Hurry Up and Wait

TA Harry's very small class of ten has shrunk to just seven today, and even they filter in slowly. The rest are over-committed seniors with other, more pressing concerns, like army duty. As in Canada, some profs, especially the visiting ones, can't get their heads around the fact that there's a bigger picture - beyond the scope of their classroom.

Harry is a pacifist, so when he was called up for service, he requested, and received, dispensation to do volunteer, rather than than military, service. He spent his time in Baguio City, Philippines, and quite enjoyed it, and the people. I teach many Filipinos back in Winnipeg, and I share Harry's love for these kind, friendly, God-fearing, family loving folk who remind me very much of - Koreans!

Again, the jokes flow freely. At one point, I open my mouth to speak, and accidentally burp. Everyone looks started, and they clearly want to laugh, but aren't sure if this will be an acceptable reaction. I apologize profusely, then laugh at the absurdity of the situation. This prompts riotous laughter.

These same students walk by on their way into the cafeteria as I'm sitting on the stone steps waiting for Husband. They pass me again on the way out, where I'm still waiting... and waiting... With great ceremony, they bow and say, "Enjoy your lunch, Natalie." My names, first and last, are challenges for them, what with the L and all those Rs, so this simple salutation in public requires courage and effort. Hao and Harry entertain me for a while. Hao tells me about his disk surgery and brandishes a three inch lower spinal scar. He advises me thusly, "You must go to a hospital at once and take this surgery!"

Finally, I retreat to the shade of the open cabana across the lot. These sitting areas are everywhere, and they're brilliant. Covered with trees and vines, they provide a welcome respite from the unrelenting sun. Two middle aged women chat, one of them prone on a bench, as if at her analyst's office. A woman in stylish faux combat gear paces in her lavender, taupe accented, jean boots. A young man stares at me like he's trying to unravel the mysteries of the universe, and he doesn't break his gaze, even when I catch him. Like many Koreans, he's genuinely curious about foreigners, most especially when they know we're Canadians.

An hour passes, and still, no Husband. But providence intervenes as our Indian friend, Dr. S., strolls by on his way to eat. He insists on buying me lunch, which includes two new dishes. In addition to a tasty pork stew, we have chewy lotus root, and a cold coffee flavoured soy soup with lychee jelly cubes. Who dreams up these recipes? They're so inventive!

Dining with Dr. S. amounts to a half hour of fast-paced quality entertainment. This genial host provides a one-man show, bristling with energy and intellect. It's like watching a "best of" comedy special. His knowledge of subjects from geo-politics to pop culture is impressive. Offering his take on everything from the Brits unique ability to capitalize on India's natural strengths and weaknesses, to Canada's taxation system ("I saw my cheque and cried. One third of it, gone!") to the U.S. debacles in Iraq and Afghanistan, his critique is unsparing. This man needs his own program. He watches Libertarian talk show host Bill Maher, and I submit that he could substitute host for him. The ratings would skyrocket.

He prods me for my opinions on a wife range of issues responding with, "Yes, mam," and, "No, mam," followed by the classic Indian head bob. He cajoles me into eating meerch saying, "It's not so hot." (It actually isn't, but perhaps this is relative; I've been eating alot of red pepper lately.) He chides me for not taking rice. "How can you eat this without rice?!" And then he says, "What? Only one piece of toast?" When I say it's too bad my mother can't use email, he very matter-of-factly says, "Elderly people don't want to type. They want to talk."

Dr. S. tells me he loves Germany, and wants to go to Hamburg, my mother's home! The so-called coincidences in this world never cease to amaze me. As my very wise Auntie Marg would say, there's a quilt in which there is an infinite number of pieces, and they all fit together. She inherently understands the concept of the circular nature of our world, a basic tenet of many North American Aboriginal belief systems and branches of Buddhism, right here in Korea.

Dr. S. and I discuss our shared concerns over unbridled capitalism and rampant American imperialism and arrogance, borne out on the macro level in countries around the world, and on the micro level, among my colleagues just this week. The good doctor speaks as one who is very well read, highly educated, and widely travelled. He even lived in Southern Ontario for a time. He sees very clear distinctions between Canadians and our southern neighbours. For example, Canadians come off to the world as rather shy and charming, in an aw shucks, kick the dirt, kind of way. Conversely, the charm offensive of the stereotypical Ugly Americans, who ruin it for their less aggressive fellow citizens, comes off as just plain offensive. They manage to twist the beautiful and simple message of The Audacity of Hope into The Audacity of viewing the rest of the world as Hopeless. I've travelled many places in this world, and this message keeps coming through: As individuals, they're lovely. As a group, they could take the patriotism down a notch or two. But perhaps their education system has neglected to teach them what ultimately happens to imperialist superpowers.

Given his passion, zest for life, and strong social convictions, it should come as no surprise that Dr. S. works on artificial hearts for a living. Artificial hearts designed to give those in need another shot at life. Specificially, he's developing a more accessible, inexpensive heart, so even the unwashed masses may one day have the opportunity to extend the length, and quality, of their lives.

As we exit the building, I tell Dr. S. that I always worry when Rob is late or doesn't show up because he's so reliable. My sensible old shoe. I worry he's had a heart attack, or has been in a fiery wreck. Dr. S. assures me this is an impossiblity. He says, of Rob, "He's huge and so strong. There is no problem. How could there be?!"

There's much food for thought as I stroll through the park on the way to the Humanities Building where Rob teaches. Of course, I want to check his pulse, but I have a more urgent need. He has our only apartment key. On the path ahead, I notice an overturned beetle trying to right itself. I stop to offer assistance, but alas, a much bigger force has already asserted its authority, and the creature is in its final throes, left to die in the heat and the dust.

Desperate for relief for the burning sun, I adopt a Korean habit and open my umbrella. I didn't dare use it to date, fearing it would seem the affectation of a westerner trying too hard to fit in, but by Jove, it works! I am immediately cooler. By the time I reach Rob's building, I'm panting like an old hound dog. I'm greeted in the hallway by Rob's dreamy TA, Jisan. He's brushing his teeth, but not wanting to seem rude, he makes small talk and then directs me to the classroom.

When I meet up with Rob, the reason for his no-show is immediately apparent. Right below his cowlick, in the middle of his forehead, is a speck of blood so small it looks like the laser tracking dot assassins use to mark their kill. (Or, like a bindi, the Indian dot. Yes, that might be a more palatable description.) Rob has been to the accupuncturist.

I take a seat at the back of the room to watch him work his magic, and he does. The man masterfully weaves tales and deciphers complex religious theories for students with limited English language skills, and he somehow prompts them to nod and smile at all the right points. He's a natural kyosu.

In the evening, we go back to Isis toast, or toe-suh-tuh, as Rob tells me the Korean Hanguel script reads. The owner encourages us to put together a couple of tables, sensing the 18" by 18" one we're sitting at might not accomodate our girth. We wash everything down with Chilsing cider, a type of green apple flavoured ginger ale. The next few hours are spent in bed writing. We are extremelly amused to note that this is our idea of a perfect evening.