In which I take myself on a date to a cat cafe.

I have a complicated history with felines.

Once upon a time in college, I briefly adopted two cats.  Their previous owners had just been evicted and more or less begged me to take them.  I naively welcomed the newly homeless animals, christening them "Dmitri" and "Alyosha" after my two favorite Karamazov brothers.  This arrangement lasted approximately 24 hours at which point the custodian saved my sanity (and very likely my good-standing status with my residence hall) but offering to keep them at his home.

Glares for days

The dating pool at my university was dolefully slim; despite my failure as a cat-parent, I'd always taken a wry sense of comfort in the idea of abandoning men altogether for a life of fiction and felines.  (Besides, being miserable, poor, and cynical as a student are unquestionably en vogue).

Last Monday--years and continents away from college--I skipped my aerobics dance class and took a bus to Seongnamdong.  I couldn't remember the last time I'd taken myself out for a me-date.

Neither of the movie theatres were playing the film I wanted at the time I needed.  I looked around for an alternative activity and spotted a cat cafe.  I've been in Korea for nearly a year, but I'd never visited a cat cafe.  I liked the idea of absently petting a friendly cat while engrossed in the book I'd brought in my bag.  Smiling at this thought, I descended the steps to the basement cafe.

If looks could kill...

I recognized that distinct cat smell as soon as I got close enough to remove my shoes and enter the establishment.  I scanned the room, counting no less than 17 cats.  The barista handed me a shrink-wrapped cat treat when I placed my order for a pancake and lemonade and I looked around for a vacant table.  (A table vacant of cats, not people; at this point, I was the only customer).  I nearly sat down at an empty booth before noticing an unmistakable puddle of cat pee.  I sat elsewhere.  No sooner had I ripped open the packaging on the cat treat that a pack of cats swarmed my table.  One cat--claws firmly intact--shoved the others aside to leap onto my table.  I firsthandedly experienced those claws (and gained new appreciation for the term "cat fight") as the pack of felines clambered across my lap and table to brawl over the treat.  At this point, my hopes for an quiet, idyllic experience were ripped to shred by the tiny claws that dug into my pants and the tiny teeth that chomped at my fingers.

Unadulterated loathing

Resentment

Condescension

I moved to a quieter table when my pancake arrived. The cats followed.  Attempting to thwart feline efforts to steal my pancake, I slid down the booth and immediately felt something wet on the back of my pants--remember that puddle of cat pee I'd avoided earlier?  Disgusted, I stood up and finished eating my pancake as quickly as possible. I returned the empty plate to the bewildered barista who wondered why I was leaving so soon. I pointed to my watch, "Bus," I lied.

In theory, cat cafes are charming. In practice, there's too little privacy and too much dander. If I learned anything from my experience at the cat cafe, it's am not cut out to be a cat lady.  I simply don't have what it takes.

Teaching is the best way to learn.

Working at a middle school can yield a broad range of experiences. Sometimes, you find yourself as an active participant in a teacher-student breakthrough that feels like a perfect marriage of education and human connection.

Jun and I visited Namsam Tower in Seoul this spring.

Other times, you find yourself wiping down the desks in your classroom with acetone to remove the alarmingly detailed depictions of genitalia that your students have drawn with permanent markers.

It's a matter of yin and yang. I've had to learn to take the good with the bad, swallow the bitter with the sweet. Of course, I don't enjoy the times when my students break things before my eyes. (Last week it was the fan. I don't think he meant to break it, but the plastic propellers shattered and the shards scattered everywhere). I don't enjoy leaving the classroom for a minute only to find that one of my students is hanging halfway out of the third-story window. (Not suicidal, just reckless). And in the girls' classes, I occasionally face eye-rolls and glares reeking of attitude and angst.

But I love these kids. I really do. One method I've implemented to counteract the teenage paradox of being simultaneously antsy and exhausted is a stretching routine at the beginning of class. 

It also helps when I keep my own attitude in check and empathize with their situation. Korean teenagers do not have it easy. Not only is there familial and cultural pressure to study and conform, but the rules at my school have morphed from excessive to oppressive. Students can't wear jewelry. Students can't wear colored contacts. Students must all have the same type of socks and shoes. Students must not dye their hair. Boys can't have long hair.  Girls can't wear makeup. Put simply, the nail that sticks out gets hammered. (Soo told me a story about a friend of hers from middle school with naturally white skin and fair brown hair. The teacher scolded her in front of the class and demanded she dye her hair "back" to black. Apparently the mother--also pale and light-haired--informed the teacher that her daughter's complexion and hair color were natural. The teacher relented).

It's impossible not to feel for the students in light of their situation. In my essay class, I asked which of my students would attend academy classes after our essay class ended. All but one raised their hands. I asked them if they liked academy. Two said yes. Ivy looked at me with sad eyes: "It's like jail."

Ivy isn't the only Korean student to feel this way. I read an article about a poem written by a 10-year-old Korean girl that describes dismembering and eating her mother for sending her to private academy. As disturbed as I was by the poem, I understood it.

I'm thankful to have a platform that facilitates freedom of expression. The students in my essay class have written on subjects all across the board. (So far, they've preferred to write creative work rather than academic work, and I've let them). Some of their stories are funny, some are sweet. Some surprised me with topics they tackled: transgender identity, depression, suicide, lovesickness, murder. I'm proud of the honesty and openness they've exhibited in their writing and in the feedback they've shared with their peers. If anything, teaching this class has taught me that these students want to navigate and understand the tricky questions that life throws their way.

I've enjoyed teaching this semester much more than my first semester, which is saying something because I loved it then, too! Having a textbook has made my ability to plan more congruent. I can alternate between textbook chapters and a creative lesson of my own. I've put the art supplies at my disposal to good use as well.

Currently, we've finished the first six chapters of the curriculum and summer break begins a week from Monday. I've given the students a break and have been showing the movie Divergent in class-period increments. (All of my students seem to enjoy it, and Pudding is already almost finished reading the second book in the series!).

As for me, I'm ready for a break. I have to teach summer camp for two weeks but will get to take my vacation during the first two weeks of August. At the end of August, with any luck I'll finally be out of my moldy apartment (which I have a fondness for, despite the spores) and into a nicer, newer place a few blocks away. I just need my school to finish negotiations and draw up a new housing contract; keep your fingers crossed! There's more I'd like to write about but I think this post will do for now. Peace!

On Sore Throats, Haiku, and the Joys of Teaching

I woke up on Friday with a sore throat and an exhausted body which, annoyingly, has persisted. Despite feeling sick physically, I've had a pleasant week.  Spring is upon us in Korea; the cherry blossoms are everywhere.  It's gorgeous.

On Wednesday, four of my third grade girls walked with me as I left school.  They invited me to the street market (located on the street behind my building).  Despite close proximity to the location, I am oddly disconnected from Market Day.  I can count the times I've been there on one hand, with fingers to spare.  It's overwhelming to be caught up in the energy and bustle of a busy market when my Korean is so limited.  Moreover, Jun insulated all my windows in bubble wrap at the beginning of December so I haven't even been a secondary observer to the market: all the windows in my apartment are nearly opaque.  Wednesday, though, my perky students invited me to try 호떡, a Korean fry bread.  I agreed and we waited in line together for our treat (which was actually quite delicious!).  It was fun to be out and about with my energetic students.

After my students left, I decided to explore the market a bit more.  In addition to fried pastries, the market offers a smorgasbord of eclectic wares: fresh produce, seafood (both dead and alive), rice and grains, clothing, cosmetics, and houseplants.  I was especially drawn to the flowers; I've been wanting to cultivate an indoor garden to bring some spring into the apartment so I bought an orchid for ₩5000 (That's less than $5... definitely a bargain!).

In other news, I taught my writing students about haiku yesterday.  Writing haiku in English proved to be a unique challenge for my Korean students.  Syllables are counted differently in Korean, so a word that's considered only one syllable in English might be counted as several more syllables in Korean.  Take the word "sprite," for example.  Although it's one (admittedly, a long one) syllable in English, when transferred to Korean, it becomes "스프라이트," a five syllable word.  

At any rate, I introduced the concept of haiku to my students before we watched "The Firebird Suite" segment from Fantasia 2000.  I selected that particular video because it is a wordless exploration of nature as a subject, and nature is a traditional source of inspiration for haiku poetry.  I could see that my some of my students were struggling with the writing process so I asked those students to tell me which parts of the film stood out to them. They threw out words and I verbally reiterated until they were able to craft their poem. It was a challenge for all of us, but not without its reward: before class ended, everyone had written a haiku.

Sally's Haiku

Hot fire killing

Melting down the mountainside

Evil firebird

Hannah's Haiku

A little fairy

Flies over the hurt forest

Healing all the land

Hannah reminds me of myself; she's very sensitive.  I had my second and third graders write their own "I Have A Dream" speech when I taught my classes about the American Civil Rights movement. Hannah wrote, "I have a dream that one day will disappear sexual violence and war."  If that's not a girl after my own heart, I don't know what is.  

All of these girls are creative and talented.  I only spend 45 minutes with each regular class per week, so it's hard to become close to many students.  However, I spend more time with the girls in my writing class and I tend to notice the creativity I observe in the after school program when it shines through during regular class.  When my students wrote out bucket lists, Ginny, from my essay class wrote (and subsequently informed the class), "I'm thinking of kissing my lover in the street before I die."  You go, girl!

In teaching, I've found that I'm continuously surprised.  And why shouldn't I be?  Teenagers are just people, after all, and people are surprising.  A few weeks ago, my student read this paragraph for the class:

Once upon a time, there was a girl who did housework.  She was pretty and kind.  Many boys loved her.  But she wanted to marry nobody.  It's secret! Actually, she likes girls, not boys.  She can't tell it nobody, even her best friend, Runa.

Didn't see that coming!  After only a few sentences, I want to read the rest of that story. Since it was just written as part of a short writing exercise, though, that's the entirety of the piece.  Still, even a small sample of writing can yield fascinating results and provide insight into the writer's style and creativity.  I've included two examples of what was written during our first meeting as a class:

Ugly Ducking by Ivy

(This story is focused on mom duck). 

I was look forward to the eggs are hatched.  But, one egg is strange.  The swan was hatched at that egg.  First of all, the swan's voice sounds very strange.  I fought with my husband because of it!  Swan's feature is strange, too.  It's fur's color is white.  I hate it.  I was so angry, so I screamed "Don't follow me!"  And now, it's alone.  So I'm little bit sorry about it.  Oh no!  I had sorry mind about it just seconds ago, but now, I'm not.  The swan is together with other swans!  I kept it warm before the egg hatched!  I feel sad and angry at the same time.  Oh, now I want to eat something with my ducklings. Goodbye, ugly duckling.

Hen's Love by Pudding

There was a hen, in a farm.  Someday, she had four babies.  When her babies bore, she was very happy.  But few minutes later, her face changed badly and she let her babies go away.  She shouted, "Go!  Go away, chicks!  Get out of here!  Now!"  Four babies were surprised and they must go out. 

They stood at the door of the farm.  They started crying.  They were very confused.  At the same time, the owner of the farm shouted, "Oh my god! Where is my chicken!  I want to eat some chicken for my dinner, but chicks are disappear!  Incidentally, I have to eat a hen!"  Then, their mother became a farm owner's dinner.  Their mother tried to keep them, and she did her best.  Now, four babies start going, even if they don't have any goal. 

The following story was written during a 24-minute writing exercise.  I can't remember who else collaborated on it, but Hannah wrote the beginning and ending sections.  I've indicated where the writer changes by the color of the text.  Each part was written during a 6-minute period:

I saw my dream that I dreamed before.  It was very scared and afraid, because of a man.  My dream was dark, so I didn't see his face.  But I could feel that he is very dangerous.  When I saw him first, he was looking at my younger brother James.  A few minutes later, he looked at me.  So, I ran away to avoid him.  But, he chased us.  James and I ran, but it was too slow. The man came near to us.  At that time, I could saw him clearly.  He has black hair, pretty big eyes and nose.  I decided to talk to him.  "Who are you? Why do you chase us?"  He replied, "I'm not a bad person.  Trust me.  Your parents ask me to take care of you."  But, we see that he has a knife behind his back.  I think we can't go away from him. We have to find other person to help us. When I thought like that, I woke up.  I was in my bedroom.  Yeah, that was a dream, it was a dream.  And, I felt it is real.  So I found James. However, now, I didn't find him yet.  I can't find him.  Where is James?

In an exciting, unexpected development, the principal has decided to extend the essay class so it will meet twice a week before school as well as for two periods after school.  I will now have four hours every week with these girls (and possibly with one very sweet third grade boy whose schedule prevented him from attending the class yet).  I was initially told that I'd be teaching a weekly remedial phonics course before school, but apparently my school thinks I'm better suited to teach writing.  I'm absolutely thrilled.

Although so far I've only focused on stories and poetry in my writing class, I'll soon begin to broaden our projects in other directions.  My students never, ever write academic papers.  For this reason, I want to start small, probably with a basic book report.  I want my girls to excel in creative and academic writing.  I want them to be able to write a personal letter with the same fervor as a literary analysis or history report.  I want my class to thrive in the balance of creative freedom and supportive guidance so we can lay the foundation for strong, versatile written English.

Rainy Daun-dong

This semester has reinforced the belief I've held since almost the moment I stepped off my initial flight to Korea: I am exactly where I should be.  I've said before that I never imagined myself as a teacher, but even after applying to be a teacher I wouldn't have chosen middle school.  In hindsight, though, I think I'm better suited for middle school because I'm better able to connect to my students. Being a teenager isn't easy!  I hope that I'll never lose empathy for the kind of life my students are experiencing as teenagers. Anyway, I'm very excited to grow deeper into this new life as the year progresses.  Happy Easter!

My student Loha was in my after-school conversation class last year.
She wrote me this message earlier this week; I was touched!

In which the internet essentially tells me I'm living a Korean drama (and other musings).

I think internet quizzes are a little stupid, but today I clicked on one from Drama Fever and answered its questions.  The result was oddly accurate:

"You value memories with your loved ones and aren't afraid to build your own destiny or even to fall in love with a man in a foreign land."

This description captures my life eerily well.

Street art in Gyeongju

I do value my memories with my loved ones, near and far.  As a quintessential ENFP, nurturing relationships is of the utmost importance to me, which is why I've become a perhaps annoyingly regular presence at the Daun post office.  (Those letters can't mail themselves!).

The experience of teaching has been something like breaking in new shoes.  I chose it because I liked where it would take me.  I chose it because I thought it would suit me. (Also: money.  But that doesn't really gel with my shoe analogy so let's ignore that). And like shoes, starting out in the classroom gave me a few blisters.

Seven months later, the breaking-in process has yielded me a profession in which I feel comfortable.  I've made it my own.  I'm finding my place among my colleagues and students.  I'm having fun and pouring myself into my position as a teacher.

The real shoes I'm currently breaking-in

I'm surprised by and proud of my students, particularly those in my essay class.  I have high hopes for what we can do.  I know that a lot of waygook teachers in Korea are frustrated by being outside of and removed from the inner circle of Korean faculty.  I might still be a "guest teacher," but having my very own essay writing class is allowing me the freedom and authority to really be a teacher.

When I was a kid, I never imagined myself growing up to be a teacher.  Odd, considering both of my parents are career elementary educators.  I never even considered studying education while I was in college.  I majored in English Literature, assuming that any possible professional teaching experience in my future would be in higher education if I chose to pursue graduate school.  Teaching English as a volunteer in Romania was a welcome and fulfilling experience, but I perceived that time as one of personal growth rather than a possible career path.  (Of course, I naively believed that an intellectually stimulating, well-paying entry level position would be waiting for me soon after I graduated with my degree.  Most of us believed in Santa Claus at some point, too).

Love is messy.  And beautiful.  But definitely messy.

Even before I moved to Korea, though, the universe was drawing bits of itself together around me in the form of teachers.  Some of my closest friends from different stages in life: junior high youth group, college friends, kindred spirits I met by chance in various corners of the globe and, of course, my own former teachers and professors.  Varying ages, fields, and locations make a fascinatingly broad spectrum of teaching experiences that are fun to watch unfold over social media or to hear about personally.

My friend Nina is a brilliant English educator in Barcelona.  Last semester she suggested organizing a pen-pal exchange between our respective students, but I was too overwhelmed with the sheer quantity of students under my care to give it much thought.  With the arrival of the new year and the creative makeup of my essay class, however, I'm enthusiastic about this transcontinental writing project.

Moreover, teaching writing is fostering my own accountability to write.  My students are bright and enthusiastic and I am routinely moved by their creativity.  It's inspiring.  I believe I owe it to myself to pursue my talents.  Spring is here, my mind is waking up, and I'm excited to be alive.  To quote Joan of Arc "One life is all we have to live and we live it as we believe in living it."  If I don't pour my heart onto the paper (or computer keyboard, as it were) no one will.  After all, there really is no time like the present!

 

The Year of the Ram

At long last, spring is coming to Korea.  The air smells fresher, some tiny buds are appearing on trees, and even my drafty apartment doesn't seem to need layers of bubble wrap on the windows or frequent use of the boiler.  (Thankfully!  I've been shelling out ₩100,000 every month for heat!).

March 2nd marked the beginning of the new school year.  As expected, my schedule is completely different from last year's.  Rather than teaching only two-thirds of the student population, I now teach every student in the school.  Unlike last year, I no longer have to make every lesson from scratch because I am in charge of teaching the Speaking/Listening curriculum from the standard textbook.  Moreover, instead of teaching seven hours of after school classes each week, I now only teach a special class on Thursdays.  I was pleasantly surprised when informed that the class I'm teaching is a writing class and, after teaching it once already, I love it!

When Jun and I visited Seoul for the Lunar New Year, I went with my friends Gus and Helen to a sheep cafe.  What's a sheep cafe?  It's exactly how it sounds: a cafe with sheep.  Like a glorified petting zoo with espresso.

I have about a dozen of Daun Middle School's brightest English students on my class roster, including three surprisingly advanced first grade girls.  Since I'd only known about the existence of this class for a few days prior, I was a bit nervous before our first session.  Nerves quickly receded, though, once I began our first class by reading several Aesop's fables and discussing the definition of a moral.  The students were extremely receptive.  We watched the silent Disney short film of The Ugly Duckling; I wanted my students to be receptive to narrative without worrying about language.  Each student wrote their own version of the story we had watched on the screen.  I was excited to gauge their writing abilities and even more curious to discover the creativity we'd be working with this year.

One of my first graders, Ivy, wrote two stories: a fable about a solitary rose among tulips, and a version of The Ugly Ducking from the ambivalent and complex perspective of the mother duck.  (Keep in mind, I had no influence on these stories.  I just gave them the paper and told them to write).  To say I was impressed is an understatement.  I'm proud.

In other news, I've realized that I want to get out more; Kaela moved back to Minnesota and Soo's schedule keeps her too busy to meet regularly.  It's been seven months since I moved to Korea and the excuse of "settling in" no longer really applies to me.  (I now own a vacuum cleaner and a blender, both of which I love beyond explanation.  It's that's not settled in, I don't know what is).  At any rate, I joined a local writers group which meets every other week.  I'd forgotten how much I love to write and how much I love sharing and talking about writing with like-minded people.  Even better, Jun and I can attend the meetings together and encourage each other's writing during the week.  (I would be lying if I said I didn't need reminders to stay on task).

Maybe it's spring fever, but I feel like I'm bursting with energy and productivity.  After a long, cold winter, this feeling is incredible.  Life is good!

Monkey Bites and Paris Hilton (My Odd Introduction to Bali)

Gloria and I left Vietnam on a late flight and touched down in Singapore in the wee hours of the morning.  Our flight to Bali wasn't until the morning, so we settled the best that we could into some chairs and attempted to sleep.  I think she succeeded better than I did, but I was able to sleep a little on the flight to Bali.  I woke up in time to see some spectacular aerial views of Java, but I unfortunately didn't think to take any photos.  Sorry, guys.

I had arranged for the place we were staying at to send a driver to the airport.  After paying the $35 for an Indonesian visa, Gloria and I were on our way to the central Balinese city of Ubud, recently popularized by the filming of Eat Pray Love. 

Our accommodations were quite comfortable and affordable: I had booked a room in Nick's Pension for $34/night.  Considering this price also included breakfast, it was a steal.  After we checked into our room, we went out to the Monkey Forest.

The only time I have interacted with monkeys was on the Rock of Gibraltar this past spring.  There, Torrie, Kelly, and I were vehemently warned against touching or feeding the monkeys.  (Our guide, however, referred the the Barbary macaques as "my family" and explained that she had earned the privilege to touch and feed them).  Bali, on the other hand, had no rules against touching the monkeys.  In fact, people were selling bananas to tourists, to feed the monkeys.  I saw a number of banana sellers encouraging tourists to pick up monkeys.  I was wary of this; I'd read that the monkeys in Ubud's monkey forest are at high-risk for obesity due to the unlimited supply of food.  I'd also read about monkeys biting tourists, and I didn't want to be that girl, the one who was bit by a Balinese monkey.

Readers, I am that girl.

I had barely entered the monkey forest and refused the offer to buy bananas when I noticed some especially cute little monkeys.  There was a mama and baby monkey duo scampering around the path.  I noticed some tourists posing with the monkeys while their companions snapped pictures.  I didn't want to touch a monkey, (I thought touching a baby monkey would be especially foolish... I was warned so many times as a child in the north woods of Minnesota to never play with bear cubs that I automatically apply this logic onto any species of wild animal) but Gloria suggested that if I sat on a ledge near the paved path, that I might be able to get close enough for a picture with the monkeys.

Aw, the little one wanted to make friends!  Notice how calm my demeanor is, and how I'm not trying to scoop up either one?  I don't think I deserved what happened next.

Mere seconds after the photo above was captured, A third monkey approached me on my left side (the right side of the photo).  It immediately grabbed at my shawl and I carefully tried to pull away without damaging the fabric or becoming entangled with the monkey.  (Actually, I borrowed that shawl from a friend... 8 years ago.  Sorry I never gave it back, Cathy!  It's just so pretty!).  Unfortunately, the monkey must have been influenced by the same mindset that kept me from returning my friend's wrap to her in a timely manner... because it wouldn't let go.  After a moment of squabbling, the monkey decided to sink its little teeth into my elbow.

I was in a state of shock before I aggressively shook the vicious creature away from me.  Fortunately, the bite hadn't drawn blood and the banana-sellers pointed me to the first aid station, assuring me that the monkeys are "all clean" and carry "not disease."  The guy at the first aid station applied some antiseptic to my mildly broken skin before covering it with a bandage, and telling me that the monkeys in the forest are routinely tested by an Australian veterinarian for any diseases.  He pointed to a certificate on the desk for a Dr. Fuentes... (a later internet confirmed that the doctor has indeed conducted tests and research regarding monkeys in Ubud, but just how often he visits the forest was unclear).  Still, I wasn't very worried about the bite since it hadn't drawn any blood, and since the monkey appeared to be aggressive for a reason rather than being rabid.

I returned to the forest, where Gloria had been waiting for me, with a stronger sense of caution.  I was in the process of photographing some monkeys under a pavilion when I noticed a blonde woman in a long yellow dress.  Part of me wanted to warn her about monkeys who might bite in a territorial dispute over flowy fabric, but she seemed to be enjoying herself as her companion took photos so I carried on my merry way.  A minute later, Gloria came up to me and whispered, "Rosa, don't you think she looks like Paris Hilton?"  Who, the blonde?  I've found that Koreans tend to tell westerners "You look just like so-and-so!" so I brushed off Gloria's celebrity sight.  "Actually, she seems prettier than Paris Hilton."  I was about the leave the pavilion when Gloria insisted, "Rosa, that's really Paris Hilton!"  Finally, I took a closer look at the woman in the yellow dress.  Yes, it was Paris Hilton.  A small crowd had formed and people were taking out their cameras and phones to catch a glimpse of her.  I was ready to continue in the opposite direction, but Gloria really wanted to be in a photo with Paris Hilton.  I relented, but I was mildly ashamed to be acting like the paparazzi.  To her credit, Paris was graceful in ignoring the starstruck crowd and seemed to be enjoying herself with the monkeys.  Still. I felt a little sorry for her; it felt like she had become the tourist attraction that everyone was mad to photograph.

I cropped Gloria out of the picture because she wants to keep the trip under wraps.  Still, here's my shameless pseudo-paparazzi shot of Paris Hilton and her monkey friend.

After we finished out trek through the monkey forest, the travel exhaustion began to set in.  Gloria and I agreed to return to the pension, rest, and later attend a traditional Balinese Legong dance performance which was just a short walk from the pension.  I enjoyed the show, though by the end I was waiting for the curtain call so I could get back to the room and sleep.

I will write about the rest of my time Bali in another entry.  Now, I have to go teach class.  I'm rather proud to have written this long entry in one sitting.  (That bodes well for this blog!).

In Socialist Vietnam, Motorbikes Swerve for You

I finished my stint at winter camp on a Tuesday.  MT and I accompanied the students to the English language library in Mugeodong before eating a lavish meal and finishing the afternoon at a noraebang.  Most of these students, even the most eager to learn English, seemed a little shy and reserved in class.  Singing karaoke at a noraebang, however?  I got to hear them belt out song after song, and my quietest boy even rapped.  I was floored. 

I met with Jun in Samsandong later that evening and picked up a few last minute necessities for my trip.  As it turns out, finding any kind of suncream less than SPF50 in South Korea is a difficult task.  I personally wanted to skip the sunblock and let myself fry in the tropical sun, but merely mentioning that to my Korean boyfriend brought on a vehement lecture on the importance of healthy skin and the dangers of equatorial sun exposure.  Eventually, I bought the suncream, deciding that it was better to err on the side of caution.  (Also: I've been experiencing a lot of "skin trouble," as several Koreans have pointed out to me on more than one occasion.  I don't know if it's pollution or bad tap water or something else, but I've had a lot of breakouts since moving here.  In the past month, I've seen a huge improvement, and I think I owe this to abstaining from tap water and from the skin serum that Jun's mom made for me.  I have no idea what she put in it, but it works.  In conclusion, I decided I'd rather have pale, clear skin than burned, troubled skin). 

I didn't want to say goodbye to Jun, but I was getting exhausted and I knew I needed to run a bunch of errands and pack the next morning so I got on the bus around 10:00 and went straight to bed in Daundong.  The following morning, I torpedoed through my to-do list, printing the correct size passport photo for my Vietnamese visa, shipping off a package of Korean goods and Japanese souvenirs to my family in Minnesota, cleaning out my fridge, packing everything into my new suitcase, taking out the trash, etc.  Finally, around noon I donned my backpack and dragged my suitcase all the way to school, where I had agreed to meet Gloria. 

We took a shuttle to the airport in Busan and arrived before the check in desk even opened.  With loads of time to kill, we had a leisurely meal and settled into a free wifi zone.  About an hour later, we checked in for our flight and were informed that there was a slight delay; our flight to Shanghai would board at 6:45 instead of departing at 5:30.  I didn't like waiting around at the airport; I think I was experiencing the pre-flight blues: that terrible feeling you get when you think too much about who or what you don't want to leave behind, and how your mortality becomes that much more tangible when you step onto an airplane.  At any rate, around 6:20 I suggested to Gloria that we go through security and get to our gate.  As we were on the escalator leading towards the security checkpoint, her ears perked up at an announcement, "I think it just said my name."
"But how many Kims are there in Korea?  We have another 25 minutes before we board."
"Yes," she admitted, "and the announcement said Gate 8, not 5."  (Our tickets instructed us to report to Gate 5 at 6:45).  Shrugging it off, we continued to the security check.  Out of nowhere, a Korean flight attendant ran up to Gloria, speaking rapidly in Korean.  "We need to go, now, Rosa, Gate 8!"  Gloria sped through security and ran towards the far end of the terminal.  I followed after her, breaking the keychain on my backpack in the process.  When I reached the gate, the flight attendants urged me inside.  We found out seats on the plane (which was quite empty) and looked at each other in confusion.  The handsome Chinese flight attendant came over to our seats and asked if there was a problem.  "Why are we leaving now?  Our tickets say we don't board until 6:45."  He could offer us no explanation, and simply suggested that we relax and "take a rest."

The plane took up by 6:40 and we shrugged it off, feeling relieved that we'd made our flight.  It was just a short trip to Shanghai, and I slept for most of the very cold layover.  Our flight to Ho Chi Minh City arrived around 1:30 Thursday morning, 3:30 in Korea.  Obtaining my entry visa took over an hour, so by the time Gloria and I reached our hotel (which her friend S had kindly reserved for us), we were both exhausted.

Unsurprisingly, my annoyingly consistent body clock woke me hours before I wanted to get up.  Eventually, I rolled out of bed and looked around.  This was a luxurious hotel room.  I hadn't noticed when we arrived, but in the morning light I realized that Vietnam offers a lot more bang for the buck.  Nice.

Around noon, (after I indulged in a delicious--free--breakfast and a nice conversation with the Australian concierge), Gloria's best friend S, (who is Korean but lives in Vietnam with her Chinese husband and toddler son), came to pick us up from the hotel, as we would be staying with her for our visit to Vietnam.  By this time, it was time for lunch, so S brought us to eat beef pho: a noodle soup whose flavor is greatly enhanced by lime juice.

My mouth is watering as I type this and remember... I need to find a Vietnamese restaurant in Ulsan, stat.

I immediately liked S; she struck me as naturally kind and nurturing, and it was fun to see Gloria interact with her best friend.  They've known each other since middle school and, apparently, spent more time during their teenage years in the company of one another than with their families.  After lunch we went to a Vietnamese coffee shop until it was time for S to pick up her son from preschool. (In retrospect, this initial trip to the coffee shop marked the beginning of Gloria's love affair with Vietnamese coffee).  The area of HCMC where S lives is an upscale, largely expatriate community, and her building complex housed not only her son's preschool, but also a number of salons, spas, and massage parlors.  S suggested that Gloria and I get massages and we happily agreed.  I'd never had a professional massage before (though the massages Torrie, Kelly, and I traded in Europe were probably as good as professional) so it was a new and relaxing experience for me.  In fact, it was a perfect post-travel day activity.

That evening, S brought her son, Gloria, and me to District 1 in HCMC (the downtown area) for dinner.  We took a taxi to get there... I can honestly say that I have never seen so many motorbikes in my life.  According to the tour guide I met a few days later, only the very, very rich in Vietnam own cars.  For average folks, the tax required for cars is simply too high.  The vehicle of choice, then, is the motorbike.

A word on crossing the street: While researching Vietnam, I came across this advice on Trip Advisor: “It is a skill and somehow only for the brave. Just walk steadily with confidence toward the other side. The drivers will know how to avoid you, do not try to avoid them and even confuse them about your direction.”  That didn't sound appealing to me and I didn't even recall that snippet until I was directly faced with mortobike traffic.  Despite near certainty that I would lose my life, I quickly learned that this method is standard procedure and followed suit.

Gloria and I insisted on paying for dinner, even though S protested.  It was the least we could do for her, considering that she was hosting the two of us while caring for her son.  (Her husband was in Hong Kong for a business trip).  S led the way as we walked from the restaurant to a tourist agency, which proved to be a chaotic excursion with a toddler, stroller, and the nighttime motorbike traffic.  Still, I managed to snap several good photos and we all made it to our destination in one piece.  Gloria and I selected a two day, one night tour to the Mekong River Delta, with an overnight stay in a 4 star hotel.  Altogether, the whole thing cost less than $50.  (Again, Vietnam offers a whole lotta bang for your buck!).  The trip left early the next morning, so after booking we all piled into a taxi and returned to S's apartment to pack and sleep.

I think the Mekong River Delta trip merits its own post, so I will publish this now and continue with the saga of my vacation in further entries.

Monument to Thich Quang Duc, the Vietnamese monk who publically lit himself on fire and burned to death in 1963 to protest the persecution of Buddhists by the South Vietnamese government.  As he was burning, he never broke his seated lotus position.  His body was re-cremated twice, but his heart would not burn.  He is venerated among Buddhists for his sacrifice.