Home again home again hippity hop.

As I write this from the most comfortable bed that I have slept in since nearly thirteen months ago at 4:17 am local time, I know a little more than I did yesterday about jet lag and internal alarm clocks. They both suck, by the way. I’m looking into having the two abolished, but frankly I do not know the correct avenues.

So, I am back in Calgary. It is the same as I left and I feel only slightly different than when I left. Mostly I feel older and somewhat wiser, you know; if in my brilliance I thought that the latter was possible or necessary. So, yeah. Mostly older. The whole Korean bed situation did a number on my back and the company I kept did a number on my face and can be credited for a wealth of laugh lines.

Prior to my return I had quite a few predictions about what would be my process of reacclimatizing to the culture at home after my year in the Durrrrrty J. A lot of them have proved super accurate in that I am dropping eaves worse than Sam Wise Gamgee outside of Bilbo’s place. I’ve always suspected that I have rather bionic hearing and my skills in this respect have had to lay more or less dormant over the course of the past 12 + months since I was surrounded by the constant buzz of hacking and spitting of a language I didn’t understand.

So far I have witnessed a rather hushed breakup in Starbucks, a woman’s confession to her sister that her daughter was pregnant and unmarried, as well as a debatably racist comment towards a barista. In truth the culprit of latter of this list was I when I busted my anyeong skills on the barista at the local Starbucks just because she was Asian. I don’t know if the fact that she didn’t understand me makes it better or worse. I was also clutching my right elbow with my left hand and bowing while handing her my debit card. Were I any thinner she might have thought I was concealing my track lines and hanging my head in shame while in a drug-induced delirium.

What I didn’t think would be strange were small everyday things like paying for things with debit and having to a) swipe your own card and b) type in your pin number instead of just doodling genitals on a sign-pad and pretending that it is your initials. In reality, I’m lucky enough for my actual initials and genitals to be the samesies. Type a lowercase d and and p in succession and try not to giggle, why don’t you? Then write the same two letters in cursive. HA! Maturity! Anyone know some good fart jokes?

These are all just the ramblings of a mad white woman less than 24 hours after returning home. I'm sure as time goes on there will be more to report. I'm less sure that I will find the time and/or motivation to do so. All that I can do is promise to try, and I’m not even going to do that.

Home again, home again, hippity hop.

As I write this from the most comfortable bed that I have slept in since nearly thirteen months ago at 4:17 am local time, I know a little more than I did yesterday about jet lag and internal alarm clocks. They both suck, by the way. I’m looking into having the two abolished, but frankly I do not know the correct avenues.

So, I am back in Calgary. It is the same as I left and I feel slightly different than when I left. Mostly I feel older and somewhat wiser; you know, if in my brilliance I thought that the latter was possible or necessary being as I know everything about everything, didn’t you know? So, yeah. Mostly older. The whole bed situation did a number on my back and the company I kept did a number on my face and can be credited for a wealth of laugh lines.

Prior to my return I had quite a few predictions about what would be my process of reacclimatizing to the culture at home after my year in the Durrrrrty J. A lot of them have proved super accurate in that I am dropping eves worse than Sam Wise Gamgee outside of Bilbo’s place. I’ve always suspected that I have rather bionic hearing and my skills in this respect have had to lay more or less dormant over the course of the past 12 + months since I was surrounding by the constant buzz of hacking and spitting of a language I didn’t understand. So far I have witnessed a rather hushed breakup in Starbucks, a woman’s confession to her sister that her daughter was pregnant and unmarried, as well as a debatably racist comment towards a barista. In truth the culprit of latter of this list was I when I busted my anyeong skills on the barista at the local Starbucks just because she was Asian. I don’t know if the fact that she didn’t understand me makes it better or worse. I was also clutching my right elbow with my left hand and bowing while handing her my debit card. Were I any thinner she might have thought I was concealing my track lines and hanging my head in shame while in a drug-induced delirium.

What I didn’t think would be strange were small everyday things like paying for things with debit and having to a) swipe your own card and b) type in your pin number instead of just doodling genitals on a sign-pad and pretending that it is your initials. In reality, I’m lucky enough for my actual initials and genitals to be the samesies. Type a lowercase d and and p in succession and try not to giggle, why don’t you? Then write the same two letters in cursive. HA! Maturity! Anyone know some good fart jokes?

These are all just the ramblings of a mad white woman less than 24 hours after returning home

Ire hab the pouagra, pwease.

My time here in Korea is coming to an almost immediate end. My parents are now in Korea, and I have since left Yeosu (with an offensive amount of luggage and a resulting back injusry) for Seoul to live the rest of my days in Korea as a tourist. I think that perhaps the best indication of my personal growth and adaptation to this country is the fact that during my 'If I had a million dollars' lesson, one student wrote: "pouagra, cabior" when asked what he would eat and I could discern his meaning as being 'foie gras and caviar." Seriously, hooked on phonics worked for me.

In truth, I will miss the bizarre relationship between Koreans and English. Somehow it is both a language too foreign to chance a conversation in, but the perfect language to advertise and add street cred and visual interest to anything from T-Shirts to billboards. If I were the English Language, I might be a tad put off by being played so hot and cold. There's a comparison to be drawn between this and Western use of Eastern language in tattoos.

As someone who enjoys playing with English more than my students seem to enjoy playing with themselves under their desks and school uniform blazers, I have a certain built-in fondness for anything that might pass as wordplay. I'm more than game for a little intentional misspelling and bait-and-switch word usage, maybe this is why I can't help but smile ear-to-ear whenever I go t-shirt shopping.



Besides being able to shop in the women's section again, shopping in Canada is going to be terrible in comparison. Will I engage in it anyways, absolutely-I have a problem. Does a crack addict give up crack altogether when they return from a vacation destination where they experienced better crack? Well, maybe. I don't even know if crack addicts are prone to vacation... Are there even varying qualities of crack? Clearly, while largely comprehensive, my Degrassi Drug Education has left stones unturned.

Servicee

In English, service can mean a lot of things. If English is your first language, you can vouch for me when I say that none of these various meanings is synonymous with "free." Think again, chingus! Here in the Land of the Morning Calm, it means just that. When first I experienced this bastardized form of the word it was in a context that was confusing as all hell. It was at a Korean BBQ restaurant and a waiter brought a few bottles of Cider over to my table saying "servicee". I thought: no subtlety there, this young buck thinks he's giving excellent service and is pointing it out in the hopes of a tip, fair enough. I mean, before leaving for Korea I had read enough sources to indicate that the Korean grasp on nuance wasn't the most developed. However, I had read and heard form the same sources that tipping in Korea was a faux pas. How worldly this young gentleman must then be to be extorting a foreigner for gratuities! Not. The. Case. In reality, we were being given free cider. A welcome alternative and a great welcome to Korea!

Such random acts of servicee (herein after referred to as RAS) have peppered my time here. It will happen when you least expect it and oftentimes the items that are doled out as servicee are completely random and often of no relation to the situation or the purchase pre-cursing it. In Canada, sometimes when the gas station overcharges you for a bottle of water, they will throw in a free chocolate bar. Bonus! Maybe it will be beyond its allocated shelflife and the kind shopkeeper thinks that the bottle of water will be just the thing to wash it down. These two items are related. In Korea, maybe you'll run into a Ministop to replenish your beer supply and BANG; RAS! Tuna. A single can. Beer and tuna would be hard to associate using even the '7 degrees of Kevin Bacon' method! Never mind the fact that I was, on the occasion in question, in the midst of drinking said beers at the quaint table and chairs just beyond the doors of the Ministop. I mean, the cashier knew I wasn't going home. And if her intention was that I eat it with my beer, she might have been so kind as to provide me with disposable chopsticks like she did that one time when I bought yogurt. On that particular day I received two counts of RAS to the tune of the aforementioned chopsticks and the subsequent lip slivers.

So, yes. This falls under the "Things I will miss" section of the final countdown. When at home I begin being denied free upgrades and random items after shooting people a profile highlighting my 'high nose' or making my biggest 'round eyes', I simply don't know what I'll do.
I mean, I have not paid for toilet paper this year! And it's always been the classy, scented, animated kind. You know, the kind that's been long outlawed in North America for irritating a certain delicate pH balance, if you know what I mean. If you don't, that's cool too. Probably for the best. Vaginas are weird. I mean...

Art for adolescent boys

Maybe the Art teacher doesn't speak English.

If ever there was a doubt before, there isn't now. Chung Deok Middle School is a cranking out some winners. The gems shown above are just some of the many masterpieces that dotted the hallway on display for Parent's Day. Gold stars, all around.

Back to school, back to school, to prove to mom I'm not a fool.

Welcome, March 2nd; the first day of a new school year in Korea! It's a new season and there is a fresh batch of grade 7 boys who welcome me to the school with screams as though they are all Justin Bieber fans and that I am the Bieby himself.

If only cowbell could cure this particular fever.

This, first day of the 2011 school year, was full of fun things. Some of which fall into the "Things I Will Miss" category while other things (and people) will belong in the "Things I Won't Miss" column. I will of course miss the waygook-fever and the fact that my new Vice Principal is an ex-English teacher who will understand me when I am sent to him with all of my questions and concerns by a co-teacher whose biggest job seems to be saying "oh, really?" whenever I tell her that I don't speak Korean. To her credit, she does this rather well.

I will not miss the incomprehensible lack of logic and/or organization that characterizes my daily life in a Public Korean Middle School. No, no I can't tell what my schedule is after sitting in on the staff meeting conducted entirely in Korean; no, no I don't think that it is a good idea to replace the only English computer in the school with a Korean one the day that school starts and leave the boxes from the new one and remnants of the old one strewn about the English lab. Yes, yes I do think that the previously mentioned action renders my desk-warming time, during which I was supposed to plan this semester's classes, even more useless than its very name suggests. Everything that I saved on that computer is obviously gone, baby, gone. And, though I honestly didn't do any planning over the break, I had 10 months of powerpoints and lessons from last year on it, so I'm still chalking it up as a loss. A huge one. One that might drive me to drink.

It seems worth mentioning that as of 5 p.m. on this, the fateful first day of a whole new year, I have yet to be given any direction as to what I am supposed to be doing today, this week, or the rest of the year. I have missed lunch because there are no bells today since the schedule is different. Isn't a different schedule a good reason to employ the use of bells? No, probably not. After missing lunch, I got a call on my hand pone from my co-worker (not co-teacher, never my co-teacher) asking where I was and saying that he was looking for me. Cool. You know where he didn't look? The only place that I ever am. Bitch ain't got nothing on Nancy.

drip, drip, drop

So, this one time, when my friend from home was visiting:

We were slightly sleep deprived and very much used to spending time on buses. During one such bus trip, while on the way to Gwangju from Yeosu (a common leg, for me), we fell asleep for the majority of the trip. I was awoken, rather rudely, while Becca slept on beside me. As for what woke me up, there is no delicate way to put it. I was woken up by the sound of a constant stream of urine being expelled by the man next to me into a plastic bag. In his defense, I think he thought I was sleeping; I was wearing shades, after all. In my defense, I was not sleeping, and ewwwwwwwww.