My Brilliant Korea |
Blogging | June 12, 2010
The following may sound quite extraordinary.
Unbelievable, even.
But it is absolutely, unequivocally, 100% true.
I even have a reasonably reliable witness (Amy P. Rem) who can attest to the accuracy of the following 635 words.
So please, read this blog post in good faith, safe in the knowledge that this event really did take place in Seoul, South Korea, at 7.27pm, June 12, 2010.
It all started with an inconvenient downpour.
No, that’s not exactly right.
It all started with two $20 glasses of Moet Chandon at an upmarket bar in Itaewon.
“I want a $20 glass of Moet Chandon”, Amy said.
“I want a $20 glass of Moet Chandon too,” I replied.
We checked the time.
We only had an hour and a half to get to City Hall for Korea’s opening World Cup match against Greece.
If we were to take the subway and find our friends in the crowd, we really needed to leave immediately.
“Let’s buy $20 glasses of Moet Chandon!” we chimed.
Twenty minutes later and late for the game, we wobbled and giggled our way out of the bar and into the rain to find a taxi.
Remarkably, a car pulled up within moments.
“Shi Chong (City Hall),” I told the driver.
“OK!” he replied with vigour.
He put his foot on the accelerator, but then unexpectedly swung around for confirmation of our direction.
“Shi Chong?!” he said.
Still driving, his eyes dropped down to my top.
“Woooooah!” he said.
He craned his neck to get a look at Amy, who was seated directly behind him.
“Woooooah, ooooh!” he said.
His eyes darted back to the road, before he swung back around again to shake my hand (and look at my chest).
He reached around to shake Amy’s hand too, but instead scored a nice little grope of her leg.
“You boyfriend? You no boyfriend? Ajashir (older man) be boyfriend!”
Amy informed him she was married.
“Uh? Mallied??? NOOOOOOOO!” hollered the driver, banging on the steering wheel.
He turned his attention to me.
“You? Boyfriend?” he said.
I informed him I had no boyfriend.
“AHHH!” he said, clearly sensing a possible love connection.
“I go solo!” he said.
“You solo!”
“We go solo!!!!”
I glanced over to Amy who was gasping for air in between fits of laughter.
“Bahahahahaha (gasp)… bahahahahaha (gasp, gasp),” Amy said.
Unexpectedly, the mood in the car turned solemn.
“My wife go,” the driver told us.
“My wife go sky.”
I nodded consolingly at him in the rear vision mirror, while Amy attempted to pull herself together.
“My wife go to sky, bye bye, sky bye bye!” he driver said and once again took his eyes from the road to wave vigorously at the sky.
“BYYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEE SKY WIFE BYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYE!”
Amy was unable to hold herself together to share the driver’s grief.
“Bahahahahahaha (gasp), bahahahahahaha (gasp, gasp),” she said.
The driver, too, broke down into a hysterical fit of laugher before he pumped up the stereo to full volume.
“Oh yeah! Let’s get some music happening!” Amy said.
The driver selected his tune and proceeded to serenade us.
“I can hep fawring in rove wi you!!!” he sang.
At the completion of the song I put in a request.
“My Way by Frank Sinatra!” I said.
“No, My Way!” the driver replied.
Amy ferreted around in her bag, pulled out her MP3 player and scrolled through the tracks until she found My Way.
The two of us launched into song until we were abruptly stopped by the driver who banged on the steering wheel.
“NO! No, My Way! Simon and Garfunkeeeeel. Blidge over Twoubered Water!”
Happy to oblige, we launched into song and the driver chimed in for the chorus.
Before we knew it, we were at City Hall.
The driver turned around, took one last look at my chest, before firmly instructing me to do up my top.
We made it in time for the game.
We found our friends in the rainy madness.
We watched Korea beat Greece 2-0 on the big screen in front of 250,000 screaming, passionate Korean fans.
It was a night I will never forget.
It was a taxi ride I will always remember.
Image courtesy of the Korea Herald.
Blogging | May 5, 2010
“Scotland’s so cool man, you have to go”.
Conversation came so easily to her.
She stood in the hallway, waiting for class to start, and casually chatted with those around her.
I looked at my shoes and gripped my textbooks tightly to my chest.
I had nothing to say to this girl.
She was cool, confident and had clearly been to Scotland.
I had never been anywhere.
A couple of family holidays to Sydney, a few trips up north for the swimming State Titles, but that was it.
It was better just to keep my mouth shut.
If I said a word, she would know how truly boring and irrelevant I was.
A familiar voice interrupted my thoughts.
“Hey Blythe, are you taking ‘Media in Society’?”
I swung around to see Lorelei Waite* from my highschool.
She, like me, was in the second week of her degree at the Queensland University of Technology.
The year was 1999.
“I am,” I replied.
Her smile reassured me.
“Great, let’s go inside”.
I followed Lorelei into the classroom and plonked my books down next to hers.
A spare seat sat to my right.
The cool girl walked into the classroom and looked around.
Her eyes settled on the seat next to mine.
Don’t sit here, don’t sit here, don’t sit here, I thought.
“Can I sit here?” she asked.
“Sure, of course,” I said.
Awkwardly, we sat in silence for a few minutes until the lesson began.
Sixty minutes later, it was finished.
“See you all next week,” our teacher said.
Hurriedly, I collected my books and dashed out the door.
I didn’t want to walk out with the cool girl.
What if she tried to talk to me? What if she asked me to have coffee? What if she wanted to eat together? What if she thought we could be friends?
It was all too awkward to even consider.
“Hey Blythe, wait up!”
It was Lorelei, with our mutual friend, Ross Hope**, in tow.
“Let’s go grab some lunch”.
Relieved, I nodded.
I had escaped the cool girl.
That was until she walked around the corner, alone.
“You’re in ‘Media and Society’ right?” Lorelei asked her.
“Want to get some lunch with us?”
Clearly, Lorelei had not yet effectively assessed the situation.
The cool girl would not want to eat with us.
Surely, she had much cooler people she could be spending time with (ie. people who had been to Scotland).
“I’d love to come. I’m Gemma***, by the way”, the cool girl said.
Gemma-Rose Turnbull.
We walked to the cafeteria, grabbed some hot chips and sauce and sat down.
“You just have to tell him how you feel,” Ross told Lorelei.
“If he knows, maybe it will change things”.
Gemma and I glanced at each other.
Lorelei and Ross clearly had important matters to tend to, so we would just have to make conversation.
“So, you’ve been to Scotland?” I said.
Gemma concurred.
We started talking.
We talked and talked.
We talked and talked and talked.
We talked, literally, for hours.
We talked until long after Ross and Lorelei had run out of boy problems to dissect and discuss.
Gemma and I can still talk for hours.
It has been more than eleven years since that day, but if I close my eyes and concentrate, it feels like yesterday.
I suppose it is understandable I would remember it so clearly.
Those hours in the cafeteria, with the chips and tomato sauce, constituted what was probably the most important lunch of my life.
When I saw Gemma the next week, we were already like old friends.
I was right about her- she was cool and confident.
But she was also warm, kind, generous, fiercely loyal, and oh-so funny.
She was, quite simply, a gem.
The following year Gemma introduced me to her sister Melody Fern Valentine**** and the three of us lived together for the next three years while we studied.
We cooked curries, drank tea into the early hours of the morning, twirled firesticks, bashed on drums, took photographs, fell in love with boys, fell out of love with boys, had unsuccessful vegetable gardens and occasionally went to class.
Sometimes we argued, but usually we laughed.
Those sisters mean more to me than they could ever know.
They are not my friends.
They are my family.
I met Gemma when she was just 19 years old, and tomorrow she turns 30.
This trip down memory lane is my gift to her.
*Lorelei Waite now lives in Melbourne and writes a television column for the prestigious newspaper The Age.
**Ross Hope lives in Brisbane and works for the Australasian Performing Rights Association, looking after its songwriter members. In his spare time, he plays music with his band Disco Nap. He still offers Lorelei sound relationship advice when required.
***Gemma-Rose Turnbull lives in Melbourne and is currently working on a photography project with the St Kilda Gatehouse- a community organisation which provides a safe haven for street sex workers. She plans to meet Lorelei for a cup of tea soon.
****Melody Fern Valentine is now a lawyer at the Caxton Legal Centre. She lives in Brisbane with her two-year old son, Ronin. He is my godson and also my favourite person under one metre tall. Melody still spends her time on unsuccessful vegetable gardens.
I am, of course, living in Korea. I miss Gemma. I hope we will be sharing a bucket of hot chips and tomato sauce in the not too distant future.
Blogging | April 25, 2010
For a brief time, I dated a very handsome, very charming Korean man.
During our six-week courtship, Moon-Soek said many things, including, but not limited to:
"Let me see your face, Blyssss-eh".
He pulled back my hair and his eyes scanned my face.
He smiled.
“Beautiful eyes, such-eh beautiful green-eh eyes”.
Then he kissed me.
Sigh.
Not to mention the time Moon-Soek said:
“My family has big cabin in woods. I want take you there. You can bring all your friends. I will cook everyone barbeque”.
Swoon.
And lastly:
“I hate gay”.
Um…. Say what?
“Moon, what did you say?” I asked.
“I hate the gay”, he repeated.
My face flushed as red as the tomatoes I was chopping.
I thought about my friend Nathanael, whose heart is so incredibly big I am sometimes surprised it can fit in his chest.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
I thought about my friend Ben, a highly-evolved young man whose debut novel* is moments from being released in Australia.
Chop. Chop.
And I thought about my friend Aaron, who is in possession of what could very well be the most wicked sense of humour in the world.
Chop.
They are all gay.
I put down the knife.
“Moon, how could you say something like that?” I asked.
Moon-Soek looked a little sheepish.
“I just don’t understand gay,” he said.
“Maybe if I could understand it, I could accept.
“But, if it was me, and I wanted to do like that, I would fight against it.
“There is no gay in Korea”.
Hear that?
There is no gay in Korea.
I laughed and shook my head.
“I am 100% certain gay people do exist in Korea, just like they exist elsewhere in the world,” I told Moon-Soek.
“And I am certain that many of them are living a lie in unhappy marriages because the thought of coming out and saying who they really are in this judgmental country scares them half to death”.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
I should probably pause for a moment to clarify something- I am not a Korea basher.
I love this place.
I love the frantic pace, the late nights followed by early morning subway rides, the cherry blossoms, the Korean barbeque with shots of soju, the cheap roses, the Konglish, the thrill of successfully communicating in another language, the fabulous fashions, and the kindness and generosity shown to me by many Korean people.
I am happy to be here.
But I hate the judgment.
Korea is an incredibly insular society and many Koreans find it difficult to understand or accept things that go against the grain of life in Korea.
After the night Moon came to my house for dinner, I could not forget our conversation.
I broached the gay issue with two other Korean friends- both of whom I considered to be quite liberal minded.
“Blythe, gay is not normal!” one of them said.
“I have to say, I don’t like the gay, Blythe. Koreans don’t like the gay,” said the other friend.
Sigh.
But the gay debate is not the only area where Koreans judge and refuse to budge.
There is also the little matter of shoes.
Inside shoes and outside shoes.
Outside shoes are for outside only.
Inside shoes are for inside only.
When my building manager recently visited my apartment to help me open the door (the lock was broken) I made the mistake of walking inside with my outside shoes on.
My building manager started to shout and gesture frantically.
“Shoes, no, shoes, no!” he said in Korean.
I understood exactly what he was saying, but chose to ignore it because he was irritating me.
The next day my co-teacher walked over to my desk.
“Blythe, I just had a call from your building manager,” she said.
“He wanted to ask me why you wear your shoes inside your apartment.
“I told him that it was a cultural difference and that many people outside Korea wear their shoes inside.
“He told me he thinks your behaviour with the shoes is very strange, and he thinks you are a very strange person”.
I told my co-teacher the feelings were very much mutual.
“He’s such a weirdo,” I said.
Over time, I have discovered that Korean judgment also extends to:
1. People who do not brush their teeth after lunch (flossing optional).
2. People who do not eat kimchi.
3. People who openly state that they do not like kimchi.
4. People who are not married over the age of 30.
5. People who are married, but do not yet have a child.
6. People who are married and have one child, but do not have a second child.
7. People from Japan.
8. People who like Japan.
9. People who do not think it is necessary to go to the hospital emergency room for a common cold.
10. People who do not think it is a good idea to take 15 pills of antibiotics a day to treat a common cold.
Sigh.
Oh Korea.
You tell me I have beautiful green eyes, then you tell me I need to go to the gym.
You admire my curly hair, then suggest I should get it ‘Magic Straightened’.
You say my white skin is lovely, but then ask why I look so tired.
You judge me and you bug me, Korea.
But in my heart I know it’s just who you are. You are being yourself and I will just accept you for that.
No judgment.
*The highly-evolved young man I refer to is Benjamin Law, and his book, ‘The Family Law’, will be launched at The Avid Reader in West End (Brisbane) on June 10. Ben’s writing is almost too good and I should despise him for his unfairly large scoop of talent, but I like him anyway. Sort of.
Here is an excerpt from ‘The Family Law’:
“My family aren't the outdoors type. Despite being raised on the coast, Mum detested visits to the beach (all the sand it brought into the house), while Dad disapproved of wearing thongs ('It splits the toes'). We never camped. All those things involved in camping—pitching a tent; cooking on open fires; the insects; shitting in the woods; sleeping on rocks; getting murdered and raped in the middle of nowhere—they never appealed to us. 'We were never camping people,' Mum says now. 'Your dad never wanted to camp, and insects eat me alive. See, Asians—we're scared of dying. White people: they like to 'live life to the full', and 'die happy.'' She pauses. 'Asians are the opposite.' We preferred theme parks.”
Blogging | April 16, 2010
My friend Ashley read this blog once and later commented:
“It’s funny, but it’s not very personal. You’re not open about the men in your life.”
She was right.
I have not been entirely honest with you, (insert your own name here).
I have been holding things back, particularly with regards to men.
But that is all about to change.
Today, I intend to be candid on this lively web-writing forum.
I would like to tell you about three special men who have touched my soul in Seoul (see what I did there?).
These three men do not know each other, but they all know me.
They are each a little dark, a little broody and a little moody.
They have all, in their own ways, taught me important life lessons about understanding, communication, laughter, love* and romance*.
So, (insert your own name here), without further adieu, let’s be frank.
May I cordially introduce you to Copy Man, Dryclean Man and Loud Building Manager.
1. Copy Man
I had heard whispers about the Copy Man for many weeks before I actually laid eyes on him.
“Have you met Copy Man?” my co-teacher asked me in hushed tones over lunch one day.
I shook my head.
Her eyes lit up.
“For forty years he is worked at this school, making copies. His whole life just copies, copies, copies,” she said.
“The world changed but his life always the same.
“Same blue overalls, same strange smell in copy room, for forty years. No wife, no kids, just copy paper, copy paper, copy paper.
“Can you imagine?”
I really couldn’t. I was intrigued. I wanted to know more about this Copy Man.
With a piece of paper in one hand (to be copied) and a chocolate bar in the other, my co-teacher led me down, down, down, several flights of stairs until we reached the Copy Room.
The location was slightly below ground, which only added to the Copy Man’s intrigue.
“Push the button,” my co-teacher said.
I did.
A loud whirring siren could be heard on the other side of the door.
Seconds passed until suddenly, the door magically clicked open.
We tip-toed into the room where we found several large copy machines (which looked like they may have been used as weapons in the Korean War) and a man in blue overalls- his face shielded by a newspaper.
Slowly, the newspaper was lowered to reveal the unsmiling face of Copy Man.
My co-teacher introduced me in Korean. The Copy Man pursed his lips and nodded curtly.
I briefly wondered if anything could crack that cold exterior, as the Copy Man’s eyes ventured down to my right hand.
He caught sight of the chocolate bar I had hastily grabbed from my desk as a gift for him.
“This is for you,” I said and handed it to him.
His smile was like sunshine.
It was as warm and unexpected as a 5 degree Seoul day in January.
“Oh, oh, kahmsamnida, kahmsamnida,” he said with several bows of his head.
Since that day, I have visited the Copy Man once a week to collect copies of worksheets for my lessons.
I always take a chocolate bar and, subsequently, the Copy Man is always pleased to see me.
The Copy Man has taught me that chocolate can sometimes speak louder than poorly pronounced Korean.
2. Dry-clean Man
I met Dry-clean Man about three weeks after I arrived in Seoul.
For me, a girl who prefers to dry-clean rather than hand wash her delicate tops, his existence on my street was a delight.
Dry-clean Man was less excited about meeting me.
He did not want my business.
He had no interest in it at all.
The first time I walked into his shop, it was clear that Dry-clean Man wanted me out of there- and quickly.
I fumbled with my Korean phrasebook until I found the chapter on ‘services’.
“I would like these items dry-cleaned”, I said in Korean.
Dry-clean Man looked at me blankly.
I handed him the phrasebook and pointed.
Dry-clean Man firmly shook his head.
“Anio,” he said.
“Really?” I replied.
“Anio.”
I walked out of the store dejected, but returned with determination the following day.
“I want these items dry-cleaned,” I said again.
Dry-clean Man huffed. He puffed. He mumbled under his breath and shook his head. He grabbed my clothes and waved me out of the store.
Several days later I returned to find my tops beautifully cleaned.
Dry-clean Man looked pleased with his performance as I enthusiastically thanked him.
“Kahmsamnida, kahmsamnida,” I said with several bows of my head.
Dry-clean Man and I now have a system where I take my clothes into his store, he snatches them from my hands, and then points a stick at his calendar to indicate when I should return to collect the items.
Over time, I have come to realise that I believe in Dry-clean Man’s abilities more than he believes in them himself.
I knew he would be able to find a suitable zipper to fix my dress, even though he repeatedly told me he didn’t have one.
I knew he had my red jacket somewhere in his store, even though he repeatedly told me he didn’t have it.
And I knew he would be able to clean my jacket by Tuesday even though he told me it would be impossible to have it done before Wednesday.
Dry-clean Man has taught me that with a friendly demeanour and a little persistence, it is possible to get just about anything cleaned and altered.
3. Loud Building Manager
I am not going to lie to you, Loud Building Manager and I have had our ups and downs.
There was the time I opened my front door to be greeted by a tirade of abuse in rapid Korean, for reasons unknown.
“BLAH! BLAH! BLAH! BLAH! BLAH!” he screamed, swinging his arms around wildly.
I understood nothing, but I nodded.
“BLAH! BLAH! BLAH! BLAH! BLAH!” he continued.
When Loud Building Manager eventually stopped to take a breath I simply said:
“OK”.
He smiled and gave me two thumbs up.
“OK?” he asked.
“Yeah, OK,” I replied.
He walked away.
Then there was the time I was woken up at 2am by the less than soothing sound of Loud Building Manager screaming at my one of my neighbours for nearly an hour.
And who could forget the time Loud Building Manager broke into my Canadian neighbour’s apartment to mop her floor at 8am on a Sunday (she was in bed at the time).
But this week, for the first time, Loud Building Manager and I had a significant break-through in our relationship.
He came into my apartment on Wednesday night to fix several things, including a pipe in the bathroom.
He screamed and gestured frantically at me for several minutes.
“BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH!” he said.
In his frantic state Loud Building Manager reached for the bathroom tap, which just so happened to be switched to the shower setting at the time.
I might have had time to warn him, but who could be sure?
Water gushed out of my shower and drenched my building manager who flailed his arms about wildly.
The sight made me so happy.
I laughed and laughed.
Loud Building Manager flailed and flailed.
When he eventually turned off the tap, he swung around to see me propped up on the bench, wiping tears of laughter from my eyes.
He started to laugh.
He laughed and laughed.
I laughed and laughed.
I handed him a towel and he gave me a high five.
After he dried himself off, I ushered him over to my computer where I typed into an English-to-Korean translator.
“I can speak a little Korean, but not well. You always speak very fast. If you speak slowly I might be able to understand you”, I typed.
He typed back.
“I try very hard to understand you, but I can’t speak English”, he wrote.
I nodded.
“That’s OK, I understand. Please speak Korean but use hand gestures. If you call me on the phone please speak extra slowly”.
Loud Building Manager nodded OK.
He indicated he would go downstairs to make a phone call about the problem in my bathroom.
Minutes later he called me and for the first time ever I understood him.
“Man go your house now. OK?” he seemed to be saying.
“OK,” I told him.
Sure enough, a man appeared at my door minutes later to fix things.
In even better news, my bathroom sink once again has the ability to drain and my front door locks.
Loud Building Manager has taught me that even the loudest, crankiest, screamiest, meanest building manager has some humanity. Sometimes you just need to pour water on him to find it.
*These men have not taught me anything about love and romance, but I was attempting to build some intrigue to keep you reading. If you have made it this far, it obviously worked.
Blogging | March 20, 2010
1. It has been a substantial amount of time since we last spoke.
2. So long, in fact, that I feel the need to itemise and number my talking points so as not to confuse my undistinguished brain.
3. I may also use footnotes*.
4. I hope you are OK with this.
5. Where to start?
6. Japan.
7. I went to Japan and learnt how to snowboard. On the first day I fell over almost 40 times.
8. But more importantly, I went to Japan and spent time with my friends Ryu** and Jess*** in their town of Myoko.
9. The three of us slept in the same room and talked until the wee hours of the morning.
10. Jess said she imagined I would have been the kind of child that other parents would hate to have at their house for a sleepover. Because I would talk so much after the light was out.
11. She was right about that.
12. But I’m fairly certain that on this particular occasion Ryu was the conversation instigator.
13. Each time my eyelids sealed shut, and my mind ventured off to a world where I was married to Sam Worthington, a voice in the darkness would ask: “So how’s Melody?****” Or say: “I can’t believe Grogey***** has dreadlocks, man! Grogey, man!”
14. During my stay in Myoko we captured a moment known as “Extreme Facials Japan”.
This refers to an evening the three of us (and Grogey) shared in Brisbane about eight years ago. We went to a coffee shop for a warm beverage quite late in the night. The woman behind the counter was displeased by the late hour and made “Extreme Facials” as she prepared our coffee. It amused us greatly for many years to come, and was the catalyst for the "Extreme Facials" series of photos.
15. I hope Ryu and Jess will visit me in Seoul so we can capture “Extreme Facials Korea”. I may also show them some other cool stuff during their visit.
16. I love Ryu and Jess (and Grogey for that matter).
17. ******
18. *******
19. Anyway.
20. After I left Ryu and Jess, I stayed with my friend Luke Lickfold and his girlfriend Kyomi in Tokyo.
21. I love Luke and Kyomi.
22. They took me on a food tour of the city.
23. We started with a plate of traditional Japanese food (with names I cannot remember), then moved on to chicken on a stick, then sweet crepes, then wine and cheese at their apartment.The next day we had the most incredible sushi I have ever had IN MY LIFE (capitals for effect) at a place called the Standing Sushi Bar.
24. The week in Japan was one of the best weeks of my life.
25. Since returning to Seoul, I have been ardently studying Korean.
26. I am currently reading a book in Korean, called Little Mouse.
The book is intended for Korean children aged between two and four years old. It is about a little mouse who puts on his hat and takes off his hat. Then he turns on the light and turns off the light. The little mouse runs and then he walks. He laughs and then he cries.
27. I would continue, but I don’t want to spoil the ending for you.
28. My enthusiasm to study is due in part to this man.
His name is Moon-Soek. I think he looks like a Calvin Klein model. He is also lovely and funny. We have been spending some time together.
29. In other news, the 16- storey building next door was finally completed a few weeks ago.
30. I celebrated by dancing in my room to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack as I believed this would mean an end to the construction sounds that have plagued my life since the day I arrived in Seoul.
31. Unfortunately, my celebration was premature. I did not see the preparations being put in place to commence construction on the 16-storey building directly opposite my building.
32. Sigh. The construction sounds continue.
33. It’s a good thing I love Seoul.
34. That’s all for now.
*Like this one.
**One of the world’s most awesome people.
***Another one of the world’s most awesome people.
****A person I miss all the time.
*****Luke McGovern. Luke, or Grogey (as he is commonly called) is the creator and administrator of this wonderful site, Flickspin. He had dreadlocks for a short time, which seemed out of character for a man who once revelled in phrases such as “damn hippies”, “bloody hippies” and “smelly hippies”.
******Am I using too many footnotes? I think I might be. I will stop now. It reminds me of Kurt Vonnegut’s novel Slapstick in which he wrote “hi-ho” at the end of many paragraphs. He noted that he would probably go back and take the “hi-hos” out before publication, but obviously never did.
*******Please don’t think for a moment that I am comparing my writing to that of Kurt Vonnegut. That would be like comparing discounted sausages from Coles with a thick and rich cut of steak from the organic butcher at Cotton Tree (on the Sunshine Coast, Queensland, Australia, the World).
Blogging | January 31, 2010
Dear Grandma,
If you have found my blog, please do not read on. I’m fairly confident you have not located me here on the World Wide Web, since you don’t have the internet connected at home. In fact, I’m not entirely sure you know what the internet is, as I have never seen you use any form of technology introduced after the late 1970s. But I’m putting this disclaimer here anyway, just to be safe.
The reason I don’t want you to read on is because of a conversation we had at your place about a year ago. Remember when I came over for dinner and you told me you would cook dumplings? And then I arrived there and you hadn’t cooked dumplings and I was really disappointed? But you made up for it with the bread and butter pudding? That night, as I recall, I told you about a recent social gathering where I had consumed a couple of alcoholic beverages.
“I was quite tipsy,” I remember telling you.
Disappointment washed across your face.
“Oh darling, that doesn’t sound very nice,” you said.
I made a mental note not to mention excessive consumption of alcohol in your presence again.
This blog post will definitely contain references to excessive consumption of alcohol.
Bye Grandma. I love you. Speak to you soon. Do not read on past the line.
____________________________
I felt that we had so much in common.
Firstly, he was a foreigner in Seoul.
Secondly, he was riding the subway home at 6.30am on a Sunday.
Thirdly, he could not keep his eyes open.
I desperately wanted to communicate with him.
The words “have a big night?” went around and around my head, but I could not push them out of my mouth.
His head rocked forward and backwards, his eyes slowly closed and opened.
I decided to leave him be.
The train sped on, across the Han River, before shooting back underground and finally pulling into Seoul National University subway station.
I shuffled out of the carriage, up the escalator, through the ticket counter, up the stairs, down my street, through my building entrance, up the elevator and through my apartment door.
I ripped off my clothes, jumped in the shower and crawled into bed.
The first hint of a sunbeam came through the window, as the memories of the past evening whirled through my mind.
The promise of a quiet night with friends.
Korean barbeque in Hongdae.
The decision to order the second bottle of soju.
The change of location to a nearby singing room.
Hungry Eyes.
My Way.
Billie Jean.
More soju.
More soju.
The songs blurring into one.
Soju on the tiles.
The appearance of a mop.
Burger King.
A cup of Earl grey tea at a nearby café.
The subway home.
Crawling into bed as the sun came up.
When I tell my friend Gemma about these kinds of nights in Korea, her response is always the same.
“Blythe, you went to bed at 9pm at my 21st birthday party! What’s happened to you in Korea?”
She’s right.
I have never been known for my partying ways.
But something is significantly different in Seoul, and that something is soju.
Soju is a Korean alcohol made from rice, which, in my experience, causes people to behave in completely uncharacteristic ways.
One of my good friends, a normally respectable English teacher in Seoul, has been known to steal cookies from Subway (and encourage others to do so) while under the influence of soju.
Another friend has been compelled to climb up a wall at a subway station, after consuming more than an average amount of this dangerous liquor.
For my part, soju has led to me being completely unable to fulfil my role as banker in a tense game of Monopoly.
It has caused me to sing with great passion and feeling in Korean singing rooms.
And it has caused me to be almost unable to move the morning after.
One of the great downfalls of soju is its ability to deliver a killer hangover- the kind of body blow that vodka, beer and wine could never effect.
So why do we Seoul-ites drink it?
The first (and basically only), reason is the price.
A standard 300ml bottle can be purchased for as little as 1000 won (about $1 AUD), and is more than enough to send you straight to a table top with a microphone.
Drink two bottles and you will almost certainly be riding the subway home at 6.30am and trying to make conversation with a drunk, foreign stranger.
Soju, for all its flaws, is one of my favourite things about Korea.
On an unrelated note, one of my other favourite things about Korea is a shop around the corner from me, which I like to call, the Shop That Has Everything.
Ironically, the Shop That Has Everything does not sell soju.
Bizarre Korean fact: It is not polite to fill your own glass of soju. If someone in a position of respect fills your glass (like your boss, or your grandmother), then it is polite to accept the glass with both hands. Similarly if you are pouring a glass for your boss or your grandmother, you should hold the bottle with both hands. I don’t expect I will ever be pouring a glass of soju for my grandmother.
Blogging | January 20, 2010
People at my school like to film me doing stuff.
In the few short months I have been a teacher in Seoul, I have already starred in multiple PR videos, (most notably a clip where I was captured delivering a high-five to a reluctant student).
So, it came as no surprise to me when one of my co-teachers, Jasmine, arrived at my classroom this week and informed me my acting skills would once again be needed.
“We need you to act as a foreign visitor at a hotel,” Jasmine told me.
I followed her to my school’s fictional hotel (complete with fake check-in counter and fake guest rooms) where I found dozens of people, cameras, lights, and a rather handsome Korean director waiting for me.
“We do a lehearsal,” the handsome Korean director said.
“Um, sorry? ” I replied.
“Leeeeee-her-sal,” he said again.
This seemed to be all the information available at that time.
So, without any more direction, I said the following to an incredibly nervous fake hotel receptionist (INFHR).
Me: Hi.
INFHR: Hello.
Me: I have a reservation.
INFHR: Can I help you?
Me: Yes, I have a reservation. My name is Miss B.
INFHR: Just a second (stands awkwardly).
Me: OK, no problem.
INFHR: Please fill out this form (does not produce a form).
Me: Do you have a form for me to fill out?
INFHR: Yes, here it is. And this is your room number. It is your room key.
Me: Great, thanks. Are there any places you could recommend I visit in Seoul? I’m here for one night.
INFHR: There is a Chinese restaurant in Myeong Dong. Have a nice day. Bye. Bye. Thank you.
Ends
With several hand gestures and some more broken English, the handsome Korean director indicated I had performed well and would need to wait in another room for a short time* before we would film the scene.
I wandered over to where Jasmine was standing with her mouth agape.
I assumed we were on the same page about what had just transpired.
“How embarrassing,” I whispered.
She shook her head.
“No, I cannot believe it,” she said, in awe.
“First you are perfect journalist. And perfect teacher. And perfect clothes and perfect face. And now you are a perfect actress. You are like perfect person. I envy you so much.”
Jasmine, it should be noted, is one of the most beautiful and intelligent women I have met in Seoul.
Not only that, she is happily married, with two gorgeous children, speaks two languages fluently and always matches her shoes with her handbag.
In my eyes, she is basically perfect.
On the other hand, I:
- can only name three African countries without the assistance of a map;
- quit a board game early if I am not winning;
- am often unforgiving;
- am impatient;
- grind my teeth in my sleep;
- play songs on repeat, sometimes up to a dozen times in a row;
- do not enjoy conversations before 10am (or before 9am, with the assistance of caffeine);
- often look quite unattractive before 10am (or before 2pm, if excessive soju has been consumed the previous evening).
And really, that’s just the start of my imperfection list.
The conversation with Jasmine caused me to have something of an epiphany.
It is absolutely pointless to envy anybody of anything, ever, because perception and reality are so vastly different, even among co-workers at a low-level high school in a south-west suburb of Seoul.
In fact, I am sure many of my students envied South Korean supermodel, Daul Kim, before she took her own life in a Paris hotel room in November.
I felt the need to share my epiphany with Jasmine.
“Jasmine,” I said.
“I ate two tubs of ice cream for dinner last night. Does that sound perfect to you?”
Bizarre Korean fact: *A “short time” in Korea can mean any length of time. In this case, it meant waiting three hours to film the aforementioned scene. I spent that time writing this blog post. Similarly, a “long way” can mean any distance. If a Korean person tells you something is a “long way” and you may need to “take a bus”, it can actually mean your destination is 50 metres up the road.
When Blythe was a journalism student at the Queensland University of Technology she interviewed the former Indonesian president, Abdurrahman Wahid.
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