Michael Jackson Feet, Things that Hide in Soup, and more Fun

Okay, so my theory was that since I have to wear slippers inside of the school anyway, who would care what kind of socks I wore? I slipped into my black pants, pulled on some white cotton socks, and stepped into my black shoes. It wasn't until halfway to school that I noticed my pants were hiking up, exposing my white socks. I tried to shimmy the pants down a little bit, but gave it up as a lost cause. Give me a white glove and I could have Michael Jackson'd it all the way to school and back. It didn't help to see that everyone at school wore socks to match their pants. However, since I am the only foreigner at that school, I decided to ignore it. After all, I don't know all of their social customs yet, and many of them don't know U.S.A. fashion sense (i.e. black pants, white socks, and black shoes).

The fifth grade teachers took me and my co-teachers out to lunch at an eel-soup restaraunt. Go ahead and read that last sentence twice if you need to. Eel soup. There were two tanks full of eels in front of the shop. When a customer orders, the cook reaches out the window, grabs an eel, and gets to work. It was very interesting. There were four men and four women, including me. The men all sat together at one end of the table with women on the other. We sat on the floor. In the big cities like Seoul and Mokpo, it is considered a special treat to go to a traditional style restaraunt complete with low tables and all the floor space you could want. However, out here in Nok-dong, you're schmoozing it up if you're at a restaraunt with chairs.

So, the cook brought out the little dish of rice, four side-dishes, and a giant bowl of eel soup for each person. I stirred the soup with my chopsticks.

I like eel. I do. I eat it all the time in sushi, in small, bite-sized pieces.

This soup had chunks. It looked like the cook chopped up a whole eel into three-inch long pieces and tossed it into the soup. The skin, fins, bones, and innards were still there. I ate very carefully, ready to scream if I saw a head.

It actually didn't taste too bad. It was spicy, of course, but quite delicious. I dodged the larger chunks of eel and ate kimchi instead.

After lunch, the male teacher wearing a purple shirt took me, my co-teacher, and another female teacher out to Sorok-do, a small island that houses a leper colony. Non-residents are only allowed on the island between 6am and 6pm. Purple Shirt explained that this was so the lepers could come out at night without people gawking at them. Yikes. The island was also where the Japanese tortured Koreans during the 1930's. I'm not sure exactly why, as the language barrier seems to rise and fall at odd times, but Purple Shirt made it very clear that the Japanese are not welcome. So, we walked around the sonamu (pine tree) garden, I in my Michael Jackson feet and button-up shirt. Purple Shirt kindly gave me an umbrella and a fan with four white girls wearing T-shirts and panties. No one else found this odd, so I didn't comment.

I didn't bring my camera, or I would have taken photos. The trees are amazing. They are tended by the lepers themselves. There is a pine tree that has grown all crooked and gnarled, due to lack of proper nutrients, Purple Shirt said. He explained that if the tree had the proper nutrients, it would have grown straight up. But, because of the poor soil, it grew into a beautiful, strange tree. The garden also contained a statue of Christ on the cross, a statue of an angel ("the leprosy go away angel," I was told) and a few monuments to people I don't know and couldn't read anyway.

Then, we went back to the school and I read over some lesson plans.

Walking home, I ignored my Michael Jackson feet and imagined eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

It's funny how much I took for granted until eel soup stared me in the face.

I'm a Stranger in a Strange Land

And I get stranger every day. I cheerfully call out Korean greetings to perfect strangers. I eat tiny little crabs, shell and all, like they were M&M's. I play impromptu games of charades and pictionary to describe things like "bathroom" (called "toilet" here), "light bulb", and "peanut butter." When standing on the sidewalk, I've taken to resting my weight on the balls of me feet to avoid the motorcycle that inevitably decides to use the sidewalk to get around traffic. I turn a blind eye to the old man relieving himself in someone's vegetable patch (to be fair, it might have been his own vegetable patch). I eat from the same plate as perfect strangers and barely wonder what kind of sicknesses I could be catching. I don't even blink at the buckets of sweat dripping off me and gratefully take a "tiss" (tissue) to wipe it off my face.

Saturday, with no internet, I couldn't look online to see where my ward would be. Thankfully, my friend teaching in Incheon manged to get ahold of the sister missionaries and skyped me information.

So, Sunday morning, I woke up bright and early at 6:00 am, got dressed, ate some breakfast, and trudged the twenty five minute walk to the bus terminal in the rain. (Thanks for the boots, Lil' Sis.) After a quick game of "Guess where I want to go?", I got a ticket to Suncheon and boarded the bus. It took 1 1/2 hours to get to Suncheon. I kept falling asleep then jerking awake at each stop, certain that I had missed Suncheon and was now somewhere in North Korea. Let me tell you, living in Utah has really spoiled me for the rest of the world. I am much too accustomed to an LDS wardhouse on every corner. It will take a lot of determination to spend 3 hours total going to and from church, instead of the 2 minutes I am used to. The sister missionariees met me at the bus station and walked me to church.

Oh my goodness, it was small. I should have expected it to be tiny, as Korea is low on available building space, but I was still shocked. The church building was three (maybe four?) stories high with perhaps 5 or 6 small rooms on each floor. The chapel was located on the top floor. The room was about 1/4 the size of the average chapel in the U.S. That was okay, though, because there were only about 25 people there. They were extremely excited to see me, as I make person number 26.

Sister Kelly, the missionary from LA, sat next to me and translated. Apparently, they are looking to get 100 people coming to church, as that would turn their branch into a ward. From what I understand, the LDS people are considered a cult here, because we do not pay people to go out and find new members. So, volunteering = cult. It seemed odd to me, too.

Boy, do they love to sing. In our orientation class, we had been told several times that Koreans love to sing. And they do. The twenty five people belted out their Korean Hymns like it was a contest - the loudest singer gets a free snow cone and a puppy. On top of that, most of them sang on pitch. I sort of just hummed along and will continue to do so until I can read Hanguel.

I went back to the bus terminal by myself. Sister Kelly gave me directions and I sort of wandered around until a kind Korean man and wife took pity on me. I stopped at the crosswalk, looking rather pathetic as I wondered how to find bus 77 to take me back to the bus station.

"You Christian?"

I turned. The man, dressed in one of those popular shiney, silver suits, pointed to my scriptures.

"Yes, I am," I said. "I'm just coming from church."
"Ah, me too. Her too." He pointed to his wife, smiling behind him. "Which church?"

"The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints," I said automatically. He looked blank, so I added, "The Mormon church."

He shook his head. "Sorry, my English not so good. Which church?"

I held up my scriptures and pointed to the words "Book of Mormon."

"Ah, yes!" he said, sort of pumping his fist. "I meet Paul and he tell me all about it."

Now it was my turn to look blank. "Paul?"

"Paul Elder."

Lightbulb. "Oh, a missionary?"

He nodded. "Very nice man, very nice."

The conversation sort of halted, so I held up my written directions from Sister Kelly. "Can you tell me how to get to bus 77?"

He lit up like a Christmas tree. "Bus 77? Follow me."

He stepped out onto the crosswalk, oblivious to the traffic. I paused, watching with a sort of horrified awe as his wife followed and the cars actually stopped! They never stop for me! I hurried after him and he and his wife walked me to the bus stop.

"What is your phone number?" he asked.

I shrugged. "I don't have a phone yet."

Every Korean person who discovers I don't have a cell phone seems to think it is the end of the world. They always get this consoling look on their face, as if they don't know if they should buy a sympathy card and flowers for me or just not mention it.
"I have to get my ARC first, then I can get a hand phone," I said.

His wife patted his arm and I assume she understood enough English to know what had just happened.

"Then how can I contact you?" the old man asked mournfully.

That threw me for a loop. I usually don't have people clamoring for my phone number. "Uh, well, if you are here next week at around the same time, I should be here, too."

He grinned and bowed. "Nice to meet you," he said.

"Kamsahamnida," I replied, bowing back.
Then they walked away and I got on the bus.

During the ride back to my apartment, I kept thinking about those 25 people singing their lungs out in the chapel. What faith it must take to be a Christian in Korea, and an LDS Christian at that. Their strength of character and solid determination is very inspiring. I hope I don't disappoint them.

Arrival

The Boeing 777 airplane was filled to the brim with Koreans. I sat by the window with the head of a Korean teenager bouncing on and off my shoulder as he fell asleep and woke up, apologizing every few seconds. Any attempt to explain that the headrest will actually bend to keep this from happening was misunderstood, so I just stopped trying. As the plane began its descent to the Seoul Incheon Airport, I slid open the shade to the round window and looked down. White boats dotted the ocean. The shadow of the teal plane swam over the waves like a great whale swimming for shore. Dark green islands mounded out of the water, each surrounded by a ring of beaches.
The plane landed with the usual bumps and thumps, inciting the girl in the seat directly in front of me to begin puking up her lunch and dinner. Despite the Sea-bands on my wrists, I felt my stomach clench. She filled up her bag, her father's bag, and I hastily handed her my bag, which she also managed to fill. I hadn't been able to sleep on the plane, so I stood in a daze, gathered my two bags, and stumbled off the plane.
Wet heat settled on my head, shoulders, back, legs, and arms. Breathing was a struggle. My lungs were not accustomed to separating the oxygen from the water in the air. The loudspeakers in the airport kindly directed the passengers in Korean, Japanese, Chinese, and English. I followed the crowd down the hallway, eschewing the walking sidewalk, glancing at the "Korea Sparkling" posters on the wall, and trying to remain steady on my feet. What felt like three miles later, I saw the glass-cubed walls of the customs desks.
I stood in the line for foreigners and readied my passport and declaration card. The line was long and slow-moving. I heard people speaking French, German, Japanese, and English, although the majority around us spoke Korean. I looked over the heads of the (relatively) short people ahead of me and watched as the man checking passports sent people to the back of the line or to another line. Sweat dripped down my neck and face, plastering my T-shirt to my back and pulling my jeans low on my hips. My shoulder bag pulled on my right shoulder and the book bag couldn't manage to release its strain. I kept glancing at my watch, wondering if I would be in line so long I would miss my flight from Gimpo to Gwangju. But, no, finally it was my turn.
"Annyeongseyo," I said, trying out one of the two Korean words I know as I handed him my passport and declaration card.
He scowled at me and flipped open my passport. Immediately, I felt stupid. Had I said it wrong? Had I just insulted him? Was he going to kick me out of Korea because he knew I couldn't speak Korean?
He flipped to the Visa page. "You are here to teach English?" he barked.
Startled, I nodded and treated his question as a request. "Yes, please."
He scanned my passport number and then peered at the picture. "Hat off."
I reached up and took off my hat. I'm sure it looked as though I had a hot, wet washrag on my head. I could feel the hair sticking to my forehead, temples and neck. My hair dripped.
"Hmm," he looked at the passport, looked at me, looked back at the passport.
I smiled. He frowned and shook his head. I stopped smiling. My had crept into my shoulder bag, searching frantically for the contract in case he didn't believe my very believable Visa.
He flipped my passport onto the counter and jerked his head. "Goodbye."
"Ah, yes," I scooped it up and bowed slightly. "Kamsahamida."
I took the stairs to the lower level and snagged a cart for my luggage. After loading the two fifty-pound suitcases onto the small wheeled cart, I exchanged money at the money counter and made an attempt to find the bus to Gimpo Airport. I held the instructions from Canadian Connections in one hand and the envelope of money in the other as I pushed my cart, looking for gate B4.
"You take a taxi?"
Startled, I jerked to a stop. "Um, no. A bus."
The Korean man looked up at me and shook his head. "Taxi better. Get you there faster."
"Yeah, I'll just take the bus," I said. "Do you know where gate B4 is?"
"Taxi cheaper. Taxi better."
"That's okay," I said and wheeled away.
"You take a taxi?"
"What?" I snapped, certain he followed me.
"You take a taxi?"
It was a different guy. He gestured to my luggage and pointed outside. "Taxi cheap."
I was hot, tired, and looking for gate B4. I frowned at him, straightened my shoulders, and loomed.
"I'm. Taking. The. Bus." I pointed outside as a bus zoomed by. "The. Bus. Not a taxi."
He actually backed up a step or two. "Buses outside," he said, helpfully, and scurried away.
I managed to catch the bus, make it to Gimpo Airport, and arrive in Gwangju safely. Once we checked into the hotel room, I showered, fell onto the firm bed, and passed out.

Departure

Mr. Million and Chi came over on Monday to help pack. I sat in the living room with all of my clothing and accoutrements strewn all over and watched as Lil' Sis, Chi, Mr. Million and Mom packed everything in my two suitcases. I felt stretched and brittle, tears threatening to blind me as we debated which shirts to leave home and which to take.

Wednesday, I said goodbye to Mom, trying not to cry, because if I started I knew I wouldn't go. Poochie seemed bewildered. She stayed under the table, her tail thumping hesitantly as I scratched her ears and told her I'd be back.

"Open this over the Pacific Ocean," Mom said, pressing an envelope in my hand.

I took it and shoved it in my bag, nodding. "I will."

Then I left, ripping off a Goodbye like a sticky band-aid. I waved to Mom as she stood in the car headlights. I don't know if she could see it or not.

We picked up Mr. Million and drove to the airport. After baggage check, we sat behind the stairs as I fiddled with the sea-bands rumored to stave off motion-sickness. (Note: They really work. I didn't throw up once.)

Then upstairs to the security check. Lil' Sis and Mr. Million couldn't go through security as they did not have a boarding pass. We hugged goodbye, tears pricking my eyes red. Another fast Goodbye and I moved to the line.

"We'll wait until you get through security," Lil' Sis said.

I craned over the heads of people behind me, trying to see them. I caught a glimpse of Mr. Million's hat, the sleeve of Lil' Sis' shirt. I blinked and the crowd parted for a moment. The last image was Lil' Sis smiling at something Mr. Million had said. Then the gap closed and I moved forward.

I sat in my window seat and looked out the window. The plane took off and I stared through blurry eyes at the familiar roads. Flickering like a firefly was the thought that if I had sat on the other side, I could see the roof of my house. There's Bangerter Highway, there's 4100 South, there;s I-215, there's the Jordan River. And there's Utah Lake, reflecting the sky like a broken mirror, clouds rippling across the silver-blue surface. Then the plane lifted higher until I could see nothing but white. So I closed the window and shut my eyes.