One Month End

My life has looked like a Bugs Bunny cartoon for the last ten months. The one where he digs a hole so deep that he winds up in China – sitting upright, but upside down. A loud gong is heard, then slowly, the image rotates clockwise until Bugs is right side up. My sound cue was what we’d call a crash, but my lap top’s death was silent.

I’d by then made it ten months into my contract without nary a notice of discontent from my computer. Its departure was unexpected, but I couldn’t pretend to miss it. I didn’t miss my blog either. Though every week I’d sit down to write some new report – the honesty thus the joy I’d originally found in doing them had begun to seep away. The first one I’d written as a promise to a friend and a challenge to myself. The following ones were a way to stay in touch and connect with my artistic self. By the time I’d gotten to really enjoy writing them, I’d also decided to expand my financial options by making them a blog. I’d set them up along with a link for recruiting. At first I laughed and thought leave it to me to go away for rest only to figure out how to NOT work just one job. But soon I became aware of my writing in that concerned way, the way that asphyxiates inspiration. A week of restless sleep simmered my thinking that, yet again, I wasn’t good enough as is. So I decided to delete all the notes from my Facebook page and make my blog anonymous just days before my wired end.

Boy am I glad my computer crashed.

I’m not always the most aware person and I’m certainly not known for humility, but I will own my shit once I’m hip to it. What does this have to do with South Korea I ask as I type this. Everything is what taps out.

Like any one I’ve ever known, the people I’ve met here are no more aware or awakened than their most recent win or defeat. They haven’t an answer for pride or cancer; an anecdote for bigotry; a monopoly on innovation; or a plan for world peace. They work hard, they play hard. They are loving, but can be ignorant. They want to consume materials and yet strive to become a Green Nation. They are like Me or You. I imagine they’re either sincere or full of shit given the day and your perspective.

In art school I learned to create and destroy. But as I translated this philosophy from my canvas to my life I forgot one important aspect of the process. A key ingredient I’d say. The build-up. No eraser, no matter how clean and rubbery, is able to raise the imprint left by a pencil’s point nor remove it’s own residue once lifted from a surface. And yet, I’d hoped to disappear, just as I had from my work in L.A. as an actor, artist, business maker, bartender, you name it. I’d traveled to South Korea intending to fall away from sight just long enough to get my head out my ass. Then I figured I’d reappear, fully formed, as if sprung from Zeus’ head. But my name ain’t Athena and from what I’ve read, she’s a myth.

Were I to give a number, I’d say that seven out of the ten businesses in Gangneung have only one employee. The person you meet when you walk in is usually the owner and they probably live there too. It’s not uncommon to sit eating in a popular restaurant and notice a sleeping cot tucked away toward the back. Most businesses, boutiques included, have a television and it’s not there for the customers only. Koreans work hard and they appear to work non-stop. Parents log long hours and their children put in just as many. Ask a school-aged kid if they want a summer job and they look at you crazy. “I have a job Teacher” they answer, “I study.” It is also not unlikely that two days after a storefront closes a new one opens ready for business. The owner, the same person as before. “I never retreated. I just decided to charge ahead from a different direction.” could be the quote hung above most doors.

And so after eleven months I’ve come to admire a place and a people where shops will openly sell, and women will buy with ease, fake Louis Vuittons. Of course I thought these flagrant faux displays were ludicrous. Through my American spy glass, I peered and jeered and pointed a finger of disapproval. But once I removed the lens from my eye I saw that they didn’t care and why should I? The real ones are at least a three hour drive away, cost ten times as much and aside from having hardware that won’t tarnish, are practically identical to the counterfeits. I cared because I’d been busy covering my tracks, erasing my life, hoping to fix some thing in me that was never broken. I’d gotten so lost in living up to some image of myself that I’d been behaving like a fake in my own skin. So quick was I to destroy whatever I created, I’d missed the build. The experiences that give a spirit its texture just like layers on a canvas give a piece its depth. Now, whenever I see a woman purchase her Louis from the corner boutique shoe repair shop and watch as she swings the new bag over her shoulder, I think “Go ‘head girl.” If there’s no shame, no one can call out your game.

Awe and Rain

Just before the rain began again… I sat to write about awe.  A dear friend of mine emailed me to ask if I’d write about my experience with ‘awe’ for a book he’s working on.  As if in response to my intention, the South Korean seasonal pour turned up its volume and so my mind stirred, my fingers typed:  Maybe it knows that I love it. Every warm shower, lightning crack and thunder burst causes my eyes to widen and my mouth to go slack – supported softly by its smiling, curling corners.

I am in Awe.  But it’s easy to forget how to get here.

I first arrived in Awe after riding in the back of an open pick up.  The dirt roads were pitch black with only the wild, bumbling burst of a flashlight to break the night’s skin.  My best friend and I had paid a guy five U.S. dollars to drive us to Volcano Arenal in Costa Rica.  The rain was there too.  Tropical rain.  The type that never turns off it’s sound.  The night was thick with wet and my heart raced as my lungs gulped to squeeze oxygen out of the wind that rushed down my throat and through my hair.  The truck’s gears shifted loudly as it climbed, but like my pulse, never seemed to slow.  Then we stopped.  Our genial guide (only too happy to escort two young American girls across the rocky terrain as they held him tight for guidance) led us to sit upon a small boulder.  Through the thick air, I could see Lake Arenal gleaming in the moonlight.  So still and silent was the surface it seemed a blanket for the sleeping volcano.  I imagined that I was in Middle Earth.  That I was Bilbo Baggins watching the sleeping dragon. Paralyzed by its terrible beauty; I hoped it would wake yet I feared what that might mean.  The beast sighed.  Sulfur mixed with moist as the earth stirred deeply.  My body undulated riding the boulder that softly rocked beneath me.  Suddenly, a bright red ring bubbled, glowed then dissolved as quickly as it had appeared.

For a long while I felt I didn’t breathe.  Then:  Fear.  Delight.  Wonder.  ”Ahhhhh…”

And so here I sit.  Far across the Pacific, more than ten years removed from the volcano, listening to the rain.  If I am diligent to encourage change, honor observation and practice appreciation, I find that I am able to locate Awe almost daily.  Genuinely.  Never when I’m looking for it mind you – but when I am present enough to see it.  The world is beautiful.  To risk sounding overwrought; Nature and Humanity are both breathtaking and heartbreaking.  They giveth and they taketh away.  And it is there upon that fine line that divides the space between the beauty of red lava drawn like magic marker across a black sky and the knowledge that it could just as easily erupt to consume all in its path in less time than it might take to register that the very earth you sit upon is being devoured.  And that you wouldn’t care that your last gasp would sound the same whether you were to live or to die – that Awe exist.

A Present State

By Wednesday, I’d finally recovered from soju and dancing at the annual Boryeong Mudfest.  My nausea gone and my sight cleared, I noticed I’d picked up a few pounds on my hips along with the bars of mud soap I’d purchased for presents.  That’s the thing with parties: there’s always a parting gift, you just might not like it.

I hit the rice paddies for an early morning run.  The air was already damp, but not yet heavy so my slow steady gait cut noiselessly through it.  Like a knife through butter.  But, better to hold the butter even in my language – it’s no good for my butt.  I stopped to watch as four cranes and a duck tucked their heads in muddy water, snapping up a breakfast of bugs, fish, frogs… They seemed to not notice my awe-struck stare.   Shifting my gaze so that I might transition from my stunned state, I glanced beyond them to the right.  Not so far in the distance stood my neighborhood.  Less than a mile away, it teemed with coffee shops, bars, hagwons and boutiques.  What a dichotomy I thought.  How lucky am I to experience it. This, I recognized, will be one of the things I miss when I leave South Korea.

I’m thirteen weeks away from returning to the States and to put it plainly:  I’m ready to go.  My experience here has been life-changing and yet this is not my home for life.  I’ve met expats who have married, started businesses and built complete, full lives here.  Some travel to their old ‘home’ maybe once a year to visit relatives.  Others stay in SK for two or three years before leaving to teach in a new country – accepting a new adventure with each new contract.  I am content with these twelve months of mine.  Thankful to have had the current nine and determined to be present for the remaining three.

The Rainy Season is a joy.  All warm, wet and moody.  The way I imagine men like their women – or at least, that’s what I hope.  Anyhow, it’s a pleasure to experience this weather since soon the Summer will come in full-force and wring the land dry.  Gangneung unabashedly expresses all four seasons.  A colorful Fall is sure to follow.  Luckily, I will be able to enjoy a second showing of orange and red burnished leaves before returning to ever sunny California which vacillates between two colors:  green and burnt.

But again, I will keep my thoughts here for now.  As the pages marking the days in my desk calendar fold back, one on top of the other, I try to remind myself that even the most mundane is rife with discovery if only you look closely enough.  And you almost always get what you ask for and will for certain only see what you’re looking for.

The Tease and The Beaver – A Mudfest Tale

Soju is no joke.

No matter.  I managed to dance undeterred and unperturbed until five a.m. in gold platform sandals no less.  Yet it took my body three days to shake the slight nauseous feeling I’d contracted from two shots of soju.

How do people do it I wondered as I sat stuck in a state caught somewhere between revulsion and fascination as I watched the thin Korean woman across from me chug anything that wasn’t nailed down to our table.  Whiskey, soju, hof, sweet tea, pickled fruit juice…. it all went down.  Inevitably, she began to blow into the nearest ash tray, then all over our 200,000 krw (won) table.  I couldn’t help but smirk when I remembered the sign posted prominently outside the private club’s doors.  ”Korean Only.  No Foreigners.”  It read.  To be fair, this sign was posted because last year at during this very same festival, the club had admitted foreigners and the Westerners essentially trashed it.  Though I could understand the management’s reasoning – I couldn’t understand their lack of savvy.  Some things are better unsaid, especially when there’s no one around to translate.  Nonetheless, the point is:  We were the foreigners allowed in this night and were relieved as hell that the girl behaving badly was not one of us.  Our gracious host paid the table fee with the promise that we Westerners understood Korean culture.  That we’d respectfully waive our table lantern for service, tip the server at the beginning of the night, drink, eat, be merry and not track in any mud or sneak in the Korean equivalent of Two-Buck-Chuck.

Between sets of dancing to hyper Korean pop music that sounds and looks a lot like aerobics to me, were shows that displayed a deep contrast to what I witness during daylight hours.  During the day, most Koreans dress and behave about as loosely as a church woman with gloves, a bible and lips clenched tight enough to crack a nut between them.  But at night, in those private clubs that don’t even display an outdoor sign – dancing goes on til 6 a.m. and dance performances by buff and buck-ass-naked Korean men serve as intermission.  Funnier even is that no one blinks.  On this night – conversations were carried, drinks and appetizers delivered.  The floor filled and cleared depending on the dj’s current choice of music.  Move along folks.  Nothing to see here, the crowds non-chalance seemed to say.  A wow was all I could muster. The muddied, drunken, bikini-clad crowd I’d seen at the beach only a couple blocks away and a few minutes ago had nothing on this group.  And better yet, none of those people had any idea that this place even existed.  Two completely different worlds – high on a cocktail of booze and flesh – simultaneously partied til they dropped during this weekend called Mudfest in a little city named Boryeong.

Between the beautiful but barfing Korean inside the lavish club and the dirt covered, foul-mouthed Foreigners stumbling about outside:  Mudfest was essentially the Spring Break I never wanted.  I could’ve been in Fort Lauderdale… except for the mud’s reputed healing properties and all that damned-good Korean street food.  But before you think I spent my entire weekend in judgment, let me flip a bitch on ya.  I did manage to shake the chip off my shoulder,  take a swig of some god-awful sugar/caffeine concoction and get in on the action.   With very little cajoling from my comrades, I joined the booking club’s sexy dance contest in the hopes that if I was gonna be the most sober of my group, I might as well dance myself into a buzz.  Maybe I’d even win the 500,000 krw prize and pick up our tab.  Though my interpretation of a burlesque (a little shoulder skin, but no titty) show was popular enough to garner a decent round of voting applause – there was no way I’d win. Just before the contest was due to end, two “new” contestants materialized from nowhere.  One took off her shirt and the other dropped her panties.  While one undulated, quite professionally I might add, the other stood so close to the edge of the stage that her short dress could hide nothing from the crowd now looking directly up at her.

I was all tease.  She was all beaver.  Contest over.

What Is There To Say?

Most times. Nothing. I’ve been here too long – the lessons are learned; I haven’t yet been here long enough – they’re only just beginning to bloom. If I were to use the well worn peeling an onion metaphor, I would liken my current state to the blooming onion listed as an appetizer at Tony Roma’s. Cut just so, that once battered and fried, the onion blooms open to rise then pop atop the spitting oil: Full. Crisp. Hot.

I am for sure experiencing an existential crises.

Initially, I wanted to write something fun this week. Maybe talk about how great Anmok Beach was. What fun I had kicking up sand and dodging surf while being chased by raucous pups. I thought maybe I’d relay my surprise at the lump in my throat. The one that showed up when the Americans, who’d gathered and scattered upon blankets at the very same beach, broke out in an imperfect but inspired “Star Spangled Banner” in celebration of the Fourth of July. But all I feel right now is tired. Tired from being stimulated both by what is strange and what is familiar – in lands both outside and inside myself.

What is there to say but nothing. What is there to do but nothing. As time slides by and all that I thought was so different is simple humanity dressed as different characters, performing in different tongues, but humanity all the same – I am slowly understanding that to do nothing is the toughest thing to do because it means you are doing something more: You are present to be honest, to accountable, to be engaged, to be alive. To do nothing is to do everything.

Or so that’s what spills out now as I type with only one thought alive in my mind and not enough energy to think about this thought. What is there to say about this week. Really? Everything and nothing.

Timing Is Everything

After a major break-up I will usually take time to let my mind, body and spirit breathe… but I never imagined it would last this long. When a girlfriend got her giggle and buzz on then played hard to get with her live in boyfriend – feigning to be torn between hanging out with the girls or going home with her boyfriend I gave her a friendly nudge. Go knock one out for the team I told her, ’cause Hanna are for damned sure not even getting up to bat. Sitting next nearby on the arm of the coffee shop couch was her boyfriend. He looked slightly perplexed by the comment, but in no way discouraged. He was getting laid tonight. That was all the signal he needed to decode. The couple departed so Hanna and I finished our beverages then spent some time walking the warm summer streets. By 2 a.m. we’d soaked in enough of the silence and almost eerie safety of the town, and so parted as well. Having nothing to look forward to upon returning home but a humid bed and a noisy fridge, I though maybe I should just sit on it. The cold fridge that is.

The expat community in Gangneung is akin to one large college party, especially on the last Friday of every month. This is when open mike night takes place and every BA, MA and PhD come from towns all around to congregate. Hungry eyes ricochet around the room until like sneakers caught in gum on a summer sidewalk, they get stuck. The sticky substance of choice for the women was a rapping South African. He was a prime balance between artist and alpha male; had a decided swagger and a surprising flow. His first set caught every one off guard. The women were hooked by his confidence. During his second set some shifting in seats began as his confidence gave way to cockiness, but still all the fish were happily hooked. When right before the third set, he leaned against the bar to talk candidly about his former band in South Africa as if he were Sting addressing an intimate crowd at the Mayan, some uncomfortable wiggling of eyes and audible sighs could be noted. But once he gave a shout out to his wife with nary a ring on his finger, all but the most desperate of fish had ripped themselves loose to swim away.

Later on a bubble gum blond gave the men something to chew on. Tall and pretty with a small waist, big breasts and even bigger butt – she treated the room to a hula dance. No stranger to the performance, her eyes were intense and her body a fine note stretched between tension and ease. She moved her hips one way as her hair swayed the other just above her ass. The halter dress she wore was thick enough to not appear cheap, but thin enough to get caught between her buns. Every time she leaned forward, each loaf would rise round and set the men’s faces glowing red as if an oven door had just swung open.

There was something for everyone that night: Traditional Korean drums, a monologue, a call to action and donation by an activist for Burma, a performance by the local expat band You Suck, who actually don’t suck so much. There was the usually violin performance given by the town’s tween. Hers is a real treat as we’ve all had the pleasure of watching her talent grow. A couple covered a song by Beck and I even got up to make a brief announcement. Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett were both remembered. Once by a guy who made tasteless jokes – timing is everything. Another from an Angeleno who recited a witty and moving poem he wrote as an homage to them both. Later I talked with the Angeleno and his wife about how the Sunday before I thought to myself; Geez, you’d think Michael Jackson died they’re playing his videos so much. I’d made this observation in response to the fact that a Korean cable station had been doing just that; playing his videos back to back.

Lindsey text me on Saturday to invite me to join her family for BBQ. They were shopping downtown and she asked if I would hop a cab and a meet them. I find the cabbies here to be extremely friendly. They’re always eager to practice the English they learn while driving around listening to the radio. The cabbie this afternoon was much older than usual. He was listening to a show about Michael Jackson. Upon getting in the cab, he and I exchanged a few pleasantries but only briefly. Then he stopped at a red light, suddenly turned to me and said with passion, EBSuh my frienduh! Rah D O is my frienduh! Michael Jacksonuh. I was more tickled than startled and not knowing what to say – I gave him a big smile and thumbs up. There’s something for everyone and it’s always a surprise just how often that something is the same as someone else’s.

The Jedi vs. The Fridge

My refrigerator will not shut up at night. All day long it stands squarely next to the far wall in my single room apartment and it stares at me; mouth shut tight. But once I unplug all other appliances and climb into bed, the lights switched off… on it comes. I asked Lindsey if we could switch my full sized fridge for her mini. Though she has a family of four to feed, she sighed a no. I’d love to, she explained, but you’re the first foreigner that’s ever wanted a smaller one. All the others pack in food and I’m certain that the next one will too.

There are nights when I unplug the fridge along with my television, computer, lamp and kettle. But most times, I have just enough fresh produce and meat in there to make such a move wasteful if not potentially poisonous. This said, I’ve learned to take another approach: I unplug instead.

In yoga Friday, someones cell phone vibrated its usual morning jig. This is very commonplace during class and after eight months, I’m still not used to it. How dare they I scoff then roll my eyes for emphasis. This time I was particularly annoyed. Having been kept up by the fridge and poked by PMS the night before, I was in no mood for cell phone shenanigans. Straining against cobra pose, I straightened my neck forward in order to scan the room. My intention was to find the perpetrator and give them the stink eye. Nothing. Not a tip or a snitch was in sight. Just a sea of round, peaceful, pinched pink faces with eyes closed and skin glowing like contented moons. Catching a glimpse of my own visage in the studio mirror, I noticed that I however, looked like an angry plucked chicken; all red, bumpy and ugly. My nose jutted out as my head jerked awkwardly about my hunched shoulders and puffed chest. Suddenly, my arms collapsed underneath causing me to fall face forward onto the mat. What a mess I giggled. First of all, I look absolutely ridiculous and secondly, no one cares about that damned phone but me. Then I understood: I haven’t been offended these last eight months by a ring tone. Nor have I been concerned about or protective of the integrity of class. I’ve been pissed that no one’s been helping me keep this stick stuck up my ass. There’s no posted sign stating “No cell phones”. This isn’t LA. Here, you can answer your damned phone in the middle of class and no one blinks. It’s not their business and because they don’t make it their business, no one is bothered. A living example of reverse psychology at it’s best.

Making the most of face-plant pose, I made a mental note of this lesson and decided to use it next time the fridge bullied me. Sure enough, just like every night before, once the lights went off and my eyelids went down, on kicked the refrigerator. Just as it did now when I completed typing that sentence. I’m either desperate for companionship or have a serious talent for personification… Where was I? Ah! I decided to get jedi on the fridge. So, I said out loud that even though its noise drives me nuts, I completely and deeply accept it. Then I found its rhythm and began to hum along. I’m not sure if it was the fridge that turned off or me – I only know that when I awoke the next morning, I felt as sunny and light as the rays pouring in through my open window.

Self Centered in SK

Through my experience, I have never known an artist to be without self-reference. Artists, by nature and by necessity, are themselves the filter and the vehicle by which what is greater themselves – is expressed. Because artists are their own vessel for such expression; whatever is shared is quite simply, all about them. If a person wanted to simply record facts and attach opinions – they’d be a journalist.

While working as an assistant at HBO, a couple of co-workers gave me a birthday gift. It was a book entitled “All About Me.” One girl smirked while the other looked away with slight embarrassment. I knew their intention was to tell me about my self-centered self. Oddly enough, I wasn’t offended or even hurt. I was instead a little perplexed that they didn’t know me at all: I already knew this about myself. Granted, that time in my life saw the crest of an enormous ego entwined with an equally cavernous crash of self-esteem. However, dichotomy is a fact of life and is most certainly a fact of human nature.

More and more, my time in SK is giving me an opportunity to do some personal house cleaning. To see who I am, who I’d like to become. To see what I’m about… really. And what I just like to hear myself say I’m about. In this time, I’m also learning not to judge any of these things. I choose to use any labels for only the sake of convenience rather than crucifixion.

Saturday morning I cooked an American breakfast for Lindsey’s family. They enjoyed it immensely and unlike the deviled eggs that Patrick immediately spit out at last week’s BBQ, every bite of french toast, scrambled eggs, mashed potatoes and homemade sausage was saluted with a bright and cheerful “Ma she ta!” (delicious). Just like the week before – I was the artist of the food. The work may have been all about me – but the outside response to the final result had nothing to do with me. I appreciated the honest response my work received on both weekends. The only thing I’ve ever consistently worked towards is authenticity. And it doesn’t get any more authentic than having the same person that spit out your food to your face one week, appreciate the next effort just as fully.

The following night was hosted by me as well – but with my two American girlfriends. We shared chicken and chocolates, wine and pastries. We shared stories about being in love and shallow tales about just being around. It was a lot of fun. When Cindy remarked that she feels she should talk less about a topic that is currently at issue in her mind – I asked why should she do anything other than what she’s doing? I’ve come to think of should as a reasonably useless word. ‘Should’ is a word full of regret and half-way full of excuse. Better yet, the half-way is closer to half-ass so it leaves you neither hungry or satiated. “I repeat myself constantly.” I said and to this she simply smiled. “Girl please, don’t spare my feelings.” I continued, “I know I do it and I’m trying not to so much – but ya know, I’m figuring some things out.” I told her that I figure the truth is that ain’t nobody thinking about us but us and so nobody’s judging us but us. So the, “I should…” is better stated as, “I would…” if only that jury in my head weren’t clocking my every move. And as we all know, just as those with the biggest egos usually carry around the biggest burdens, so the biggest gossips carry around the biggest secrets. Many are just walking around either beating themselves up or starting fires in the neighbors yard in order to deflect attention from the abuse that’s going on inside their own home.

“Give yourself a break.” I told my new friend and myself. “So you change your mind, back-track, double-back and all but slide off a muddy cliff in reaching a decision. It’s your decision to make and to live – so who cares what anyone else will think? I seriously doubt that anyone else is really paying that much attention anyway. They’ve got their own inner critic to contend with.”

-All entries posted on this blog site are the sole property of Melissa Steach and may not be copied or posted anywhere else without her permission.  To do so without the permission of the author Melissa Steach is to violate copyright law.-

Goldilocks, Tadpoles, BBQ Yo Mama!

Ellie with Tadpole

My hair is finally growing back. Change your man, change your hair? Change your country, cut your hair off by about ten inches was my motto the night before I boarded the plane from Los Angeles to South Korea. Most my life I had cut, colored, chopped and curled my hair in any sort of fashion that appeased my current style appetite. But after a few years working as an actress – I had longed again for the days when my visage needn’t match my head shots. Maybe some have the money to change photos the way they would a clutch, but my personal allowance for handbags and photographers made room for efficiency only.

While standing in the mirror of my steam box bathroom, I noted something about my hair that led to my noticing something about my self: My hair is not yet long, but it is no longer short. It’s just right. My view of my self is no longer depressed nor is it grossly overblown. I too feel just right.

Though I am a natural brunette, I carried my Goldilocks mantra along with me to the Queen’s English School staff picnic. Packed inside a paper bag along with some biscuits and deviled eggs, I felt that my new found satisfaction would serve me well this damp day. The trip was planned weeks ago and Lindsey was not about to let some measly ol’ rain ruin it. The drops where not heavy enough to pelt, but they were consistent enough to slick. A hike up the mountain to barbecue on a big river rock was out of the question. Pulling off along side a road near one of many bridges that crossed over the river to the base of the mountain, I looked at my car companions and silently wondered, “You’re kidding, right?” Then I saw it. Underneath every bridge for as far as I could see, were families and Tae Kwon Do Schools and lovers – all happily camped with blankets and fires. And not only were the bridges, underbellies clean; they were cheerful! All about were temporary ponds carved out by the river’s low tide and filled with thousands of fat tadpoles. Children splashed about the waters while rain fell upon their heads. They caught tadpoles in their hands, paper cups and newly emptied biscuit bags, gleefully they would run back to base camp to show off every new – yet identical – catch. Having accepted that the BBQ would go on, I pulled out Goldilocks and skipped over the rocks to join Julie’s seven year old daughter Ellie. She pointed at tadpoles and I squealed at each one as if it were more unique and funny than the one she’d shown only moments before.

Four hours later, Ellie left the tadpoles to rest in order to poke at me. One of the ways I teach the younger children English is through insults. They’ve become quite confident with family trees, in much part I believe, to my teaching them yo-mama jokes. We substitute great-great grandmother, or greasy grand-uncle for your mama. Questionable maybe, but definitely effective. Ellie entertained herself and went through every fruit, vegetable, body part and animal word contained in English pocket. She graduated from her favorite stand-by of watermelon head teacher Melissa to tiger teeth – banana face – lion head teacher Melissa. I considered this a conjunction and so I was very pleased.

Upon the seventh hour and the setting sun, we packed up camp and made the climb back to our cars. I had even caught a meditation / nap while we were down there, so laid back was the vibe. My surprisingly good mood reminded me of how differently I’d felt just the week before. Good thing I set aside my funk and made a decision to appreciate my time here while I’m here. Otherwise, I would have most certainly missed out on all the good food available that day… and I’m not just talking about the kind you eat.

Translation Fatigue

Along with a phone number for Teacher Monk, Sae Lee included a brief note that read, “You can talk with him. He can help you.” I’ve been going through a little bout of homesickness and what I like to call translation fatigue, so my ire immediately rose. Yoga had not yet started, but we were all seated on our mats in the lotus position. Now was not the time to begin a discussion.

Breathe… “What does she mean ‘help me’? I don’t need his or anyone’s help. What I need is a soy cappuccino, some racial diversity and a break from white rice!” Breathe… downward dog, “Now Melissa, you’ve lived here long enough now to know you are almost certainly way off the mark. There’s the language barrier, the cultural difference and the fact that this is not anywhere near a big city. Their idea of stress is having more than three cars sitting at a red light at once.” Breathe…. cobra pose, “Chill.”

At the end of class I told Sae Lee thank you for the number and to please clarify the help me comment. She blinked innocently, “Oh, his English so good and you miss your family very much. Maybe you will have fun talking with him. Make you feel better, yes?” “Yes.” I answered. “Thank you again.”

Good thing I am learning to slow it down. And though there are times when the fact that I’m a city girl through and through are painfully obvious – I cannot deny the amount of growth I’m benefiting from by being completely removed from all that I’ve known. Like the old adage says, growth is pain – or at least uncomfortable, at times.

I returned to open mike Friday night and what a treat it was. Many familiar faces filled the venue and all offered me sincere and friendly welcome backs. There were also many new faces – a testimony to just how many foreigners arrive in even the smallest of South Korean towns, every month. There were sets of original music, great covers and luke warm do-overs. A touching birthday tribute and an uncomfortable stand-up. Jenny’s could have been a college bar in Greencastle, Indiana.

One of the night’s coordinators obliged me with an in-depth talk about his experience living in Gangneung with his former research scientist wife and their now teenage daughter. He had read a few of my blogs, so he was able to laugh with me as to how when I’m on, I’m on and when I’m off on some misjudgment due mostly to insecurity… I’m really off! A truly genial guy, I thoroughly enjoyed talking with him out front of the cafe as he smoked down wind while I caught and sucked in the fresh night air that blew in just before.

The week rounded out it’s corners with the conclusion of Dano Festival. Created by the city of Gangneung, the yearly spring celebration is a cultural flea market meets traveling fair. Both sides of the city’s riverbed are lined with what must be about two hundred tents. While much of what is offered is a near perfect duplicate of what you might’ve walked pass just two booths earlier – there are some nice surprises: Ice cream magicians from Malaysia delight children and tempt parents with the cones they dip in front of them, then yank away when reached for; Fresh coconuts are sold then hacked open in front of your eyes; Whole pigs spin on spits; Indians sell beaded bags and garments, each one claiming “Original! Handmade!” at the top of their lungs. One bag in particular caught my eye. The expert salesman noticed then whispered to me, “One of a kind. Forty-five thousand won.” I whispered back, “I’m from Los Angeles. I know what ‘one of a kind’ means.” He stepped back then countered, “Ah, for you… twenty thousand won.” Apparently, I’d met someone who spoke my language.