Even Jesus.....

It's been a while and I've been some places. But I've been in LA since Saturday. I mostly don't like it and today wasn't much of an exception. But it got better (or at least more interesting) towards the end. Here's why:

Walking toward Wilshire, to get my cell phone going, I innocently asked an older lady if I was going in the right direction. "Where are you from, dear?" she wanted to know, ignoring the question. I considered this a bit too long, wondering if she meant where I'd come from today, or where on earth I was from, in general. After what was too long of a pause, I finally admitted "Here, actually," and found myself doubting it just as much as she obviously did.

"Whatever, honey," she told me, "I've probably never heard of it. Now you are going towards Wilshire, but this is a rough city. Not like where you're from." I assured her again, this time a little more heartily (like a pirate) that this was in fact where I am from and that I can handle this city. "Whatever you say. But this city will eat you up and spit you back out, soon as look at you."

I considered telling her that I was going to eat her up and spit her parts at her doubtlessly retarded and equally ugly off springs, but instead, I just walked away, reminding myself that the only thing I can control in life is how I react, which has become my rageaholic mantra in Los Angeles and which has been saving the lives of many people.

A few blocks later, I came to the cell phone store. It had three massive customer service desks, each with four separate terminals for employees to ostentatiously fiddle around on computers, looking self important. This meant in theory that there could have been twelve employees manning the customer services stations. But there weren't. There were four employees, all spread out through the store, not giving any indication of which desk a troubled, foolish and apparently foreign customer should approach. I tried to nervously make eye contact with each of the four employees and was ignored. Another customer showed me that there was a sign in sheet on which to write your name, as though we were all yuppies (which we assuredly were) trying to get into some new hip restaurant rather than just yuppies trying to get a company to provide a service for which we paid them.

When eventually my name was called, I was served by Mike (damn it, why?) from Missouri, who didn't say very much of anything except to disagree with me that LA is a weird place to live. He also didn't seemed to find the alliteration of Mike from Missouri as charming as I did. But he did fix my phone though and so I was able to depart the store in better mood than when I entered it.

I wanted to finish up Don Quixote before I got to the bookstore and so I was reading as I walked, which is not an especially great idea, but is at least better than driving and reading or driving and doing math homework, as I used to do. I was expecting to be bumped into and willing to risk it, but when it eventually happened, the women I knocked into managed to drop her cellphone. She was blond, slightly older than I and with most of her breasts on display, breasts faker than the small, apology smile I tried to send her.

"Pinkberry!" she squeaked shrilly, diving for the phone like her child had gone flying. I laughed. You would have. "Pinkberry?" I asked her, as she fussily dusted the phone off and checked to see if it would warrant a visit to the cell phone emergency room. "My phone," she explained, "It's a blackberry but it's pink so I call it Pinkberry." Considering that I completely suppressed the urge to say something like "I'll bet you are involved in a really challenging career," it pissed me off a little that she wanted to know "Why don't you watch where you're going?"

Luckily, third grade had taught me the perfect response to this. "Why don't you watch where you're going?" I thrust my right shoulder at her when I said you, like a boxer taking a jab with their right, and then switched to my left shoulder when I said you're, the boxer going for the left hook.

"I was texting my agent," she informed me, swishing her hair and touching her face in the careful way women will when they don't want to smudge their excessive make up.

"Well I was reading Don Quixote," I said, brandishing it at her.

"Well I'll bet my text was way more important than your nerdy book," she told me, walking away.

That stung. I was about to yell "Not uh!" at her retreating back when I realized the book in question is about a mad man who thinks he is a knight and harms a lot of people in the futile pursuit of fame and glory. If you are ever going to debate the merits of the comparable importance of things in day to day, modern life, I imagine you'll want to be holding a book that isn't Don Quixote. I made a mental note of this and dejected, entered the book store.

In the book store, I studied Spanish for an hour in their costly studies material section and then as a treat, picked out a couple of things I'd been eyeing earlier, retiring to a sunny section of the store to lay on my stomach on the carpet and peruse them. That was great. I easily killed three hours like that.

Eventually an employee asked me if I intended to purchase any of the books and I laughed and said no. She asked me why and told her her store was criminally over priced and that any non moronic person would find a used bookstore in Venice or order their books on Amazon. I was asked to leave the store, which I did, calmly enough, already planning to disguise myself somehow, return and repeat the experience. After all, I only got through the first chapter of Lies My Teacher Told Me by James Loewen. There were a lot more lies to unravel.

From there I walked down to the beach, assaulted by all the English conversation around me and wondering how long it would take me to get used to it again. I felt very lonely and realized I haven't been out and about on my own for quite some time. There was no Geoff, no rock to take comfort in or to feel socially superior to, no one to support my decisions. This realization was disquieting, so I sat down on a bench.

There are a lot of homeless people in Santa Monica. Which is, on the one hand odd, because it's a pretty wealthy area, but on the other hand obvious because it also has its strangely quirky, bohemian bits.

On a bench near me was a large black guy. Ostensibly homeless, he seemed to have a lot of his belongings in a shopping bag under his bench and his beard was wild in a way that suggested a lack of regular access to a mirror, bathroom, razor. He was looking at me pretty pointedly. I smiled, which is what I always try to do at people in LA, maybe I can teach them how.

But this guy smiled back. "How ya doin' today?" he asked me.
"Not terribly well," I replied, realizing that this kind of response might be why people think I'm a foreigner, and then overcompensating hideously when I tried to ask him, "How 'bout yourself?"
"Oh you know, man" he said.

I did not know and I wanted to know, but I didn't want to push. Luckily, I have no job and nothing to do all day except finish Don Quixote.
"Do you like it here?" I asked wondering if this could be the only person in Los Angeles crazy or foolish enough to engage a stranger in conversation.
"Sure do. This is my favorite bench. I sit here just as much as I can."

I appraised his bench, a little disbelievingly. "But the sun's shining right in your eyes. You should sit on this bench. It has shade and a view of the pier."
He looked at me some more, now tilting his head. I clearly didn't get it. "Naw man. I'm good here."
"Are you sure? I'll share this bench with you. I promise it's better."
"Maybe it looks that way, man. But it don't feel like this one do."
There was something deep about this, something prophetic. I left it be. I'm learning to do that these days.

"So what do you do, man?" he wants to know.
"Nothing at the moment. I don't have a job," I admit, realizing we might very well have that in common, "But I was a teacher."
He grunts, unimpressed. I wonder if I should risk it. I do.
"What do you do?"
He shuffles himself slightly, checks with his hand under his bench for his stuff, a knight touching his sword, which is still there, and thus reassured, he answers, "I'm a traveler, man."

I like this. I like it enough to imagine myself saying it to somebody else, later one. But for now, all I think about what a different word that is when he says it and how excluded I am from what he means when he says traveler, despite the fact that I've just returned from traveling.

"Do you like LA?" I ask him.
"Nobody likes LA," he tells me certainly, not a salt sized grain of doubt in his voice.
"My mother does," I tell him, being a little childish.
"No she doesn't, man," he tells me, being even more childish but also very masculine.

We are silent for a time, letting this sink in.
"What about the movie stars? They must like LA?" I point out.
"Man, movie starts, they can travel all over the place. LA is like they office. What kind of fool person like they office?"

This is some truth in this. But I'm not through yet.
"I'm sure there must be someone in this city who likes-" I start.
John cuts me off, taking his eyes out of the sun and fixing them on me, "Even Jesus don't like LA, man."

We are silent again, contemplating a city so bad that even Jesus, not God but Jesus, wouldn't like it. The city that comes to mind, my mind at least, is in fact Los Angeles.

"What's ya name, man?" my friend wants to know.
"Arianna. What's yours?"
"John, man. Hey Ariel-"
"Arianna"
"Yeah man. Hey Ari-ann....you got any money, man?"
"I don't actually."
"You don't have any money?"
"I don't."

He gives me a long suffering look, like we've been over this a million times and I should already know that I'm wrong.
"I don't," I repeat, then feeling a little mean, "Do you?"
"Naw man."
"Well then."
He still looks skeptical.
"Here," I toss him my weird little wallet with the Korean cartoons all over it, "You can check."
He does. I'm somewhat insulted.

"But man. You got all them credit and debit cards in here."
"I do."
"So you have got some money."
"In the bank. And I need that. I can't even spend that on me."
"Why not man?"
"Because I need to go to school."
"School? Schools free! How old are you man?"
"24. University school. Not school school."
"But you've got money in the bank."
"I do."
"And you won't spend it? Not even on a sandwich?"

I relent a little. "What kind of sandwich do you like?"
"Me? I don't like sandwiches. I like burgers."
"What? Then why did you say sandwich?"
"You look like the type of lady who likes sandwiches."
"Can I buy you a sandwich?"
"No man. I'm the kind of man who likes burgers."

This homeless guy is really beginning to test my patience.

"I hate beef. I would much rather buy you a sandwich."
"The burger's cheaper, man."
"Yeah but its like a goddamn moral thing."

I am glaring at this homeless guy. He looks taken aback.

And then I realize that I'm supposed to remembering that the only thing I can control is my behavior and my reactions to the demanding homeless man that I've engaged in accidental conversation.

So I bought him a burger.

The Thing about Korea is.....

(This post is mainly in honor of the fact that I will soon vacate this place and also for Ryan, who is only about to begin, which is maybe a little bit my fault.)

You will never fit in. You are too big and stupid.

Korean toothpaste has sugar in it. Sometimes, it's flavored. Orange or green tea. I don't recommend the orange toothpaste.

The eggs come in packs of ten, instead of twelve.

After you use toilet paper (and here you'll call it tissue paper), you should always throw it in the trash can and not in the toilet. Toilet paper doesn't get flushed in the toilet. That might be why they call it tissue and not toilet paper. Ladies, this means after you use the toilet and the paper therein, you should put in the trash can, not the toilet.

The bakery items are lies. Everything looks sweet enough to kill you. But it isn't. Koreans don't know how to work bread. Bread is the Korean rebound from rice. There was a bad break up with rice and Korea is trying new things. But Korea is still too hung up on rice. A Korean pastry can never deliver what it promises.

You thought cute could only be something passive, something tame. A puppy, a baby, a nice skirt. But in Korea, you learn that cute can be something fierce, something aggressive. Cute kicks your ass in Korea.

The onions, garlic, salt and pepper in Korea are not as strong as our Western products. And spicy means something suspiciously mundane.

It is illegal to do anything slowly in Korea. This is especially true where speech and driving is concerned.

Meat will often still have it's bones. Especially chicken. Watch out.

The middle school aged girls will see you and laugh. And laugh and laugh. If you ride on the bus with them, they will laugh the entire time, until you leave their sight. At first, you will feel self conscious. But eventually, you'll just laugh too.

Do not drink Soju. It's too cheap because they don't filter out the chemicals and the price you pay the next morning is never worth what you didn't pay the night before.

The best people in Korea are the children and the older women (adjumas). The young women are too vain, fragile and perfect, the young men are strangely withdrawn and the older men are too self important. Children and older women are the people who will probably possess the least amount of English abilities, but they will provide the best human contact.

In Korea, there is not sprit or 7 up. There is cider, which us Westerners always associate with apples and Halloween. Erase the notion from your consciousness. Because cider, from here on out, means something equivalent to Sprite or 7 up. And coke is always cola.

You will forget how a western style shower and how an oven works. Your shower is your bathroom, and a nozzle attached to the sink. Your oven is your gas range. And when you say gas range in Korea, you will say "gas rangeee." Start practicing.

Your English will disintegrate and you will pronounce e's on the end of words that don't have them and will begin to rely on a sort of English Korean hybrid language that will follow you around like a bad smell.

Young Korean women are the most beautiful women in the world. But you can't have one. No one can.

Young Korean men are the most beautiful men in the world. By which I mean, they look a lot like very beautiful women. It's weird, but kind of hot because when you see a beautiful Korean girl with her beautiful Korean boyfriend, there's probably a moment where you think you're seeing two cute chicks. Beautiful Korean lesbians.

Except that allegedly, homosexuality doesn't exist in Korea. Despite how well dressed all the men are.

Rice accompanies every meal in one form or another. It is illegal to eat a meal that doesn't have rice lurking in it somewhere. Rice in Korean is "bap." That will come up. Trust me.

Korean bus drivers and taxi drivers are all psychotic mad men. That said, they are probably some of the best drivers in the world.

There is no "f" in the Korean alphabet. School children will spit on you trying to turn "P" into "F's."

Yes, they eat dog. Guess what though? The Japanese and Chinese eat dog too.

Heat comes from the floor and not the wall. It's much more efficient, but still kind of startling initially. The reason for this, like most things, is historical. Koreans built their fires under their homes, rather then having a fire intrude into the living space. It's damn efficent.

Fruit trucks circle neighborhoods advertising their wares via repetitive recording, on loop, played through a microphone. They will say the names of various fruits or fish or vegetables and then repeat "im-meda" which means "here is" in terms of presentation. It makes it sound like you are living in a war zone, in some place gone mad, some place driven mad by the sound of something that took over the city and drove everyone out of their homes and minds. But it's just fruit.

Skiing

I've never been skiing before. I think I had the chance when I was 17 or 18, when my sister, mother and I went up north. But I got deathly sick and spent all my time confined to the cabin, laying in bed, puking and smelling the death farts of my mother's large friend, who's cabin it was.

So last Sunday, Geoff and I caught a 5:30 am bus from the Shinbok Rotary in Mugeo-Dong to go Skiing at Muju Resort, which if my liar guidebook is to believed, is one of the top Ski Resorts in all of Korea. To be fair to my guidebook (and to Muju Resort), it was pretty excellent, but then again I have nothing to compare it to.

For 75,000 won each (maybe $60), Geoff and I got skis and lift tickets from 8:30 am-4:30 pm. We rented ski pants for an additional 15,000 won each (maybe $12). They took one look at how tall I am and gave me extra large ski pants, which was alright because I was wearing two pairs of sweat pants. But they were still way too large and I felt not unlike Eddie Murphy in one of the numerous films during which he has chosen to wander around a fat suit. I think Eddie Murphy really likes fat suits.

All in all, each of us paid under a hundred dollars for everything for an entire day of skiing. I have no context here, but I've been led to believe that these are good prices.

The mountain was very picturesque and snow fell roughly the entire time I was there, which was beautiful and peaceful, but very cold. The snow stuck in my hair and scarf and Geoff's facial hair, making me look like a glistening snow nymph and making Geoff look like a yeti type cave man.

We first rode a sort of cranky escalator thing up the side of a hill and there tried to stick the snow boots into the skis. This give me some difficulty and I pitched over twice, which led me to the immediate conclusion that pants that don't fit are a bad idea for snow because you will get snow down your backside. I think most of the snow on that mountain (ahem...bunny slope) passed through my overly large ski pants that day.

Eventually, a ski affixed to each foot, I endeavored to "whoosh whoosh" down the hillside as I have seen people do in films and during the winter Olympics.

I made it about three feet and then I got more snow down my pants.

Before the trip, I had read up on skiing and Geoff had pretty thoroughly explained the theory and practice of the sport to me. Nothing is ever as easy as that though. If reading about something made you good at it, I would be a Renaissance man to revile Michelangelo and others.

I think the notion though is that you should mostly move sideways, parallel to the hill. You should not go straight down the hill because you will go faster and faster until you are traveling at the speed of light and will then crash in to something solid and die, in the most fiery of manners.

You accomplish this side to side (whoosh, whoosh) thing by placing your weight on the ski that is lower on the hill, all the while shifting the other ski so it can guide your soon to be ensuing turn and then take your weight when you turn. Do all of that and never cross your skis. Keep them parallel or make a sort of pizza shape with them to slow down. Do NOT cross them. That made no sense, right? Well exactly.

It became clear pretty quickly that I was a ski crosser. I would be going along just fine and then I would panic and clench my legs and knees together (like a virgin guarding herself) and then the skis would cross and I would have no control of anything and I would basically end up in the snow again. Not crossing skis is an act of practice and control. On a good day, I possess very little practice or control. Finding myself strapped to strange plastic sticks on the pricipice of an avalanch waiting to happen did not help me with practice or control.

In many respects, Geoff is a splendid teacher. But not in terms of patience or hands on instruction. Every time my skis began to cross, he would cry out, alarm bell style, "Oh no! Your skis are crossed! Oh don't do that! Oh no! You don't want that! Oh no! Your skis are crossed! Oh god! Oh no! You better uncross them."

This response was, on the whole, not helpful. Once my skis crossed, I was usually pretty aware of it and even more aware that this was not a good thing. Because a crossed pair of skis is a stuck pair of skis.

Once the skis cross, you loose basically all of your control over your movement (which, if you were fool enough to let them cross, wasn't much to begin with) and can basically do nothing except prepare to get a lot of ice up your ass. On the one hand it is annoying to mess up, despite trying not to. But having someone standing nearby, quietly taking in my ineptitude without offering any help until I'm basically fucked and then informing, "Oh man are you fucked," is unhelpful enough to (at least in my mind) warrant some kind of corporal punishment. So after a while, I threatened Geoff with the prospect of a ski pole in his rectum and he left me to my own devices.

I will say that I got the hang of it after a mere three tries on the baby bunny slope and was ready for the actual bunny slope, which would require me to get on a ski lift. I was nervous as hell about this and so Geoff gave me what he promised was a thorough rundown of the procedure.

It all went almost according to plan. I got in front of the lift in a timely fashion and sat down without incident. Just as I was breathing a sigh of relief, this massive bar dropped down out of nowhere to kill me. The bar supposedly exists to keep from people from falling out of the lift and is not intended to trap or execute skiers guillotine style. Supposedly.

It missed my head and body, but my billowing ski pants were not so lucky and became trapped between the seat and the bar. My ski poles also somehow got caught up in this mess and I made stupid, dismayed sounds as I fought to free them. To his credit, Geoff came to my aid pretty quickly. To his discredit, he chuckled a lot.

As we fought the ski lift, next to us, sat this perfect, beautiful Korean couple in matching, skin tight ski suits that they had obviously hadn't rented. They both also had goggles and head bands to keep their hair and ice out of their eyes and they were obviously better people than us. They observed my struggle without amusement, with the sort of derision I can only imagine one is free to feel for other human beings when one is perfect. If you ever want to feel like a clunky, badly dressed, ridiculous, monster of a person, go to Korean and sit on a ski lift. Under their designer scrutiny, we did manage to free my pants and person, but I gave Geoff an earful about not sufficiently preparing me to ride the ski lift.

Going down the bunny slope was great actually, meaning primarily that I didn't crash into any Koreans and that the skiing Koreans were similarly obliging about not crashing into me. I fell over a bit my first few times down, but managed to pick myself up (no small feet when you have four foot long pieces of plastic strapped to your feet), dust the snow off and out of my pants and continue down the slope.

It became easier and more natural the more I did it. I would ride the ski lift up the hill, step off and go "whoosh, whoosh," down the hill. Ride up, step off, "whoosh, whoosh" down. Lather, rinse, repeat. I had to make the "whoosh, whoosh" sound myself because the actual sound of skiing isn't quite as convincing.

But I think I can ski and I plan to say that from now on, in mixed company, if anyone thinks to ask.

This will be me: "Yeah, I've been skiing. I'm not great. But I can ski." I will say this like I am being modest, as though in fact, I invented skiing.

I'm glad I to be 24 (26 by the Korean standards) and still learning things.

Breakfast

I have a quick breakfast recommendation.

I just finished reading Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison, which is probably one of the best novels ever written and perhaps one of my favorite novels. The way Morrison manages to merge the mythos of her characters and a reality all of us shares is absolutely one of the most poignant, amazing things I've experienced within the pages of a novel. I read the book once before for AP English in High School and this time around it still took my breath and left my nails ragged from nervous chewing.

Some of the book takes place in the South, the old South, where people eat breakfast like they mean it. I became inspired by this and made Geoff and myself a "Southern" Toni Morrison inspired breakfast. Here's how you could do it too.

Firstly, you need to get your hands on a copy of Song of Solomon and read it. Do not attempt to cook or eat this breakfast before doing so.

After that, you need corn bread. Buy it from somewhere if you aren't up to making it yourself. There are no ovens in Korea, so I bought mine at a wonderful bakery in Shinae, where the little old ladies offers samples of everything and over indulge everybody with their smiles.

You also need about two apples (for two people), an 1/8 of a cup of brown sugar, butter, cinnamon and nutmeg. And sausages. Firstly, chop the apples up into smallish pieces. Melt the butter in a pan and once it's melted, add the apples, cinnamon, sugar and nutmeg. This needs to be sauteed for about 15-20 minutes.

Cut up the sausages (maybe 2-3 sausages depending on their size) into small pieces and cook those in a frying pan separately, maybe ten minutes after you've started the apples. Add thick sliced pieces of corn bread to the sasuage pan and toast them. When the sausages and the corn bread are browned and the apples gooey, place the corn bread on a plate and cover it first with the apples and then with sausage.

You won't be sorry.

Christmas in Korea

My Christmas in Korea was on the basic side. But that was okay.

In America, immediately after you carve the turkey in November, Christmas just absolutely attacks you. As far as the eye can see, there are holiday cards, lights on houses, poinsettas, gift wrapping, wreaths, chocolate and everything has somehow acquired a bow and a bell.

You cannot get away from Christmas. It places green and red finger tips on all market items, from candy bar wrappers to bags of flour to advertisements for having your tires changed.

Every single product, every single American comerical instituion dedicates good money and advertising to spring one message on the American public: You will have a Merry Christmas Whether You Want To Or Not And You Will Like It. And a Happy New Year.

The world at large develops a soundtrack, that of Christmases past, the sleghs, the bells, the chimneys and the mommy kissing Santa Claus and Santa babies and the onimoptent Santa who knows when you're sleeping, waking, engaging in masterbation. And then there are those startling remixes by the prominent current singers. Those are the worst.

In Korea, it's decidely quieter, thank god. I worked in retail last year and probably can never listen to that much Christmas music again without killing a lot of people. Most hagwons were open December 24. Both Geoff and I worked on Christmas eve, but later that evening we wound up at the apartment of a friend, a somewhat lordly lad named Ryan who is from England.

I hope I've not become old fashioned to the point where I call people characters and leave it at that. But Ryan is a character. He is pompus, proper and stuffy but excruciatingly funny. He is the kind of person who you'd notice is wearing a very nice shirt and you might say something, maybe along the lines of "Ryan, that's a very nice shirt." And he will look at you like you just observed the most obvious thing in the world and inform you drolly, "It's linen," as though this explains everything. And to a small extent, it does.

He speaks often of his two great loves: Hong Kong and Sinapore. He has lived and worked in both places. This man possesses the intellectual snobbery of Britian and the culture, refinement and elegance of the east. Picture a very well dressed man, probably in a linen shirt, saying in a very British accent, "Oh you must go to Hong Kong. You simply must." He says this so sort of matter of factly and bored with the world.

And if you ask him why he'll sort of raise one eyebrow at you, like the Alice and Wonderland Queen of Hearts who's about to have you beheaded for asking too many questions and all he'll ever answer in reply is, "It's fabulous." The man goes beyond not mincing words. He refuses to even mince sentiment. It's great.

Ryan also has really strange food prediciltions. He ran into Geoff at the market and insisted on helping him pick out a perfect wine to romance me with...even though Geoff had no such intention. He informed Geoff that, "From time to time, a person must treat themselves."

Once, at a party, I was eating a chicken drumstick. Ryan saw this and came over, just to inform me that "I find what you are doing right now to be one of the most barbaric acts found in civilized society." He told me that he won't eat chicken off the bone. It is too savage, he feels like a hyena gnawing on the remains of something slaughtered. He told me about being a child at parties in England and there being chicken drum sticks and all the kids eating them, "Except me. Even then I knew to turn my nose up at those children." He made an adult cut the meat off the bone, and he made them do it in the kitchen so he wouldn't have to see.

You'd think a person like this would be annoying but he's actually a wonderful host. I spent Christmas Eve at Ryan's house, drinking wine and he kept asking me if I needed more wine and when I was a little hungry he whipped up this vegetable soup that was just heavenly. I asked him what he put in it and he just said, "Oh, you know. A little veg."

On Christmas Day (my only day of Christmas vacation) we opened our only present, a big package from Geoff's mother in America with Christmas goodies including, thank Christ, a big bottle of Advil. It's a pain in the ass to get pain killers in this country and they are very very expensive.

Geoff and I watched "It's a wonderful life," which I'd never seen before and enjoyed. It was so quirky and nice. We made corn and potato soup, taking a que from Ryan, and had a french baguette with it. We also bought some dutch cheese which was painfully expensive, like ten dollars for a block, but really wonderful because I haven't had good cheese in months and months. That was Christmas.

Tonight is New Year's Eve (my mother calls January 31st Old and New). I get tomorrow and Friday off. Very exciting stuff.

Up With Goodness

Times have been strange.

Geoff's job may be in jeopardy and my favorite Korean teacher, Elli, who is really the only friend I've made over here, got fired on Friday.

Just now Geoff and I were coming back from procuring me a sandwich from my favorite toast shop, Isaac's. He spotted it first.

It was a wooden coat and hat hanger, the kind I've been hankering after for months and months. The kind I've almost bought at least five or six times.

And there it sat, wooden and relatively perfect looking, in a pile of trash.

But here's the thing. The pile of trash was in the yard of our neighbor. So while on the one hand, we would be theoretically liberating some discarded furnishing from a pile of trash, on the other hand (as I put it rapidly to Geoff), we might very well be robbing someone and their special pile of trash. It was a pickle.

Geoff, who lacks my heightened sense of moral scruples, was all for pinching the thing. His hands were full of toast and so he couldn't do the deed, but he told me too, insisting that it was just an ordinary pile of trash, that no one would miss it.

I pointed to carefully stacked pieces of broken wood on either side of the trash heap, which you could almost pretend was a fence if you squinted, and told Geoff that this was clearly someone's trash, trash they'd laid aside for themselves and built a fortress around. He begged to differ.

Just then, a nice car pull into our street. We just stood around nervously, smiling uneasily at the car and pretending we hadn't just been contemplating stealing someone's refuse. The car pulled along side us and a Korean woman, well dressed, middle aged rolled her window down and said, "Excuse me. I was wondering if you could help me."

I was completely shocked. The first surprise was that her English was great and the second was that she was approaching and eliciting aid and conversation from two strangers, and worse still, two foreigners. This doesn't happen. Koreans do not speak to people they don't know and they especially do not speak to foreigners. Korean children laugh at us and shout hello at us. The adults sometimes try to practice awkward English on us or want our phone numbers, but they do not engage us in normal conversation.

I nodded assent or just shut my mouth with my hand and she went on, "I was just watching television and it said, 'up with goodness.' I don't understand what that means."

Faltering, uneasy and certain that she was trying to induct us into a cult or religion, Geoff and I explained it. She said "Thank you," told us we were neighbors and drove away.

It was so strange.

And here's the thing. Geoff still wanted to rob the special trash pile!

Now, I ask you. If you are contemplating thievery in a foreign country and then are approached by someone who asks you the meaning of, "up with goodness," would you still contemplate that thief? I don't think so. That is the world at large communicating something to you. That is not an accident. I got the hell out of there.

Geoff, once I'd gone, lifted the coat rack, saw that things were growing on it, and returned it to the trash pile.

Tests of English (and Patience)

It's the last week of the month. This means I'm giving oral speaking tests.

In one of my elementary aged classes, we spent the month of November studying English feelings and the corresponding accompanying English actions...what they do when they feel certain ways. Example, you are hungry, cold, tired, sick. What do you do? Rest, eat, drink, go to the hospital.

On Monday, I found myself giving an accordingly themed speaking test to a particularly pugnacious youth who's English name is Michael. Michael's a weird kid, all in all. He has this kind of gangster way of looking sideways at a person, like he's considering whether or not he'd be better off killing you. It'd be pretty intimidating, except that he's eleven.

In any case, Michael is not a great English student. We'd been talking about feelings for a whole month but within the first two questions of my test, he made it abundantly clear, by virtue of making absolutely nothing clear, that he'd hadn't been overly attentive during the month of November.

First question. "How do you feel right now?"

I ask this carefully, smiling and eager as I always am during the first question of the first speaking test. I always feel so good at first, certain that I am going to have my teaching efforts rewarded and validated by each student in turn. When I ask the questions, I try to make my voice sound like a happy, bubbling brook.

Michael regards me dolefully. "Peel?"

"No, no," I am so gentle, like leaves going down river in a slow stream. "Feel. How do you feel?"

He shrugs, disdainfully.

"Michael." Now I'm a bit firmer. The stream with the leaves is now moving a little more rapidly, down hill maybe. "You remember feel. How do you feel? Like, 'how are you?' Remember?"

Michael straightens his head and meets my gaze head on only to tilt his neck towards his other shoulder. Then he asks, "Teacher?"

My breath and my hope catches in my throat a little. I've found that, as a teacher, I can never resist a question.

"Yes Michael?" The stream and the leaves are back on level ground, trickling sweetly.

"What is 'remember?'"

The leaves drown upon some unexpected rapids as I use Korean and some hand gestures to tell Michael what "remember" and "feel" mean. He nods sagely, as though he'd known all along.

Then he tells me, "Hungry, teacher."

Michael (and all my Korean students) are supposed to answer me in complete sentences. However, I've already wasted five minutes on one test question, there are nine more to go and ten other students to give speaking tests to. And there are only thirty minutes left for this. So I let it go.

Question Two. "And what do you do when you are hungry?"

I am all sweetness and light again, the leaves bob up, the rapids vanish and our slow, pleasant English stream journey continues, lolled by my voice.

Michael wrinkles his gangster brow skeptically. "Teacher. What?"

I breath through my nose and repeat myself, more slowly and more carefully.

"No." Michael tells me confidently. Way too confidently.

There are some rocks in the river, but the leaves stay steady, certain they will make it past them if they just stay calm and focused.

"Michael. You. Hungry....okay? What do? Do what?"

Michael brightens. "Drink a drink."

What? No. We've gone over this for a month. I've explained thirsty and hungry until my eyes crossed. Why? What is wrong with this child? And why is he looking at me like this?

Despite this, the river that is my voice goes into a tizzy and commences to get all Disney and unrealistic with glee at making itself understood. "That's right! Very good! Well done. Okay okay!

Question three. "Now, what do you do when you are tired?"

Michael looks at me like I'm asking him for a sizable donation of some kind.

I look back at him, narrowing one eye and raising the eyebrow of the other eye. In my head, I'm thinking, "Come on, come on! You've got this, kid! I know you do. This is easy. Sleep, rest, nap. I'll take jump or dance for Christ sake. Anything. Just please please say an English word."

After this standoff, Michael finally feels comfortable enough to mutter, "ouyu," which is Korean for milk. I assume he's trying to tell me the kind of drink he drinks when he's hungry.

"Michael. You. Tired...okay?"

Michael interrupts me. "No!" He says, a little snootily.

I laugh. "Okay, no tired jiggum (Korean: now) okay, aro (Korean: I know) but sometime, you tired?"

Michael looks downright fierce. "No teacher! Tired no!"

Jesus Christ. I try again. "Okay you friend tired. Do what?" (I am careful not to use "your" as this will only confuse him.)

"Teacher. 'Friend' what?"

The tickling sweet little Disney stream is suddenly being pumped with lava from a nearby volcano.

"Chingu. Friend is chingu! Come on! Chingu tired...okay? Do what!? What do?!"

"Teacher! Chingu tired no!!!"

Fine. Fine. This kid is never tired and none of his friends are tired and that's fine. That's a legitimate response to this test question, kinda, almost or not really not at all. But who gives a shit, really? Let's just get through this test before one of us is savagely killed.

Question number four.

"What do you do when you are sick?"

"Teacher. Sick what?"

"Apa." I am completely nonplussed and was ready with the response before he even finished asking the question. "Okay. You sick. Do what? What do?"

Michael folds both arms and adjusts his gangster stare. "Anapa, teacher." (Korean: I'm not sick.)

"Aro, aro (Korean: I know, I know) !!!! Now no! Chigum anapa (Korean: Not sick now). Some time? One time? Any time? Najuneh? (Korean: later) Goed? (Korean: soon)?"

My hands are aflutter. My tinkling sweet stream of a voice is trembling like all the destroyed leaves, which are now on fire from lava and unfettered frustration.

"Chultae anapa." The child smugly informs me. I'm pretty sure this is Korean for "I'm never sick."

I consider inquiring about the health of his friend again, but I realize that five questions of this test have taken ten minutes and that I've conclusively lost the will to live and thus the will to inquire about the physical well being of the acquaintances of this suspiciously vexing child.

Later, I'm going over the results of Michael's test with his Korean homeroom teacher Tina. Both of us are completely in awe of how little he knows or has learned this last month. I'm showing her the moments where he used Korean because he didn't remember or know or learn the vocabulary to respond in English.

My Canadian co-worker saunters up, as much as one can saunter when one is bald and pot bellied and a joyless jackass. As he often does, he bossily inserts himself in the middle of a conversation that is completely none of his business and which absolutely does not concern him in order to bossily inform me, "You know, you should make them use only English. They shouldn't use Korean during a speaking test."

As though this is news somehow. As though I don't already know this. I almost decked the Canadian mother fucker.

It would also be needless and petty of me to point out that this kid was one of my coworker's students who recently got moved into my class after complaints from his parents...so I won't do that.

Beyond that catastrophe of a test, most of my students did fairly well. Except for one other kid, James, who has been at my school for years and years but who's English vocabulary is still somehow smaller than my Korean vocabulary. He's a lot more fun then Michael though.

I'll ask him a question in English, "James, did you have for breakfast today?" And then he'll just look at me for a second like, "Are you kidding me, women? I have NO idea what you just said," and then he'll burst into laughter. And then I'll consider what I'm asking him and I'll recall just how bad his English is and I'll start laughing too and so we'll sit there and laugh and laugh.

After that, I'll ask him the question again using my terrible Korean ("James, mo...achim ...mokda?") and he will attempt to somehow convert his English vocabulary (which probably bottoms out at 50 words) into a working answer to the question.

Yesterday, after I asked him what he eats for breakfast, he told me, "Gogi teacher," which means "meat." When I can, I correct him and tell him the English word (actually I think this is the only time James retains anything) and so I told him, "James, gogi English is 'meat.'"

James brightened and said, "Oh teacher! Nice to MEET you!"

My mouth fell open at the connection he'd made and I laughed and laughed at the child. James is so good natured that he just laughed too. My god though. To have studied English for six years and not know the difference between "meet" and "meat."

I sincerely hope that Michael and Jame's parents have some healthy family businesses that these two can be foisted into. Most children who go to academies are pretty wealthy, so they probably will be fine. So that's alright.

Although, when I really stop and think about it, Michael's stare might be most cut out for a life of crime and James is so ridiculously upbeat about everything that I think a life of destitution might almost suit him.