For example, take my nose. While it’s got slightly shnozz-ish tendencies, it is, at its core, a relatively unremarkable descendent of Eastern European Jews and beaky English peasants. Though I’ve never really considered plastic surgery because of my nose, I always assumed that if I were to get it, the result would be a reduction, rather like this:

When I came to Korea, though, that assumption was slowly but surely turned on its head. At first, I heard from my students, “Teacher! Nose too big!” and I assumed it was a rather clumsy insult, belonging to the school which birthed “Teacher, baby in belly?” and “Teacher! Hair. No. Like this–no.” It later dawned on me that “too” is actually a difficult word to translate into Korean. The most common translation, “neomu”, though technically implying excess, doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a bad thing. In Korean, scenery is frequently described as “too beautiful”; great movies are often called “too fun.” My nose is apparently one of those things–though big, it is an excellent, awe-inspiring type of big. Or, more precisely, it is high.

Korean nose jobs, amusingly enough, are almost the exact reverse of their American counterparts. They’re designed to raise the height of the bridge of the nose.

This whole post was inspired by the fact that I bought glasses today. It was the first time in my life that my inquiries to the guy behind the counter at the store about whether they can make the nose pieces wider and wider still felt like a weird mixture of bragging and flirting. I can only picture myself fluttering my eyelashes as I lean in dramatically, the picture of a distressed heroine from the fifties or so. “Oh heavens! My nose is just so high! Whatever shall I do?”

In another strange Korean standard of beauty, I frequently get compliments for what is literally translated as a “double eyelid.” It took me an incredibly long time to figure that one out. Anyone care to guess?

To begin with the obvious: Almost once a week, I break up little cat fights between middle school girls that go approximately, “Teacher! She touched me. There!” “No, teacher, she first.” “NO! She did me!” “Liar! She did me four times!” I try not to snort as I play responsible teacher and break it up.

An amusing theme and variation on this came up a week or so ago, when I came across one student tying a string just above her friend’s elbow, almost as if she was going to measure her blood pressure. When I asked what they were doing, she responded in all innocence, “Playing doctor.”

Another classic occurred several months ago. I was asking students about the differences between Korean and American Thanksgiving, and we were talking about what you normally do on each holiday. On American Thanksgiving, we watch parades and football and eat turkey, unless you’re a part of my family, in which case you eat walnut cheddar loaf. Korean Thanksgiving is significantly less fun, and involves an extended ceremony of ritually bowing first to an altar dedicated to various ancestors, then to all the elders in your family. When I prompted the students to tell me this, one responded immediately, “Go down!” I was heroically repressing the urge to giggle when another added helpfully, “Go down to grandma!” Thank god she didn’t change to the “to” to an “on”, or I definitely couldn’t have kept up my neutral teacher face. I dutifully wrote “Bow to grandma” on the board.

Perhaps my new favorite, though, came in a conversation with a Korean friend a few weeks ago. Her husband had just moved into their new house (he’d been living in another town for a while) the weekend before, and she’d consequently cancelled her plans with me. She swore up and down they’d been unpacking all afternoon, and I couldn’t help but tease her about it a little. She got a bit defensive and informed me, “You should see his package! It’s huge!” I burst out laughing, and she, being basically fluent in English and knowledgeable in slang, quickly realized her error. “Not that! I mean his junk! There’s so much of it!” That, of course, only made it worse, and she gave up and started laughing with me. When I’d finally recovered a semblance of calm, she asked me what she could possibly say that wouldn’t sound so damn sexual. We settled on “He has lots of luggage.” Though if anyone can make an innuendo out of that, I’d be interested to hear it.

In defense of our island, most of our criminals were of the ideological type, with more in common with Thoreau and his unwillingness to pay taxes than, say, Jack the Ripper. And, democracy-lovers that we have become, all those ex-criminals who protested against monarchies are now excellent heroes and role models for young’uns. So, this being Korea, it is entirely unsurprising that museums should be made in their honor, especially for the ones who spent their exile on calligraphy and painting and Confucius and whatnot. And, this being Jeju, it is only slightly surprising that the PTBs decided to attach a walking trail to the one I visited this weekend.

Of course, I had no idea about any of this when I arrived at the site with some of the teachers from my school. As far as I had been informed, we were going for a walk. There had been no mention of exiles or museums or calligraphy. My complete ignorance was, unfortunately, no defense against journalists.

Korean journalists love interviewing foreigners. We lend an air of exoticism to the proceedings, and can always be relied upon to make an event appear to be of great international importance. Plus, we get a good laugh from the audience if we try to speak Korean and sometimes we even ask stupid questions that make all the better-informed Koreans feel excellent about themselves. Thus, I was only slightly surprised when a pair of them descended on me as soon as I arrived at the entrance tent. Before our group of teachers had even assembled, I’d been asked for two different interviews, one for TV and another for radio.

I dodged the TV offer like a champ–”Call me later! I’m too busy now!” (In the end, it reminded me of being picked up at a bar. I didn’t ever intend to answer my phone, and even considered giving a fake number, but I was nonetheless a bit put out when he never called.)–but the radio guy reeled me in like a pro.

He asked me what I knew about Chusa. “Chusa? Is that… What? I just got here, I don’t know anything yet!” He asked me what I knew about the calligraphy. “I’m sure it’s lovely, but since I just got here…” He asked me which of the new trails I was going to take. “There’s more than one?” Finally, he asked me about the weather. “It’s a beautiful day!” Phew, at least I got one right.

As it turns out, Chusa is this particular exile’s pen name. I learned this only a few minutes too late, when I was given a commemorative dish towel and a brochure. I learned more about an hour later (we had a break for cake before we could really get started) when we finally entered the museum. The calligraphy was beautiful indeed, and the reconstructed house next door made the little historian in my heart jump up and down in glee. That was followed by a wee bit of walking, a break for Korean-style sushi, called kimbap, and another wee bit of walking.

The exercise was minimal for a reason: We had about half a dozen little ones with us, children and nieces and nephews of the assorted teachers on our hike. They certainly made the hike more picturesque, interested as they were in poking bugs, climbing statues, and getting piggy back rides. Enjoy the photos!

Being Buddhist, I have decided, is hard work. Maybe this is why Buddhism hasn’t really caught on in the states–we prefer our religion sans exercise. I believe I had willfully forgotten the one temple stay I did and the 108 prostrations involved in that when I walked into the small country temple in Kyoung-mi’s dad’s hometown. I was reminded very quickly, and I think my calves are going to be sore tomorrow from all the prostrations I did, and I couldn’t even begin to keep up with my friend’s 50-something year old mother–much less pull off the balancing act of standing up without moving your hands from the prayer position. I got a little better at that one, but I wobbled alarmingly, and Kyoung-mi’s sister actually had to catch my arm once to keep me from toppling the whole line of bowers. I couldn’t understand the litany (can you even call it that, if it isn’t Catholic?), except for one tiny part, during which I’m pretty sure we were saying prayers for individual people. The parts that caught my ear were the names of neighborhoods where they lived–”Kim Jun Mi, No-hyeong-dong, something something something become a teacher.”

After bowing came lunch, and the slow return of the men. Apparently, according to Confucian teachings, there’s no need for men to actually do the difficult bowing part. They can just hang out outside the temple and smoke, and because they’re higher up in the chain of being, they’ll just absorb enlightenment along with lung cancer.

After lunch came a visit to Kyoung-mi’s 90-year-old grandmother. I’ll never understand Korean family dynamics: even though this was her father’s mother, her dad stayed outside looking at the garden while all the women went inside to visit. Meantime, I discovered that it’s really difficult to speak to someone who’s hard-of-hearing in a language you’re not very good at; yelling all your grammatical errors just makes you that much more nervous about getting them wrong. On the bright side, we did eventually get Grandma into the modern spirit with a wild fit of picture taking, during which her granddaughters insisted that she do the super-Asian peace sign. “Grandma, you have to make a V! No, like this, grandma!”   

In Korea, there is no choosing, and there is no avoiding.

Koreans believe in working hard to maintain the health and cohesion of the group, and the best way to do this is with the aid of soju, the poison of choice among locals. (It’s a bit like Japanese sake crossed with weak vodka, except it’s made purely from chemicals and gives you the worst stomach ache of your life the next morning.) In their defense, drunkenness is the easiest way to lower the incredibly rigid social barriers related to age and seniority that dominate Korean social interaction.

And I have to admit, it can be fun. Nowhere else in the world (at least, nowhere that I’ve been) is the most acceptable way to bond with the school principal to go sit cross-legged next to him, offer him your already-drunken-out-of shot glass so you can pour him a shot, and then to watch him drink it in one go, wave the now-empty glass upside down over his head, and then pass it back to you so he can pour you a shot and then you can do the same bottoms-up-and-glass-waving-over-head routine. But it definitely helps provide a bond–if only a bond of shared flu germs.

Did I mention my principal is also a Catholic priest?

There’s a meal involved in this ritual as well, which in my case usually involves Korean women half my size telling me that I don’t eat enough as they dump select pieces of barbecue onto my plate.

But I think the moment when hway-shik (in Korean, 회식) truly creates an unbreakable bond is when you all meet again at work the next day, and moan about your headaches and stomach aches together, and marvel at the guys who look like they could do this every day without breaking a sweat. Which just makes you wonder how many days in a row they do…

Choice 1 is the Endurance Method. By this method, one is obliged to not only continue in all regularly scheduled activities, but to actually schedule a few more to show the world that you are NOT sick.

Choice 2 is the I Give Up Method. This is the choice favored by those among us who wake up, cough, and immediately reach for the cell phone not to shut off the alarm but to inform the boss man that we (cough, cough) simply cannot make it in today.

I have had a cold for nearly a month now, and have see-sawed between these methods several times over the course of these last few weeks. I have not yet reached a conclusion on which is the best method, but I have decided that I unequivocally loathe the combination favored by Korea, best summed up when delivered by a very helpful and sympathetic coworker: “I know you’ve given up on your looks, but you must endure! Go to the hospital immediately, as long as it does not involve walking out the door before 5.”

that, since birthdays are the kind of day that always make me prone to crises about my life and my purpose and my accomplishments, and it’s usually better to go into that type of crisis in a familiar environment with people who love you nearby to pull you back from the brink. But this year, my vacation was moved against my will, and the choice became a simple one: Spend my birthday in China, or don’t go.

And honestly, not traveling isn’t really an option for me.

So I packed my backpack (to better blend in with the other folks at the hostel.

A suitcase would’ve marked me as a weird, unauthentic, day-tripping yuppie.), coughed up the $200 for my visa, and headed out on an adventure.

Adventure was waiting for me. As soon as I got to the hostel, they told me the overnight trip to the Great Wall was leaving in about two hours, and if I wanted to go, it was now or never. Again, not much of a choice. So I waved hello to Beijing and hopped in a van bound for a nameless, middle-of-nowhere section of the Great Wall of China. For those of you who have ever visited the Great Wall (or researched visiting it), you know that there is a massive and highly pretentious debate about which section of the Great Wall one should see. “All the tourists” go to Badaling; all holders of Lonely Planet thus treat Badaling as only slightly better than a highway truck stop with a view. The pros and cons of all the other spots ran together in my head, and luckily, when I threw myself on the mercy of my hostel’s tour, they did not take me to Badaling. They did one better, in the minds of all tourists seeking “authentic” China: they took us to a section without a name.

That’s how hip we were, our group of about 9 backpackers and 4 guides. We backpacked up a nameless, unrestored section of the wall. Most of our guides were under 20, and had that teenage boy way of running up ahead, then squatting to pull up their shirts and show off the beginnings of their beer bellies while having a fortifying cigarette. (This may be, upon reflection, a very specifically Chinese take on teenage boy.)

And when I toiled slowly up behind them, they’d finish their conversations, hang up their cell phones–because even unnamed sections of the Great Wall have reception–grin, and run ahead again.

But the toil and the teasing was worth it when we came to the guard tower where we spent the night. We watched the sun go down, then had barbecue while chatting and listening to Celine Dion, and in the morning, when we woke up, it was time for sun rise and the much easier hike down. It was the kind of experience that made me wish I had a list of things I wanted to achieve in life, because if I did, the Great Wall would be on, and that trip would’ve been totally worth crossing it off.

And now, my apple bread (!) is out of the oven, and it’s time for me to take care of that. More on Beijing later, if we get lucky and I get productive.

I have recently embarked on the great, once-in-a-lifetime adventure that is learning to drive a stick shift. Now this is an adventure that has led to no small number of remarkable stories among my circle of friends. One of my favorites belongs to a friend’s mother, who apparently had a crash course in manual transmission after her friend (the only qualified stick-shift driver in the group) broke her ankle on a camping trip and had to be taken to the hospital–in said friend’s stick-shift car. Another excellent one involves attempting to roll through toll booths without ever actually using the clutch, only to be foiled by slow toll booth ladies.

I’m not sure if my story can compare to these, but it sure has been an exciting couple of days.

Now, I bought my beat-up little Tico for about $300 US, and had to pay more than double that to insure the thing for a year. I consider the insurance an excellent investment, considering the average Korean driver’s willingness to avoid any and all traffic rules and regulations, up to and including lanes–thus leading to my new driving mantra, the title of this post, which I sing under my breath daily while attempting to hold steady in a single lane. Some part of this frenzy I attribute to the incredible number of techno-gadgets that are distracting all Korean drivers all the time, up to and including little satellite TVs, so you never have to miss your favorite Korean soap opera.

Another part of it is the rent-a-car tourists, who swarm over the island like flies every July and August for Beach Season. I’m thanking my lucky stars that I’ll be off the island soon for vacation, and when I get back on September 1st, Beach Season will be over. Because the jelly fish mark off their calendars and the swarm up to the beaches at midnight on the 31st, so after that, there’s really no reason to come to Jeju at all.

Unless you’re a foreigner and just don’t know better!

I found an apartment today. This is a rather remarkable feat for several reasons, not the least of which is the fact that it is (gasp) August. And in Korea (or at least, on Jeju), one simply doesn’t search for apartments in any months other than January and February.

I have been told dozens of times in the last week that I am simply being difficult. Why would I want an apartment that ISN’T a “one room”? (Studio doesn’t really translate into Konglish.) After all, I live alone–yet another worrying fact about me. All people who live alone should want a one room. And all people who live alone and are under the age of 45 should have parents bank-rolling the several-million-won deposits asked of the vast majority of half-way decent apartments.

But once we get past the obstacles of my apparent insanity and the incorrect time of year, we still have the actual facts of apartments in Korea. Among them:

1. Bathrooms where you actually have to go out the door and around the corner to go in, even though they actually share a wall with your bedroom.

2. Bathrooms without sinks. Because that would be ridiculously extravagant, when there’s a kitchen sink just across the room.

3. Flowered wall paper that looks like it was designed with an eye to matching the horrible flowered pants that most women over the age of 60 seem to wear just by default or boredom.

4. People watering plants with a hose in the tiled, indoor lobby of the building.

All this aside from the general issues of mold, hidden extra bills, and inconvenient washing machines (the one in the building I’m actually moving into is on the roof) that are familiar to all buyers of apartments in all countries.

Griping aside, I’m actually all but jumping up and down in excitement. My new place is clean and quiet, a 10-minute walk from one of my favorite views in the city, 3 minutes from the ocean, in an adorable little neighborhood full of ajushis squatting on curbs smoking, and furnished in a fairly traditional Korean style, complete with floor mat instead of bed. Wish me luck!

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