BUT...

This morning setting out to work, I decided to take a walk from my apartment along the beach. As I stepped outside the icy cold filled my lungs, chilling me to my extremities. The oft hazy sky had opened slightly and a periwinkle blue shyly shone through. Walking rather hurriedly, I was caught by a sudden wind, tunneled through the narrow streets. I closed my eyes as it swept past and was brought back home by the sound of crisp leaves blowing in the fall. Quickly opening my eyes, I was greeted instead by the sight of several wrappers, discarded carelessly, swirling in the gusts of whirling wind. A few meters later, the smell of an open sewer reminded me firmly of where I am.

I believe I have over-written about my general distaste for my current situation, exacerbated no doubt by my decision to co-open a business here. I feel like, over my time here, the excitement and optimism of being in a new, different place have drained away. I remember my first year in Korea, laughing lightly at people who gaped as I walked past, shrugging off those who believed me to be a prostitute, looking with interest on the cultural differences that now merely feel wrong. I remember riding the city bus, staring out the window and saying to myself in wonder, “I live in Korea.” Now, when I ride through the city, I wearily breathe to myself, “I live in Korea.” Is it a sign of aging and part of the natural process of acclimating one’s self to a place? Or is it an arcane racism now clawing to get out? Honestly, I hate for it to be either.

Racism? I have so long been ardently opposed to any form of oppression, finding it to be among the basest of human instincts and a catalyst and excuse for every treachery. To have that burgeoning in myself…

And if this is natural? I plan to live a great deal of my life outside of my country. Am I destined to become a permanent nomad, always growing increasingly unsettled and unhappy in every new place? Am I just inclined toward change in every situation? In relationships? Could this prevent me from maintaining long-term relationships or friendships, as my inclination is to quietly cut out those which become too inconvenient?

Some friends say that this is just what happens after living in a place for too long. You discover the “buts” of that place. They say it is bound to happen anywhere you live. Is it? Here in Korea, I live on the ocean, literally a five minute walk from the most famous beach in Korea. But an ugly cityscape of dull-gray concrete stands next to it and the beach itself is so dirty and crowded (they boast of a million strong in the summer, though in reality they will pack no less than 100,000 on the sand at one time). There are mountains that line the back of the city, even twisting in and out of developed areas. But a polluted haze and massive groups of Soju-drinking middle-aged men and women mar any hiking experience. The people can be so kind and helpful when you are in need of it. But the culture moves as a group, not respecting individuals; they collide past others without eye contact; those who are different are disposed of. My students whom I teach are so adorable. But their parents push them beyond the point of exhaustion, instilling in them competition with and animosity toward other children even before their schooling age of three or four. My foreign friends here are great, some of the best people I’ve ever had the opportunity to meet. But the foreign community is so transient, often you are saying, “good bye,” moments after you have said, “hello.”

In my mind, “but” echoes more loudly here than it would in so many other places. For all the good you may optimistically speak of here, there are detriments which dye all else in that same color. Before, whether due to youth or unfamiliarity with this place, I could look past it so easily. Now it consumes me.

If I am not destined by age or experience to lock myself into this mindset, I want to find ways to regain my optimism. I want to leave Korea one day and look back fondly on it. I want to find the good here. Yet after three and a half years, I wonder at the good that is to be found.

Abashed Return

I write this post somewhat hesitantly, partially because my brain during the last six months or so has served almost entirely to crank out broken English phrases to communicate with five-year-olds, but also because, after such a prodigal's absence, I am attempting a return to the blogging world like an ashamed, contrite child guiltily shuffling her feet and looking down at the floor.

But I'm optimistic about life breathing a sigh and allowing me time not usurped by work and its over analyzation of English. With that, I'd like to write again. I miss it. Though I'm finding my mental tongue has somewhat frozen with the inability to order my thoughts.

There are so many things I miss these days. For some reason, even given my general lack of free time, working for 10 to 12 hours every day, then collapsing into bed most nights, those moments of silence and stillness still cause me to become nostalgic. A journey to the past is about all I can afford with this job. (Well, apart from my recent, albeit brief, jog to freedom in Thailand for Christmas and New Year's.) I think of home and family. I think of friends scattered across the world, like some strange trail left by a hopeful Hansel and Gretel. I think of all the places I'd rather be.

I'm no longer satisfied in Korea, which is actually a kindly euphemistic understatement. I can't yet begin to count down weeks or months or days, so I'm setting markers across this next year for myself, telling myself that if I can make it that far, I can make it a little further. My next date of expectation is the return of two very dear friends who will be working with me (though not with my same duties). "It will get better after that," I tell myself. It has to.

Well, I've officially exhausted myself with the effort of patterned thought again. I'll say good bye for now, though hope that the next post occurs within a narrower time frame than the lapse between this and the last. Good night.