My Brilliant Korea

Grandma's dumplings

Blogging | April 23, 2012

I don't know how to make my Grandma's dumplings.

This worries me.

As a child they were my favourite meal.

When I went for sleepovers at Grandma and Pa’s house, Grandma would always ask in advance what I wanted her to cook for dinner, and the answer was always the same.

Dumplings.

I remember what it felt like to sit at the orange laminate kitchen bench while Grandma stirred the pot filled with those delicious balls of dough.

I remember the smells emanating from the kitchen, and Grandma’s shaky hands adding magical ingredients like salt and pepper.

I remember how she would leave the stove to peer out of the lace curtains whenever Old Mrs Rose Over the Road (as she was known) walked to the letterbox.

“I have to keep an eye on her Blythe, just in case she falls over,” Grandma would say, although I suspected she just liked to keep abreast of the 104-year old’s business.

“She’s no spring chicken, you know”.

I remember so much about those evenings in Grandma’s kitchen.

I just don’t know how to make her dumplings.

I guess learning how to make them has never really felt like a priority.

I mean, if you want Grandma’s dumplings you don’t make them yourself, you go to Grandma’s house.

The dumplings aren’t just about the taste, they’re about the experience.

They’re about sitting at the bench telling Grandma your news, making her giggle, giving her cuddles, and watching her shaky old hands stir the pot.

It’s just not the kind of evening you can create on your own.

Recently, I’ve started to worry that I might never have another one of those nights in Grandma’s kitchen.

My Grandma is almost 90-years old, her body is starting to let her down, and I’m on the other side of the world.

“Did you hear what happened to her?” my sister asked me recently.

“She fell over in the kitchen and no one found her for three and a half hours”.

I ran home to call her.

“I had a fall, Blythe,” Grandma told me.

It broke my heart to think of her lying there, helpless, while the world continued to turn.

“You need to take it easy Grandma, no more pottering around in the kitchen for hours on end,” I told her.

“You’re no sping chicken, you know”.

“Don’t be rude, Blythe!”

We continued chatting and she seemed in good spirits, telling me about her new wheelie walker and advising me against worrying about my weight.

“Oh Blythe, you’re beautiful, have another cream bun,” she said.

“If you want another one, just have it”.

That was when I remembered the dumplings.

What if those nights were over forever?

I was struck by the realization that there is simply not enough time left for us, and there is so much I still need to know.

Not just the dumplings, but everything.

I want to know everything.

I want to know I have it right in my mind, like the story of how she and Pa first met.

Did she share her sandwich with him at the water hole, or was it he who shared his sandwich with her?

“Oh, Pa forgot his sandwich, the silly thing, so I shared mine,” she reminded me.

“Then he walked me home.

“We’ve been married for 72 years now.

“I have lots of things I can tell the people about how to stay together.

“The important thing is to always love them.

“Never stop loving them.

“I still love Joe just as much as I did on the day we were married”.

I love the simplicity in her theory and I think it applies to grandmas too.

I’ll never stop loving mine.

And I’ll never stop loving the memory of those evenings in the kitchen, watching her make dumplings.

The pills

Blogging | November 11, 2011

The doctor placed his chilly stethoscope on my back.

“Inspiration,” he instructed.

I paused for a moment, crooked my head, then:

“Ahhh,” I said, as a cartoon light bulb appeared above my head.

I breathed in.

“Desperation”, he instructed.

I breathed out.

“Inspiration”, he said.

I breathed in.

“Desperation”, he said.

I breathed out.

“You are OK, just flu,” he said.

A nurse hustled me out of the room, led me into the Injection Room of Doom (as it shall henceforth be known), and slapped me on the bum.

I cringed and pulled down the top of my pants.

She jabbed me, rubbed me, and slapped me on the bum again.

“Pinishee!” she declared and hustled me over to the front counter to collect my prescription.

I walked next door to the pharmacy where I was handed these:

Packets and packets and packets of mysterious pills to be taken three times a day (with food) for six days.

This, I have found, is the typical Korean hospital experience.

A little bit of confusion, a little bit of discomfort and many, many, many pills of unknown contents and side effects.

In Korea, medication is the answer to just about every problem.

Lacking inspiration?

Take a pill.

Feeling desperation?

Take a pill.

Runny nose, fever, vomiting, headache, sore eyes, cut hand, mysterious rash, broken nail?

Take a pill for those too.

The last time I went to see a doctor in Korea (before today), I was prescribed so many pills that I could no longer spell my own name.

After three days of medication, and with my flu symptoms all but disappeared, I sat at my desk for several minutes and tried to fill out a form.

“B,” I wrote.

“L, y, t, h”.

I stopped.

Something was missing.

But what was it?

I tried again.

“B, l, y, t, h…..e!” I scrawled, victoriously.

All the letters were there, but still, something was wrong.

Then I realised- the ‘e’ was backwards.

I tried and tried, but I could not make my ‘e’ look right.

I threw the pills in the bin, horrified at the effect they were having on my brain.

I know.

I probably should have done the same thing today, but the lure of the magical, fast-acting pills was just too much.

I, like many people in the Korean workforce, have no time to be sick.

Today I needed an immediate cure, regardless of the consequences.

It’s to erly to tel wot ths conscenses mite b.

No answer

Blogging | November 2, 2011

The state of my desk is usually a fairly accurate reflection of the state of my mind.

Currently, my desk looks like this:

Scattered. Not much room for anything else.

Ideas for blog posts and lesson plans are scrawled on post-it notes, highlighters lay strewn, immigration papers struggle for air under novels, Korean text books have been cast off to the side, while a trusty packet of Tylenol stays within arm’s reach.

On top of the pile sits my phone.

My dreaded phone.

Recently, my phone has been the cause of anxiety and guilt for me, mostly because of a person who continues to call it.

Again and again.

A person whose phone calls I continue to ignore.

Again and again.

I met this person last week at the Korean immigration office in Cheongju, two hours from my university town.

Although her features were quite similar to that of a Korean person, I could tell that she was an alien in this foreign land.

Just like me.

I smiled at her in the waiting room, and she smiled back.

“Number 85, number 85,” said a voice over the loudspeaker.

I checked my ticket and stood up.

Half an hour later I stepped outside into the sunshine, on something of a high, due to the quick and painless processing of my paperwork.

There she was again.

She looked just as delighted as I felt, as she posed in front of the Korean immigration sign while her husband took pictures.

“Hi,” I said to her Korean husband.

“Would you like me to take a picture of the two of you together?”

My low-level Korean led to some confusion and her husband attempted to take a picture of me on his phone.

“No, no,” I said.

“You two, together”.

They posed together in front of the immigration sign.

She told me she was from the Philippines and had moved to Korea for marriage.

Then, approximately 43 seconds into our conversation, she asked:

“Can I have your number?”

Inwardly, I winced.

This has happened to me many, many times in Korea.

After just the briefest conversation with someone on the street, I have been startled by a request for my phone number.

The request usually comes from Koreans who want to practice their English, or lonely foreigners looking to make new friendships.

Sometimes, I have refused to part with the number, as I did with the man who approached me while I was chewing a mouthful of Korean barbeque at a restaurant last weekend.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we can be friends, I live very far from here,” I said to him.

“But I want learn English”.

“I’m sorry, no, you can’t have my phone number”, I said again.

But other times, like at the immigration office that sunny afternoon, I have said yes when I mean no.

Since our encounter, the newly arrived Filipino bride has called me seven times. Each time I fail to return the call and each time I am wracked with guilt.

I know she is lonely in a faraway land.

I know she wants to be my friend.

But I don't want any more transient, meaningless friendships that are based on nothing more than the fact that we both speak English and we happened to stand in front of the same building for 43 seconds.

Am I a terrible person for feeling this way?

Maybe.

I just don't have any more room right now in my scattered, busy mind.

Nor, for that matter, on my scattered, busy desk.

He ain't heavy

Blogging | October 28, 2011

The truth was, I didn’t have time.

I had papers to mark, lessons to plan, a load of washing to do, a weekend bag to pack, and emails to send.

I should not have been taking an hour out of my work day to attend a friendly soccer match.

But when a text message came through, I knew I had to find a few minutes.

“Coming to the game?”, it said.

My brother.

He’s a bit of a drifter, my brother.

Kind of self sufficient.

He gets along well with people, but he doesn’t really need to have them around.

So when he sent me that message, I knew it was because he really, really, wanted me to be there.

“On my way,” I replied, turning off my computer.

Stevie was playing on the faculty team- a mish mash of university employees (of various age, skill and waistline).

They were up against a pack of young, fit and fast students who, in their pristine yellow and black matching uniforms, resembled a swarm of bumblebees.

I spotted my brother on the field, dressed in red.

“Wooooooooooooooh! Go Stevie! Yeeah!” I squealed, throwing my arms up in the air as the teams completed their warm ups.

It was exactly the kind of thing I would do on Sundays at the Coolum Soccer Field during the late 80s and early 90s.

Back then, my shy big brother would put his head down and pretend that the freckle-faced spectacle on the sideline was not from the same gene pool as him.

But this day, things were different.

This day, Stevie gave me big grin and waved as the referee blew his whistle.

I’m not going to tell you what happened next- mostly because I’m not really sure.

There was a lot of running, a lot of heading, and, what appeared to be, some quite nice salsa stepping around the ball.

The faculty members ran until they could run no more, as huge droplets of sweat fell from their foreheads.

They even gave the young bumblebees a run for their money (quite literally, in fact- the university president has promised to give 100,000 KRW to every member of the winning team).

My brother was most definitely the star of the faculty side.

“Your brother looks just like an Australian kid playing in front of his parents,” said my Korean Australian colleague, Jae.

“You should be so proud of him, he never gives up.

“He uses his whole body and flies through the air like he weighs nothing”.

“Well,” I said.

“He ain't heavy”.

He’s my brother.

I had to run to class, so I left the match with a few minutes left on the clock.

The faculty went down 5-3.

Despite the loss, I smiled all the way back to the office.

Warning: This post contains references to sex

Blogging | October 25, 2011

If you have lived or travelled in Korea for any length of time, chances are you will eventually find yourself asking the question: Am I currently staying in a love motel?

To answer this question accurately, I refer you to my own personal checklist.

1. Is there a box of tissues located on either side of the bed?

2. Does your room smell like cigarette smoke?

3. Is there a red light and/ or disco light option above the bed?

4. Are the bedroom and bathroom separated by a glass wall, allowing you to see directly into the shower?

5. Can you see the toilet from the bed?

6. Were you handed two (small) condoms with your room key?

7. Can you hear anyone else having sex right now?

8. Does the window have shutters instead of blinds and / or curtains?

9. Is pornography freely available in your room?

10. Does it feel like night time, even though it is day time?

If you answered yes to three or more of these questions, chances are you are indeed staying in a love motel.

So, what is a love motel? And why does Korea have so many of them?

A love motel, put quite simply, is a motel where people (specifically unwed Koreans) go to make some of the love.

Most Koreans live at home with their parents and maintain the appearance of virginity until they marry, so love motels are a way for young couples to be covertly intimate.

They can choose to stay in a love motel for a night, an afternoon, or for just four hours (if that’s how you roll).

Love motel rooms range in price from around $25 a night to upwards of $150 a night.

I have stayed in the cheapest kind of love motel, the most expensive kind, and many other kinds in between.

To be honest, some of my fondest memories in Korea have been in love motels.

Now, before things hit MA15+, I should clarify, I haven’t been staying in love motels willy nilly.

In fact, I never stayed in a love motel until I met Ash.

Since Ash and I started going steady, we have been travelling long distances to see each other and love motels have proven to be an affordable form of accommodation at various midway points.

They are also quite conveniently located, as you will often find gluts of them around university districts.

The first love motel I stayed in was in Cheonan, a city about an hour outside of Seoul.

Ash had been sent there for work, so his school had booked him a room for the week.

He texted me.

“I think the place I’m staying in is a love motel,” he said.

“How do you know?” I replied.

“It smells like cigarette smoke and anal sex. Also there’s a red light above the bed.

“Do you want to visit?”

It sounded exotic and dangerous.

I did want to visit.

Ash met me at the train station, and we scurried along the chilly streets before bundling ourselves into the love motel and cracking open a bottle of red wine (to match the red light).

I stretched out my legs on the huge, cloud-like bed, while Ash smoked and paced back and forth next to the open window.

Snow fell outside.

It felt like a scene from a foreign, sub-titled movie.

I lifted my hands to my face and pressed an imaginary button.

“Click”, I said.

“What are you doing?” Ash replied.

“I just took a picture in my mind,” I said.

“I want to remember this moment”.

Other love motel experiences have not been quite so worthy of a fictional Polaroid- like the night we stayed in $25 love motel in my university town of Janghowon.

“So this was definitely the only love motel in town?” Ash asked me, eyeing the dank room suspiciously.

I thought it was.

Later that night, as we tossed and turned, unable to sleep on the thick plastic sheet, and with dirty air conditioner air blowing up our noses, Ash asked me again:

“So this is really the only motel in town?”

I ignored his question and coughed.

“I don’t think that air conditioner has been cleaned since 1974,” I said.

My compaint was interrupted by a moan through the wall.

Then a squeal.

Then several squeals.

“Oh oh oh oh oh ohhhhhhh,” came the noise.

I pressed my ear up to the wall.

“Oh my God,” I whispered.

“They’re having sex!

Ash sighed.

“Yes, they are,” he said.

I listened for a moment longer.

“Do you think she’s enjoying it?” I asked.

Ash thought she was, while I was less sure- either way, the noises continued for quite some time and I managed to have approximately one hour and 43 minutes of sleep.

In conclusion, I recommend that if you are going to stay in a love motel, you limit your choices only to hotels that charge upwards of $35 a night.

Paying a little extra will buy you non-plastic sheeting, thick walls, and, of course, two (small) condoms.

All of which you may come to appreciate at 4am.

Bizarre Korean fact: Most love motels are very difficult to book. You basically just need to show up, and it's best to do so after 9pm. Love motels are very busy on Saturday evenings and Valentines Day. Your best bets are the subway stops at Seoul National University (exit 4) and Ewha Women's University.

The scarf

Blogging | October 18, 2011

The winters in Korea are bitterly cold.

It’s so cold your toes throb in your boots.

It’s so cold your cheeks freeze in position and your mouth struggles to form around your words.

I never knew true cold until I came to Korea.

With this in mind, I recently decided I would knit my boyfriend, Ash, (I might have mentioned him before) a large scarf for Christmas.

I began the scarf two weeks ago, thereby giving myself in excess of two months to finish the project.

Considering it is possible to build a house in that time, I reasoned I had allowed myself ample room for error.

There were, of course, two obvious problems with the entire concept.

1. I am physically unable to keep an unimportant secret to myself for more than three days.

2. I was particularly proud that I had worked out how to cast on almost entirely by myself (with just a little assistance from an elderly and slightly nervous sounding woman on YouTube), and wanted to share my pride in this achievement.

So, it should be no surprise to you that on the third day of Operation Slightly Too Large Scarf, the following conversation took place:

Me: “Should I tell you what I’m doing for you for Christmas?”

Ash: “Yes. Definitely. It’s October. I need to know”.

Me: “I’m knitting you a scarf! I taught myself!”

Ash: “Awwwww. That’s so sweet! I’ll have it forever. (Pause). Are you knitting me a matching hat?”

Me: “Well, I hadn’t planned on it but…”

Ash: “Oh, well, I need a matching hat! I’m not sure if I want a bobble or not though. Maybe you could knit me one with a bobble and one without? In different colours? ”

Me: “Well, I don’t really know how to knit things that aren’t from the square or rectangle family, but I guess I….”

Ash: “Now’s a great time to learn! You don’t want to just know how to knit scarves! Just remember, I have a big head. The hats (in different colours, one with a bobble, one without), will need to be pretty big”.

According to my elderly, slightly nervous mentor on YouTube, beanies are quite a bit more difficult than scarves.

They require a mastery of several different kinds of stitches, need to be well fitted, and must be finished with the use of a crochet hook (an item I have never seen before, nor know how to use or purchase).

When you consider the difficulty, and combine it with my lack of commitment to small craft projects, Ash’s dream of a matching winter set (with an additional hat, in a different colour, with a bobble), might not eventuate.

At the very least, he will have a hand-knitted scarf.

I am determined to finish that.

It won’t be perfect, but it will keep him warm all winter, and if he is very careful with it, he will have it forever.

Just like me.

Bizarre Korean Fact: Dongdaemun Market in Seoul boasts 26 shopping malls (that’s 26 shopping malls) in the area directly around the Dongdaemun Subway Station. Each mall specialises in something different. Outside exit 9 you will find a mall jam-packed with wool- all the colours of the rainbow. I chose grey.

Long-life milk

Blogging | October 3, 2011

My boyfriend recently arrived at work to find a 24-pack slab of long-life milk on his desk.

Intrigued, he made some inquiries about the origins of said slab.

"Gipt-uh (gift)", was the response.

No further information was provided.

As someone who lives alone, my boyfriend considered this quite an excessive quantity of long-life milk, but he was still touched by the mysterious gesture.

That evening he lugged the slab back to his apartment, and called me.

"Guess what I have for you!" Ash said.

"A 24-pack of long-life milk!"

I knew the game and I was not falling for it.

"No way," I replied.

"Firstly, I don't even like long-life milk.

"Secondly, from your place to mine I would need to take it on the bus, the subway, and then another bus.

"I'm not taking the milk".

I had been the recipient of the Korean gift many times in the past, and I knew the rules: If you received the gift, it was your responsibility to deal with the inconvenience.

"Besides, you didn't help me with the soap", I added.

An eight-pack slab of soap had landed on my desk a week before I was due to leave Korea in February (for good, I thought).

"Where did this come from?" I asked my colleague, Jeong, at the time.

"You know old teacher who sits next to gym teacher near the window?"

"Yes, I think so".

"Her cousin died. So you get the soap".

"Oh. Er. That's sad. Um. Do you want the soap?" I asked her.

"No, I have the soap too," Jeong replied.

I called Ash.

"Guess what I have for you!" I said.

"An eight-pack slab of soap!"

"No way, I'm not taking it on the subway, then the bus to Cheongyang," he replied.

"It's all yours".

I decided to leave the soap behind in my apartment, as somewhat of a welcome-to-the-building-remember-to-bathe gift for whoever moved into my apartment.

Ash was more determined that he, and in turn I, would put the long-life milk to good use.

It caused some problems.

"Where did this milk come from?" Ash asked one recent Saturday morning, pointing in horror at a carton of fresh milk.

"Oh. Er. I bought some milk for my tea," I said.

"But we have the long-life stuff!"

"The long-life stuff makes my tea taste bad and, as a result, causes me to be unpleasant for the remainder of the day", I said.

“Oh, it does not,” he replied.

Ash grabbed an open carton of long-life milk from the fridge.

"Shit," he said.

"It's spilled out again".

Instead of coming in convenient cartons, the 24-pack slab of long-life milk came in Popper form with a straw attached.

After a carton was opened, the milk repeatedly spilled through the straw and into the fridge, contaminating any item on the shelf.

Despite the ongoing spillage problems, the spoiled cups of tea, and the "we're camping!" taste to bowls of cereal, Ash remained committed to finishing every last drop of the long-life milk.

Finally, after what felt like a long-lifetime, Ash squeezed the very last drop of the very last carton into his tea, and made an announcement.

"That," he said.

"Was the final carton of long-life milk".

We celebrated by opening a carton of fresh milk and victoriously pouring it on our bowls of cereal.

Ash looked in the fridge at the last spillage of the long-life milk, and sighed at the weeks of stress this well-meaning gift had caused him.

"Korea," he said.

"Where every gift is a burden".

Bizarre Korean Fact: Koreans like to give bulk packs of Spam to each other to mark special occasions. You can even buy gift packs of Spam in the supermarket. I have been the recipient of a Spam set. I do not know what happened to the Spam set, but I know I did not eat it.