And Aubrey Was Her Name...

"Bienvenue"

2009-09-17T18:03:00.005+09:00

There it was, printed forthrightly across a nondescript sign hanging just outside of the baggage claim area. Though translated into several languages, including the English "welcome," just below, I couldn't help but gaze with happiness at the mellifluous French version. And welcome, indeed.

Having just transported an obese amount of luggage that included two overweight check-in bags (53 pounds and 59 pounds) along with 5 carry-on pieces (yes, 5!), all of which by their conservative sizes belied the exceptional weight within (the heaviest piece was 45 pounds by itself), I was exceptionally ready to be welcomed to my new home. Truth be told, I was ready for anywhere that meant I could drop my luggage without sitting on it like my personal, over-sized nest, and lie horizontally on an actual bed. Yet my journey was not yet finished.

Perhaps a preface is needed. You likely already know I am a francophiliac (a personal invention, indeed, but it feels stronger than the plain "francophile." Mine is more like a disease; therefore, an excessively adoring francophile creates a francophiliac!). I have been such since my first day in French class in ninth grade, when my teacher walked in with such serene levity and explained happily to us why she loves the French language so much. "'La poubelle' just sounds so beautiful while 'trash can' in English has to be something ugly, don't you think?" And, of course, after enduring years in the land of Kimchi, I decided the greatest reward to myself, and something that I just needed to do in life, was to go to live in France. One year later, here arrives Aubrey at the airport, dragging with her the contents of her former apartment.

Thus far I had made the trip well enough. Check in at Chicago was nerve-racking, knowing how overweight my bags were. Yet I was fully prepared for the front desk; my plan of attack included either crying a little bit to induce pity, or talking in the friendliest, most engaging manner about getting to live in France for a year (sans return ticket, hmm...)! As I stepped up to the counter and assessed the woman's face, I decided the second option was better. She replied with equal enthusiasm, wished me a great year, tagged my bags and waved me through. Walking away buoyantly with my 5 carry-on pieces, I attempted to appear as if they weighed nothing at all. I must be a great actress, because no one along the full trip gave me any trouble, save for a somewhat snide comment from a stewardess in Copenhagen: "Well, THAT'S a lot of bags."

From the airport, I had to buy tickets on the TGV (France's speed train) to my sister Ashley's town of Orléans. This was my first opportunity in roughly 8 years to speak French without the clear mutual understanding of me being a student who is only learning the language. The lady at the guichet (ticket window) had no idea I was coming. Silently practicing my French in my head as I waited in line, as I detest looking like a feckless tourist who makes obvious mistakes in language or is socially disrespectful, I tried to ask for my ticket in the best, clearest, most rapid French I could muster. "Je voudrais un billet pour Orléans, s'il vous plaît." Ah. Not bad, not bad. The lady didn't even miss a beat when responding. And as I strained to listen, I realized that I understood NOT A WORD. Oh, crap.

"Uh, pardon?" I demanded.

She sighed. Gesturing with her hands, she repeated only 5 words. "Aller simple ou aller-retour?" (One-way or round trip?)

But of course. Stupid tourist. I managed through the rest of the conversation, able to answer that I wanted a (1) one-way ticket (2) for that day (3) in second class (4) and that I would pay with cash.

Approximately two hours later, exhausted and ready to throw my luggage into the nearest poubelle, I waited on the curb in front of the Orléans train station for Ashley. As she pulled up, hair thrown into a messy pony-tail, riding breeches still on, the exhaustion disappeared and I was overwhelmed at my fortune of getting to be here with my beautiful sister.

A greater fortune for me is how much Ash loves it here, too. With a first weekend that included both mucking horse stables and forgoing a hotel room to dance the night away with Ash in Paris, we were given ample opportunity to discuss our respective futures. Since my arrival, we have been working on ways to become contributing members of French society, mostly so as to prolong our stay here. We have some ideas, which may mean a slight change in my plans for this year. But more on that (and my own city of Montpellier) at another time.

Until that time...

(Uh, turn your head on that one; blogger and my computer weren't coordinating!)

I Think I Can, I Think I Can

2009-04-16T23:42:00.002+09:00

When I'm writing, I always find that I fight this duality in me: one girl who wants to curse, spit on the floor, and tell off the world; the other who wears pink with pretty flowers in her hair and showcases a perpetual look of doe-like innocence. In short, when I attempt pessimism, the optimism always drops by to leave the last word. Anyway, you have been warned.

So, I didn't get the job in France. And I'm gutted. True, it was just an assistantship. And with my work experience and opening my own damn school over here, I was wickedly over-qualified. But I feel devastated. I allowed myself exactly one day to cry, feel terribly sorry for myself, make others who had to be around me that day feel unreasonably guilty, and then I stopped. What's the next step?

I decided that I have two viable options. Firstly, I could go home for the summer, then return to Korea to oversee the future potential expansion of our school. I love the business aspects of this job (I don't believe anyone was betting on me to love the business world), and always tell my business partner that I would remain here forever if only Korea weren't actually in Korea. Anyway, the other option is to take a page out of "Say Anything" and stand, John Cusack-like, outside the window of France with a boom box on my head, trying to play a song and win her affection. (Did that work for him? I wasn't old enough to have commited any larger portion of that film to memory.)

After some consideration, some wise counsel (including Jess clearly telling me over the phone, "Aubrey, we've been over this before. Korea's been good for you, but it's enough. You're done there."), and the general gagging induced by the thought of signing on for much longer living here, I have decided that I must go for France.

I have no possible reason to stay there beyond the length of a tourist. I have no job prospects, nowhere to live. My sister is there, but I detest the thought of showing up expectantly at her doorstep. Yet I cannot escape the lure of being in a place I have always loved so dearly and with a language that turns my heart into butterflies. I will keep searching for opportunities, including university study, to keep me long-term in the country.

Some people move places to see about a boy. I need to move to see about a country.

___

By the way, in a final twist of irony, I received notice the other day that I passed the DELF B1 test, a rather difficult language test that presents you with a "Diploma" proving your efficacy in French and ability to communicate within a business or school. This is the ultimate anti-climactic cheer for myself.

Eternal Sunshine of the Scattered Mind

2009-03-01T17:57:00.008+09:00

It's 5:57 right now. Since the late afternoon, the sun has inched its way across my living room floor; light which, even on a cold day, settles subtly in the room until, near the end of the day, it overheats this place enough that I feel surprised when I look outside and see the cool death of winter that yet hangs. In the afternoon, there's no need to turn on the heated floors of my apartment; the sun has done its work in deluding the gullible room, save for the air which somehow cheats my fingers of the sun's warmth. Now, drawing my cold fingers near my mouth to breath warmth onto them, I look outside to watch the hazy purple settling on the horizon as the sun ensconces itself behind the distant mountains.

My computer hums quietly. It's a strange sound, really; one that I never seem to feel completely at ease with. Actually, it's much less like humming and more like a long, breathy sigh. It breathes to cool itself, though comes off sounding like an impish child, interrupting class to make very clear their boredom...

At this moment, I am trying to choose that which I must focus on. My computer has no less than 5 documents open. Photos, set aside in a folder currently entitled "Random" must be organized. Photoshop is open beside it, waiting for me to test its abilities with some photos that could just use some retouching; it's been over a month that I've had the program and, though it has spent many hours open as a reminder that I must learn it, has been used twice. iTunes is open, too, needing music to be organized. There's also a document open with the story my friend and I have begun writing together, expectantly waiting (these last two weeks) for me to pen my half. And I left VLC open with an episode of Ricky Gervais's "Extras," after having decisively stopped it, twice, to get real work done. My internet browser has 12 tabs open, with subjects ranging from French tests, to a blog on poverty I've been reading, to a recipe for a homemade fruit cleanser. Behind me, a book loaned to me by my friend lies open, half-read, on top of three others, also on loan, also half-read. Next to me is a letter I have begun writing to my brother; just beyond that is the package I'm putting together for my cousin in Uganda, one that I promised when leaving Uganda after New Year's. And I just stopped writing moments ago to answer my phone; did I remember the plans to come over to my friend's new apartment? My mind skips again, remembering happily that three good friends are moving closer to me, while sadly another friend has left Korea for good.

My mind is scattered and fractured, though in a way that invigorates me and makes me feel a strong sense of purpose. Often preferring mild chaos to a planned existence, I check and recheck each tab, each unfinished project with a dreamy smile. I sigh audibly along with my whining computer; here are the things to which I may look forward to completing.

Permit me to tell you of at least one of my projects, the one that has filled my head with the most foolish of hopes; the potential of a finally-fulfilled, lifelong dream. This past month, I applied for a job in France, a teaching position as, let's say it together now, an English teacher. Part of my grasping toward this aspiration of just a slight adjustment to my reality has been to take a semi-intensive French class during February. Actually, it was two different French classes, at two different but similar levels, started late and therefore taken simultaneously. Nine hours of French per week for one month have caused that language which lay so still and dormant these past ten years to awaken, rise from its place, and, with bits and pieces of its decayed shell falling off, attempt its work of forming actual sentences and ideas from its sparsely filled cache of words. Suddenly this language I so idolized and even for so long have spoken fractured and banal sentences to only myself, has taken real life in me again.

I love French. And, much like an infatuated teenager scribbling the name of her crush over and over in her notebook, knowing if he just looked at her, he would undoubtedly return her fidelity of affection, this is how I feel of France. And like that teenager, I often become tongue-tied when face-to-face with my infatuation. Regardless of how hard I try, what I want to say gets stuck, gets turned around. Invariably the wrong word masquerades as something entirely different in my mind. I blush and then start to stutter. With a growing frustration, I see that I am not accurately portraying myself when speaking; I lack the words and the ability to convey my personality. In the end, it is an altered Aubrey who speaks French.

Yet I press on (with no measure valiance or bravery, just the foolishness of love). I am told that I will hear whether I get the job at the end of April. If so, do expect a post. This teen would not miss declaring to all that France has returned her affections.

Africa

2009-01-11T18:08:00.001+09:00

Sitting on the heated floor of my silent apartment, my fingers are curled around the steaming mug of my day's third cup of coffee, I stare somewhat blankly at a somewhat blank screen. One week ago, I was in Africa; now, I am back at my quasi-home in Korea. Sigh. Perhaps this third cup, or a fourth, will resurrect my tired mind. Perhaps the warmth of the floor will imbue in me my weakened ability to articulate thoughts. Or perhaps the blank screen will start to write itself. Perhaps.

Really, I'm trying to remember not being here in Korea. A week out from vacation and it feels as though I never left. Did I go to Africa? Or did I just dream it? The winter's cold has seeped through my skin into my bones, into my memories, and has altered the warmth and beauty of Africa. I'm back in Korea and my mind has tuned back to a single, monotonous note. Please pardon me for a moment as I grab the fourth cup of coffee awaiting me.

There. Such a simple solution. How can one not remember the glint of the sun, the soft singing of the birds, and the slight relief of a gentle breeze when looking into her eyes?

Back in Uganda, the hut of our host is small and dark, a great relief from the scorching rays of the sun outside that burn white skin even under the impotent protection of the shade. Balanced on my lap is a plate heaped with food that took this small family the length of this tortuously hot day to prepare. Brown rice, chicken, freshly killed for the two guests who now bless this small home, a salty broth with thin slices of a small carrot and onion, and finally an overly generous portion of matoke, the staple of Ugandan cuisine. While the plantains, in the banana family, yet hang unripe from the tops of the tree, they are cut down by nimble hands of a man who has been using his machete since the age of six or so, then steamed and mashed by the woman. Its taste is that of mildly bitter, unsalted and unbuttered mashed potatoes. It is found on nearly every Ugandan's plate at meal time.

I take a bit of the matoke, mixed with some rice and dipped in the sauce. "It's so wonderful!" I exclaim, attempting my best to demonstrate my appreciation and gratefulness for the generosity of this family, having so little, but sharing everything with her guests. Did I mention that they killed one of their chickens to feed us? This having been a last-minute visit, as we ran into and were invited by Maria when Chad took me to show me his work place, we had brought no gifts to offer. She, however, knowing and esteeming Chad, felt blessed to have him and his visiting cousin at her home in one of Mbale's outlying villages. While Chad and I sat in the shade, Maria disappeared without announcement. With my querrying glance, Chad said, "She's going off to prepare lunch. That's just how they do it here." Two hours later, when Maria had not returned, I started to question Chad. "Should we thank her for inviting us and leave?" Again, he replied simply, "It's just how they do it here." Yet another hour later, we cut to the scene of us being served before her, of her bringing us water as we sat to wash our hands, of her heaping seconds onto our already full plates, worrying aloud that we were not eating enough, before taking any for herself. Her husband and daughter did not join us for the meal; I do not know if they ate.

Maria's family is quite small by Ugandan standards. In a country where more children equal more help working in the fields and at home, families tend to balloon. Their neighbor across the street has twenty-seven children, born to him by three wives. Maria and her husband have only one son and two daughters; the unmarried daughter is living at home while the other two are married and living elsewhere. She had another daughter who died at age twelve. The girl is buried in the front yard, under the shade of a banana tree next to Maria's grandson, who died last year. That, Chad tells me, was the last time he was at her home.

Their house is a somewhat impressive home in Uganda, for, though yet unfinished, as building in Africa is done stage by stage as money comes in, it has cement floors and several rooms; most village houses are a single room with well-swept dirt floors, walls constructed of dried cow dung and roofs of either tin or bundled straw. One should also note that Ugandan adults, regardless of the state of their wealth or poverty, take exceptional care to remain clean. Clothes, torn sometimes beyond recognition and often unwittingly displaying the parts of the body that westerners take such care to conceal, are nonetheless spotless in a country that, during the dry season, has dust hanging in a semi-permanent, light curtain.

I have two days left in Uganda. Before coming, I tried not to create any expectations, as I always find that the most fulfilling traveling experiences come when you have no expectations. Chad, my cousin, has been working in Mbale, a modest town in Eastern Uganda approximately 25 miles from the Kenyan border, for one and a half years with the Peace Corps. We decided long ago that, both of us being unable (financially, for him) or unwilling to travel home (it's freaking COLD in Michigan now; give me summers at home instead!) for Christmas, I would come to visit so we could celebrate together. And, being busy during the day with my job and rather lazy at night, I did little research on what to expect in Uganda before coming. Which is perhaps why I was surprised by the sheer beauty of it.

Though Chad kept insisting that, since it is the dry season, everything was now very brown, it did nothing to dissuade me from walking around in a mild trance, awed by the presence of grass, trees and flowers. It was everywhere you looked. People even warned me about where I walked since, "That's an avocado tree and one might just fall and hit you on the head." An avocado hitting me on the head? I pay nearly five dollars for a single avocado in Korea. If one fell on me, I'd probably weep with pleasure. Yards are littered with flowering trees and bushes. The sky is a pure azure, punctured by billowy white cumulus clouds that explode into color around 6:15 for the sunset.

Winston Churchill (perhaps you've heard of him...), in his book "My African Journey," spoke of Uganda, saying, "For magnificence, for variety of form and color, for profusion of brilliant life -- bird, insect, reptile, beast -- for vast scale -- Uganda is truly the pearl of Africa. " Who am I to disagree?
So it is with my fifth cup of coffee in hand and the sun having sunk into the haze that settles in the Korean sky that I raise tribute to such a place of beauty and human warmth, another small corner of this world that I'm so grateful to have seen. I have more to write of the trip and the blind optimism that I will overcome my laziness to actually write it. Yet dinner plans, and the possibility of a sixth cup of coffee, now call me away. Perhaps, for my own memory's sake, I'll post again by next week about Africa.

Again, perhaps.

A Bit of Math

2008-11-02T20:32:00.003+09:00

It has been 1501 days since I first moved to Korea. I now have 211 days left here. For those of you still working out the math, that's just 12.3 percent to go.

I have worked at three schools here. 33% were hell on earth. 33% included responsibilities that could have been performed asleep. And 33% I created and now run with my business partner.

Additionally, 16.9 percent of my life has been spent based from Korea, meaning four birthdays passed as I have been a resident of Korea.

While here, I have added 10 more countries to the list of those I have visited, putting the official total at 20. I will have made 100 percent of friends and family at home jealous with that information.

Then comes the somewhat diaphanous totals of friends I have made here, depending on whether they are calculated by facebook or by the amount of time spent and intimacy created whilst they were here.

And given this slight excess of statistics, I must finally mention the approximate 300 days I spent loathing living here, proclaiming with 100 percent certainty that when I left, I would venture forth without a trace of nostalgia. Yet perhaps, against my preference to never be wrong (or at least never to admit to it), that last figure may be slightly off. Perhaps, PERHAPS, I will miss life here.

And if I can be convinced to sit down for long enough, perhaps I will figuratively pick up this blog again and, in future posts, explain my reasoning for this. Perhaps.

Happy now, Dave?

What a Jaunt Have I Had

2008-03-13T12:51:00.005+09:00

I've got a secret. And burdened by both the order to keep this esoteric information to myself and the desire to tell every passer-by, I have decided to confide in the world's greatest secret-keeper: the World Wide Web.

For weeks now, my cousins have been planning a surprise party for my Grandma's 80th birthday. This woman, my mom's mom, is the bedrock of a very tightly knit family. When my Grandpa died over 20 years ago, she turned her full focus on her grandchildren. I am the oldest of 13. My fondest memories of my childhood are set at Gram's cottage on Big Whitefish Lake. We slept 4 or 5 to a room in that 3-room cottage; Gram slept between two children, both of whom always wanted to hold her hand as they fell asleep while listening to the children's series "Adventures in Odyssey." All summer long, she cooked for us and planned activities. She was tireless and epitomized patience and love. The stories are endless and exceedingly precious to me, though I won't attempt to take space relaying them to you. Suffice it to say that those times helped shaped my identity.

This information, then, is enough to illustrate my desperation at knowing I would miss out on another family activity, especially this one. It is also why at some point I stopped reading the emails my cousins sent me.

Last Thursday, though, I decided it was time to get through the emails and get over my disappointment. The first I opened was from Amber, saying that her dad, my Uncle Jim, wanted to use his airline miles to fly me home for the weekend. I was in shock. Moving slowly so as not to explode with this information, I phoned the airline company. After about half an hour on the phone, they found me a ticket. Leaving on Thursday afternoon and returning on Monday, I make it home with just enough time to surprise my grandmother.

And so you can understand that this excitement pulses through me. In one week, I leave for home. In 11 days, I'll be back. And though I know that I will be overcome with exhaustion and a general confusion of what time zone I am in, the excitement is palpable. Though I won't be able to spend nearly enough time with my family and none with my friends, I'm going home! I'm going home! I'm going home!

After nearly two years, I'm going home. But, wink, wink, don't tell...

BUT...

2008-01-30T08:58:00.000+09:00

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

2008-01-23T18:47:00.000+09:00

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.

Betrayal

2007-06-15T16:53:00.000+09:00

I once heard a fable of a girl who was visited at a young age by a menacing genie. To her, he proposed an interesting choice; would she prefer an idyllic life in her youth and one of tribulation in her later years, or would she rather the situation to be reversed? After some thought, her choice was to face the trials in her youth, saving a happy life for maturity. Thus, she endured one tragedy after another, losing both parents in tragic accidents and suffering a myriad of other afflictions. Magically at some point, then, this genie’s vicious appetite for suffering having been slaked, a turning point occurred. Forced to fulfill the end of his promise, her life became all that could be hoped for, remedying the painful past.

At times I have wondered if this story were meant for me, and if so which of the choices I had made, or, indeed, whether I had even been given the choice to make. For in so many ways, I had the perfectly idyllic childhood. Painted in such bright colors and smiling, happy memories, I lived a life that could cause envy in many others. Yet I remember a distinct moment in college, likely after my sister’s accident, that I saw with startling clarity the difficulties that had slipped in during my youth, posing as normalcy. I began to become affected by them, embracing instead this notion that my life had been tipped in the direction of difficult trials as opposed to contented bliss.

Had my choice therefore been made for a happy adult life? Possibly, or at least I could hope.

For deep down I had always believed this fairy tale, assuming that you had but one option in your life. At which point did one face affliction: earlier or later? Life, however, has proved this assumption to be highly erroneous. Betrayal and perfidy pay no heed to your past.

This probably shouldn't be posted as a blog, but this hurt drives me both to write and to attempt some feeble reconnection with those whom I love.

I'm sorry to all the people with who I have not yet contacted. I have indeed, as my dear cousin Amber recently noted, fallen off the face of the earth. From my former promise to write everyone, I have gained more emails in my inbox (currently 191) and have responded to few, if any. Emily, Tuesdays just aren't the same without you, even six months later. Sacha, an email waits in my drafts box for you; what can I say to a dear friend who I miss so much? I missed Amber's graduation from law school. I missed my sister Ashley's birthday. I missed my dad's birthday. I missed mother's day. And I will miss my cousin Amy's wedding.

Meaghan asked me the other day if I had just forgotten, as she had forgotten her parents' anniversary. No, I have never forgotten. I remembered on and before the days. I just haven't had time. It's a feeling I hate only slightly less than having too much time, as was my situation when I wasn't working.

I love you all and miss you deeply. I am fine, in most respects. Doing quite well, actually. Damp cheeks may belie such an assertion, but my smile remains. The show must go on. I hope to see you all soon.

Love Aub

I'm NOT Dead

2007-05-08T15:23:00.000+09:00

Ok, this is a two minute post to assert most forcefully that no, I have not died and no, I am not being held captive somewhere by terrorists. Life has exploded in such a way that all free time has been quite effectively usurped. It was last night when I awoke from a strange dream of my dad flying to Busan to rescue me from the clutches of a nefarious evil-doer that I realized I should at least inform people of my being alive. I've just been so very busy. So very busy and without internet. With those forces working against me, I haven't been one to email or update.

I'm sorry!

But now my two minutes are up, so I have to abandon you again. Albeit more temporarily this time. Some will have noticed that I have caved and am on facebook. Rather, I was with friends who decided to sign me up. Either way, I hope to use that soon to make contact. For those on email, I have so far reduced my inbox from 256 unread emails to 179, though I have so far replied to none. Allow me to promise I will likewise do that soon.

For anyone who still bothers to check this thing, know that I love you (unless, of course, I do not know you), and hope to make contact again soon. Alright, I have a class coming up. I've got to run!

Kev on a Dare

2007-02-23T09:32:00.000+09:00

Naked Conversations

2007-02-14T15:25:00.000+09:00

"I oughtn't to laugh at my father," I said.

"No," he said, touching his lips and rolling his eyes upward.

"I shouldn't! It's a sin." Sin, sin, I felt drenched and sick of it. "I used to pray to God to make me just like him. Smart and righteous and adequate to His will," I confessed. "Now I don't even know what to wish for. I wish I were more like everybody else."

He leaned forward and looked in my eyes. His finger moved from his lips toward my face and hovered, waiting for a place to plant its blessing. "Béene, if you were more like everybody else, you would not be so béene-béene." ("The Poisonwood Bible," Barbara Kingsolver)

Thus far I have cleverly been avoiding responsibilities on this holiday. It's the same story every time. Given an excess of free time, I resist productivity altogether and revel in a flurry of busy little nothings.

The other day I spoke with friends about doing some cooking, an excuse for both girl time and eating, two activities which always galvanize me, and I immediately offered to host. I did this knowing it would force me to organize my frighteningly messy apartment, a task I had been ardently avoiding to that point. And during the day spent reordering an apartment in size similar to that of a jail cell (a few paces this way, a few paces that way), I came across my cache of notebooks. Of course I could not resist reviewing them. What I found within was a paper trail cataloguing my scattered thoughts that dart from disparate idea to disparate idea. I've oft wondered at my propensity to switch notebooks like one might switch outfits, as though cleverly disguising this mind that can dwell with such repeated astonishment at the same reflections, the same events.

Turning pages slowly, slipping with a slight crinkling to hasten the records of a trapped time, I saw myself as who I once was, a younger version of an entirely different person altogether. A girl poised so precariously over the brink of what she knew, steadying herself before the abyss of an unforeseeable future.

Three things shocked me: (1) the total difference in who I was then to who I am now, (2) the utter sameness between me and this girl, our thoughts, our musings, and (3) the infancy of thoughts I now embrace that I assumed to be recent in their impregnation of my mind.

I journal frequently, sowing scattered thoughts across the pages of innocuous school-child notebooks. Writing brings an interim peace to this mind. And in some way, it is a private attempt to claim pieces of the past, to lend validity to life's progression. Yet as I relived a past that feels so distant, thought number two hovered closely, pointing out how little I have actually evolved, how frequently my mind dwells on the mundane.

Yet then an event or a conversation was recorded, something said by a friend that made me think. I defended my point of view. I considered theirs. And suddenly my own began to tilt dangerously, threatening me with a great crash, a shattering into fragments. This is the girl who I have become. So much the same, thoughts stretched out like highways through the course of my days and weeks, but so different, a stranger who stole this other girl's skin.

To consider one's change is a frightening thing. The considerations that were once planted so orderly, accompanied by facts and opinions supporting the conclusions, are suddenly ripped from their foundations and strewn about. It is an unnerving loneliness.

But in the past few weeks, since I have had too much free time and no work whatsoever, I have been blessed-- yes, I forcefully and intentionally use that word-- by people who spark in you thoughts with which you must struggle. And the same people who support you to be different from what you are expected to be, from what you once were. A number of these conversations have taken place in the sauna, a wonderfully warm retreat from the chilly winter air.

I have not yet spoken of Korea's saunas, likely because the concept seems so strange to the Western emphasis on privacy. They are Asia's public baths, where one goes, stripped bare, for cleansing. In a culture where physical appearance is so intensely important and people are examined with scientific scrutiny for their flaws, documented loudly in vociferous commentary, they, in the careful disregard of ticking time, lay aside their examinations. Entering into a swimming humidity, one strips of all garments: jacket, shirt, pants, socks, underwear. Passing completely naked in front of Koreans who no longer seem to notice the pale whiteness of your skin and the deeper whiteness of areas unaccustomed to the sun, one enters into the shower and bath area. The water that runs in timed spurts from the shower head is used to strip our final layers of protection. Colors run down one's face in dramatically thin lines, like the photographic negative of a tear-streaked face. Nakedness.

We venture cautiously into the hot pools, the cold pools, the temperate water, the steam rooms, using corners for our coffee shop conversations. It is only at this point that we as foreigners are truly noticed. We talk and laugh without great reserve; we are watched with dark eyes wondering at our strange yet familiar language. Koreans are strangely silent at the saunas, as if completely, albeit temporarily, renouncing their culture of staring and chatter.

Recently, I have taken part in a number of these naked conversations with Meaghan and Sacha. Coming together, we remove slowly those layers of the past, laying down the garments we use daily so as to appear the same as everyone else. Protecting our doubts, hiding our fears. But I am so thankful for these girls with whom I can be completely naked and fully without shame.

Above I quoted an excerpt from The Poisonwood Bible, which all three of us just finished reading. One of four children of a missionary in the Congo, Leah is plagued by the notions of her own sin, mired in it, suffocated by it. In her I saw the girl I once was, so desirous of perfection, yet so acutely aware of my own failings. Sin, sin, sin.

I now care so much less about the concept of sin.

At times I have considered whether I have stopped caring altogether for my faith, for my future, for the poor, the destitute, the broken in this world. Have I wrapped myself in excuses? Has my heart grown cold? But as I spoke with Sacha and Meaghan, saw their passion and care for others, their beliefs, their dreams, I felt the similar rising of my own. The beauty of a dialogue that requires no answers, that asks only for participation in the process. I am not faced with caring less; neither do I care more than I once did. It is merely that the palette of my world view has shifted from a dogmatic black and gray to a watercolor of more colors than I could name.

Sacha so poetically wrote, "These last couple of weeks have been precious to me, as I've held a lens up close to my heart and seen pieces of me that could only be poured out by the stimulation of another soul pouring it out of me. My friends, you know who you are." This is precisely what I feel.

To such friends of mine, I extend my thanks.

2007-02-14T11:20:00.000+09:00

And if that didn't entertain you, then Pierre's google translation from my English to French ("a proper, civilized language") and then back to English again certainly will.

“oughtn' T of I to laugh at my father,” I indicated. “Not,” he said, concerning his lips and rolling his eyes upwards. “I would not have! It is a sin. ” Sinned, sinned, I felt soaked and patient of him. “I was accustomed to requesting with God to make me just like him. Smart and right and proportioned with his will,” I admitted. “Now I cannot even what wish. I wish that I be differently rather everyone. ” It leaned ahead and looked in my eyes. Its finger moved of its lips towards my face and planed, awaiting a place to plant its blessing. “Béene, if you were rather everyone differently, you would not be thus béene-béene. ” (“the bible of Poisonwood,” Barbara Kingsolver) Up to now I abilement had abilement avoided responsibilities these holidays. It is the same history each time. Given a spare excess of time, I resist the productivity completely and the revel in a small gust of wind nothings occupied. The other day I spoke with friends about making the kitchen, an excuse during time and to eat of girl, two activities which always galvanize me, and I immediately offered to the host centre. I did this knowing it would force me to organize my alarming apartment swine, one to charge which I burning had avoided at this point. And during the day spent reordering an apartment in the face similar to that of a cell of prison (some steps in this way, some steps which manner), I found my hiding-place of the books. Naturally I could not resist to review them. What I found in inside was a paper trail cataloguing my dispersed thoughts which dart disparate idea with the disparate idea. I often wondered my propensity to commutate books as one could commutate equipment, as abilement disguising this spirit which can remain with such an amount of astonishment repeated with the same reflexions, the same events. Turning of the pages slowly, slipping with a light crumpling to accelerate the discs of an imprisoned time, I saw myself as who I was in the past, a younger version of an entirely different person completely. A girl carried in so perilous balance above the edge of what she knew, strengthening itself before the abyss of an unforeseen future. Three things shocked me: (1) all the difference in which I was then with which I am now, (2) sameness total between me and this girl, our thoughts, our daydreams, and (3) childhood of the thoughts that I embrace now that I supposed to be recent in their impregnation of my spirit. I frequently register, sowing thoughts dispersed through the pages of the books innofensifs of schoolboy. The writing brings a peace of interim to this spirit. And in an unspecified way, it is a private attempt to claim of the pieces of the past, to lend the validity to the progression of the life. However because I relived has after that feels so distant, thought the narrowly planed number two, specifying how little I really evolved/moved, how frequently my spirit remains on the society man. However then an event or a conversation was recorded, something said by a friend who incited me to think. I defended my point of view. I considered theirs. And suddenly my clean started to incline dangerously, me threatening by a great accident, a bursting in fragments. It is the girl who I became. The same ones, thought so much extended outside like roads by the course from my days and weeks, but so different, a foreigner who stole the skin of this other girl. To consider the change with is an alarming thing. The considerations which were in the past thus planted orderly, accompanied by the facts and the opinion supporting the conclusions, are suddenly torn their bases and approximately widespread. It is a weakening loneliness. But in last weeks, since I had too much free hour and no work some, I was blessed-- yes, I with force and employ this word intentionally-- by the people who étincellent in you the thoughts with which you must fight. And the same people which support you to be different from what one expects that you are, of what you were in the past. A certain number of these conversations took place in the sauna, a retirement marvelously hot of the fresh air of winter. I did not speak yet about the saunas of Korea, probable because the concept seems so strange with the Western emphase on the intimacy. They are the public baths of Asia, where one disappears, stripped naked, for cleaning. In a culture where the physical aspect is so much intensely important and people are examined with the scientific meticulous examination for their straws, extremely documented in the noisy comment, they, in the careful negligence of the time of drill, to extend on side their examinations. Entering a moisture of swimming, one strips of all clothing: jacket, shirt, trousers, socks, underclothing. Completely naked passer by in front of the Koreans who do not seem any more to note the pale whiteness of your skin and the more deep whiteness of the unusual sectors to the sun, one enters the sector of shower and bath. The water which functions in synchronized gushings of the head of shower is employed to strip our final layers of protection. The colors function in bottom of the face to one in definitely slightly of the lines, like the negative photographic one of a tear-striated face. Nudity. We dare with precaution in the hot swimming pools, the cold swimming pools, moderated water, the vapor rooms, by using corners for our conversations of bar-restaurant. It is only in this moment that us as from abroad are really noted. We speak and laugh without much reservation; we are observed with the dark eyes wondering our strange language however familiar. The Koreans are curiously quiet with the saunas, like so completely, though temporarily, renonçant with their culture to look at and of chattering fixedly. Recently, I took part in a certain number of these naked conversations with Meaghan and Sacha. Come together, we remove these layers of the past slowly, fixing clothing which we use the newspaper in order to appear the same ones as each one differently. Protecting our doubts, hiding our fears. But I am so grateful for these girls with whom I can be completely naked and entirely shameless. Above me quoted an extract of the bible of Poisonwood, which each of the three of us reading finished just. One of four children of a missionary in Congo, Leah is infested by the concepts of its own sin, dirtied mud in him, suffocated by him. In it I saw that girl I was in the past, if eager of the perfection, however so much intensely informed my clean failings. Sin, sin, sin. I worry now so much less concept of the sin. Sometimes I considered if I stopped completely worrying about my faith, for my future, the poor, the poor one, broken in this world. Did I wrap myself in the excuses? Did my heart develop cold? But while I spoke with Sacha and Meaghan, saw their passion and care for others, their belief, their dreams, I felt to rise similar of my clean. The beauty of a dialogue which does not require any answer, that requires only the participation in the process. I am not confronted to worry less; neither one nor the other not care of I more than I in the past made. It is simply that the pallet of my sight of the world shifted of a black dogmatic and gray with a watercolor of more than colors than I could call. Sacha has so much poetically written, “these last couples of the weeks were invaluable with me, because I held an objective to the top close to my heart and considering the pieces of me which could only be versed outside by the stimulation of another heart pouring it out of me. My friends, you know who you are. ” It is with precision what feel me I. With such friends with me, I prolong my mercies.

Same Same But Different

2007-01-22T12:46:00.001+09:00

I'm back. Two weeks in Vietnam, one week in Cambodia. My trip was amazing. But you expected me to say that, assumed this to be inherently true. And it tells you nothing.

Yet as I sit here attempting to put into words the respiring, intently gazing memories walking slowly and deliberately through my mind, the places that filled my senses, the relationships built, relationships strengthened, the tilting of history, shuffling large feet, pushing up thick glasses, now standing awkwardly against the dance-floor-wall of this modern era, I struggle with the immensity of such a task. With material for hundreds of posts, I feel pressed to compress it to a single one.

In three weeks, I received a key-hole glimpse of two countries, both with tumultuous, sanguine histories, hands stained crimson and tear-streaked faces dark with the dirt of time. Yet through this both have emerged with bright, friendly smiles and a certain adeptness at marketing themselves to the hordes of eager tourists who at times appear to outnumber the locals. The times when I travel, when I am separated from any semblance of home, I feel most intensely the skin of my own country, of how I am affected by my American-ness. Few Americans travel to Southeast Asia.

I wish that we would. Southeast Asia, to both the knowledge and oblivion of so many Americans, has been deeply affected and afflicted by the choices of our government. Everyone knows about Vietnam, remembers the war we lost, makes the obvious analogy to our current war. Oh, pardon me. Our liberation of an oppressed people. Just like Vietnam. Fewer are aware that, while slinking away from Vietnam, we decided to display our final throws of power, puffing out our chests, by dropping bombs onto Vietnam's neighbors, Laos and Cambodia; we spent millions to bomb these countries with which we were not at war. When I was in Laos a year and a half ago, I saw the empty bomb shells, stamped by their maker, a nation defending the Freedom of All Peoples, shells now converted into flower pots, water jugs, or dinner bells. (From where, then, did this true peace and freedom come?) The landscapes of all three countries are pock-marked by the presence of the U.S. there. It is such a shameful part of our history.

While there, Pierre and I went to the Cu Chi tunnels, built by the Viet Cong during the war in defense against the U.S.. It was a testament to this current era, an unwalled museum for the art of war. Our guide, a Vietnamese man who fought on the side of the U.S., led us through the well-tread tourist paths first running past craters from the bombs dropped by an invading nation with such immense wealth and modern technology, then showing booby traps created by the ingenuity and resourcefulness of the much poorer Viet Cong. Somber, learned tourists with cameras hanging from their necks, later grinning silly smiles from atop the shell of a bombed-out tank, the hollow skeleton of the achievements of my country. I felt ashamed. It felt intrusive and ignominious to treat with such lightness the horror of what occurred there, of what my country did. But then, I was the only American on the tour.

We were able to go through a small section of the tunnels, crouching lowly in the still darkness, immured by both the confines of hardened dirt walls so low and narrow I had to crawl and the cold, spectral realization of the purpose and history of this slender hollow in the earth. Just before this, we walked away from the gun field, where each rich tourist is treated to the opportunity to shoot a weapon at the low low price of just one U.S. dollar per bullet. The intense sound of gunfire, though I sat further away and the targets were merely boards at the opposite end of a field, left me shaken.

Remarkably, though the countryside still reels from the damage caused by my country, the people seem to have healed. I was treated with such friendliness and even excitement regarding from where I hail. In hearing my country, most often eyes widened with recognition and the person began to excitedly grasp for a distant relative or friend they knew in the States, or simply began naming cities. When catching our train from Sapa to Hanoi, though, a gentleman had quite a different reaction. Pierre and I were traveling with friends we met in Halong Bay, an Australian father and son, Mike and Drew, respectively. A man guiding us to our car asked Pierre where he was from. "France."

"France, oh! And they?"

"Well, they're from Australia and she's from America."

"Ah, Australia. Yes, kangaroo! And America," he noted excitedly, raising his arms in the position to fire a gun. "Rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat," he said happily, mimicking the sound of machine gun fire. And so our legacy goes. (I almost shot him for saying that, but had left my own gun in my other coat.)

The United States, however, has not been the only country to have slit the throats of the people of Southeast Asia. They have done the same to each other, to themselves. The history of Cambodia, I discovered upon going there, is fascinating in its horror. After meeting up with Matt, we went to the Killing Fields, where victims of the Khmer Rouge regime were dumped into mass graves. 1.5 million Cambodians were killed by a regime with the perfect propaganda and brainwashing of the Nazis or of Mao's corrosive brand of communism.

In the first two hours I was in Cambodia, gazing at the Crayola-colored rice field countryside, I was more struck and captured by it than my entire two weeks in Vietnam. A small country, embraced tightly by the tourist factories of Thailand and Vietnam, I saw in it the same haphazard, untamed beauty that India and Laos possess, unable to be captured or packaged. It was the beauty of the untouched domesticity of a people I did not know or understand. Especially in the countryside, Cambodia has that youthful, virginal beauty of untainted people, unlike Thailand or Vietnam, both haggardly prostituted for the pleasure of tourists, swollen with an abundance of cash.

Vietnam, or at least what I encountered there, has become an imitation of itself, a forgery, a reproduction of an authentic lifestyle. Crisp white shirts tucked into pressed pants or patterned, flouncing skirts, both loosely protecting heavy wallets, lay flatteringly on those dressed up to greet the mundane local lives that we captured so well with our quickly flashing cameras. Guided from one paint-by-numbers life to the next, thickly coated in tourist colors, one is shown wide, watching eyes, and bright clothing. Tourist-colored smiles and tourist-colored products. Soon after, the sales pitches begin, people pressing you to buy every manner of local ware, speaking in their impressive English.

In Cambodia, I saw a mix of lives. Matt and I drove a motorbike 314 km from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap, the tourism Mecca of Southeast Asia. Along the lengthy Highway 6, a simply paved two-lane road, we viewed lives lived without the practiced presence of performing for a camera. Siem Reap, however, where one can see Angkor Wat, has built itself today upon the thousands of tourists moving with awe through there every day. Ancient temples well-preserved and comfortable hotels in which to dream pretty, clean dreams.

All along Highway 6 were stilted houses lined into obedient rows, standing immodestly. Wooden skirts were hiked high to the second floor, while concrete legs bared themselves, set purposely and authoritatively askance. Families gathered under the shade of the carefully tiptoeing homes, like ballerinas performing. As we passed, two foreigners speeding on a motorcycle, curious stares and wild waving erupted from those shading themselves from the intense Asian heat. With every stop, I quickly retrieved the camera, stealing moments of the mundane from these wondering strangers who quickly pooled around us, performing our own unremarkable activities of purchasing water or gas, of stretching limbs stiff from perching for far too long on an uncomfortable seat.

Siem Reap is a different Cambodia, one fashioned for the eyes and comfort of the tourists who pour in like water to see the ancient Angkor temples. Impressively schooled resorts, attentively awaiting buses of tourists, surreptitiously smoothing the crisp, starch-smelling collars of their scholarly white shirts, narcissistically admiring their own meticulously manicured servitude, line the pencil-drawn dirt road, like a translucent thread of spider web abandoned prematurely in its completion, yet nonetheless glinting in the scattered sunlight. A thin link to true life in Cambodia. The resorts, protected by the money-green grass planted before them, have all stepped back from this aged line of earth, as if offended by this vagrant reminder of their location.

This has been my third trip to Southeast Asia; the accumulation of time I have spent there is two months. Vietnam startled me in its utter sameness with the rest of Southeast Asia, with little to define it differently. As the very popular Asian-English saying goes, it was Same Same But Different. Odd in its similarities to what I have thus far experienced, yet unique in my experiences. This was a great trip. For the familiarity of the unknown. For the people, my friends. For the ancient beauty of a lost culture. For the sun, its tropical warmth. For it simply being vacation.

She's Not There

2006-12-29T13:17:00.000+09:00

Tomorrow I'm off to Vietnam for a couple of weeks! Limestone cliffs, beach towns, floating markets. Just so you know where to find me. I'll be celebrating the New Year with friends and warm ocean breezes on my face!

Oh, and I'm also finished with work for almost two months.

Hate me yet?

Kristmas in Korea

2006-12-27T15:08:00.000+09:00

Apparently I'm really into alliteration lately, judging by recent posts. But enough about grammar. Let's move on to the crux of why you came; hearing me complain. Or possibly revelling in the glory of my staggeringly prodigious tale-telling. Or, more likely, I've just guilted you into being here. We all know if you really love me, you read my blog. And you prove your love by commenting. That's love in the cyber world.

As the Christmas season, now officially passed, but milked by stores and holiday lovers alike for some time to come, progressed here in Korea, I was filled with the suspicion that something had changed from recent years here. My first Christmas in Korea (well, my first season, as I was incidentally in Thailand for Christmas day), there was little evidence of anything hearkening to Christmas. Carefully hidden were the cards, decorations, and songs; seeking them out was like being a detective, sniffing out the dropped clues here and there. Many schools gave little or no holidays for Christmas (though Kevin's school still does that...).

This year, however, has been different. Lights were strung on a number of trees, walls, and buildings. Fake, smiling Santas were set in front of stores. Salvation Army volunteers stood outside stores ringing bells. Loud Christmas music was blared from mall speakers, while vendors hawked all manner of cheesy Christmas decorations. Save for the exceptionally warm weather (think: mid to upper fifties), it almost felt like home.

I even bought Christmas decorations, including a pitifully small fake tree from the dollar store. It made me think of how much I miss real Christmas trees, the family tradition of picking one up from a Christmas tree farm in the week following Thanksgiving. It's such a family adventure: taking turns cutting it down, loading it onto a truck, watching as they wrap it tightly, strapping it to the car. On the drive home, you pass other families who similarly have their trees comically strapped to the top of their cars, hands sneaking out windows to grab the tree limbs and prevent it from blowing off. Once home, the ornaments are pulled out, from the expensive, delicate ones to the memory-invoking ones that we made as children. Then we attack the house. I miss our creche, a white porcelain manger scene given by my grandma to her four children. We always laugh about Joseph's broken hand when my brother, in his very lengthy clumsy stage, dropped him and he shattered. My mom wraps real pine branches around the railing leading to upstairs, then wraps white Christmas lights around them. She finishes it with velvet red bows and poinsettia flowers. It's so beautiful at home. My step dad usually attacks the outside, throwing up white Christmas lights in all the trees. When it snows, they shine through at night and the whole tree looks like it's glowing. I love Christmas. Instead I have a fake tree and colored lights that I thought were white.

Given that Korea cannot in any way compare to the spirit of Christmas at home, although they are embracing the commercialized idea of Christmas quite well, I cannot hold them to a high standard. Regarding Christmas itself, though, it was better than I could have imagined. Having no family here to speak of, I spent the entirety of both Christmas eve and Christmas day with my surrogate family: friends here in Korea.

On Christmas eve, we went to our friends house for a sleepover party. It was so relaxing, wrapped in memories of how Christmas is celebrated at home. Well, if the Christmas ham is exchanged for Domino's pizza. At midnight, I went for a walk on the beach with some people there, including Sacha, Liz, and Annie. Sacha and I stayed up talking; we didn't get to sleep until about four in the morning. All this and up early the next day for stockings and breakfast!
On Christmas evening, I went to Richard's house for a real, amazing Christmas dinner. Harold had his guitar, Ana had her wig, and Sook received a monkey game from Richard for Secret Santa. The combination made for an excellent evening.

And so I bid farewell to Christmas, seriously satisfied by my exploits. This was my first Christmas in Korea, and I must admit it was excellent. Now, as I walk past SFUNZ, eyeing the remaining decorations, Santa catches my eye. This jolly man dutifully retains his post, continuing his watch of young consumers, smiling benignly and waving slowly. This is truly the Christmas season. After all, we all know that you can't have more of the Christmas spirit than a big, waving, plastic Santa.

I Am... an English Catch Phrase

2006-12-21T12:19:00.000+09:00

In a departure from a normal blog post, I have dedicated this one almost entirely to pictures. What? Has Aubrey curbed her loquacious tendencies? Has she reformed her ways, dedicating herself to silence? Hardly. I'm just tired and I don't feel like thinking. And given that Blogger has recently switched to Beta, this heartens me in my attempts to post pictures. So here we go again.

Today my school held a festival, with a variety of activities throughout the day to keep the kids entertained and to keep me from having to do any work whatsoever. Wait, so why am I tired?

Instead, I did a lot of mingling, laughing and using what little English many of my kids have to interact with them. I realized about the tenth time I said, "Have a good time! KTF" (an ad slogan for Korea Telecom, a phone company here), that my English while in Korea has been officially reduced to catch phrases. Unable to communicate while using linking verbs or articles, I drop them all to sound like a young child learning English. "You go food eating?" Yes, I said this. Yes, my kids understand this.

So lately I have stopped resisting, just buying into the idea that communication, even in its lowest form, is much better than complete non-understanding. So, "Ha-ee. Nice to see you. Have a good time! How are you? I'm fine, thank you!"

My kids aren't actually taller than me, as it appears here. They made me squat down because they didn't want me to tower over them. Gotta love the rabbit ears; animal hats are hot in Korea now. The kid on the left always walks up to me, chin in hand, saying, "Handsome guy. Handsome guy." Humble, too.
Here are some first year students in the traditional Korean outfit, Hanbok. They're going to perform on the Kayagum, a Korean traditional musical instrument, similar to the harp, except laid flat on the floor.Belly dancers! I was shocked when they came out. Korea tends to be very conservative in their dress, at least from the waist up. But the girls wore the pants and then a beaded, bra-like top. I guess it's ok if it's cultural. I loved their dance, though.
Girls in their Hanboks selling food to raise money. I bought a lot and tried to give it all away.

Some girls did a cute dance dressed up as animals. They wore the outfits throughout the day. I told them I would buy food from them if they let me take a picture. I'm sure I didn't really need to bribe them, though. Below is Mrs. Kwan, one of my excellent co-teachers.

My rock stars! I spoke with a couple of these boys earlier in the year about them playing guitar, which I think is so cool simply because it's different here in Korea. These are some of my favorite boys, too, so it made me really excited to hear them play. They did an Avril Lavigne song while one of our teachers sang with them. All in all, not bad. I was really proud of them.

And lastly, the song I was in! Every day for the past several weeks while sitting at my desk during breaks I could hear mellifluous strains of a song I did not recognize but could hear was in English. Naturally I went to investigate. Some third years were singing the Michael Jackson song "Heal the World." They asked me to help them for their performance. I was excited to be able to help them out, because these were more favorites. Generally, favorites tend to be ones to try to speak English with me.

To my surprise, though, they didn't want me to sing. Instead I had to say some opening that is spoken in the original song and would never be understood by the crowd of non-English speakers.

But again, for the kiddos, I did it. "Think about the generations. And say that we want to make it a better place for our children and our children's children. So that they will know it's a better world for them. And just think if we can make it a better place."

Oh, you should have heard the delivery. I am amazing. Fully expecting a call soon from Hollywood. Or not... Well, have a good time! KTF

Cold Fish Head

2006-12-18T14:28:00.000+09:00

For a while I have wanted to talk about my small group at church, but have been unsure as to exactly what I could say, knowing that just telling stories about people whom you don't know (unless, of course, you are one of those people) is so excruciatingly boring that you would likely leave your computer for far more appealing activities, such as checking the freshness dates on all of your milk products, counting the bristles in your toothbrush, or organizing all of your sweaters alphabetically.

Yet now I valiantly attempt to do this very impossible task, realizing that your finger may already be on the "close" button. Also, to preface, allow me to inform you that this involves an inside joke and thus may only be understood by a few. To aid in your understanding, I urge you to go here. Watch the video. Laugh a lot. And understand.

For nearly all of the two years that I have been in Korea, I have also been a fellowship group leader at my church. For my first couple of months here, I went with another teacher from my school to the U.S. army base, where her boyfriend led a group for some of his soldiers. After Christmas, when many of them left Korea, I decided to join a group at church. Having expressed this to Pastor Ben, he informed Krista, one of the group leaders.

After the service one day, she introduced herself, saying, "Hi Aubrey. Pastor Ben told me you wanted to join a group and would be taking over as leader when I leave."

"I will?"

This is precisely how I became a group leader, by default. Any English speaking Westerner was, at that time, a prime candidate in our church to be a fellowship group leader.

Over the course of my two years as a leader, the group dynamic has changed drastically. Besides myself, only one person remains from the original group. This is in many ways due to the transience of the English speaking community here. To quote Alice in Wonderland (and, in addition, Emily), "People come and go so quickly here."

Lately we have done quite a lot together, meeting frequently throughout the week. In a time when I have become so disillusioned and distant from the church as an organization, I am infinitely grateful for these people who have become a family to me here. They are others who grapple with the questions of living an ancient faith in a modern society.

Plus they make me laugh almost as much as my brother can.

The general group theme of late has been to quote a certain comedian, Brian Regan. It is used, like any good inside joke, to create cohesion within the group, but inadvertently ostracize those outside.

Allow me to give slightly more background information. When I was home last Christmas, my dad pulled out a CD that I had to listen to. Driving in the car, we listened with tears of hilarity in our eyes from Regan's simple yet incisive, self-deprecating humor. As a farewell present for my journey back to Korea, dad gave me the Regan DVD. Since then, I have regularly quoted Regan with my family.

After meeting Meaghan and Kevin, a married couple who more recently joined our group, I quickly discovered that they were fans, too. And so, as commonalities tend to do, it quickly became an inside joke for us, frequently shouting Regan phrases at one another. Slowly, the rest of our group began to download or watch him, too.

I felt that all this information was necessary to get to this next story. Last Friday our group met up for various activities, including ice skating (which, we were informed upon our arrival, was closing, even after we made our cute, begging faces), a game room, dinner at Won Tae's Taco place, coffee at Starbucks, and exchanging small gifts through a "stealing Santa" game.

At some point in the middle of opening and stealing presents, someone pointed our a small, triangular gift on the table, wrapped in newspaper and several layers of clear tape. On it was written, "To: Aubrey, our Shepherd. From: ?"

"Oh my gosh, someone got me a gift!" This gesture deeply touched me that one person had decided to do something so special. But I also didn't want anyone to feel usurped, so I put it aside to open later.

After all gifts were exchanged, I took out the small, carefully wrapped present, wondering what it could be. As I peeled the layers of tape off and got to the newspaper, something started to bleed through. "Oh, no," I thought. "Someone got me a Korean bean-pastry dessert as a gift; react positively. And now it's broken open." Bending forward, I squinted at the dark red mass after I carefully peeled the newspaper away. Considerations of a small token of well-being were obliterated, however, by the wall of stench that hit me. The sweet beans suddenly became organs, the pastry shell was some sort of skin.

"Wait, did someone get me a dead animal?" Time slowed as in a horror movie and creepy visions of animal sacrifice or voodoo came to mind. Whom had I recently offended?

"It's a cold fish head," came the simple reply. I looked up at Kevin quizzically, suppressing the urge to vomit as other members of the group jumped away.

"A cold fish head?" I asked weakly, nauseously. "But what...? Oh! A cold fish head!" My confusion and queasiness dissipated with the sudden realization of its meaning. This was not a sign of dislike, but one of endearment. It was an inside joke, taken to its fullest measure! I looked up, excited, quoting, "It's frozen, frozen solid. It comes with a turnip and a spork!"

Kevin had gone to great lengths to provide me with a fish head, taken directly from one of Regan's bits about receiving the worst meals on a plane. Earlier in the day, he went to one of Korea's numerous fish markets, signing that he wanted a fish. After she chopped of the head, the vendor went to throw it away. "No, no, no!" Kevin shouted. It was the fish head he wanted. No, really. The fish head. Thanks. You keep the fish.

I posted pictures on my flickr account, linked to my blog. It's proof! A real, cold fish head. And apart from the pictures, I will always have the memory that induces such a warm, nauseated feeling.

Corean Creation

2006-12-11T09:20:00.001+09:00

During the World Cup, a frenzied event celebrated fervently throughout Korea, I saw numerous shirts, signs, and flags emblazoned with Korean symbols and slogans, all bearing the name "Corea". Korea with a "C"? Why? The explanation given, which seems to be the popular simplified sentiment, is that when Japan conquered Corea, romanized at that time with a "C", they would not allow for a mark of superiority by allowing their conquered country to precede them when listed alphabetically. Thus, they changed the "C" to a "K" so that it would be Japan, Korea. Nowadays, many people revert back to the "C", whether for sentimental reasons or to make a political statement. "Corea" hearkens to a time of independence as well as unity between the north and south.

I like this sentiment, but having no strong political motivations to spell Corea as such, I usually leave it with a "K". It's less confusing. And though I support a person's choice to express themselves thusly, I react warily, seeing behind it the expanse of attitudinized superiority. The subtle racism that is woven into the minds like a weak, inferior thread in Korean culture was evidenced to me by anecdotal stories my friends told this past weekend. It is for this reason that I now write.

Jen told me a story relayed to her by one of her students. This student had, as a child, been told the Corean story of creation. This is exactly as it was told to me. Long ago, before any humans existed on the earth, God was up in his great kitchen, baking a batch of cookie-like humans. The first batch he burned, so he put all of them in Africa. The second batch was undercooked, so they were put in Europe and North America. By the third batch, he got it right, producing a perfect golden-colored batch of human-cookies. This perfect batch was placed in Asia. This story is appalling; to say nothing of its theology, it supports such blatant racism, resembling, I am sure, similar stories in the sordid past of my own nation. It is unacceptable.

Then I was speaking with friends of mine, a married couple here. I haven't asked to use their names, so I won't. They have lived here with their children for a few years. White children in Korea are subjected to even worse forms of ogling and violation, with strangers feeling free to come over and touch them. My little sister Lindsey will remember when she came to visit being wearily petrified of the masses of people who came too close, who stared too long, who acted too familiarly. It is a part of Asia's community mindset, that children are part of the greater group, to be loved and shown affection by all manner of strangers. We are more protective in the West, though often for our detriment.

In any case, they were walking on Haeundae beach's boardwalk this past summer, their children and Korean nanny just behind. Strangers on the beach gasped and talked loudly about them, likely crowding around them. One of the children turned to the nanny and asked, "What are they saying about us?"

Before giving thought about protecting them from the bluntness of her culture, she answered, "They're saying, 'Those children are so beautiful. It's too bad they grow up to be so ugly like their parents. It looks like they've already had plastic surgery.'"

The mother and father were left aghast, walking ahead and chuckling to themselves about the gall and ignorance of Korean culture.

At times while living in this culture, especially with my Korean friends whom I love so dearly, one can forget how strongly Koreans feel about their superiority in intellect, in physicality, in progress, in everything. This weekend was a harsh reminder of how it far too often is. Although they vehemently deny any racism in this culture ("We don't even have black people," I've been told before as a defense.), its existence is so putrid, it is in danger of damaging all that is good here.

Cultural Exchange

2006-12-07T11:33:00.000+09:00

Today I spent my break at school in a rather atypical fashion. A cultural exchange between Japanese students from Fukuoka and my own Korean students here at Donga middle school took place, encouraging tittering students to spill from their classrooms, assessing neighbors from the most similar of other worlds. The girls took the approach of immediately befriending them, in the amount that both of their limited English would allow. Cards were exchanged with phone numbers and email addresses. Pictures were taken, girls wrapping arms around each others' waists, smiling shyly with the omnipresent "V" sign. The boys situated themselves on opposing ends of the room, staring at eachother, a few expressing distaste at being in the same room as Japanese. Ignorant racism remains embedded in the Korean psyche, a deeply set anger at the former atrocities of Japan against Korea. It's not an unfounded anger, it's just exceptionally unhealthy and continually perpetuated. Some of the boys expressed their aggression by challenging eachother to arm wrestling matches, chanting the name of their country as they battled.

I found myself in a uniquely advantageous position today. No Korean students spoke Japanese, apart from a few pleasantries the school taught to prepare them for their coming. And I would assert that no Japanese students speak Korean becuase, well, who bothers to learn Korean outside this country? So I was displayed like a prize by my students when introductions were made. "This is my English teacher," said the girls. "Talk to them," they told me.

As I made valiant attempts at conversation with Japanese students, I discovered that their level of English is even lower than that of Korean students. I was so surprised walking into one class (the Japanese students were evenly distributed through all nine second grade classes) to be told that only one girl speaks good enough English to be able to converse. The introduction between myself and a Tashimi Yogoshaki was done by Park Jisung, and I realized how strange the girl's polysyllabic name sounded compared to the trisyllabic names to which I have become so utterly accustomed in Korea.

As I watched interactions between students, questions being asked and answered in unsteady English, I felt peculiar at finally being privy to dialogue at Donga. Being the only foreigner, it occurs rarely here. I took advantage of it, chatting with my students and going from picture to picture. Hopefully Eunbi, one of my favorites (don't tell!), will send me a few. It would be nice to have pictures with these students.

I've also come to assume that Korea and Japan are vastly different cultures; after two years here, I figure I am now in a position to note major differences between Koreans and Japanese people. But as I stood surveying the throngs of my students and our visitors, all dressed neatly in their different school uniforms, I realized that this was one of the few differences I could note. Apart from that, I could spot the typical Japanese hair cut, a shaggy cut that borders uncomfortably close to a mullet. Possibly the differences are more distinct as they age. I noticed that their teachers have a different look from adult Koreans; there is something unexplainably more attractive about a Japanese face.

As the Japanese students left, departing Korea after expressly visiting only my school for three hours, they marched between the lines my students made, cheering and waving at them as if it were a parade. The attention was completely unfocused from me, the lone westerner here. Fascination was caught up in the Asian foreigners. This voyeurism in others' lives that westerners are subjected to so frequently in Korea is a part of all of us, I noted, watching the teeming crowd of students and teachers below. It is a driving force in the desire to travel and live abroad.

Friendly Soju Bottles

2006-12-05T10:55:00.000+09:00

I have news that may shock anyone familiar with my job. This week I am not working a full week. Again. Like most weeks, come to think of it. Possibly it's not as shocking as I just asserted.

We have half days Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of this week because the kids are taking their final exams: stressful and painful for them, easy and relaxing for me. So yesterday after work I met up with Jen, who so covetously has the entire week off, to go shopping in the PNU area. Pusan National University is surrounded with a variety of cute little shops, as well as great foreign restaurants. The Turkish restaurant is there. So is a new Italian restaurant.

Late in the day we planned to meet Kevin for some real Italian food, as none of us have yet eaten there. As Jen and I were going to meet up with him, we passed in front of a large display of girls in short skirts, which must have been exceedingly uncomfortable in the mildly frigid weather, and walking Soju bottles. Immediately one Soju bottle sidled up to Jen and I, directing us toward the table of samples. Yes, that's right, samples of Soju being given out in the street.

Perhaps you may be confused as to why this is funny. Perhaps you are unfamiliar with the beloved Korean drink. In Korea, drinking soju is a national past time. It is a highly alcoholic drink that tastes something like paint thinner. Yet given both the urging of our friendly soju bottle and that of the smiling, giggling girl with half a skirt coupled with the night time chill that reached sinisterly under our coats, we partook. After, our life-sized Soju host mimed that he (I only assume soju bottles are male, though I could very well be incorrect) wanted a picture with us. When this was made clear, he had another message to relay to the blond North Americans. Pointing to himself. Pointing to us. Drawing a heart in the air.

We are loved by a Soju bottle. This is love, indeed.

Where else, though, is it possible, or especially legal, to give out free alcohol on the streets? Under aged? No matter. Heading to your car? Well take this to warm up! We couldn't help but laugh at such a display that seems to embody all that is Korean.

The Forceps of Our Minds

2006-11-23T11:59:00.000+09:00

I came today with the intention of writing something. But the page stared blankly back at me. Lately I have read such wonderful books, writing that inspires a person to do and be more, but simultaneously mocks my own ability or hope to emulate the author's achievements. Every time I sit with the intention of penning my own poignant words, my arthritic mind strecthes fitfully, snapping and cracking, then turns its back to ingnore me. A swirling of thoughts hovers like a cloud just above me; now and then I see pieces of characters or musings desiring freedom, to be let loose, but they escape, turning back into the cloud before I can grab ahold.

Suddenly everything I want to say becomes secondhand or trite, repeated a myriad of times before by the masses, lacking any semblance of creativity. No new thoughts exist in my mind and I feel like an old retiree, confined to a rest home, rocking slowly on the porch, rubbing cold, veined hands, and repeating the same decrepit story to those who no longer listen.

"Oh, poor girl," you may cry. "Self-esteem issues." Not at all. Because at other times, I lean back as I narcissistically admire the beauty of my own artwork, pictures painted with words. Reality is a strange thing. It is not set securely in the ground, deeply rooted and steadfast, but swayed by the ever-shifting sands of our perceptions, affected by infinite factors caught up in a single day. At one time, I am complimented and praised; here I become self-assured and confident. I am capable of exactly that to which I aspire. But then I am criticized harshly or, worse yet, ingnored altogether. Now the strong northern winds blow furiously, bending my thoughts toward my flaws and detriments writhing slowly beneath a papyrus-thin smile.

I read a quote today by H. G. Wells, one that inspired such thoughts and some undirected need to pen them. He trenchantly noted, "The forceps of our minds are clumsy forceps, and crush the truth a little in taking hold of it." I like this, both for its darkness and its accuracy. I often wonder in which ways my mind crushes the edges of reality, how shards of the truth fall noiselessly to the ground. I sense this when I am doing very well, buoyantly acknowledging my excellence and my endless capabilities. I sense it, too, when I am so very low, burdened by a weighty desolation that makes me want to eat copious amounts of chocolate, then retire to bed early.

In either state, I am infinitely thankful for all those things in my life that keep me grounded, guiding a shaky hand that gingerly handless the friable truth. I am thankful for my parents, both of whom encourage me more deeply than I could express. I am thankful for my friends, for their presence, for their loyalty. I am thankful for the gifts that authors have given, sharing their ideas, stretching toward what is greater while delving into the deepest recesses of humanity. I am thankful for nature and music, both of which are so deeply spiritual to me and move the core of my being. And, naturally, I am always quite thankful for chocolate.

H. L. Mencken

2006-11-23T09:47:00.000+09:00

The men the American public admire most extravagantly are the most daring liars; the men they detest most violently are those who try to tell them the truth.

Third Life in Korea

2006-11-17T08:56:00.000+09:00

A cool crispness fills the air, like a tardy Michigan fall, encouraging the palette of color in the trees, entering one's lungs with greater density, coaxing pedestrians to don layers of wool and down, like fattened ducks before Christmas dinner. In this weather are promises of grinning pumpkins and costumes, food and family, gifts and decadence. It is holiday weather.

As I begin the morning walk from the subway to my school, I casually regard the people and buildings I see every day. Old, wrinkled faces smiling brightly and toothlessly as I walk past. Structures of brick that lean upon each other for mutual support. Laundry draped like Tibetan prayer flags atop the huddled houses. Businessmen wearing falsely enthusiastic suits, stepping like tall men on their way to work.

It is Korea. But today it is a different country from what I have known before. This thought struck me as I walked up the gently sloping road, barely large enough for a single car and pedestrians. The hills that people here call mountains rose from behind the buildings, showing off the colors of their trees like shiny political badges. I watched them as I walked quickly, the Eagles providing my morning sound track. I thought of home. I thought of how long it's been since I've seen the fall fireworks in the Michigan foliage. And then I turned my eyes down from the hill, seeing a staircase winding around the side of a house, snaking to the top where the Tibetan laundry froze in the early morning cold. A large sign was posted atop the shop in front, written in a language I recognize, but do not understand.

Suddenly I realized; I have entered a new country. This is a new Korea.

When I first came, I was slightly awed at the thought of being in a new country. I remember riding the bus or walking on the street, watching people and signs, and being overwhelmed with waves of excitement and amazement that I was here living in this foreign country. It was the classic honeymoon phase of culture shock. This Korea, the first I knew, was fun, interesting, and amazing.

Then I returned from traveling in India and Christmas at home. I began my second contract, also very excited about the various opportunities. But time passed and I entered a new Korea, one that I loathed and wanted very much to avoid. Everything around me grated on me; I found walking through the streets arduous and unappealing. I had entered the second phase, one I never thought I would encounter. I remember my Anthropology class had a formal name for it, but I cannot recall the name. Basically, it is one where you despise the host culture. Wikipedia calls it an "I hate everything" phase. A fitting title.

This is a new Korea, one about which I am yet unsure. Perhaps I can best describe through something I recently learned. Korea is still listed as a third world country, though the image that this title evokes is extremely different from what one encounters while living in the city. It has all the immediate signs of a modern city: electricity, public transportation, rows upon rows of apartment buildings. But when I discovered that this place, somehow, is still technically part of the third world, I had to look closer. Suddenly the pieces of the photograph became clearer, the pores and wrinkles showing. There is a certain beauty in her flaws, those ones that she works so hard to cover.

The third phase is entitled by Wikipedia as "Everything is ok." This may not be as applicable to my time here, as I still struggle with the second phase. But that serpentine street that leads me every day to my school holds in it the great beauty of a place so crossed between the old and new. Sometimes I see the trash that lies carelessly discarded on the street. At other times I notice the curious faces of strangers seeing me for the first time. But then I see my familiar buildings, the people I recognize. And I smile. Welcome to my third life in Korea.

The Day I Shot Ten Men

2006-11-14T12:03:00.000+09:00

Rain was predicted for Saturday. This was a gripping disappointment for all those chained to classrooms or desks throughout the daylight hours of the week. Saturday is a day of freedom, a short break from the interned work week sentence.

Every weekend, it seems, the doomsday weathermen gleefully foresee rain and gloom, informing us that our original weekend plans must be abandoned. Then on Monday, they search for the large, laminated cardboard suns to spread across the darkness of our indoor weeks. So, again, inimically dark rain clouds were pasted to Saturday.

But they were wrong. Over night, while I was snuggled under my down comforter, rain storms flew lightly through the city, clearing skies for the morning. A Crayola blue reigned in the heavens by lunch time. And so our weekend plans went forward. Paint ball.

“Paint ball?” others asked. “Did you play inside?”

“No,” we answered. “It was in the woods.”

“Korea has woods?”

Just north of Busan, about fifteen minutes from my apartment, we dressed in full war gear, including army fatigues, a "bullet-proof" vest, a sturdy helmet, and gardening gloves (naturally!). The "we" to whom I am referring are a number of friends from church as well as students of theirs and other friends. With smiles and promises of murdering our dear friends, we squared off into two opposing teams. My team included the only two who had experience playing before, though we were taunted by the black team for our red helmets. "They'll be really hard to spot," was the jokingly sarcastic suggestion.

This was a first for me, apart from messing around with the game at camp. But this was a real game, the setting complete with trees, dirt, hills, and even, somewhat ominously, a few graves. My team, allow me to brag, was awesome. Of the five games that we played, two were a draw and three we won outright. All of us immediately dove into the spirit of it, throwing ourselves to the ground in true war-ready fashion. Two teams filled once with friends became enemies, North and South turning on one another.

My first time shooting someone was almost as fun as my first time being shot. I had snuck across the other team's territory, closely on the heels of Nathan, when I spotted Sacha, a very serious enemy of mine, guarding their flag. Using my exceptional assasin skills, I took her out. But our thirty pound helmets with their two percent visibility at times made it difficult to realize we were hit. So she kept shooting. Rather indignantly, I stood up and proclaimed, "Hey, I just shot you!" That's when I took it in the hip from another member of her team. Oops. The sting was intense, like if a bully had pulled a thick rubber band, then let it snap on your exposed skin. But I have some spectacular bruises to show for it. So being hit wasn't a total loss.

At the completion of the game, ended prematurely by our impatient referee, we emerged resembling the intial stages of a Jackson Pollock painting. It was such great fun, we have already planned our next outing. I'm hoping to up my body count significantly this time. Who knew that shooting your friends could be so much fun! I included a few intimidating pictures on my flickr account (side bar). Please note the one where three of us women hold three of the men as hostages. I'm quite proud of it.

Jesus Was a Commie

2006-11-07T15:06:00.000+09:00

As I opened my lovely gmail account, which has effectively taunted, beaten up, and thrown hotmail into the nearest dumpster, an email caught my eye. One of a number of forwards that I receive throughout a regular emailing week, I opened it immediately, wondering at the somewhat provocative title: Fwd: Fw: Just received this.......The photos beg we comply.

No photos were included in the forward. What was present, however, evoked a definite response in me. Read on:

"Prayer chain for our Military...please don't break it

"Please send this on after a short prayer. Prayer for our soldiers..please don't break it

"Prayer'Lord, hold our troops in your loving hands. Protect them as they protect us. Bless them and their families for the selfless acts they perform for us in our time of need. Amen.'

"Prayer Request: When you receive this, please stop for a moment and say a prayer for our troops around the world.

"There is nothing attached.... .. Just send this to people in your address book. Do not let it stop with you, please....
"Of all the gifts you could give a Marine, US Soldier, Sailor, Airman, & others deployed in harm's way, Prayer is the very best one "

This is the exact forward, complete with its grammatical and punctuation errors, which made my skin crawl ever so slightly. Yet more irksome than the errors in writing was the error in the message.

I have grown up as an American, raised with pride in my own country and culture. I was also raised in the American Christian church, which has in many ways adopted U.S. nationalism. For a demonstration of this, one need look no further than the number of pastors who preach politics from the pulpit. Separating a poor, nomadic, minority, first-century man from wealthy, secure, white, dominant American Christianity has apparently become too difficult a task for some pastors. Too many churches court the seductive power of national politics, which is shameful, because to equate any political party with being Christian violates the very principles upon which this religion was founded. It also undoubtedly calls to mind the horrid times in church history when it bedded politics and set into motion a period of immeasurable human slaughter.

Yet this is an aside from the forward, sort of. What struck me so strongly about the attitude of this request for prayer for a certain group was the conspicuous lack of certain other groups. Where's the request to pray for the people in the countries where these men are stationed? Where's the request to pray for the struggles that we bring on these people, this invasion of their homes? The prayers for their children? The prayers for the people building bombs to destroy us? The prayers for those shooting back at us?

Why only for our troops?

I have a tentative answer to this question. It is because, in our American Christian minds, we view America as the purveyor of freedom and equality. Not only that, but it is a sort of missions; soon, we will see the rise of the Christian church in the middle east. And thus we can feel good about our occupation.

I get angry and physically ill when I consider this. Not only does it compromise thousands of human lives, mostly Iraqi, but it also completely misrepresents Christianity. Jesus was not an American. He was not Republican, nor was he part of a democracy. Instead, he made people like that really angry. He said weird things and hung out with outcasts.

The church accepts the Bible, calling it "God-breathed." So why do we ignore stuff like this?

"You have heard that it was said, 'Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you."

This message seems long-forgotten in a culture whose motto appears "America=Christian=God's favorites."

Facing Facts

2006-10-31T13:22:00.000+09:00

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

2006-10-30T16:09:00.000+09:00

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

2006-10-26T13:21:00.000+09:00

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

2006-10-20T14:22:00.000+09:00

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

2006-10-19T11:59:00.000+09:00

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

2006-10-16T14:16:00.000+09:00

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

2006-10-09T15:08:00.000+09:00

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.

Four Dimensions

2006-09-26T10:22:00.000+09:00

What is it in each of us that searches for explanations in what is greater than ourselves? The church speaks of God and theology. Scientists postulate that the world is governed by unchanging mathematically and physically provable theories. Humanists search for the good that lies within themselves. Even in relationships, we look for what is greater, enviable even, in the other person. We are in constant motion to discover what is superior, what is infinite, what is divine. We all want to discover the truth.

Truth. How this era has ravaged and decimated our assumptions of truth. For, what is truth? How can we claim that any single truth exists? If I see it, is it true? If I can touch it? What if my soul confirms its existence? The juggernaut of post-modernity will assert this subjective reasoning, claiming that experiential knowledge is in itself reality. I hesitate to embrace the idea that what is conceptualized as truth can be so ephemeral and undulating. That there is no overarching reality that bonds humanity together seems counter-intuitive to me.

I want to be a reasonable person. I cannot believe anything simply because I am told to or because it seems right. I want to have proof: measurable, experiential, reasonable.

Of late, I have been struggling to redefine my beliefs, those expounded by the church, the teachings and sayings tossed around since my childhood. My life has turned, it seems, to call into question whether I believe what I have long clung to. Such will, or should, occur when one is faced with various paradigms, other cultures, sundry beliefs.

I do not want to be the person who criticizes the church for all that I see, as if I am to be greater than the beliefs that for so long defined me. I can not disbelieve just because it is fashionable to do so; the questions run so much deeper than that. When truly stirred by hypocrisies or the inability to answer, then I will question.

Recently, I wondered whether I had lost my faith. This pitiful, enervated quasi-pneumatic creature that is my faith writhes silently at my feet, shudderingly breathing its last, closing its eyes, falling away. It is not, as I assumed, lost forever. True, it is largely comatose, but I am too greatly defined as a person by what I believe. These beliefs are far too essential to have disappeared. In danger of extinction, I now seek to weed out the sickly beliefs from the essential ones. I want so badly to thrive wholly.

Lately I have been teaching in one of my classes about "dimensions," mainly because the dialogue centers on Minsu going to see a 3-D movie. Unsure that I had adequately explained the concept, I asked my co-teacher to explain it in Korean. Apparently he is somewhat fascinated by this subject, as he began illustrating each dimension and spoke for a long while (well, everything feels longer when you are uncomprehendingly listening to a different language) about the fourth dimension. He even drew graphs for each dimension, explaining the fourth dimension was unplotable on a graph.

Realizing how long it has been since I have taken any sort of math or science class, I looked up "dimensions," specifically the fourth dimension, on Wikipedia, scanning over its definition. It explained that our perception of space is three dimensional; it is mathematically demonstrated by perpendicularly connecting a line to a plane. The same was previously done in moving up other dimensions: go from none to the first by placing non-dimensional points in a row to form a line, go from first to second by setting two lines perpendicular to one another. The fourth dimension, then, is conceptually achieved by lining up several three dimensional spaces. It is often thought of as time, stationary objects moving across a span of years.

It went on to speak of "Flatland," a book by Edwin Abbott, which hypothesizes about life in a fourth dimension. Just as a hypothetical living two dimensional object, such as if a flat photograph image came to life, could not comprehend a three dimensional object, neither could we, in a three dimensional world, comprehend a four dimensional object. A two dimensional object upon being confronted with our image, could only understand us within its two dimensional frame of reference. Were we to step slightly out of its view, moving across a dimension that does not exist in its world, it would assume we had somehow disappeared. The same concept can then be applied to an animate four dimensional object entering into our world. If it merely traveled across its monopolized dimension, it would appear in our world to have vanished. It is greater and more advanced than what exists in our world.

Given the swirling of my mind of late that has gridlocked my penned thoughts, I could not resist reflecting on this super-dimensional world as being the very place that God exists. In keeping with how I was raised, my core cries out that the tangible world is not everything. What I can see is superseded by an over-arching reality, by a fourth dimension. In here, there is a God who moves freely, able to regard our fish bowl world from a superior angle. At times, flashes of divinity are exhibited in the world, then moving just beyond our view, disappearing.

My mind, at times even more two dimensional than three dimensional, cannot fully comprehend these considerations. After all, one may only conjecture at what exists beyond our understanding. So here I am, in a semi-permanent state of incomprehension, moving across time three dimensionally, grasping for a solid truth that exists to me in glimmers around my periphery.

I have no answers, just questions.

Smooth

2006-09-18T19:40:00.000+09:00

The entirety of this past weekend for me was spent with Europeans. The whole time, I was in the company of only one other American. Europe I generally regard as the center of high culture, the epitome of refinement, a place of royal history, of haute cuisine, of fine wines, of charming and urbane gentlemen. Europe has rightly earned its prestigious reputation.

And then on Monday I walked back into Korea. Like America, it has not garnered a reputation as a country of sophistication and cultural refinement. Today for me served as a reminder why.

The remnants of yesterday's underachieving typhoon drizzled through the day. As an eternal weather optimist, one who wears sandals well beyond what the temperature would suggest as wise, I had in the morning's dryness forgone my umbrella for work. After work, stepping into a shop at the foot of the hill that leads to my school, I purchased yet another umbrella for my burgeoning collection. Stepping back onto the street, safely protected from the yawning sky, I began my return to the subway.

Many people along this ten minute walk, school children and shopkeepers, are familiar faces in my daily stroll. I get the myriad of calls of "hello teacher!" punctuated by fits of nervous or excited laughter (as well as sometimes the ensuing heated discussion regarding proper phraseology and pronunciation). I get waves and invitations from a few shopkeepers to join them for coffee. Yet then there is often the single incident that can only be labeled as cung ("completely unpredictable, yet unsurprising").

Today such an incident occurred. Moments before turning the corner to reach the subway, two Korean men who I would guess to be about my age turned the same corner. They were good looking guys, tall, well-dressed. I'm sure that they have no problem attaining a girlfriend. But as they approached me, the one on the right gaped, gasped, and shouted, "Whoa! Wow, wow! Whoa!" His friend, also equally adept at this repartee, called out, "Yeah, yeah! Ooooohhhh!" pointing and staring.

Now, I ask you, ladies, could any man come up with a better way to melt your heart?

And such is life in Korea. Have any Western man do this, and he would spend his life wondering why women wouldn't touch him, save the odd punch now and then. Generally Western men like to be slightly more subtle in their approach. But Korean men are different. For them, well-bred or not, something inside says that the best way to show interest in a Western woman is through the eminently romantic language of cattle calling. And they wonder why Korean men never get Western women.

The Non-Post Post

2006-09-15T16:21:00.000+09:00

I'm not posting today, but I wanted to make a shameless plug, anyway. I recently added Flickr, a photo archiving website, to my blog. It's a link along the left margin. And I spent my break today uploading various photos, including a collection from India. Oh, the arduous life I lead! Check them out. I'd love to hear what you think.

The Great and Powerful Oz

2006-09-12T13:27:00.000+09:00

My kids all bow to me. I walk past in the hallways and a sea of junior high children bend forward as I pass. It's great, really. It makes me feel so powerful. But sometimes I wonder if it's going to my head.

They do this to all the teachers, actually. It is a sign of respect. Before each class begins, the class leader stands up. This is a student who was voted into this position at the beginning of the school year. When they stand up, they silence the other students. In English, it sounds like this. (First, imagine 40 students talking loudly.)

"Attention! Attention!" Now the student will check around the room to ensure all other students are seated, facing forward, and quiet.

"Bow." The entire class simultaneously leans forward in their chairs, greeting me with, "Hello, teacher."

It's enough to give me some sort of god complex.

Actually, this took a lot of getting used to. Having already spent a year in Korea, I was familiar with the bow as a greeting and frequently used it myself. However, a teacher never bows to the students. The other teachers, I noticed, stand erect, often without even making eye contact with students. Yet initially every time a student bowed to me, I would begin to bow back, catch myself, and snap backward in an attempt to hide my mistake.

Now I have grown quite accustomed to the bowing and truthfully enjoy it. But I still can't shake the nagging feeling that I'm like the Great and Powerful Oz, assumed to be outwardly intimidating and powerful, but actually just a frail, aging man pulling levers behind a curtain.

I try to ameliorate my discomfort by walking through the halls, smiling at the students, greeting them with, "Hello. Hi. How are you. Nice to see you." I am just a foreigner, so I can get away with this display of camaraderie. As I have stated before, there is a distinct curiousity about me and how I act. So I'm sure they just chalk up my friendliness with them to being a little bit strange, as all foreigners are.

Yet as the students file past in the hallways of Dong-a, bowing with a "hello, teahcer," and I smile confidently, the inaudible voice continues to whisper to me, "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain..."

Clinging to Neverland

2006-09-06T14:46:00.000+09:00

Lately I've been telling my classes about my trip home; it is a nice use of class time when I just don't feel like teaching and they don't feel like learning. Well, I of course include details of my trip hiking with Daane on the A.T. For a little bit of the "wow" factor, I always throw in his height. "My brother is very tall. He is 191 cm." This statement is punctuated by gasps from my students, as even my height, 178 cm, is considered somewhat elephantine in this small culture. As I speak about him, I cannot help but be cognizant of the passage of time, reflecting on memories of an adorably pudgy boy now towering and masculine, complete with his hiking beard. All grown up.

Realizing how grown Daane is makes me consider this same phenomenon in my own life. I mean, when your baby brother grows up, what does that mean for you? Am I all grown up? This is somewhat of an enigma to me, for though I have many of the proper signs, I lack certain ones that as a child I always identified as benchmarks of adulthood.

As a little girl, I used to imagine my wedding, planning the details as I lay in bed awaiting sleep to fall. The groom had no face, but he was there amidst a host of guests and a field of flowers. Like play typical for a child, I liked to periodically change the outfits of myself, the groom, and the various guests. But as I remember those sweet, hopeful memories, something I still someday hope for, I realize that I have passed the birthday that puts me several years beyond the once-future imagined bride. I then assumed that at my current age, I would start having children. As I look at that now, I recoil slightly, knowing my life is far from those pre-dream images. In truth, it is not something I want now for myself. Later, yes. But as a single, independent girl living overseas, I am content to be that way. Did you notice that? I said, "girl." I still don't conceptualize myself as an adult. Am I just afraid to grow up?

I wonder about that. How frightening it is to accept aging. As humans, we violently fight the outward, physical signs. Sometimes, I believe, we fight the inward signs as well. Often I feel as though I'm still playing dress-up, donning adult clothes and make up to hide the little girl. There are still moments that cause me a certain degree of surprise that I am not still ten years old. Seeing my family is, as I said, one.

Is this ridiculous to think about? I have a full-time job at which I do well. I live overseas, thriving in another culture. I have my own apartment that I found, decorated, and pay for by myself. I lead a fellowship group at my church. Yet there remains a nagging suspicion that some day I will be pulled aside and asked to take off my play clothes, to stop pretending.

In truth I have no answers to this question. I do not feel as if I lack anything with these considerations; I merely expected to feel more "adult" by this age. I expected to be identified by events that have not occurred. But life continues to surprise me in its very unpredictability. Perhaps I should not be surprised; it is a common sentiment familiar to most. But there are moments when my mind succumbs to reflection and imagination that I realize how I must adjust for who I did not become, who I will never be, and this quasi-adult that I now am.

To be honest, I love that.

"So come with me, where dreams are born, and time is never planned. Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever, in Never Never Land!" ~James M. Barrie

Continuing Adventures of a Super Teacher

2006-09-06T13:01:00.000+09:00

I just finished impressing upon my class the importance of using full sentences when they speak. A one word answer, I explained, is unacceptable. "When I ask, 'What is the most popular spare time activity?' do not say 'computers.' It is, 'Computers are the most popular spare time activity.'" Too many students, however, only superficially understand what is being asked and cannot provide adequate responses.

Well, this class seemed to understand the instructions and so we plowed into the activity in which partners had to ask each other a series of questions from the book, all pertaining to "the most" of a certain subject.

A boy and girl at the front of the class began and I overheard the conversation.

"What is the most interesting subject?" she queried, reading from the book.

"Killing you," he replied immediately.

Without a second's pause, she reprimanded, "You need a full sentence!" I love that this was her immediate reaction; it made me so proud, I could've cried. I'm such a Super Teacher.

Shut Up

2006-09-04T11:52:00.000+09:00

I'm beginning to think that I probably write too much. I feel badly for anyone who visits my blog; I can only imagine that they must go to my page, scroll ten pages to the end of a single post and sigh heavily, rolling their eyes, as they read only the first and last paragraphs, which usually amount to a normal person's single post.

This suspicion extends to my talking as well. Yesterday Pastor Ben noted in his sermon that the average person spends 1/5 of their life talking. Men use 20,000 words per day; women use 30,000. Jokingly, I commented later that I must speak at least double that. But everyone just kind of smiled and nodded in a way that clearly says, "Yes, Aubrey, that's true." Oops.

So I'm thinking I should heed the advice of the ever sagacious Black Eyed Peas and just shut up.

In an attempt at being concise, I'll quickly comment on what a glorious weekend this was. I spent the bulk of it on the beach, as the weather was perfect. Since summer in Korea is officially finished on the calendar, few Koreans now go, even in the best weather. So it's perfect for us rule breaking foreigners.

On Saturday at Songjeong beach, Mel brought her guitar, so we (as in Liz, Emily, Ang, and I) sang very girl powered songs while she played. It was fun, especially because all these women have such beautiful voices. I, meanwhile, tried not to sing too loudly, so as not to break the facade that we all have talent.

On Sunday after group, I joined Mel, Liz, and Dan (buncha Michiganders) on Haeundae beach for some more relaxing and guitar playing. The beach was littered with foreigners because a throng of American soldiers had come down for Labor Day weekend (which, not surprisingly when one considers their workhorse ethic, Koreans do not celebrate). We had a couple of groups come over, which actually can be a bit irksome. I don't like the feeling of being in a meat market; I would rather just hang around with friends. Though I would venture to say this feeling is not atypical of most women (Mel and Liz most heartily concurred). But some of the guys were entertaining, especially in a way that causes American culture to rush back like a tidal wave.

At night, Liz, Kevin, and I, teaming up this time with Dan, Mel, and Jake, did Trivia again, beating our old shamefully poor record of 3rd to last by placing 2nd to last, a place that grabs the coveted M&M prize. Mysteriously, however, this has been replaced with a disappointing bag of onion rings. So our feat was not quite as great as we had assumed.

Well, looks like I failed to keep it short again. Next time I'll just have to try harder to be succinct. That, or I could really just shut up.

Just Call Me W.T.

2006-09-01T09:51:00.000+09:00

The continued adventures of Procrastination Girl:

Having promised her theoretical readers that she would post about her incredible trip home, she found herself fighting petty crime in the rough Korean neighborhoods instead. The people begin to lose faith, seeing her false promises and the transparency of her supposed Super status. But then, just as the sun is setting on her reign, Procrastination Girl once again sits down to the computer...

So here, finally, begins my updates on my adventures at home. I just love my family. As soon as the option of coming home for vacation began playing through my mind, spending time with them was what most galvanized me. Likely if you have ever read any of my posts, you already know what my brother is doing. But since I never miss an opportunity to brag, I will tell you again. He and my cousin Chad are hiking the entire Appalachian Trail, a 2,174 mile stretch (3,499 kilometers) from Maine to South Carolina. The average length for hiking is from 5 to 6 months. And why are these two fine young gentlemen doing this? Not to waste time or for their only glory (trust me, the hiking is hardly glorious), but to raise money for the Susan G. Komen foundation, an organization focused on fighting Breast Cancer through education and research. Awesome boys. Awesome. Need a link to their site? Try this one!

So when my mom said that if I came home from Korea, it would be perfect to go see Daane and Chad, I nearly immediately went to get my ticket. Early on one Sunday morning, four girls packed the car for a road trip from Michigan to eastern Pennsylvania, a mere 11 hours away. Every minute was worth it. The aforementioned girls were me, my mom, my grandma, and my sister Ashley. While I have spoken extensively about what Daane is doing, I haven't yet had the opportunity to talk about Ashley. Neither of us are that good at maintaining contact, so spending time with her was wonderful to catch up on everything. I told her all about Korea (and if you are there, I probably told her about you, too). She told me about her all-encompassing passion: horses. I realize that this may sound underimpressive unless you are actually familiar with her sport. Ash bought her first horse when she was only 14, doing this with her own money. Since I can barely save 50 cents, this alone impresses me. Now 23, she has owned 3 horses; she recently sold both her first and second after buying a beauty she found on a trip to Germany.

I really don't know that much about horses. So anything that I say would probably be wrong. But I learn a lot from Ash, who adores to talk about it. Everything that happens, she connects back to her horses. To Ash, life is an analogy for horse riding. And yes, I know how I said that.

This new horse of hers, with the registered name "Safari," will someday bring her to the Olympics. I have no doubt of that. Ash is a true athlete, training both herself and her horse. She works at and runs a barn for a family in Lansing, Michigan (a family I incidentally met during my time home this past winter and now see why she loves them so fiercely). This connection has also led to her knowing many high people within the horse world, but I'm not one to name names. (Liar!) No, it's just if I could remember their names to drop them, I would imagine you to have the same blank look on your face that I get when she speaks of them. Ash is also studying to be a teacher (woohoo!) because, like me, she loves kids. Runs in the family.

And speaking of running in the family... So these four ladies drove all the way to the east side of the country to see our dear boys. We got in late Sunday evening, sleeping in a hotel while the boys slept in an A.T. (Appalachian Trail) shelter. Our plan was to meet at 10 am the next morning. We left early, giddy with excitement at knowing our reunion was imminent. As we pulled of the highway to the road which intersected the A.T., we spotted them in a small parking lot. The immediate reaction was like teens spotting a celebrity: screaming. Jumping from the still moving vehicle, I lept into Chad's arms while Ash jumped at Daane. Big hugs for our hairy (not shaving), stinky (lots of hiking + few showers), handsome (it's a given) boys.

Oh, I love them so much. They voraciously wolfed down the food prepared by mom and gram, while I basically pelted them with tons of questions about their trip. To fill you in, they are what's called "through-hikers," meaning that they hike the entire trail from north to south (how it was traditionally started, though nowadays most through-hikers do it south to north). Although I like to call myself a through-hiker, it’s purely fictional at best and is, at worst, a horrible lie. I did 20 miles. Chad and Daane are doing 2,174. So lets just say that I am currently a 0.1% through-hiker. Ah, the sense of accomplishment.

The boys had already hiked 10 miles to meet us, starting at 5:30 in the morning (“No, we were late. 5:40 or so,” Daane told me. I say, “Whatever. Anything before six is still the night.”). After stuffing ourselves with various and sundry goodies from mom and gram, we began our “long and arduous” 8 mile hike. Ashley and I had gleefully anticipated what Northbounders had informed the boys was the “most difficult part of the trail.” When the boys apologized later that day regarding the lack of challenge, I merely gasped that, no, this was fine that it wasn’t at all difficult. Indeed. Let’s just say I slept well, albeit with sore muscles, that night.

Ashley, full of her infinite energy, continuously ran up hills and bounced over fallen trees (not kidding), earning her the trail name “Captain Kangaroo.” I should explain that, too. When you hike the trail, you are generally given a trail name. Daane, my brother, got "Mountain Goat" (shortened to "Goat") because in hiking the first part of the trail, he bounded from rock to rock like a (say it, everyone) mountain goat. Chad was named "Stretch," given to him by another Southbounder, because he is so tall and lean. I was named "Walkie Talkie" (shortened to W.T.). You may guess how I got mine. Mom and Gram also earned trail names, though as chauffeur hikers. They suggested many, but I believe settled upon “Hansel and Gretel,” for wandering in the “urban” wilderness before meeting up with us.

We were quite a distance from the hotel mom and gram found for us, so Chad called for them to pick us up at Smith Gap. Nearly 1 ½ hours later, our car was escorted by a man gram and mom described as their “greedy guardian angel.” When they were hopelessly lost, fruitlessly asking countless befuddled locals where Smith Gap was (“Never heard of it!”), he drove up and asked if they wanted help. After finding us, they offered money to him as thanks for leading them; he snatched it quickly with a brief “Thanks,” and drove away. Apparently generosity does have a price. Nonetheless, this kind stranger allowed for another reunion. The evening was spent relaxing and recuperating with the boys.

On day two of my and Captain K’s hike, (day 66 of the boys’ hike) we completed 12 miles. The start of the terrain was exceptionally easy. We grabbed a few good scenery shots, deciding they were excellent opportunities to practice our intimidating poses. The hiking in Pennsylvania, I am told, is drastically different from that of the northern states, especially Maine. Here, you are hiking mostly through the woods, shutting your view narrowly into that of the path. The terrain is littered with small, jagged rocks as well, so you must always look down to ensure that you don’t trip and break an ankle (though I, an expert at clumsiness, managed to fall once anyhow). Thus the hiking is quite tedious and, dare I say it, boring.

This is something I never could fully grasp while reading their excellent journal entries. My responses were consistently, “I’m so proud of them!” (still true) and “This is so exciting for them.” In actuality, it poses a great mental challenge in forcing the hiker to overcome both the simultaneous boredom and physical pain that they endure. For a long time, I nursed a large blister incurred along my short trek, something that made walking quite painful. Daane and Chad have endured these physical pains (blisters, shin splints, athlete's foot) for over 900 miles. And they told us stories featuring the incredible people they have met, displaying their continuing and growing passion to help fight breast cancer (I now proudly wear a pink “Sharing the Promise” wristband that Chad gave me), and evidencing their resilience at overcoming the various obstacles. Without sounding repetitive, allow me to reiterate: these boys are incredible.

As we hiked up to an area of dead trees, naked stumps clustered like a natural ghost town atop the ridge, Daane and Chad identified it as the place with coal underneath; it somehow caught fire... 50 years ago... and has been burning underground since. As we passed beyond the trees, looking onto a field of rocks, a sign indicated a split in the trail. One, marked ‘94, pointed to the right. The other pointed left; a white blaze was shortly beyond it. These white blazes, the boys explained, mark the entire distance of the trail. They even made Ash and I take the role of “point” and guide the group (we only got us lost once, but the boys quickly redirected us). Ash... uh, Captain K, delighted at this and began to call the blazes “bread crumbs.” She would call it out at each one we passed.

We hiked about 2 miles of the rock and boulders before we came to the top of the mountain. As we reached the peak, Captain K called out, “This will be a hard one guys,” noting the group of people just ahead of us sitting and resting. Upon hearing us, one man from the group turned around and shouted at us to go back, that the trail was closed. “Closed?!” we all shouted into the wind. Chad suggested that they should have put up signs where the path split, but the man said they didn’t have any materials for that. Feeling aggravated, we asked Daane to get more information from them. As he walked nearer, the man jumped up from his spot and threatened, “If you take one more step, I’ll have you arrested.” Daane stopped and suggested that the man come up to him for a moment. Walking over, Daane was afforded a view over the edge of the cliff. On the ledge below, with the other workers now resting, Daane saw a body with a sheet over it. Meanwhile the man explained that he was sorry, but they had closed this section of the trail for the day; obviously, Daane understood. The man suggested we go two miles back, then take the other trail that led three miles to the bottom of the mountain. The group of us decided to take a better route, meaning faster, but not safer: straight down the mountain. I felt very nervous, especially knowing that someone had just died while staying on the trail; here we were forging a new one. An hour later, after sliding on unstable stones on a steep mountain, we made it to the highway where Gram and mom picked us up. Needless to say, they were happy to see us alive and well.

Regarding the dead man, we could only discover sketchy details. Gram and mom were told that he was found with a weapon and a dog so protectively vicious, it required tranquilizing before the rescue team could approach the body. The evening news and morning paper yielded no information. Aunt Sharon (Chad’s mom), adept at surfing the net, told us that he was a 45 year old rapist wanted by the police. Apparently it was a suicide.

As we safely made it back to the hotel with a mere 20 miles under my Appalachian Trail experience, I felt grateful for experiencing even a fraction of what Stretch and Goat are doing to help eradicate breast cancer. I topped off my newfound experience with a dip in the hot tub. Thus ends my tale of adventure from the trail.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

2006-08-29T14:44:00.000+09:00

Go away, Snow White. Don't forget to banish the evil queen from her looking glass. And pull Narcissus away from his pretty face smiling up from the tranquil water. Take it all away and what do you have? A very interesting challenge.

I met with my women's group on Sunday; our topic of discussion was plastic surgery, but we digressed to other thoughts, all generally centered on the effect of appearance in our lives. Firstly, allow me to reiterate how much I appreciate having this group of women. They challenge me and allow me to examine myself and the world. Also, they are affirming in my own identity. Given interaction with others, we learn that our various idiosyncrasies are generally not so very uncommon. Assuming we are not speaking of aberrant conduct, most others will exhibit similar behaviors. Whether we consider our propensity as women to be hypercritical of ourselves and our bodies, to be competitive with other women, especially for the attention of men, or to be meticulous about various aspects of our appearance, most all battle with issues that threaten to take hold and drag us under water. These supportive women aid in allowing me to traverse the sea.

So as we meandered through what motivates us to care so much for our physical appearance, someone mentioned how we tend to take advantage of every mirror or reflective surface we happen by. You check yourself before walking out of your apartment. You watch yourself in the mirrors of the elevator on the way down. Passing by shop windows, you look yourself up and down. We constantly reassess our appearance. Is it a narcissistic fascination with ourselves? Or possibly motivated by society's standards to always appear as beautiful? Or is it as mundane as making sure our skirts are not tucked into our underwear? Whatever the motivation, there is an undeniable call from the mirror.

I recounted once sitting in a coffee shop, sipping on my mocha and people-watching through the large windows that lined the street. As each person rushed to their various destinations, they turned toward the windows. But the eyes that should have seen me sitting there stopped at the image that, step for step, kept pace with them, mimicking the critically assessing stare.

"What if," Aisha suggested, "we were to take away mirrors for a whole day. Go an entire day without looking in the mirror." An entire day? We decided that not a single look might be a bit dangerous, seeing that we wouldn't wan to scare people with whom we work. So we settled on three times: once in the morning, after lunch, and at bedtime. Other than that, no mirrors, no shop windows, no blank computer screens. No looking at our reflections. Could we make a day?

I was excited to start. After getting ready in the bathroom in one go, I said goodbye to my mirror and walked out the door. Stepping into the elevator, I stood before myself. Quickly I dropped my gaze from the mirrored walls and stared at the floor. The subway posed a similar problem. As I flashed by in the passing windows, I had to glaze my eyes to look just below the window. At school, a mirror is set up in the teachers' room, inconveniently next to my desk; I made a few unconscious errors when I would stand up, me reappearing with an expression of surprise at being caught in the act. To glance at my reflection is such an unconscious act; I am so accustomed to knowing and checking how I look.

Not being allowed to see any sort of reflection caused me to be acutely aware of just how often I glance at myself. Yet I found that I liked it; to be unaware of my appearance was, in a way, freeing. I didn't really know how I looked, but I also didn't really care. I saved one of the times looking in the mirror for yoga; seeing as how one wall is lined with them, I knew looking would be unavoidable. All day I had been without my reflection. I found that as soon as I sat in front of the mirror again, I could feel criticisms of myself growing inside. Would, I wonder, life just be better without mirrors? Would we be happier if we were not so often confronted with our own image?

I also noticed throughout the day that I knew when and where to keep my head down and eyes averted. Meaning, I knew where all the mirrors or reflective windows are. Although I subconsciously look, or possibly merely attempt to surreptitiously catch glances, I have a sense of exactly where to look. It made me realize just how often I assess my appearance. It helped me to know how I could so often be critical of myself.

During one of my breaks yesterday, I killed time by reading a few articles online about cosmetic surgery in Asia. Although difficult to find exact statistics, Korea is known as the world's leading nation for plastic surgery with an estimated 50% of women in their 20's having undergone some sort of procedure; the rates for men are increasing exponentially. It's so sad, really. Not just the surgery. What's sad is exactly how much emphasis we place on the aesthetic appearance of ourselves and others. And though I recognize this, I am no better than anyone else. I assess people's appearances, I make assumptions about people, I make comparisons. Our culture is tied tightly to the ideal physical appearance; those who fall far outside that ideal can be treated poorly and unfairly.

One article is from the online version of "Time" magazine; in addition to the report of the trend of cosmetic surgery in Asia, it spoke of personal experiences from a number of Asian people who for some reason underwent surgery. One quote is by Sakaguchi, a Japanese woman teased mercilessly throughout her life based on her looks; a boyfriend told her he would have never dated her before the cosmetic surgery she underwent on her chin, eyes, and teeth.

"'I always wanted to believe people were ultimately judged by what was inside,' she muses, her gaze hesitant and sad. 'But I knew from my personal experience that this wasn't true. It's always the pretty girls who win the good things in life.'"

And apparently this is catching on in businesses. To gain an edge, men and women are going under the knife, trying to stand out from the crowd. This is discussed in another interesting article from Seoul Style. I was going to quote it, but realized that this would then be too long. (Thou darest to accuse me of a long-winded nature?!) So check it out on your own if you are interested.

I will, however, end with this small excerpt from said article:

"Perhaps the biggest risk of all is the impact of cosmetic surgery on Korean society. Korean people currently place so much emphasis on superficial appearance. One girl comments, 'It's becoming ingrained in people's minds that unless they look good, they can never amount to anything. Shouldn't people be regarded for who they are and what they have achieved rather than what they appear to be?' Is cosmetic surgery, in fact, contributing to the burgeoning vanity of a previously pragmatic and innocent society?"

If only we could answer all the "shouldn'ts."

Confessions of a Russian Spy

2006-08-28T10:42:00.000+09:00

When did the Red Scare, McCarthyism and all that other craziness occur? Was that the late 40's to the 50's? Prompting every spy movie that came out to feature the evil, yet masculinely handsome Russians as the nefarious villains? Now I think we tend vilify the Arab nations, seeing as we're so keen to stereotype and ostracize. Anyway, I think it leaves us with some residue of resentment and suspicion at the cold war nation. Well, I dare to now confess to you that I am under suspicion as being a Russian spy.

Any good detective will mark the first clue as occurring several years ago in the summer of '01 when I studied in Moscow. Out with my class one day in one of the numerous parks scattered throughout the city, we walked among the various and sundry statues. This particular park showcased the disgrace of the evils perpetrated by the communist regime, displaying headless statues of Stalin, a depiction of the mass murders, and various other leaders. As we stood before an imposing 20 foot statue of, I believe, Felix Edmundovich Dzerzhinsky, I exclaimed, "Cool! The KGB!" My excitement was sparked not by my historical interest or any affinity for this organization, but rather due to its role in my then favorite program, Alias. Nonetheless, it drew withering stares from my classmates, all of whom failed to share my enthusiasm.

My excitement exhibited for the founder of what would become the KGB is insufficient evidence to indict me as a spy, however. So allow me to continue.

A surprising number of Russians live in Korea, having migrated here to escape the communist regime. Given few opportunities for work, I suppose, the women gained a reputation as being prostitutes. This is a stereotype that has been ingrained into the minds of older Koreans. Thus, when asked if you are a Russian, you are essentially being solicited. Vexingly, I am often asked if I am Russian.

Initially not realizing the connotations to this question, I once was cornered by a man in a train station who queried in English, "Russian?" Hoping to deter him from talking with me, I answered in Russian that I don't speak any English. Rather than deterring him, however, he took this as an acceptance of his unspoken question. I ended up shoving him away and he began to irately yell at me. I quickly learned my lesson. I now emphatically emphasize that I am not Russian.

Just before leaving Korea to go home, the evening of the Bambi incident, I was to meet Mel and Liz for dinner near the beach. The summer traffic is so dense that I decided to exit the taxi early and walk to the restaurant. While waiting to cross the street at a traffic light, a man on a motorcycle turned the corner. Coming to an abrupt stop, he examined me and stated with a confident question, "Russian?" I answered with a roll of my eyes and a shake of my head. "Uh," he grunted, reassessing me. "American?" spoken with a hint of hopefulness. Not wanting to lie and merely hoping for the light to change, I shrugged my shoulders and nodded, looking away. "Ah," he said satisfactorily and again confidently. "Have sex?!" So shocked at this directness that I just started laughing, I managed to get out a scandalized and emphatic, "NO!" as I illegally crossed the street to escape him, laughing uproariously.

Later that evening, out with John and Pierre, I retold the story yet again. Shrugging, John pointed out casually, "Well, he probably thought if you were Russian, he'd have to pay; if you were American, he could get it for free!" Oh, sad. Because that's probably exactly what he thought.

Regardless of my insistence at not being Russian, I am generally suspected by most Koreans to simply be lying. This leads me to my final confession.

Last week was still vacation for me, so while friends were working, I filled my days with various activities. On Thursday I decided to go hiking on Jang Mountain, a 15 minute walk from my apartment. Arming myself with a water bottle and my Ipod, I took off a little before 10 am (lazy girl... I slept in). The hiking was glorious, really. Once I reached beyond the outdoor exercise area filled with active Koreans, the path became quiet and serene. Only seldomly did I pass other hikers. Deciding to explore, I took a number of paths off the main one, hoping to be rewarded with seclusion and grand views. I found both and enjoyed the time wandering. After hiking for two hours and nearly finishing my water, I decided that I should turn around. I did so and began the way back. As the trail meandered, I remember thinking that it looked unfamiliar. But I kept walking, assuming it would feed me onto my initial path. If you have any sort of perception whatsoever, you will be able to follow where my story is going: I got lost. As I kept going down, though, I assumed that I would eventually reach the bottom. Were it to be different than my point of origin, finding my way back would be easy enough.

This brings us about 3 hours in, the water finished long ago, the heat starting to get to me. I was walking along a road at this point, which I took to be a good sign, meaning that it would eventually connect with the city below. And though I passed a sign showing an "x" on this road, I prayed that the Korean, roughly translated, read something like, "Road closed for construction. Find alternate route. Except for hikers, of course." If so, I would merely make my way around the construction and keep going down. It was a steep decline and so I walked quickly, trying to think about how hungry I was as opposed to how thirsty I was because the need for food was significantly less.

A half hour after passing the sign, I came upon a gated area with a booth set up next to it. As I approached, a young Korean in uniform stepped out with an intimidatingly large gun. "Ahn yeong ha say yo," I said lightly, explaining in Korean that I don't speak Korean. With a shy smile, he called to the other guard, who spoke English.

"No, no. This is military. No go here," he said.

"Oh," I managed, wanting to cry. "So I have to go back?"

"Yes," he said somewhat apologetically.

"Oh," I repeated, shoulders sagging. As I turned and began walking up, I wheeled around and asked, "Can I just have a little water?"

He nodded empathetically and brought out a 2 liter bottle. I drank about half, thanked him, then turned again to make my way up. By my calculations, this meant that the hike up and then around to the correct path would be at least another two hours. Whimpering, I began to imagine myself dying on little Jang mountain, eaten by the lone wild deer in Korea.

The hike up was excruciatingly difficult, given that the slope was about 60 or 70 degrees, the heat was intense, the humidity was as thick as the ocean, and I had no water. I began praying for any car to come by; I would, for the first time ever, hitchhike. But, while ten cars passed me going down, no cars came up. Twenty minutes into walking up, I heard a stream trickling off the rocks. With animal instincts, I bounded from the road and pounced on the helpless water. I filled my water bottle twice and drank all in it. Filling it for a third time for the road, I got back on and felt somewhat revived.

Altogether, it took me 45 minutes to reach the sign again, which I consider rather impressive given the conditions. Just after passing it, I heard the noise of a car approaching. Jumping into the road, I held out two hands to stop it. Thankfully, they obliged. It was a green van with three Korean gentlemen in it. "Excuse me," I said in Korean. "I don't speak Korean." Then the sign language came out. "Me (pointing at self) molayo (Korean for "I don't know," coupled with looking all around me, confused). In car (pointing from myself to in the vehicle)? Jangsan park (the name of my starting point)." They obliged and allowed me in. I sat in the back and they immediately handed me a water bottle (I hid the remains of my stream water). The man in front of me expressed disgust and kept looking at me, likely because I appeared to have just stepped out, fully clothed, from a shower.

They did a U-turn in the car and began back down the hill. "No," I said, surprised. But then I kept quiet, not wanting to confuse them ("No, you don't want a ride down the mountain?") and realizing that it would be easy to backtrack when they were turned away. Down, down, down. As we reached the gate, I prepared for the interrogation as to their business on base. But the guard merely saluted as the driver waved, continuing down the road. Another five minutes and we were at the base next to the road. Thanking them profusely, I tried to pay them. But Koreans never accept money for acts of kindness. So I thanked them more, said, "Sarang hey-o!" or "I love you!" and left.

Now I have a deeply philosophical question to pose. If I were to have been Korean, would I have been turned back at the gate? Did they spot me coming, nudge eachother and whisper, "Russian spy," as I approached? Apparently I appeared to be very dangerous, a rogue spy armed with an empty water bottle and practically crawling to keep moving. In any case, it wasn't a risk they considered worth taking.

So if I am ever arrested as a Russian spy, you will be able to shrug, nod your head knowingly, and sigh, "I always supsected as much."

Belated Everything

2006-08-25T15:28:00.000+09:00

As you may have deduced, I am again back in Korea. I assumed that, given I had 1 1/2 weeks before my rigorous work schedule resumed, I would have plenty of time to blog. But, as a Master Procrastinator, I have thus far managed to avoid this task. I've spent time with friends instead. Which is good. Because after such an amazing trip home, it was really, exceptionally, extremely, (insert additional superlatives here) hard to come back. But in coming back, I realize that I also love my friends here, and I think that's very healthy to know. Good for me.

And so Procrastination Girl returns to the computer. Yet showcasing her trepidation at commitment, refuses to pledge to a full post. So you get my belated post about, well, nothing, really. Can I post about merely procrastinating? About not calling people I need to call, or not working on what should be done, or not planning various days that might appreciate the effort? About waking up in a very schedule-oriented manner (8 or 9 am every morning), but then filling the day with various busy nothings? And anyone who is a procrastinator (which, given that you are reading this post, I assume you are) will understand this and why it has been such a wonderful week for me. To put off is to allow so many more unexpected pleasures.

Yesterday, for example, I chose to go hiking in the morning rather than clean my apartment. And on Tuesday, I lay on the beach all day rather than preparing anything for school. I have seen many friends and spent time relaxing in this country that is my quasi-home. To move aside from any sarcasm whatsoever, to be perfectly candid, it has been really hard to come back. I miss home. All of my annoyances and frustrations that I hoped were a product of being over-tired and would be rectified in going home waited for me upon my arrival at the airport. As I stated earlier, I love my friends here. And they are my life-blood in this country. Because, to play the role of the embittered, jaded old woman, I find that I just don't like Korea anymore.

That being said and accepted, however, I have decided to recognize it, yet not dwell upon it. There are too many good aspects to living here to focus on the trivial annoyances that confront me. Yesterday during the hike, I breathed the clean fresh air so dense with humidity that the wild scents meandered lazily in the heat. This morning I returned to my old school, SLP, to see my kids at the monthly birthday party. As I surveyed the room, smiling at the shrieks of "Aubrey-teacher, Aubrey-teacher!" and little heads twisting back to see me, I realized that I need to be with this age group. My job is great, really. Who could complain at three months of paid vacation? But I miss those kids so much. Junior high just isn't my thing. And tonight, my friends are throwing me a belated birthday party. A room full of people who are really important to me.

So while this is not the place I hope to settle, I strive for the contentment in all the good that is here. At my heart, I am an optimist. And although I've been describing the empty space that hovers in the top half of my glass, I cling tightly to the knowledge of the sweet, delicious life that resides in the bottom half.

Tick Tock, Tick Tock

2006-08-15T23:23:00.000+09:00

Well, that's it. The clock has run down and it's time again to leave home. Back to Korea. I didn't realize how hard it would be to leave. I caught myself praying for a tornado to shut down O'hare Airport. But, like most of this past month at home, it's beautiful and sunny, so I guess God doesn't listen to those kind of prayers.

When I get back, I don't start work for another week and a half, so I'll be able to update you (probably with more information than you care about) on my full trip home. Alright, leaving for the airport. See you back in Korea. Or see you a lot later than that. Time goes too quickly.

Quarter of a Century

2006-08-01T13:25:00.000+09:00

I have decided that it takes an entire week to celebrate my birthday. So although I am posting this on August 5 (incidentally my mom's birthday), I am dating it as August 1st, my birthday. And why not? After all, I am now one quarter of a century. Don't ask me the significance of this other than I feel it should be significant. Perhaps the turn is this is the age where I begin to fudge a little (translation: lie) about my age. There is some sort of dense reality at age 25.

As a child, 25 was the age of an adult, no different from 40. I assumed at this age that I would be married with children. But I still feel like a child. The falsehood of this feeling was pronounced today by a wise 6 year old, a neighbor's child playing on the beach. My mom, who is instantly friends with any child she meets, was playing around with her. After my mom walked into the water, I said, "You know, it's my mom's birthday today!"

Incredulously she stared at me, appraising me, then responded, "She's your mom?!" As if I were too old to have a mother. Just another adult. So here I am at 25, not a girl, not yet a woman (NO! Beat Britney back with a stick, suppress the urge to sing a really bad song!). Happily will I embrace this new age, however. I have long anticipated embracing my proper age, gracefully growing in years. Though it now surprises me that I begin to ponder that.

If this past glorious birthday week has been any indication of how this year will be, I am eager to meet it. There is too much to write now, but I promise to spectacularly bore you with details later. Jess was here, here being the cottage. I celebrated with family. And tomorrow after church I leave with my mom, grandma, and sister to meet Daane and Chad on the Appalachian trail. Yes, I will be a hiker. In the heat reaching over 100 degrees (which, for our Celsius friends, exceeds 38 degrees), they continued to hike nearly 30 miles (sigh... 48 kilometers) per day. So pardon me while I get my beauty sleep. Once again, I've been having too much fun to go to bed.

Lots of love,
Aub

P.S. To all who have emailed, I'm terribly sorry. I just haven't. I promise to do it later, when (gulp... if) I get time. Thank you so much to those of you who emailed me on my birthday. Major bonus points to you.

Return to Neverland

2006-07-29T12:27:00.000+09:00

The sun sets slowly, like a strutting peacock painting colors in the clouds as it passes by. Sailboats participating in the Chicago-Mackinac sailing race dot the horizon, like tiny toys carefully lined up on the side of the bathtub. The only sound is of waves crashing against the shore below and conversation emanating from the open windows, begging for the breezes provided by the vast lake. No jacket is needed, as the generous weather never turns cold, only to a cooler form of warm. I want to close my eyes, heigtening my auditory and olfactory senses to further absorb the rushing of the waves and the wafting scent of lillies, yet am unwilling to forego the artistry of the sky. I am enamored by the sky. When it chooses to be crystalline blue, or canvas to the rapidly changing sunset, I sit in awe, temporarily silenced.

This was several days ago, but is an everyday occurence in Michigan, especially over Lake Michigan. I have traveled the world, but have yet to discover a place where the sunsets can compare to what is offered here. The daytime clouds, which jestingly veil the noon sun, disrobe from their whites to show an array of reds, scarlets, violets, and mauves, edges gilded. I am no nationalist and would never claim that the beauty of Michigan is superior to any other cut of creation. But we have cornered the market on sunsets. We really have.

I needed this vacation; it has been abundantly more than the therapy I hoped for it to be. Have I only been home a week? A few days more. But I can scarcely believe all that I've done.

I started my time at my dad's house in Indiana. That feels like such a long time ago now. But it was three days of good conversation, playing with Lindsey, wine tutorials, and pure comedy. I realized my first day back how I had certainly made the right choice in coming. As I did a morning run in the remnants of the early morning's thunderstorm, then reduced to a mere sprinkling, I breathed deeply and realized that the air was clean, unpolluted with the absence of a myriad of cars. It was noiseless, the sound of water softly falling. And in the 40 minutes I was out, only four cars passed me. I liked being home.

After my dad's house, I spent time at my mom's, a cottage home along the lakeshore. This is where I drank the sunsets. I got to spend time talking with my mom. If you thought I can't stop talking around you, then you should see me with her... We got to walk the beach and swim in the water. When finished and told I would shower outside, I was skeptical, picturing a hose with icy water. "No, it's wonderful," was the promise. They recently had a shower head installed outside, then put a partial wall up. So you shower while watching the lake. It was superb.

I have spent this week at my Grandma's cottage, set on a smaller inland lake, Big Whitefish. This is the time of my childhood, with days spent tubing, kneeboarding, kayaking, swimming, Seadooing, celebrating summer birthdays, biking, and eating icecream (arguably the highlight). No, the true highlight is doing all this with my family around me. My Grandma, aunts, unlces, and cousins. I realized while racing across the lake yesterday, desperately clinging to my cousin's lifejacket as the wind stung our faces, that few could understand this Neverland, this life of eternal childhood. Who could appreciate and love this but my family? And with who else would I desire to participate in this? No one can replace family.

That is what this vacation is about. Returning to the Neverland of my childhood to see my dad, my mom, my family, but then dutifully going back to the world of adults. The child within me will never be pacified by such brief trips into the past, but is subdued by realizing that I may still return. Nonetheless, I was noting with Sara yesterday, as we limped off the tubes that had just skimmed across the water at unclockable speeds, that as we have grown older, these childhood activities have lost a measure of their appeal. No longer can we infinitely be bounced off the water. No longer can we be towed by the boat without soreness in our arms. And with all we do, we actually want to go to bed at night. We are no longer children. But, I pray, we will never lose the unadulterated excitement of our childhood.

Well, I promise to tell more later, but I've got to go to sleep now. It's way past my bed time.

Love Aub

P.S. Far too lazy to add pictures now. But here's a promise to try later. Check again to see if I'm a liar.

33 Fleeting Hours Later

2006-07-21T13:18:00.000+09:00

This is the time that it took me to travel from my home in Busan, South Korea, to my dad's in Valparaiso, Indiana (USA). Taxi to train to bus to plane to plane to bus to car. Wow. It sounds vaguely like a Dr. Seuss plot. If only I had a multi-colored breakfast to accompany my travels. "I would not eat them on a train, I would not eat them in a plane, I would not eat them here or there, I would not eat them..." Well, you know how it ends.

It was all remarkably uneventful, even though I missed two complete nights in a bed. No worries. I caught sleep where I could, often semi-vertically. And in the Tokyo-Narita airport, I sneakily claimed an entire bench, sleeping in the coveted horizontal position while listening to my Ipod (shock, disbelief) and hugging my belongings. I must have looked like a vagrant. Last night provided 12 sweet hours of sweet sleep.

I think my great send-offs helped, because I was able to spend time with so many dear friends in Busan before I left. I hung out with Liz, Mel, and Dan on my last night in Busan, playing the quintessential Midwest card game, Euchre. Dear Michiganders! Previously that day, I was able to lunch with Edwin, then have dinner with Kate and Esther. Then on Wednesday, the very day I was to leave, I was quite productive, going for a rainy day run, then doing yoga, attempting preparation for an extended period of sitting. Jen baked me the most awesome cookies for my trip, then Ang shared her Tim Tams (thanks, girls!). And dinner with Richard, who himself just returned from traveling, right before I took off for the train.

Tuesday, 10 p.m. The clock starts. The train ride was so very long, especially because I couldn't really sleep. I was continually afraid that I would miss my stop (how do you miss Seoul, anyway?) and end up in North Korea or something. I just wasn't too excited to alter my summer plans to hanging out with good old Kim Jeong. Thankfully Mike, a true night owl, kept me company with about a two hour phone conversation (thanks, Mike... now write on your blog again!).

Let's skip a lot of the travel information. It was two days that felt like twelve. The last ten minutes of the plane were the worst. We were late anyway, then they promised "just ten more minutes." Liars! Ten Korean minutes, maybe. Actually, it was fifteen, but it couldn't have felt longer. I swear, it could have beat out watching Titanic. Sorry if you're a Kate and Leo fan (but not that sorry). We end this tale of travel and adventure on Wednesday at 5 p.m. Central U.S. time, 7 p.m. in Korea. 33 hours of non-stop fun later.

But I'm here now and so inexpressibly glad to be back in America. Home. I have been at my dad's house and I'm having so much fun. I almost forgot how easy everything is at home. Did you remember, for example, that people have real conversations with each other, using full sentences and varied grammar... in English?! Yeah, I swear. And there is real sun, no umbrellas necessary (though we did have a beautiful thunder storm last night, like an angry old man disturbed from his slumber). And when you are outside, the air doesn't smell like car exhaust. Or, get this, that there are other blond people in the world?! Here I was starting to think I was the only one. I was lying out by the pool today and noticed that seven of the nine kids playing in the water were blonds. So my presence is all that much less special.

Well, I'm tired, so I will head to bed shortly. But I wanted to say that I am here and safe. I am excited to see my U.S. friends very soon! And to everyone in Korea, I love you and I will see you very soon, laden with gifts, of course! Squirtable cheese, anyone? Thanks, America!

Bambi

2006-07-14T14:20:00.000+09:00

Today is my last working day for six weeks. When I previously did this, I was unemployed! But it's a bit different now. I am actually getting paid to be on vacation. Oh, how I love being a teacher.

To end school, God with his infinite sense of humor apparently decided to make the parting somewhat interesting. Firstly, I should say that it is an absolutely stunning day. We have been going through the rainy season, which so far has extended for about a month, dark skies obliterating hopes of hiking or lying on the beach, the air pressing into your lungs and the darkness to your mind. Today, however, the sun broke out, shattering the clouds into hundreds of fragmented pieces all over the sky. They float aimlessly above in the lapis heavens, playfully mimicking a cast of characters. It is this kind of day that pulls me through time into the dreamy memories of childhood, the soft green grass supporting a small body, one hand pointing upward to call out the forms greeting me above. First an old man, then a pirate ship, now a strange sort of dog, but only if you turn your head like this.

I took the bus to work, not wanting to be caged in the dark tunnels of the underground subway. This made me slightly later than usual, as it is a longer walk from the bus stop to my school. But I relished the time in the sun, sipping on my Starbucks Frappuccino with my Ipod providing a rousing morning soundtrack. By the time I made it to school, I was sweating, but in a wonderful mood, absolutely ready to conquer my final three classes of the semester. Upon arriving, I found a large group of students congregated in the parking lot. "What are you doing?" I queried.

"Teacher, animal. Hurt."

As curious as the students to what it was, I awkwardly bent over, peering under the car. It was a baby deer! In my lifetime, I have seen a myriad of deer; this is an inevitable occurrence living in the Midwest. Never before have I seen one in Korea. You rarely see any sort of wildlife, apart from the scavenging gulls that congregate on the beach. Then to see a deer in my school parking lot!

The poor thing was shaking and crying, evidently afraid and somehow hurt. Unsure exactly what to do, I became one of the gawkers staring at the poor thing shaking behind the front tire. One boy, a second year student, procured a long stick, at which point I began to voice my opinion. "What are you doing? Don't hurt it! It's scared. Please don't hurt it!" But I'm sure instead it sounded to them much like the aliens from Calvin's imagination: "Mgrfh Blmpm Hgsmph!" Completely incomprehensible to them. Changing tactics, I knelt behind the student, hoping that me being there would stop any further pain or teasing. Once there, however, I realized the boy was trying to coax it out, trying to get the deer to safety. He was successful, and scooped the bleeding Bambi into his arms. A loud wail filled the air, the cry of a baby desperately afraid. Thin legs flailed as blood arced into the sky (sanguine against azure). But the boy held firm, walking it around to the back of the school.

Trailing after the throng that followed the boy and his wild deer, I found one of my students whose English I knew to be passable. "Does a teacher know? Does a teacher know?" Thus finally identifying myself as a non-teacher, the superfluous foreigner who comes in to babble at them. He assured me, "Yes. Go to hospital."

I parted from the group, walking into the front of the school (where my "inside" shoes are located). Upon entering, I encountered the full staff of teachers as they were exiting from their weekly staff meeting. Searching through the crowd, I found Mrs. Hwang, one of the other six English teachers. Flushed and concerned, I explained the situation to her as other teachers cast curious glances at this overwrought foreigner. She calmed me, saying that they knew about it and, the student was correct, they would be sending it to a veterinary clinic.

Amidst all this confusion was the normalcy of another day at Dong-a. Conversations I will never understand floating around me, my name thrown in intermittently. A school working as a slow cooker to ensure all students and teachers are well done (the principal and vice-principal's offices are air conditioned, by the way). And then for good measure, the students (and teachers) who shout out "Aubrey, I LOVE YOU!" very sincerely, but it is unnerving to me nonetheless. I am usually left in a state of surprised speechlessness, a great feat indeed. I have tried responding in a variety of ways, but none have sounded quite right. The Korean "Sarang hey-yo" ("I love you") was out of the question because, frankly, it gives the wrong impression. This impression being that same somewhat creepy, overly uncomfortable feeling I get when inappropriately told that they love me. But I didn't want to just remain silent and make them feel totally stupid. So at first I kept saying, "Uh, thank you!" I also pragmatically tested the rather philosophical approach, "Really? Love? How do we really know what 'love' is?" Then today after the deer incident, I was struck with an ingenious thought. When one of my students who daily yells, "Teacher, I love you!" again repeated this now familiar act, I, in a very Brian Regan-like manner, said, "Uh... YOU TOO!" That way it was sort of a reciprocal response to my student, but gave me the lighthearted humor I needed in it. Few of you will understand this reference, unless you are familiar with the comedian Brian Regan. If you are not, you should be.

So farewell, Dong-a Middle School. Farewell work. Farewell lack of air conditioning. And farewell Konglish. I'm going home.

Noodle Chicken and Ketchup

2006-07-13T15:49:00.000+09:00

My kids tried to kill me! It's true.

The last several days, I've been suffering from this acute pain in my back, a tiny area emanating pain through to the front of my chest, up the back of my neck, and into my head. It's really hard to breathe or even walk because of this. Carrying anything becomes excruciating. The remedy, I figure, is to pop asprin like tic tacs.

Yesterday I got ice cream with Mel and Liz. They both kept saying really funny things, and I, of course, responded with laughter. But it hurts so much to laugh that it came out in small gasps, like, "Ha ha, OUCH! (gasp) Ha ha, OUCH! (gasp) Ha ha, OUCH! (gasp)" Being the good, supportive friends that they are, they were rolling with laughter at the ridiculous way in which I was laughing. This, of course, made me laugh more. It was quite the vicious cycle.

But this week I am down to my last couple of days of teaching before one and a half months of vacation. Basically I'm on teacher survival mode. To top off the pain in my back and the anticipation of almost leaving, today the weather decides to dial it up to sauna setting, with the temperature in the 90's (farenheit, of course) and 75% humidity. I can swim in the air. And my school is too cheap to turn on the air, though there are units in every classroom. So body heat in the classrooms ups the temp even more. It's just lovely, let me tell you. By my last class today, I was exhausted and ready to make a run for it. Not literally, though, because I think if I ran right now I would die after about 2.7 seconds from dehydration.

My kids in this class, which is incidentally and thankfully one of my favorites, decided to subtly attempt to murder me. They didn't actually know about my back pain, but kids have a sixth sense for that sort of thing, you know? This week, I've started classes with a few riddles, then move on to talking about our vacation plans and one wish we could have for summer. Instead of answering my riddle, however, I got a loud, "What?" just before the class broke into a lovely rendition of "Noodle Chicken and Ketchup." I think it's at least part of some Korean ad, though it doesn't sound overly appetizing. As I wrote that, it doesn't even sound so funny, but when you're delirious, pretty much anything works. So I started my laugh-laugh-gasp, laugh-laugh-gasp routine. Is there anything more you can do to better convince a group of 12 year olds that they are up and coming comedic geniuses? I'd bet not.

The remainder of that class was various forms of the "Noodle Chicken and Ketchup" song with me trying regain my composure. It was a wasted effort. But class is now finished and, though my back is throbbing, I am sweating out the three liters of water I consumed today, and I may be starting to see double, it's been a great day. Plus I have only three classes tomorrow before I finish. I'm ready.

Not to Brag, But...

2006-07-11T13:35:00.000+09:00

The date: July 11. Where will I be next week? At home. The response that this simple word evokes in me is extraordinary, especially knowing somewhat of my game plan. I won't spoil your future reading pleasure by giving away all the details of my itinerary now, but I feel the need to exorcise my overwrought excitement by reviewing it quickly. Just like last time that I was away for so long, I keep bouncing up and down when the upcoming weeks are mentioned, as I loudly proclaim, "I'm goin' ho-ome, I'm goin' ho-ome!" Here's the short list of what I'm most excited for:

I get to see my dad, who is currently AWOL, as he's golfing with the pros now. Rock on, dad.

Trace is currently growing a baby Hos, so I'm incredibly excited to get home and get to hang out with the expanding Hosford family.

Jo. I need to talk with you, girl!

Gram's cottage. Enough said.

Hours and hours talking with my mom. Girl time.

Jess coming!!!

Hanging with my super cool cousins. Skiing, tubing, swimming, kneeboarding, biking, playing cards, blueberry picking, and whatever other form of creative activity we can come up with.

Calvary.

Watching the sun set over Lake Michigan while sitting on our patio enjoying a drink with mom and Jim. To quote Jane Austen, "Is there a felicity in the world superior to this?"

Hiking a part of the Appalachian trail with Daane and Chad. My chest puffs out and I hold my head higher when I get to talk about them. I was reading on their hiking blog today and, as always, I become so proud of them. They are incredible men. And how surprising to look at the pictures and realize I can't call them boys anymore. Last time I went home, Daane came to give me a big hug, but I had to hold him back for a second before I hugged back. I actually asked, "Is this a joke?" thinking that this guy with a man's face and frame was just a stand-in for my cute little brother. But Daane and Chad are real men, doing things that so many other men will never accomplish. If you click here and here, you can see my favorite pictures of them (omigosh, is that really my brother with a beard?). Or you can go to their website's journal to see more and read more about them.

So the tentative plan is that I get to be out there with them for a few days, hiking with Ashley, my sister, while Gram and Mom meet us in upcoming towns, getting goodies for the boys. I'm pretty sure it might kill me. Yoga probably isn't the best prepatory activity, even if we do often perform Mountain Pose. It will be great to be a part of it, attempting the whole time not to slow them down too much, and to spend so much time with my family. That's always a treat for me.

Oh, and you will hear about it, too. Now I'm making my kids tell me their summer vacation plans. As I get stuff like, "I will do my summer vacation homework," or "I will go to the PC Room," I perform a Nelson-like laugh, pointing, "ha-ha," and make them ask me about my summer plans just so I can think about it and brag about it more. By the way, no, I do not actually laugh at my kids. Just kidding. But we are talking about our vacation plans, and I always have them ask me first as an example. He he.

So it's about a week until I fly out. And I can't wait! I love you guys!

Aub

P.S. If you were wondering (and too lazy to follow my link), Mountain Pose is the most basic pose in yoga. It starts and ends all other poses. Succinctly, it is just standing up straight. Nice.

I am... a Place Dropper

2006-07-07T13:27:00.000+09:00

Have I mentioned that I'm living in Korea? Yes? Oh, ok. Did I say that I've traveled South East Asia and India? Oh, I did? Hmm... How about all my communist countries, like China, Russia, and Uzbekistan? I said those, too? Well, this is possibly because I am a highly conspicuous Place Dropper. I rarely miss an opportunity to mention the name of a country in which I have traveled. Whenever someone is talking, I like to connect it back to one of my 16 visited countries. "Thailand? You'll love it! I've been there three times." "You like Italian food? That reminds me of when I went to Rome." "Lentils? Hey, that sounds like 'Lenin' and did you know I actually saw him embalmed at the Kremlin in Red Square in Moscow?"

I am especially culpable when I am complimented on what I'm wearing. I really, REALLY like shopping, but being Dutch-American, I prefer not to spend a lot of money doing so (we are generally stereotyped as being cheap; I've found this stereotype to often be true). The perfect solution arises when traveling. I find really cool, unique skirts, jewelry, and tops, all inexpensive (which prompts me to buy more, actually). Then when someone says, "Hey, Aubrey, that's a really great skirt," I can quickly say, "Thanks, it's from Thailand!" Can you comprehend the subtle brilliance of how I just did that? Accepting a compliment and establishing myself as well-traveled in one fell swoop. I know, I know; I'm amazing.

One day I was up in Jen's apartment with Ang and Liz when one of them commented on my earrings. Of course I began with my well-practiced response of their origin. Likely it was Thailand or India. "You're such a Place Dropper," Jen informed me. Yes, yes I am. Good of someone to notice. I, of course, embraced the phrase, as I do will all my strangeness. But if you travel, you do it, too. All my Place Droppers, you know who you are.

Thankfully I don't know any famous people. I have a strong feeling that if I did, I would probably purchase a megaphone to quietly tell only family and close friends about my encounters with them. They would at first confide in me details of their lives; I would nod sympathetically and pat their backs encouragingly, all the while plotting how to best share with others about this experiences. Celebreties: beware. To any friends that may become famous someday: I will probably be the person writing a book about how I knew you. As it is, I must suffice with names of countries. They have become like my celebrities. Oh, Laos? I know her! Yeah, we spent a week together and got along really well. Let me tell you about the time...

Vive la France!

2006-07-03T09:41:00.000+09:00

Sometimes when eager Koreans approach me on the street, hopeful of practicing their English on me, I stare somewhat blankly, then answer in the most rapid French I can muster that, sorry, I don't speak English, I am only here visiting and, yes, I am from France. The eager Korean will lose a bit of their hopefulness, cock their head slightly and furrow their brow in an attempt to recall learning "je ne parle pas anglais" in their English classes. Realizing my ruse was unsuccessful in communicating the desired message, I grin sheepishly, make an "X" sign with my arms and say, "English, no." This either leads them into further confusion that a white person does not speak English and, more specifically, is not in Korea to teach English to every passerby, or, secondly, they will assume that I am Russian and am therefore a prostitute. This inevitably creates another problem, as I have no desire to sleep with Korean men. As fun as being propositioned is, I've found that it is better to discourage that assumption.

One may suspect that my French alter ego was created with the purpose of warding off talkative strangers, but that one would be wrong. The French Aubrey exists for the sole pleasure of the American Aubrey, who loves everything that is French. This adoration was not discovered until high school when I began French class with Madame Moryl, an all time favorite teacher. The first day of class included a speech on how everything sounds better when spoken in French. "Garbage can" became "le bidon de détritus." "Disease" is "la maladie." Even "to die" rolled mellifluously as "mourir." I was mesmerized. The alphabet, which has all the same letters as the English alphabet, even sounded better in French. And they had accents, like pretty decorations to dress up otherwise tame words. Yes, if France was a country that made talking sound so good, I knew it had to be a special place.

Time only deepened my admiration of everything that was French. As I began to have a rudimentary grasp of the language, conversing like an overgrown toddler with such observations as "the monkey is silly" or "there are many mice in the house," I began to become somewhat haughty . I took pleasure in turning up my nose at those in my class who butchered the language by clinging to the assumption that all languages should be yet another opportunity to reiterate that we are not of your country, we are AMERICAN, so we will talk however we please. They used pronunciation resembling a vagrant living in the hills of Arkansas and subsisting off of wild berries and gamey rabbits. "Jew mah pell David. Jeh vux uhn stile-oh." Only the truly sophisticated, I reasoned, could paint with their tongues the utter beauty of this sacred language. Thus proving my superiority over the other 14 year old Midwesterners in my class. This superiority soon spread to the entire American populace, not only those who had ever at one time taken a French class. No French phrases were exempt and I adopted a highly affected manner in pronouncing every French idiom borrowed by English speakers. "Haute couture." "Coup d'état." "Raison d'être ." "Bon appétit." I softly purred my 'r's and elevated my vowels. It is perhaps shocking that I didn't take up smoking and carrying wheels of Brie in my purse in an effort to feel more French.

My French world was nearly shattered in the move to Michigan when at my new school the French teacher seemed convinced that it was her sole responsibility to massacre the language with the American-ness she wore like a large red and white striped flag wrapped around her large frame, the stars against the blue background screaming, "We will not relent!" She opened the book in what was a laughable attempt to give instructions in French, reading loudly and shrilly. Other students sat uncomprehendingly; I soon discovered that they had little interest in learning this "irrelevant" language. Who, after all, needs to bother learning another language? Everyone else speaks English, anyway. Meanwhile, I huddled in the back corner of the room, rocking back and forth while pressing both hands firmly over my ears.

I suffered through a year of this joke of a class to discover that Rockford did not consider French important enough to be taught in the fourth year. Though I briefly considered befriending our French exchange student, he was (a) a boy and (b) popular, which were two characteristics that at that time effectively made me incapable of talking with him. I thus underwent a French fast until college. In college I resumed classes, but found that I had fallen far enough behind that the pretty words still sounded pretty, but not necessarily like words to me. That, and I decided early on that studying should not be my first priority while in school. Since a great part of learning a language is memorizing vocabulary, this proved to be a fatal combination. I lasted a year, then quit, convincing myself I needed to focus on what was relevant to my major and would just resume my French studies when I lived there someday.

My love of France was forced to become somewhat dormant, yet flared up again at such times as the wild popularity of the French film "Amelie" or the silly anti-French sentiment expressed most forcefully by Americans going to McDonalds to order "freedom fries." I continued to call them french fries with a nearly vengeful pleasure.

Then came the time when I had the opportunity to study in Russia for a month, taking a class entitled "Comparative Social Systems of Russia and the United States." Why not, I reasoned with some friends from the class, travel Europe for a bit afterward. This brought me to Paris. I floated through the city with angels serenading me on my pilgrimage to stand before all the famous landmarks of the city. La Basilique du Sacré-Cœur, Champs-Élysées, la Tour Eiffel, Notre-Dame, le Louvre. I could not conceive of heaven being any more beautiful than this. Best of all, everywhere we went I got to practice my French. Though unfortunately never able to point out silly monkies or mouse infested houses, I practically skipped with glee to ticket counters and nearly sang my orders at restaurants. I was always disappointed when my "je voudrais acheter un billet" was met with a placid, "You want a ticket? To where?" from the French clerk behind the counter. My friends tried unsuccessfully to convince me that it was better just to speak English with them; their English skills far exceeded my French abilities. I was shocked and disappointed. Truly, how profane. To suggest using English in France? I nearly abandoned them.

One evening, we met an American who was in Paris preparing for the year of university she would take in a smaller provincial town beginning that fall. Hitting it off, we all went to dinner together. Only she and I decided to explore the city afterward, my friends being too tired to walk more. The girl and I shared a similar love of France and I felt a deep affinity with her. On our walk, we soon met a nice Parisian man who offered to walk us around the city. We gladly accepted. The two of them were soon engaged in a meaningful conversation in French while I interjected with inane observations about the weather or food, the areas my speaking ability had become limited to. And yet I likely never had a better conversation in my life. Because it was in French.

In all my years of loving the country, however, I never actually knew any French people. It didn't matter. I loved them all, regardless of whether they hoped my country would break apart and, piece by piece, sink into the ocean. They could throw wine into my face and cast snobbish insults about my home or family. None of this would matter. I naturally genuflected to the greater culture. When I came back this year to Korea, however, I was told that we had a new member in the small group... and he was French. They said this without knowing of my fascination with the country and culture. Otherwise, they may have kept quiet. Directly I met him to inform him that he would be required to speak French with me. But he became my friend anyway. He even tolerates my pitiful attempts at conversation, yet quickly, I notice, switches us back to English. From time to time, possibly to keep me pacified, he compliments my ability in French. "It's really good! It's the same words over and over, but it's good." The last time that he told me my pronunciation was impressive, I grabbed his hand and professed that I would love him forever for that statement. But I lied. I will not remain friends because he compliments my French; this was merely a bonus. I will love him forever because he is French.

My Pastor is Cooler Than Your Pastor

2006-06-30T12:42:00.000+09:00

I'm going to hell. That's the verdict, at least, according to Esther, one of my pastors here in Korea. She likes to say I'm going to hell. But I have a few friends who say they'll see me there, so it's ok. Pierre promised to bring wine. And also I like to think that, given how similar we are, Esther also will soon join me in hell. So you see, it all works out in the end.

She's kidding, by the way, for all you readers who can't sense the thick sarcasm oozing from the lines on your computer and dripping onto your lap. It's one of the things I love about her. Esther is on my list of people whose humor always makes me laugh. Wait, change that; I almost always laugh, regardless. She's on the list of people I find truly humorous. And if you know me, you will know how I love to laugh. This characteristic is hereditary, I believe. Both my mom and dad are eminently witty and find great enjoyment in humor, especially intelligently presented, insightful humor. I like people who make me laugh, so naturally Esther falls on that list.

In my life, I have had a number of pastors. During my formative years living in Valparaiso, we remained at the same church, having four pastors over that span of years. I also went to a Christian elementary and middle school and therefore was surrounded by a number of others in the clergy. Moving to Michigan when I was 16, we floundered for a time, not settling on a specific church. Eventually we found ourselves attending a church much larger than the one we had left behind. Good Shepherd, in Indiana, was small and fostered a quite close community of about 100 members. Calvary, in Grand Rapids, is what is known as a mega-church, defined as a church having over 2,000 worshippers every Sunday. This concept is exceptionally familiar to South Korea; eleven of the world's twelve largest mega-churches are in Seoul. Yoido Full Gospel Church is the world's very largest, consisting of 800,000 members. Calvary's attendance seems paltry compared to that, having an average of 6,000 worshippers every Sunday. That's still very large. It has planted a number of daughter churches in the Grand Rapids area, including Mars Hill Bible Church, pastored by Rob Bell and at one time the fastest growing church in America. The positive part of going to a mega-church is that you usually get a very stimulating service, with good music and riveting preaching. The downside is that you often feel like a sheep being herded in and out of a large corral. You see the pastor from a distance, but there is little difference than watching it on television.

When I came to Korea, I knew that finding an English service was of utmost importance to me. For anyone who does not know, my faith is essential to me. Regardless of how circumstances change around me, this is a very solid area of my life. I may flex and change on exactly how I view certain teachings, but I can never foresee myself apart from my identity as a Christian. Even with this, though, I do not consider myself to be "religious." It is a word that makes me shudder and gag slightly. "Religious," to me, seems a word that connotes a regimented, inflexible set of beliefs. Religion spawns fanaticism and prostrating before large brass gods or clutching talismans to ward off evil. It is a scrupulous conformity that can strip one of individuality. Those are the reactions that course through me when someone hears me identified as a Christian and replies, "Oh, I didn't know you were religious." No, please. Not in that sense.

To me, it is a faith. I may not always be able to logically explain what or why I believe. It is sometimes beyond my understanding and feels somewhat mystical or magical. Therein lies the beauty, though. While I may search for intellectual understanding, I find a certain excitement in reiterating that some things in our world simply pass beyond the ability to be grasped. I like that my faith does not allow me to study it for a time, then claim that I know everything that there is to know. It is intellectually challenging and, furthermore, is experiential. Events in my life will always affect how I cognitively interpret this vast expanse I call my faith.

Given that my faith is so important to me, my relationships with other Christians are equally so. I love to discuss what I believe, regardless of whether the person disagrees or agrees. Regardless of the other person's faith. Many of my best conversations have been with people who believe exceptionally differently from me; their thoughts and personal views are beyond stimulating. I may have some secret Italian blood in me in that way; I will passionately argue for my point, and have at times in the past been accused of being unrelenting and judgmental. But I truly enjoy hearing how the other person views this same subject. Many people simply do not enjoy this sport as I do. They prefer to avoid subjects such as politics and "religion," an aversion which is in no way wrong and is completely understandable; such topics can become uncomfortable. In my family, however, this was typical dinner table talk.

Therefore I deeply enjoy relationships with others who have this similar tendency. When I arrived in Korea, I was introduced to Soo Young Ro, also a mega-church boasting 15,000 Sabbath attendees. It offered a sizable English service, called AIM, complete with our own Pastor. Benjamin Ahn moved to the U.S. at 16; he both studied and pastored there for many years after. He married a lovely Korean-American woman named Diane and they have two beautiful children. I always enjoyed a good relationship with them, but with two children and numerous duties at AIM and the mother church, he was a very busy man.

One the last Sunday of my first year in Korea, a time when I was anticipating my Southeast Asia and India travels, then my return home, then my return for a second year in Korea, AIM invited an American female pastor to speak. She was visiting Korea with her daughter to see where her grandfather, who had long ago been a missionary here, had lived and worked. I joined the throng to shake her hand at the close of the service, then walked away for four months.

While at home, Michael told me in one of his emails that we had hired a new pastor, a woman. This excited my anticipation, as I have long wanted to be under a female pastor. "I wonder," I thought, "if it's that woman who was there on my last Sunday..." Yes, it was. I was told by many people how wonderful she is. Upon returning, I discovered exactly how true this is. Over time, however, I have come to realize that she is so much more than a good pastor and a wise woman. Oddly, almost frighteningly, she is me. Our experiences, our views, our personalities are exceptionally similar. Eventually we tired of yelling out, "Me, too!" at everything the other person says. Lately we've taken to staring hard at each other, looking for signs of cloning. "If not for the blond hair," Esther says, shaking her head.

I was over at her house for dinner the other night. In true sleep-over fashion, the menu prominently featured pizza and brownies. We had a salad to abate our guilt. Conversation ranged everywhere from our family histories to biblical hermeneutics to humor. When Kathleen, Esther's daughter, came home from teaching, we had a blast just laughing and talking. Kathleen also has a superb sense of humor; she is an excellent story teller and has a whip like humorous sarcasm. Throughout the remainder of the evening, they shared deep, spiritual wisdom with me. A great example is All Your Base Are Belong to Us off of the Engrish website. I then shared my profound insights through the hilarious Jib Jab's "This Land is Your Land" and "2-0-5" parodies.

Actually, to describe the conversation is impossible; I'm not very good at recounting discussions. However, we had so much fun that it took me about 20 minutes to get out the door. Every time we would say goodbye, we started talking and laughing about something new, lingering in the foyer.

And I realized when I was leaving the exceptionally special nature of this relationship. I am not sure how many people have friendships with their pastors like this. Considering the uniqueness of all parties, however, I would guess that no one else has relationships like this. But not counting that we're all a bit weird (in a good way), I see this as being incredibly special. I have always viewed the pastors in my life as eminent elders, far beyond understanding me as a child. Later, my pastor was someone who gave excellent sermons and stood very far away on the stage. With none of these people did I ever truly connect on the level of reaching friendship. Never did I consider actually being friends with the pastor of my own church.

With Esther, I respect her deeply for her convictions as a person and a female minister. She is exceptionally smart, exceedingly patient, and beyond generous in the fullest sense of the word. I don't say this to flatter or embarrass her. It is just that I see these qualities in her and hope to emulate them in my own life. That she is so similar in personality to me only compounds this, giving me motivation to garner her qualities.

Both Esther and Kathleen are women that I hope to resemble, ones that I hold up as examples of overcoming tragedy and hardship while retaining humility, grace, and joy. They are the most excellent of women. But moreover, they are my friends.

Swallowed in the Sea

2006-06-26T14:16:00.000+09:00

I love my Ipod. Since I have had it, I play it almost continuously, boxing myself into a world of my own creation while reality plays around me unheeded. At times others attempt to break through my little cocoon, happily chatting at me while I obliviously sing a tune in my head with a voice much better than my own. It's such a great little device. Although it is small, it holds a plethora of songs, making it hard for me to become bored with my music selection. I still have songs on here that I haven't yet heard.

Currently my favorite is "Swallowed in the Sea" by Coldplay. It's one of those that I sing repeatedly, both with Chris Martin's sexy voice and with only my own, decidedly less sexy one. The lyrics are such that I assume an acute profundity without ever really considering them. It starts, "You cut me down a tree/ And brought it back to me/ And that's what made me see/ Where I was going wrong." What does that mean, really? Without the music and the Voice, it sounds a little different. But let me sit here with my song and think that it encompasses the full meaning of life in only 3 minutes and 58 seconds.

Here, this is better: "Oh what good is it to live/ With nothing left to give/ Forget but not forgive/ Not loving all you see." This stuff should be canonized.

Oh, and just so I don't go to prison for plagiarizing the Voice, I'll add links to their official website and full lyrics. Can they arrest you for this? It would look quite interesting on my record.

I should say that my choices in favorites are rather fluid. As soon as I tire of one song, I move on to the next. But my all-time favorite never, ever changes. Quite possibly the best song ever to be created in this world. Ok, maybe not, but I sure do like it a lot. Aubrey. I was named after it, so this was somewhat inevitable. Many of my poor friends are forced to listen to it against their will. Pity them.

And why, you may ask, am I writing this very pointless blog post about a current favorite song (among other somewhat disjointed topics)? Well, I answer confidently, apart from the fact that I truly enjoy pointlessness, it's because it relates well to what I got to do on Saturday. Most people know how much I love the water. I was, after all, once both a swimmer and a water polo player. And I continue to prefer activities that place me on, in, or near the water (oh, that was just a nice little cache of prepositions, wasn't it?). I now live in Haeundae, the quintessential beach area of Korea. Not that Korea is known for its beaches, but I'm doing what I can. Lastly, my mom and stepdad, true cottagers from Michigan, live directly on the lake (meaning Lake Michigan, of course). Yes, I am from a waterlogged history.

Pierre, continuing to demonstrate his brilliantly inspired status (he knows, he knows), suggested that we go to Songjeong beach on Saturday to go windsurfing. Now, with all the varied aquatic activities in which I have participated, this is one that has always been neglected (along with surfing, but that is especially because I have long lived in areas that lack the proper waves). Despite the prediction of rain all day, we settled on the plans.

As it turns out, the Korean weather forecasters have proved to be nearly as adept at correctly predicting the weather as our dearly beloved Michigan weather forecasters; we had a beautiful, sunshiny day. You couldn't tell by any change in the pallid color of my skin, but I swear that we did. So Pierre, Saeyeon, Richard, Mennow (a friend of a friend of Richard's. He is from Holland... look, mom, a real Dutch person!) and I headed over to grab our equipment that purportedly keeps you above the surface. After donning our wet suits, we all somewhat resembled a rag tag team of superheroes (spandex and rubber, you get the idea). I am of yet unsure about our specific super human powers. Possibly they remain latent.

The instructor took us to our boards, telling us that we needed to be back in three hours. After that, no training at all, they boys helped us heave our boards into the water and off we were to go. The boys did... Saeyeon and I had a bit more trouble. Please let me emphasize that for both of us it was our first time doing it. Still, I think the boys were returning from reaching the shores of Japan by the time I first was able to even stand up with my sail. Loser!

Actually, Richard did take the time to explain it all to me, but I got all confused with words like "head wind" and "perpendicular sail." No, I really have no idea what he even said. It's that great British accent; it sounds so mellifluous, but you have to remember to actually listen to the words that they're saying. Darn it.

I did manage to eventually drift over to the cove with intermittent moments of sailing. Five feet and fall! Two feet and tip! Head dive after nose dive. Almost literally swallowed in the sea (ah! So there's the connection!). I got so fed up with going absolutely nowhere that I ended up swimming my board back to its point of origin. Interestingly, that was much faster than trying to sail it. I figure that they give you a three hour rental because it takes about 30 minutes to get away from shore (um... if you suck, like me) and then 2 hours and 30 minutes to try to get back to shore. Hence why I swam. I think I also swam it because I knew that was something I was good at, something I could do.

When I got back, I found Saeyeon already there, taking a "break." "Yeah... me too," I agreed, "...a 'break.'" Need I say that we didn't go out again? We did it for two hours and I think that is pretty good. We spent the rest of the time bemoaning the lack of decent conditions for sailing. "It wasn't us, it was (insert excuse here)." (Excuses: lack of wind, first time windsurfing, wrong type of board, constricting super hero wetsuit, etc.) We all ended the day with warm showers (ahh...) and huddled around a plastic picnic table near a snack shop, finishing the last of the day's gimbap. I had a lot of fun. But I always do with these guys.

Perhaps next time I go, I'll attempt to master the ancient Chinese martial art of Wu Xia, which supposedly enables the doer to use the water's surface to jump or fly. This may be easier.

I am... a Super Teacher

2006-06-21T15:39:00.000+09:00

The last couple of weeks I've been administering speaking tests to all of my students, which is basically insanely repetitive. It's asking the same three questions a thousand times over. Lock me up now. But it's great for the blog. Oh, what I do for you, my readers.

A few weeks ago, my co-teachers approached me, informing me that I needed to create tests for each of the three grades that reviewed the material we learned this semester. It was fun, actually. I got to come up with such life pondering questions as, "How do we lose weight?", "What can you buy at a garage sale?", and "What should I do if I am sick?" Plato would be proud.

I then spent a couple of weeks going over the questions in my classes, ensuring that they understood the questions, and basically giving the answers I wanted to hear. Then came the time for the test.

My poor kids are all petrified, though. They come into the test fully expecting me to jump on the table, pull on my hair, and taste the precise flavor of their flesh with my razor sharp teeth. But I just sit there and smile, resisting the pressing temptation to mess with their little minds, especially the monsters who gave me so much crap in class. Being a Super Teacher, however, I have astounding powers of resistance. So I smile. I encourage. I repeat. S-L-O-W-L-Y.

And they deliver with stuff like this:

Geh geh geh geh geh geh geh geh geh... Molayo. Which I am told roughly translates to "The the the the the the the the the... I don't know." Brilliant.
I... am... different-uh... in... swimming. Different? I think he meant "interested." Or maybe he did mean "different." If so, I'd like to watch some day.
I fun. Funny (pointing at me). Yeah, thanks.
"What do we do to lose weight?" Americans fat should hard exercise. It's just an assumption, I guess.
I lose take stair. I'm not even positive as to which question this was an attempt to answer. Losing weight? Oh, wait. It was my kleptomaniac question: "If you lose your English skills, what should you steal?"
The pfun the sings. And the pfunny which are pfun which are sings when make laff. This, apparently, is the difference between fun and funny. Quick, write to Webster's.
Al bite. This isn't funny as much a puzzling. I couldn't count how often I got this answer to many different questions. And they all seemed convinced that it was an English word. Rob, looking for any more new words for homeless definitions?
"What should we do to lose weight?" Pfat is bad? (Rubbing his stomach, shaking his head.) Pfat is very good.
I be good at English. And I be a super teechur.
When the carrot donated blood is the is. Color is the donated blood. The when the carrot donated blood is carrot is the blood color is blood. Do you get it? No, I don't. I really, really don't.
"Explain fun and funny." I gave them this question, then gave them the precise answers to memorize. It's because so many Koreans mix them up or use them interchangeably, even Koreans whose English is very good. So I explained it all quite clearly to the classes, telling them to say, "Funny makes you laugh," for the second part. I then informed them I would definitely ask this question for the test. Piece of cake, right? Well, not exactly. Funny makes you... wrong... lose... logic... loser... loge... rough... rock... leg... leaf... live... aloof... language. In addition, there was: I am funny a lot, I funny a lot; funny is makes to the laugh; and funny is something you make look.
"What should I do when I am sick?" No, I am not sick.
I met a few third year girls in the hallway before the test. One was rather desperate to get good marks. Teacher, this class, please, me, 밀하는 시험! "Speaking test?" Yes-uh! Me. Grade higher. "Ok. If you have good speaking." No teacher, no can speaking. (I begin to walk away.) Oh, teacher, please! (panicked) TEACHER!... PRETTY!
Pass... Pass... Pass... "Uh, the questions are finished." Pass.

And my VERY favorite of all (drum roll please)....

In English?

It was the best of times... My favorite non-quote story of a student who took the test was from one of the first year students. They're about 12 or 13 years old calculated by Western years (Koreans do it differently; they are 1 year old at birth, then add years on New Year's Day. So a child born in December will be 2 years old less than a month later. That makes me 26 in Korean age. Yikes). Anyhow, this is another of my favorite students (Si Won... I just looked up his name); he works so hard in class and is very enthusiastic. Well, he absolutely rocked the test. I mean, he blew every single other student I tested out of the water, including the older kids and ones who've actually lived overseas. He was that good. And I was unmistakably pleased by his answers. When he finished, I told him that he received a perfect score. "Really?" he cried excitedly. "Oh thank you, teacher, thank you, thank you. Thank you teacher!" All the while, he's bowing to me repeatedly, over and over. He stands up, still bowing, and does it so lowly that he bangs his head on the table. "Ow," he breathes quickly, rubbing his forehead, then continues without missing a beat, "Oh, thank you teacher, thank you, thank you very much," bowing as he walks out the door. I was just in stitches. It put me in a great, very patient mood for all the other students I tested after him.

...and the worst of times... The saddest moments occurred when I asked, "What are your plans for summer vacation?" I'm staring at these smaller-than-life girls, who say very seriously in a perfectly memorized sentence, "This summer vacation, I should diet." What?! These girls are smaller than I was in the womb and they're talking about DIETing?! The first time I asked the girl to repeat, hoping I had heard incorrectly. But it was the same answer: "diet." Unable to nod and accept this as an answer, I had to confront such notions. "Why?" I asked. "You are very thin!" No, they assured me, not thin. Need to smaller. I ardently argued that they were in fact thin and were also very beautiful. But they laughed shyly and shook their heads, insisting that they needed to diet.

I worked with girls in the States who struggled with eating disorders, so this line of thinking strikes a deep chord of vexation in me. I am so frustrated by the cultures that, in their modern over-consuming, over-stimulating, over-working, decide that we should all appear as though we are rotting away from starvation, with arms and legs akin to sticks on a snowman. The cultures place such undue pressure on children to look and be perfect. And I feel hardly able to impact this, apart from strongly disagreeing every time I hear such ridiculous thinking.

And lastly, just a note... I realized as I was giving the tests that this was the first time I've actually looked many of these students in the eye. I have been their teacher for 4 months, supposedly imparting my knowledge to them, though otherwise may be suggested by the above answers, yet I had never really seen these particular students before. I guess that's what happens when you have over one thousand students. The truly odd part is that they all know me and my name, but I couldn't pick many of them out a crowd. It really is a bizarre feeling. I assume that it's a bit similar to being a celebrity.

So all in all, it's been fun. My kids start with their final exams next week, so that puts me at doing a few weeks of sitting around and playing games in class before vacation... when I GO HOME! Woohoo! It's very exciting.

See you, Aub

6 is a Perfect Number

2006-06-19T13:14:00.000+09:00

Every Sunday night, Starface, a local bar frequently patronized by foreigners, holds a trivia night. You pay a buck to get in (well, 1000 won; I'm not sure that they'd take an American dollar even if you had it) and play on a team, attempting to answer assorted trivia questions from five different categories. I had never actually gone before, though I'd been intending to do so since returning to Korea. When I found out that my friend Marty would be hosting, however, I knew this was an opportunity I couldn't pass up.

I've always considered myself to be of somewhat above-average intelligence. Not brilliant or anything, just well-educated and rather smart. Foolishly I assumed that the trivia would be fun and challenging for me. In actuality, it was both fun and challenging, but in the sort way if you tried to swim from Korea to Japan while holding your luggage above your head. I was doomed from the start.

After the first several questions, all in the category rather misleadingly entitled "General Knowledge," which included, "What was the name of the ship that carried Charles Darwin and his compatriots to the Galapagos Islands?" "Who was the first man ('or woman,' the ever-egalitarian Marty added) to orbit the earth?" and "What are the largest and smallest countries (by population) playing in the 2006 World Cup?" I knew I was doomed. I could feel my assurance and confidence melting away and evaporating quickly into the air heated by the vast knowledge of absolutely everyone else in the room. Have I dumbed down that much in the several years since I've left school? Did I ever even learn that information? What useless facts did my school teach when I could have been learning about Ricky Martin's band, Menundo?

So rather than being of any use whatsoever to my team, I instead sat there trying very hard to look smart and knowledgeable. I furrowed my brow. I pretended to write. I gave small cries of excitement at various junctures, hoping to indicate my familiarity with the subject matter. But I was truly useless. Ironically, I was able to provide a few answers on our second round: math and science, the two subjects which most under-stimulated me in school. I learned some new tidbits, too. For example, a "perfect number" is an integer which is the sum of its proper divisors. 6 is a perfect number. So is 28. And yes, you're right, so is 8,589,869,056. Duh.

The greatest contribution I gave, the pinnacle of my achievement, came when the question, "How do you spell 'onomatopoeia?'" was asked. It's a give-away that I know it, as you just read it, but I nearly shouted and stood up when Marty asked the question. I've recently referred to it in a post, if you'll remember. In fact, Val, Marty's girlfriend and also my good friend, later told me that she thought of me when they wrote that question. She taught Grace after I did and said that Grace still runs around the school asking people if they know what onomatopoeia is. So my usefulness factor raised one bar.

Sadly, it was quickly dashed again when they asked a sociology question. Supposedly this is encompassed in my expertise, as I have a Bachelors of Social Work that I paid way too much money for. "Who was the father of social conflict theory?" Social conflict theory. Social conflict theory. It echoed across the cacophony of my mind. Meanwhile, my brain was skipping happily, surreptitiously plucking flowers from a vacant field. The answer that cleverly eluded me was, of course, Karl Marx. This compounds the fact of my mental vacuity, as I've spent some time visiting and studying in formerly communist countries. Social conflict theory.

The third round was language and literature, which also somewhat raised my hope. But alas, let's just say that Val and Marty are both undeniably smarter than me. I needs to read more bookseses (ugg, though I shuddered when I reread that sentence again. I knows how to write, I does). And I almost just walked away when we came to the music round. It was like that old game show "Name That Tune," where you had to identify a song within the first several seconds of it playing. Strangely enough, they didn't pick the groups "Bread" or "DC Talk," both of which may have provided me some sort of chance. Can't figure out why they were excluded. The girls in our group, Liz, Ang, and me, did know "Fur Elise" by Beethoven. We are too cool. Thank goodness for Kevin, who proved to be our salvation for the night. He kept grabbing the paper from us to actually write more than "I don't know" or "We suck."

All in all, though, it was really fun. We lost, though not spectacularly. Second-to-last place got a can of tuna as a prize, but sadly we eked them out to get third-to-last, I believe. We'll try less next time.

I now know that the trivia answers are, at least for the time, ingrained into my mind. It's just too bad that they change the questions for every trivia night. Otherwise I think I could have done quite well the next time.

Here's to stupidity.
Love Aub

P.S. I actually now feel the need for a disclaimer, as it appears that some people are at times taking me far too seriously. Regarding my end of the world post, I received a number of comments assuring me that I'm not fat. Honestly, I have no qualms with my body or fears of that; I thought it was a funny story. And I really like to exaggerate what occurs in my mind. That's all. So if you walk away thinking that I'm sporadically hitting my forehead so as to punish my stupidity, staying up late at night to pour over new information about the phylum Chordata and the subfamily Atelinae, or possessed with a consuming need to learn Greek so as to retranslate the New Testament, then you're wrong. That's all.

My Brother is Awesome!!!

2006-06-15T12:50:00.000+09:00

I was so excited because my mom emailed me to say that Daane commented on my blog. And I was a bit surprised because that means he used what little time he has nowadays with technology to check out what I wrote; this, of course, made me even happier. His comment was down a bit in the post I wrote about his Appalachian Trail Trek. So I'm putting it here for all to see. I love Daane and I can't express enough how awesome he is. Reading this makes me even more proud of him (yes, we're reaching the early stages of euphoria about now):

Hey baby,
We just got into our first town and I have to say I've never been so excited to get to a town with less that 1000 people. We got here a day late b/c we've had rain for the past 7 days including one night where we got 2 inches. Needless to say there were flash floods, making the rivers almost impossible to ford so our 13 mile average was cut to 10. Over the last 10 days the trail has shown us the hardest terrain I've ever seen. We've seen everything from miles of flooded trail and so many exposed roots that if you misstep just once you're quite likely the sprain or break an ankle. To the most uneven jagged rocks I've seen much less had to walk over. We have also been through terribly muddy bogs with thousands of mosquitoes that laugh at you when you hit them and eat DEET as an appetizer before devouring your flesh. Even through all of the hardships, climbing to the tops of the mountains and seeing the breathtaking views makes it all worth it. Thank you for all your love and support and I hope you're having a wonderful time in Korea. I LOVE YOU
-Daane

Daane, your note made me laugh and cry. You are so brave for doing this, especially because you're doing it to help other people than yourself. I can't wait to come home and see you. I'd hug the computer now, pretending it was you, but that's a bit less satisfying than getting a great, big bear hug from you. I think of you and pray for you every day. Keep fighting off the monster mosquitoes. That, or start putting sugar water in Chad's bug spray so they want to become friends with him instead. Don't tell him I said that.

Sending so much love across the world... your big sis,
Aub

P.S. To everyone else, you can check out their journal on their website here or some photos of them here. Daane is in the red bandanna or the red hat. He's so handsome!

The World Ended a Week Ago...

2006-06-13T13:20:00.000+09:00

I just glanced at the massive wall calendar hanging over my desk and realized that a week ago today was the end of the world. Didn't you notice either? It was May 6, 2006. 6/6/06 or 06/6/6 if you're from anywhere outside of America (deep sigh... we tend to confuse everyone by doing everything differently). Regardless, do note that either way it makes 6.6.6., which, for my readers who aren't numerologists, is the numerical sign of the devil. And I heard a few weeks ago that a bunch of wackos (and I use that term endearingly) in the U.S. were preparing to have the world end on "his day." I may have missed it, but the world ended a week ago. And I can prove it.

Well, I at least have two somewhat entertaining stories that, given a little tweak of your imagination, could bear proof to the imminency of the end-times. Work with me here.

Precisely a week ago, my apartment manager pulled me into his office to inform me that I had to move out of my apartment (and into the new one to which they were switching me) in one hour. "Excuse me?" Apparently the new owner was promised that he could move in at 7:00. I got home from work at 6:15. Now I really should have prefaced this by saying that I did have prior knowledge that I'd have to move. I'd been told a week earlier that I needed to be out the next day. I fought for longer and assumed that we came to an agreement as to which day. But apparently him not understanding English and me not understanding Korean weren't a fabulous combination. Go figure. So he was banking on 7 pm that night and I was planning on getting started at about 8 or so. We did finally come to a compromise after a very civilized conversation in the most impressively concocted sign language you've ever seen. I was to be out by 10 am the next morning. "Great," I said. And I directly went out that night with Richard, Pierre, and Saeyeon, leaving the work for early the next morning. It was the only responsible thing to do.

Next story. Then yesterday, after school finished and I was gathering my belongings to go home, 3 of the 4 male English teachers were lounging at their desks, discussing assorted Koreany topics in Korean. Suddenly I heard my name quite clearly in the midst of the conversation. As this is rather a frequent occurrence in the office, I usually am only mildly diverted before returning to my ignorant bliss. But this time the mention of my name was coupled with hearty laughter from all three teachers. I looked up to see all three staring bemusedly at me, nodding. "Can you guess what we said about you?" Mr. Kim queried, confirming my growing suspicion that this was not merely a discussion of my classes.

"Um, no," I replied. "It just sounded like, 'Korean Korean Korean Korean Aubrey Korean Korean' to me," pulling a line I read on Liz's blog. They laughed again.

"Well, I think you don't work out," said Mr. Kim. "You are getting VERY FAT." More laughter.

"Oh." Stop the dialogue. Here is where I must implore you, dear reader, to suggest the correct response to such a statement. What was I to say? I stuttered a few more "ohs," admitted quietly to myself that it wasn't very nice to say, then bid farewell and waddled out the door (which I thankfully still fit through), repeating a new mantra to myself: "That's ok to say in Korea; it's a cultural difference... That's ok to say in Korea; it's a cultural difference... That's ok to say in Korea; it's a cultural difference..." But I spent the walk from school to the subway glancing furtively at shop windows, assessing the truth of their observations, fixating on my gargantuan thighs, my protruding derriere. Assessment... inconclusive. It's amazing how a comment from someone can cause your reflection to morph so dramatically.

I should note that this really is acceptable to say in this culture. They are brutally honest with each other about appearance. Not my favorite aspect of the culture, at least not when it's not positive. Especially if it's true that I'm getting fat. Please, just lie to me. Say, "Well, don't you look fantastic!" even if I'm Violet Beauregarde from "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" after she turned into a human blueberry. Oh well, bring on another fast. And as a matter of caution, I'm burning the outfit I wore yesterday.

So if these two stories don't convince you that the loonies were correct in predicting the world would end a week ago, then I must say there's no hope for you. Good luck out there in our strange, strange world.

Love Aub

One Wild and Crazy Saturday Night

2006-06-12T15:53:00.000+09:00

Eating strange, untested foods. Nearly getting kicked out of a restaurant. Running around like crazy under a lightning-streaked sky. All are ingredients for a rather unconventional, dare I say legendary, Saturday night. I had the distinct privilege of meeting 4 very unique people and dear friends for dinner on Saturday. Darren is unstoppable energy; he's constantly on the move, cooking up various exceedingly fun sorts of trouble for everyone. Jenny knows how to scheme as well, though executes her plans more discreetly, wreaking havoc without drawing a line to incriminate herself. David elevates any situation by infusing it with his own side splitting humor and a rolling, boisterous laugh. And Grace is our desperately needed mediator, watching that the situation does not burn out of control, but joining in on the fun nevertheless. There's no one like them in all of Busan. Oh, and did I mention that they're all 9 years old?

No, I lied... Grace is 8.

I will now assume that you are somewhat familiarized with some of my favorite people in Korea. Their age is purely incidental. I have as much fun with them as with anyone else. They composed what was my super star class when I worked at SLP. On days that stretched on for years, these kids suddenly became my bright point, infusing energy back into me. All were born and raised in Korea, but are so incredibly gifted that they speak like native English speakers. Actually, that's not true. Their English is better than most American kids their age. They use words that aren't taught until high school.

While studying "Harry Potter," "Number the Stars," "Holes," and "The BFG," we were able to discuss the characterization and underlying themes within the books. We learned about homographs, homophones, and homonyms. They wrote amazing stories using personification or inferences. You can ask any of them what onomatopoeia is. Go ahead. I dare you. Ask.

These kids are brilliant. But on top of that, their personalities are so endearing that they wrap around your heart with a certain finality. You realize how special they are, how you'll never again have an opportunity to know kids like these. I should mention that their families are wonderful, too. I've always felt so supported and taken care of by them. For American Thanksgiving, the beginning of the American family holiday season, Jenny's mom brought a pizza to class so I wouldn't miss home as much. David's family has given me two spectacular fans hand-painted by his grandmother. Grace's family is like having a second family here in Korea. And Darren always surprised us with treats and drinks in class. Their families have never allowed me to pay for anything when I take the kids out, regardless of how I implore them. On Saturday, they prepaid for us to have a tremendous steak dinner (a true treat for any carnivore in Korea... especially one hailing from the Midwest). And yes, we nearly were kicked out. Other diners stared at the table loudly speaking in English, at times throwing choice food items at others at the table, and concocting strange dishes that they dared Aubrey to eat. And I obliged. You're shocked, I know.

One item began as soup. Water was added, then various fruit peels and rinds, mushroom sauce, a few chunks of meat, ice cream with toppings, and finally seasoned with salt and pepper. Mmm... it was as good as it sounds.

After eating, we walked over to Bexco to play tag until their parents had to come pick them up. When the person who was "it" (strangely it ended up being me the whole time... I wonder how that could be! He he. Every time I ran near them, they yelled, "Fire! Fire! You can't touch me. I'm fire." Right. So cung.) was too tired to keep running, we sat around and told riddles.

I had such a great evening with them. It's one of those times where I realize exactly how thankful I am that I'm here in Korea, that I'm a teacher, that I've been blessed by such incredible people around me.

Once again my photos aren't working and it's really frustrating me. I think it's this dumb computer. So I'll upload later.

Love you all,
Aub

Sunshiny Day

2006-06-09T15:22:00.000+09:00

Just want you to know that the sun is shining, birds are singing, children are laughing, and I am eating food again. Yes, it's a good day. Liz and I, with Ang and Jen's help, broke the fast with tortilla chips and salsa, banana pancakes, and Starbucks. Hey, we never claimed to be that healthy.

The really ironic part, I should say, is that after shakily grabbing whatever food we could, we started talking happily about our next fast. Oi. Masochists.

Here are some quotes from Gandhi so you can think I gleaned some spiritual wisdom from this:

A genuine fast cleanses the body, mind and soul. It crucifies the flesh and to that extent sets the soul free.
What the eyes are for the outer world, fasts are for the inner.
A complete fast is a complete and literal denial of self. It is the truest prayer.
If by strength is meant moral power, then woman is immeasurably man's superior.

Oops, he he. How did that last one get in there? Actually, I'm putting that one on my email signature. Gandhi knew his stuff. And that is in no way tongue-in-cheek. I always respected him, but that respect was catapulted to a new level when I was in India. What an incredible man. But this isn't a serious post. More on my respect for Gandhi another time.

I'm thinking that possibly my next fast should be a bit more fun. How does this sound: a fast from work? I think I like it... But my friends here who actually do work will kill me for that one. I have a month and a half vacation coming up soon anyway. Now that's a fast I can get into. Or I can do a chocolate-only fast. Whoa. That sounds even scarier than a total food fast. What good is eating if you can't have chocolate?

Have a great day, all. Enjoy everything that this life has to offer us.

Love, Aub

Dye Job

2006-06-09T12:03:00.000+09:00

So I'm thinking about dyeing my hair...

Please Pass the Kimchi

2006-06-08T12:06:00.000+09:00

I have decided that I am irrefutably a masochist. I love to hate myself, apparently. I'm on day 2 of the fast and have been utterly faithful. But I decided that, in the process of not eating, why not make it a little bit harder on myself? So last night I went out to dinner with some friends. I got to watch them eat some really delicious looking and smelling Chinese food while they urged me to have "just a little" the whole time. But I stoically refused. Then I went home and talked to Liz, my co-faster, and we both wondered whether we should just end it. We wavered, but resolved to remain firm; I did this while staring at chocolate. I just need to say that I'm so freaking amazing.

And now, to distract me from lunch, I'm writing you to complain about my idiocy. To remind myself why I was doing this, I re-read the information Jess once printed out about fasting. Here are some of the results they promised:

A new vibrancy to the skin. It will "glow." Nope. No glowing yet. I was sweating trying to make it up the immense hill to school, made doubly arduous by the lack of nutrients; does that count?
Increased energy. Ha. They must have slipped that one in as a joke.
A clarity of mind. True, actually. My mind is very clear. It is focusing only on food.
Releases pesticides, drugs, and other chemicals from stored fat, which can then be eliminated. I see that and I read: lose weight. In actuality, I think it's going the opposite way! How can that be?!
Creates a spiritual high. That's called hallucinations.

But I've given up a day already and so I'm determined to finish. True, I'm doing a lot of whining in the process, but no matter. In a few more days, I'll be a vibrant, energetic, mentally clear, chemical-free, spiritual guru. Asah.

Aub

No Thanks, I Don't Eat Food

2006-06-07T13:26:00.000+09:00

The food native to Korea could never be argued to be the haute cuisine of the world. Featuring such stand-outs as pickled cabbage, white rice, boiled silk worm larvae, white rice, dried and salted seaweed, and plain... white... rice, the connoisseur is left weeping in the corner.*

However, I manage to do quite well for myself. There are many fine restaurants, cooking at home, when I have time, is quite fun, and I have numerous friends with what can actually be labeled as culinary skill. I don't starve.

Though every so often, motivated in no way by necessity, I abstain. A friend will come to me, bright eyed and excited, and suggest attempting the "other" F-word: fasting. Going without food for a set period of time, usually a few days or longer. A total fast will allow only for water. Lesser, easier fasts allow juices. This friend will remind me of the health benefits of a fast, that it cleans your body of toxins and rejeuvenates your entire system. "We'll feel great after it!" comes the empty promise, the false hope. But I get caught up in the excitement and heartily agree that not eating food is the best idea I've heard all day.

Jessica was particularly resolute in ensuring that her refrigerator felt neglected. I think we attempted three fasts together, though each time they were different (read: shorter and easier). Initially we attempted a five day water fast. Ah, what starry-eyed optimists. The subsequent fasts allowed for juice. The other day Liz approached me about trying another fast. We're doing a few day juice fast. Pass the orange juice, please.

It's funny what going without food can do to you. I have always assumed that I'm a rather cheerful, pleasant girl. But when I forego eating, I suddenly become sullen and cranky. My mind allows no further contemplation than the very thing I've given up. That, I believe, is simply a part of my nature, not merely the effect of a lack of nutrients; when I can't have something, it's all I want.

The only other bad part is I have to lie to my Korean co-workers. "Aubrey, no eat lunch today?" No, I explain, I can't. Very sick. It's nice because then I get sympathy the rest of the day. I can't really tell them the truth because of the language and culture differences. Try explaining "detoxification" to the average Korean; it just wasn't top on their vocab lists in school. Also, they tend to aggrandize the health benefits of rice and kimchi (the pickled cabbage); I'm not buying it. When they saw me bringing only fruits and vegetables to work every day, they gawked and said that I would get sick if I didn't start eating some kimchi; still not buying. So I'm guessing that they just wouldn't accept that not eating can be good for you. Maybe you don't either. Actually, when I'm doing it, I don't either.

So I'm now about 6 waking hours into my fast and I've already had numerous visions of exactly what I'll eat when I break the fast. Very vivid visions. I was in class and I swear that I smelled banana bread. Later I'll likely move on to seeing and tasting the desire of the moment. Just come rescue me if I begin to speak longingly about kimchi.

*Regarding the first paragraph... (I am, of course, utilizing the writer's tool of exaggeration. Korea offers many wonderful food choices. Just not these.)

I'll keep you posted about it. Wish me luck!

Aub

P.S. By the way, Jess, I think you should join us from way over in the States. I really just want you fasting because I'm mildly jealous that you can actually get all the foods I'm now craving.

Just Lick It Up

2006-06-05T09:14:00.000+09:00

Let me preface anything I now write by saying I embrace abnormality in numerous forms, gilding it thinly with a public veneer of normality. But I'm really a little off, I think. And I like people who are a little off. In a good way. No psychoses, please.

Having said that, I tend to enjoy and foster my own idiosyncrasies, at least the arguably amusing ones. It's what made me a good camp counselor; this way, it's like I never grow up. I'm like Peter Pan, but without all the pixie dust or the pirates (though there is always Ang...).

One day Jess and I were hanging out in my apartment. I poured us a beverage, then licked the drop that ran down the side of the bottle. She began to laugh and noted, "Do you know that you always lick things?" No, I hadn't noticed, actually. It's just what I do, likely out of laziness (it's easier than grabbing a paper towel) or perhaps an unconscious affinity with my tongue. My own oral fixation, possibly. I've never been a smoker and I gave up both nail biting and gum chewing years ago. So my poor mouth had to find something else to do.

Having no particular germ phobias (those were killed by years of camp counseling and subsequent traveling), the obvious and most practical solution was to become a very mobile clean-up crew. A small spill on the table? Voila! Taken care of! Food on my fingers? No napkin required. Ice cream in a cup? No way! Cone, please.

So there you have it. I've now eradicated any illusions you may have held of me being a normal adult. I shun normalcy. Nonetheless, I don't like to be strange alone; I want to be different, but not too different. So imagine my delight when I was at my friends Rob and Horyon's home with Esther and Kathleen the other day to discover a kindred spirit for this certain oddity. Not in Rob, though I consider him kindred in so many other ways as we are oddly similar. Not in Horyon, who is very well-adjusted, yet remains delightful and appreciative of strangeness. I found my kindred spirit, my bosom buddy (note the "Anne of Green Gables" reference), in Maxine, an 8 month old beautiful baby girl. I mean, gorgeous; not the kind of baby you say is cute simply because you hold an "all-babies-are-beautiful" policy. She is irrefutably, undeniably beautiful.

I was so excited because Rob dangled the promise of me getting to hold her when I came over. Incentive, indeed. Initially, she was a bit frightened by these new people in her home. Though acceptable from a distance, she began to cry when I got too close, a disappointingly universal effect I appear to have on babies. After some time, however, she seemed to sense our sameness and graciously allowed me to take her. That or her curiosity about my hair and jewelry finally overcame her trepidation. Regardless, after I took her I soon noticed that everything in which she had interest had to be first tested with her tongue. Hair, rings, fingers, watch, all needed to be licked. I'd upload the perfect photo now, but let's be honest, it's me we're talking about. Photos aren't working now.

Anyway, I was delighted! This wasn't just any baby, but a true soul mate. I now know that I am not alone as a licker. This makes it acceptable to me.

By the way, though I brought my camera intending to take pictures of the group, I only got ones of Maxine. Amazing the effect babies have.

Signing off,
Aub

PS. I think my somewhat addictive tendency is now focusing its full delight on this blog. Before long, I'll be spending beautiful summer days alone, away from friends, holed up in a dark, smoky PC Room writing more posts. Help me.

My Friends

2006-06-02T13:05:00.000+09:00

To my friends:
My "Goodbye" post caused me to continue considering just what relationships mean in my life. I started to think of all the people I've ever left: in GR, in Valpo, at Spring Hill, at Calvin. How everyone has taken such a part in my life, played an intense role in shaping how I think, in building who I am. And not just building who I am, I suppose. They're all individuals who make me to be me. Largely, I identify myself by my past. They are memories of these people and places that shaped my personality, that taught me how to relate and react. From them, I learned myself: what I like or dislike, how I will respond, how I view life. They are me.

But I am a person who lets relationships fall to the wayside given time and distance. I am wholly untalented at maintaining long-distance relationships, regardless of what the person means to me. Yet those people never actually leave my life. Did you know that I get flashes of memories at times, triggered unexpectedly, that are so powerful I must pause and allow them to play in my mind again? Someone with whom I haven't spoken in months or even years reappears to replay a scene that has evident or imperceptible significance in my life. These people who exist in silence and distance for me maintain a ghostly relationship with continuing power to affect my thoughts and send a reminiscent pain coursing through my heart. I think of them, of you, and wonder where you are and what you're doing. I wonder who you have become. And then I taste regret at your absence and wish that you could remain active participants in my life; you are a part of me.

I consider too the people who are in my life now in Korea. Like those from my past, they all play a unique role in affecting me and I love them uniquely for that. A similar phenomenon to the intense replaying of unbidden memories occurs with me at unexpected moments when I am with a person. Not always, therefore I am perpetually surprised by the occurrences. There are moments when I am with a friend, listening to them, when suddenly I am struck so strongly with a deep realization of love for them. Sometimes I tell them; sometimes I don't. With certain friendships, interrupting the conversation to say, "By the way, I love you," would afford only a period of uncomfortable silence. Voicing such sentiments takes certain conditions and understanding within a relationship. But we all know that. Anyway, I'm looking at this person and suddenly the power of time stalls and I see how I need them, how grateful I am for them, how incredible and extraordinary they are, how I admire certain qualities in them. And then time realizes its slumber and jolts to start again. But I am caught in the afterglow of the revelation and for a bit see them differently, until time works diligently to dull those sentiments.

For some friends this inevitably occurs more frequently. Whenever it surfaces, though, I am thankful. It's like I'm really seeing them beyond any facade. I consider it and I can't believe the incredible people I know all around the world. I started to name individuals in my life and write about qualities in them that I so admire, but then realized it's not necessarily an appropriate topic, especially to be posted to the internet; each person should choose to whom they reveal themselves. Further, I could never adequately describe the qualities that so deeply affect me, especially as I invariably overlook numerous traits, focusing instead on my illusions of my own self-importance. I would do each person an injustice. But I wish I could share all the incredible qualities of all the people I care about with everyone else.

I'm awed continuously by you. And I'm infinitely grateful to know you. I say this with deepest sincerity and honesty. Thank you for the role you play in my life.

Your friend,
Aubrey

My Brother

2006-06-02T09:05:00.000+09:00

My brother, Daane, leaves for the Appalachian Trail today. In my accurate and very unbiased opinion, there's no guy on earth (or likely elsewhere) who's better than my brother. He's so adorable, but unaffected by it. He's incredibly thoughtful to everyone around him, though he does manage to be worse at keeping in contact than even me. He's also very smart and has such natural insight, especially for someone that young (he's 20). And he has the best sense of humor of anyone I know. No one can make me laugh quite like Daane. I'm just crazy about him. You would be too. Here's a picture...

See? I told you! I'm such a lucky sister.

Well, I said already that he is leaving to hike the Appalachian Trail. He and my cousin Chad are doing the entire trail, North to South, which takes about 5 months. That's almost half a year of hiking. "Why?" you may rightly ask. Well, it's more than his intense love of the outdoors or his own travel bug disease that motivate this. You see, they're doing this to raise money for the Susan G. Komen Foundation, an organization that supports breast cancer research and education. My Aunt Sharon, Chad's mom, is a breast cancer survivor and Chad has unwaveringly supported her throughout her ordeal (Chad's awesome, too... I could brag about him for a while as well!). So he got the idea for him, Daane, and another friend to hike the trail to raise money; they're calling it "Hike for the Cure".

I'm inexpressibly proud of him, of both of them! I love you boys and I'm praying for your safety. I can't wait to hear how you grow and change through everything you will encounter there.

Your sister/cousin,
Aub

The Masquerade

2006-05-31T19:59:00.000+09:00

Hello my dears:
Ok, this is a fun one! The Masquerade Party! Let me just say that this was an opportunity that doesn't occur frequently in Korea. The occasions for which you're able to put on a nice dress to go out are scarce to say the least. Not that I had too many chances to do that in the States. It's a bit sad how informal we've become at home. What ever happened to fancy parties where everyone gets to dress up and enjoy a sophisticated evening? So when I was out with some friends and they mentioned that there would soon be a Masquerade held at the Marriott Hotel, well, you can imagine how I jumped at the chance. Literally jumped. Imagine.

BIWA, Busan International Women's Association, was the host to this grand event. Let me say that they're a bit different from my women's group that I told you about earlier (see post below). Their focus is event fundraising for various social welfare organizations in Busan, such as orphanages. The group membership is composed mostly of wives of expats working as engineers, company executives, and the like: the "real jobs" for foreigners here. In other words, they have a bit more money to work with than our group, composed entirely of (what else?) English teachers. So my group is the poor women's group. Pierre joked that we should take them on in a fight. But I said we're a peaceful group, not all about street fighting... still, we could take 'em.

Alright, since I'm a girl, and at times quite a girly one, let me begin by telling you about my dress. For Christmas of '04, my mom sent me a box full of goodies, including this incredible dress from Banana Republic. I mean, yummy. But the trouble was that I had no place to wear it. It's tough to put on a dress and then work with Kindergarteners all day. No, that wouldn't work. And my church simply does not require that level of formality. So it hung in my closet just looking pretty for quite a long time. I must credit my mom with some incredible foresight, however, because I had no other considerations for attire when this event was mentioned. Thanks mom.

The next obstacle was finding a mask. Korea does not celebrate Halloween, especially not in May. So finding a store that carried masks was a daunting task. Altogether, shopping in Korea is difficult. There appears to be no rhyme or reason in the way in which shops are organized. If you want something even slightly out of the ordinary, good luck. My only options were some rather silly looking children's masks (ghouls or dippy super heroes) that I found in Mr. Chun (a dollar store). But Pierre came to the rescue; he knew of a costume store near his work and procured a very fine mask for me. Much better than anything I could have bought or made. Thanks Pierre.

Jess was over one night during the week before she left and we went through the typical high school pre-prom routine of trying on the outfit and figuring out hair and jewelry. Fun, girly stuff. You know.

So I was set. Picture time!
I went with Pierre, Saeyeon, and Richard: good friends of mine here in Korea. I'm guessing that, despite being cleverly hidden beneath the mask, I needn't identify myself; take a guess. I don't know if I've told you anything about these friends. Well, we're all part of the yoga group. So that already makes us exceptionally cool. Pierre is French; given my mild obsession with the culture and language, it immediately endears me to him. Richard is from Britain, which, given our respective countries, provides us both with a great deal of fodder for poking fun of each other. But I like him anyhow. Saeyeon, a Korean girl, I've known of from church since originally coming to Korea, yet did not have the wonderful opportunity to get to know her until returning here. She's an English teacher, too, and one of the most fun, delightful people I know. Aren't we just a great looking group?
This is Saeyeon and I with Anna and Sebastian. She's Spanish, he's Swedish. They are one of the most fun couples I know. Anna actually made their costumes. Not to mention that she made a Batman and Robin costume for some friends of theirs. And she is a part of BIWA, so she played a central role in putting together the event. Anna is incomparable. Actually, she reminds me of you, Trace, with this genuine warmth, an ever-ready sense of fun, and irrepressible energy. You should have seen her in that outfit on the dance floor. Oh, I wish I had a picture. Later, she went around putting her wig on us. I'll post my picture (but my camera's being funny... I'll add it later... these others are all from Saeyeon).

Here are some other fun pictures from the night. I'll probably add more later.

Saeyeon and I dancing together. The mask kept falling down over my eyes and I had a hard time seeing. Thankfully I didn't trip, though.

Me with Liz and Saeyeon. Both are dear friends of mine from church. I think we were trying a Charlie's Angels look or something. I added a little "flair" by doing the Korean "victory" sign. They do it in most photos. I like it.

Me with Richard and Pierre. With such great looking wonderful guys, I'm such a lucky girl. They're sporting beards due to a bet made with other men from their company. Not sure exactly what the bet was, except that they all had to grow facial hair. Boys.

Saeyeon and I again. Isn't she beautiful?

That's it for now. I'll update and maybe add more later when the computer I use is being more camera friendly. It's getting annoyed with me now.

Love you all!
Aub

Saying Goodbye

2006-05-30T13:03:00.000+09:00

Hello everyone:
Over the past couple of years, I've grown quite accustomed to saying goodbye. Especially given that the foreigner community in Busan is so transient, you even make introductions with a hint of a farewell. "How long have you been here? When does your contract finish?" This repetition of parting desensitizes you to the pain that is expected at such times. Now, there are probably numerous reasons for this tendency. I can think of two obvious ones. All you who are much smarter and more insightful can probably come up with many more. But I have the keyboard.

(1) The relationships lack the depth to truly cause deep hurt at parting. As I said, we know from the beginning that we will say goodbye; we thus often insulate ourselves by subconsciously allowing for an emotional gap in the friendship. I could never claim that this is always true. Some people can break through such self-protective measures. Yet even in those situations, the general year spent here in Korea does not allow for the power of time to work slowly and mystically, fostering trust and dependency. We do need time spent together to inherently know the other person. This is not to say that we can't become close to a person quickly; rather, time will further deepen a close friendship.

I was talking with some friends the other day (is there a more general statement than that? I absolutely cannot recall either who or when it was) about relationships. Actually, now that I've spouted that generality, I think I was out to lunch with my small group a couple weeks ago. And I think it was my friend Mike who said it. I think. If I'm wrong, I'll quickly blame the hair color. So Mike mentioned that his mom (or someone else's ) believes strongly that two oppositely gendered people (assuming they are also heterosexual) will, when spending copious amounts of time together, develop feelings for one another. Like some inevitable chemical reaction or something (hey, I'm not a scientist, ok?). And I think there's a lot of truth in that. Proximity is essential for relationships. Who hasn't at one time felt themselves unavoidably and sometimes unwillingly drawn to someone with which they are constantly around? Yikes. Digression. I'm not sure why I wrote that except possibly in an attempt to illustrate how time with another person deepens feelings, romantic or platonic, for eachother. Ah, yes. There you are.

(2) The second reason I considered applies moreso to currently established relationships. Namely, people at home. I remember leaving for Korea, saying goodbye to my dear friends and family, and being mildly surprised that there was not more distress at the prospect of not seeing them for over a year. Admittedly, I was excited to go. That's the magic word, isn't it? I was the one leaving, I was the one headed for new adventures, I was the one facing life-changing experiences. When you get to go, it's the exciting possibilities of the future that lay so heavily on your mind. Of course, I knew I would terribly miss Michigan at times. And I do. But not when I was leaving.

Well, I just had quite a different experience with a recent parting. Jessica, who if you don't know her is mentioned in my India travels below, has become over the past year and a half one of my dearest friends. I certainly didn't come to Korea expecting to make so many amazing friends (and to anyone in Korea, yes, I do mean you). I also didn't expect to make another best friend. Tracy, Tamara, Alyssa, and Jo have long been my dearest friends. And it's been far too long since I've been able to spend real time with you! Such is life. With Jess, however, we have been together nearly continuously for all our time knowing eachother. At SLP, my old school, we worked together; our desks were next to eachother. We lived in the same apartment building. We hung out together. Then, after both of our contracts ended, we went to India together. After a brief return home, we both came back to Korea together. One day apart, actually. In brief, we’ve spent a lot of time together. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a single best friend near by. I have amazing friends, but their (your) lives naturally have numerous commitments. With Jess, it was just her and me. I came to depend on her.

Uh oh. I think I know where this is headed. If you guessed it, then congratulations; you get the prize. Yes, she announced that she was leaving. For various reasons, Jess decided it was time to go back home; she had been planning on going home for a wedding, but was supposed to return a week later. Instead, I discovered the Monday before the Saturday that she was leaving that it would be for good. I found myself suddenly and fully to be on the other end of leaving. I was being left. And not by someone I had planned on leaving. Imagine the effect it had. Yeah, about like that.

So I had a learning experience this past week. Not the best I've had and not the deepest insight either, but I believe it leaves me with a bit more insight at being the one who's left behind. I don't fault Jess at all, by the way. She did what is absolutely necessary. I'm just learning to adjust to the change.

Ok, put it on a happy note again. I'm now going to spend probably about the same time I took to write this in attempting to attach some photos. We had a really fun evening on Friday, going out with friends to Ganga, our favorite Indian restaurant, and then U2, a close-to-the-beach bar. If I get the pictures on, it will give me a chance to brag about some friends, too. Here goes.

This is Jess (center) and me (right) with our friend Leah (left, obviously). Just before the picture, we noticed we're all in pink. Kyra said that pink is a sign of femininity and tenderness. Naturally. We're at Ganga, enjoying the Palak Paneer that is better here than anywhere we found in India. You know that's good. Belvey gave Jess some garbanzo beans as a gift. Did I mention that this was for Jess's birthday?

To the right is the "yoga group." All of us have directly or indirectly been roped in through Jess. We all go on Tuesday nights together. Lots of fun, of course. I'm wondering right now if the guys will be mad at having their picture posted on the internet identifying them as yoga attendees. Hmm... maybe let's just keep the site quiet from them. And yoga is definitely for men, too. How could you argue with these masculine guys?

I love this photo. Richard grabbed my camera and got some really good ones. This is my favorite.

The whole night I found my emotions wavering dangerously between a euphoric excitement at enjoying this time with great friends and an ominously threating sobbing that I could sense creeping throughout my body. It was such an intensity of emotions; it's amazing how close a fervored happiness and total despondency can be. Thankfully I went for the former. But I had a good cry the next day after she left. This was a good night. I have tons more good pictures. Maybe I'll post them when I have more time to talk about the people.

For now, that's about all I have to say about that. I love you all. I'm looking forward to seeing you again, believe me. But then, I'm not really looking forward to saying goodbye.

Love you,
Aub

P.S. I went to a masquerade with some friends the Saturday that Jess left. I'm waiting to write about that until I have some good pictures. They really tell a better story. See you soon.

Women's Group

2006-05-26T13:51:00.000+09:00

I didn't tell you yet that I'm in a women's group here in Busan, did I? The only criterion to participate is that you have to be a woman; so after some intense scrutiny, they declared me acceptable (for the group, at least).

When I went to the first meeting, I was entirely unsure what to expect. To me, the term "women's group" sounded like a great idea, but with the possibility of angry overbearing feminists disparaging men and society in general. An extreme assumption, I know. But it gives a nice effect, don't you think? Actually, just by the girls who are in the group, there was no possibility of that situation occurring. I mean, they're really wonderful girls. Regardless, I went to the first meeting without a clear picture of the group's purpose.

Well, it was incredible. We decided to make it a potluck, so everyone brought delicious food. When the meeting began, we started by introducing ourselves. Aisha, who was leading, told us to do so by telling what we are passionate about as women. The discussions it generated were amazing! I'd try to explain, but I would do it such a horrible injustice that it's not even worth it. From this meeting I felt so much support and encouragement as a woman, rather than the competitiveness that so often arises amongst women. We even remarked how different the meeting would have been if even one man had been present; to vie for a man's attention is a natural reaction.

This past Saturday I led what was the third meeting. Rather than telling you about it, I'll give you the link to our blog (wow, I went from neglecting one blog to being able to neglect two!).
http://champerslatte.blogspot.com/ "The Currency of Beauty" from Friday, May 26 is the post to which I am referring. It's a bit long, but not a bad read, if I do say so myself (you know I never miss an opportunity to brag...). The entire blog gives a good overview of what the group is about.

Oh, and I am under a different user name for that blog, simply because I am entirely technologically disinclined, and so rather than use the same name for both, I could only make two. Sigh. 민 망해 (min mang hey). Oh, that's this great Korean word I learned meaning "embarrassed." My friend actually explained that it means "being embarrassed by a compliment." So it's not totally appropriate, but I figure it somewhat abates my shame at being so computer hopeless. Somewhat.

It's really a good word to have for life in Korea. Merely because I'm a blonde foreigner (or as they say, "Way gook. Yellow hair."), I get an excessive amount of compliments. As I walk through the halls of my school, I hear excited exclamations of "Oh! So beautiful!" "Hair is pretty!" "I-ee LOVE-uh YOU!" The last is a little odd when said by the boys or the other teachers (no, I'm not lying. I have certain teacher who seems a bit enamored). I've kind of chuckled and said, "Really? Ha ha. Thanks." So this new word is perfect. "Min mang hey-ra!" And they squeel with excitement at my somehow comprehendible attempt at Korean.

By the way, every single foreigner in Korea experiences this. They're compliments which, at first, are a boost to one's self-esteem, but quickly become old hat. Sometimes it seems better to just walk around and say, "I know, I know." We just get the attention because we're different. Not that I'm complaining, actually. I like the incessant compliments. It's fun. Like you're own personal fan club. Feel free to join (It's free! Any Dutch people will appreciate that!). I need some members in America (or where ever you may be...)

Wisdom if You're Sick

2006-05-25T15:53:00.000+09:00

Hey all,
I love being a teacher. Today I've been reviewing our past units for an upcoming speaking test. One of my review questions in class is, "What should I do when I am sick?" It's so they can practice giving advice with saying "you should..."
Most students gave typical answers. "You should see a doctor." "You should go to the hospital." "You should take some medicine." But one student (one of my favorites; he's just so cute and sincere) looks up and goes, "You should drink some wine."
"Some wine?" I inquired, suppressing my laughter.
"Yes," he says, straight-faced. "Or champagne." Straight face. Eyes wide. Expectant of affirmation.
How could I argue? So just remember the next time you're sick the sage wisdom of a Dong-a Middle School student. Drink some wine. Or champagne.
Have a great day,
Aubrey

By the way, I forgot to mention this earlier. His advice was very cung. If you're confused in any way as to the meaning of this word, please talk with my friend Rob.

My Long-Unattended Blog

2006-05-19T14:33:00.000+09:00

Hello everyone:
This is probably written for zero readers, in the likelihood that anyone who actually knew of this blog has long given up hope, assuming I was either dead or had lost the use of my hands in a freak ninja attack. Neither has happened, I may assure you. Laziness is the lamentable, and even more terrible, cause of my absence from both the blog and email in general. It's been over five months since I've even looked at this; that was meant to be funny, but it just sounds a bit sad.
Thanks to my dear friend Tracy for her gentle encouragement that I should update every so often so as not to leave friends wondering about the aforementioned situations. I love you, Trace!
So where to update you on everything that's been going on? I could create a lengthy list of all my activities in the past months, but that's pointless and rather boring. Instead, I'll update you on a few things and then we'll all (or both... or just me, as I don't believe anyone else will read this) just pretend that we never missed a beat.
I am, of course, living and working in Pusan... or Busan. There are many English letters that don't translate exactly in Korean. For example, the ㅂ. It is pronounced as slightly between a "p" and a "b" (if you'll listen closely when mouthing them to yourself now, you'll see that these two letters are quite similar to each other). So 부산 can be transliterated Busan or Pusan. Take your pick; you'd see it as both. I do believe that Busan is now the official form.
Some of you will be greatly surprised by my ability to read any Korean, given that I swore all last year I wouldn't learn any more than I needed. Something about not wasting time on a language if I wouldn't live in the country for long. Please allow me a moment's pause to fully chew and swallow those words.... thank you. Seeing as how I came back for a second year, I had a (short-lived) surge of inspiration to learn. So I can now read signs, but can't tell you at all what they mean.
Ironically, I've best been learning Korean from my students (to whom I'm supposed to be teaching English... oh well. I need to milk the job for everything I can get!). This way, however, I'm picking up completely obscure words, like slang ("Asah!" meaning, "Oh, yeah!") or grammatical and classroom terms ("bareum," which is pronunciation; "chureeyuh," which is "attention"). Not terms I can use when speaking with the general populace. He he. Imagine me on the street: "Chureeyuh! Asah, bareum!" One could assume that the Koreans who heard would assume I was a somewhat militant foreigner who was excited about pronunciation. Which is true, I guess.
I'm able to learn words from my students this year (an occasion to which I was strictly prohibited last year) because it turns out a public school is a lot more lenient than a Haegwon (an academy... a specialized after-school institute to which parents shell out exorbitant amounts of money so as to allow their children to sit in classrooms from dawn til dusk, hoping all the while that they learn all knowledge available to man. No small expectations there). It's MUCH more lenient. To be honest, I rarely work. I've possibly worked the same number of days that I've had off. I get annoyed now if I have a work week without a day off. "What?! FIVE days of work in a row?! How absurd!" Yes, please hate me. All my friends here do now, anyway. I never miss an opportunity to brag.
My school's name is 동아 중학교. For all you English speakers, that's "Dong-a Jung haekyo," which means "Dong-a Middle School." Fun! I have 1000 students. Yes, I typed the correct number of zeros there. That's one thousand. I teach 27 classes having between 35 to 40 students apiece. I see each class only once a week. For my third year classes, it's less; I see them every other week. So I'm actually only teaching 23 or 22 classes each week. And if train A left the station at 11:12 am, how many students would I have? Sorry, that was a brief retrogression back to word problems in high school math. I felt like that's what I was writing. But if you take the time to do the pointless and vague math, it comes out to about 1000. Asah!
Alright, that's about it for this post. Here's to hoping that it happens again. See you in another 5 months, I guess!
Love,
Aubrey

South East Asia and India Travels

2006-01-27T13:58:00.000+09:00

This was written on October 12, 2005.
Hello everyone:
To those who don't know (because you somehow missed my incessant bragging) I finished my year in Korea and decided to travel for two months before I go home to Michigan for Christmas. My itinerary is: Thailand, Laos, Malaysia, and India. Sigh. Whirlwind traveling. I've been on my journey for a week already and have thus far completed the first leg of my journey in Chiang Mai, a city in the north of Thailand. Oh, what a wonderful time. The first night there, I had a three hour Thai massage (yes, it's as good as it sounds) and then did a bit of shopping. Intended to get Christmas presents, but ended up with a lot for myself, too! Now, how did that happen? Don't worry, though. Sent a couple boxes of goodies home. But boys, you're hard to shop for. Daane and Chad- any suggestions?
Anyway, I managed to do more than shopping. I took a Thai cooking course (Mom: you and I will have FUN in the kitchen!), did a day-trek (riding elephants, went to nearby hill-tribes, and bamboo rafting), and went to Air's church. I really enjoyed those people. I spent Sunday with them (reminiscent of a typical WASP group Sunday!) and joined them for a Tuesday morning fellowship group before I flew out. Nice to be with other believers. Oh, John, you were right about meeting people. I've been shocked by how many people I've spent time with; I actually assumed I'd be alone. Instead, I've been with people I've met every day/evening except last night. Now I'm in Laos and I've decided to take time alone. (Oh, but mom: tell Jim I met a nice Norwegian gentleman today. had a nice chat)
How can I describe the breath-taking beauty of Laos to you? The people are much like the Thais: gentle, friendly, quick to flash a bright, genuine smile. But there's a care-freeness about the Lao people that I wasn't able to see in Thailand (possibly because this is a small town and thus less touristy... so I've met many Laos). Children play a multitude of games everywhere: in the fields, streets, and sidewalks. This may just stand out to me because I wasn't able to see this in Korea. The architecture is subtly beautiful: slowly aging French colonial homes. Think white-washed walls with decorative details on the window shutters and doors. Such a difference from the mindless sameness of big cities (my deepest apologies to those of you especially fond of cities). But it's really the setting that has captured me. Nestled along the Mekong river and surrounded by green, rolling hills, it feels a bit like paradise. It's so untainted and serene. Today I went to a spectacular temple, chatted with some monks, and walked up a hill (183 steps up, or so the signed said) to gain a spectacular view of the city. I'll try to send some photos in a different email. It's a pain and I don't want it to erase what apparently will be a book, it's so long!
I love it. Travel is safe and easy; even in more remote areas, everything is geared toward tourists. Being aware nonetheless. I'm keeping busy by seeing what I can, but the time to relax is magnificent (deep sigh of contentment). Exactly what I needed after a year of SLP (sorry Amanda, Gerard, Bel and Jill).
Love you all. I really look forward to spending time with you. Email if you get a chance. I'll write more (oh no!) later.
Love, Aub

This was written on October 18, 2005.
Hello again:
I can't believe it's been only two weeks since Korea! It feels like a lot longer. I've finished my time in Laos and somewhat reluctantly left to come to Malaysia. I was a little sad to leave such a stunning country. But I made the long, slow journey from Laos to Bangkok to Kuala Lumpur, capital city of Malaysia. I'm as of yet unable to rave about it because I was here less than two hours and had my camera stolen (oh, the tears I shed!). I can barely express the sadness I feel. It would be better if I'd been able to download or copy some of my photos, but with the memory card gone, I've lost many memories of Laos and Chiang Mai. This hurts to write. Also, my journal and my Bible were in the same bag, so I feel as if I've lost the most irreplaceable items from my trip. I immediately went to the police station to file a report, but she laughed a bit and shook her head with the "it's really too bad" expression. Nothing can or will be done, I'm sure. Facing yet another month and a half of travelling, I did the only sensible thing and immediately bought a new camera (after running around and searching/ filing the police report). I've spent quite a bit of what I'm supposed to live on for the next few months, so it looks like I'll have to forgo eating for most of my trip. No, only kidding. The most difficult parts of the loss are really my journal, penned memories likely sitting in a dumpster in this immense city, and the memory card. Pictures of Korea, the last days with my kids, the Honesty class party (Amanda, could you send me the ones you have?), and then my trip.
At the same time, it's been a good day, too. I was feeling so awful and at times was near to the point of a full-fledged panic attack (not joking), but all the people I talked to were so kind and tried to be helpful. The girl from whom I bought my camera (though she kept reminding me to be careful: yeah, thanks!) did her best to make me laugh and smile; it worked. Afterward, a gelatto seller sat down with me to chat and give me instructions about what I could do in the city. They were small acts of kindness which immeasurably improved my day.
Ok, time to make myself feel better (Pause to wipe away my tears... kidding again). You'll all have to be more patient with me; as I'm now missing my journal, you have now become just that. This is also to help me retain some memories. So I won't be offended by those who only scan. Laos, I have to say again, was so worth the trip. It's one of those places that you want to tell everyone about because it's just that beautiful, but you also want to tell no one because you don't want the secret to get out.
A couple days ago, I kayaked along the Nam Lik river by Vang Vieng. Picture-perfect. We went to a couple of caves, one of which the Lao people hid in during the surreptitious U.S. bombings from 1965 to 1973 in an effort to seek out North Koreans hiding there. Laos is actually the most heavily bombed country in the world. I heard from several people that in 1968, the U.S. spent 1.2 million dollars per day bombing them. There are vast areas of the country which are untreadable due to the existence of unexploded bombs. The people actually use some bombshells for more peaceful, functional purposes: plant holders, water jugs. At one Buddhist temple, one was converted to a bell for signalling dinner. To have met and spent time with these kind, gentle people caused me such sadness to think that anyone could intentionally harm them. As we Americans who go overseas so often do, I felt ashamed of my country. Yet never do you feel that the locals hold any sort of grudge or desire for revenge; I can learn a lot about forgiveness from such people.
Last week I took a 7 hour boat trip up the Mekong river from Luang Prabang to Nong Khiaw, a remote riverside village with a handful of guesthouses. When the sun sets at around 6:30, lanterns are lit and a sprinkling of glittering lights can be seen around the valley. It was almost as if you had happened upon an untouched community. Given that I had 7 hours on the boat just to watch the slowly passing scenery, I had plenty of time to muse (which I thankfully did not do in my now-misappropriated journal). Pardon me, because I'm going to subject you to some of those musings.The trip up the Mekong is worth any time or effort it takes to do so. Small villages, which from the abundance of boats one assumes they subsist on fishing, dot the shores of the river. There are signs of electricity and roads, but little else hints at the modern era. Children, naked or partially clothed, play on the banks and in the water. Unrestricted, unstructured playing: swimming, flipping into the water, jumping off of rafts (reminds me of us at Gram's cottage). And as you pass by in the boat, they all turn and wave enthusiastically, grinning with those wide, white smile showcased on their golden-tanned faces. Mostly, the banks rise steeply and are immediately covered with an abundance of trees and foliage, amassed together and rarely exposing the ground, apart from the times that a steep, rocky cliff juts above them. The river itself, a muddy brown from the thick clay-mud coating the banks and bottom, is at times smoother than silk and at other times playfully tosses the boat on mild rapids. Time becomes meaningless as you are absorbed into the infinite scenery. The entire experience points to holy God, omnipotent, omnipresent, and everlasting. Here, heaven flows down from the abstract and becomes tangible; I can see it and hear it, touch it and smell it. It brings to light the reality of heaven in our daily lives, how God's presence and his promises of everlasting life are part of our daily experience, to be enjoyed and experienced right now if we stop to notice them. Times like this transport us from the busyness and repetitiveness that meet us daily, giving you time to pause and reflect on the supernatural in the natural.My apologies for yet another lengthy email. But thanks for listening. I really needed to talk to you guys right now.
:)Aub

This was written on October 30, 2005.
Hello again everyone!
First, thank you so much for the emails of support and encouragement after I had my stuff stolen. I needed it more than you know.
I haven't sent a mass email in a while because there has actually been little to tell regarding what I've been doing. There was rain, rain, and rain in Malaysia with more rain predicted ahead. Given the cumulation of events, I decided now just isn't my time for Malaysia. So I packed it up and headed back to Thailand, the land of smiles. Only took me 24 hours on three separate buses to get from the Cameron Highlands to Phuket, which wasn't too bad until the last leg when a sweet Thai grandmother decided for me that I didn't want half of my seat, so she happily obliged. But it wasn't such a bad 8 hour ride. Better than, let's say, SLP, at least.I've done very little the past week except for lying on the beach, trying to tan, and... um, lying on the beach. Yes, lofty and important activities. Yet I'm now pleasantly suprised to discover that my skin actually can turn a shade darker than the pallid, ghost-like color I've sported for so long. I am finally distinguishable from a classroom whiteboard, though I jealously noticed that the "white sand beach" still has a better tan than I do. Well, it does get a bit more sun.
Also, I haven't spoken with anyone the past few days. Except I haggled with a tuk tuk driver and spoke with some dogs who came to check me out on the beach. (Oh, that's not a euphemism, either. They were actual dogs. There are a suprising number of canines roaming the beach.)
There's yet another interesting tidbit I've discovered about myself; not only do I attempt to have remedial conversations in French and Russian with myself, I also do the same in English, only I don a British accent, so it's more interesting and intelligent. "My, there are a suprising number of foreigners this evening!" or "I can't believe they charge 100 Bhat for Pad Thai. It's outrageous!" Ok, so maybe interesting and intelligent is overestimating myself. But doesn't it just sound better when you read it like a Brit? Wow. Think I'm half a step from someone having me committed. Hey, who are those guys wearing white lab coats and approaching me?Actually, I did do a few productive things this past week. I took a 3 day certification course to get my scuba diving liscence. Mom, I know you always used to call me a fish, but it was a whole different experience getting to actually BE one! I felt a bit like Ariel and would've broken out into my own rendition of "Under the Sea" had not the large air regulator in my mouth necessitated keeping it shut. Don't get any ideas.
Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I'm officially off to India tomorrow. And I did so rather succinctly, don't you think?
Love you all and I miss you more the longer I'm away (aww....). Ok, the doctors are telling me I really need to wrap this up so I can take my medication.
Cheers (British accent),
Aubrey

This was written on November 13, 2005.
Hello my dear friends:
I somewhat unexpectedly find myself in an internet cafe in Kochi, as the inclement weather has driven Jess and I from our sightseeing. The rain outside feels a little like Michigan in the summer; this, for some of you is meaningless, but for others... well, you understand. It makes me feel a little nostalgic for home (I'll see you so very soon!) but not enough to leave quite yet... I hope I can adequately describe it. Kochi is a coastal town in Kerala, a state in southern India. It's had a long history of occupation: first by the Portugese, then the Dutch (woohoo!) and the English. There is a distinct mix of faiths here; last night we walked through town and passed by a mosque, Hindu temples, the Jewish quarter, and a myriad of churches. In speaking to a gentleman today (we were out shopping, actually... he he), he told us of how in the history of this town, there was a peaceful coexistence of all the religions; they all celebrated eachother's festivals together. "Not like how it is today," he said somewhat sadly. It's a tragic commentary on the divisiveness we insist upon between different people and different faiths.
And I haven't spoken at all on India, have I? Wow... well, some of you on my list are here already (Jess, Bel, and Jill), so you can all relate to or disagree with my impressions. Let me know. India is a veritable explosion of colors, sounds, people, and history. I find myself greedily fingering my camera at all moments, plotting my next clandestine shot of unsuspecting locals going about their daily business. Normal, routine life for them; exotic and fully captivating for me. Vibrantly colored and intricately embroidered saris are wrapped elegantly around the women who flood the street with color. They wear half-shirts under the sari, which ensures that their shoulders are modestly covered while openly baring their midrifts. It points to an interesting difference in what our cultures deem provocative areas of the body. As the women walk past, the scent of jasmine emanates from the delicate white strands of flowers wrapped in their hair. Men are less elegantly dressed and more frequently in western style clothing. Although, we have seen many men in the south wearing a simple cloth wrapped around their lower body much like a skirt.
In the streets of India, whether in the city or countryside, you feel transported to another time, as though modernization has no voice in this country (to which I shout "hooray!" I'm so thankful that they retain their culture so strongly, moreso than many other countries. It's likely part of what gives India the reputation for being difficult to travel in; "difficult" is a covert way of saying "different." Yet I digress...). Cows, holy animals in India, wander aimlessly through the streets as traffic darts around them; drivers tend to be more cautious for the unfettered cows and goats than the pedestrians. The cows themselves appear somewhat indifferent to their status, lazily eating the garbage that covers the sidewalks or redirecting traffic merely by crossing the road. The working cows, a fewer number indeed, are attached to carts; owners drive them through streets to transport their wares. Other vendors walk the streets carrying baskets filled with merchandise on their heads. How their are able to balance them as well as manuever through the crowds blows my mind; I can barely manage making my way through the crowds.
There is seldom silence in the second largest nation on earth; the roar of cars and human voices ensures your ears are constantly occupied. Vendors shout constantly: "Madam, flowers!" "Madam, magic whistle, you like?" "Madam, chocolate?" The last one, you may have guessed, I easily succumb to. And being called "madam" so often either makes me feel old or like an aristocrat; I haven't decided yet. There is a pervasive politeness in this culture, and not just within the service industry. I took a walk early this morning (well, 7:30 felt pretty early to me) and had an incredible experience taking photos (cue "Mission Impossible" music) and talking with some locals. One family stopped me to talk: "Where you from? What is your good name? First time in India?" After answering their questions and chatting for a few minutes, I turned to go. "Pen? You give pen." A common yet very strange request. And so I did, bartering it in trade for a photo of them (which I would upload now and send to you, but I don't have the necessary connecting cable. USB? I'm not a computer person). A stark contrast to the current weather, the morning sky was a pure blue, a color that cannot be mimicked by any artist and could only have been born in the mind of God. (Sigh of contentment) India is thoroughly photogenic. And so, I'm constantly snapping the camera, or wishing that I were, to capture the myriad of images engulfing me. Yet I am able to partly rationalize stealing moments from the lives of the Indians, as we are constantly bombarded by requests for pictures. They act toward fair-complexioned foreigners with all the subtlety of the Chinese, cameras flashing as we walk past. Actually, like us, they usually do request a photo before taking one. And we usually do oblige, though often grudgingly when it happens for the umpteenth time. We are treated like something between stars and aliens here, a mixture of awe and alarm at our passing. A young boy yelped when he turned around to discover me behind him in line. He hid until his family left the store; I nearly fell to the floor with laughter.The hardest part is to see the very evident poverty that permeates Indian society. You have to harden your heart and avert your eyes as you are faced with hundreds of requests for money. Stories are told, quite common across the world, of children who are made to beg while their parents spend the money on alcohol. It's something that makes me feel powerless to affect and selfish in my other enjoyments.
Yet, as I've said, India is as overwhelmingly incredible as it is overwhelming. I journaled earlier "India transcends all cultures and places as if they've only taken pieces to imitate for themselves." It can be connected to any other place, yet no other place at all. I love India and the rest of my life here would not be enough to learn about this extraordinary society. But could I live here? Let's just say a frequent topic of conversation between Jess and I is what we'll do when we go home.I love you all very much. And I'll be seeing you very soon.
Thanks for reading,
Aub

This was written on November 28, 2005.
Hello everyone:
For anyone who's written, I haven't checked my email in a week or two, as Jess and I have found ourselves to be incredibly busy. So for some of you, I won't be responding (especially those of you who I'll see VERY soon). Yet that doesn't diminish my love for you! But before I get home or back to Korea again, I wanted to send you a short email (yes, I CAN write short emails!) just to whet your appetite for some stories... and to make you really jealous of me. Ahh, feel the love.
To give a quick summation of where we are, Jess and I finished our South India tour, then flew to Delhi on the 20th. From there, we began our tour of Rajahstan, a northern state west of Delhi. Here's a short list of the stories that you'll be begging me to stop telling in just a short while:

-- staying in an actual palace for the Maharaja (an EVIL Maharaja?) of Bikaner that was converted into a hotel
-- being invited and going to a traditional Indian wedding
-- going to a rat temple, home to thousands of freely roaming, deified rats
-- doing a camel trek into the Great Thar Desert, then sleeping under the stars on the sand with our friend William
-- spending time with a gypsy family
-- roaming a 1000 year old fort which currently is home to some 5000 people
-- overlooking the "blue city" from its magnificent fort (a different fort from the aforementioned one)

I'm now assuming that you're sufficiently jealous, so I'll say goodbye and that I'm inexpressibly excited to see you soon. India's just no match for you.
Got to go now! Need to add more stories to my roster! ;)
With love,
Aubrey

2006-01-25T12:18:00.000+09:00

Welcome to my webpage. It feels strange to write that, as it's yet a foreign phrase to me. Oops. I think I just gave away that I'm still somewhat technologically challenged. Forget I said that.
I've created this on a whim. That and some encouragement from friends (thanks, Trace!) and family (thanks, Jen!). I'm told it will be easier to keep track of me, as I'm somewhat of a "Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?" Please tell me that you understand the reference. I'm not that old or obscure, am I?
Currently (as in, this very moment) I'm in Grand Rapids, MI: the city I consider to be my hometown. In one week from today, however, I'm taking off for the city I consider as my second hometown: Busan, Korea. Good to be home, good to go back.
What I'll probably do is post my old emails about my very recent travels in Thailand, Laos, Malaysia, and India. I say probably because I always have very good intentions that often fail to become reality. I'm still looking for someone else to blame. If (IF!) I do that, I'll then attempt to put pictures on it. Once again, I'm being optimistic about my abilities. Anyway, that would help you to catch up on my life. The emails are long and laborious, but I have faith in your abilities. No, that's a lie; I'm just supposed to say that, right? If you can keep a secret, I'm just milking my opportunity for an attentive audience.
Subsequent postings will be in the form of my life in Korea; something I never had time to write anyone about when I was actually there the first year. Enjoy!
With love,
Aubrey