Taejeongdae/Gwangali Birthday Shenanigans: The Beginning:.
I know I've been remiss in posting and updating and such, but I've been having such excellent adventures!
This Sunday is my birthday, and so my most excellent companions and I decided to have a bit of adventure and fun and loveliness Saturday afternoon/ evening. We met up at Jalgachi station and grabbed a quick(ish) cab ride to Yeongdo Island and Taejeongdae. Yeongdo is a smallish island not far from the city and Taejeongdae is a beautiful park with an observatory and a train that takes you around.
Plus there's cliffs, and you know how much I love rocks.
Part 2 here
We decided to pass on seeing the temple and the pebbled beach, as we were intent on our goals of ROCKS and BOATS and ADVENTURE, though for future travellers I've heard its quite nice. We got off at the observatory stop and wandered around for a bit, taking in the view.
(The goobers and I, from left to right- Katy, Valoree, Jessica, Geri, Finch, and me in front)
The observatory wasn't much fun, to be honest, as it was walled in by dirty glass and smelled like grease from the small restaurant inside (thus the lack of a picture) but we did play a fun guessing game of "what's the blobby thing on the horizon? oh it's a cargo ship."
(Turtle Island, I think. Jess thought I was just making up names, so she called the space next to it 'Mermaid Lagoon'. I found it fitting.)
Instead of hopping back on the tram, we decided to take the short but beautiful walk down to the lighthouse and the awaiting boat transport back to our origin. En route to the lighthouse is a sculpture you walk underneath-
We progressed around the cliffs and downish towards the lighthouse.
Lovely mermaid sculpture-
The lighthouse itself wasn't much to look at, but the view around it was perfect.
On our way to the docks, we clambered over and around the cliffs, meeting a group of shy-yet-flirty college boys on a graduation trip from Seoul.
Despite calls of 'just one more picture' we departed for the dock, catching beauty as we went. We wound our way down carefully, at first confused as to where exactly the boat was supposed to be. It turns out, this little spit of concrete matched up perfectly to the front of the boat's tire-bumper.
Fulfilling one of my birthday wishes, we got on a boat and steamed around for a bit.
It was the perfect start to an absolutely wonderful day.
Grief is a funny thing (given your definition of humor).
Suffice it to say, my loss was the furthest thing from my mind a few nights ago when watching mindless Netflix and doing laundry. Someone was getting married to someone else, and while I'm not the most idealistic type and I've often publicly doubted my own marriage prospects, I had a memory hit me full force.
At my Bat Mitzvah (yeah yeah, I know, move along) I had a conversation with my paternal grandfather. I, 13 at the time, wanted him to dance with me but there was some kerfuffle with his attitude or his bitterness was acting up or- something. So I made him promise, in usual teenager-pinkie-swear fashion, to dance with me at my wedding (which at the time wasn't a long shot, nor was it a distinct possibility.) In my head, that was the next likely time I would wear a fancy dress and see my family. He broke into a half-smile and indulged me.
He promptly died a few years later, bitter and angry. This story isn't about him.
This story is about the bitter and abrupt realization that my maternal grandfather is gone from this place, and I will have no old man dance partner at my (hypothetically still possible) wedding. I'm not the emotional type (mostly) but all of my grief hit me at once- the weight of what I'd lost, the guilt of not making the time to see him before I flew halfway across the world, the absolute bone-deep breathlessness of never never dancing with him the way this random tv character danced with her old man dance partner. Somehow, what had once been a soft pang, a trickle of emotion, became this roaring, angry thing, clawing at my throat, constricting my breath and pouring out my eyes in a torrent of tears.
Does grief gain interest? Does the guilt accumulate in a bank somewhere, waiting for the right time to feel it sock you in the jaw and knock you back? Or am I finally in the right place to let myself feel this loss? Am I finally stable enough in the Land of the Morning Rush Hour to let grief overcome me?
When I first moved to Korea, I had to have a medical exam where they gave me a chest x-ray; I assume they were looking for tuberculosis or other things etc. I was nose-first against a giant red square, and the technician pushed me closer but it was over in moments. When I moved to Busan a month later, I had to get the tests and x-ray done again. The health departments, education departments- all the departments believe the others are somehow faulty or incompetent, and so I got the x-rays a second time. It took longer this time, and I noticed an extra pressure against my chest on one side- not painful, but like something was pushing back.
I promptly forgot about it in the process of dealing with other things- the infested apartment, the horrible living conditions, getting used to a new job/schedule/people (again). During the course of the move, I got sick- some sort of respiratory infection that just would not go away. I put off going to the doctor in the hopes that I could just willpower my way through it.
No such luck.
It was around this time (mid September) that I remembered the odd sensation. I checked it out and discovered, to my horror, that there was something in my breast. Like the brilliant and wise person I am, I chose to monitor it over the course of a month and make sure it wasn't related to other bodily functions etcetc.
Early October I came to the conclusion I needed to see a doctor about the never-ending-undying cold-of-death, and decided to book a double appointment through an english-speaking nurse at the hospital. The way doctors and hospitals work in South Korea is a bit different from home- sure you have the usual trauma/emergency services/etc, but in the same building you'll also have ENTs and podiatrists and general surgeons (or surgeon generals, I'm never quite clear on the difference.). It's like a one-stop shop for what ails you.
I arrived at Dong-A Medical Center a few minutes early, not sure what to expect, incredibly nervous and stressed and on edge.The nurse met me at the door and guided me through the (seemingly to me) complex process of checking in, seeing the respiratory doctor, checking out from them, and walking down three flights of steps to check in with the general surgeon. She was nice and friendly and incredibly professional, and set me a bit more at ease.
Once we arrived at the GS, I showed him the area. He immediately ordered a sonogram before he'd even really done anything. Unfortunately, because of the hours of the hospital and my schedule, it would have been three weeks before I could have one at Dong-A. The nurse put me in contact with a hospital the specializes in boob stuff.
At this point I still hadn't told my mother.
At this point I still hadn't told anyone.
At this point, it was incredibly difficult to keep it together, to keep working and teaching with the unknown hanging over my head.
I scheduled a sonogram with the specialty hospital- the incredibly well-named "Mother's Breast Hospital". Their logo is the outline of a pair of breasts, complete with nipples. Awkward, right?
The sonogram technician knew very little English, and the gel stuff was cold, and absolutely everything about the experience was uncomfortable. I'm not the kind of person who's incredibly comfortable with people I don't know touching me in general- this was stressful and uncomfortable and a whole bowlful of other synonyms. I could see the sonogram screen, and as she passed the lump, it showed black, a gaping darkness in my chest that swallowed me up and spilled out as stressed, silent tears.
I was a mess by the time I saw the doctor, sniffling, tissue pressed to my face as if that could keep the anxiety at bay. He informed me my best choice was to perform a core needle biopsy to find out exactly what was happening. So I said yes.
Basically, they stuck a giant, hollow needle through the mass in my breast- like how they research climate change by removing ice cores from the coldest places of the world. But with boobs. Same idea, different medium. They patched me up and sent me home with the promise of results the next week.
This was when I told my mother and tried to keep it together and failed horribly. This was when I went to lunch with my coworkers and couldn't hold a conversation and when they asked what was wrong I couldn't even get a word out before I was sobbing in fear and anguish and anxiety. Luckily for me, I have some awesome, supportive people in my life and this meltdown wasn't seen as the catastrophic collapse it was in my mind, but instead as the appropriate response to something horrific.
A week came and went.
The needle biopsy came back benign and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. They recommended I have the lump removed anyway, because of its size (which they said was a hockey puck but I am sure there was something lost in that translation).
The month of November passed in indecision and the happy stress of moving into a new (gorgeous) place.
I had the surgery in December. The fear was back, choking my throat when the nurse asked for my name, shaking my hands as I removed my clothing in exchange for a scratchy hospital pajamas, making my breath shallow as they used a sonogram to mark the incision. They draped a thick green canvas over me and took my glasses. Local anesthesia, silent crying, and twenty minutes later, the doctor came around to show me a pink blob, about the size of a bouncy ball. While I appreciate the thoroughness, I really could have done without seeing that lump of stress and worry removed from my chest.
I was stitched up and wrapped around like Mulan (swift as the coursing river) and taxi'd home. The next day I came in to get a normal, large bandage and sent out with the warning not to get the site wet (or feed it after midnight, but that was totally implied).
Showering with plastic taped to your boob is not pleasant, let me tell you. Highly do not recommend as a leisure activity.
Which brings us to last Saturday, when I returned to have the liquid stitches dissolved and peeled away and to get the final pathology report- which was NEGATIVE for cancer and deemed the lump a fibrocystic change. Cue the celebration!
Now I all I have to do is to monitor the site for any infection/ insure proper healing and come for a follow up in six months. I feel so incredibly relieved.
My (then new) friend Geri and I met up in Sasang to go to the Busan International Rock Festival. I had absolutely no idea what to expect, and I was blown away by how different and yet incredibly similar it was to any U.S.-type rock festival.
There was street food and people selling flashy things and all sorts of the expected rock-festival-paraphernalia; around the perimeter of the stage/grassy area were various tents with alcohol and food and such.
Difference #1- Water and beer weren't discouragingly expensive. In my experience, vendors generally try to offset the huge cost of setting up an outdoor shebang by charging $3-5 for a mere bottle of water. Here? That'll run you 1,000 ₩ (roughly $1).
As we approached the stage, there was no jostling for position- no jockeying necessary. Even as the bands began to play, we all jammed out in our own ways; not a soul was thrashing or really doing anything more than bob their heads or dance around a bit- and yet everyone seemed to be having a good time. The crowd was super energetic, responding in Korean to the things said on stage (most of which I didn't understand. There was a lot of 'thank you' and 'please' but that's about all I got).
The band we'd come to see, Romantic Punch, took the stage and the crowd went wild. Imagine a Korean, young Mick Jagger. Now give him a band that's just as energetic and a kickass female bass guitarist and you've got the act that made me glad I'd trekked out into the heat!
Their energy was electric and I found myself humming along to the songs, not really sure of what I was saying but sure of what it meant. It was a fantastic moment, the entire crowd rocking out to the musical outpouring as it began to rain, lead singer KMJ (Korean Mick Jagger) tearing off his shirt, the entire crowd so full of enthusiasm.
And yet not a single time did I feel the threat of being crushed or of getting hurt that often accompanies American rock concerts. I'm on the short side, you see, and not entirely build for moshing.
It was, in short, the most polite rocking out I have ever experienced.
On our way home we swung through the small art market set up along the exit and I picked up a few art prints that now hang proudly in my apartment.
Anybody wanna see my babies? And by babies, I mean the children I teach. The main class I have is Korean age 5- which means Western-world age 4ish. When Korean children are born, they turn one; on January 1st, everyone gets a year older. Hypothetically, you could have a child born in December 2012 who is Korean age 2 by January 2013. It's all very confusing.
Left to Right- Daniel, Anthony, Benny, Jay, Emily and Erica. Our craft project was to make a sun visor XD
They're a handful. More like six handfuls, and more often than not I think they learn less from the book and more from me just talking and being silly with them. They're both great and terrible and, while I didn't sign up for 5 year olds with behavior issues, they're really kinda adorable little monsters.
In case you're not in the nerd community, or aware of the epicness that is Welcome to Night Vale- here
WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE is a twice-monthly podcast in the style of community updates for the small desert town of Night Vale, featuring local weather, news, announcements from the Sheriff's Secret Police, mysterious lights in the night sky, dark hooded figures with unknowable powers, and cultural events.
Turn on your radio and hide.
It's pretty much the best way to describe how it is to live in South Korea (t least in my limited experience). You'll be walking along and something will seem effortlessly familiar and then BAM all of a sudden a glow cloud is on your school board's administration and you've got kimchi coming out your ears.
It is at once terrifying and exciting.
The best example I can think of- pizza. Americans think of pizza as having veggies (here meaning the usual peppers, onions, mushrooms, tomatoes etc) and/ or meat (sausage/ham/bacon/ whatever). Pizza sauce is made from tomatoes (or alfredo sauce, you white pizza snobs, you). Here, I go to this local pizza place called Pizza Hut and order a veggie pizza. Open the box- looks delicious, smells amazing. Bite into a slice?
Corn, mayonnaise, potentially sweet potatoes.
If everything were completely foreign, I'd be having a totally different kind of culture shock. Currently, I just feel deeply betrayed.
they were less impressed than I am about how the seeds can travel miles and miles with no control over where they land, and still have the kind of energy it takes to grow.
Several people have asked me for things I need, and I've been hesitating to send an address or a list or anything out of a feeling of being unsure of what the future holds but I'm done waiting for the other shoe to drop.
If you'd like to send me things, this is what I'd love-
**edit** There has been a request for more specifics and less flowery language.
Harney & Sons Hot Cinnamon Spice tea
Local honey
Candles that smell nice
Ground Coffee (tasty tasty coffee)
Fabrics/ tapestries/ things for walls and tables and prettifying everything
Fluffy/ adorable slippers- no, really, I wear them as indoor shoes at work
Pictures. Pictures. Pictures- I can't stress enough that pictures are what I'm missing from my apartment right now. Posters would be super excellent too, but pictures of us hanging out or pictures of yourselves being happy are what I want most of all.
Peach Rings. Oh my goodness, I miss peach rings (the candy). I found one place that sells them in Seoul, but then I moved. Peach Rings per favore!
Salad dressing mixes- like the "add oil and vinegar" instant kind. Salad dressing is super expensive here, and not very tasty. I miss my green veggies but am not nearly of a strong enough constitution to eat them plain.
Soup mixes too- Really spices in general, I guess! Cinnamon can be found, and salt and pepper but everything else is hard to source or prohibitively ridiculously expensive.
Send me things to make me think of you. Send me your art, your handwritten notes, your origami. Send me yourself, because I miss you all so terribly. Send me something silly, something sweet.
Send me stickers for my kids, or dollar store toys I can give as prizes.
Most of all, send me your love. I'm in need of it, as I am in need of you- of you all. Remember, 10 and a half months to go.
Packages (thank you thank you thank you if you're sending something) go to an address you can get by contacting me here or by emailing [email protected] or by contacting me on facebook!
2. Effective bug spray. Happiness with mingled wishes it wasn't necessary
3. Children slightly more under control. Good, but varies minute to minute.
4. Unpacked a whole 2 boxes. Definitely a success.
5. Laundry adventure- figured out the complex sequence of buttons and the midnight rituals to get the washer to work. (May or may not have had assistance from the previous tennant. Still counts as a victory)
A. Still killing bugs daily. The only good bug is a dead bug.
B. Lingering cold effects from moving.
C. Hot as Hades. No, really. Hotter than you can think ever plus ten degrees.
D. Benny continues to be the bane of my existence. 5 year olds shouldn't be in school, I'm just saying.
E. Still one box to unpack. Reluctance may be related to a fear of settling into this- for lack of a better term- vermin-ridden craphole of an apartment.
Working on making this home. Working on not being viscerally angry at the situation. Acceptance has never been my strong suit.
I happened to glance down at the burner to see a cockroach up skitter from a tiny gap in the metal, scuttle across the flaming heat and then return into its dark haven- all before I could grab the bug spray and potentially light the entire apartment on fire.
When trouble strikes, head to the library. You will either be able to solve the problem, or simply have something to read as the world crashes down around you.
Busan, Schmoosan: a brief note of despair in a roomful of shouting.
Let's make this very clear- I was entirely too hopeful when I moved down here. Perhaps my expectations were too high. Perhaps I thought that having spent a month here already, it would make this acclimation process happen faster, or more smoothly, or even with a small amount of grace.
There is no grace to be found in my actions, not right now.
I went from moderately well-adjusted teacher with students I mostly liked and was universally respected by to a new teacher (AGAIN) of a group of uncontrollable five year olds. It's a shock, honestly- the sevens I could handle, did perfectly- and indeed my few classes with the seven year olds run so smoothly it's ridiculous.
I also went from a huge HUGE apartment with tons of useful stuff in it to a veritable shithole empty of useful but full up on vermin. The mattress, bedbug infested of course, resides on the floor. The cupboards are empty and the storage space is full of trash.
There is no hot water, nor will there be for the next month.
Don't get me wrong, here, I have lived in some crappy places in my lifetime (I'm looking at you, Love Shack) but this is truly the worst. I'm in a dilapidated part of town an uphill walk from my school and my sneakers are veritably sticky from bug-killing. It is such a far cry from Ilsan in makes my chest ache.
I'm broke, because bug spray ain't cheap- I bought ramen but I have nothing to cook it in. I paid for my loaf of bread in coins today and I think I've earned the crazy waygook reputation for my habit of becoming so overwhelmed with it all that it spills over and I walk home trying to pretend I'm not sobbing. If I wasn't sure it would be the worst decision of my life, I might consider the midnight option.
