The rain is absolutely pounding down as we jump into Jisan's car at 1 PM. Rob's TA is taking us to Songgwang-sa, a Buddhist monastery and training centre an hour and a half southeast of Gwangju.
On the way, we pass traditional Korean markets, which Jisan tells us are going the way of the Dodo bird, thanks to the proliferation of megastores like EMart. We move through the mist and crawl through mountain tunnels in rain that is falling so hard and fast it rolls off the car the moments it hits. Outside our windows, roadside rice fields disappear under the deluge. In the distance, mist rises from the lush forested mountain tops.
At about the half way point we pull into Hwasun. A man sits, tending his business, which essentially is a two story high, post-apocalptic style ring of junk. He has bits and pieces of cars, fridges, and other household appliances and items piled haphazardly and, to my thinking, rather precariously, yet this structure has air of permanence to it. It suspect it will stand long after I've ceased thinking about it.
Lunch is taken at Dalmaji restaurant, a place known for it's black bean recipes. Our starter is a cold bean paste soup that is mild and soothing. The entrees are a spicy bean soup and a noodle dish with topped with black sesame seeds and bean powder. It's food that could prompt even the most discerning connoisseur to become a vegetarian. I think of this as I'm munching on a chewy treat and learn that it is, in fact, dried octopus. Thankfully, the atmosphere in this restaurant is calming. The building is wide open with high ceilings, a sort of Asian chateau. The quiet chatter of the patrons is backed by the steady tap tap tapping of rain. The view out the huge picture window is like a postcard, too perfect to be real.
As we continue our journey, we learn that one of Gwangju's water sources is in this area, and a number of restaurants have had to move to keep the area pristine. With its soaring mountains, rich green fields peppered with saffron tiger lilys, and gently flowing waters, the countryside reminds us of the British Columbia interior, with a slightly more tropical flair. Also, the roadsides are carefully tended and landscaped for both efficiency and beauty. Tiny ditches keep the water away from the road, and the roadsides are reinforced with rock terraces, flowers, and vines.
When we reach the Daewon-sa Pure Land temple, the rain has picked up again. In Pure Land Buddhism, the heavenly Buddha is a savoir, so this is a very sacred place from which one can reach nirvana. I fear that due to the intensity of the rains I might reach this blessed place sooner than I'd like, and am relieved when we seek refuge under the awning at the abbot's office. I watch a chubby bug, that looks like a Volkswagon beetle gamely trying to walk out into the yard, but then wisely opting to stay under the protection of the awning. Moments later, a miniature ant brazenly walks straight into the waterfall.. and suddenly.. the rain stops!
Daewon-sa was reportedly built by a monk in 503. Everything but the main hall burned in the Korean War, but during the 1980s and 90s it was partially rebuilt. This place houses the only Tibetan museum in the country, and it contains religious art and paintings. Mothers who have lost their children come here to pray for a local Korean goddess to protect them. There are rows of mini Buddhas with red hats representing the deceased children, and a collection of tiny white rain shoes lines the shrine. In front, there is a little table with many small Buddha figures. One can feel the energy of sorrow seeping away, ever so slowly, to another place, beyond this world.
We arrive at Songgwang-sa around 4:30 and are greeted by a spectacular lightning display, with some of the forks dancing off the mountain tops just across the field. We again seek the safety of a nearby awning. I have never seen rain like this; it's like standing under a celestial bucket which God is emptying all at once.
It is our honour to be treated to tea with the head monk himself. This man, a former classmate of Jisan's, serves us steaming jasmine tea and special chewy bean cake. He and Jisan chatter, while the rain pitter patters. At ten minute intervals, the monk thoughtfully reheats the water and makes another cup of tea, which he distributes in four 1/16 cup servings. This holy man completely looks the part with the egg shaped shaven head, long ear lobes, tranquil eyes, and full-lipped, Dalai Lama-like, perpetually upturned mouth. Jisan stares through his rimless glasses, listening intently, nodding his head. His long wavy hair with a couple of copper strands at the front frames his calm, peaceful face. He, too, has full lips that always seems to be smiling. As we leave his office, the monk gives Rob two CDs, one of the morning and one of the evening chants the monks perform. When we listen to it, we will always be transported back to a July monsoon soaked Songgwang-sa afternoon.
Jisan takes us on a tour of the courtyard and the main temple. Rob points out to me that "as in all great places of worship, every little nook and cranny has meaning." One painting that sticks out is that of man who, dying of thirst, finds water, and lives to see the next day. When he awakens the next morning, he realizes that he drank from a skull, and he is horrified. This is to convey the message from the enlightened Buddha, Gautama, that we must see all things as the same, and not value one more than another. The image is one that I will never forget.
We are invited to dinner in the open walled dining room where, before his prayer, Jisan exclaims, "I'm so happy." He inhales, smiles, and prays. I look out at the stream, which is now more a river, water splashing off its rocks, the current speeding up to accomodate the rains. We feast on curry, potato, bean, tofu soup with thick cut meaty mushrooms, and we wash it down with fresh, salt free, pure, unadulterated, tomato juice.
We stop to take pictures on the small covered bridge leading to the bell pavillion. The water rushes by the nearby building that houses the monks, and their small doors open out toward the stream directly below. At 6:40, the evening ceremony begins. A team of monks in the bell pavillion take turns beating the giant, upright, skin drum. A monk in the church tik toks on his moktok, the leather drum and the hollow wood instrument trading rythyms across the courtyard. A steady stream of monks in various robes of gray, for the seniors, and brown, for the novices, makes its way toward the temple, stopping to bow at sites along the way.
Women on retreat stop to watch the activities, one, though prohibited from doing so, chronicling the events on film. Part of me wishes I could do the same, because it's positively Felliniesque, filled with symbolism and meaning. Surreal, yet very, very real, all at the same time. Moments ago my camera battery signalled that it's dying, surely spurred on by the technology gods themselves.
My back and neck are beginning to respond unfavourably to all the floor sitting and standing in place. I look around and see the raw beauty of nature. A thick carpet of trees covers the mountains; the ground beneath them is jet black. I watch the water bugs skimming the puddle. I feel a giant raindrop bounce off a toe on my right foot. I rise above the pain, and step out of myself to feel the vibration of the earth itself, as the mist rises from the mountains and intermingles with the low-hanging cloud reaching ever closer to God.
When the drumming finishes, the monks use a hanging log to gong the eight foot high, six foot wide bell. It emits a variety of sounds, from one that is like several electronic bells, to another that is so deep, it shakes the ground and rumbles in the heart. You feel it as much as hear it. From the bell, they move to drum on the wooden fish and tap the metal plate gong. Then the chanting inside the temple begins. It's strong, melodic, and hypnotic. I know we'll reflect on this when we are home in Winnipeg listening to Rob's CDs.
Down the way, a lone monk chants in a much smaller building. His mokshoks clack as the cuckoo clock in the entranceway keeps its own rythym, out of sync with the monk, much in the way that we humans are often out of the sync with the very world in which we live. The rains have ended, and nature has responded with an explosion of new life and energy.
The place is alive with cicadas, those out of control wind-up toy bugs that sound like noisemakers at a party. When I approach an area filled with the little guys, they amp themselves up to triple-speed, and I pass by, they wind down. Unbidden, they remind the visitor of the rule here: You may visit, but you must not disturb. A fitting motto for a Buddhist world, one we are so very grateful for having had the opportunity to visit. One, whose atmosphere and worldview we hope to replicate, in some small way, in our daily lives.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Kyosu and Students
In anticipation of another action packed evening we enjoy a low key day. We read, write, and bump into Dr. S. at lunch. Over tofu soup and pork, we learn that his give name is Varahanambi, the same as that of the boar incarnation of Vishnu. Varahanambi was one of the forms Vishnu took to save the earth. Our Varahanambi is from the Sri Vaishnava community which dates back to the thirteenth century, and they are devout devotees of Vishnu. Since saving the world was the mission of his forbearers, it seems fitting this man has followed suit in his research area involving developing technology for artificial hearts.
At 6, we meet up with seven of Rob's eight Religions of India students. (Unfortunately, one has another commitment.) It's immediately apparent that these vibrant Korean young 'uns are about to put us through our paces. They tell us they want to show their "kyosu neem" (respected professor) some old-fashioned South Korean hospitality. They indicate this will include copious quantities of food and libations.
The first stop is the esteemed steam pork restaurant in Hu Moon. This place is clearly the favourite spot to take foreigners for a high-end meal; Rob's colleagues took him here, as Hyunjeong took me. Of course, we don't tell that to these kids who are so excited to take us to this establishment with a great backstory. We're told a tale of two brothers who sound kind of like the Cane and Abel of Korea.
In this ancient folk tale that is known to all Koreans, the brothers are Nolbu, the elder, and Heungbu. Nolbu is greedy and mean, and he marries a wife who is just like him. They have no children. Heungbu and his wife are both gentle and kind, and their home is filled with many children.
When their father dies, Nolbu quickly devises a way to kick Heungbu and his family off the estate, and as a result Heungbu's family lives in poverty. One day, Heungbu finds an injured swallow, so he fixes its leg. The next year, the bird returns with a Korean pumpkin seed. Heungbu plants it, and in the fall, cuts it open to make porridge. When he does so, gold and riches spill out.
Nolbu , hearing of his brother's good fortune, finds a swallow, breaks its leg, and then fixes it. The swallow returns with a seed, which Nolbu plants, but when he opens his pumpkin, bandits spring forth, steal Nolbu's belongings and burn his house to the ground. Nolbu seeks refuge with his brother, who gladly opens his home and his heart, despite the past abuses.
Now, here's where this story takes a very strange turn. Entrepreneurs ever since have named their businesses after Nolbu. In fact, the restaurant we're going to tonight is a very popular chain. Though he was a greedy, nasty piece of work, those who name their businesses for him are successful. Those named after Heungbu tend to go belly up. The thinking is that poverty stricken Heungbu is unlikely to have much for offer for dinner, but wealthy Nolbu can provide a feast. This makes the egalitarian in me want to find a Heungbu restaurant for dinner.
When we get to the place, we remove our shoes before stepping up to the eating area where we will sit on the floor, cross-legged. This is commonplace for flexible little Koreans, but quite a feat for stiff, portly North Americans. Once we've removed our shoes, we must take care to put them back on before heading to the washroom. Feet that that have touched the main floor must not touch the floor in the dining room.
We're served a steady stream of various kimchi dishes, creamy tofu, heaping plates of pork, and two types of spicy, hot soup. The second soup arrives unexpectedly, a gift from the owners in acknowledgement of the two dozen bottles of soju and beer that we've purchased.
The boisterous and throughly entertaining Cho is our bartender. He wows the crowd with tricks, including one in which he lines up shot glasses atop beer glasses, and slams his fist on the table, causing the shots glasses to falls into the beer glasses. Then everyone quick gulps down the concoction before the ingredients settle. It reminds me of the Asian jugglers and their antics on the Ed Sullivan show when I was a little kid.
At one point, Cho cautions that we must drink responsibily, lest we... and then he gestures flamboyantly, hand to mouth, fingers splaying out one by one, to indicate a dramatic expulsion. Though the night is young, our hosts indicate that the "traditional Korean" relay, or wave, drinking, is about to begin in earnest. And they're not kidding. We move on to an old-style Korean pub.
This place has walls covered with twine that has been shaped into images found in nature. The lattice at the door, we are told, is a traditional screen for a couple on their wedding night. It's designed for people to tease the couple by poking their fingers through the spaces and peering at them.
Thoughout the evening we are introduced to all the traditional Koreans drinks, including, beer, soju, bamboo wine, and macgulli, or, fermented rice wine. The beer is not very strong, but the soju makes up for it. We're told men drink soju to sleep soundly. It's a tonic, for the "social situation is stressful." When Rob says, "But my class is not stressful," Cho replies, "Not really. Let's drink!"
The sweet and mild bamboo wine is reminiscient of ice wine. The macgulli is something else altogether! The rice and malt combination is cold, milky, and really potent. Students sometimes drink it in the "modern" way, mixed with Chilsing cider. Either way, the effect is powerful and immediatel I empty my first bowl, and before Cho has finished ladling me another drink, I realize the scene is starting to look like the elephant sequence in Fantasia. Cho says, "No soju for her. She's drunk!" He offers me a tin cup and says, "Drink water." I wonder if my extended health care covers detox?
I excuse myself and go the washroom to splash water on my face, and am amused to see the omnipresent Korean multi-level floor within. After a month, I'm still having trouble negotiating the three inch height differentials in any given space, but considering the clientele, in a tiny washroom on a drink filled evening, it's darned near impossible.
Back at the table, glasses are clanking and the revellers are saying, "Kambei!" The Koreans delight in our responses to the drinks. They note that when Canadians drink they smile, nod, and say, "Mmm." When Koreans drink that exhale loudly and exclaim, "Ah!" They serve us with two hands, and turn when they drink, both signs of respect for elders. We are also seated together, at the head of the table. When Rob serves them with two hands, they feel honoured and respected.
We're incredulous to see even more food arrive. While we managed to talk them our of paying for our earlier dinner, it's clear they've found an end-around. We learn that those delicious pancakes are actually Korean pizza. There's also japchae (the glass noodles), crisps, and the dreaded pupae. The latter are the favourite of Son, who sits right beside me.
Son eats two full bowls of the creepy little critters declaring them, "Delicious!" Cho says he's not a fan, but Son is because, "He's Mongolian. He's special." Son makes light of his predilection telling me the pupae are "soju's friend." When he finishes a bowl he says, "They're lonely. Leaving." and "They felt alone and left to another place." When they're placed next to the macgulli he says, "No soju. They misunderstand." And when another bowl arrives, "He's back." It takes some mental focus on my part to avoid seeing the pupae, or thinking about them. It's a real exercise in maintaining calm, but I focus on Son's gentle charm, and that helps. Son tells me he's from a family with five children, and he has hopes and dreams, but fears they may be out of reach. When I tell him the first step is believing in himself and his abilities, he clenches his fist, punches the air, laughs, and says, "Yes!"
We laugh heartily as these kids go out of their way to show us a good time. Even quiet Jung and little Na open up as the night goes on. Jung has been in university for eleven years, and ever the student, for the most part is just takes everything in. Na, who is all of 4 foot 10 and weighs as much as my left leg, calf down, spends much of the time covering her mouth and giggling.
Lim, who apologizes for not participating enough in class, tries with all his might to convey his appreciation, saying, "Thank you. Very very thank you." His girlfriend, Ma, who has the best English skills in the group, is effusive in her praise of Rob's professorial skills. She has brought a gift, a beautiful, large, hard-cover coffee table book, a compilation of photographs taken by her father. All the students sign it.
They explain that the class was very hard for them, but that they thoroughly enjoyed it. Cho explains that he normally uses his dictionary ten times per class, but with Rob, he used it 100 times per class. This, from the kid who jokes, "I didn't sleep in class. My eyes are small." Perhaps the best testament to the learning done in the class is the fact that each and every one of these students makes numerous jokes about the terminology and content. When Rob tells Kim, "You're the tour guide," Kim says, "No, I'm the guru." When I walk under the umbrella and Rob walks in the rain, they call him, "sannyasi," and say he's doing tapas, meaning, he's an ascetic, or holy man. While these jokes will not translate well to one not versed in the Religions of India, suffice to say they're fast and furious and extremely funny. We are shocked by how efficiently these students have synthesized the information gained over the last month. It's the truest marker of student learning, because, as we all know, teaching doesn't necessarily equal knowledge acquisition.
While Cho tells Rob "you look like Pinocchio's father, Geppeto," I am told repeatedly that I am beautiful, and this is the premise they use to buy us pizza and drinks. It's brilliant in its simplicity. How can Rob refuse, for if he does, he will, in essence, be disagreeing with their assertion. They tell us that they're very touched to be in the presence of such a happy, lovely couple, and they mean it.
In fact, they mean everything they say. They speak with utter conviction and aching sincerity. When it's time to leave, one by one, each student gives heartfelt thanks to their kyosu. They tear up, as do we, and they express a fervent desire to stay in touch. As we walk down the alley, they stand in a row outside the pub, calling out, "We love you!" I glance back as we round the corner, some 500 yards away, and they're still standing and waving.
The level of sincerity and appreciation is truly humbling. I doubt Rob has ever anticipated, or received, a more heartfelt affirmation of his ability to teach. I've never been happier for my dearest kyosu. My pati-dev.
At 6, we meet up with seven of Rob's eight Religions of India students. (Unfortunately, one has another commitment.) It's immediately apparent that these vibrant Korean young 'uns are about to put us through our paces. They tell us they want to show their "kyosu neem" (respected professor) some old-fashioned South Korean hospitality. They indicate this will include copious quantities of food and libations.
The first stop is the esteemed steam pork restaurant in Hu Moon. This place is clearly the favourite spot to take foreigners for a high-end meal; Rob's colleagues took him here, as Hyunjeong took me. Of course, we don't tell that to these kids who are so excited to take us to this establishment with a great backstory. We're told a tale of two brothers who sound kind of like the Cane and Abel of Korea.
In this ancient folk tale that is known to all Koreans, the brothers are Nolbu, the elder, and Heungbu. Nolbu is greedy and mean, and he marries a wife who is just like him. They have no children. Heungbu and his wife are both gentle and kind, and their home is filled with many children.
When their father dies, Nolbu quickly devises a way to kick Heungbu and his family off the estate, and as a result Heungbu's family lives in poverty. One day, Heungbu finds an injured swallow, so he fixes its leg. The next year, the bird returns with a Korean pumpkin seed. Heungbu plants it, and in the fall, cuts it open to make porridge. When he does so, gold and riches spill out.
Nolbu , hearing of his brother's good fortune, finds a swallow, breaks its leg, and then fixes it. The swallow returns with a seed, which Nolbu plants, but when he opens his pumpkin, bandits spring forth, steal Nolbu's belongings and burn his house to the ground. Nolbu seeks refuge with his brother, who gladly opens his home and his heart, despite the past abuses.
Now, here's where this story takes a very strange turn. Entrepreneurs ever since have named their businesses after Nolbu. In fact, the restaurant we're going to tonight is a very popular chain. Though he was a greedy, nasty piece of work, those who name their businesses for him are successful. Those named after Heungbu tend to go belly up. The thinking is that poverty stricken Heungbu is unlikely to have much for offer for dinner, but wealthy Nolbu can provide a feast. This makes the egalitarian in me want to find a Heungbu restaurant for dinner.
When we get to the place, we remove our shoes before stepping up to the eating area where we will sit on the floor, cross-legged. This is commonplace for flexible little Koreans, but quite a feat for stiff, portly North Americans. Once we've removed our shoes, we must take care to put them back on before heading to the washroom. Feet that that have touched the main floor must not touch the floor in the dining room.
We're served a steady stream of various kimchi dishes, creamy tofu, heaping plates of pork, and two types of spicy, hot soup. The second soup arrives unexpectedly, a gift from the owners in acknowledgement of the two dozen bottles of soju and beer that we've purchased.
The boisterous and throughly entertaining Cho is our bartender. He wows the crowd with tricks, including one in which he lines up shot glasses atop beer glasses, and slams his fist on the table, causing the shots glasses to falls into the beer glasses. Then everyone quick gulps down the concoction before the ingredients settle. It reminds me of the Asian jugglers and their antics on the Ed Sullivan show when I was a little kid.
At one point, Cho cautions that we must drink responsibily, lest we... and then he gestures flamboyantly, hand to mouth, fingers splaying out one by one, to indicate a dramatic expulsion. Though the night is young, our hosts indicate that the "traditional Korean" relay, or wave, drinking, is about to begin in earnest. And they're not kidding. We move on to an old-style Korean pub.
This place has walls covered with twine that has been shaped into images found in nature. The lattice at the door, we are told, is a traditional screen for a couple on their wedding night. It's designed for people to tease the couple by poking their fingers through the spaces and peering at them.
Thoughout the evening we are introduced to all the traditional Koreans drinks, including, beer, soju, bamboo wine, and macgulli, or, fermented rice wine. The beer is not very strong, but the soju makes up for it. We're told men drink soju to sleep soundly. It's a tonic, for the "social situation is stressful." When Rob says, "But my class is not stressful," Cho replies, "Not really. Let's drink!"
The sweet and mild bamboo wine is reminiscient of ice wine. The macgulli is something else altogether! The rice and malt combination is cold, milky, and really potent. Students sometimes drink it in the "modern" way, mixed with Chilsing cider. Either way, the effect is powerful and immediatel I empty my first bowl, and before Cho has finished ladling me another drink, I realize the scene is starting to look like the elephant sequence in Fantasia. Cho says, "No soju for her. She's drunk!" He offers me a tin cup and says, "Drink water." I wonder if my extended health care covers detox?
I excuse myself and go the washroom to splash water on my face, and am amused to see the omnipresent Korean multi-level floor within. After a month, I'm still having trouble negotiating the three inch height differentials in any given space, but considering the clientele, in a tiny washroom on a drink filled evening, it's darned near impossible.
Back at the table, glasses are clanking and the revellers are saying, "Kambei!" The Koreans delight in our responses to the drinks. They note that when Canadians drink they smile, nod, and say, "Mmm." When Koreans drink that exhale loudly and exclaim, "Ah!" They serve us with two hands, and turn when they drink, both signs of respect for elders. We are also seated together, at the head of the table. When Rob serves them with two hands, they feel honoured and respected.
We're incredulous to see even more food arrive. While we managed to talk them our of paying for our earlier dinner, it's clear they've found an end-around. We learn that those delicious pancakes are actually Korean pizza. There's also japchae (the glass noodles), crisps, and the dreaded pupae. The latter are the favourite of Son, who sits right beside me.
Son eats two full bowls of the creepy little critters declaring them, "Delicious!" Cho says he's not a fan, but Son is because, "He's Mongolian. He's special." Son makes light of his predilection telling me the pupae are "soju's friend." When he finishes a bowl he says, "They're lonely. Leaving." and "They felt alone and left to another place." When they're placed next to the macgulli he says, "No soju. They misunderstand." And when another bowl arrives, "He's back." It takes some mental focus on my part to avoid seeing the pupae, or thinking about them. It's a real exercise in maintaining calm, but I focus on Son's gentle charm, and that helps. Son tells me he's from a family with five children, and he has hopes and dreams, but fears they may be out of reach. When I tell him the first step is believing in himself and his abilities, he clenches his fist, punches the air, laughs, and says, "Yes!"
We laugh heartily as these kids go out of their way to show us a good time. Even quiet Jung and little Na open up as the night goes on. Jung has been in university for eleven years, and ever the student, for the most part is just takes everything in. Na, who is all of 4 foot 10 and weighs as much as my left leg, calf down, spends much of the time covering her mouth and giggling.
Lim, who apologizes for not participating enough in class, tries with all his might to convey his appreciation, saying, "Thank you. Very very thank you." His girlfriend, Ma, who has the best English skills in the group, is effusive in her praise of Rob's professorial skills. She has brought a gift, a beautiful, large, hard-cover coffee table book, a compilation of photographs taken by her father. All the students sign it.
They explain that the class was very hard for them, but that they thoroughly enjoyed it. Cho explains that he normally uses his dictionary ten times per class, but with Rob, he used it 100 times per class. This, from the kid who jokes, "I didn't sleep in class. My eyes are small." Perhaps the best testament to the learning done in the class is the fact that each and every one of these students makes numerous jokes about the terminology and content. When Rob tells Kim, "You're the tour guide," Kim says, "No, I'm the guru." When I walk under the umbrella and Rob walks in the rain, they call him, "sannyasi," and say he's doing tapas, meaning, he's an ascetic, or holy man. While these jokes will not translate well to one not versed in the Religions of India, suffice to say they're fast and furious and extremely funny. We are shocked by how efficiently these students have synthesized the information gained over the last month. It's the truest marker of student learning, because, as we all know, teaching doesn't necessarily equal knowledge acquisition.
While Cho tells Rob "you look like Pinocchio's father, Geppeto," I am told repeatedly that I am beautiful, and this is the premise they use to buy us pizza and drinks. It's brilliant in its simplicity. How can Rob refuse, for if he does, he will, in essence, be disagreeing with their assertion. They tell us that they're very touched to be in the presence of such a happy, lovely couple, and they mean it.
In fact, they mean everything they say. They speak with utter conviction and aching sincerity. When it's time to leave, one by one, each student gives heartfelt thanks to their kyosu. They tear up, as do we, and they express a fervent desire to stay in touch. As we walk down the alley, they stand in a row outside the pub, calling out, "We love you!" I glance back as we round the corner, some 500 yards away, and they're still standing and waving.
The level of sincerity and appreciation is truly humbling. I doubt Rob has ever anticipated, or received, a more heartfelt affirmation of his ability to teach. I've never been happier for my dearest kyosu. My pati-dev.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Sun Tzu Diplomacy
We've designated this our nap day. It's a time to just lie low and recharge our batteries as we have a full evening planned.
At lunch hour, I phone mom, it's 9:30 p.m. Tuesday, her time, and I actually catch her in the house. This is rare, especially in the summer, for mom sets herself a Korean work schedule, even at an age when most people are considerably less active.
I think of mom every time I pass by the septo and octogenerians tilling the gardens around campus and throughout the city. Rain or shine, they're out and about in pants, long-sleeved shirts, and big sun hats, bending themselves in half, pulling weeds and planting flowers. Earlier this week, while others were scurrying indoors to find relief from the heat, they were scaling the hillside constructing terraces in the mid-day sun. No air conditioning for these ladies.
In fact, many Koreans don't really believe in artificial cooling systems; they think them deadly. This is why we so often see doors wide open while the air conditioning system struggles to keep up. It's also why there's a constant cycle of rooms being cooled, and doors and windows re-opened. One can safely assume these women pay little mind to such concerns, such is their focus on the task at hand. They are, at turns, both inspiring and disspiriting. I can honestly say I cannot imagine doing their jobs today, never mind thirty years from now. Yes, they remind me very much of my Benjamin Button-like mother.
During our brief, 5 1/2 minute phone call, mom is as vivacious as ever, and we manage to pack in more meaningful discussion than many people can muster over the course of several hours. It's astonishing how immediately alert mom can be, anytime of the day or night. She has just one speed: lightning fast.
At 3:30, Ryan and Diane chauffeur us to GFN, Gwangju's English language radio station. The interviewer is Michael, the owner of The First Alleyway Western pub and restaurant at which Dr. Shin and I had lunch last weekend. Michael is a well-informed, astute interviewer who actually listens to his guests. This is a rare talent in today's "New Journalism Gone Wild" media circles.
The New Journalistic style evolved in the 1960s. Truman Capote is often cited as the father of new journalism for his insertion of himself into his reportage for his award winning book In Cold Blood. Other authors in this genre include Tom Wolfe, Joan Didion, and Hunter S. Thompson. This generation of reporter/authors managed to adroitly side-step the self-involved, narcissistic approach into which this form eventually devolved.
In our interview, Michael manages to stay the conversational course, incorporating the thoughts and opinions of all participants, interspersed with his commentary. And he packs a great deal of information into just fifteen minutes. As a long-time journalist, I'm impressed by his skill, which surpasses that of many who do this work on a full-time basis.
On the drive back to campus, the phone rings. It's the Angry American demanding a ride to tonight's wrap-up dinner at the International Centre. He's staying a ten minute walk from the place. Though we try not to be intrusive, it's hard not to hear one side of the conversation. It's a lesson in class and diplomacy as Diane gently tells the caller that the chauffeurs will be busy attending to the evening's celebrations.
And what celebrations they are! Our Residence Hall Cafeteria caters the affair, setting out splendid hot and cold offerings including pork, drumsticks, sweet and sour chicken balls, fresh fruit and vegetables and a wide assortment of dainties. At the end of the evening, we're encouraged, in the Korean tradition, to take home the leftovers. The Angry American pushes aside students to fill two bags of his own. Apparently the T-shirts, pens, and other gifts we received tonight weren't enough.
Gale has commissioned a group of students to prepare a 10 minute PowerPoint presentation to showcase the good times had by the professors. We see slide after slide of white, middle-aged, wealthy professors, without a Korean in sight, enjoying Korean culture. Amidst the dozens of images, we see just one, unfocussed, shot of me, and one of Rob, in the middle of a group. Truly, this is like being at the prom with the mean kids: The jocks versus the nerds. And now, as then, we're more than happy not to be a part of their group.
Students have also prepared presentations, but by the time poor Sue's turn comes, even though she's been given an award for being the "top buddy," there's no time for her presentation. She has to simply scroll through her pictures, without explanation. Coincidentally, there are several pictures of Rob and me in her presentation, but they fly by in an instant. Upon spotting the second one, Dan the Man sidles up to Rob and says, "Oh. There you are again." Yes, Dan. There we are. With the students. The Koreans. That we've been excised entirely from this evening's wrap-up seems poetic.
Before dinner, Dr. Shin gives very brief address, after which he remarks to Rob, "I believe in karma. That is why I gave a short speech. We'll talk." I think this no-nonsense, down-to-earth man, who judges people by their character rather than their status, or their capacity to spin a web, gets it. Seconds later, Dan silkily slips by, trying to insinuate himself into the scene, and I'm reminded of an expression I heard earlier today. In English we say, "Speak of the Devil." In Korea, they say, "Speak of the Tiger," or, "You can't be a yang-ban." (A yang-ban was a Confucian scholar during the Chosun dynasty. This person would not be the type to eavesdrop to hear what people were saying about him.)
At the end of the festivities, Eric suggests we attend a karaoke parlour across the street in Hu Moon. A number of students and professors take him up on the offer, and while Rob heads home to prepare for tomorrow's exam (and escape karaoke hell!), I decide to honour the students and join in. Dr. Shin does not come along, but he does treat us to a mini-display of his major operatic capabilities, belting out a snippet of song in the cavernous hallway. Everyone is blown away.
As we prepare to exit the building, we notice the glass doors are locked. Dr. Shin tries to summon someone to open them, but we decide we might as well just leave through the main doors, which are already ajar. Just then, SharaLee, who has been attempting to speak, finally gets to state, ever so calmly, "But, what about those doors?" as she gestures to the wide-open ones to our immediate right. Everyone, including Dr. Shin, laughs uproariously.
To no one's surprises, Gale, Sharon, Dan, and Kathy follow Eric and Heidi into one karaoke studio, while the students are in another. The segregationist tendencies are so deeply ingrained in these people that it would never occur to them to mix it up. I decide to channel old Sun Tzu, the sixth century BC Chinese military strategist, who also happened to be a realist. The author of The Art of War, knew all too well the importance of brokering peace treaties, when necessary. So, to be politick, I spend 45 minutes with the profs and then head to the real action down the hall with the students. While with the profs, I gamely sing along, even joining Sharon in a rendition of Daydream Believer. The kids and I later rock out to I'm a Believer. As an natural optimist, I can't help but note the symmetry in these seemingly random choices of song.
By 11, I'm pooped. I walk my TA to her bus stop. Of the seven TAs, little Hye Seon was the shyest and least inclined to jump in. After several exchanges outside class, she's much more open with me. At tonight's wind-up, she corrals the photographer to take a few pictures of us together. On my polaroid snap she wants to write, "I love you," but has insufficient space, so she draws a heart. I tell her I will put that picture on my fridge. Rob explains to her that this is a very important place in our home, because we open the fridge so often! Waiting for Bus 28, Hye Seon tells me that she dreams of coming to Canada, and I say if she does get that opportunity, she's more than welcome to stay at our home.
I arrive at our apartment by 11:15 and am surprised to find the door ajar, and Rob fast asleep. Then I remember, we're in Korea, a place where people leave their valuables unattended and never seem to worry about locking up their bikes.
I'm so wound up that I spend the next two hours on the Internet catching up on the news, including a story about North Korean - UN discussions regarding the sinking of a South Korean submarine in March. But this depressing matter seems very far removed from our mirth making on this warm Gwangju night.
At lunch hour, I phone mom, it's 9:30 p.m. Tuesday, her time, and I actually catch her in the house. This is rare, especially in the summer, for mom sets herself a Korean work schedule, even at an age when most people are considerably less active.
I think of mom every time I pass by the septo and octogenerians tilling the gardens around campus and throughout the city. Rain or shine, they're out and about in pants, long-sleeved shirts, and big sun hats, bending themselves in half, pulling weeds and planting flowers. Earlier this week, while others were scurrying indoors to find relief from the heat, they were scaling the hillside constructing terraces in the mid-day sun. No air conditioning for these ladies.
In fact, many Koreans don't really believe in artificial cooling systems; they think them deadly. This is why we so often see doors wide open while the air conditioning system struggles to keep up. It's also why there's a constant cycle of rooms being cooled, and doors and windows re-opened. One can safely assume these women pay little mind to such concerns, such is their focus on the task at hand. They are, at turns, both inspiring and disspiriting. I can honestly say I cannot imagine doing their jobs today, never mind thirty years from now. Yes, they remind me very much of my Benjamin Button-like mother.
During our brief, 5 1/2 minute phone call, mom is as vivacious as ever, and we manage to pack in more meaningful discussion than many people can muster over the course of several hours. It's astonishing how immediately alert mom can be, anytime of the day or night. She has just one speed: lightning fast.
At 3:30, Ryan and Diane chauffeur us to GFN, Gwangju's English language radio station. The interviewer is Michael, the owner of The First Alleyway Western pub and restaurant at which Dr. Shin and I had lunch last weekend. Michael is a well-informed, astute interviewer who actually listens to his guests. This is a rare talent in today's "New Journalism Gone Wild" media circles.
The New Journalistic style evolved in the 1960s. Truman Capote is often cited as the father of new journalism for his insertion of himself into his reportage for his award winning book In Cold Blood. Other authors in this genre include Tom Wolfe, Joan Didion, and Hunter S. Thompson. This generation of reporter/authors managed to adroitly side-step the self-involved, narcissistic approach into which this form eventually devolved.
In our interview, Michael manages to stay the conversational course, incorporating the thoughts and opinions of all participants, interspersed with his commentary. And he packs a great deal of information into just fifteen minutes. As a long-time journalist, I'm impressed by his skill, which surpasses that of many who do this work on a full-time basis.
On the drive back to campus, the phone rings. It's the Angry American demanding a ride to tonight's wrap-up dinner at the International Centre. He's staying a ten minute walk from the place. Though we try not to be intrusive, it's hard not to hear one side of the conversation. It's a lesson in class and diplomacy as Diane gently tells the caller that the chauffeurs will be busy attending to the evening's celebrations.
And what celebrations they are! Our Residence Hall Cafeteria caters the affair, setting out splendid hot and cold offerings including pork, drumsticks, sweet and sour chicken balls, fresh fruit and vegetables and a wide assortment of dainties. At the end of the evening, we're encouraged, in the Korean tradition, to take home the leftovers. The Angry American pushes aside students to fill two bags of his own. Apparently the T-shirts, pens, and other gifts we received tonight weren't enough.
Gale has commissioned a group of students to prepare a 10 minute PowerPoint presentation to showcase the good times had by the professors. We see slide after slide of white, middle-aged, wealthy professors, without a Korean in sight, enjoying Korean culture. Amidst the dozens of images, we see just one, unfocussed, shot of me, and one of Rob, in the middle of a group. Truly, this is like being at the prom with the mean kids: The jocks versus the nerds. And now, as then, we're more than happy not to be a part of their group.
Students have also prepared presentations, but by the time poor Sue's turn comes, even though she's been given an award for being the "top buddy," there's no time for her presentation. She has to simply scroll through her pictures, without explanation. Coincidentally, there are several pictures of Rob and me in her presentation, but they fly by in an instant. Upon spotting the second one, Dan the Man sidles up to Rob and says, "Oh. There you are again." Yes, Dan. There we are. With the students. The Koreans. That we've been excised entirely from this evening's wrap-up seems poetic.
Before dinner, Dr. Shin gives very brief address, after which he remarks to Rob, "I believe in karma. That is why I gave a short speech. We'll talk." I think this no-nonsense, down-to-earth man, who judges people by their character rather than their status, or their capacity to spin a web, gets it. Seconds later, Dan silkily slips by, trying to insinuate himself into the scene, and I'm reminded of an expression I heard earlier today. In English we say, "Speak of the Devil." In Korea, they say, "Speak of the Tiger," or, "You can't be a yang-ban." (A yang-ban was a Confucian scholar during the Chosun dynasty. This person would not be the type to eavesdrop to hear what people were saying about him.)
At the end of the festivities, Eric suggests we attend a karaoke parlour across the street in Hu Moon. A number of students and professors take him up on the offer, and while Rob heads home to prepare for tomorrow's exam (and escape karaoke hell!), I decide to honour the students and join in. Dr. Shin does not come along, but he does treat us to a mini-display of his major operatic capabilities, belting out a snippet of song in the cavernous hallway. Everyone is blown away.
As we prepare to exit the building, we notice the glass doors are locked. Dr. Shin tries to summon someone to open them, but we decide we might as well just leave through the main doors, which are already ajar. Just then, SharaLee, who has been attempting to speak, finally gets to state, ever so calmly, "But, what about those doors?" as she gestures to the wide-open ones to our immediate right. Everyone, including Dr. Shin, laughs uproariously.
To no one's surprises, Gale, Sharon, Dan, and Kathy follow Eric and Heidi into one karaoke studio, while the students are in another. The segregationist tendencies are so deeply ingrained in these people that it would never occur to them to mix it up. I decide to channel old Sun Tzu, the sixth century BC Chinese military strategist, who also happened to be a realist. The author of The Art of War, knew all too well the importance of brokering peace treaties, when necessary. So, to be politick, I spend 45 minutes with the profs and then head to the real action down the hall with the students. While with the profs, I gamely sing along, even joining Sharon in a rendition of Daydream Believer. The kids and I later rock out to I'm a Believer. As an natural optimist, I can't help but note the symmetry in these seemingly random choices of song.
By 11, I'm pooped. I walk my TA to her bus stop. Of the seven TAs, little Hye Seon was the shyest and least inclined to jump in. After several exchanges outside class, she's much more open with me. At tonight's wind-up, she corrals the photographer to take a few pictures of us together. On my polaroid snap she wants to write, "I love you," but has insufficient space, so she draws a heart. I tell her I will put that picture on my fridge. Rob explains to her that this is a very important place in our home, because we open the fridge so often! Waiting for Bus 28, Hye Seon tells me that she dreams of coming to Canada, and I say if she does get that opportunity, she's more than welcome to stay at our home.
I arrive at our apartment by 11:15 and am surprised to find the door ajar, and Rob fast asleep. Then I remember, we're in Korea, a place where people leave their valuables unattended and never seem to worry about locking up their bikes.
I'm so wound up that I spend the next two hours on the Internet catching up on the news, including a story about North Korean - UN discussions regarding the sinking of a South Korean submarine in March. But this depressing matter seems very far removed from our mirth making on this warm Gwangju night.
Artfulness, In All Forms
I'm standing at the curb outside the gate next to our apartment block trying to hail a cab, but each one that passes has an occupant.
It's 8:40 a.m. and I'm on my way to the Gwangju Biennale where I've been recruited to interview candidates for two English guide positions. They'll interpret information for visitors to the bi-annual contemporary arts festival which runs September 3rd through November 7th.
I'm getting a bit nervous because while there are many cabs about, they're all full of passengers. Cabs are so cheap in this city, many find it a faster, easier option than a bus. The most we've paid since being here was just under 6,000 won, or about five bucks, and that was for a 25 minute ride.
I see one cab zip by through the Chonnam gates, and the driver must have seen me too because moments later, he comes to a dramatic stop right beside me. A fancy U-turn in rush hour traffic, some racing through back lanes, and I reach my destination at 9 o'clock sharp.
I'm not expected until 9:15 for the interviews which will begin at 9:30. I have no idea what questions I am supposed to ask, nor the exact parameters of the jobs in question, so it's hard to know what qualifications I should be seeking in the candidates. I'm reassured this will all be clear when I meet with Mihee, the Chief of the Exhibition team.
By 9:28, I'm a tad concerned as I still have no guidelines, and can see the candidates queuing up outside the glass doors. My co-interviewer and I are positioned behind massive, formal looking, dark wood desks. The candidates will sit before us, in a most vulnerable position, alone, in a chair that is a couple of inches lower, and much smaller, than ours. It all seems a bit 1984ish.
Suddenly, the doors burst open, and in walks Chief Mihee. She is very friendly, but all business as she delivers a one-minute briefing about the job, the questioning format, and the scoring sheets. And then, in walks the first candidate.
My heart aches for this darling young woman. She's so sweet and sincere, but completely flustered. She apologizes repeatedly for somewhat incoherent answers, and knows all too well that this is not going to end happily. When we finish, she says, "That's it?" She's had all of five minutes to convince us why we should hire her. She will not be alone in this feeling; we have less than an hour-and-a-half to process sixteen people. We interviewers must decide, in seconds, who gets a high-profile, position that is guaranteed to boost their future employment fortunes.
And on it goes. One after another, sincere, hopeful young people, my son, vying for the honour of working long days for little pay. I feel like Old Man Potter in It's a Wonderful Life. Still, my co-interviewer and I agree that it is fairly apparent, even in five minutes, if someone can stand up to the pressure of the position. In the end, we find four very qualified candidates, including a twenty-something gal who spent some time in England, as evidenced by her thick Cockney accent, which, needless to say seems somewhat incongruent with her distinct Korean features. Two are chosen for to be interpreters, and Mihee generously plans to create opportunities for the other two. It's moving to think that with all the pressures she's facing, this busy woman is taking the time to make sure young talent will be presented with chances for development .
The Eighth Gwangju Biennale is a big deal. The theme this year is 10,000 lives. It's "an investigation of the relationships that bind people to images and images to people." Featuring works by more than 100 artists (from 1901 to 2010), it will also include new commissions. The title is borrowed from Maninbo (10,000 Lives), the unfinished 30 volume epic poem by Korean author Ko Un. The artist came up with the idea while imprisoned for his part in the 1980 Gwangju Uprising, or, as it's now termed, "The South Korean Democratic Movement." Maninbo is a compilation of descriptions and portraits of persons Ko Un has met, including historic and literary figures. Needless to say, it's an inspiring concept for the Biennale, which is guaranteed to appeal to a public already sold on this popular event.
By dinner time, Rob and I have both already had rather full days, but when Eric and his wife Heidi invite us for an EMart shop and dinner, we gladly accept. We cab it downtown, and then Eric takes us on a tour of the upscale Shinsaegae mall, near the more pedestrian EMart. Shinsaegae is the oldest department store in the country, having started out as a Japanese store in the 1930s. Shinsaegae houses Dior, Ferragamo, and other brands we'll never see in our closets, and we somehow just know the clerks sense this. Positioned next to their clients, we bring to mind the old Sesame Street song, "One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong..."
At EMart, we pick up plum tea and aloe juice. The aloe is refreshing and mild. The plum tea is a bit of a revelation, for until just today, it is what we had believed to be some type of green apple concoction, served as a soup at the end of our cafeteria meals. Further, that jasmine type cold soup is actually sold commercially as "Nostalgia Drink." When served at meals, it can be drunk from a cup, or taken by spoon from a bowl, as "sujeonggua," which I'd discussed the other day with Hyun Jeong.
We return to the Traditional Korean Porridge Restaurant to share our find with Eric and Heidi.
We split the vegetable cheese, crab, mung bean, and pine nut dishes, and they're all fantastic. The pine nut porridge reminds us of an extra special, super creamy, cream of wheat. We are so full, that by the time we leave, we're ready for our jammies and a pillow.
Eric and Heidi are excellent ambassadors for their country. They're open to new ideas, and respectful of people and their cultures. They're both as pure as fresh-licked, newborn calves, and they're an absolute delight to be around. Throughout this program, Eric has been exceptionally adept at staying his own course, while being friendly with everyone in his sphere. He's a skilled, and natural people-person, and he's absolutely without guile. We're grateful for having had the opportunity to spend an evening with these two.
It's 8:40 a.m. and I'm on my way to the Gwangju Biennale where I've been recruited to interview candidates for two English guide positions. They'll interpret information for visitors to the bi-annual contemporary arts festival which runs September 3rd through November 7th.
I'm getting a bit nervous because while there are many cabs about, they're all full of passengers. Cabs are so cheap in this city, many find it a faster, easier option than a bus. The most we've paid since being here was just under 6,000 won, or about five bucks, and that was for a 25 minute ride.
I see one cab zip by through the Chonnam gates, and the driver must have seen me too because moments later, he comes to a dramatic stop right beside me. A fancy U-turn in rush hour traffic, some racing through back lanes, and I reach my destination at 9 o'clock sharp.
I'm not expected until 9:15 for the interviews which will begin at 9:30. I have no idea what questions I am supposed to ask, nor the exact parameters of the jobs in question, so it's hard to know what qualifications I should be seeking in the candidates. I'm reassured this will all be clear when I meet with Mihee, the Chief of the Exhibition team.
By 9:28, I'm a tad concerned as I still have no guidelines, and can see the candidates queuing up outside the glass doors. My co-interviewer and I are positioned behind massive, formal looking, dark wood desks. The candidates will sit before us, in a most vulnerable position, alone, in a chair that is a couple of inches lower, and much smaller, than ours. It all seems a bit 1984ish.
Suddenly, the doors burst open, and in walks Chief Mihee. She is very friendly, but all business as she delivers a one-minute briefing about the job, the questioning format, and the scoring sheets. And then, in walks the first candidate.
My heart aches for this darling young woman. She's so sweet and sincere, but completely flustered. She apologizes repeatedly for somewhat incoherent answers, and knows all too well that this is not going to end happily. When we finish, she says, "That's it?" She's had all of five minutes to convince us why we should hire her. She will not be alone in this feeling; we have less than an hour-and-a-half to process sixteen people. We interviewers must decide, in seconds, who gets a high-profile, position that is guaranteed to boost their future employment fortunes.
And on it goes. One after another, sincere, hopeful young people, my son, vying for the honour of working long days for little pay. I feel like Old Man Potter in It's a Wonderful Life. Still, my co-interviewer and I agree that it is fairly apparent, even in five minutes, if someone can stand up to the pressure of the position. In the end, we find four very qualified candidates, including a twenty-something gal who spent some time in England, as evidenced by her thick Cockney accent, which, needless to say seems somewhat incongruent with her distinct Korean features. Two are chosen for to be interpreters, and Mihee generously plans to create opportunities for the other two. It's moving to think that with all the pressures she's facing, this busy woman is taking the time to make sure young talent will be presented with chances for development .
The Eighth Gwangju Biennale is a big deal. The theme this year is 10,000 lives. It's "an investigation of the relationships that bind people to images and images to people." Featuring works by more than 100 artists (from 1901 to 2010), it will also include new commissions. The title is borrowed from Maninbo (10,000 Lives), the unfinished 30 volume epic poem by Korean author Ko Un. The artist came up with the idea while imprisoned for his part in the 1980 Gwangju Uprising, or, as it's now termed, "The South Korean Democratic Movement." Maninbo is a compilation of descriptions and portraits of persons Ko Un has met, including historic and literary figures. Needless to say, it's an inspiring concept for the Biennale, which is guaranteed to appeal to a public already sold on this popular event.
By dinner time, Rob and I have both already had rather full days, but when Eric and his wife Heidi invite us for an EMart shop and dinner, we gladly accept. We cab it downtown, and then Eric takes us on a tour of the upscale Shinsaegae mall, near the more pedestrian EMart. Shinsaegae is the oldest department store in the country, having started out as a Japanese store in the 1930s. Shinsaegae houses Dior, Ferragamo, and other brands we'll never see in our closets, and we somehow just know the clerks sense this. Positioned next to their clients, we bring to mind the old Sesame Street song, "One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong..."
At EMart, we pick up plum tea and aloe juice. The aloe is refreshing and mild. The plum tea is a bit of a revelation, for until just today, it is what we had believed to be some type of green apple concoction, served as a soup at the end of our cafeteria meals. Further, that jasmine type cold soup is actually sold commercially as "Nostalgia Drink." When served at meals, it can be drunk from a cup, or taken by spoon from a bowl, as "sujeonggua," which I'd discussed the other day with Hyun Jeong.
We return to the Traditional Korean Porridge Restaurant to share our find with Eric and Heidi.
We split the vegetable cheese, crab, mung bean, and pine nut dishes, and they're all fantastic. The pine nut porridge reminds us of an extra special, super creamy, cream of wheat. We are so full, that by the time we leave, we're ready for our jammies and a pillow.
Eric and Heidi are excellent ambassadors for their country. They're open to new ideas, and respectful of people and their cultures. They're both as pure as fresh-licked, newborn calves, and they're an absolute delight to be around. Throughout this program, Eric has been exceptionally adept at staying his own course, while being friendly with everyone in his sphere. He's a skilled, and natural people-person, and he's absolutely without guile. We're grateful for having had the opportunity to spend an evening with these two.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Mom is Right: A Good Meal Cures All
I spend the morning taking care of housework, paperwork, and Internet work. It seems very strange not getting up for school, and it strikes me how easily one can slip into and out of routines.
Rob and I grab lunch at the Residence Hall Cafeteria, where today we present the staff with a thank you note and Manitoba pins. The hostess at the door is taken aback, but very pleased to accept the package and card on behalf of her co-workers. When we commissioned Ryan to write out the card for us, since none of the workers speak English, he said he rather doubted that anyone had ever thanked them before. Given the etiquette transgressions we've witnessed over the last month, this is not surprising.
I try to nap in the afternoon, but toss and turn. Perhaps it's the ingestion of the sweet milky coffee and white cake, pre-lie down. In any event, I haul my carcass out of bed in time for us to run off to our Korean lesson.
Our tutor is SharaLee's buddy Sue. She has generously offered to give some basic lessons to interested professors. The class consists of SharaLee, Rob, me, and... dun.. dun.. dun.. the Angry American and his self-entitled wife. Of course they drag along their precocious three year old for good measure. Regarding the latter, to be fair, he's just a boy. The failure of the parents to instill manners, and a sense of occasion, can hardly be blamed on the child. He tries to amuse himself, but what kid wants to hang out and be ignored by a group of adults in a classroom?
The Angry American instantly tries to hijack the class, as he apparently did during the last session, which we were unable to attend. He blurts, rushes the white board, and overrides our tutor. She gamely tries to regain control. He asks inane questions, and jumps to conclusions before receiving the answers. His idiotic and outrageous commentary reaches a fever pitch when he tells Sue, "We professors laugh at you students when you can't pronounce our names." Rob and I cringe. Sue simply retorts, "Oh. Really?!" She's all of a couple of decades old, but her class, and composure, is of the ages.
In the evening, we settle on another restaurant we've been meaning to try out: the Korean Traditional Porridge place in Hu Moon. There are many varieties of porridge, or "bonjuk," on the menu, so it's hard to choose just one. This is billed as "well-being - slow food," the diametrical opposite of unhealthy, fast food. When Rob orders the red bean porridge and I order the vegetable cheese dish, the server raises an eyebrow, but says, "ne," or "yes."
We see why she was confused when the order arrives. This is enough food for a family of six Koreans. The enormous, steaming bowls of porridge are served with various kimchi, about three teaspoons of shredded, pickled, beef, and about a quarter cup of green apple cold soup, or as it's correctly called, "sujeonggua."
It's hard not to think of North American, Montana's style, meals, where the food group offerings would be reversed, with tiny portions of vegetables, and Paul Bunyon sized slabs of meat. I also think back to our Indian friend commenting on our lunch soup the other day, which I now recognize as Korean porridge. He said it's cheap food for poor people. We wonder if Koreans consider this a meal for the less fortunate. The truth is, we think it's fit for a king!
Rob's red bean soup is smooth and creamy, with chewy grape-sized wheat balls. My vegetable cheese soup is multi-textured, and full of flavour. When we are served, I speculate that we will need take-out dishes. As it turns out, we do not. Again, the Koreans really put the "art" into culinary arts. They can take the simplest ingredients and come up with the most transcendant dishes.
As we wheel our bellys down the street, we bump into TA Gun and two of the girls in his English study group. After a full day of work, they've just spent the last few hours honing their skills, and now, they're off to enjoy a beer. Rob and I are both moved to see these vivacious kids living their lives to the fullest. It almost makes you want to pack up, fly around the globe, and embrace another culture for the summer!
Rob and I grab lunch at the Residence Hall Cafeteria, where today we present the staff with a thank you note and Manitoba pins. The hostess at the door is taken aback, but very pleased to accept the package and card on behalf of her co-workers. When we commissioned Ryan to write out the card for us, since none of the workers speak English, he said he rather doubted that anyone had ever thanked them before. Given the etiquette transgressions we've witnessed over the last month, this is not surprising.
I try to nap in the afternoon, but toss and turn. Perhaps it's the ingestion of the sweet milky coffee and white cake, pre-lie down. In any event, I haul my carcass out of bed in time for us to run off to our Korean lesson.
Our tutor is SharaLee's buddy Sue. She has generously offered to give some basic lessons to interested professors. The class consists of SharaLee, Rob, me, and... dun.. dun.. dun.. the Angry American and his self-entitled wife. Of course they drag along their precocious three year old for good measure. Regarding the latter, to be fair, he's just a boy. The failure of the parents to instill manners, and a sense of occasion, can hardly be blamed on the child. He tries to amuse himself, but what kid wants to hang out and be ignored by a group of adults in a classroom?
The Angry American instantly tries to hijack the class, as he apparently did during the last session, which we were unable to attend. He blurts, rushes the white board, and overrides our tutor. She gamely tries to regain control. He asks inane questions, and jumps to conclusions before receiving the answers. His idiotic and outrageous commentary reaches a fever pitch when he tells Sue, "We professors laugh at you students when you can't pronounce our names." Rob and I cringe. Sue simply retorts, "Oh. Really?!" She's all of a couple of decades old, but her class, and composure, is of the ages.
In the evening, we settle on another restaurant we've been meaning to try out: the Korean Traditional Porridge place in Hu Moon. There are many varieties of porridge, or "bonjuk," on the menu, so it's hard to choose just one. This is billed as "well-being - slow food," the diametrical opposite of unhealthy, fast food. When Rob orders the red bean porridge and I order the vegetable cheese dish, the server raises an eyebrow, but says, "ne," or "yes."
We see why she was confused when the order arrives. This is enough food for a family of six Koreans. The enormous, steaming bowls of porridge are served with various kimchi, about three teaspoons of shredded, pickled, beef, and about a quarter cup of green apple cold soup, or as it's correctly called, "sujeonggua."
It's hard not to think of North American, Montana's style, meals, where the food group offerings would be reversed, with tiny portions of vegetables, and Paul Bunyon sized slabs of meat. I also think back to our Indian friend commenting on our lunch soup the other day, which I now recognize as Korean porridge. He said it's cheap food for poor people. We wonder if Koreans consider this a meal for the less fortunate. The truth is, we think it's fit for a king!
Rob's red bean soup is smooth and creamy, with chewy grape-sized wheat balls. My vegetable cheese soup is multi-textured, and full of flavour. When we are served, I speculate that we will need take-out dishes. As it turns out, we do not. Again, the Koreans really put the "art" into culinary arts. They can take the simplest ingredients and come up with the most transcendant dishes.
As we wheel our bellys down the street, we bump into TA Gun and two of the girls in his English study group. After a full day of work, they've just spent the last few hours honing their skills, and now, they're off to enjoy a beer. Rob and I are both moved to see these vivacious kids living their lives to the fullest. It almost makes you want to pack up, fly around the globe, and embrace another culture for the summer!
Ogres: A Matter of Perception
What's the deal with Omar Sharif?! Though pushing 80, this actor, bon vivant, and world-class bridge player is still hot stuff in Korea. When he's not engaging in fisticuffs with parking lot attendants and police officers, he's authorizing the trademark "Omar Sharif of Paris" for use on everything from towels, to toiletry products, to stationary. Today, he's on TV, in a movie from the last decade or so, and he's still looking impossibly handsome!
I open the balcony doors to see a sheet of rain still pouring down. The balcony floor is under an inch of water as the drains at either corner struggle to keep up with the flow. I take the now soaked clothes that have been hanging on the line to air out, and haul them into the apartment. One cannot overstate the importance of bringing along airwick/quick dry clothing on a trip to Korea.
There's so much rain water that the lawn, and the park across the street, are submerged under great lakes where Mother Nature is quickly doing her work. As if overnight, these aquariums have fostered the development of new life. At first, I search around for geese. The honking is so loud, it reminds me of being cornered in the chicken house at the old family farm by our flock of recalcitrant, truculent geese who were so big when I saw six, they could look me in the eye.
On our afternoon walk, Rob and I figure out what is really making the sound. We are not hearing birds, but frogs, and lots of them. These amphibians don't trill like the frogs in the lakes of Kenora, nor do they deeply "ribbit" like the bullfrogs imported into, and now overtaking the waterways, of central and southern Ontario. No, they actually honk. The sound is impressive, both in terms of volume and verbosity. It's hard to believe that such a small creature can produce such a big sound.
En route to lunch, Rob brings me up to speed regarding his temple trip. The monks were, not surprisingly, informative, wise, and kind. We wish the same could be said of some of the guests. Case in point: One of the American guests, Sharon, complained about many things during the stay, but truly topped herself during a restaurant stop. The tour group was taken to a place known for it's special soups. This woman flatly refused to eat the soup, and left it to someone from the program to solve this dilemma for her. An underling was put in the uncomfortable position of having to pick up kimbap at a restaurant next door, and bring it into the soup place. With disdain, Sharon pushed away her soup bowl when served, forcing the server to ferret it away. I would suggest this is outrageously rude in any culture.
This same woman professes to be a vegetarian, though she eats chicken and fish. Huh? Rob is a true vegetarian, but recognizing the social discomfort of refusing offerings from hosts in a country that is big on meat, he has made adjustments for the visit. Though this woman needn't go that far, it would be nice if she could be just a touch more thoughtful. When I first met Sharon, I was curious about her Coke bottle thick glasses, and wondered how bad her vision must be. When she takes off these glasses, she can scarcely see out of her eyes that are the size of pin heads. Well, the mystery is solved, and her blindness is more than ocular in nature.
Rob and I trot over to our dumpling spot, and in addition to the pork dumplings and rice buns, we add kimchi dumplings. The young cook, in his Eminem T-shirt, is ever so happy to see repeat customers. We gobble up every single morsel, exchange pleasantries in both of our languages, and head home to get a little work done.
For dinner, I throw together a beef stirfry and soba noodles with onions. We eat like Koreans, using chopsticks to dig into the sizzling pan. As mentioned in a previous posting, I do feel this is a tradition worthy of carrying home to Canada. I'm also hoping to continue the habit of walking several hours per day, or get the equivalent exercise, to compensate for all the decadently delicious meals.
Although we're both quite tired, we decide to take in the 11 p.m. showing of Shrek, Forever After. Though it's kind of considered a kid's movie, we like the plucky little ogre. We pick up our "Lovers Meal" which includes two drinks, and a large box popcorn. This box contains about 6 cups, as opposed to the trough of large popcorn in North American theatres.
Cinus Theatre is in a narrow, seven story building, and we catch an elevator to the fourth floor. As the doors open, a perky young lass greets us, and indicates that we should sit down on the bench. We are ushered to our assigned seats mere moments before the showing. The floors are carpeted, and they're spotless. The seats are comfy, and the air conditioning is reasonable. Normally, when I go to theatres, I wear big sweaters in preparation for a glacial blast. This time, my sweater is on my lap.
There are only about eight people in the theatre. Rob suggests it might be due to the fact that it's in English with Korean subtitles. I think it might be because it's rather late on a Sunday evening. Silly me. When we exit the theatre at 12:45 a.m., the streets are still teeming with shoppers and people going out for coffee. It's like Montreal at 3 a.m. on a weeknight. This is a difficult concept for a prairie farm gal to grasp!
By 1:30 a.m., looking like Shrek and his wife, Fiona, we flop down for a deep, dreamless, sleep.
I open the balcony doors to see a sheet of rain still pouring down. The balcony floor is under an inch of water as the drains at either corner struggle to keep up with the flow. I take the now soaked clothes that have been hanging on the line to air out, and haul them into the apartment. One cannot overstate the importance of bringing along airwick/quick dry clothing on a trip to Korea.
There's so much rain water that the lawn, and the park across the street, are submerged under great lakes where Mother Nature is quickly doing her work. As if overnight, these aquariums have fostered the development of new life. At first, I search around for geese. The honking is so loud, it reminds me of being cornered in the chicken house at the old family farm by our flock of recalcitrant, truculent geese who were so big when I saw six, they could look me in the eye.
On our afternoon walk, Rob and I figure out what is really making the sound. We are not hearing birds, but frogs, and lots of them. These amphibians don't trill like the frogs in the lakes of Kenora, nor do they deeply "ribbit" like the bullfrogs imported into, and now overtaking the waterways, of central and southern Ontario. No, they actually honk. The sound is impressive, both in terms of volume and verbosity. It's hard to believe that such a small creature can produce such a big sound.
En route to lunch, Rob brings me up to speed regarding his temple trip. The monks were, not surprisingly, informative, wise, and kind. We wish the same could be said of some of the guests. Case in point: One of the American guests, Sharon, complained about many things during the stay, but truly topped herself during a restaurant stop. The tour group was taken to a place known for it's special soups. This woman flatly refused to eat the soup, and left it to someone from the program to solve this dilemma for her. An underling was put in the uncomfortable position of having to pick up kimbap at a restaurant next door, and bring it into the soup place. With disdain, Sharon pushed away her soup bowl when served, forcing the server to ferret it away. I would suggest this is outrageously rude in any culture.
This same woman professes to be a vegetarian, though she eats chicken and fish. Huh? Rob is a true vegetarian, but recognizing the social discomfort of refusing offerings from hosts in a country that is big on meat, he has made adjustments for the visit. Though this woman needn't go that far, it would be nice if she could be just a touch more thoughtful. When I first met Sharon, I was curious about her Coke bottle thick glasses, and wondered how bad her vision must be. When she takes off these glasses, she can scarcely see out of her eyes that are the size of pin heads. Well, the mystery is solved, and her blindness is more than ocular in nature.
Rob and I trot over to our dumpling spot, and in addition to the pork dumplings and rice buns, we add kimchi dumplings. The young cook, in his Eminem T-shirt, is ever so happy to see repeat customers. We gobble up every single morsel, exchange pleasantries in both of our languages, and head home to get a little work done.
For dinner, I throw together a beef stirfry and soba noodles with onions. We eat like Koreans, using chopsticks to dig into the sizzling pan. As mentioned in a previous posting, I do feel this is a tradition worthy of carrying home to Canada. I'm also hoping to continue the habit of walking several hours per day, or get the equivalent exercise, to compensate for all the decadently delicious meals.
Although we're both quite tired, we decide to take in the 11 p.m. showing of Shrek, Forever After. Though it's kind of considered a kid's movie, we like the plucky little ogre. We pick up our "Lovers Meal" which includes two drinks, and a large box popcorn. This box contains about 6 cups, as opposed to the trough of large popcorn in North American theatres.
Cinus Theatre is in a narrow, seven story building, and we catch an elevator to the fourth floor. As the doors open, a perky young lass greets us, and indicates that we should sit down on the bench. We are ushered to our assigned seats mere moments before the showing. The floors are carpeted, and they're spotless. The seats are comfy, and the air conditioning is reasonable. Normally, when I go to theatres, I wear big sweaters in preparation for a glacial blast. This time, my sweater is on my lap.
There are only about eight people in the theatre. Rob suggests it might be due to the fact that it's in English with Korean subtitles. I think it might be because it's rather late on a Sunday evening. Silly me. When we exit the theatre at 12:45 a.m., the streets are still teeming with shoppers and people going out for coffee. It's like Montreal at 3 a.m. on a weeknight. This is a difficult concept for a prairie farm gal to grasp!
By 1:30 a.m., looking like Shrek and his wife, Fiona, we flop down for a deep, dreamless, sleep.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
The Global Community
We're going to have an action packed day, so before calligraphy class, we feel it would behoove us to have a sensible breakfast. Rather than dipping into our cache in the fridge, we decide to finally try out the dumpling place in Sang Dae that we've been hearing so much about. We arrive around 8:30 to find the door firmly shut. This is the case at all neighbourhood shops, despite the fact that the streets and alleyways are starting to fill up.
We can't quite figure out store hours in Gwangju. For example, hairs salons and clothing shops seems to be open until the wee hours, including on the weekends. But vendors with foods often associated with breakfast don't open until late in the day. Now we're in a rush. We have to be at calligraphy class at 9, so we have about 10 minutes to find something to eat during our walk there. We pop into a convenience store and pick up those rice triangles the Japanese call onigiri, but I've heard some refer to as triangular kimbap.
At class, Rob amazes us with his simple, elegant fern leaves. My practice sheets surpass the quality of my final copies, the unfortunate result of a waterlogged callilgraphy brush. Still, it's incredible how one can change shading and tone by simply altering the amount of water in the ink.
Rob is sitting next to Eric's wife Heidi, who has just arrived in Korea. She's like every Heidi I've ever known, real or fictitious. She's strong and outgoing with a real zest for life. She teaches yoga, and has free range chickens producing organic eggs. Her effect on her husband is obvious; he is just beaming with pride and joy. They're a very sweet couple.
Beside me sits the wife of the Angry American. She's a welll-spoken, artistic spirit, but by the end of class I can see how she and her husband get along. When the program assistant comes around to collect the brushes, she snatches it from his hand and says, "Give me that. I want it." He looks confused, but smiles, and moves on. These brushes cost under a dollar, and they're available at the shop down the street.
Sharon and Gale blow in at the very end of the class, at which time Sharon loudly, viciously, and publically dresses down Ryan for giving them the wrong time. Everyone shrinks, and feels just a bit diminished for having witnessed the event. Rob and I later point out to Ryan that his email was circulated to all staff and students. Thirty plus managed to get the message, and made it to class. Sharon's outburst points, once again, to the inability of some people to take any personal responsiblity. Ryan is the same guy they call at all hours to run errands and drive them around because they're incapable of caring for themselves.
After class, we still have a yen for dumplings, so we head back to the shop for lunch. The young server tests his English skills, and Rob picks his way through the menu which is entirely in Hangeul. A full, satisfying meal for both of us costs less than five dollars Canadian. The pork dumplings and rice buns are heavenly. They're steamed in stacked metal dishes and served piping hot. We could sit in the air-conditioned restaurant, but we choose the tiny plastic stools at the outdoor shelf so we can stay connected to the action in the street.
In the afternoon, we attend the weekly session at the Global International Centre which features speakers from around the globe. Not surpringly, this is yet another initiative launched by the indefatigable International Centre President, Dr. Shin. The speaker today will be Andrea, an American journalism professor. This is the same series at which Rob will speak next weekend. It seems to be a pretty big deal; we've had students tell us they've seen posters advertising Rob's talk in convenience stores around the city. (Point of interest: In this very big city, it turns out the GIC office is in the very building we came to during week one to have the Canon technologists look at our camera.)
My TA, Hao, is our chauffeur for the ride which includes me, Rob, Andrea, and Dr. Shin's right arm, Diane. The discussion is free-wheeling and fun, producing a great deal of laughter. It turns out Andrea, like Rob, attended the University of Iowa, in Iowa City. (It's astonishing how often Rob encounters alumni.) I'm intrigued to hear that she knows, and worked across the hall from Pulitzer Prize winning author Jane Smiley. Andrea is a leftie, and we share similar views on the education systems in our countries. She also feels we have a great deal to learn from other cultures.
Andrea's talk is called, "America the Beautiful." It's a personal overview of a "defining moment in history," when President Obama won over the Iowa delegates. A self-professed idealist, she thumps her chest passionately as she speaks of Obama elevating the level of discourse, and her desire to see that trend continued. She's a fiesty one, but she has her hands full as she's coerced into deflecting and defending questions on U.S. foreign policy. She manages well, but must be impressed by the level of discourse in this very room. This crowd is politically astute and outspoken. Dr. Shin has provided a marvelous forum in which people can think and discuss matters of import.
After the talk, Rob and the rest of the group prepare to head off to the overnight temple stay. I explain to Dr. Shin that I'm unable to attend because of my back problem. He's most concerned, and ushers me into a storage room where he calls upon an athletic therapist in training to advise me how to stretch and exercise properly. Dr. Shin explains that he too had a disk issue, but has managed to rectify it without medical assistance. He says he needs to develop his core for singing, and demonstrates by belting out a powerful, window rattling, tune. It surprises us that this slender slip of a man has such bottled lightning within. He stretches out on the floor, and personally demonstrates some techniques.
Thinking I've taken up enough of this very busy man's time, I say goodbye to Rob, and grab my bag so I can leave. But Dr. Shin has other plans. He introduces me to all the office staff, and then leads me out the door and into the street. We round the corner of the building, and head into a neighbourhood filled with art galleries and shops between which are nestled numerous churches and temples. The strangest part of this all is that once one steps into the temples' courtyards, it's as if nothing exists beyond the walls. It's silent. Peaceful.
Dr. Shin spends the next 3 1/2 hours ushering me around the the area. He confirms my suspicion that the birds I've been seeing all over campus are Korean magpies. We speak of the importance of language studies as a vehicle for social enlightment, and we discuss the need for communication around the world regarding how best to education our youth, our future world leaders.
We stop in at The First Alleyway, a western pub and restaurant owned by a Canadian and filled with people from Edmonton, Toronto, and Winnipeg. We order light, tasty fish tacos. Though Dr. Shin was most interested in trying out the more expensive chicken parmigiana, the owner, in that particular Canadian/Korean way, talked him out of it saying it was too heavy for his palate, and recommended the cheaper option. Selling down is not exactly the most common business strategy where I came from.
Ever the developer of young talent, Dr. Shin bids a gal from North Carolina to join us. This receding redhead with a pronounced speech impediment has been teaching English in Gwangju for three years. She's feeling a bit burned out and disillusioned of late. She's frustrated saying she's trying hard, but her students aren't. Dr. Shin asks what I'd advise. I give her the best career advice I've ever received.
I tell her what my eight year old son told me very early in my teaching career. He said, "Don't try so hard. Just go in and be happy to be there. Have fun. When the students see that you're having fun, they will too. They will want to be there, and they'll like you, so they will want to do well." I have never forgotten that sensible advice, and I've come back to it time and time again. I explain to my North Carolinan friend that it's really that simple: We need to reframe our own thinking and create a new reality. The tension in her furrowed brow starts to release, and she smiles.
Dr. Shin appreciates the wisdom of this insightful eight year old, perhaps because its a very Buddhist approach to thought, something innate in Kael and apparent from a very young age. Dr. Shin also advices the young woman to upgrade, to stimulate her mind and reclaim her good energy. She seems keen to take his advice.
I ask Dr. Shin to please honour me by letting me pay for dinner, since he has been such a lovely tour guide. He agrees, but says that he must pay when he takes Rob and me for lunch next week. When dinner is over, we scoot next door for a peek at the restaurant owner's western style grocery store where patrons can find anything from cheddar cheese to pork and beans to Indian currys. I cotton on to the notion that Dr. Shin is trying to pay me back immediately through the purchase of a western treat, but I manage to skirt the issue nicely. Lunch next week is more than enough.
It turns out the clerk is from Winnipeg. His mother worked at the bank at the end of our street, and they used to always listen to the radio station at which I was employed. I can't wait to tell my former co-worker, Roger Currie, that someone was asking about him in Gwangju! We are terrifically amused, and agree to continue our conversation, soonest.
I stumble into the apartment at 8:15 and immediately try to connect with SharaLee. We were to have met for coffee in the afternoon, but I couldn't seem to figure out how to ring her to let her know of the delay. We end up spending the next two hours drinking coffee, eating chewistys and honey glutinous rice sticks (yum!) and solving the world's ills.
When I finally fall into bed at one a.m., I give thanks for having had such a productive and fun-filled day.
We can't quite figure out store hours in Gwangju. For example, hairs salons and clothing shops seems to be open until the wee hours, including on the weekends. But vendors with foods often associated with breakfast don't open until late in the day. Now we're in a rush. We have to be at calligraphy class at 9, so we have about 10 minutes to find something to eat during our walk there. We pop into a convenience store and pick up those rice triangles the Japanese call onigiri, but I've heard some refer to as triangular kimbap.
At class, Rob amazes us with his simple, elegant fern leaves. My practice sheets surpass the quality of my final copies, the unfortunate result of a waterlogged callilgraphy brush. Still, it's incredible how one can change shading and tone by simply altering the amount of water in the ink.
Rob is sitting next to Eric's wife Heidi, who has just arrived in Korea. She's like every Heidi I've ever known, real or fictitious. She's strong and outgoing with a real zest for life. She teaches yoga, and has free range chickens producing organic eggs. Her effect on her husband is obvious; he is just beaming with pride and joy. They're a very sweet couple.
Beside me sits the wife of the Angry American. She's a welll-spoken, artistic spirit, but by the end of class I can see how she and her husband get along. When the program assistant comes around to collect the brushes, she snatches it from his hand and says, "Give me that. I want it." He looks confused, but smiles, and moves on. These brushes cost under a dollar, and they're available at the shop down the street.
Sharon and Gale blow in at the very end of the class, at which time Sharon loudly, viciously, and publically dresses down Ryan for giving them the wrong time. Everyone shrinks, and feels just a bit diminished for having witnessed the event. Rob and I later point out to Ryan that his email was circulated to all staff and students. Thirty plus managed to get the message, and made it to class. Sharon's outburst points, once again, to the inability of some people to take any personal responsiblity. Ryan is the same guy they call at all hours to run errands and drive them around because they're incapable of caring for themselves.
After class, we still have a yen for dumplings, so we head back to the shop for lunch. The young server tests his English skills, and Rob picks his way through the menu which is entirely in Hangeul. A full, satisfying meal for both of us costs less than five dollars Canadian. The pork dumplings and rice buns are heavenly. They're steamed in stacked metal dishes and served piping hot. We could sit in the air-conditioned restaurant, but we choose the tiny plastic stools at the outdoor shelf so we can stay connected to the action in the street.
In the afternoon, we attend the weekly session at the Global International Centre which features speakers from around the globe. Not surpringly, this is yet another initiative launched by the indefatigable International Centre President, Dr. Shin. The speaker today will be Andrea, an American journalism professor. This is the same series at which Rob will speak next weekend. It seems to be a pretty big deal; we've had students tell us they've seen posters advertising Rob's talk in convenience stores around the city. (Point of interest: In this very big city, it turns out the GIC office is in the very building we came to during week one to have the Canon technologists look at our camera.)
My TA, Hao, is our chauffeur for the ride which includes me, Rob, Andrea, and Dr. Shin's right arm, Diane. The discussion is free-wheeling and fun, producing a great deal of laughter. It turns out Andrea, like Rob, attended the University of Iowa, in Iowa City. (It's astonishing how often Rob encounters alumni.) I'm intrigued to hear that she knows, and worked across the hall from Pulitzer Prize winning author Jane Smiley. Andrea is a leftie, and we share similar views on the education systems in our countries. She also feels we have a great deal to learn from other cultures.
Andrea's talk is called, "America the Beautiful." It's a personal overview of a "defining moment in history," when President Obama won over the Iowa delegates. A self-professed idealist, she thumps her chest passionately as she speaks of Obama elevating the level of discourse, and her desire to see that trend continued. She's a fiesty one, but she has her hands full as she's coerced into deflecting and defending questions on U.S. foreign policy. She manages well, but must be impressed by the level of discourse in this very room. This crowd is politically astute and outspoken. Dr. Shin has provided a marvelous forum in which people can think and discuss matters of import.
After the talk, Rob and the rest of the group prepare to head off to the overnight temple stay. I explain to Dr. Shin that I'm unable to attend because of my back problem. He's most concerned, and ushers me into a storage room where he calls upon an athletic therapist in training to advise me how to stretch and exercise properly. Dr. Shin explains that he too had a disk issue, but has managed to rectify it without medical assistance. He says he needs to develop his core for singing, and demonstrates by belting out a powerful, window rattling, tune. It surprises us that this slender slip of a man has such bottled lightning within. He stretches out on the floor, and personally demonstrates some techniques.
Thinking I've taken up enough of this very busy man's time, I say goodbye to Rob, and grab my bag so I can leave. But Dr. Shin has other plans. He introduces me to all the office staff, and then leads me out the door and into the street. We round the corner of the building, and head into a neighbourhood filled with art galleries and shops between which are nestled numerous churches and temples. The strangest part of this all is that once one steps into the temples' courtyards, it's as if nothing exists beyond the walls. It's silent. Peaceful.
Dr. Shin spends the next 3 1/2 hours ushering me around the the area. He confirms my suspicion that the birds I've been seeing all over campus are Korean magpies. We speak of the importance of language studies as a vehicle for social enlightment, and we discuss the need for communication around the world regarding how best to education our youth, our future world leaders.
We stop in at The First Alleyway, a western pub and restaurant owned by a Canadian and filled with people from Edmonton, Toronto, and Winnipeg. We order light, tasty fish tacos. Though Dr. Shin was most interested in trying out the more expensive chicken parmigiana, the owner, in that particular Canadian/Korean way, talked him out of it saying it was too heavy for his palate, and recommended the cheaper option. Selling down is not exactly the most common business strategy where I came from.
Ever the developer of young talent, Dr. Shin bids a gal from North Carolina to join us. This receding redhead with a pronounced speech impediment has been teaching English in Gwangju for three years. She's feeling a bit burned out and disillusioned of late. She's frustrated saying she's trying hard, but her students aren't. Dr. Shin asks what I'd advise. I give her the best career advice I've ever received.
I tell her what my eight year old son told me very early in my teaching career. He said, "Don't try so hard. Just go in and be happy to be there. Have fun. When the students see that you're having fun, they will too. They will want to be there, and they'll like you, so they will want to do well." I have never forgotten that sensible advice, and I've come back to it time and time again. I explain to my North Carolinan friend that it's really that simple: We need to reframe our own thinking and create a new reality. The tension in her furrowed brow starts to release, and she smiles.
Dr. Shin appreciates the wisdom of this insightful eight year old, perhaps because its a very Buddhist approach to thought, something innate in Kael and apparent from a very young age. Dr. Shin also advices the young woman to upgrade, to stimulate her mind and reclaim her good energy. She seems keen to take his advice.
I ask Dr. Shin to please honour me by letting me pay for dinner, since he has been such a lovely tour guide. He agrees, but says that he must pay when he takes Rob and me for lunch next week. When dinner is over, we scoot next door for a peek at the restaurant owner's western style grocery store where patrons can find anything from cheddar cheese to pork and beans to Indian currys. I cotton on to the notion that Dr. Shin is trying to pay me back immediately through the purchase of a western treat, but I manage to skirt the issue nicely. Lunch next week is more than enough.
It turns out the clerk is from Winnipeg. His mother worked at the bank at the end of our street, and they used to always listen to the radio station at which I was employed. I can't wait to tell my former co-worker, Roger Currie, that someone was asking about him in Gwangju! We are terrifically amused, and agree to continue our conversation, soonest.
I stumble into the apartment at 8:15 and immediately try to connect with SharaLee. We were to have met for coffee in the afternoon, but I couldn't seem to figure out how to ring her to let her know of the delay. We end up spending the next two hours drinking coffee, eating chewistys and honey glutinous rice sticks (yum!) and solving the world's ills.
When I finally fall into bed at one a.m., I give thanks for having had such a productive and fun-filled day.
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