning classes, with glossy stares.  And they blinked frequently.  I’ve seen girls come to class with the subtle remains of a night mask clinging to the curves of their jawline.  One fellow appears to have trouble rinsing his teeth after brushing, because he comes to class nearly everyday with white residue on his lips and around the corners of his mouth.  Very minty.  And classy.  All signs of a forced wake-up.

“Repeat after me, ” I would say, energetically, conducting a drill.  A few would repeat the sentence, mumbling, eyes half-closed.  The rest, though, would sit there–blank–trying to digest my command, wake-up, or do both at the same time.  At first, I thought it was my fault, that I simply wasn’t interesting enough.  I soon realized, however, that I was not dealing with unmotivated or bored students, but sleep-deprived ones.

The exhaustion I noticed in my early morning classes led me to ask each student–at random–how much sleep they got every night and why.  The average: 4-5 hours.  The top 3 reasons: 1) long hours at work, 2) excessive studying, and 3) ‘I went out drinking last night’.  By and large it seemed that decent sleep–meaning 6 or more hours–was a weekend luxury.

Recently, one of my students, a professional in the financial world, told me that she averages about 3 hours of sleep per night.  According to her, unpaid overtime is what usually keeps her out late.  This past weekend she parted with her routine in dramatic fashion, sleeping a total of 22 hours straight, rising only to eat and use the restroom.  Talk about sleeping yourself into a permanent coma.

Now, to get anything out of a sleep deprived class you have to have twice the energy, triple the motivation, and throw in a cookie every now and then to keep them focused.  Of course, they will come to class–regardless–such is the desire to gain the ‘edge’ in this remarkably competitive society.  But the challenge lies in getting them to internalize the material and produce results.  This is precisely why my energy during those early morning hours is so critical.  In short, I bring the party.  To do this I must maximize the impact of my presence and energy, while minimizing any tell-tale signs of exhaustion or unpreparedness coming from my end.

Here are a few points I try to keep in mind for my early morning classes:

1) Smile frequently and use hand gestures.  Usually, the only energy in the classroom is the energy I bring to the classroom.  Being overly animated sometimes does the trick.  They need to know that, at the very least, I am awake.

2) Do everything to conceal exhaustion and unpreparedness.  I found the students can detect when my voice is a bit off, or when my eyes are slightly glossy.  They count my yawns (even the ones I hold back) and note when my tie is knotted a bit looser than usual–a clear indicator of a rushed morning.  If you are exhausted or rushed, fool them.  Tighten that tie, straighten that collar, and swallow those yawns.

3) Energize yourself, using all-natural stimulants, like a shot of ice-cold water or a series of deep breaths before entering the classroom.  If that fails, I retreat to Trucillo’s Cafe for an inspiring cup of coffee during my sacred 8:30AM break.

Intrigued with the idea of minimal sleep, I decided to try it out for myself.  Consider it an unhealthy social experiment that I have yet to recover from.  Keep in mind that, according to my very rough and completely unscientific estimates, the majority of my early morning students–from the second-year engineering student to the small-firm businessman; from the stockbroker to the insurance woman–function on 5 or less hours of sleep a night.

The 4-5 hour night experiment began with a bang.  Oh, the things I could accomplish and the fun I could have in the evening with those extra hours!  At first, it went smoothly.  Indeed, my evenings were long and full; and at the sound of the alarm a few hours later, I would sit up, take a deep breath, and leap out of bed to get to the shower.  No problem.  There is an adrenaline rush that comes with starting your day while the rest of the world sleeps.  There is even a rush that comes with operating on little sleep.  Sure, I would have to clench my jaw and breath in through my nose around 8:30AM to fight those wide, hippopotamus yawns.  But that was okay.

After a week or two of this I began to hit the alarm–two or three times–before finally rising and making my way to the shower, dragging my feet the whole way, adrenaline spent.  The yawns grew in height, width, length, and got louder.  I even skipped breakfast a few days in a row, unheard of if you know anything about what makes my world turn.  Now, the awakening process has become a real chore, an exhausting battle of the will, where the mind is constantly forced to–often violently–subdue the body.

This whole sleep experiment has got to end; I need rest.

I’ve decided that 5 hours of sleep is bad, and that 4 hours of sleep is even worse.  That’s why I’m going to go to bed right now.

Cheers

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

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

“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

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

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.

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

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