That was a bad reference to Springtime for Hitler, but it'll have to do. I couldn't think of anything else.
Technically it's been spring for a while now, but only today has it really felt like it. At first, the weather refused to warm up. The temperature remained stubbornly low, like a tired donkey. We even had a few freak snowstorms. Then it warmed up too quickly. I was subjected to several hazy, warm, muggy days in the low 80s, which nearly killed me. Heat and humidity do not mix. They are my meteorological Kryptonite, sucking all the energy and courage out of me, and I become a whiny, groveling, short-tempered insect.
But today...oh. Today is just gorgeous.
As you can see, the trees are leafing out, the skies are blue, the clouds are wisps of cotton, the haze is gone, and it's just a beautiful frickin' day. You can't tell from the picture, but the temperature is in the 60s (perfect for me) and there's a lively breeze that carries all the excess heat away from your body and leaves you sunny and magnanimous in its wake.
It's enough to make me forget how tough this week has been. It turns out that my predictions were...premature. Doing the presentation classes has been all right, don't get me wrong. It's my regular classes that have been nightmarish. Somehow sensing that they would be inundated with foreigners this week, and the Korean teachers would be powerless to discipline them, my elementary students have gone off the high side. They're nuts. Uncontrollable. Ungovernable. Loud. Noisy. Crazy. Rambunctious. Related adjectives and synonyms.
Moreover, my guess that I would have the period between 6:15 and 10:00 (quitting time) all to myself was a load of dingo's kidneys. The management cooked up an intriguing scheme to keep the foreign teachers busy during their down-time. We're calling our elementary students at home and chatting with them. Testing their reading comprehension. Discussing the stories we've read in class. Shooting the breeze. We talk to each student for ten minutes and then spend a few minutes uploading comments on their performance to the academy's website. This isn't so bad, but I have to do this fourteen times in a row on Wednesday and Friday. It's nothing the Korean teachers don't do every day—they have to make regular progress reports to the parents—but for a phone virgin like me, it's exhausting. I have a new respect for the Korean teachers now. They have to do this during the regular school year. Cripes.
Long story short, I've been more exhausted at the end of the day this week than I have during at any previous time.
No matter. Today's weather has made me forget it. I decided to take advantage of this auspicious gift from Mother Nature (it was as if she gift-wrapped it personally for me!). I went down to Homeplus and did some shopping. Homeplus, as I may have explained before, is a big outlet store chain, similar to Wal-Mart or K-Mart, only cleaner, more respectable, with more smartly-dressed greeters. Miss H is arriving on—
HOLY SMOKE!!!
I forgot to tell you!
Miss H is coming to Korea.
No, really! She is! Finally!
I bought her a ticket on Korean Air, and she'll be here on Monday. To say I'm excited would be the understatement of the century. She'll live with me for a few weeks and send out some lines, and then hopefully we'll get her a job at one of the English academies in my building. And there we'll be, living and working in South Korea. Together at last.
But first I have to get my bachelor pad cleaned up. I grabbed some cleaning supplies at Homeplus, like a hand vacuum and drain cleaner and whatnot. They really do have every convenience here. I wonder what I'd do for drain cleaner if I was living in Tanzania. Probably wouldn't need it. I'll have to try living in Tanzania sometime and see.
But before I went to Homeplus, I had something else I needed to do. I hadn't gotten my hair cut in three months (sound familiar?). I asked around at work and was told to find the Juno Hair Salon, on the other side of Homeplus from my apartment building. They spoke some English and it was a real class establishment. I located it without too much trouble, and walked in. The place was ritzy. Mirrored walls, glass shelves stocked with notions and fragrances, and (get this) a wine-and-cordial bar for thirsty customers. Class establishment, indeed. I was gestured to a cushioned bench and waited for 10 minutes while the staff finished a hasty brunch. Then I was ushered to a private locker room where I ensconced my coat and backpack. I climbed into a slinky sort of robe-thingy, which belted at the wast. A big soft bib was laid over that. Then, in a low-lit room with lots of strip lighting (which felt more like a private spa room at the Luxor in Las Vegas than a hair salon in Bucheon), I received a shampooing. Indeed, the whole affair was more like a spa treatment than a haircut. The woman's hands gently rendered my windblown hair clean and malleable.
Then I sat in the chair, and the stylist put a large piece of cloth over me, the customary hair shield. (That's three anti-hair layers I'm wearing now, in case you weren't been counting.) She showed me pictures of hairstyles on her iPad. I selected the likeliest one, and she went to work. She was efficient, she was gentle, and she was talented. Her English wasn't the best, and my Korean even poorer, but nonetheless we managed something like a conversation. I traded pleasantries with her about my job and my country of origin while I gazed out the window at the sunlit streets and the majestic high-rise apartments. I tried not to stare at what she was doing. I wanted to make sure she gave me the hairstyle I wanted, not the slicked-back monstrosity that my old Korean barber wreaked on me. But she performed brilliantly. I've never been so satisfied with a haircut, and that's no exaggeration.
I was then taken in hand by the same shampooist (that's now a word, courtesy of the Postman), back to the strip-lit room. There I received a second shampooing-slash-head massage. And when I say "head massage" I mean that I thought my skull would pop open. This Korean woman had the face of a young girl, and was barely over five feet, with an alarmingly skinny figure. But she had the grip of a boa constrictor and fingers like iron bands. She worked all the pressure points and penetrated deep into the muscles of my jaw and neck. I was limp spaghetti in her hands. I gave her repeated compliments, hoping she wasn't a North Korean agent plotting to snap my spine. Don't get me wrong. The massage was enjoyable in its own unique way, even if I felt like a stubborn egg she was trying to crack open. Even now, as I flex my neck and work my jaw, there is no stiffness. And my scalp feels ready to jump off my head and take wing. Can't put a price on that. It was simply a new experience for me, the foreignness and novelty of which I reflected on even as my head was being molded like clay.
Then it was back in the chair for a quick blow-dry and styling. I politely declined the waxes and sprays. I never put anything in my hair the wind couldn't blow out of it. The stylist combed it down, straightening a few stubborn cowlicks, and set me on my way, twenty-five grand poorer. I received an enthusiastic farewell at the door from my stylist and the gorilla-fisted shampoo girl, plus a free lollipop for my trouble. I was charmed by both gestures. Ultimately, I would recommend Juno Salon to anyone in need of a new hairstyle...who also likes to have their stress wrenched away at finger-point.
And now I'm back in my apartment, telling you about it. With the hour I have left before class, I shall clean the bathroom. Guests are coming for movie night and I don't want them to get the screaming horrors upon entering that sacred room. Then I have four classes (three regular, one presentation) and about six or seven phone calls to make. Shouldn't be too bad. Friday comes with three classes and twelve phone calls, and then the blessed freedom of the weekend, which shall be spent cleaning and tidying in preparation for Miss H's arrival. I shall also explore Gwangjang Market with Andy, if there's time.
On Monday...Miss H arrives.
Heaven ensues.
Recently it was announced that there's something called a naeshin week coming up at my hagwon. I haven't the slightest clue what "naeshin" means, but it has something to do with tests. The middle schoolers have big tests coming up. I don't mean SATs or ACTs or anything. This is a long, brutal week in May when the little rotters take a sort of assessment/achievement test to determine how well they've absorbed the endless miasma of knowledge siphoned into their heads by their teachers. These tests assess their chances of getting into a good university, acquiring high-paying jobs and supporting their parents in their leathery old age.
Anyway, during this upcoming week, the middle school students will be having cram sessions every night with the Korean teachers. That means we foreign teachers will have no middle schoolers to teach. However, we shall have to take up the slack with the elementary kids, whom the Korean teachers will be too busy to handle. So, we will have an increased course load during the early afternoons. Our own elementary classes will continue as normal, with lessons and such. But the classes we're subbing for will do things a bit differently. There will be a sort of "presentation class" where the students will be given a topic at the beginning of the week, distill it into a presentation, and deliver it at the end of the week. That should be intriguing. The topic will be "time travel"—if you had a time machine, where would you go? What would you change? How would this affect the future?
Following the increased afternoon course load, our evenings are largely vacant. From 6:15 p.m. onwards (7:45 on Tuesdays and Thursdays) I'm pretty much just lounging around.
Things get really interesting the week after this. This is called the "holding period." During this time the middle school students are off actually taking those big exams. They don't come to the academy at all. The Korean teachers go back to teaching elementary classes, and everything resumes as normal, sans the middle schoolers. This means that we'll have even fewer classes and be done even earlier. Think of how much novel-editing I'll get done during that span!
And now, because every good blog post needs a picture (so it'll look all fresh and appealing when it's down there in the "You might also like" zone), please take a moment to consider this:
There were a few moments, during my hectic preparations for Korea, that I wondered whether I was doing the right thing. Should I really be jetting off for a foreign land? Wouldn't it be better to stick to my home turf and keep pounding the pavement?
In the end, the answer to that question was a resounding "no." I was bored stiff. I felt like I could hardly breathe. I'd been back in the States long enough. I'd wasted two years of my life—almost three—in that hellish deathpit. My girlfriend, my parents and my friends were the only holes in the All-Consuming Black Nightmare-Cloak of Despair.
Having been back in Korea for the better part of three months, I realize that I made the right choice. Don't get me wrong—I do miss California sometimes. The beaches. The mountains. Those wide highways. But I know I'm happier in Korea. I was bored stiff in the desert, remember? Something's always going down in Korea, whether it's virtual golf, a basketball game, a ping-pong tournament, a movie night, a dinner party, a hoedown, or a pub crawl.
Take this weekend, for example. It didn't start out very auspiciously. I spent Saturday doing nothing more exciting than trying to find a Costco store.
...in the middle of Seoul.
...which meant another ride on the jam-packed geumhaeng.
My first attempt, made in the early afternoon, was abortive. Turned out I had the wrong subway stop. Even more humbling, I was on the wrong subway line: I wanted the Yeongdeung-po Office station on Line 2, but I got off at Yeongdeung-po station on Line 1. Simple case of mistaken identity, really. But it resulted in me wandering around a grungy, gritty neighborhood, riddled with grimy metalworking shops and a deserted greengrocers' market, for two hours.
As I strode down the sidewalk, head on a swivel, I passed a homeless shelter run by the Order of St. Thomas. Several burly soup cooks and a demure Korean nun were standing outside a small building, waving scruffy men in stained clothes through the door one-by-one. I tried to stop and take a picture, but one of the burly cooks walked over and warded me off, his tone of voice indicating that I should have known better. Even so, I got a consolation prize a few alleys farther along:
But I could not find Costco. I even stopped and asked someone for directions. On the far side of a four-way intersection, I spotted a sullen-looking Korean man leaning against a post outside one of the ubiquitous metal shops.
What the hell, I thought. I'll ask him.
I walked up to him. He seemed to be a fairly unexceptional blue-collar working man, and a normal Korean in every way, except for the thick black hairs protruding from his right nostril. He didn't even look at me until I started speaking.
"Shille hamnida, hyeongnim," I said, brokenly. "Koseuteuko eodiyeyo?"
("Excuse me, bro—where's the Costco?")
He blinked slowly and confusedly, and then asked me to repeat the question. I obliged. He mumbled a few lines in Korean which escaped my comprehension. He made a vague gesture to the south, across the intersection, at a right angle to the direction I'd been traveling. It seemed promising, so I thanked him and moved on.
Twenty minutes and a few more right turns later, it was rapidly becoming apparent that this new direction was anything but promising. I had stumbled into an area of high-rise apartments and tiny mom-and-pop corner stores. Oh, and more metal shops. They were everywhere. The sidewalks were littered with iron filings. I had to keep my eyes straight ahead I wouldn't be struck blind by the white-hot glow of acetylene torches. Just before I lost faith in Mr. Nosehair's directions and turned back west, I saw another weird sight.
Korea has this odd habit of letting its hospital patients out of their beds—still clad in their gowns—to go roam around the neighborhood unsupervised. There's a big university hospital just a block or two down the road from my apartment building. I can't count the number of times I've seen somebody in bright white hospital pajamas standing on the corner, waiting for the crosswalk, wiggling their toes inside their slippers, hand resting on their IV stand, ready to push it across the street. Sometimes they'll be in wheelchairs, and one of their harangued relations will be pushing them about like royalty.
This dude, however, was all by his lonesome. Either he was having difficulty getting off the street, or he was attempting to let himself coast down the hill. Either way, he was failing badly. He'd laboriously shove the wheels of his conveyance until he was facing down the road, then let himself roll for two or three yards. Then the natural slant of the asphalt surface (leading to the gutter) would catch his left wheel, and he'd start to careen toward the curb. My heart would leap into my throat, especially if he pulled this stunt in front of an oncoming car (which he did, twice). Always, though, he'd clamp his left hand shut on that inbound wheel, yanking himself to a screeching halt. It was a wonder that he did not blister his hands or toss himself out of the apparatus. He repeated this process over and over again until he gained a four-way intersection and was able to hoist himself up the ramp and out of harm's way. Apparently this was an usual sight, even in Korea. I noticed other folk staring at him as well: an old lady in a pink parka and a perm stopped and gaped at him from the sidewalk's edge, and a sweet young thing in leggings and miniskirt spared him a perplexed glance as she flounced across the road.
I was getting tired of these monkey-shines. I turned west at the intersection and walked until I saw a sign for the Mullae subway station. Mullae, I knew, was on Line 2 of the Seoul subway system. Had I possessed the three ounces of brain matter requisite to remember to bring a map or a smartphone with me, I would have been able to deduce from this information that my real destination—Yeongdeung-po Office—was a single stop away to the north. I had no way of knowing, however. I was tired, hot and footsore. So I bought myself some peanuts, a piece of triangle gimbap, and some bottled water at a convenience store, and plunked myself down on a wooden bench. It was time to regroup.
My mission was twofold: I was in the Yeongdeung-po neighborhood not only to locate Costco, but also to find the Starium, a massive cinema multiplex in possession of the third-largest movie screen in the world. (Here's a description. This article lies barefaced and says that the Starium's is the largest movie screen, but there's screens in Spain and Australia that are bigger. Still, you get the idea. Sight and sound, it'd be a blast.)
My search for Costco was getting me nowhere, so I decided to abandon it and focus on the latter part of my mission. I found the Starium with careless ease. It was hard to miss. I had been orbiting the building in a large, misshapen circle the whole afternoon. I ducked inside the humongous building and began worming my way through it to locate the actual CGV cinema itself.
I was wandering across the broad expanse of the white-tiled main floor when something else interesting happened. There was a largish crowd grouped around a couple of flamboyantly dressed men, who were themselves standing in front of a black, boxy sort of tower thingy with the Samsung brand label stamped upon it. When I say "flamboyantly dressed" I mean that this Korean man and his sidekick—I later learned that they were a rather famous comedic duo—were wearing military uniforms. The sidekick looked like an MP and the comic himself could have stepped right out of a guard post at the DMZ, with his olive-drab wool coat and a fur hat. It was some sort of promo. I paused to look. And that's when this Korean comic looked through the crowd (or over them, as it were) and saw me. And beckoned to me.
What the hell, I thought for the second time that day. Why not?
Shameless attention whore that I am, I went.
I stood next to him on a sort of circular pedestal a few inches high. He showed me off to the crowd. I threw my hands up and twirled like a fashion model. We rapidly established that I spoke no Korean. That didn't faze this comic (whose name I won't reveal in defense of his privacy, and to conceal the fact that I don't know it). He asked the crowd if anybody spoke English. One, a chunky fellow in a blue shirt, raised his hand. His English was excellent. Through him, the comic conveyed to me that he was hawking the amazing new Samsung air conditioning unit (the shiny black tower device I had descried earlier). He asked me where I was from, and made a few jokes at my expense. Then, with the help of our interpreter, he taught me how to say "Open sesame!" in Korean. He handed me a squat black remote control and instructed me to say the magic word. I did.
As if by magic, the doors of the A/C tower swung open, and cool air began to blow on me. The A/C unit was voice-controlled. The comic asked me if they had any A/C units in the U.S.A. that were vocally activated. I had no bloody clue, but just to puff up the Korean national ego, I said "nope."
Then the real magic happened. The comic spoke a few words to our interpreter, and the interpreter told me "This A/C unit has the power to grant wishes. Anything you'd like?"
Believing that world peace would be a bit of a stretch, even for the amazing new Samsung air conditioning unit, I said "How about an ice cream cone?"
Apparently ice cream cones are a bit of a stretch for Samsung as well, but water and gift-wrapped parcels sure weren't. With a clink and a wheeze a cold bottle of water and a mysterious package came tumbling out of the machine's nether regions. The comic handed these to me and bowed me out of the ring. He and the interpreter then proceeded with the demonstration, as I boarded an escalator with my new-found wealth. The water was fortuitous, as I had been dehydrated by my fruitless perambulations earlier. I resolved to unwrap the package when I got home.
I found the theater, priced tickets for The Avengers (opening April 29th in Korea), and hustled back to the subway station. After a short, stuffy ride, I was home. The package proved to be an insulated tumbler, suitable for brewing tea. At least it's something useful, I thought.
After a break and bit of map-consulting, I was back on the subway and headed to Yeongdeung-po Office. I found Costco, surveyed the scene, reported back to Miss H, then turned in and went to bed.
Sunday was basketball, as usual. Only it wasn't. We went to Hosu (Lake) Park, right on the border between Bucheon and Incheon, a 30-minute walk from our apartment building. Hosu is much larger than Jungang (Central) Park, and has a sort of pond-like thing in the middle with fountains. But it also has basketball courts—proper courts with three-point lines and baskets in good repair. We had to practically start a rumble to get half a court to ourselves, but we managed it. Flushed with the success of our 3-on-3 warmup, we challenged some fit-looking teenagers at the other end of the court. This proved to be a ghastly mistake. We were taken to the cleaner's. The score resembled a casualty list from some lopsided martial skirmish: 4 to 73 or something. Not content with basketball (and getting somewhat sunburned), we adjourned to Gusan Middle School in Incheon, adjacent to Lake Park, where we had a rousing Frisbee toss on the dirt pitch. Martin, Peter and I engaged in a game of...um..."headers and volleys," I think. Two men on a team and one in goal. The two men try jointly to score, but they can only do so by kicking the ball before it hits the ground, or heading it in. If they miss, they go in goal. First goalie to have ten points scored on him has to bend over in the goal and let the other two take shots at his backside. Peter got off with a light graze to his calf.
Then it was back home to the apartment for some delicious fettucine alfredo and another wrestling match with my novel (the major rewrite is proceeding nicely, thank you for asking).
If every weekend in Korea is as full—and fulfilling—as this one, everybody ought to come and live here.
There was a moment just now—a moment when I glanced out of my apartment window, into the wet night, and saw hundreds of likewise-lit windows swimming eerily at me through the rain and mist. It was though the air outside was really murky seawater, and this city sat at the bottom of the ocean, and miniature submarines scurried back and forth between airlocks, and at any moment a shark or a whale might swim by my window. In that moment, I stepped back and wondered "Am I really doing this?"
I don't know which has surprised me more: the fact that I'm back in Korea or the fact that I've slipped into the routine so smoothly and easily.
It was a rocky start, as you well know. There were delays. Hang-ups. Mess-ups. Hiccups. But they evened themselves out. No matter what this job has thrown at me, I've rallied and risen. In fact, I've gotten so comfortable lately that I'd dare to say it's a routine. It's not just the weekdays, either. Even my weekends have acquired a regimen. On Saturdays I usually go into Seoul, or shop or something. I venture forth from my cave, my manhole, and obtain the requisite supplies for the upcoming week. Revel in the freedom a weekend affords. Strike out independently. Explore a new corner of the city. Do something fun, you know.
Sundays are a bit more laid-back. Generally, around noon, I wander 300 yards down Gilju Road to a little park hidden among some stubby evergreens. There, my fellow expatriates and I test each other's skills on the basketball court. I'm grateful to report that I've gone from "Grade-A Suckage" to "Certifiable Acolyte" in the span of three weeks. I'm not making baskets reliably yet, and I can get hold of rebounds but not sink them; still, I'm steadily improving. There's four or five of us who usually come: Peter, Jon, Andy, Martin, and most recently Stephanie. We warm up for half an hour shooting hoops or playing horse. Then we shoot for teams. This last Sunday we had enough people for three-on-three. Team captains picked their players (I will brag a bit here and say that I was one of those captains, by virtue of making the first basket). Then the game began in earnest. Half-court. Take-backs (if the ball hit the rim). Play to eleven. It was a fierce contest. We ducked, dove, dodged, hollered, sweated and slid, passing and dribbling and shooting. Goals were scored, desperate, jubilant, soul-affirming jump shots and layups. Everybody got a piece of the action. The humid air glowed with hot-blooded exultation, burning spirit and competitive fire—and a goodly dose of old-fashioned camaraderie.
Following basketball, the rest of my Sunday usually consists of reading, writing, laundry, cleaning, and other domestic pursuits, both leisurely and productive. Oh, and of course, a big dinner. I look forward to my Sunday dinners. I usually pull all the stops out and have multiple courses. And by that, I mean that I actually have side dishes with whatever entrée I've prepared. A couple of weeks ago it was bulgogi with fried garlic, kimchi and marinated spring onions; the next week it was mushroom soup; and last Sunday, it was supposed to have been chicken fettucine alfredo, but it wound up being just chicken fried in oil with garlic, kimchi and spring onions (noticing a theme here?).
On Friday night I'm hosting a cooking class of sorts. The octopus I routinely buy at E-Mart has sparked several wild hypotheses among my coworkers. People have asked me what exactly I do with the octopus to prepare it. Dissatisfied with my own answer ("Take it home, boil it and eat it whole") I decided to paint myself in a more civilized light and prepare some proper octopi. And while I was at it, I thought I'd invite some of my coworkers to my apartment so they could watch, and sample the results. The recipe I've picked is called nakji bokkeum: stir-fried octopus with vegetables. It's a common dish, available in any halfway decent restaurant. There's even a TV-dinner version. The dish is spicy (a liberal amount of gochujang—pepper paste—goes into it) but full of vegetable and seafood flavors. With some artful preparation, I hope my coworkers and I will cook quickly, eat slowly, and have a lovely sip of something afterward. I'll let you know how it goes.
Apart from that, what more is there to tell? That I'm slowly carving my way through Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness? That I'm opening a second bank account on Thursday to wire money home more inexpensively? That Martin, Andy, Jon, Peter, Stephanie and I gathered at the pub late Sunday night to watch Manchester United trump Queen's Park on the telly? That Miss H is still anxiously awaiting her paperwork, and I am still anxiously awaiting her?
All those things would be true. Years from now I shall write a little book about Korea. Its joys, its sorrows, its gifts, its privations. Only my comrades-in-arms shall understand it.
W
ell, after an amazingly fast week at work, Saturday (March 30) rolled around. It was time for another balloon launch with North Korea Peace. I arose at the customary 6:45 a.m., met up with everybody at the bus station, and took a quick detour to roust Jon out of bed. Then we rode a succession of rattling buses, shaking subway trains and ludicrous taxicabs to the Hamilton Hotel in Itaewon. The whole affair went down largely as before, only with a great deal more people. Far more expatriates turned up this time than last time, which was quite gratifying to see. There were a lot of cameras around too. The Associated Press attended as usual, but this time a documentary filmmaker came along, as did a Reuters reporter and her cameraman. And guess who volunteered to get some face time?
That's right. Your humble correspondent.
Sunny asked us if anybody wanted to get in front of the camera. She was met with a dull silence. Not a single hand went up. Continuing my campaign to get myself un-shy and commence living dangerously, I raised my hand and said "Sure." I took off my sunglasses, pushed my hat off my forehead, and gave Reuters the straight dope.
Then I went back to my apartment for a quick nap before I met A. Remember A? My old buddy from Geoje Island? Did I fail to mention he's back in Korea now? Teaching in Busan? Yeah, he is. He'd come up to Seoul on the KTX the day before, and was now partying hearty in Hongdae. So I met up with him and we had a high old time. I was in such a state the next morning I couldn't even drag myself to the park for expatriate basketball.
I'm knee-deep in another workweek now (complete with level tests to grade and student evaluations to write). Plans for the ensuing weekend are still nascent, but I shall be penetrating Seoul again ("Penetrating Soul" would be a good name for a rock band) to go to Costco. Yes, they have a Costco in Korea. Several, in fact. I've heard they're excellent places to get foreign food and miscellaneous supplies. There are shadowy rumors going 'round that they have egg-crate mattress pads, and my poor back would like one of those as soon as possible.
Now, I don't know if I mentioned this earlier...
...but I have had a massive, repeat, MASSIVE epiphany about my novel. Suddenly it's all become clear to me: how to improve it, how to rewrite it, how to make it sizzle and pop. And I'm in the process of doing so right now. You thought the last overhaul was major? No way. This one's humongous. This sucker's going to be triple its former size by the time I'm through. I'm pretty much taking the plots of the four sequels I had planned and sticking them into the first book, largely intact. I'm introducing new characters (main and secondary) and a whole host of new adventures and dangers and plot developments. Thought you might like to know. I'll probably do a more detailed post about this later.
Well, I have a to-do list to get through this morning, so I'll let you go. I have to open a second bank account (at a different bank) so I can send money home on the cheap, and I've heard there's a liquor store a couple of blocks west of my apartment building. Speaking of shadowy rumors...I think I'll head over for a look and see if it's really there.
This is the (now televised!) Postman, signing off.
P.S. I'm getting the hang of cooking for myself, too. This is my typical Sunday meal. Boiled octopus and oysters. Seafood is so cheap in Korea. I made this for less than $10. This could get to be a habit...
