Day 2: Our Lucaya Beach and Golf Resort

Eep and I disembarked and breezed through Bahamian customs. The only question they asked was, "Do you have any beer, alcohol, cigarettes, or liquid?" We said no, and they packed us onto a bus. After a short trip through town, we arrived at the resort.
Holy cow, this is a nice hotel. It has three pools. Three pools. THREE POOLS. How awesome is that? With all that crystal blue water waiting, we did the obvious thing.
We took a nap.
Then, we changed into our bathing suits and spent the day in the pools. That is all.

Day 1: Cruise

No, I did not throw up on the cruise ship. It was a struggle, but I managed.
I had heard stories about the buffets on cruise ships: stories about people gaining thirty pounds in one night after eating everything on the menu; stories about waiters loaded like donkeys with dessert trays on either side; stories about the mountains of food you could climb up and slide down into a giant tub of chocolate pudding.
Needless to say, I was excited.
We ate in a restaurant called the Crystal Room. Wearing my newly-purchased evening-ish gown, gold sweater shrug, and carrying a borrowed evening bag, I readied myself for an evening of over-eating. Eep and I settled into our blue and chrome chairs and looked at the table. I had never seen so much silverware at one place setting. Three forks, two knives, two spoons, and a little butter knife stared up at me, as if in challenge.
"Oh, yes," I muttered, eyeing the silverware, "I will use each and every one of you."
I did my best. I ate a potato tart, two rolls, conch chowder, carrots, broccoli, herb-marinated chicken, apple crisp, and sugar-free cheesecake. At the end of the meal, I glared at the salad fork and the dessert spoon, smugness painted on the silver tines and concave bowl. However, I was not yet defeated. Before the waiter whisked them away, I picked up each of them and licked them.
That counts, right?

Post Script: Eep and I stayed in a small, inside cabin with no windows, two creaky twin beds, and a thermostat set to exactly 16 degrees Fahrenheit. The apparent thought process behind the freezing temperature was that to compensate for the balmy 88 degrees outside, everyone had to turn into a human Popsicle overnight. Luckily, we woke up before that happened and were able to thaw outside.

Post Post Script: Follows is a short video of the entertainment: a talented singer by the name of Tricia Kelly. Enjoy.

Post Post Script: I will upload the video when I have access to an internet service that will let me upload. 

Heartfelt Confessions

Roughly six months ago, I discovered that the bigger grocery store here in town will deliver your groceries to your door if you spend more than 10,000 won. I also discovered that the delivery boy is a cheerful, good-looking man. After that most welcome of revelations, I began buying water, juice, and milk (i.e. the heavy stuffy) at that store and having them delivered. My usual practice is to bike to the store, buy my groceries, dump them in a box, write my address on said box, and then hustle back to the apartment before the delivery guy arrives. That way, I can be there to open the door and gush about how thankful I am that he delivered them for me.
Today, I was in a good mood. I had spoken with Lil' Sis on Skype, and PJ was scheduled to come down from Incheon to visit this weekend. After school, I pedaled over to the grocery store, bought two cases of water, lemonade, apple juice, mango juice, grape juice, and milk. I boxed them up and whistled my way back to the apartment. I propped the front door open, as it was terribly hot, and set about making dinner. I pulled a carrot and a cucumber out of the fridge and began cutting them into sticks and circles, respectively.
A few minutes later, I heard the thump, thump of purposeful footsteps and looked up to see the delivery man at my door.
I smiled. "Annyeonghaseyo!" I said, putting down the knife and wiping my hands on a towel.
He smiled back (swoon!) and put the case of water and box of juices on the floor. Then he turned and lifted the second case of water off his dolly.
"Kamsahamnida!" I beamed.
He nodded, still grinning. "Mashiketuseyo," he said ("Enjoy your meal.")
"Kamsahamnida!" I said again. "Annyeonghikaseyo!"
"Annyeonghikeseyo," he said back, turned and exited.
I listened to the thump, thump of his footsteps and the creak of the dolly wheels getting softer as he walked down the hall.
"You're beautiful!" I called. "I love you!"
The footsteps stopped and then returned at a much quicker pace.
He appeared in my open doorway. "Mwoyo?" ("What?")
"Uh . . ." My face was bright red from a sunburn, but I knew I was blushing. "Thank you? Kamsahamnida?"
He laughed and I knew I wasn't going to get out of it that easily.
"Sarang e?" he teased. "Sarang e?" ("Love?  Love?")
"Yes," I admitted.
Even though I was so humiliated, I thought my head would burst into flames, I laughed. I couldn't help it. We both stood there laughing and smiling like idiots.
"Okay, okay," I said, flapping my hands at him. "You can go now. Thank you. Bye. Kamsahamnida."
"Goodbye," he said in English and turned. With one last amused look over his shoulder, he left.
I heard him laughing all the way to the elevator.

Good, Clean Fun

"One, two, three . . ." M&M trailed off as he counted the photographers. ". . . thirty four, thirty five. Thirty five of them! They're like locusts! They just keep coming!"
The participants of the photography contest had corralled us against the water, their huge SLR cameras aimed at us like rifle scopes. The clicks of the shutters was just background noise to the pleas of "One more, okay? One more time, okay?" We four westerners stood in the sun, striking pose after pose and (most of us) struggling to keep smiles on our faces.
"The photographers," our host, Isaiah explained, "are in a competition to see who can take the best photo. That's why they all want to take a picture of you guys; you're interesting and different."
And, we were. Myself, M&M, Lemonade, and Lord Oswell Firewine were the only Westerners there (other than two ladies that we saw very, very briefly). As such, we were bestowed celebrity status complete with camera-armed paparazzi. We dodged the cameras as best we could and took in all the sights of the mud festival.
That is, we saw stuffed squid, mud, robotic puppies for sale, mud, stuffed pork intestines, mud, lots of hats and umbrellas, mud, free beer, mud, colorful statue-type people, and mud. Did I mention the mud?
I only mention the mud because I fell in it.
Twice.
Sunday, July 17, 2011 was the first annual Mud Festival of Goheung County in South Korea. There were booths of food and more booths of food and drums and dancing and singing and . . . you get the picture. There were also mud-olympics.
They had a mud footsal competition, which is sort of like soccer, but in knee-deep mud. They had mud wrestling. They had mud tug-of-war. They had mud platform tug-of-war, where each team of five participants stood on a Styrofoam block. They had mud-board races where a person would lie on their stomach on a long, broad, ski-looking board, and push themselves through the mud with their arms. They had a bicycle relay. Yes, they had a bicycle relay, and yes, we signed up for the bicycle relay.  Despite his skill with the motorcycle (hey, balancing a bicycle should be easy after riding a motorcycle, right?), I couldn't convince M&M to join our team. And Lord Oswell Firewine insisted that because of the shockingly ungentlemanly behavior of certain people in his childhood, he never learned to ride a bicycle. So, Lemonade, two Korean girls, and myself made the four-person team.

Let me preface this next bit by saying that I can ride a bike. I can ride a bicycle like nobody's business. I can ride a bike and talk on the cell phone at the same time. That's how good I am.
However . . .
I cannot ride a muck-covered bicycle on a wooden plank 18 inches wide that has been smeared with slimy, slippery mud.

I sat on the bicycle, pushed off, and slid right into the mud.
As I sank hip-deep into the muck, I couldn't help but think that Lord Oswell Firewine would have done as well as I in this competition.
Lemonade came to my rescue and hoisted me out of the muck. I scrambled back onto the bicycle, pedaled, and slid off the board again. The third time, though, was a charm. I pedaled to the end of the planks and hopped off. I handed the bike to my Korean teammate and she pedaled across the plank to give it to Lemonade, who also fell off the board several times. He made it to my end and our fourth teammate pedaled to the other side like she was pedaling through the flower-dotted countryside instead of a huge expanse of limb-sucking mud.
So, thanks to our Korean team-mates, we made it to the semi-finals where we were given the bicycle with the crooked handles. Fortunately, I noticed the crooked handles right away and managed to get across the board without falling in once. Yay for me! However, trying to quickly explain to my Korean teammate that we had drawn the short-stick, bicycle-wise, proved difficult. She fell in twice. By the time we picked her out of the mud the second time, our two competitors had already completed their runs.
We had to be content with third place.
And bronze medals.
And prize money.
And the warm, fuzzy feeling that we were all going home as champions.

Crash Like You Meant It

I've fallen off my bicycle three times in the last week. The first time, I was attempting to avert a collision with a car that appeared to be most comfortable when swerving all over the road. I jumped up on the narrow sidewalk, but my back wheel caught on the curb and I crashed. My audience of elderly Koreans stared with fascination as I untangled myself from my bicycle and stood up. Then they all smiled and nodded at each other, as if to say, "See? I knew she wasn't hurt. No need for assistance." The second time, I barreled off the edge of the road into some gravel. The truck that had run me off the road honked, loud and long, and sped by.
This last time, I fell simply because I wasn't paying attention to where I was going.
I pedaled to my apartment building after school, hot and tired. Three 2nd grade boys were playing cops and robbers (or the Korean equivalent) with toy guns. They saw me and started waving and yelling, "Hayna! Hayna!" I waved back and, with their expectations fulfilled, they began shooting at each other again. I smiled at their childish antics, promptly hit the curb, and fell off my bicycle.
I remained on the small patch of weeds I had (thankfully) fallen into, listening to the shouts of alarm around me. The three boys ran over to me, expressing various levels of concern. I stared at them for a moment, and then inspiration struck.
"I've been shot!" I clutched my side. "I've been shot!"
They looked at me in confusion so I pointed at their guns.
"Owwie!" I groaned. "Owwwwieee!"
One of the boys examined his neon-orange, plastic gun.
"Yes," I said, nodding. "The gun."
He furrowed his brow and pointed the gun at my face.
"No!" I said, suddenly panicked.  "Andae!"
I didn't know what kind of toy gun they had. Some of them have actual foam pellets or, worse, bullet-shaped plastic shells.
He pulled the trigger and a stream of water hit my forehead and ran down my nose.
"Sonsangnim?" he questioned.
"No, no, I'm fine," I sputtered. "Teacher is fine. Sonsangnim gwenchanayo."
He nodded, beckoned to his friends, and they took off.
I wiped my face on my sleeve and limped away, musing that I probably deserved what I got.

My Mother Loves Lilacs

It began with the scent of lilacs breezing through an open window. I turned, fully expecting to see a lilac bush in full bloom. Instead, I saw the parking lot, the rooftop of the butcher, the first four stories of an apartment building, and the radio-like spire of a church. I refocused on my hymnbook and struggled to sing the familiar tune with the unfamiliar words on the page. I paused to draw a box around "norae" and "Yesu", two words that I recognized as "song" and "Jesus", respectively. The wind carried the scent through the room, capturing my attention and drawing my gaze back to the window. I was vaguely aware of the song ending. I closed my hymnbook and placed it on my lap, my eyes still searching for lilacs in this concrete-laden city.
I miss my mother.
I can get through most days without falling to pieces. The grind of the workday, the distraction of the children, and dealing with all of the things that are Korea serve to distract me from any personal pain. But, once in a while, I will come across something small that pinches my heart and emotionally incapacitates me for the rest of the day. While out on the town with my friend V, the curious and perfectly understandable question of "Hayna Mother?" from the natives will slide like a needle under my skin. The casual reference by coworkers of their mother's upcoming birthday will cause my breath to hitch. The reminder to do something special for mothers on Mother's Day serves as nothing more than a reminder that I may not have done enough for my own mother while I had her here.
My usual reaction to these innocent comments is to smile, nod, and force myself to respond pleasantly.
But, the lilacs - oh, the lilacs! I had no defense against this completely unexpected assault. My eyes flooded and I blinked rapidly to prevent any tears from falling. Memories crept like bright shadows in my mind; Mom placing a lump of bread dough in my childish hands to knead and shape into my own mini-loaf; Mom pinning a seam of my hand-made baptismal dress; Mom handing me her own violin so I could join the seventh grade orchestra; Mom reminding me over and over again to count the beats as I practice the piano; Mom carefully selecting clothing from the sales rack at the store, teaching me that money is better saved than spent; Mom naming my new puppy; Mom listening to me list the pros and cons of going to London for six weeks; Mom at my university graduation, her proud, beaming smile like a beacon; Mom supporting my decision to come to Korea; Mom standing in the carport, the headlights of the car illuminating the myriad of motherly emotions crossing her face as she waved goodbye.
Somewhere, lilacs are blooming right now. This very minute, lilacs are blooming like jewels and releasing their intoxicating smell. And barely a year ago, my mother walked the perimeter of our back yard, pausing at each lilac bush to breathe in their scent. And just like every year, she called Lil' sis and me out to enjoy their beauty. Usually, Lil' Sis would clip a few bouquets and place them in the kitchen and their scent would fill the house.
Now, sitting thousands of miles away in a small church in Suncheon, South Korea, the sweet scent filtered through my skin, seeped into my veins, and knocked on the walls of my heart.
I managed to get through sacrament meeting without breaking down completely. On the way downstairs to the Gospel Doctrines class, I peered out windows, searching for the source. Nothing presented itself as a lilac bush or anything that could pretend to be one, so I hurried into the classroom.
Our topic that day was The Atonement of Jesus Christ. I halfheartedly listened to Elder S's translations as I skimmed the chapter. The teacher began asking our small class how we felt about the Atonement. When he asked me, I thought that I had gained control of myself, but apparently I hadn't.
"How do you feel about the atonement?" Elder S translated.
I swallowed a few times, struggling to find the words to describe the relief, profound gratitude, and the utter joy I felt with the knowledge that Christ has provided a way for me to see my mother again.
I spoke around the lump in my throat. "I'm very grateful for it."
If anyone was surprised at my emotion and relatively short answer, there was no indication. Class continued and I tried to surreptitiously wipe my newly freed tears and quiet my sniffles. When asked, I struggled to read Alma 40:23 aloud in a steady voice, while the thought that Mom will no longer suffer the pain that plagued her through all these years floated in the back of my mind. We ended class by singing I Need Thee Every Hour. I sang the English words quietly, partly because I didn't want to distract anyone, and partly because my eyes were too blurry to read the Korean.
All the while, the scent of lilacs hovered, a painful yet comforting reminder of my mother.
As I walked to the bus station an hour later, it lingered in my hair, in my clothes, and in my thoughts. I could almost see Mom lifting a sprig of lavender blossoms to her nose, inhaling their heavenly perfume, a smile spreading across her face.
"Hannah, come smell the lilacs," she called, turning towards me. "They only bloom for a little while. Come smell the lilacs."
Perhaps she is enjoying the lilacs right now.

It was the Rat

I stepped onto the Island ferry at 7:30 a.m. this morning and looked up to meet my principal's eyes. He had just backed his large, black sedan onto the ferry and was casually leaning against the seat, one hand resting on the top of the steering wheel while the other tapped impatiently. I paused mid-step and a couple of high-school kids immediately pushed by me. I rarely see my principal at the island school where I teach once a week which is why it came as somewhat of a shock to see him on the ferry. I considered averting my eyes and as though I was unaware of his presence, but I had already dipped into that shallow bow that has become second nature when greeting those of authority (any authority - cook, dog walker, policeman, principal, etc.). Smoothly transitioning to the tying-my-shoe posture wasn't going to be believable, as I wore rainboots. So when Island Principal (hereafter known as IP) lowered his window and beckoned me closer, I plastered a grin on my face and stepped up to the car.
"Anyeonghashimnika," I said, bowing beneath my rainbow umbrella.
He nodded his head slightly and smiled, his teeth gleaming white in the car's black interior. "Anyeong," he replied, then waved his hand in the motion that I took to mean I was dismissed.
I bowed again and scuttled across the deck and up the stairs to the passenger cabin.
I don't really know what to think of IP. Were I to meet him on the street, I would immediately assume he was either a lawyer or a high-level gangster. Unlike my principal in my home school, IP wears sober suits, often in colors of black and dark blue, with nary a sparkly tie to be seen. He has a no-nonsense demeanor and exudes a quiet confidence more commonly associated with royalty. Then he'll smile and he suddenly transforms into that man who tried to pressure you into buying that late 80's Chevrolet that "runs like a hibernating puma and don't worry about that banging noise - it's just the hamsters demanding their coffee break." He has his own office at school complete with several potted plants, a large desk, and a long, low-lying table surrounded by stiff-backed chairs. From what I understand, he just sits in his office all day, sipping tea and calling in teachers or the vice-principal for a chat. To all appearances, the school seems to run quite smoothly without his help, but I have a feeling that were he to suddenly disappear, panic and mayhem would ensue and the result (I'm picturing an all-out three-way war, children verses teachers verses lunchladies) would be shown on the evening news.
The ferry docked and I purposely disembarked on the other side of the deck so I wouldn't have to experience the small anxiety attack that invariably accompanies every IP encounter. I hurried to the blue bus and jostled for position with several ahjummas. I managed to get a seat while feeling only marginally guilty about the two middle-school students who gave up their seats to the older women. The bus rumbled along the new road for a few minutes before lurching to a stop in front of the middle school. I said goodbye to the bus driver and stepped into a puddle with that self-satisfied feeling that came with the foresight to wear rainboots. I popped open my umbrella and wandered across the street, following the metal grills covering the drainage ditch to the elementary school.
I must preface this next part with some back story. Last week, while waiting to get on the bus to go back to the mainland, I heard noise in the drain below my feet. When I peered into the drain, I saw the back end of a large bird, barely small enough to fit, with white feathers and black-tipped wings. It scuttled under the cement and when it came back for a second look, I realized it was a duck.
Today, I hoped to see the duck again because I need some sort of entertainment and that is they best I could find. I concentrated so hard that I didn't notice a large, black sedan pull alongside me. I also didn't notice the electric whine of a window going down. What I did notice, was movement in the drain. It was too small and dark for that duck and in the split second it took for me to bend for a closer look, I had convinced myself that it was a small cat trapped in the flowing water and begging for rescue.
Then my eyes adjusted to the dimness and I realized what it was.
A rat.
A swimming rat.
A swimming rat that was going to launch itself through the grate and attack my face.
I did what any self-respecting human being would do when faced with imminent rat attack: I straightened, leaped sideways, and screamed as loud as my somewhat surprised lungs would let me.
My scream trailed off as I met the steely-eyed glare of IP. He had been leaning out the window, presumably to see what in tarnation I was doing, and now slowly retreated back inside the vehicle.
"There was a rat," I explained, pointing to the drain.
He stared, saying nothing.
"In the drain. It was swimming. It was going to--" I cut myself off, realizing that actually vocalizing my fear of rat attack was somewhat lame. "I am so sorry," I said, bowing. "Mianimnida."
Still silent, he lowered his eyes.
I followed his gaze and saw my hand clutching the door of his car. I must have grabbed it when I was trying to escape the killer rat.
"Sorry," I said again and withdrew my hand.
He pushed the button on the door of his car and the window buzzed shut. The window tint was fairly dark, but I felt his glare anyway.
"Sorry. Honto gomennasai. Mianimnida. Lo siento. Sorry." I apologized in as many languages as I (sort of) knew.
It didn't help. He drove away and I didn't see him again the rest of the day.
I have a feeling he sat in his office translating his disgust into English.
Which probably means I need to learn how to say in Korean, "It was the rat."

Across the Cultures

With relatively little to do at night during the cold months, I've taken to re-visiting one of my favorite past-times; watching Korean dramas. These are self-contained television series, usually 14 to 24 episodes long. They range from fun romantic comedies to police actions to historical stories. Some of my favorites include My Name is Kim SamSoon, Full House, Couple or Trouble (which is based off of the movie Overboard, starring Kirk Russel and Goldie Hawn), Chuno, and Goong.
My current favorite is titled Iljimae, a Robin Hood-esque series featuring a few good guys, more bad guys, a couple somewhere-in-between guys, martial arts, swordplay, and a dash of romance. Lee JunKi is the lead (I don't know who he is, but I'm assuming he's an actor based on the fact that he is, y'know, acting), with Han HyoJoo, Lee YoungAh, Moon JiYoon, and Park ShiHoo in supporting roles. I have to admit I am completely addicted to this series.
Here's the basic rundown: A young nobleman's son sees his father murdered and his family torn apart. He escapes, loses his memory, and is raised as a peasant boy named YongEe. YongEe eventually regains his memory as well as a thirst for revenge. He adopts the Iljimae persona to steal riches for the poor as well as to look for the people who killed his father. Mayhem ensues.
Tonight was the night for episode 14. I fired up the computer, found my Korean drama site, and clicked the mouse over episode 14.
It opened a page saying the link was broken.
After a few minutes of frantic searching, I found a site that offered episode 14 . . . with French subtitles.
I goggled for a few minutes (thinking, "What? The French watch this, too?") before deciding to go ahead and plow through it.
It was . . . interesting, to say the least. I don't know much Korean and the only French I know came by way of The Pink Panther and a few Gerard Depardieu films. From watching the previous 13 episodes, I thought I would be able to follow the story, if not understand all the dialogue. I listened hard while picking through the subtitles and became lost in exactly three seconds. I heard Korean, but everyone seemed to have a French accent. When the little girl was run over by the horse and the villagers attacked the castle, I heard music from Les Miserables. The words "Pepe le Pew" (or what looked an awful lot like "Pepe le Pew") kept flashing across the bottom of the screen. And I'm certain that someone was extremely worried about their churro. I did learn that "cheval" means "horse" thanks to the main love interest saying that word and then a horse appearing. I also learned that after being strung up and pelted with some sort of animal dung, the rider that ran over the little girl offered to pay her family 30 pieces of the currency of the time and 20 rolls of toilet tissue. Although, thinking it over, he could have used the tissue more.
Oh, and I learned that the French like Korea, too.

The Case Against Photoshop

I heard from JB in Incheon that school photos in Korea are often touched up. I saw the proof with my own eyes as JB pointed to the photo of a doll on her wall and tried to convince me it was, in fact, her. I peered at the wallet-sized photo and did see traces of JB - the hair, the eyes, the necklace - but it didn't look like JB. Her face just wasn't so . . . plastic. Every wrinkle, every line of expression had been smoothed away until it became what JB would look like if she never smiled, laughed, cried, or breathed. I repressed my shudders and cheerfully reassured myself that my school preferred people in their natural skin.
As I sat in the teacher's room pouring over the sixth grader's graduation year book, I discovered that I was wrong.
I stared at the first page, featuring my principal and vice principal.
"Wow," I commented to CT. "These pictures are OLD."
CT looked over my shoulder and gave me a look. "No, they are not. They are new pictures. This year."
My stomach sank as my gaze fixed on the impossibly smooth-faced men in front of me. I turned the page and looked at row after row of rubber-faced teachers that I used to recognize.
"Oh, dear," I muttered and searched for my face.
Memories of the nice little man in the photography studio now haunted me. His cheerful smile and hearty laughter hid the intent to turn us all into little plastic versions of ourselves. I remembered sitting on that chair wondering why he needed a computer for 35mm prints.
Now it all made sense.
I flipped the page and gasped. "Ah! My freckles!"
CT jumped at my shout. "What?"
I jabbed my finger at the photo of my face. "My freckles are gone!"
"You don't have freckles," CT contradicted, staring at the photo.
I jabbed my finger into my cheek (ouch). "Yes, I do!"
CT laughed. "You do here." She pointed to my face. "But, not here." She dropped her finger to the photo.
"But . . . but . . . I like my freckles!" I protested. "And they're gone!"
CT looked at me and then at the photo and then back at me. "It's the same," she said.
"No, it's not!" I wailed.
And then HT (Head Teacher) walked over to see what the fuss was all about. I sat there in shock while CT and HT chatted and laughed in Korean. Then HT snatched the book, glared hard at the photo then glared at me and said something to CT.
"What?" I demanded, hearing my name in that sentence.
CT shrugged. "He says you look better."
"Thank you!" I said, feeling vindicated. "Real life is better, right?"
HT shook his head. He pointed to the book. "Pretty. Very pretty."
CT sort of half laughed and half coughed. "He thinks you look better in the photograph."

Driving like it's 1899

Do you remember when cars were first invented? Of course you don't. Neither do I. But I imagine that the public reacted like a little boy given his first BB gun - with unbelievable glee and excitement, leaving mass mayhem in his wake. Sort of how CT's boyfriend acted with his car.
I met CT in Gwangju yesterday. She has been up there taking an English class and wanted to have dinner with me one last time before I leave for vacation. I sat at the Gwangju Bus Terminal, going over my Korean flash cards while I waited for her class to end. Finally, my phone rang.
"Hayna, where are you?"
I slipped the flashcards into my pocket. "Outside by the stage. With the orange chairs and the big, green . . . uh . . ." My vocabulary failed at this point to describe the art deco structure erected around the stage. ". . . thing," I settled and stood up. "Where are you?"
"I'll go there," CT said and hung up.
I have accustomed myself to the fact that most Koreans do not say "goodbye" at the end of their call, seeming to just hang up mid-conversation, but it still irks me.
"Yeah, okay," I said into my cell phone, "I'll watch for you. Bye."
Seconds later, I saw CT and we met underneath the large, green arbor (?).
"My boyfriend is coming," CT said. "Is that okay? He has a car."
I nodded, instantly pleased at the fact that we wouldn't have to pay for a taxi. "Not a problem," I replied. "That is excellent."
I have met CT's boyfriend (to be known as Sonny) several times before. On the first day I met CT, Sonny drove us from the hotel at Gwangju to my new apartment in Nokdong. We have since gone to dinner several times in Nokdong and Podu, both very small towns with limited traffic. For some idiotic reason, I did not imagine that his driving would be any different in this huge city. The fact that I was staring at bumper-to-bumper traffic while waiting for him to appear did not make any impact at all. When I slid into the front seat on his tan Samsung (Samsung? Does Samsung even make cars? Don't they make, like, radios and TV's and stuff?), I actually congratulated myself on getting a spot with a seat-belt.
And then he pulled into traffic.
"Whoa!" I said, and grabbed onto the door handle.
Sonny laughed and faced me. "I good driver!" he proclaimed, using one hand to sweep his newly permed hair out of his eyes. "No worry!"
I sort of chuckled. "Right!" I agreed, subtly tightening the seat-belt.
"We'll go look at the University Campus," CT said from the back seat.
I twisted around to look at her, amazed at the way she causally sprawled against the seat, shifting her weight with the car's (erratic) movements, her hands not gripping the door in fear, but loosely holding her cell phone. She looked for all the world as though we were not destined to exit the vehicle via the windshield.
I knew from taking taxi rides in Gwangju that the rules of the road are more like suggestions here in South Korea. That may be a broad statement, but Sonny certainly displayed the Anything-To-Get-Where-I-Want-To-Go mentality that seems to afflict so many cab drivers. He wove in and out of traffic, flipped a few U-turns with no regard to oncoming traffic, ran several red lights, and - my personal favorite - drove on the WRONG side of the road to bypass four cars waiting at a red light. When we finally arrived at the University, I was ready to throw up. (I am prone to motion sickness, so I had taken some Dramamine on the bus, but Sonny's driving proved stronger than modern medicine.)
"Should we walk?" CT asked no one in particular.
"Yes!" I agreed, reaching for the door handle.
"No!" Sonny protested at the same time, and pressed the gas pedal to the floor.
They had a short conversation in Korean and then CT said, apologetically, "He will catch his train at 8:30, so we don't have time to walk."
"Okay," I said, choking down my disappointment as Sonny's car chugged up a small hill.
CT guided the tour from the back seat, "Here is the fitness club. There is the language department. Oh, look! An animal hospital! There is the Business Incubator," (I don't know and I didn't ask what a business incubator is) while Sonny drove all over campus. He dodged the students walking in the middle of the road by driving on the sidewalk. He missed a turn and drove backwards in a round-about. He willfully ignored several Do Not Enter signs (I'm not Korean, and even I know what they say!!) and drove the wrong way down a narrow, one-way street, laughing off the honks of the oncoming cars. Through it all, he kept repeating, "I good driver! No worry!" until I began to suspect he was doing so not to reassure me, but to convince himself.
"Now for dinner!" CT announced.
"Is it close by?" I asked desperately.
Of course not. Another twenty minutes of death-defying driving and I was finally able to get out of the car. I stood on solid ground and glared at Sonny across the roof of the car. I don't know if it is possible to have road rage against the driver of the vehicle you are occupying, but I had it. In spades.
Sonny puffed out his chest and smiled. "I good driver!" he said again.
It was all I could do to not pound my fist against the car while shouting, "No! You're not! You are a terrible driver!"
"Let's go eat," CT said and walked into the restaurant.
Sonny walked around the car to the restaurant door and I turned to follow. Just as my hand touched the handle of the door, I heard the screech of breaks and the honking of multiple horns. Sonny and I stepped around the car and peered down the street. A small car had decided to ignore its red light and was slowly making its way through a busy intersection by a series of stops and starts depending on which way the cars were coming. Several cars had stopped even though the green light gave them clearance to go. The car finally made it across the intersection and scurried down a side street.
I looked at Sonny.
He looked at my accusing expression and said, "See? They very bad driver. I good driver."
I said nothing, opting to practice the "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all" adage.