A Canada Day Like No Other

A violent storm rips through Gwangju overnight, rattling windows and turning drains into swirling whirlpools. The lightning is so intense that it as if some universal switch is being flipped off and on. Needless to say, nocturnal bliss is elusive, and as a result, I end up waking overnight, drifting off again, and then waking at 7:50, over an hour later than usual.

My students are in the same boat. Unlike me, however, they trundle in at various times throughout the first half hour of class. My TA, Se-Hee, has warned me of this potential problem, and I can't help but think what would happen if a student were to use this excuse in Canada. The postman has nothing on Winnipeggers for neither wind, rain, nor snow, will keep us from school. We force ourselves through the most extreme conditions. Snow days happen only when it's 50 below and there are two foot snow drifts, and even then, teachers are still expected to show up at school.

When I worked in radio, the most powerful blizzards that closed roads offered no reason for a day off; we'd get picked up by snowmachine . When I explained that I needed to be at home for my three year old whose daycare was shut down, my bosses told me to bring him along to work. But Rob later reminds me that in Albion, Michigan, snow days often involved nothing more than a light dusting of the white stuff.

When the students do arrive, they're animated in their descriptions of last night's storm. Memorable comments include, "Next thing I knew, flashy, flashy. My heart broke." One student teases another for being soaked, saying, "Ha, ha. Watery hair!" As an English teacher, it's one of life's great joys to hear students experimenting with language. It's both humbling and inspiring to see them thinking, and hear them reaching for new vocabulary. This morning some of the higher level students understand and correctly use words such as innate, urgent, and aggressive. At times, the quality, if not the quantity of their word banks surpass that of their Canadian counterparts.

We work through our program with Se-Hee's capable assistance. She would be a top-notch teacher, and it's something she'd love to do. However, she's not sure she can meet the rigorous standards for teacher training. I find this hard to believe, as she's easily as good, and better, than the education students I teach at the university level in Canada. But Se-Hee is like many of the more driven Korean young people I've met. She has very high standards, and doesn't take anything for granted. This is not to say that there are no deadbeats. As Ryan told us early in our visit, some students are aimless, simply studying to please their parents. However, for those with a goal, their focus is laser-like.

At lunch, Rob is amused to see students greet me with surprise and enthusiasm in the cafeteria, so exited to see a teacher outside the natural habitat of the classroom, mixing with the general public in the wild. We chat briefly, then go to our separate dining areas. Lunch today features a rich, creamy meat and potato soup with multiple layers of flavouring. As Rob heads to class, I mosey on home for a much needed afternoon nap. Flashy flashy night aside, I think the toxins released from yesterday's accupuncture and massage are still exiting my system. I need to revive myself for tonight's fancy dinner that the university president is hosting for visiting international professors.

Choosing appropriate evening attire is cause for concern due to the deep purple serpentine line of suction cup marks from shoulder to lower backside; Rob says I look like I was wrestling with an octopus. However, Se-Hee tells me not to worry, for Koreans will recognize them for what they are, the aftermath of a treatment designed to get rid of bad blood through increasing circulation. I settle on a floor length black and white number, with a black camisole to negate the effects of a V-neckline.

As the only Canadians in the dinner group, we are amused to see our American counterparts jockeying for position from the get-go. They jostle us, and one another, for positions next to Important People at the International Centre office, and then on the bus to the restaurant. The Taiwanese join Husband and me in watching the manoeuvering, both overt and covert.

During the ride, Dr. Shin, the Head of the International Centre, acts as our tour guide. He gives us a mini history lesson about the 1980 student uprising outside the main gate of Chonnam University. Citizens young and old rose up against the military dictatorship and took control of the city. They were ultimately defeated. Dr. Shin explains how terminology for the event has evolved over the years due to political, social, and media trends. As thousands of bodies of the missing are lost to time, so is the collective memory; what was once an painted a communist inspired uprising, may now be thought of as a democratic movement, depending on who is telling the story.

Even Dr. Shin cannot escape the intense need of some academics to show that they are Top Dog. When the good director offers to answer questions, several seize the opportunity to pontificate, at length, seemingly enamoured of their own voices. One goes so far as to make a tenuous connection between the American civil rights movement and the Korean struggle for democracy. It's seems rather sad that even when they have tenure, some of these eggheads still have such an intense need to assert their authority. To show that they are great intellects. I can only think of the great philosopher Socrates who mused that there were many smarter than he, but he knew how to listen.

The competition increases once we reach Tani Nomadic Bistro, for now the biggest question of the evening looms large: Where to sit? Gale, the clear alpha of her group, bleats out that organizers should, "Mix it up!" An interesting thought, but unfortunately for the Fearless Leader and her compatriots, the arrangements do not work out in their favour, for it is the quiet Canadians who stand at the back of the room who are shown to the prime seats in the house. Rob and I end up directly across from the University President, Dr. Kim, with Dr. Shin next to me. Gale, as the only member of the group of 15 or so teachers who visited Chonnam last year, is next to Dr. Kim.

The meal is five star perfection. We have eleventeen courses, including sushi, steak, chestnut soup, and a piece of cheesecake the size of my thumb. (Not big dessert eaters, these Koreans.) In a final flouristh, Dr. Kim orders pizza, in honour of an American woman last year who pronounced the meal just fine, but indicated pizza would have been even better.

Through it all, Gale whinges about, well, everything. The wine is too sweet. Dr. Kim orders a 200 dollar Chilean bottle. California wine is the best. Dr. Kim orders another bottle. As for the meal? "Well, it's better than dorm food." By the end, I'm as exasperated as our gracious hosts must be, but I continue to try to downplay and defect as much negativity as I can. All the education and money in the world cannot buy class.

But wait.. There's more. Doctors Shin and Kim distribute gifts to all in attendance. They are so exquisitely wrapped, it will be a shame to open them. Then, as pre-arranged (I'm complimented for having the manners to ask for permission), Dr. Shin invites Rob up to present our Canada Day gifts, pins representative of our fair city and province. We have two for each person. Rob quietly offers a few simple comments, before distributing the gifts. If there's one thing Rob and I have learned when traveling, especially in Japan, India, and now Korea, it's just good manners to reciprocate, if only in a small way.

Before Rob is even seated, the Americans are buzzing. They view our gift giving not as a simple gesture of friendship and respect, but as a Major Political Incident in which they have been upstaged! There's much fuss and bother, and suddenly, the Americans are taking the stage. While Rob's few words are respectful, and from the heart, their comments are self-aggrandizing and painfully transparent. They blather on using all the diplomatic buzzwords, but sadly for them, it simply looks like they're scrambling, and have a bad case of sour grapes. They distribute only three pins, one to each major player, which is fitting, as to them, those are the only people in the room who really matter. If Letitia Baldridge, the American etiquette expert, public relations executive and White House Secretary to Jackie Kennedy were to comment, she'd say, "Bad form."

That Rob and I stumbled into this tempest in a teapot of an international incident is truly amusing. We are the least political people around. In fact, we are staunchly apolitical. Unlike our colleagues, we had absolutely no agenda going in, and I think the powers that be sensed this fact. More importantly, what we lack in political acumen, we make up for in cultural sensitivity. The little things, like recognizing how to properly shake hands, with one hand on the forearm, and the other outstretched, how to turn one's head when drinking before a superior, and how to hand over items with both hands, go some distance in a culture built on tradition and respect. While others have clung together like lemmings before a cliff, Rob and I have spent our time immersing ourselves in Korean culture. And this hasn't gone unnoticed.

On this Canada Day, two things occur to me: 1) I don't dislike Americans. As they say, some of my best friends are Americans. In fact, we have a couple of really nice Americans right at our dinner table. However, I do dislike the ugly American stereotype, especially when someone lives up to it, And, 2) Canadians really are unique and distinct in this world. I say this not with arrogance, but with a quiet pride in knowing that we have an innate ability to accept and welcome the world, not on our terms, but in a mutually agreeable fashion. We go out into the world in the same way that we invite people to our little corner of the globe, by opening our hearts and minds. We don't expect people of various nationalities to give up their identity to melt into Canadian society, nor do we expect them to convert to our way of thinking when we visit their homeland. And the interesting thing is, we really do stand out. A Taiwanese dinner guest knew, at a gut level, that Rob is not an American. He thought Rob might be French. When I told him we're Canadian, he simply said, "Aaaah." And he smiled.

Happy Canada Day, indeed.

Health and Beauty

Yesterday my class was so quiet, I feared I'd never engage them in the days activities. If I complained of this to Canadian teachers used to motley crews of misbehaving students, the response would be along the lines of, "Wah, wah. Let me call you a wambulance!" Well, it appears true that the universe always seeks balance, because on a rambuctiousness scale of one to 10, they're at 11. They keep me on my toes for the entire three hours, and that's a good thing because I'm feeling rather off the mark. The Tigers may have lost the game last night, but they won the battle with my back and neck. I decide that today is the day to see the accupuncturist in Hu Moon.

But first, Rob and I have lunch, which includes chewy vegetable pancakes. I tried to make these at home, unsuccessfully. I thought they were supposed to be thin and crispy, with only a few bits of vegetables. In fact, they're as thick as regular pancakes, and packed with lots of vegetables. They could be a meal in themselves, but here, they're just a little side dish.

In the afternoon we walk to the other side of campus to visit the Corea (French spelling) Beauty Museum. The owner greets us at the door and then takes us on a personal tour. It's an enchanting place filled with various replicas and originals of hair implements and accessories from the last several hundred years. Downstairs, there is a functioning, modern hair salon. Such an innovative concept and layout! At the end of our tour, we are presented with a lovely large paperback coffee table book. At no time are we asked for payment. We leave, mystified, and once again, touched by the generosity of the Koreans we've encountered.

En route to the apartment, we stop at the Sang Dae Vero coffee shop for an Americano. As usual, the servers are confused by my request for uyoo (milk) believing that must mean I want a latte. The girls actually laugh as one explains this seemingly benign, but to them, bizarre order. We enjoy the coffee with a mini angel food cake across the street at Tous Les Jours. Like a three year old, I need to visit the washroom in each place we visit, and this one is another experience. It's a unisex facility located down the narrow side alley between this store and another. One wonders how they cope in winter. Even though it only goes down to minus 6, there must be some rather chilly bottoms.

At this point, I realize that my back and neck pain is beyond the point of ignoring. It's off to Neulsiwon Korean Medicine Clinic in Hu Moon. There's some minor confusion over medical coverage and pricing, but a quick call to our able assistant Ryan straightens things out; we don't have Korean insurance, so we'll have to pay 20,000 won instead of 7,000. No problem! At this point, I'd re-mortgage our home to alleviate the pain.

Of course, I need to check out this bathroom, and it has the new-fangled fourteen button toilet. I've still not figured out what each button is used for, but I do know that one is for the bidet, and another is a dryer. Oh, and it flushes with a retro handle at the back. The bathroom could be featured in Better Homes and Gardens, with the expensive tiles, bowl on mantle sink, and assortment of chi chi toiletry items.

The process begins when I'm directed into a doctor's office. He assesses me by pressing on my finger tips. When he reaches the ring finger on my left hand, I let out a yelp as it causes a sharp pain in my lower left backside. He charts my maladies, including that I'm sweating, and then a young woman sends me to change into pyjamas. When I emerge, I look like Elvis during his Vegas years. My pants are so tight that I don't dare sit.

I'm led into a therapy room that is divided into private areas by curtains. Incense burns, and the ping-ping sounds of ancient Korean classical music blanket the room in calm. I have no idea how many two inch pins are inserted into my wrists, ankles, and feet, because I don't even feel them go in. I'm told to relax, and then I'm alone.

My right knee begins to pulse dramatically, and then feels like it's opening up, and negative energy is flowing out. I'm not speaking in ethereal terms; it's a very real sensation. The entire left side of my head seems to have split apart, and it too is gushing white hot energy. I try to centre myself, for this is an unsettling sensation. At once point, I feel so panicky that I have to fight the urge to jump up off the table and run, like a giant pinpricked voodoo doll. I truly understand the concept of the mind-body-soul connection, and can attest to how we physically hold in our pain, no matter the type, because only when it's realised do I realize how tightly I grasp it.

Around about the time I bring myself back to earth, an assistant comes to pluck out the pins. She tells me to take off my shirt and flip onto my stomach. The next thing I know, a man is attaching a line of suction cups from my shoulder to my bottom. Then he turns on the machine. If I weren't absolutely certain of the medical impossiblity, I would wonder if my organs might be sucked out, such is the force of this device. Later, I notice small Dad's oatmeal cookie sized purplish-blue hickies on my back. I really must remember to wear my hair down, lest someone think I've been up to something untoward.

By now somewhat disoriented, I am sent up a Himalayan steep flight of stairs for more treatments. (I find the idea of several flights of stairs at a pain clinic outrageously amusing, but this is the norm in Gwangju. One rarely sees ramps or elevators. I wonder how the physically challenged manage?) In the upper clinic, I'm soon face down on another table with a twist of mechanical eels on my shoulder. This device doesn't only give a mini shock treatment, it also gives one the feeling of big centipedes marching artfully as it massages the injured area.

Already disoriented and without my glasses, I manage to give a real floor show getting onto and off of this table by banging my head into the metal overhead light that gongs and reverberates in spectacular fashion. The assistants giggle, then use their electronic translators to ask me, "Are you okay?" Once finished, I'm led to another table where I'm strapped into thigh high inflatable space boots. The young lady, who seems to find my antics incredibly amusing, struggles to zip up these marvels of science that are designed to fit Korean legs with thighs the size of my calves. The space boots feel much like the bands doctors use to determine blood pressure, as they inflate and deflate with a force that leaves me with some bruising. Korean massage is not for the faint hearted.

Just when I think I'm finished, I'm sent to yet another table for a back, neck, and shoulder massage. A young man pummels me as if cleaning clothes on a washboard at the riverbank. He pulls my arms so hard, I may leave here looking like a monkey, with hands by my knees. Each time I grunt, cough, or burst out laughing, he apologizes, but I assure him it's chullhunda (good), very chullhunda. I'm not lying when I say I wish I could take him back to Canada with me.

An hour and a half later, I emerge like one of those toys that crumble when you depress a button and pop back up when you let go. And all this for just 20,000 won, or about 16 dollars Canadian. Any one portion of the treatment would have cost double to triple that amount at home. Granted, Koreans do not have the incomes of North Americans, but even here, this is considered a pretty good deal.

I struggle to keep my eyes open until 9 p.m., and then stumble off to bed. Husband has been fast asleep for a couple of hours. Just visiting South Korea may prove to be our best fitness plan yet.

Take Me Out To The Ballgame

There's a heavy vibe in this morning's class. Maybe it's because about half the students are away for mandatory South Korean military training. While that's nothing unusual, the news of late adds a layer of intensity to the whole process.

North Korea's leader, Kim Jong Il is claiming that the United States military has stationed tanks in the demilitarized zone between north and south, and he's rather irate about it, and that's never good. The last time he was in a mood was this past spring when he sank a South Korean sub killing 43 people.

Students, and their TA Hae Sung, aka Harry, tell me they've been living with apprehension over their northern neighbour for their entire lives. They're hopeful the world is starting to take note of what their country has been dealing with, especially with the G20 Summit scheduled to take place in Seoul in November.

We plan to drop into Seoul ourselves before heading back to Canada, and apparently we're going to be in for quite a culture shock. Southerners who pride themselves on their hospitality, find their northern counterparts sorely lacking in charm. Even Will, who is from Seoul, says it's a rather soulless place. While he has family there, he's very much enjoying his time in Gwangju. Still, he provides me with names of some hotspots he thinks we should visit in his hometown, and advises care and preparation when navigating the formidable subway system.

In the evening, we join our American friends, at the behest of sweet young Biology Professor Eric, in a trip to Mudeung Stadium, the local ballpark. The 2009 Division Champion Kia Tigers are taking on the visiting SK Wyverns. We grab a pre-game meal of kimbap and beer. Kimbap is Korean sushi, and, like most meals, covers the bases with fish, fowl and pig within. It costs a mere 2,000 won, and the vendor tosses in free "peanuts," which is actually a mix of rice crackers, seaweed, and chocolate, but no nuts.

While provided with chopsticks, we pick our food up with our hands, like savages. Meanwhile, I note the Koreans are eating their fried chicken with chopsticks. Though another vendor has gifted us with water, we also try two new Korean beer: Cass lemon, and OB, which is designed to look like Molson Canadian. Interestingly enough, it even tastes as bland as Canadian beer. The beer is 2,000 won per can; that would get you a sip-and-a-half at a Canadian ball park.

And let me tell you, the Koreans don't need beer to know how to party! The game is barely underway, and they're going wild! There's a little old lady in a royal blue chiffon blouse, white pants, and white gloves, and she's loudly barking orders while gesticulating at the players. The party convenor is a man with an arrow shaved into his hair who cues the crowd to chant. Beating yellow, red, and blue Tigers noisemaker bats, this group of several thousand is able to maintain a rhythm worthy of Neil Peart, the legendary drummer for the Canadian band, Rush. The talented percussionists include the guy in front of me whose bats keep grazing the sides of my head! This boisterous group makes so much noise, it seems to echo off the mountains miles away.

Popular North American rock and pop songs are transformed into inspirational ditties. We hear Smoke on the Water, Twisted Sister, Jose Feliciano, and Scotland's long forgotten Bay City Rollers. The lyrics for YMCA change from "young man," to "Big Choi," (and the rest is in Korean). When Big Choi is injured immediately afterward in a collision with an opponent, the party convenor quietly imparts some words of wisdom, and then the crowd cheers for the risen player. When another player fails to impress, a vocal young man behind us yells in Korean, interspersed sarcastically with "nice going" and "nice one." And of course, there are the ubiquitous saucy little cheerleaders in very un-Korean ultra-skimpy garb.

The crowd is especially worked up because the game is being shown on television. We're encouraged to mug for the camera when the crew scans the crowd, and a 20-something, handsome westerner is happy to oblige. For his efforts, he is given a T-shirt and some cans of beer which are delivered to him courtesy of the promotor's capable pitching arm. The party convenor, who until now has exclusively spoken Korean calls out, "Safety! Safety!"

By the top of the fifth inning, the seats have taken their toll on my backside. They are so small, I might, just might, have fit into them in kindergarten. As is, I have to sit side-saddle, or my knees would be pressing two inches into the back of the man in front of me. And I'm only 5' 5". I can't imagine how Husband is going to unfold himself later.

I leave the merry sextet and catch the bus home. It's pretty hard to beat this bus system. One-thousand won takes you anywhere. The buses are spotless, and everything is automated, including the electronic ticket taker that thanks you for paying your fare. You can even pre-pay for a card, and then just scan it while boarding. You don't have to wait for a bus; they arrive every couple of minutes.

We pass stores like Funny Mart and a clothing store called "A Flippant Cat," and before I know it, I'm back in Hu Moon. I walk right by the tailor's shop, and am shocked to see it's still open. The seamstress must toil 16 hours a day in this cramped space that is little more than twelve feet deep and six feet wide. I pop in to pick up my skirt, and the hardworking gal jumps up from her cross-legged position on the floor at the back where she's been taking dinner with her husband. This is adamantly not a tipping culture (people consider doing a good job to be a matter of honour, not something worthy of reward) but if it were, she'd make a fortune.

I was thinking tonight that we haven't seen Professor Grumpy Pants around at all. Remember, he's the chap who barged into the International Centre offices upon arriving and immediately started making demands? Well, apparently he, his wife and their young son have not acclimatized themselves to Korea. They've been holed up in their apartment, making their own carefully sought out "regular" food. They bought 300-dollars worth of groceries and battened down the hatches in a concerted effort to avoid any possible connection with the real people of South Korea. All I can say is, they are missing out.

It's the Korean Way

It's a sleepy group in Room 102 at the Language Education Centre this Monday morning. Not surprisingly, we're all fried from the weekend's activities, most especially Saturday night's FIFA match. But the game aside, the people of Gwangju seem to move 24-7. Their life philosophy is not to go gracefully into the good night, but rather, to slide full speed into home plate.

My TA today is Sang Seop, an Administration and Economics graduate who is now studying law. Sang Seop is amused when I ask his name. He says all the other teachers and professors just address him as, "TA." He apologizes for the few students who are absent, explaining that they are at military service training camp. He says that due to the ever present friction with North Korea, South Korean men over the age of 20 must get two years military training. After that, they receive upgrading once a year for seven years. Women participate on a voluntary basis. I wonder if this might be part of the reason young men seem to have such regal bearing and such poise? The young people, in general, seem so mature and well mannered. This goes beyond the cultural expectations of respect for elders; in short, they're just nice kids. For heaven's sake, they bow when they hold doors open!

At the break, Friday's student cosmetologist Hye Jin drops by to tell me that she's going to try to get me an eyebrow tattooing appointment for Friday. I'm most impressed with her detective skills in finding me since, in this program, the teachers move from room to room and building to building. I'm even more impressed when she manages to track me down in the Kyosu cafeteria, across campus, at lunchtime.

Hye Jin tells me she's booked me in for 6:30 on Friday afternoon, and will meet me at 6 p.m. in the LEC. She has insisted on taking me to the shop where she works, so I cannot possibly get lost. So, what started last week as a casual conversation has turned into another adventure. I was planning on doing this on my own, but to deny a Korean the opportunity to do a favour, is to dishonour them. (By the way, lest you think this might be stepping outside teacher-student boundaries, it isn't. I am not grading Hye Jin, or any of the students in the Summer Exploration Program.)

Hye Jin is clearly a self-possessed and very capable young lady. In a hierarchical culture, a young woman with this kind of forthright attitude is a rare bird. But there's another in this morning's class. This young miss notices, and points out, a grammatical error that I've made on the overhead. I've typed the same word twice in one sentence. I applaud the student for her acuity, and her gumption. It becomes a teachable moment as we discuss cultural differences in student-teacher dynamics. Here, the power differential is such that a student would never question a teacher in class, let alone draw attention to a mistake. In North America, that is a possiblity.

Rob and I lunch, and between chopsticks full of food, note that most of our meals include samples of creatures from land, sea, and air. Today we particular enjoy dessert which is a multi-textured, flavourful cream of vegetable soup. As Rob heads for class, I'm off to one of the tailor's shops in Hu Moon to have a skirt hemmed. Through miming and gesture, I make my need understood and agree to return tomorrow afternoon for pickup. There's no ticket, nothing. I suppose the seamstress will recognize me, especially since the material in my skirt could outfit four Korean women.

I bump into an Indian post doctoral researcher and a woman who is working on her master's. Varij and Samira are from New Delhi and they're currently working through the Robot Research Initiative in Gwangju. They are ecstatic to hear that Rob is a Religions Professor whose focus is Hinduism, and beside themselves to find that he has lived and traveled extensively in India. I'm given a business card and directed to have Rob phone them. I listen carefully to their instructions, but am somewhat distracted by their colleague, and Indian version of American comic Chris Rock. I wonder if it's difficult to be such a flawless physical specimen? Is it hard to pry oneself away from the mirror? As I ponder these questions, I'm very nearly mowed down by a scooter crossing the crowded sidewalk.

It starts to gently drizzle and everyone slips into panic mode. A woman frantically gestures to her friend to put up her umbrella. I enjoy the cool droplets, and continue to walk uncovered. People stare, as if they're seeing living proof of Archimedes principle that a body immersed in a fluid experiences a buoyant force equal to the weight of the fluid it displaces. In other words, a little water won't hurt this big strapping Canadian gal.

The drizzle lets up in time for our post dinner evening walk where we bump into a couple of students and one of my TAs, Gun. After a long day assisting students in classes, he's off to do, what else? Study. We leave Gun at his departmental library, and then walk behind the building to see a gorgeous big lake filled with fountains and lotus plants. It's surrounded by a lovely walkway and many different kinds of trees. A man stops to offer to take our picture, a common occurance here. Rob glances into the water and notices the dinner plate sized leaves moving in a line. Sure enough, we look down to see a charcoal gray foot-long fish that looks like a koi wending its way through the stems. It's poetry in motion. If I had seen this in a movie, I might have thought it too precious. But this is nature, and life, at its best.

Sunday, Korean Style

We breakfast in Dorm 9, where the Americans are staying. Rob and I have taken to calling this District 9, in reference to the Sci-Fi sleeper hit of 2009 in which aliens are ghettoized in a concentration camp in Johannesburg, South Africa. Given our southern friends aversion to the place, we think it an apt nickname.

Our breakfast is actually lunch, as we stayed in late following our 3 a.m. bedtime. Not that there's a big difference between meals. A traditional Korean menu looks the same no matter what the time of day, though Rob's TA, Jisan, says due to Westernization, many Koreans now have Dunkin' Donuts and coffee for breakfast.

Today's dishes include a red pepper vegetable soup, various greens, some with cubed rice cake, sugary mini garlic toast slice, and an 8 inch, intact, fish. We pass on the protein, unwilling and unable to look our meal in the eye.

Afterwards, we grab a cab to the World Cup Stadium branch of the enormous Korean Lotte Mart outlet store. The cab rides there and back are like living inside a video game, 85 kilometre per hour tunnel racing included. One of the cabbies even multi-tasks, watching TV and listening to the radio while honking at other drivers. However, his "Best Driver" sticker on the dash assures us that we're in good hands.

Outside the mall, we see parents and children handing out flyers. One young autistic boy approaches, and we greet him as we would any another child. The parents are so touched, they insist on taking our picture with them saying, "God bless you."

The mall is set up like an upscale open market that just happens to have a roof. Multi-coloured sales signs are everywhere: 70 to 30 percent off. (The depth of the discount is always listed backwards.) We amble through the stores, slowly coming to the realization that we are the only non-Koreans on the premises. Apparently tourists favour Home Plus and EMart; Lotte Mart is the department store of choice for locals who want to power shop. I really believe that if you want to get a feel for a culture, you have to go shopping. Temples are for the virtuous, and museums are for tourists. The shops are where you see people as they really are, interacting in real life situations.

We drop into Skin Food so I can scope out concealers as I am plagued by a couple of blemishes. The sales girls, in their knee high white sock and shoe covers (designed to look like futuristic go-go boots) are deeply concerned. Hands raised, palms up, and brows furrowed in alarm, they exclaim one after another, "Problem. You have a problem!" They help me to locate a wand with which to de-Frankensteinize myself, and I scuttle away.

I find solace in knowing I'm not the only freakshow on parade. Rob lumbers through the crowd like a Lord of the Rings orc, towering above all. To be fair, many of the children seem to see him more like The Friendly Giant, and they titter and wave as we pass by.

We stock up on items that are hard to find at the nearby markets, such as pineapples, (almost) sugar free (but full fat) yogurt, and potstickers. We even taste our first sip of soju, that popular Korean vodka. This is maple flavoured, something one would expect a Canadian to have dreamt up. And for near tea-totallers like us, it isn't half bad. We buy a 600ml bottle of the plain stuff for 1,000 won and later learn that it's a cross between vodka and gin. Ice cold, it would make a pretty reasonable martini. Since all westerners have told us soju is vile, we deduce that we: a) have faulty tastebuds, or, b) are Korean. We even splurge and pick up "Stylish" beer, if only to determine the veracity of its claim that it's a "smooth, light beer" that has been "exclusively designed for well-being of young generation."

The Koreans may have a point. Each day, in the park near the tennis court, we see elderly men (and sometimes women), gather for their daily constitutional drink, exercise, and gabfest. One gent's animated discussions are interspersed with vigorous stretching exercises. These people, easily in their 70s and 80s, still ride bikes and climb hills with ease, actively staving off the ravages of time. I think the Korean seniors regimen is certainly worth noting. Consider that North America running advocate and eating proponent Jim Fixx died of a heart attack at 52. Perhaps it's we should try the Korean approach. God knows it looks like jolly good fun!

Rollercoaster Ride, Extreme Version

It strikes me this morning that despite major heat and humidity and more power walking than I've done in years, I feel great! This is in stark contrast to just one year ago when I was just getting my legs again after being felled by illness the year before. I'm even jogging a bit! I'm not experiencing any asthma symptoms or other health problems, even though this is a huge, industrial city. I'm thinking this may have something to do with the fact that I don't have a care in the world. As Rob pointed out, whilst carrying all my bags at the airport, I seem to have abdicated all personal responsiblity. This de-stressing is clearly the ticket to well-being.

We head out in the rain for a walk through Hu Moon and Sang Dae, and are surprised when Scott, the head teacher, pops out of Starbucks to say hi. He, like the locals, is surprised that we are umbrellaless during jangma (monsoon) season (people have been staring at us like we're ravers) but Scott allows that, while it has cooled off, it's not as rainy as usual.

After picking up some essentials, like a knife sharpener, so Rob doesn't have to tear open our 17,000 won watermelon with his bare hands, we treat ourselves to some daejigogi, or pork barbeque. This is the best one yet. The pork is lean, and it's served with hot pepper soup and both red leaf lettuce and spearmint leaves in which to wrap the meat and condiments. Surprisingly, the bill comes to just 7,500 won. The owner even offers us a cold Korean softdrink, that's like an extra sweet 7 Up. The people at this restaurant are so kind that we take their picture, which amuses them greatly. The ladies tell me that they love my hair barrette, a sky blue plastic flower with a pink centre, but they gently point out that it's actually for children. I try to explain that's okay, because I'm a kid at heart.

Afterwards, we trundle across the street for a Tous Les Jours mini butter cake, and then alight at a Vero booth where, for 1,000 won, I have the best Americano I've had in Korea. I had been warned against going to places other than Starbucks for a good strong cuppa Joe, but this brew is far better than the burnt offerings at Tarbucks. I even learn how to order it with uyoo, or, milk. Now waddling, we thank heavens we're getting so much physical activitity,or we'd be leaving here with Buddha bellys.

We wisely enjoy a brief afternoon nap in preparation for a full night of activities as we prepare for the South Korea - Uruguay FIFA match. Activities include decorating T-shirts that have been provided for us along with World Cup scarves. We were advised not to wear high quality clothing tonight, or anything we didn't fear getting tarnished, and for good reason. As we create posters and paint our faces splotches of colour fly everywhere. Then we pile into a bus to head to Gwangju's World Cup Stadium,.

This massive facility, built when South Korea and Japan co-hosted the 2002 World Cup, is buzzing with tens of thousands of excited fans. A huge banner proclaiming love for the national team reads, "My heart, my life." A techno version of the 1960's hit song Chitty Chitty Bang Bang booms from the stadium speakers. Tarty little dancers shimmy and shake in scanty shorts and tank tops. Fans sport Pamplona bull sized red devil horns giving some of us horn envy.

We pass booths where vendors sell Korean treats like slugs in the shell and pupae, insects that are not quite in the transformation stage. Before you cast aspersions, consider that in North America, we eat hotdogs. This traditional Korean fare is alongside, perhaps more familiar, fun food such as the aforementioned hotdogs, or, corndogs and shoe string potatoes. The latter are dried and coated with sugar. The former are yummy, especially when french fries are cooked into the batter, an invention that would do Homer Simpson proud. (Mmmm. Heart-stopppingly delicious!)

In our midst, we have a young University of Winnipeg student who is here through an exchange program, and when I treat her to a 1,000 won softdrink, the vendor empatically and repeatedly tells me that I'm, "beautiful!" Rob and I even try "Hite," a popular Korean beer which, for 3,000 won per can costs about one-third of what one would pay for domestic beer at a Canadian game. The Chonnam organizers also generously hand out water, mini chocolate bars, and Pocari Sweat, which, despite its unfortunate name, evokes the taste of Gatorade. (Note: The name Pocari Sweat amuses us endlessly for it's clearly the inspiration for the Booty Sweat drink promoted by Alpa Chino, the rapper turned actor in the movie Tropic Thunder.)

The crowd is electrified as big screens on either end of the field glow with the action thousands of miles away. People hoist cases of beer through the crowd, but there are no incidents of rowdy or inappropriate behaviour. Well, at least not in the crowd viewing the game. During a bathroom break, I inadvertently end up in the very middle of a domestic dispute. Waiting in a huge, snaking line for the women's washroom (yes, women face the same fate the world over) I am jostled by a man in his early forties who shoves his wife past me and into a wall. She struggles to regain her footing, and he raises his fist. She begins to whimper and begs him to stop. That does it. Now my real horns come out, and I stand directly between them. I stare him down, while ushering her into the washroom behind me. He glares, and then storms off.

In retrospect, I realize this is the diametrical opposite of what one should do when witnessing a domestic dispute, and I wouldn't recommend it to anyone in the same situation. However, I was infuriated at the public degradation of this woman. It took everything in me not to punch him right in his bull mastiff mug. I have no idea how the matter resolved itself, nor whether I would do it the same way again, but it was a difficult moment in an otherwise pluperfect evening, and it rather threw me.

The thing is, I was already shaking off another jarring incident about half-an-hour earlier when I spotted a boy of about five shaking and crying as he cowered near a wall. Every so often he peered around frantically. Sensing he was lost, but having no way to communicate with him clearly, I hailed a man who could do something. He, very kindly, and soothingly, helped the little boy, and I felt secure in the knowledge that everything would turn out okay.

Husband says I have the innate ability to hone in on people in crisis. Whether I'm walking the halls of my school back home, or making my way through the crush at a World Cup football event in Gwangju, South Korea, I see, hear and feel souls in distress. And aside from the two aformentioned cases, there could have been many others a few hours later when South Korea lost 3-2 to Uruguay.

It wasn't for lack of trying. The guys played their hearts out, but unfortunately, they had some very unlucky breaks. The game was a real thriller, and the outcome in no way reflected the superb quality of the South Koreans play. Most impressively, the obviously disppointed fans showed true character, for even when the writing was on the wall, they continued to chant with gusto, "dae han ming kook" (another name for Korea).

We rode back to Chonnam University, physically exhausted and emotionally wrung out, but secure in the knowledge that we will hit our brain's replay button on this once-in-a-lifetime experience many many times in the years to come.

Let the Good Times Roll

I awaken this morning to the usual challenge of just how to apply eyebrow pencil without my super-duper magnification mirror and kleig lights. I simply cannot see what I'm doing, so I guestimate, and hope for the best. I used to have lovely Sophia Loren circa 1955 specials, but over the years they've grown white and mangy. Without eyepencil, I look like the devil woman in Mel Gibson's Passion of the Christ. Too liberal an application leaves me resembling Joan Crawford in her Mommy Dearest phase. Since eyes are the window to the soul, and eyebrows their frame, this is a matter of some import. Lucky for me, the Lord provides.


In class, I overhear a conversation between a couple of girls involving this very issue. As it turns out, both lasses tattoo eyebrows and eyeliner for a living. A few years ago, I had looked into having this done in Canada, but it was cost prohibitive. Prices for eyebrows alone ranged from $360 to double that amount. Curious, I ask the girls about pricing in Gwangju. They tell me that eyebrows will set me back 25 Canadian dollars, while eyeliner would be about 8! When I tell them what it would cost at home, they are incredulous! They inform me that for that price one can get Asian blepharoplasty, otherwise known as "double-eyelid surgery." This is a rather popular cosmetic procedure in which the skin around the eye is reshaped to create an upper lid with a crease. This is desired because most Asians have a single eyelid with no crease. Oddly enough, I have always envied that look thinking they have a better palette for application of colour. One woman's problem is another woman's treasure. Needless to say, I make plans to get tattooed, post haste!


Today's TA, Gun, (pronounced "gone") is studying to be a textile designer. Like many others, he's had to modify his dream and switch majors once realizing how much time and money is involved in getting the proper education. Gun is as enthusiastic as his charges. We have great conversations, and there's plenty of joking around. They love using music as a learning tool, and especially appreciate The Beatles, who truly are a global band. Beatles merchandise is as common here as it was when I visited Liverpool 24 years ago. We sing songs, I play air guitar, and they astonish me with their maturity and tenacity as they wrangle with high concept English idioms and difficult pronounciations.


I meet a Korean doppelganger for Rainy, the brother of one of my favourite students ever, an Aboriginal boy named Wallace. This kid doesn't just look like Rainy, he has the same disposition, shy and sweet. I get sage advice from the Korean version of my son Kael, who says that while streets are safe, "ladies should not walk alone overnight" as they could be sexually assaulted. He delivers this message with a sense of gravitas that a son would use with his mother.


I learn how to say chullhunda (the first half of the word sounds like skull, the second has an oo sound as in look). I'm surprised to discover a depth of knowledge about politics that I hadn't anticipated when a student guesses as to the cause of an argument in a drawing and suggests one man is "right wing" while the other is "left wing." There's even a discussion regarding the roles of men and women in society. I overhear a couple of young women challenging the notion that they alone must bear the burden of housework.


I'm not a feminista by any means, but there are some Korea social mores that rankle, especially since some of the most powerful and capable people I've met since being here are women. I have trouble with the infantalization of grown women wearing Hello Kelly jewellry and big bows, like Catholic girls heading to catechism. I also bristle at the whispery girlish voice that gives us instructions on the elevator. And it hurts me to hear TA Seo Jin tell me that she's not sure she'll be able to find work as an architect because companies only want men. Still, we in North America, where equal pay for work of equal value is still more of a concept, have nothing to crow about.


Yet, the westernized northern part of South Korea, and North America itself, are still considered places where dreams can come true. Many developing countries, this one included, are big recruiting zones for the Disney corporation and it's international intern program at Disney World in Florida. It's a great deal for students who, for room and board, have an opportunity to learn English, but it's an even better opportunity for Disney because it provides free labour. A number of my Japanese students in Canada are taking advantage of this program, as is a previous TA, Lu Yin Hao. In a move that would make my visionary father very proud, I've already established links between Hao and my former students, so as to ease his transition to America. (Forgive me, but, it really is a small world after all!)


At the end of today's class, my TA pays me the highest possible comment telling me that the students have been learning a great deal today; they've been very active and they're having fun. Best of all, Gun says, "they feel no burden." This makes me unspeakably happy! Later, when I meet Chonnam's International Centre Chair, Dr. Shin, he teases me that I'll have ruined these students for everyone else. Dr. Shin's personality matches his naturally cheery countenance; he looks like the host of the Chinese restaurant on Seinfeld who refuses to give Jerry and his friends a table.

Having entertained, sung and danced this morning, I'm famished, and at lunch, I eat quickly and purposefully, like a Korean. It's hard to believe we've been eating cafeteria food, for this just isn't the fare we have in commercial institutions back home. Just when I thought they couldn't beat yesterday's one inch in circumference rice noodles (or ddeuk bok ki), they kick it up a notch. We have miso soup with big squares of chewy sea weed, small bowls of spaghetti with a gravy of vegetables and small chunks of meat, potstickers, and those incredible greens that look like tall grass but taste like green beans. (Apparently, there are a thousand such edible grasses.) I taste a last bit of spicy, hot vegetables, and then try a spoonful of icy honey melon soup that is so heavenly, my eyes pop out as if on springs, like Jim Carrey in The Mask.


En route back to the apartment, I see a motorcycle left running in the street while its driver goes into a building for a few minutes. Again, imagine doing this just about anywhere in North America. Part of me wants to walk to the residence near Sang dae for a kiwi slurpee, served in a plastic glass with a whimsical cartoon crocodile rowing down the river, but I decide instead to take care of some business at home.

At night we approach the Hu Moon neighbourhood from the backside, making our way to the more familiar section at the end of the street in front of our apartment. When we come home, we sip thick black Korean stout beer and sort our loot. In addition to our purchases, we have been given many gifts while here; today alone we've received Chonnam shirts and beautiful agenda books. But perhaps the best treat of all is yet to come. The impending rains this weekend have prompted organizers to postpone the overnight temple stay. Instead, get this, we will be going to the Gwangju World Cup Stadium to join a crowd of thousands in watching South Korea take on Uruguay in their first game of the second round in South Africa! We simply cannot believe our good fortune! We are having such a great time, it is as if we are in Disney World.

On The Street

It's about 8 p.m. and I've just thrown in another load of laundry. That meant making room on the drying rack on the balcony, not that it really matters much. The clothes never seem to be completely dry to me, and I don't think I'm alone. For the first time in my life, I actually saw those little chemical packets that you get in packing boxes and new purses and shoes for sale by the bagful in the corner store. People here throw them in dresser drawers, presumably to keep everything inside fresh. Clever.

Just now, I hear the familiar gush of water flowing out of the washer, down through a pipe that ends a couple of inches above the floor, through the hole in the floor, and out onto the sidewalk where it will stream into holes in the stone blocks covering the drain. These drainage systems, through which surplus house water (but not sewage) course runs throughout the city. Sometimes they produce a brackish scent, prompting shopowners to cover them with big plastic mats. When these mats get dirty, they rush out to sweep them with archaic looking low tech brooms make of tied together tree branches or grasses. They look inefficient, but they do the job.

Only a short while ago I returned from an evening bumming around HuMoon, the university crowd's hot spot just down the street. I've been here just over a week, and I still marvel at the sights and sounds. Something about twenty year old girls in dominatrix books, Daisy Duke shorts, and shimmery blouses with tassels across the bosom just throws me. If not for their guileless expressions, I would think them streetwalkers. But everyone dresses this way. An American chap put it to me this way: "In North America women flaunt their boobs. Here, they flaunt their legs, because that's what they've got." Whatever the m.o., as a mother, I still feel the urge to tell them to go home and cover up. Of course, this is wildly hypocritical, because I did the same in my salad days. (Long before my pasta days. And my Tim Horton's coffee with triple cream days.)

There are temptations at every turn. Tiny waffles smothered with fresh berries, chocolate, butterscotch and other sauces. Alligator pie - a thin buttery wafer topped with pecans and walnuts - claiming to only be 120 calories. Am I in some alternate universe where everything I crave is inexpensive, readily available, and Weight Watchers compliant? If the devil comes in a pleasing form, these shopowners have surely made a dark pact.

I love wandering in and out of shops, listening to conversations that I can't understand, insinuating myself into the scene. I'm thrilled that the elderly women handing out flyers who steered clear of me when I arrived now are on me like white on rice. (Side note: In this country this isn't an entirely accurate term because there are hundred of kinds of rice lining store shelves, and they all taste different from one another.) I love the 7 dollar one cup sized jars of peanut butter and thimble sized containers of yogurt. No Costco sized vats of condiments here.

I'm mystified by all the young people wearing glasses, most of them in the Hirohito style, thick black and round. (Are that many Koreans visually challenged, or is this a mass fashion statement?) I'm amused by the Innerwear Store that sells underwear. I'm wowed by the wrapping paper - thick, handcrafted, frameworthy works of art hanging in individual sheets on racks. I delight in finding neat little treats to bring home. And I get a real hoot out of the packaging. Examples include a notebook with Tweety Bird saying, "I twat I saw a puddy tat!" and a travel book advising that there's so much pleasure within, one is in danger of being "overstimulated." Everything purchased is carefully wrapped and bagged. The attention to detail is quite something. For example, earlier today Rob had already paid for fruit, which he learned at the till had been reduced in price. After payment, the clerk made a point of taking out his sticker gun, turning the dial, and re-pricing the fruit. Tonight, I buy earrings that are laying open on a table. Sure enough, the clerk places them in their own cellophane wrapper before bagging them.

Walking down the sidewalk is done at one's own peril. A man on a bike whizzes by, honking his horn as if he were Wynton Marsalis. He's drowned out by a passing vegetable truck with advertisements blaring from a loudspeaker. These vehicles are everywhere, and they sound very much like the propaganda machines we see in documentaries about World War Two. No one blinks. Earlier in the day, I witnessed two men in the middle of the street in nearby Sang Dae programming the high tech LCD sign atop their humble store. Taxis skirted around them, but those two held their ground.

Tonight, I bump into students absolutely everywhere. I'll be seeing 7 groups of 25, but I'm still taken aback at bumping into them, considering that there are 37,000 students on campus, and we're outside campus gates. Young men walk down the streets, arms linked or around each other's shoulders. I'm not sure if they're "of two spirits," as some Aboriginals would say, but no one seems to care. It's common for young girls to be affectionate, but I assumed that, like in North America, the consensus is lesbianism is hot, but men with men is not. It gives me such hope to see acceptance of something as beautiful as people showing one another affection.

As I've been blogging, Husband has come home from a dinner with The Philosopher Kings. His Religions of India course is being offered through the Philosophy Department, and his colleagues graciously treated him to a buffet, or the Koreans like to call it, a "poopay." He's stuffed to the gills with pizza, pasta, sushimi, and bulgogi, to name but a few of the dishes. He is not, however, drunk. Koreans says theirs is a drinking culture. Well, the philosophers seem to lay that contention to waste. When they order two jugs of beer, Rob braces himself. When two twelve ounce mugs arrive, to be split four ways, he relaxes.

Now, lying in bed reading, he wonders when I'm planning to grace him with my presence so we can do our ritualistic debrief before slumber. This poor man is always waiting on me and for me. To wit, this morning Rob commented on knowing how I was going to react to something saying, "I've been married to you for ten years." Then he repeated the statement. Slowly, I began to sense this was a hint. Fearing that I was going to forget our anniversary, yet again, (I've remembered it only once) I blurted out, "Is that today?!" In fact, it was exactly one week ago today, on June 17th. Bad wifey. Actually, the truth of the matter is that it feels as if we've always been together, and this is a very happy thought to end the day.

Footnote: When I finally do make it to bed, I end up accidentally waking Rob, who has already fallen asleep. Then, when he's in the bathroom, I hit him in the head when I swing open the door. Instead of being annoyed, he jokes, "There's a town called Keystone, and it has a police force!" What's not to love?

The Real South Korea

As of this writing (at 7 p.m.) this seems the never-ending day, probably because it kind of has been. Normally, when you get out of bed at 4 a.m., bedtime can't come soon enough. However, we are so pumped up to see as many things as possible over our six week stay that sleep is afterthought; we have places to go, things to see and do.


We're out the door by 4:15 a.m. to head down to the big lawn in front of the red library. The streets seems strangely silent, save for the occasional bursts of "Ooh," and "Aah" from the dorms where students are huddled watching the South Korea - Nigeria FIFA match. For the few who are on the streets at this hour, such as the bicycle couriers with the big carrying cases attached behind their seats, I'm sure we cut a rather conspicuous swath, our large Canadian bodies clad in flaming red Korean soccer jerseys. Rob sports a Korean Legend model and I'm wearing one with the motto, "Korea - Shout of Victory!" featuring a slant eyed red devil.


As we draw nearer to the site, we are confused by the silence. We round the corner to see an empty field. Nada. Nothing. Not a single Korean reveller. We wander around for a moment wondering exactly where we went wrong. Rob's red devil horns blink hopefully; there must be a party somewhere! This is a make-or-break match.


Rob wants to continue searching the campus, but I suggest we make some inquiries with the group in the silver compact car parked across the street in front of the student union building. We think they must be listening to the game because, as we head over, they yelp for joy! (We later learn that Korea has just tied the game 2-2. For the record, the tie allows Korea to advance to the next round.)


Luckily, these kids speak English. The young woman in the driver's seat tells us the event was cancelled. We later learn it was moved downtown. As she's speaking, we notice a 5 x 7 inch GPS screen on the dash of her car, on which she and three passengers are watching the game. They generously ask us if we'd like to join them. We eye the small back seat already filled with two teensy-weensy Asian bottoms, and recognize that we might have fit in back when we were fetuses, but sure wouldn't now. We thank them, and decide to head back to the apartment to catch the rest of the game. Before we leave, a young man leaps from the car and offers to take several pictures. We end up with some beautiful shots of all of us, huddled together in the wee hours of the morning around a tiny screen, taking in an important moment in Korean sports history.


The Lord truly does provide. While we've missed out on the spectacle, we decide we've experienced something even better. We've seen South Korea in a microcosm. We've had the opportunity to enjoy an important cultural moment in an intimate environment with a group of young people who represent the hope and pride of a nation. It's yet another unforgettable, entirely impromptu delight in a trip already chocked full of them.


We manage to grab a quick forty winks before the day begins in earnest. Today, when we play the guessing game in class, my students guess that I have three pigs, rather than three dogs, as pets. I wonder if this is more to do with my dearth of artistic skills, or a different understanding about pets. There are many stragglers, and a lot of very sleepy expressions to start the day as most of us got up to watch the game. Still, the momentum builds, and another class ends with loud applause. (Or maybe they were just happy to see the end of it!)


For lunch, Rob and I are treated to Korean spaghetti, which, as it turns out, is better than most I've had at Italian restaurants. This dish is served with a simple sauce of chopped tomatoes with some fried ground pork. There's yet another type of kimchi; this one is made with some sort of heavy duty cucumber. Dessert is toast with that addictive plum jam (Mother of God, is it good!) and an otherworldly green apple cold broth. Later, when elderly sidewalk vendor prompts us to buy ice cream, I stick my belly out and rub it while shaking my head, no. She breaks into laughter and wishes us well.


In the afternoon we purchase Rob a pair of prescription glasses for 72,000 won, or under 70-dollars Canadian, and this includes the cost of the eye examination! They're an old school horn rimmed pair that Rob and I choose independent of one another. They look very much like the kind Rob's dearly departed, and much beloved, father wore when Rob was growing up. While the purchase is necessary, the sentimental value alone is worth it. The optician says they'll be ready in ten minutes. (Say what?!) Then she apologizes profusely for she discovers that she'll need to order another lens, and we'll have a longer wait. Now it'll take two hours! We are incredulous, since we're these designer prescription glasses would easily cost triple to quadruple the price in Canada. (And for those who console themselves thinking it's probably a cheaper product, it isn't. The lens and frame are both top of the line.)


From there, we take a cab to the Gwangju Folk Museum. For only the second time on this trip, we are shortchanged. The cabbie charges us 4 thousand won for a 3 thousand won ride. I debate whether to point out the discrepancy, but decide it's a minor sum, and the trip was well worth it, so I smile, exit, and we head up the walkway to the museum... which is closed on Wednesdays! We have a good laugh, and decide this presents a great opportunity to investigate a new section of our Bukgu neighbourhood. We stroll the museum grounds and take pictures, and then head for the main street.


Children are getting out of school, and we pass a good many of them on the crowded sidewalks. Several stop to try out their English. One bespectacled young lad formally stretches out his hand for a shake and says, "Hello. How are you today? Where are you from?" Young James is a very composed and mature 7 year old, and when walks away he says, "See you later." Moments earlier, a fruit vendor leaped before us and struck up a conversation using the identical terminology. We consider the possibility that these stock phrases are the focus in English classes. The vendor is a real surprise, because he's almost of our vintage, and he's a labourer, and therefore less likely to have had English lessons. He is extremely proud to display his knowledge, and encourages his buddy to jump in, but the other man smiles shyly and turns away.


While we love our end of Bukgu, the shops in the area clearly cater to the international university crowd. It's foreign, but there are still signs of the world at large. But this, this is our kind of 'hood. Zero pretense, and for the most part, absolutely authentically old style Korean. Old women crouch down amidst ground level buckets of fruit and vegetables for sale. They labour in the heat, peeling garlic and slicing foot-long long lengths of leafy greens, rarely looking up from their work. Physical therapists should study these old gals to see how they manage to maintain such superlative muscle strength and flexibility, because that information would be invaluable to out-of-shape North Americans.


We pop into one of the few non-authentic Korean place, primarily because we need a place to sit down for a moment, and they have chairs. Tous Les Jours is an ersatz French bakery chain that's all the rage in Gwangju. We pick up one of our favourites, a package of these crunchy, rich, soya bean chips, and a type of cake that looks like a Twinkie but defies description. It's an extremely buttery, light, yellow cake, and for 1,000, it's a steal. It's so decadent that we split it. This little gem will be in my dreams for years to come!


Then it's back to the curb for the ride home. The old codge cabbie, listening to the The Baby Elephant Walk on his radio, manages to move from the curb, across a couple of lanes of traffic, in one fell swoop. He twists and turns as he races through streets and back lanes. He is elated to hear that we are Canadians, rather than Americans. When I try to engage him a little more, he gestures to Rob pinching his fingers and thumb together rapidly and says, "Ladies. They talk, talk, talk!" We roar with laughter!


It's an uncustomarily quiet evening in the apartment before lights out at 10.

"Going Native"

Most mornings start with a viewing of the news via the Internet. Sometimes, we check out the entertainment section only, simply because we're not in the mood for bombings, political intrigue, or environmental disasters. Today, we skip the process entirely.

It's day one of my Summer Exploration classes, so I review material while ingesting a quick breakfast of boiled egg, cold rice, red leaf lettuce, and cold tea. The eggs here are unlike the grayish foul smelling offerings Canadians get commercially. These have a bright yellowy-orange yolk and are full-flavoured like the organic, free-range ones at home. Each egg is individually stamped to ensure it has been quality checked.

En route to the Language Education Centre, I note the enormous sign atop the building exhorting students to, "Aim High and Learn." I pass an old man pulling a flatbed sized cart of carefully folded and stacked cardboard boxes for recycling, and young members of the military in green camouflage. At Incheon airport in Seoul they wore navy coloured fatigues and carried rifles. Either way, they cut striking figures.

The soldiers, like most Koreans, are slim and fit, despite a diet heavy on eggs, pork, and high glycemic index white rice. It's rare to see someone who is overweight, but with those who are, it seems to be due more to their body type than fat accumulation. I have yet to see a single obese Korean. Perhaps it's because, in Gwangju at least, nature provides one colossal stairmaster, and it's always set on extreme. My glutes and calves haven't been tested so thoroughly for decades!

At 9 on the dot, I meet my first morning class. The group is low level beginner, so the materials provided for teaching them are rendered useless. Thankfully, since this program focusses on speaking and listening, it's easy to revise on the spot. The students, all 20 year old freshmen, are quiet to start, but this is normal. The power differential between teacher and student in Korea is tremendous. Further, students will not offer answers voluntarily, waiting instead for the teacher to call on them.

We play an introductory game that involves guessing information about one another based on drawings of clues involving our interests and personal statistics. I use some gentle humour to break the ice, but am momentarily disconcerted when my jokes draw flatlines from the crowd. When I incorporate physical gestures into the act, things kick into gear. For example, they tell me that they're 20, and I tell them that's funny, because so am I! Too polite to indicate that they deny the veracity of my statement, they look askance. I raise my eyebrows, and they howl in delight. But the end of the third hour, they're chatting, and laughing, and clapping enthusiastically for each other and for me. As a Canadian teacher, I am used to high school students inured to the joys of learning. These kids are more like my English as an Additional Language learners back home. they feel privileged to have this opportunity, and they're more than happy to show it.

Like all young people, these kids are interested in the opposite sex, music, video games, and the Internet. Which brings me to another observation - that of the extreme contrasts in this country. The other day, Ryan was mentioning how exposure to the Internet has caused many young people to reassess their goals, taking care to establish some of the own rather than just following their parents dreams. He also said that while kids study, they often aren't sure why because they don't have a plan. These students today seemed on the opposite end of the spectrum, quite focussed on learning English and using it as a tool to better themselves.

There are other contrasts. For example, while there are many rules about what is considered rude, such as facing an elder while drinking (you have to turn sideways), brushing teeth in public is entirely acceptable. And here's another one: Recycling is in, but offices burn through paper with wild abandon. Looking for rhyme or reason proves futile, for it just "is."

At lunch, Rob and I try to pare down our portions, and I leave out the rice. The server instantly scurries over to deliver a metal bowl full. It would be impolite to say no thank you, so I dip in my chopsticks. I also get a chance to try the very popular white toast with plum jam. Expecting overly sweet, generic jam, I instead am treated to an explosion of fresh plums.

On the way back to Rob's office we bump into Daniel, the professor from the American West, who regales us with his story of misfortune in a water closet. Seems there were several buttons in place of a lever. Forced to select one, he pressed, and was immediately showered by a gush of water. He had unsuspectingly activated the bidet. We appreciatively absorb the lesson in this cautionary tale, and move on.

In the late afternoon, Kathy and Daniel call to invite us to dinner. Though tired, we accept because they're such nice people. We are surprised to discover there are other dinner companions, Southern American professors Gale and Sharon. The latter is a single mom with whom I can connect in that we seem to have similar sons. The former is a ball-buster of the first order who commandeers the entire evening. She is so overbearing that I feel like a flower closing its petals for the night. As I find myself sinking into the chair, I decide not to letter a bully ruin my night, and I go out of my way to be cheery and polite.

Someone has to be. Our table seems to have morphed into that quintesssential ugly American hoarde one sees in countries around the world during tourism season. The server is barked at, mocked, and, shall we say, underappreciated. The server's attempts at showing us how to cook our bulgogi properly are misread as him being angry and rude. Rob and I go out of our way to try to make amends and cover up for the other guests. We slip into spy mode and give each other subtle signals that indicate we're about to slap the attitude out of someone. Fittingly, after dinner Gale, who has imbibed liberally throughout the evening, tries to get us all to split the bill evenly, even though Sharon, Rob and I haven't had more than a glass of water. Kathy kindly steps up and points out the discrepancy. While the group makes plans to go out for ice cream, Rob and I head back to the apartment to decompress.

Husband and I are in Korea to learn about the people and experience the culture. We are not the travellers who go to destinations in search of Pizza Hut and McDonalds, white bread, and domestic (meaning from our home country) beer. We assiduously avoid other white folk, and actually enjoy hanging out with the locals. And we're hoping to do a little more of that tonight.

At 3:30 a.m. in this country, the South Korean team takes on Nigeria in a make-or-break FIFA match in South Africa. Once again, the giants screens are being set up by the red library, and the city is buzzing. Though I have a class in the morning, we, like many Koreans, have got our on Korean Legend jerseys and flashing red devils horns and are ready to go!

Meet the Teacher

Several years ago, my children were highly amused by the pomp and circumstance involved in a university graduation ceremony. They marvelled at the professors vestments and headgear that bore more than a passing resemblance to those of the teachers in the Harry Potter series. Like many in the crowd, they slipped into boredom induced comas at the intonations of University of Winnipeg Chancellor Lloyd Axworthy (a former politician known to detractors as "Count Floyd Taxworthy). In short, they found it to be a hellaciously long, drawn out affair. I informed them that they would suffer through a good many such events before finishing their university years.


Well, the Koreans seem to do things differently. Today is the grand opening ceremony for the Summer Exploration Program through Chonnam University's Language Education Program. Husband and I expect to hear officials droning on at length, but instead, it wraps up in about twenty minutes flat. (And that includes teacher introductions.) While ceremony is important, business just cannot wait.


We notice a similar approach to the "Git 'R Done" Korean philosophy at lunchtime in the university residence cafeteria. We show up with our lunch chits (we'll be receiving lunch and dinner daily as part of the package during our stay), and make our way to a table. We are quicky redirected to the Teacher's Dining Room beyond the partition. The teacher's tables and chairs are covered in elegant seafoam green linen with fine lace trim. We leave our things at the table, and head for the buffet. The variety of foods include a number of spicy (need I add this adjective at this point?) vegetable dishes, a rich and vibrant soup which includes crunchy bamboo shoots, a cold pork cutlet, and for dessert, an icy sweet cinnamon broth. With all the red pepper, vinegar, and cinnamon on Korean menus, they've certainly got a keen understanding of how to maintain a healthy gastrointestinal tract. We are barely through the soup, while people next to us who started dining at the same time are already clearing their dishes. Mind you, they had approximately one-third the amount of food on their plates that we did, and we were rather moderate.


Once finished, we clear our plates into the garbage bin, separate our dishes into the appropriate wash basins, and grab a metal cup of water whilst exiting the restaurant. Koreans don't tend to take much liquid with their meals, and Rob tells me this quick gulp exit is also done in India. Perhaps they don't need water to aid in digestion while eating, given the content of their meals.


After lunch, Rob heads to teach his Religions of India class, and I hook up with Kathy, another Summer Exploration teacher, to check out one of the classes. Scott, our EMart guide, is doing an introductory exercise with his students. They are thoroughly engaged, so thrilled are they to have been selected for this intensive program. Over the next several weeks, these students will focus on English speaking and listening skills. Interestingly, they already have a strong grounding in grammar, and their reading and writing skills outpace their ability to actually communicate verbally. This program will give them the chance to develop speaking skills and enhance problem solving skills using English. Further, the Summer Exploration Program allows them to hone their skills while having some fun, which, as any good teacher knows, is the best way to learn.


And these students are certainly under some pressure to learn. Only 170 Chonnam students have passed the muster to get into this program. They've been told to take full advantage of this rare opportunity to learn from instructors from abroad. In the words of the university president himself, "the world has been brought to your classroom," so you must, "immerse yourself," to "increase proficiency," in preparation for a, "competitive and globalized future." There will be no dilly-dallying in the Summer Exploration Program.


Afterwards Kathy and I have coffee with her husband Daniel. This charming couple hails from the American west where Daniel is an Education Professor and Kathy is an audiologist in the public school system. Daniel beckons us to his table with his velvety, sonorous voice. With shining black eyes, and an impish grin, one can see how students would be drawn to him. Kathy is his physical polar opposite. While Daniel is big and very tanned, Kathy is very slender, with strawberry blonde hair, fine features, and gigantic blue eyes. I don't want to impose on their time together, but they insist that I join them. We discuss Important Pedagogical Matters, and the inherent flaws in the education systems in both our countries. (Oddly enough, just this afternoon I happened upon the following quote from Mark Twain: "In the first place, God made idiots; this was for practice. Then he made school boards.) We also talk about our shared loved of Winnipeg and Fargo, North Dakota, the frozen berg where Kathy grew up. We fondly recall trips to one another's home towns, and comment on the friendliness of the citizens. As we exit the cafe, I think to myself that I like the cut of their gib.


I sensed that I would enjoy their company when, upon meeting Kathy, she commented on the program assistants' kindness and deep desire to please. She said that Daniel was concerned how these underlings would fare when dealing with North American professors and their outsized egos. The paucity of humility in the ranks of academe is rather off-putting. Case in point: The other day we had the misfortune of encountering a Very Important Professor from the American Mid-West. He barged into the International Centre with his much younger wife and four year old son in tow, demanding items and services too numerous to mention here. In addition to his scenery devouring ego and bombast, the guy has a boulder-sized chip on his shoulder. When introducing himself, he felt compelled to explain that his Irish surname was given to his ancestors when they stepped off a slave ship. Taking a huge social risk, I burst his bubble by instantly countering that in Canada, we renamed people who were already there. Pause. Then a big belly laugh from Mr. Pompous.

In the afternoon, I head home to do a little prep, and before I know it, I see Rob's belly through the apartment entrance monitor. This device has been set up to capture faces, but at 5'11" Rob is far too tall to hit the mark. In older areas of the city we face similar challenges with doorways that are apparently designed for hobbits.

After a superb dinner, for which we receive 2,000 won change after handing over our meal chits, we decide a perambulation is in order. En route, Rob discovers a 10,000 won bill (a little less than 10 dollars Canadian) on the sidewalk. He picks it up, and then carefully puts it right back where he found it. Rob says with the bounty we're experiencing in our lives, it would be downright greedy to keep it; better to leave it for someone else to get a nice surprise. As we walk on, I glance back to see two young women staring at us, incredulously. Yet they also look at the money, and walk on. I wonder if this is a cultural point.

In Japan, when people find wallets on the street, they either leave them where they lay, or put them in a place where they can be found. That way, the owner can come back to claim the item. And the system works. In in the early 90's, when my niece's husband lost his wallet and passport in Tokyo, it was sent to him by post to Hirsohima-cho, just outside Sapporo. The wallet, with all the money and identification in tact, was mailed in a clear plastic bag. It's the Japanese/Korean version of what some might think of as creating good karma.

And it pays immediate dividends. After searched for days for reasonably priced, simple, yet stylish T-shirts in standard Canadian jumbo size, I finally find not one, but three of them in the exact shade of charcoal gray I'd been seeking. Total cost: 15,000 won! Thank you, God, for my virtuous husband. In the words of John Lennon, "Well we all shine on, like the moon and the stars and the sun." (Instant Karma)

Connections

I awaken to another overcast day, which is A-Number One-Terrific by me. Much of Korea has a temperate climate, but we're a short ferry ride from Jeju-Do, which is a sub-tropical island, and there seem to be mere degrees, both geographical and climatological between the two regions. Heck, we even have palm trees here. The locals don't care for the gray skies, but I quite like it, for a couple of reasons. First and foremost, it's cooler. But secondly, it creates excellent conditions for photography; the foliage shows exceptionally well.


I stretch, nod to Mudeung-san, and think back to 1993. I was on a ferry with my niece, Tonya, who was teaching in Hiroshima-cho, just outside Sapporo, Japan. Gesturing across the waters, she said, "That's Korea." And this is where I stand today. Never for a moment did I think that one day I'd set foot on that distant soil.


Rob is, uncharacteristically, sleeping in. Tiptoeing around, trying to quietly whip up a protein drink, I can now sympathize with his predicament most days, as I am usually later to rise than he. I drink the liquid and eat the lumps of congealed powder as I crack open the computer. I must confess, this meal isn't as vile as it sounds. I quite like the President's Choice vegetarian soy protein powder, even though most seem to think it chalky and bland. The lumps harken back to a youth in which I begged my mother to make lumpy, slightly burned oatmeal. Texture is everything, and daddy always said that with my penchant for grains and chewing I'd have made a good horse, presumably of the work/Clydesdale variety.


Before I can settle into checking email, my Teutonic tendencies kick in, and I decide to establish some much needed order. In organizing our workspace, I note that Nerdy Nerdnick (aka Husband) has already created flash cards to aid us in the acquisition of the Korean language.


When Rob arises, I prepare a frittata, a sort of modified bibimbap (except I cook the egg), and the very moment we sit down to eat, the door bell rings. It's Ryan, the program assistant. He's come to deliver converters for our small appliances. Though it's 9:45 a.m. on Sunday, he's already been working for hours.


As usual, Ryan looks effortlessly stylish with his tennis shoes, jeans, and sculpted bed head. We, on the other hand, simply look dishevelled, and our bed head is unintentional and not quite so fashionable. I quickly snatch the steaming plates of food off the table and stow them in the kitchen. It's the second time I've had to take such action since being here in order to save our guests embarassment. This is a culture in which everyone tries to ensure the other can save face.


After deducing and then rectifying potential computer problems, Ryan consents to having a cup of coffee with us. This is not the norm, for he is considered of lesser status in this country. We, as teachers, are his superiors, and he must defer to us. We tell him we understand this is the case, but let him know that we personally do not stand on ceremony and would be very happy to simply visit with him.


Ryan and his family are very well acquainted with the power differential in Korean society. His family line can be traced back to China with whom Korea had a "king-servant" relationship many years ago. Like many families, his has sought to ensure future generations have it better than they did. As a result, in the age old Confucian tradition of "self cultivation," education, for its own sake, is a number one goal. But Ryan says, this is more about the dreams of the parents, and not necessarily the children, who often study "without goals." Clearly, this is a nation under pressure to progress.


Ryan says the rigid social strictures are difficult for young people like him who prefer a more freestyle approach. They have no intense desire to fit in or mold themselves to attain someone else's goals. This sea change in thinking can, not surprisingly, be traced to the rapid expansion of the Internet. In a country with two million commercial PC (computer) rooms, with 100 thousand in Gwangju alone, it's not a surprise that Ryan's is a generation in which a global village is more than a notion. In his words, this is why the ancient social system "is collapsing." He says youngsters now have a "window," a chance to "find their voices" and "express themselves."


For those who think the Internet is simply a place where kids go to play games, Ryan puts this misconception to rest saying, "teenagers are now interested in politics." When he was that age, Ryan says politics were not "in my {his}dictionary." The very fact that Ryan understands an English idiom like "in my dictionary" speaks to the impact of globalization. His command of the English language is better than that of many of my students born and bred in Canada.


Now the downside of progress, or, if you will, success, is that you can't keep the educated down on the farm. To wit, Ryan's 30 year old sister is married to a Korean-American and is living in New York, and his 27 year old sister is studying law in Seoul. It is an accomplished family, but one in which members only see each other every five years or so. Ryan says his father is having tremendous difficulty dealing with the distance, especially since the only thing that really matters to him is family. So, it's a classic Catch 22. He encouraged and nurtured his children, and made many sacrifices for their success. Now he's paying for it. It's the curse of having dreams come true.

Rob and I cast sidelong glances at one another upon hearing of Ryan's father's predicament. We explain to Ryan that his father is not alone. On the other side of the globe, Rob has faced similar challenges, and can fully understand the heartache his Korean counterpart is going through.

As he's readying himself to leave for his next appointment, we tell Ryan how much we appreciate all his help. We explain that beyond assisting us with technical matters, he's given us a great deal of important cultural information during our informal chats. We call him kyosu, or professor, and he blushes, saying that he is humbled by this title. But we speak the truth, for beyond language and customs, it's the little things, the tiny interpersonal exchanges, that link humanity.

In the afternoon, Husband and I head over to Sang-dae, which translates as "neighbourhood outside the back gate." In Korea, one navigates by neighbourhoods, rather that streets. The narrow sidestreets aren't even marked - people simply point to landmarks. Needless to say, maps are vague. I understand this Korean method for getting around, because that's exactly how I drive back home. Figuring out how to get from Point A to Point B becomes even more complex once one realizes that asking for instructions is pointless. If someone isn't sure how to direct the person asking the question, he or she makes something up in an effort to save face.

During our walk we encounter three little Korean boys about 9 or 10 years of age. One boldly approaches us and begins to speak fluent English. The precocious lad asks us where we're from and when we reply Canada, and says, "That's good!" I ask if I can take a picture of the trio of urchins, and they are more than happy to oblige, mugging for the camera.

We pop into a little shop where we order bibimbap and japchae, and we end up with only bibimbap, minus the egg or meat. To be fair, the woman did rather empathically try to offer us the upgrade, but we couldn't understand. What we had was scrumptuous! The variety of kimchi and pickled radish is truly amazing, so though one might think having the same dish day after day a drag, it is never the same from place to place. Again, I can't help but think how people who move to Canada must be bored out of their minds when confronted with our with our bland, colourless, standard fare.

Though parched, I fight the urge to drink the restaurant's tap water. I've already had tap water elsewhere, without incident, but I don't want to push my luck. We've been warned that there's agricultural runoff in the local water, so who knows what Monsanto monsters lurk within. We'll have to remember to bring along our UV filter when we're on the move. Ingesting liquids is a bit more complicated here than at home. For example, they don't do decaffienated coffee here. After a futile search, I cave in and visit the dreaded Starbucks, and even they come up short. I eventually unearth a box of instant packets at a convenience store, where this rare commodity costs 2 1/2 times that of regular. (Point of interest: Forget trying to be virtuous: The pictures on the boxes feature black coffee, but like the regular stuff, it 's loaded with creamer and sugar.)

In the evening we swing by the Gwangju World Music Concert, and it's truly world class. We hear three shows that include traditional Korean, traditional-modern fusion, and a percussion group that sounds remarkably like a Canadian Cree or Ojibwe drummers. The show ends with a flashy performance involving dancers that move like whirling dervishes across the stage. Some wear elaborate hats that look like gigantic cotton balls. Others wear hats from which stiff coils with big flowers or long ribbons schtoing out, and bounce around. They swing their heads, and their accessories take on a life of their own. For the encore, the troupe invites audience members on stage. Old and young, able-bodied and infirm, people throw caution to the wind as they dance and laugh.

Thinking that it might be considered rude to take pictures during a performance, I've left my camera at home. Others are merrily clicking away. Then I realize that I don't really need a camera to record what I'm seeing because I'm never going to forget it.

Shop 'Til You Drop

Today, we are on a mission. We must find a new, reasonably priced, easy to use, camera and some loose fitting, conservative T-shirts. While the latter is rather foreign to me, we must take immediate steps to mitigate the scandal factor caused whenever I go out of doors. It's not that I'm particularly saucy in my dress, rather, the Koreans are somewhat prudish - at least when it comes to the upper half of the body.

In North America, it's common to see women with their busts on full display, on a platter, as it were. In South Korea, this just isn't done. However, the women compensate by wearing skirts and shorts that skim their nether regions while tottering around on six inch spike heels. As a result, my shirts, which I selected for their North American business acceptable necklines are, in this neck of the woods, borderline.

Rob concocts a masterful breakfast of fruit salad and rice frittata, I slap on some makeup in the bathroom, with its Helen Keller lighting, hoping that I don't resemble a Picasso, and we depart. It's mercifully cooler today, but that's likely because the jangma (literally heavy summer rains), or, monsoons are about to begin. Mudeung-san (Peerless Mountain, the equivalent of Japan's Fuji-san) looms large in the distance, shrouded by fog. The driving range down the street, wedged between large buildings and covered with miles of netting, is no doubt doing a brisk business on this beautiful day.

We get set to hail a cab using the Korean yo-yo technique, wherein you gesture hand down, but there's already a lineup, so, following protocol, we take the first one. We manage our first cab ride alone successfully, and head into Geumho (Kumho) World for a camera. I'm partial to the tried and true Canon line, as it has served me well for some thirty years, but we don't find the right one until we check out EMart, the department store next door. We also find a couple of short sleeved dress shirts for Rob. While "short-sleeved dress shirt" may sound oxymoronic, they're hard to beat at 11,500 won, or about 10 bucks a piece, and they'll do him just fine.

The search for my T-shirts proves more daunting. One after another, diminuitive clerks shake their heads in disbelief as I ask if they have "big" versions of the samples I see. Also, it's really hard to find clothes that aren't all googawed up with bling. Koreans love their bling as much as they love designer labels. For example, our welcome pack from Chonnam University contains two umbrellas labelled "bourgeous" and "love you," and two very high end Omar Sharif of Paris towels. (We've already agreed they're too beautiful to use.) In any event, my quest for the elusive T-shirt ends when I find a couple of sufficient mens undershirts, and hope against hope that no one will recognize them as such.

From there, we head to old downtown Gwangju and its massive underground shopping area. Rob has spotted an "extra large" sign in a shop window, so we head into the information centre to find out more. Unfortunately for us, the information is imparted entirely in Korean. I do seize the opportunity to avail myself of the computer on-site, and I check my email. To my extreme surprise, I find that my official orientation meeting may be moved from Monday to - today! This last minute changing of schedules is apparently very Korean. I later learn that the original date will stand. I also read an email from my sister Faith, in Winnipeg, who provides me with some great news, but also tells me that a long-time family friend has passed away. We used to make hay at Mr. Adamson's farm near Kenora, Ontario when I was young. He was a lovely man, a real class act. So here, in the heart of old Gwangju, I am transported to a hot hayfield, lo those many years ago, and I shed a tear for both a man, and a time long past.

Rob and I exit the information centre and end up back underground. I end up finding a crazy animal print dress (for me, a shirt) for 5,000 won, and a pair of the iconic flashing red devil horns, the symbol of Korea's football team, on a headband for Rob. He elicits a tremendous response from the locals: nods of appreciation from the men, giggles from the young women, wide-eyed stares from wee children and attempts at conversations with laughing elderly women.

The whole notion of how we as humans communicate comes under the magnifying glass when one is placed in a situation where verbal communication is all but impossible. The non-verbal conversations are fascinating, for we must call upon myriad sources for inspiration and resort to techniques such as pointing and miming. And it's amazing how far one gets by simply attempting to understand the "other." An offer of something so basic as "kajuseyo," or, "please" is very well received.

After frog-marching Rob through the shopping district, we plop down at a sushi bar for dinner. The meals are clearly spelled out in Korean and English and pictures are also provided so there won't be any surprises. In a land where some meals are served while still alive, Rob is pretty easy to please; his only request is that he not see some deep sea equivalent of Godzilla reaching from the bowl. Our server is ever so helpful, and when I express relief that she understands English, she rather adamantly offers, "I'm from the Philippines!" We don't have the usual battle with the metal Korean chopsticks, off which food tends to slip, because these ones have finger grooves in them. (Interesting point: Apparently Koreans have metal chopsticks because the country ran out of wood after World War Two.) We tuck into our delicious meal with gusto and, once again, are astonished at the pricing. A dozen pieces of sushi, each, results in a bill of 10,500 won, or, about one-third of what it would cost at home.

We head back into the streets to continue our walkabout and marvel at the blind trust of the Korean citizens. No one locks their bikes and vendors leave their outdoor displays unattended. One elderly woman actually abandons her fruit stand for several minutes while she ventures into the underground shops. When she returns, not a single item has been touched. One would be sorely vexed if they were to attempt that in any major downtown centre in North America.

Fully eight hours later, we pull up to Chonnam's main gate and see the now familiar water tower near our kyuso's, or professor's, apartment block. As we stroll through the grounds we see a couple of groups of South Asians gathered, and sure enough, whenever Indians gather, a cricket match breaks out. Nearing the apartment, we pass a couple of 7 or 8 year old Korean lads playing catch with their baseball mitts.

In our own fashion, we've all been getting some good exercise today.

Mr. Cabdriver, I'm a Survivor

I awaken this morning to the dulcet tones of my son, Kael, greeting me as he does each day. "Mom? Mom?" Except he's half a world away. I turn on the computer moments later and open email to discover that, at the precise moment I heard his voice, he was typing me a message. It's true that neither time nor space can separate us from those we hold most dear.

We have some business to attend to today. We are to meet with the Head Teacher at the Language Education Centre, deal with the camera crisis, and determine the lay of the land, so as to facilitate easy movement while on and off campus. With 37,000 students at Chonnam National University and a population of 1.4 million in Gwangju, it behooves us to do figure out the geography.

While many people take breakfast at the local toast vendor, where for about $1.50 Canadian you get an fluffy Denver omelette, we opt for a quick bite at home. Rob rustles up some coffee and fruit salad with fresh grapes, pineapple, and Korean melon topped with yogurt and all-bran and then we're off and running. I laugh aloud as I ponder how I'll ever manage to fit work into my schedule again when I seem to have such a jam-packed schedule while on holiday! True to my German roots, I've managed to create a strict schedule wherein I must spend every moment of down-time scrubbing, organizing, and planning. Idle hands are the devil's playthings, and all that.

At noon, we hook up with Head Teacher Scott. He reminds me of the actor Paul Bettany, who is married to Jennifer Connelly and has been in such films as The DaVinci Code and Master and Commander. A native of Toronto, this 30-something has been living in Korea for the last seven years. He says he honestly can't imagine moving "home." Scott is a rockstar in Gwangju. Everywhere we go he's greeted with reverance. The teachers have been on a one-week break, so Scott is free this afternoon. He offers to show us how to get around the city.

The first order of business is the creation of a sheet of helpful phrases to use with cab drivers. Scott dutifully lists them in Korean and English. Scott is fluently bilingual having taught himself the language in about four hours. He says it's basic memorization, and then mixing and matching. Uh huh. This guidesheet will prove handy for it's much easier to get around by cab than by bus. Also, the cabs are dirt cheap; a ride that would cost about 20 dollars at home costs 4 dollars here.

We head to the six story tech-heaven hangout Geumho (Kumho) World to see if they can fix our camera. We are directed to the Canon store across town. The camera can be fixed, but there's no estimate, and it'll take two weeks. Since I'm going into withdrawl without one of my most important appendages, we decide to suck it up and buy a camera. Blogging is great, but visual documentation is central to this traveler's experience. I've already seen dozens of sights that, while noted mentally, have not been committed to a, perhaps more permanent, mode of storage. We scan the nearby massive underground shopping complex, and then taxi to EMart.

EMart, like Home Plus, is a mega-department store teaming with rushing crowds. Scott guides us through the various sections, taking care to point out the importance of double-checking whether we're buying water or soju, which is paint-peeler vodka. The bottles are the same price (sometimes the vodka is cheaper), they look identical, and they're side-by-side. We also note the miles of Barbie-sized clothing. Try as they might, clerks have difficulty outfitting us. I recall a similar situation with a street vendor the other day in which she was determined to find me a T-shirt. She mimed out my need for a very large shirt, held her biggest one up to her child-like frame, then handed it to me. When I held it up, she recognized I would need to stitch three together just to cover my bosom. She shook her head, and resigned herself to the fact that it was a no go.

By some miracle of God, we manage to pick up two official Korean football/soccer shirts to wear on the first day of classes (we're not above patently obvious ingratiating stunts) and then we're back in a cab. It's astonishing how fast these cars cut through traffic. Despite the autobahn speeds on city streets, Scott says he's only witnessed a couple of accidents since he's been here. Perhaps the relative safety can be attributed to the enormous mirrors atop posts at intersections. As we whiz along, we notice gas stations with attendants in teal coloured cowboy outfits and bright red hats, and car washes at which the stalls move to pick up cars. These stalls operate in the same way as those at parking lots: the car pulls in and is shifted into location via a platform. It's the kind of idiot proofing that drivers like me can get behind. In the midst of the crazy traffic, we see an older woman serenely pedalling her pink bicycle, immune to her surroundings.

Near the Chonnam University main gate we repair to a bulgogi (Korean barbeque) restaurant for an outstanding meal of pork and numerous fixings which Scott capably conjures up at the table. Every so often, an attendant comes by to replace the grill with a fresh one, or to add water to the reservoir surrounding the pot of hot coals immediately beneath the wooden table. We learn the wisdom in the packaging of the individual leaves of lettuce. These leaves are used like wrappers in which we place small pieces of meat, rice, bean sprouts, a marvelous pale green radish, and various other tidbits. The bill for three hardy Canadians comes to a modest 23,000 won, or under 20-dollars Canadian. At home, this would easily have been double the price. I almost feel guilty for Scott tells us the won has been in freefall against the Canadian dollar. On the other hand, for once we seem to be on the winning side of a fiscal situation, and I'm grateful for it.

After dinner, we are shown the local acupuncturist's office. In what is surely the tip of the day, Scott tells us of this angel with pins who can heal all ills. For $6.50 Canadian, we can have an acupuncture treatment followed by a massage. This doctor is extremely accomplished, and very popular, so we decide we'd do well to check him out while in town.

As we get ready for bed, I remind myself of my promise not to turn a vacation into a work project. I can't help but think of the notebook I purchased on my first day in Gwangju. A woman in a shop handed it to me, and I have to think there's a greater message in this gesture. The notebook features a cheery scene with flowers and ribbons dancing in a soft breeze. The expression on it is: Happiness does not come from doing easy work, but from the afterglow of satisfaction that comes after the achievement of a difficult task that demanded our best. Food for thought.

*Mr. Cabdriver, I'm a Survivor is a nod to Lenny Kravitz' song of the same name.