Fears of a Foreignor Living in Seoul

Standing on the edge of winter, on days like today, I don't feel far from North Korea.  This land lacks something in the winter that you can't place your finger on.  And then you realize what it is. It's color.  The gray of the mountains is only a little deeper shade than that of the sky.  The identical apartment buildings, standing high in clusters, provide only a subtle contrast in their whiteness-- dull numbers stamped on the side to distinguish them from the others.  In the pale blue morning, it can't be much different from the physical reality of the north.  But life here couldn't be more different. North Korea is close in proximity and yet it is as far away and as accessable as the Sun.

On my transfer in the subway last night, I searched desperately for a pen.  In my mind, I had something I wanted to write down and after three stores and not seeing any pen for sale, I asked if I could buy one off a shop keeper.  "Chun won," I offered her-- about $1.  She said no and smiled, refusing my money and pushing the pen into my hand.  I wondered what that pen would get you in North Korea.  I've read North Koreans sometimes don't even have the luxury of paper.  I read an account once of a police officer scribbling an inmate's sentence on a chunk of wood.

This is the North Korea I've thought of the past few mornings when lightening and thunder has woken me up during the first blue light of the day.  I think about those on the other side who might be experiencing the same weather. I think about the thunder and how it disguised the first shots of the Korean War only 60 years ago.

But despite last weeks artillary fire on Yeonpyeong Island, fears of an actual war occuring are futile. Those fears will get you exactly where you started, much like the Korean War itself.  Since a war would destroy the South Korean economy, it's unlikely they will retaliate. 

So it's not fear of war that I feel in those mornings with the thunder; it's a closeness to those far away, a shared experience with those whose experiences could not be farther from my own. Because when you read about North Korea, you start to seperate the people from the Party-- from their first doubts, to their realization that their reality is a lie. Accounts of defectors  read eerily like Orwell's 1984-- spouses not trusting each other to their real thoughts, child "heros" denouncing their parents, people disappearing or being "vaporized" in the middle of the night, never to be heard from again.

Most of what we see of North Korea is from journalists who are only shown Pyongyang, the capital city where the elite and most loyal live.  Living in Pyongyang is the aspiration of many North Koreans, as residents there live the best lifestyle.  In an excerpt from her book, Nothing to Envy, journalist, Barabara Demick, relives one visit there:

"Floodlights bathed Kim Il Sung and garlands of tiny white lights illuminated the main streets.... Dinner was a multicourse banquet of salmon, crab gratin, lamb, sliced pheasant, and Viennese-style chocolate cakes.... I spoke by telephone to the U.N. World Food Programme's representative in Pyongyang... who told me "As soon as you guys left, it was pitch dark again."'

A look into the real North Korea is manipulated and stifled by the government seeking to improve its image. But some North Koreans are risking their lives to provide footage of the voices the government doesn't want us to hear.



The redemomination of the wealth discussed in the video refers to a new currency the North issued in 2009.  Food was being sold on the black market and the success of this private, "free market," was undermining the principles of the government who should be the sole provider for the people. It was also creating inflation. To counteract this, the government reissued a new currency, placing a limit on how much people could convert of the old currency,often times depleting savings and limiting wealth. This led to even more hunger and desperation. 

In Nothing to Envy Demick reports that one of the hardest realities defectors face is the memory of what they did to survive. A North Korean teacher painfully recalls watching one after another of her young students die from ailments  caused by starvation, as she herself did not go hungry. Successful defectors live with the memory that their family most likely starves in a work camp as a result of their decision to defect.  But just south of the DMZ, life is much different.  Lights are on and people are heading to work.  Women bobb in their high heels and chat over coffee. Men with biased hair, fo-hawked to one side, carry briefcases and listen to ipods. Perhaps, in all our abundance, we lose something.  But I think back to that woman pushing the pen into my hand, her smile and adimant refusal of money.  Abundance allows you to be human.  Deprivation does not.

And that's what I feel in those mornings amidst the thunder and lightening.  It is not a fear of war because that reality is simultaneously as close and as far away as North Korea itself. It's just a feeling of fear-- that a whole country can live a nightmare to preserve a dream.




I welcome any comments you have on the issue.

For access to the full video from above, click here.

Trying to Find a Japanese Restaurant in Korea, In Pictures

This place could be good.



No, I'll try that Japanese place.  I know it's around here somewhere.  

Ah shit. Why is that dog so angry?

...Who does he remind me of?

Newman!

....No, not Newman.

Uncle Leo!

Yah, yah Uncle LeOH there's that Japanese Restaurant. 

...I hope they're still open.

Damn!

Musta just missed it.

           

A Month in Music

I listen to Country every Fall.  The good kind. In other words, I don't listen to the kind that would make me want to "Garth on my Brookes" (to quote my friend Marc). Fall to me is the most beautiful season.  Nature seems to go back to its roots.   The whole world seems to go country.

One of my favorite songs is "Unknown Legend," by Neil Young.  It's the kind of song girls listen to and pretend it's about them-- or the kind of song I listen to and pretend it's about me.



It always takes me back to something I've forgotten. Inevitbaly though "Helpless," comes on and then the line, "all my changes were there" finds me completely in the moment, revealing how I feel about this place.



This year has been the hardest one I've faced in a group-oriented culture built on formality; where work is number one, where I can't address my co-workers by their names because they're older, where everything is about "face" and making someone lose face is the ultimate crime; where maintaining relationships often means biting your tongue. It's been hard but it's also been rewarding.

I now work with a woman who is 40 years my senior.  Understandably, she doesn't like listening to me.  She doesn't like that more responsibility falls upon me than her.  Unfortunately, we can't work through some of our problems, and the more success I enjoy, the more she dislikes me. Her anger voices itself in hateful attacks on my character.

Recently, I had a conversation with one of my best friends who just spent some time with her mother whom she doesn't always get along with.  She said she didn't know whether she was under so much stress or just had so many other things on her mind, but the things that would normally irritate her, didn't.  I thought about my situation at work, at feeling constantly attacked and the suprising ease I've had with biting my tongue, and I realized-- there's something to be said for stress. If nothing else, it can prioritize.

While I've had good times equally as intense as the bad, I would lie if I said I wouldn't remember this year as stressful.  Waiting for a taxi the other night, I kept being passed up by one after another because I didn't live far enough away.  Then a boy shouted out of his window, his buzz-cut leading me to believe he was a US soldier: "You can jump in here if you wanna fuck!" I thought of Kris Kristofferson's, "Just the Other Side of Nowhere" and how "everywhere I try to go here seems to only bring me down."



So I search for meaning, because it helps.  I know that  I'm becoming well versed in the art of restraint-- a lesson, admittedly I could have used.  I'm learning to see things for what they are-- to recognize the truth behind peoples actions; those who love and those who hate because they want to be loved. I'm learning with my students that "the love you make is equal to the love you take." (A Beatles quote outside the genre of Country that I couldn't resist) I see them listening to cd's I've made them, or handing me their art work to put on my wall, or getting an answer right and giving me a high five, and I feel rewarded.

As I balance the tricky reality of office politics, I'm learning when "to hold them... when to fold them... when to walk away...and when to run."



And when I really feel beaten up by circumstance, when one more taxi driver has taken me for a ride because I'm female and alone, when a sleezeball yells something sleezy out of his window, when someone hatefully attacks my character, I turn on Kris Kristofferson and listen to him tell me that "I knew there was something I liked about this town.  But it takes more than that to bring me down."

How Much I Hated Eat, Pray, Love

I have been anticipating Eat, Pray, Love the movie since last year when I read the book.  Don't judge me.  I have.

I read the book, I went to Bali, I had my palm read by Ketut.  I passed the book onto my aunt and then I waited for the movie to come to Korea.

Last Thursday, it did.

In the movie theater, I've never seen so many people playing on their iphones.  Julia Roberts screams, "I don't need to love you to prove that I love myself!!!" and the guy next to me looks down, slides the lock off his iphone and checks his facebook.

There wasn't even a sex scene-- thus solidifying the unfortunate trend that absolutely nothing in the movie climaxes.

But what surprised me the most was how true to the story it was, and how I found myself constantly thinking how petty and self-centered this woman is-- something I had never thought while reading the book.  But when you see it there in front of you, in a two hour and 13 minute-- or more accurately 7,980 second-- drama form, it's hard to ignore the fact that it's really just a story of a woman acting like a child.  And in the end, you're actually kinda pissed she gets what she wants.

So all in all, I hated Eat, Pray, Love.  It pissed me off.  I would rather watch Mama Mia-- which is like watching your mom dance on a bar. Actually, I would rather watch the Mama Mia sing-along version with a theater full of Claymates:

example of "Claymate"
click picture for detailed image of homemade Clay Aiken doll

That's how much I hated Eat, Pray, Love.

When It Rains In Seoul, It Pours

It has rained in Seoul for the past three days-- the kind of rain that makes the land vibrate; where full fields look like they're boiling.

The saying goes that when it rains, it pours, and for me-- this week-- the saying is true.

So in accordance with that damn saying, my computer crashed.  It was my lesson in supplimenting a lonely weekend by downloading the entire series of Sex and the City.

Stupid, stupid!

So now I'm at a PC Bong fulfilling my baser desires by browsing facebook.  And (in Carrie Bradshaw style, as tribute to my weekend) I couldn't help but wonder-- in a digital world, where lives are picture perfect (thanks to the "untag" option) is everyone really as happy as they seem?

For me, these days I'm experiencing the lonely side of travel.  The side where you're looking back on what you once had and realizing it's gone and you're living in a small apartment in Seoul, South Korea in a certain shade of neon from the pay-by-the-hour Honey Motel across the street, watching Sex and the City and wondering what the hell you're doing with your life.

The reason I always wanted to travel is because I always wanted to put myself out of my comfort zone. I felt like in travel, I could find something-- whether it be something about myself, something about the world, or something about what I wanted to do with my life. Actually, I wanted to find all three. But it seems all I'm finding is that I had already found it.  And now it's gone.

A friend of mine says that's just a drawback of travel-- it can be unstable and at times, it can make you miss what you once had.

So is that how we're supposed to live out our lives-- cursed by having been blessed?  Or is learning the lesson that we didn't appreciate what we once had, the only way to learn to appreciate what we have.

Recently I haven't been able to tell if the weather fits my mood or if my mood fits the weather.  But life has shown me-- and I know-- that both will always get better.

In the meantime, there's music.  And here's something one of my best friends Megan sent me; ignorant to how I feel, and all too perfect. Let me know what you think.

Religious Freedom in a Muslim Country

"You know, I hope you have a daughter just like you someday."

The line played in my head on the tale-end of my flight. Her tone revealed this wasn't a compliment. Instead, it was my mother's reaction to being told I was going to a Muslim country alone for my vacation. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that popular media refer to Muslims as terrorist or jihadists, but like many Americans, my mom doesn't want her daughter traveling alone to a Muslim country.

“You shouldn’t go,” she said.

I looked up as a voice came over the intercom.

"We are now preparing for landing. Fair warning: drug and human trafficking are forbidden in Malaysia. Penalty is capital punishment. Enjoy your stay and we hope you enjoyed our Malaysian hospitality."

It's not every day you hear the phrase, "enjoy your stay," prefaced with, “penalty is capital punishment.” For that matter, it's not every day you hear "capital punishment" prefaced with "fair." But I couldn't think about it; a comparable fate awaited me in my near future. I had a 12-hour long layover at KLIA.

After too much time spent looking at my shoe laces and getting ideas, I walked around and learned that the KLIA was voted the best airport in the world in 2003. But don't get too excited (dare I say you didn't), it’s still an airport. Everyone is like Sisyphus, pushing their burdens around; seemingly no end in site. I waited in line at a free internet kiosk in order to e-mail my mom to tell her I was safe. An Indian man, dressed in business casual, stood at the only working computer, apathetically scrolling through an article on Wikipedia. The woman in line in front of me voiced her frustration through heavy breathing. When she finally gave up and walked away, the man on the computer followed her irreverently with his eyes before returning to his article. I eventually gave up too, unsure if this was the type of guy to defend myself around.

I spent the night in the airport so that I wouldn't have to buy a hotel room-- that, and apparently because I'm a masochist. At 4 a.m., I was woken up by a guy playing his ring tones in my direction. As I walked away, he turned them off.

Through one bloodshot eye, I made it to immigration where the immigration officer looked around me toward the empty line.

"You're going alone?" he asked.

"Yes, why? You think it's unsafe?"

Validating my mothers warnings with one long, audible hesitation, he finally said, "Just don't take a taxi."

So I walked outside and actually considered turning around. But I didn’t. Or I couldn't. Instead, I stepped out on faith and took an airport limo from KLIA to the LCCT terminal where I was to fly to Kota Bharu.

Nervous being an understatement, at this point I was checking every street sign, checking the rearview mirror, waiting for the driver to look back at me with a head full of ideas. But he never did. Instead he dropped me in front of the airport where the mysterious Malaysia, shrouded by night just a few hours before, was finally revealed to me.

I got out of the car hesitant and also surprised. There were women wearing heals and short dresses, travelers with their traveling hats, Muslims, Buddhists, and Christians; a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, a KFC, a McDonalds and a Starbucks. This place wasn't scary. My nerves started to settle. It seemed less conservative than Korea--women were showing cleavage.

Once I arrived in Kota Bharu, I was greeted by a man holding a sign with my name on it. I piled into a bus, surprised to find myself surrounded completely by Europeans.

I wondered if Mariah Carey and Martina McBride know they've been to Malaysia. I wondered why everyone seems to be traveling in pairs. I wonder why the only empty seat is the one next to me...

Not one for subtle hints, it was only after a speedboat dropped me on the Perhentian Islands at Coral Bay and I saw not one person who wasn't holding the hand of another that I realized-- I am alone on a freaking island of honeymooners.

But at least I'm not on Nancy Grace.

That evening I walked to a nearby restaurant and stopped dead, horrified to read this sign:

"ABSOLUTELY NO BEER, LIQUOR OR WINE SOLD HERE."

Damnit my mom was right!

Something about the words 'absolutely no' in reference to alcohol, in capital letters, conjures up more fear in me than 'capital punishment.' But after visiting the dive shop to figure out a schedule, I inquired if there was any alcohol on the island and, thank Allah, there was.

So that night, I got to know the dive instructors who work there. We took some beers and the island liquor, called "Monkey Juice," and trekked through the jungle up to some abandoned chalets a few of them were squatting in.

And there, in the quiet candlelight under a jungle canopy of trees and stars, a Danish girl passed me a joint and I pondered the meaning of the word "trafficking."

She had lived in Malaysia-- in Kuala Lumpur-- most of her life.

“It’s funny,” she said, exhaling as she changed the subject back to its original topic, “You go into a bar where Indians have taken over and it’s all this Indian music and everyone's bopping their heads. You go to a bar where Europeans go and it’s all house music and cigarettes. “

“Yah,” agreed another, “This place is strange-- so many different groups and never any real problems. It’s a great example of tolerance.”

In the company of my new friends, over the next few days I went diving; I wandered around the island, smoked shisha (hookah) and jumped off jetties way passed my bed time. Alone in the evenings, I would snorkel out to the coral and watch the fish come in to feed; so thick in some parts, I felt I was crowd surfing. I swam in the calm ocean at night and watched the plankton sparkle neon around me in the moonlight. I didn’t know it could do that.

A boat and then a bus would eventually take me back to the airport where on the way, I would wonder if Dido and Rihanna know they've been to Malaysia. As we drove, we passed open-air mosques with brightly colored Muslims, kneeling and praying for Ramadan. Some were inside and some were talking on the path outside. Other, non-Muslims were smoking cigarettes, casually watching from across the street during pauses in conversation.

The arm of the driver stretched across my field of vision and motioned to a tall statue of Buddha standing stark white over the palms.

"Look there," he said. "It's a free standing Buddha. Beautiful isn't it? Many Chinese live here."

The Hindu god, Rama, danced from his rearview mirror to the sway of the road, a little out of synch with Dido’s “Thank You.”

"Yes," I said. "It's beautiful."

Korea and Abroad Video Collage

This is a video collage I put together from last year teaching English in Korea.  It also includes pictures from my travels to Japan, Indonesia and China.  To much sadness and despair, I lost the video of my mother forcing down an alive, baby octopus while maintaining a look of panic so ineffable, only a video could do it justice.  The only thing that compares to the joy I received from playing and replaying that video is the emptyness I felt at its absense on my memory card.  But the video is still pretty good-- if I do say so myself-- without it. 

Hansel And Gretel

In case you're ever left doubting the effectiveness of your lesson plans, just ask your students:

"What's the weather today?"

If they answer, "It's Friday!" you know.

If it's Monday, well, you can be certain.

You'd think this answer, so early on a Monday morning, would cause me to lose all hope in my students. But I persevere, knowing they'll catch up. Because in this country, hard work and long hours is the status quo.

Think about the US and how, at the end of the day, school buses take students home.

In Korea, they take students to other schools.

So each day at 2:30, the bell rings and children run excitedly to the buses like little Hansels and Gretels running ignorantly into the oven.

"There's no candy in the bus! But there's no candy in the..."

Slam. Lock.

Their work ethic is ineffable. The only way it could be given proper justice is if it were given a rhyme scheme and set to the tune of "I'm a Woman."

Well I get up at 8 and start the day by studying before class. I study Korean, science and history. And then I study math. I do my homework 'til midnight and then play computer games 'till I win. I wake up at 8 and wash my face and then start all over again. (jazz fingers) 'Cause I'm Korean. K.O.R.E.A.N.

...Whatever. I thought it was funny.

So in the midst of breaking up a fight one day, I come upon a complaint that I feel is uniquely Korean:

"Stop fighting!" I say. "Why did you hit her?!"

"I said I already know this and I want to learn something more. So she called me a jackass and hit me."

Ah, the old I-want-to-learn-more complaint.

My co-teacher interjects. "You want to learn more?"

Uh-oh.

"Yes."

"Something different?"

"Yes."

"Something new?"

I sense a trap Hansel, I sense a trap...

"Yes."

She smiles.

"Then you can learn consideration."

How I Met My Spouse

Koreans in general meet each other on blind dates set up through friends. In Busan, a popular first date spot is a restaurant called, and I can't make this shit up, Guess Who-- a name so appropriate, it belongs in the same category with Alexis' autograph from the famous track star, I-Perfection.

"Yah, yah, yah. We just called him Harris."

My good friend Marc recently wrote me on the topic of his upcoming blind date, in which his skepticism clearly outweighs his excitement:

"It's like going to the thrift store to find the perfect pair of underwear. Or something."

But when you ask most Korean couples how they met, they usually say it was this way: A friend set them up with someone he or she knows. Pictures were exchanged. They said nae or annio.

Which gives me an idea-- today's subject for my adult conversation class: how you met your spouse; sure to spark interesting dialogue where we branch off into different topics, filling the entire class period; all the while leaving me to plan nothing more than:

"How did you meet your spouse?"

"Blind date."

"Blind date."

"Blind date."

"Same."

Foiled again!

But now I'm curious. Searching for a more interesting story, I probe a happy expat couple I know here.

"How did you two meet in Korea?"

"We met at a bar and had sex. Same as most expats."

Drinking On The Job

You have to respect a country where old women take shots of soju with every other bite of food at dinner. Soju, by the way, tastes and feels like watered-down vodka.

I went out with my co-workers the other night and watched a 63-year-old Korean woman slowly develope eyelids.

Respect.

On the subject of drinking and work my brother, whose an expert at the former and amateur at the latter, has this to say:

"They told me at work. Oh, this is embarrassing. They told me not to come into work sober anymore."

This is unsurprising from the man whose current facebook status is "take me out to the curb... I'm trashed." (spelled suspiciously accurately)

But getting trashed is something that happens more often than you might expect in this country of overachievers and amatuer professionals. In Korea, the more you drink, the better you're thought to be at your job. Unless you're a young woman. Then you're a lush.

If you are a man, after work you are pretty much required to go out with your co-workers and drink. And not just a simple cocktail to enjoy while complaining about your other co-workers. No, you get trashed-- taken to the curb-- drinking everything from beer to soju to beer mixed with soju to CABOOMS! as my boyfriend so excitedly revealed me.

Car bombs he meant to say.

Driven to the curb.

For these business outings, I'm told one can always opt out, but will run the risk of being seen as a condemning jerk, risking even more the possibility of ever being promoted. And so, one of my earliest lessons on Korean culture was as follows: If your boss offers you a drink. Drink it.

Check. And check.

So I think back to the United States. Have I been gone so long? Is this how it is at home?

I reminisce on scenes from the summer my college friends came home. I wanted to skip work to drink with them and so, doing the only logical thing, I called up my boss and feigned a voice paralized by novacaine.

"I jussss wen to da denis and I ha too much nodacin in ma mout to come to wuh."

"Okay," my boss says. "I'll see you Wednesday."

"Okay! Thanks!" I say excitedly. "See you then!"

And I didn't have to work Wednesday either because it turns out if you're lieing about being paralyzed by novacaine, you can't articulate your excitement when you realize you've been let off the hook because you lied about being paralyzed by novacaine.

No. No, I remember now. Wanting to drink, drinking, or having drank the night before always made me worse at my job.

But, ah! I'm struck by a novel concept: What if you don't like to drink? And so I pause our walk and throw my friend the curve ball.

"But what if your boss doesn't like to drink and therefore doesn't require you to go out after work?"

"If that were the case," he says, "he wouldn't be my boss."

Beach, Bitch, Sit, Shit

So I'm teaching the lesson on how to order food in English. Key sentences: I'm hungry. Can I have some..?

Easy right? But where was the little birdy to tell me not to include a picture of a dog with anything edible in a country where dogs are something edible?

Oh. I was supposed to know that.

Oops.

I pull up a picture of an old woman scowling at a begging dog as she eats ice-cream. Cue the class in unison:

"I'm hungry! Can I have some dog?"

Ah, can I have some dog. I'll file that one away under things I never thought I would experience in a classroom, right after all the other things I never thought I would experience in a classroom:

"No, not shitty. City. Sssssssssity."

This dog experience is second only to the time my co-teacher said to me: "Good Morning, Anne! Should I teach the difference between beach and bitch?"

What? Twenty minutes prior I was searching for berryholic yogurt. Now I'm searching for a senario where beach and bitch could fall into a context where they run the risk of being misinterpreted.

I think of an ill-informed Korean kid: "Where can I find a phat beach?" Slap.

I think of my co-teacher saying, "One, two, three, look at me. Quiet please. Okay, this is a bitch. Bitch. This is a beach. Beach. Different. Understand?"

Ah, the sheer entertainment. I'm tempted. I want to say yes. I want to shout yes. YES. YES! I THINK YOU SHOULD TEACH THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN BEACH AND BITCH!!!

"Anne! What do you think?"

"No."-- restraint making its brief cameo into my life. "Damnit, I don't think it's neccessary."

But apparently here is where a Siegert missed a golden opportunity to be innappropriate-- and we never miss those!

Apparently-- a friend informs me-- fowl mouthed Korean boys grow up to be-- yes-- fowl mouthed Korean men. She tells me of her latest date with one:

"I need to shit," he says.

She inquires further, hoping she's heard wrong. "What?"

"I really need to SHIT." Now he's looking around. "Do you see a good place to shit?"

"Wait, you need to what?"

Pantomiming with a squat he says, "Shit."

She smiles nervously, turning her head to the side. I hope he's saying 'sit' wrong and not 'shit' right. "I don't see a place to..."

"Ah, let's shit," he says, pointing to a bench.

And thus, relief so tangible you can shit on it: he was saying 'sit' wrong.

Monday morning rolls around and I say, "Good Morning, Seosaegneem. Should I teach the difference between shit and sit?"

Single in Seoul

So... yesterday was Black Day in Korea. No, Alexis, you didn't miss the Sistas&Brothas of Seoul's annual throw down. And no, it's not the day after Thanksgiving where Koreans buy a bunch of shit.

Instead, Black Day marks the tragedy of being alone and single on Black Day in Korea-- a country, apparently where they take their self-loathing seriously.They mourn the death of their sex lives by wearing black clothes and eating black food.

I'm going to repeat that because it bears repeating. They eat black food.

This is a day where people are supposed to celebrate something they're unhappy about. As Lewis Black would say: don't think about that too hard or blood might shoot out your nose! It boggles my mind to think of how this tradition got started.

Hey, you-- single, lonely person, incapable of attracting the opposite sex-- you have nobody. Here's some R.E.M, track number 4-- "Everybody Hurts." Put on this black shirt. And here's some black shit. Eat your feelings.


My co-teacher excitedly holds up her new little black daily planner.

"Nice," I say. "Where'd you get it?"

"Yesterday, the bookstore was giving them out for free if you wear black."

"But you weren't wearing black. Anyways, you have a boyfriend."

"I know. I told him 'wait in corner.' I take my camera. It's black."

I scold her for stealing from the bitter and self-loathing. But I guess it's just as well. Giving out little black books to self-loathing singles is just a mean joke.

This Is My Life

Imagine this: A classroom full of students is let out to go to their English class. Everyone is walking. One child slowly picks up the pace. Then he gets a little faster, and a little faster still. A slow jog and boom; he's running. He sees the school gate. He goes for it.

About ten minutes later, I'm teaching the class. Three boys come in out of breath, cheeks flushed, sweaty head. "Why are you late?" I ask. "Where is Young Min?"

"English class. He see. He run."

Seeing their flushed cheeks, I realize-- this kid literally ran away from my class, and they literally tried to catch him. But this is not the running away we're used to. This isn't telling your parents your gone forever, packing a few pairs of socks, sneaking off to the playground, envisioning them forgetting about you and moving away, and then going back home.

No, this kid straight ran the hell away.

My co-teacher stares at me for a second and gives me the go-ahead-with-the-lesson look. This is probably around the time Young Min has slowed to a light jog and just performed one last look over his shoulder.

Then I'm interrupted: my co-teacher is waving her arms and yelling out the window: "Young Min! Hello!! Come in, we miss you in English class."

Young Min, apparently having been caught and turned around, is walking heal to toe to make it to my class.

This is my job.

My days are spent almost entirely with another Korean teacher. She is known as my co-teacher. We are alike to a fault in that we are both a tad unorganized. Actually, we are more like a tad organized. A drip even. Two peas in a pod and the only thing we disagree upon is which one of us is dumb and which one is dumber. For the record, I'm dumb.

This morning, we both forgot our key to the english wing and I told her if I could just get a wire hanger I could easily break in.

"Bendy stick?"

"Yes. Yes! Bendy stick."

I finagle the bendy stick through the door and a few near misses later, I've lifted the scissors that are jamming the lock. (Credit to older brother).

I update my status on facebook: Anne-Claire Siegert just broke into english wing using a wire, also known as bendy stick.

My new friend Alexis comments: ha..had a date once wit a guy who wanted to show me how to steal my own car!!!!

This is Alexis.

Alexis is my new favorite expat. Expat is a word I didn't use last year because I felt stupid saying it, but now I give up. Expat. My new favorite: Alexis.

We go out on the weekends and in the mornings we get breakfast with my other favorite expat, Caitlin. Alexis tells us about the new black guy that is obsessed with her. Because all black guys are obsessed with her.

She says, "Girl, it's one thing to have a foot fetish, but it's another thing to ask for pictures of my feet."

I say "Alexis, it's one thing to have a foot fetish and it's another thing to have a foot fetish."

Thought interrupted: my co-teacher has elongated a music stand, taken presumably out of her Mary Poppins bag. She has busted out a random flute. She has begun playing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." I'm singing along.

Children are racing in streaks behind me on the playground. First place goes to their stomachs; followed by their feet. Their heads come in last.

Now she's playing another tune and asks me what I invision. I get a hint: skylark, tiger, fish.

"A tiger is hunting fish and so is a skylark?"

"Really? That's what you invisioned?! Oh, It's my playing! You were supposed to invision a skylark flying gracefully up and down."

I've been in Korea long enough to know not to ask about the tiger and the fish.

This is my life.