Facing Facts

Lately I have struggled with livng in Korea. In doing so, I have fallen into the poor habit of being hypercritical of this host culture, acting like one of those foreigners whom I observed somewhat incredulously when I first arrived two years ago in Korea. These people practiced with a devoted-sports-fan-fervor the picking apart of every fault of Korean society, vociferously announcing every moment they felt annoyed with anything. "Why don't they just go home, then?" I wondered. "Why stay and ruin it for the rest of us if it's so terrible for them?"

Sadly, shamefully, I have become a part of that category. Far too often I play the game of comparing what occurs here to my cultural perception of how life should flow. It is a game that cannot be won. This poor attitude slipped slowly into my mind, embedding small seeds of dissatisfaction that grew deeply rooted weeds. Often I am not aware of this change, proceeding through my life here, but somewhat broken in doing so.

Recently I have had comments from or conversations with friends that have made me cognizant of this tendency within myself. Having long identified myself as an optimist and a lover of different cultures, I am absolutely horrified at realizing my own cultural snobbery, my culturism. The conversation that most causes me to reflect was one I had the other day when speaking with Adam, who recently returned to begin his second year in Korea. We meandered to the topic of life in Korea. Adam voiced a comment that awakened echoes in my mind of my own frustrations so long ago: "Why do people complain about living here? Who's forcing them to stay? I just find that there's so much to learn from how Koreans do things."

Slightly surprised, I asked him how exactly he meant this. "What have you learned?" I wanted to know.

I am currently finding that I cannot exactly remember what he said, likely because I was so astonished and impressed with his overall attitude here. I believe he spoke about the different pace of life as compared to ours, that so much can be gleaned by slowing down our rush to get past the crowds, by observing the individual people within them. How snobbish have I been in refusing to see that when I become aware, there are an infinite number of lessons I can learn from Korean people? I need to shed my jaded musings; I need to search again for learning.

As I sat shaking sleep from my early morning mind this morning on the subway, I surveyed those around me. Some are faces that I see every day, fellow commuters heading to work, people I never likely will actually know. Students sat thumbing through the morning paper. A few elderly women hugged various packages on their laps. There was something suggestive of magic in this scene. It spoke so much of normality, but breathed hints of a people I should love and respect.

I live in their country. I am the foreigner. I must embrace this or choose to leave. So currently, still contracted to my job in Korea, I hope to seek all that I can learn from these people who are simultaneously so different from yet so similar to me.

A Tlut in Breath-taking Footwear

It was one of those weekends. You know what sort of weekend I'm talking about. The kind where you dress up like Juicy Couture, then go out to hang out with movie stars, rock stars, pirates, fairies, and walking Soju bottles. The kind of weekend where you take a trip to the countryside for some hiking Japanese-tourist style. The sort of weekend that you have some wine with the Europeans while watching the sun set over the city, then go to a party to have some more wind with the Europeans. The kind of weekend that you invent new words after yet again losing spectacularly at Trivia. You know. That sort of weekend.

Very typical, I know. Yet what else is there to do when the weather begins to turn, kissing colors into the leaves, suggesting that the sweaters be pulled from their shelves, wrapping shivers around exposed skin? Given the weather and hints at the fireworks in the foliage, I feel somewhat nostalgic and am reminded of being home. It's like being ten again, donning a jacket and rolling into freshly raked leaves. Not that I would do that here, though...

On Thursday, Emily, Liz, Mel, and I celebrated this feeling by baking delicious apple pie and beginning a paper mache pinata. Then, given that Halloween is approaching, we attended a Halloween party on Friday night. I valiantly attempted to post pictures with this, but since Blogger hates me, I had to settle just for my Flickr account (see left margin). My favorite party attendees were Michael Bolton (yes, he sang; yes, he melted the ladies' hearts), Chuck Norris (fact: guns don't kill people; Chuck Norris kills people), an overly enthusiastic pirate, a black angel, and part of the cast of Life Aquatic. It's the well-tested recipe for fun.

At trivia last night, I finally conclusively proved that I am the weakest link. Having shown up late, I joined a team which included Pierre, Ang, and her visiting parents; they performed rather well in the first round. As soon as I declared myself a team member, however, we quickly sank. Dead last. Again.

But the night was not a total loss. In talking with Liz, Kevin, Tom, and Jen afterward, we were able to invent a new word. Tlut. A word amalgamation, it was created with the unification of "toe" and "slut." After Liz began admiring her shoes, Tom reinforced her sentiments by saying they were "stunning". After discussing Liz's stunning pair of shoes for a few minutes, we moved on to mine, which Tom deemed "breath-taking." I suggested that it's even better, albeit somewhat risque, with fully undressed feet. After some begging and pleading done by them, I daintily removed a single toe from my shoe. From thereon, I was deemed a "toe slut". "Tlut" came naturally from that. And so went my normal not-so-normal weekend. Always fun.

Have a great Halloween, everyone, and be sure to keep your feet well-covered. We wouldn't want to be too salacious.

Back to the Future

A few weeks ago, days before Chuseok holiday, I was told by my friends Kyra and Aisha that Cinematheque, a small theater connected with the Pusan International Film Festival (PIFF), has an archive of all past PIFF films. Best of all, it's completely free. If you know me, you'll be aware that I'm the sort of girl who takes anything if it's free. The thought of a free movie, then, was exceptionally galvanizing. Emily and I made plans to see one a couple nights ago.

The feel of the room is similar to a section of a college library. Book shelves line the walls and the middle of the room, which is slightly larger than my apartment (not a difficult feat, come to think of it). Also, three work stations are set up. At one sits two computers, likely intended for facilitating film research. At the other two, segmented into three portions, are televisions, each with two head sets. One may choose any film from a list and then (for free, did I mention?) view it at one of the stations that are so conveniently set up. I do believe this has been done for film students hoping to study past movies, not people looking for a free "DVD Bang" (a Korean business that allows people to rent a DVD, then view it on a big screen while sitting on a plush couch in one of their rooms; Korean couples often frequent these).

Emily and I, eminently desirous of self-education, chose the intriguingly entitled Korean movie "Love Story," knowing nothing of the plot or purpose.

"Is it sad?" I questioned the girl behind the desk.

"Little," she answered meekly, pressing her thumb and forefinger together, holding them next to her eye.

Going ahead with the little sad Korean love story, Em and I settled in the provided chairs, prepared for an education. As it turns out, we were pleasantly surprised by the movie, despite the sometimes atrocious English translations ("Love is I wanting not forget long time.") and the melodramatic acting (long scenes of the actor or actress staring forlornly at the ocean while the camera zooms in to capture the single tear running down his or her cheek). It took place mostly at a seaside house called "il mare" with a man and woman who lived there corresponding with each other; he writes from 1998 while she writes from 2000. Their love develops over time, though she is struggling with the remnants of feelings for a lover who recently jilted her. Toward the end, she requests that he help her regain this fickle lover. Walking into her past, he attempts to do so, though an accident occurs and he is killed in the process. The future form of her remembers seeing him killed and returns in haste to "il mare" to leave him a note. I won't spoil the ending, except to say that he doesn't die and they do get together. Wait... did I reveal too much?

We both found this movie to be in a similar vein with "Sliding Doors," starring Gweneth Paltrow as a British woman (Why don't they get actual British actresses, who are likely more talented anyhow, to play these roles? Why is she so often a British woman?) whose life takes drastically different courses based on a small incident: she catches the train in one life and misses it in the other.

"Love Story" and recollections of "Sliding Doors" led us into a discourse about how each small decision influences our lives so profoundly. In minute ways we cannot possibly measure, small shifts in our daily course can shift the entire trajectory of our lives. Yet we place so little stock into these decisions, unable to see beyond their utter normality, unable to predict their interconnection with the web of world events. Daily decisions are far too mundane.

If you've read enough of my writings, you may surmise that I have a penchant for reflection on my past and wondering about my future. Often I feel the weight of my decisions, especially when considering what I will do in the next several years. Currently I work in an ephemeral position as an English teacher, something I have long claimed as a mere means to an end. I am constantly confronted with decisions regarding my future. Having long claimed that I have too many varied interests to settle on just one choice, my decisions are constantly in flux. I'm leaving, I'm staying, I'm returning to school, I'm traveling forever. At times I've cried out in frustration, wanting to know what the future holds.

But what if we were actually given the ability to glimpse into our future? What if we could attain, even with some sort of vague awareness, the knowledge of what lies ahead? This opportunity is so provocatively dangled by fortune tellers or those with similar professions. Go, and they will reveal the course of your life. Yet I am no fatalist; there are no events in my life that I see as inevitable, having been laid before me while I follow, powerless to effect change. The future is instead what we perceive that we can or will do. If I believe something will happen, because I have been told by a palmist or simply because I carry a strong conviction, then the likelihood of it happening is much greater. Life, for good or bad, then becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

I have long desired to do great things with my life. I want to travel the world, to immerse myself in other cultures. I want to work in a poor country, either with orphans or working in some way with the underprivileged. I would love, actually, to work with battered women in a Muslim country. I want to return to school, to relinquish the role of teacher for that of a student. I want to write; I need to write. But I want to be published, to someday create something that others deem stimulating and thought-provoking, something they would want to reread. I don't want to have a great deal of money, though recognize my need for it given my other interests. I want freedom; I want to be uninhibited; I want to always desire more. There's so much that I want.

All of this begs the question: Am I making the decisions today that will one day take me there?

The Midas Tongue

As I sit in Starbucks, happily sipping my Caramel Frappucino, yet simultaneously lamenting the early and unexpected departure of the Pumpkin Spice Latte, I quietly survey the boisterous crowd gathered. In it are scenes typical to life in Korea. A couple gazes across the table at one another, sharing their cake, talking quietly, dressed identically in matching shirts, pants, and shoes. A group of girl friends seated in the comfortable arm chairs laughs and talks noisily while several members of the group pull out their cameras or cell phones to snap individual pictures of themselves. Meanwhile a gathering of mothers behind me ignore their small children who run in circles or gape with near horror at me, the white, blond foreigner smiling at them. And immediately to my left sits a girl buried by English books, an electronic Korean-English dictionary, a number of pens, and reams of paper. She leans deeply over the paragraph, brow furrowed, face intent as she struggles to translate the content of this dominating foreign language.

It is this last scene that gives me a moment's pause. After all, it is this Korean desire manifested in my Starbucks neighbor that currently affords me the opportunity to work overseas. The study of English is big business in Korea. Haegwons, the private academies, run rampant across the country. All bookstores have an English section, preferring to stock English tutorial books over English novels of substance. Most shop signs are written in English, buying into the belief that an English name is more fashionable. And I am constantly hit up for private tutoring, something for which one can earn 40 or 50 dollars per hour. English is lucrative.

Western Asia altogether has a desperate quest to master English. My ability to speak it, along with being white, make me a desirable commodity here. It's not just one's ability to speak the language; allow me to stress that. An Asian-looking teacher generally has a harder time procuring work as a teacher than a very Anglo-Saxon teacher. I'm white. I'm tall. I have blond hair. To them, I embody what a foreign English speaker looks like. I'm a desirable commodity here.

When I reflect on how my work here has so little to do with any of my accomplishments or talents and is related so much to factors I have had no control over, it is slightly staggering. It's a type of reverse racism, being afforded a certain degree of respect and honor for being a foreigner.

Is there a purpose in it? Am I actually contributing anything of value to this society? Or am I merely perpetuating a sort of colonialism wrapped in the culture of a language? Mastering English is necessary to their economic growth, because business is done in English. They have to cater to the dominating economic force and petty politics of my inexorable home country. Thus comes the need for my Midas tongue.

Sometimes I get tired of always being reminded that I'm so different.

Home Safely

Four months, two days, 2174 miles. That's what it took my brother, Daane, and my cousin, Chad, to complete the entire Appalachian trail. They're home now. They're safe. And they still have their scary beards, allowing the general populace to assume that they are mass murderers.

Yet appearances are truly deceiving. I have not in my life known men who care so much about others, who dedicate themselves to bettering people around them. As I am close family to these men, and especially because their hike was done to aid women, this accomplishment touches me in a way I cannot express. I am so infinitely proud to be a sister and cousin of men such as these.

Perhaps Chad can better sum their experience.

"Last night really turned me for a 180. For the last 4 months we have been anticipating the time when we would finish this trip and be able to stop hiking, but now I am feeling an emotion of sadness. It is going to be hard to leave the woods after spending that last 4 months enjoying the beauty and the simplicity of hiking. I will miss the ability to just be able to hike in the woods with only my thoughts and the beautiful nature. There is just something about living this simple life that just seems right. I haven’t been able to put my finger on just exactly what it is. You need to experience it for yourself before you can completely understand it.

"So anyways we hiked down to Amicola Falls State Park where we hiked through a stone gate: the symbolic end of our trip and return to the American society. We spent a few minutes just sitting and reflecting before we took the few steps trough the gate. Aunt Char and Jim (Daane’s mom and stepfather) greeted us at the park. It was great to see family and know this time we wouldn’t have to leave them and head back into the woods. They took us to get a shower we then hit the road and began our journey back to Michigan."

Chad will be leaving the States to join the Peace Corps in three months' time. He will be stationed in the West African country of Guinea, doing small enterprise development. Chad describes this as, "consulting small businesses, teaching business classes, empowering women to enter the business field and developing community-wide initiatives to promote business and economic growth."

Daane is home now. As it is winter, and apparently already snowing in Michigan, I would not be surprised if he's currently out on the ski slopes again. He will resume his college classes at the start of second semester in January.

I love you guys. I miss you.

The Drill

Today I was reminded that I currently reside in a country that technically is yet at war. While teaching the first class after lunch, the speaker system suddenly interrupted my explanation of the dialogue. Immediately a teacher began an announcement in Korean, greeted by cheers from my students. One girl, particularly good at English and attentive to my unaware state, explained that at 2:00 we would begin a practice response for a North Korean attack.

"An attack?"

A loud wailing siren answered, confirming her explanation. An announcer began explanations that, though I understand little Korean, spoke loudly of crisis and alarm. The continuous crackling and echoey distance painted the touches of reality, similar in my mind to the tense World War Two radio broadcasts in London during the German blitzkrieg; a low flying plane at that moment added to the intensity.

Yet all the students sat laughing and talking in their seats, glad for the break from class.

How familiar this is to them. Children who have grown up in a warring country without ever having been touched by the effects or trauma of the war. They are inured to the war drills, as I was accustomed to lining up with a sturdy book for a tornado drill as a child. Yet I walked dazed from class, knowing that in what I esteem to be the safest country I have known, there is the extant threat from the other Korea to the North.

Starbucks and Wedding Dresses

I am now back from my Chuseok vacation to Shanghai. Back in terms of physical presence, although I think part of me got stuck back in that beautiful city. The growing discontent of which I have spoken regarding life in Korea is exacerbated by time spent in a city that effortlessly offers an infinity of exciting opportunities. My co-teacher was quite surprised today when I raved about how wonderful Shanghai is. "Really?" he questioned, confused. "I think Busan is more beautiful than there." He has never been "there." His experience speaks of the Korean mindset in general. Korea: good. Elsewhere: a pale shadow of this shining peninsula.

This very attitude leaves me rather tight-lipped, controlling my bafflement, remarking that Korea is beautiful, but other places are beautiful, too. It is this pervasive attitude that makes Korea all the less appealing.

You may not have realized I was going to Shanghai. It's possibly because it felt such a small trip for me. Busan to Shanghai is only an hour flight, hardly worth mentioning. I was not even there for a full week. We had four days off of work, so we left on a Tuesday and returned on Sunday. Such a short visit to China in my mind was akin to a weekend trip to Japan; something I would not think to mention in an update. Here, such travel is commonplace. How one's perspective changes while living out of country. Before, any trip would have merited much bragging. Now it feels negligible, a mere weekend get away.

We journeyed as three: a pessimist, an optimist, and a realist. Three English teachers in Busan. Three American girls. Three friends traveling together for the first time. We laughingly identified our outlooks on life while discussing various topics on the ride to the airport. Unsurprisingly, I was labeled as the eternal optimist: rosily remembering, downplaying the bad, hoping for good. Liz received the title of pessimist, taking caution and care in every situation. Emily settled somewhere between the extremes as our realist, combining the best of both. Even given our differences, we work very well as a group. Before you ask exactly how this is so, allow me to mention that we are all ardent fans of Starbucks. And this city held plenty. So there, the pessimist, optimist, and realist can all realistically come together in a perfect utopia.

Shanghai is a stunning city. Having traveled in a number of Chinese cities, I felt I could somewhat be aware of what to expect. And in some instances, I was correct. The strains of ancient voices that reside in a place pressed at all sides to be modern. Yet try as it has, China cannot forget the ancient world that continues slowly on with the daily task of survival. As we walked through Old Town, the original city of this now sprawling metropolis that once was surrounded by thick stone walls, lives continued in their buying of sweets, of dinner, of playing in the streets, of hanging laundry out the window, of napping in their shops. Staring at the foreigners invading their lives, we stared back, wondering at the contrast between new and old.

Immediately outside the border of this old life rose the imposing buildings advertising their multi-million dollar companies. Modern Shanghai noisily spies on the goings on of the past. Yet no one seems to mind this mix of ages. The architecture is extremely striking, although perhaps I only say this after living too long in a country that places little importance on the aestheticism of architecture. Parks wound their ways around the buildings, opening to the sky and sunlight that poured across the sidewalks.

The city was exceptionally crowded while we were there, since, similarly to Korea, they were celebrating a lunar holiday for most of the week. Attempting to maneuver through the crowds, we found our way to the plethora of shops and restaurants. Both were excellent and, as we incessantly pulled out our wallets, all gladly took our money. Due to the festival, we were able to watch the fireworks south on the river as we sat on a rooftop bar tucked into the Bund.

As we walked around the city, we tended to point out landmarks that were familiar to us, such as Western restaurants. Cries of "Starbucks!" were most frequent, as Shanghai seemed to rival even Seattle by placing a Starbucks at every corner. What a testament to communism.

Nearly as frequently as the beloved coffee chain were sighting of brides and bridal photo shops. The youth of the city seemed to all be rushing toward the altar, wearing various creations of white taffeta in the process. Our hotel, incidentally the oldest western hotel in Shanghai, had a wedding in their banquet hall every night we were there. Emily then appropriately entitled it the city of "Starbucks and wedding dresses."

But possibly the best time we had came on our last night, as funds wore thin and we continued our desires to splurge. We ate very well at an Indian restaurant, then went to a Jazz club that was a find from earlier in the week. Getting seats early, we had a little wine and great conversation. As the room filled, brimming with foreingers from a variety of countries, the band took their places on stage. Admittedly, I know little of music and can only identify what I enjoy. But Em has extensive talent and has spent years performing vocally. Liz lived in Nashville and worked at one of the world's largest record companies. So they know what is good. The guitarist that night, who from his accent we identified as being from a southern state of the U.S., was the most amazing I have ever heard. His talent was such that he kept the three of us closely between laughing and crying. His fingers flew so quickly that you couldn't actually see them. Oh, I wish I could describe music. It was amazing.

Shanghai has an appeal draws me in. As we left Gimhae airport in Busan, returning to our apartments, we all sat silently reflecting on the trip. The familiarity of Busan spread itself thickly, swallowing the warmth of remembering a vibrant city. I dreaded being back, being stuck here. Can I continue to work here? As usual, I have no answer. But as I met up with various friends last night, people I care deeply about, I know that I do not want to leave. I do not want to start all over again after I have such a wonderful community here. What I would really love to do is transport all my friends (in Busan and otherwise) to a city like Shanghai. But even I am not that great of an optimist.

The choice will eventually come. Most friends here are not permanently here. Most, like me, are working here only for a time. Meanwhile, the imminent end of my contract looms before me. What am I to do?

I sigh and sense the urge to end positively, to showcase my optimism. And so I shall. My time in Korea has been incredible. The people are ones I hope to know for a much longer time. I have learned so much of myself and of participating in a different culture. Emily, Liz, and I spoke of encountering our former selves, going back a year or two, of what that person might think of who we are and the choices we make. The mental image is somewhat comical, thinking of me talking with myself. The old Aubrey would not be able to understand who I have become. I am unsure that even I understand her. I once was so very set on my life, on how it should look and what I should do. As I have garnered life experience, so much within me has changed. I like this new person.

Liz showed us yesterday a beautiful quote by Mark Twain, one that I feel perfectly summarizes this state of semi-optimistic uncertainty.

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.- Innocents Abroad

And so I shall continue to travel. One can only guess at what the next place will be.