Something surreal about screaming the word "apple" to a bunch of five-year-olds over air raid sirens.
There I am trembling, questioning how long I have left to live; and the kids just carry on, blissfully unaware, thinking it's a police car. Some police car.
They could have warned me about the air raid tests.
Aside from that flare-up, life in Korea has been pretty comfortable. Though it usually feels like I'm talking over twenty-two little air-raid sirens in my grade one class. And when two-thirds of them bring hamsters to school in their pencil-cases, well, the challenge can't be overstated.
When I'm not working, I'm in my apartment or taking random walks in this dense city of almost 23 million. My place is quaint, as expected - a furnished one-room apartment with a bathroom and in-suite laundry. The school secretary went on a shopping spree at e-mart (like a Samsung-owned version of Wal-mart. Everything in my apartment is an LG, Samsung and Hyundai product. They really do own this country). I guess I'm lucky to have a western-style toilet, too.
Being alone with oneself could be nightmarish, but it's been a very productive silence for me. The only time I feel like I'm being screamed at is when I'm walking down one of Seoul's over-lit neon funparks. I gather Koreans don't believe in light pollution. The signs can scream at me all they want - I still can't understand them. I'm almost as unaware of the world around me as one of my five-year-olds.
But I do have company. The three English teachers I work with - not to mention my 40-yr-old Californian-turned-Japanese neighbour, Joe - are the lonely few I've met who can speak English. Joe usually just barges in to my place to talk about his second and third jobs - girls and beer. Sometimes I remind him he has a wife and children in Japan.
Cho, Lim and Lee have proven to be life-savers for those moments when I need to do official paperwork or when I lose bank cards or other such nonsense. But I struggle to understand sometimes. Today's adventure was a good example:
Cho asked me if I would like to take in some traditional Korean theatre with her daughter and a couple of friends from Uganda. Then she made some kind of obscene gesture which I gather was supposed to indicate they were disabled. She later clarified that they were "lepers."
Well the day has come and gone, and the show was spectacular. My two new Ugandan "leper" friends were not lepers at all. They were a doctor and a teacher who have come to Korea to do volunteer work with the disabled.
I can't wait to see what Cho has planned for next weekend. Whether she tells me in advance or not, it will surely be a surprise.
There I am trembling, questioning how long I have left to live; and the kids just carry on, blissfully unaware, thinking it's a police car. Some police car.
They could have warned me about the air raid tests.
Aside from that flare-up, life in Korea has been pretty comfortable. Though it usually feels like I'm talking over twenty-two little air-raid sirens in my grade one class. And when two-thirds of them bring hamsters to school in their pencil-cases, well, the challenge can't be overstated.
When I'm not working, I'm in my apartment or taking random walks in this dense city of almost 23 million. My place is quaint, as expected - a furnished one-room apartment with a bathroom and in-suite laundry. The school secretary went on a shopping spree at e-mart (like a Samsung-owned version of Wal-mart. Everything in my apartment is an LG, Samsung and Hyundai product. They really do own this country). I guess I'm lucky to have a western-style toilet, too.
Being alone with oneself could be nightmarish, but it's been a very productive silence for me. The only time I feel like I'm being screamed at is when I'm walking down one of Seoul's over-lit neon funparks. I gather Koreans don't believe in light pollution. The signs can scream at me all they want - I still can't understand them. I'm almost as unaware of the world around me as one of my five-year-olds.
But I do have company. The three English teachers I work with - not to mention my 40-yr-old Californian-turned-Japanese neighbour, Joe - are the lonely few I've met who can speak English. Joe usually just barges in to my place to talk about his second and third jobs - girls and beer. Sometimes I remind him he has a wife and children in Japan.
Cho, Lim and Lee have proven to be life-savers for those moments when I need to do official paperwork or when I lose bank cards or other such nonsense. But I struggle to understand sometimes. Today's adventure was a good example:
Cho asked me if I would like to take in some traditional Korean theatre with her daughter and a couple of friends from Uganda. Then she made some kind of obscene gesture which I gather was supposed to indicate they were disabled. She later clarified that they were "lepers."
Well the day has come and gone, and the show was spectacular. My two new Ugandan "leper" friends were not lepers at all. They were a doctor and a teacher who have come to Korea to do volunteer work with the disabled.
I can't wait to see what Cho has planned for next weekend. Whether she tells me in advance or not, it will surely be a surprise.
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