As you've probably heard, North Korea has entered "Combat Posture One" and the South Korean military has promised "strong retaliation" for any encroachment or aggression. It seems like that's all we hear about Korea these days—the latest traded threats and propaganda. That, and the U.S. fought some kind of war there against marauding North Koreans with nodongs and their Chinese buddies. Oh, and Kim Yu-na:
But here are some things you probably didn't know. A couple of them are pretty badass.
Number One: In 1597, in the most desperate hour of the Imjin War, Admiral Yi Sun-sin, Korea's most celebrated naval commander, fought a glorious battle against the invading Japanese fleet. The Japanese had 333 ships. Yi had 13, the shattered remnants of the once-mighty Joseon Navy. Using a combination of strategy, trickery, home-field advantage, technological superiority, and balls-out badassery, Yi won. He defeated the overwhelming enemy force and sent 'em back to their mamas. It's generally agreed that Yi's victory at the Battle of Myeongnyang effectively broke the back of the Japanese war effort. It's also the reason that naval historians refer to Yi as "the Nelson of the East."
Number Two: Would you like to know where "the world's most comprehensive and oldest intact version of Buddhist canon in Hanja script [Chinese symbols], with no known errors or errata in the 52,382,960 characters which are organized in over 1496 titles and 6568 volumes" is?
Of course you would. It's in Korea. It's called the Tripitaka Koreana, and it's the Goryeo Dynasty's hand-made copy of the Buddhist scriptures. All of them. Korean monks painstakingly carved them, without a single error or omission, onto 81,258 wooden blocks in the 13th century. The blocks are stored at Haeinsa, a temple in South Gyeongsang Province, and are intact and whole even to this day. Think about that for a moment. Eighty-one thousand wooden blocks. Fifty-two million characters. That must have taken some doing.
Number Three: You know the Burj Khalifa, the tallest man-made structure in the world? Guess who the primary contractor was?
Number Four: Historians across the globe disagree on precise dates, but evidence suggests that Korea invented woodblock printing and movable-type printing in the 13th century, many years before similar technology arose in Europe. Korea may have beaten Gutenberg to the punch!
Number Five: The Korean alphabet, Hangeul, is so logical, efficient and scientifically precise that it has been appropriated for use in cataloging and preserving unwritten and dying languages. With the addition of a few extra characters, of course:
Number Six: When South Koreans get to protesting, they don't kid around. Number six and number one in this article prove that beyond a shadow of a doubt. Just look at those guys. Number six covers himself in 187,000 bees and the dudes in Busan go up against a police water cannon and win, and then start knocking over shipping containers with nothing but grappling hooks and upper-body strength. I don't even care what they're protesting about, that's badass.
Number Seven: Lifted straight from About.com: "Since the early 1960s, South Korea has achieved an incredible record of growth and integration into the high-tech modern world economy. Four decades ago GDP per capita was comparable with levels in the poorer countries of Africa and Asia. In 2004, it joined the trillion dollar club of world economies. Today its GDP per capita is 14 times North Korea's and equal to the lesser economies of the European Union."
Of course, what isn't mentioned is that this amazing economic feat was kick-started by Park Chung-hee (the current president's father), a military man who seized power and ruled Korea as a political strongman until his eventual assassination. Park appointed all of his cronies to be heads of corporations, so that he could have what amounted to a nationalized economy with all the added benefits of free-market capitalism. Socialism in the guise of free enterprise. Oh well, it worked. South Korea went from a smoking crater to a trillion-dollar economy club member in the space of forty years. Boom.
Number Eight: The Joseon Dynasty (1392-1910) had undercover cops. Seriously! They were called Amhaeng-eosa (암행어사), or "undercover royal inspectors." Their job was to go around disguised as beggars and make sure that the provincial governors were not abusing their power. They'd wander the peninsula, dirty and ragged like homeless vagabonds, keeping their eyes and ears open for citizens' complaints. Though the Amhaeng-eosa were
almost always young guys (the high'rups figured that younger men would
have a strong sense of justice), their authority exceeded that of the provincial
governors. They had the power to dismiss or arrest an official as they
saw fit.
But here's the coolest part: these inspector dudes had badges. Über top-secret ID badges! They were called mapae (마패), or "horse requisition tablets." They were big and round and made of bronze, with a figure of a horse stamped on them, usually. Amhaeng-eosa also carried letters of commission from the king, called bongseo (봉서). If he discovered evidence of corruption, bribery, graft, or human rights violations, a secret inspector would flash his papers and his badge, roust out the local garrison and arrest the offending official in broad daylight. Then he'd march him back to Seoul for the king to pass judgment on, and make recommendations about which upstanding and intelligent peasants back in the province would make a good replacement. Isn't that neat?
Number Nine: While I've never seen anything larger than roe deer in Korea (and that was just Jeju Island), the Korean peninsula was once home to Siberian tigers. Yes, that's right. Tigers. They played quite a part in the development of Korean culture. They figure highly in many Korean folk tales, usually as the ravenous, dissolute villain. They often show up in Korean period films, or evidence of them at least: tiger traps, or dire warnings to solitary travelers to build big fires and keep their weapons handy at night.
There's a hammy scene in the film The War of the Arrows where several of the evil Manchu raiders are slain by a conveniently large tiger on Korean soil. (What do you mean, it's not symbolic?)
There's not a single tiger in South Korea outside of a zoo now, but rumor has it they still roam along the North Korean-Russian border. There are, however, still supposed to be Asian black bears wandering around the mountains in South Korea's national parks...
Number Ten: Y'know how Japan is always called "the Land of the Rising Sun"? Well, Korea has a nickname too. It's called "the Land of the Morning Calm." On that same note, have you ever wondered where the name "Korea" came from? Arab traders, that's who. As I've mentioned elsewhere numerous times, Korea has gone through several periods of strife, division, war, and reunification. Kingdoms and dynasties have risen and fallen many times. Arab merchants first came to these shores during the reign of the Goryeo Kingdom (918-1392), which also gave rise to the aforementioned Tripitaka Koreana. The Muslims inquired after the name of this fertile peninsula and were told that it was simply "Goryeo." The Arabs marked it on their maps as such, and the place eventually came to be known as "Korea" by the rest of the world. (If you're confused about how that happened, say the word "Goryeo," which sounds similar to "GORE-ya," six times fast. Makes sense now, right?)
There, that's all I could think of. You're now a little smarter. My work here is done. Good night!
One of the things I like to do whenever I visit (or move to) a new town in a different country is translate the name. Names tell you a lot about a place. In a nation as old, as storied and as historically rich as Korea, names give you a wealth of information about the origins and geopolitical importance of a place.
"Oh sure," you might scoff. "What can place names tell you in a country as small as Korea? It's all the same peninsula. The whole country's in a single time zone. It's a one-biome and one-climate country. Locations that are only 25 kilometers apart within it are going to have the same history."
Not true. Heck, you only have to travel 20 kilometers in Korea to hear dialectical differences in the language. Twenty kilometers! And I can confidently say that, in the culinary arena alone, Gwangnaru is worlds apart from Bucheon. I can only imagine the cultural, traditional and historical disparities that will come to light. I've already noticed that Gwangjin folk seem to prefer duck to chicken. Perhaps that has something to do with their proximity to the Han River...
But I digress. Let's talk about translating city names.
I started this tradition with Bucheon. Through a sinuous process of trial, error, ignorance, and liberal use of Google Translator, Miss H and I managed to figure it out. If we are correct (and we most likely aren't, since we haven't the knowledge or the resources to examine the name in Hanja, or Chinese characters), "Bucheon" translates to "Gold River."
Well, I kept this tradition up when Miss H and I moved across town to Gwangnaru, in the Gwangjang neighborhood of the Gwangjin ward.
Noticing a pattern here?
That's right. The syllable "gwang" appears in every one of those names.
Now, as with a lot of Korean words, gwang has its origins in Chinese. If I did my research correctly (and I probably didn't), "gwang" means "light" when written in Hanja. But like other languages that were adopted by other cultures and nations, however, Korean words' meanings and connotations have evolved from the mother tongue. The first and foremost definition that popped up in Bing Translate for "gwang" was "barn, shed, or granary."
Naru proved somewhat harder to translate. It's a fairly common word. It tends to show up a lot in business names: Gimbap Naru, or Sundae Naru. (Just so you know, "sundae" is not ice cream. It's bundles of Chinese vermicelli wrapped in cow or pig intestines. It's a popular snack food here.)
Thankfully the Internet is not my only source. I have the assistant director of the Sejong University's General English Program. At a meet-and-greet yesterday I asked him straight-out what the word "naru" meant. He's been living in Korea for more than a decade, and is married to a native Korean (they have two beautiful children). Rest assured that the A.D. is quite fluent in Hangeul. Without a moment's pause he informed me that "naru" is a ford or a ferry-landing.
Well, there you go. "Gwangnaru" translates to "Barn Ferry-Landing." For the sake of lingual aesthetics, let's shorthand it to "Granary Ford."
Hello, my name is (Professor) Post, and I live in Granary Ford, Snow Fence. (Gwangnaru, Seoul. Ha-ha.)
So from now on, if you hear me make a passing reference to "Granary Ford," don't be confounded. I'm referring to Gwangnaru. When the yellow dust clears up, I'll get you some pictures of the place. For now, enjoy your weekend...and this photo of my new building, Dongho Villa:
I mentioned earlier that I was going to restart my weekly installments. Not the same ones as I had before; no more random travel destinations, and only the occasional cocktail review (I need to travel and drink more first).
I will, however, start hitting you with a thought-provoking piece of speculative art (digital or hand-crafted) on a semi-regular basis. (I might throw in some photographs of flying machines, too, just to keep this blog in the aviation zone.) So here's the first of many, let's hope:
I've often found myself wishing that I could live to see the golden age of human space exploration...and, with any luck, colonization. Maybe one of the terraformed moons of Saturn or something, just to see a sight like this. A whole planet dawning there on the horizon. Ain't it glorious?
Every expat blogger in Korea talks about ajumas at some point. I guess it's my turn. I don't have much to say, as you'll soon see. I just have one question.
I should say here and now, though, that what follows is only my opinion. As such, it cannot be counted upon to reflect reality in any way, shape or form. I also take no responsibility for inaccurate interpretations of cultural ideas, Korean words or popular opinions; this is just my two cents, based on what I've seen and experienced. What follows is completely subjective. You have been warned.
So, you ask, what's an ajuma? Good question. There are many different senses of the word. It's been called Korea's "third sex." There's men, there's women, and then there's ajumas. As near as I can figure out, the word "ajuma" (sometimes spelled ajumma) denotes an elderly married woman. The male equivalent is ajushi, though that word hasn't acquired the same sort of connotation that ajuma has. "Ajuma" has taken on certain cultural and social nuances in Korea...particularly among the expat community. A Korean national might use the word "ajuma" in a purely neutral sense, but among us foreigners, it's become pejorative.
Why?
Well, the fact that nearly 95% of the ajuma population is identical, for one thing. They all look alike. They are almost always five feet, five inches tall. They wear pants printed with floral or botanical patterns, running shoes, and dark sun visors. Their hair is uniformly short and permed. They usually have personal shopping carts (polka-dot bags with wheels and a pull-handle) with them, or some other kind of sack for carrying groceries. Their faces are usually pinched, their lips pursed, their eyes critical, their expressions stony.
Their looks alone are not enough to garner ajumas the bad reputation they've acquired among the expatriates, though. No, that happened because of their behavior. Ajumas are the rudest, pushiest, most selfish group of people I've met in Korea. They're worse than middle school kids. Say you're standing on the sidewalk, talking to a group of friends. Elementary schoolers and sharply-dressed salarymen will step politely past you. An ajuma will bull right through your formation, using her hands to push you physically from her path, and her elbows to ensure you stay there. No regret, no remorse, no apology. She won't even look back. She might favor you with a disapproving glance and a tch, tch sound if you pass each other on a broader, emptier street, but otherwise she won't even acknowledge you or your outrage.
Ajumas are renowned for their poor manners, particularly on public transportation. They are not shy about shoving people out of the way to get seats. They have no fear about cramming themselves onto sardine-can train cars, even with their enormous shopping bags. Every other Korean on board, from the demurest schoolgirl to the crustiest ajushi, steps aside and lets them do this. We expats usually try to fight back, but it's a futile exercise. On the rare occasions when we can muster the fortitude, the wherewithal and the leverage to dig our heels in and resist the charge of the ajuma brigade, the victory is Pyrrhic. We know that we haven't taught the old bags a lesson. They'll just do the same thing again on another subway train.
It's natural for ajumas to act the way they do. They can get away with it. Their transgressions are tolerated because they're elderly, and the elderly in Korea (as in other formerly Confucian nations) are granted the highest levels of respect and courtesy. They've paid their dues. Now they get to have a little fun. For ajushis, this means going to barbecue restaurants and smoking and drinking and talking loudly all night, or chilling in the park on Sunday afternoons and staring at young women's skirts. For ajumas, this means selling vegetables, toys or accessories on the streets, sitting on stools with their legs thrown immodestly open, chatting with the other old biddies, casting sour looks at foreigners and elbowing people out of the way on subway trains. This is their reputation, even among Koreans. The only difference is that the Koreans see fit to tolerate it.
But that's not what bugs me the most. What puzzles me is how ajumas become ajumas in the first place. The process is impossible to monitor. It seems like Korean women go from being cute, sweet, fashionable ingenues to immodest, leather-faced, hard-bitten fishwives practically overnight. No matter how hard I search, I've never seen a young Korean woman in the middle of transforming into an ajuma. It's like they go to an elephant graveyard or something to do it. I have seen middle-aged Korean women with the same poise and charm as their younger counterparts, and I have seen ajumas who are kind, sweet, and retain some of their youthful beauty; but never have I observed the full-blown mutation firsthand. There's a missing link somewhere.
Now that I found out what the word "Seoul" means, this is my final burning question about Korea: how do Korean women go from this...
...to this?
It boggles the imagination.
So, you want to hear about my first week as a professor, eh? Well, you've come to the right corner of the Internet.
(The title, if you'd like to know, is an acronym for "New Man On Campus.")
I was somewhat inured to surprise by the time I actually started working at Sejong University. I'd visited the place three or four times already—for interviews, orientation, and the spring staff meeting. I'd familiarized myself with my textbooks. My students resembled taller, more courteous versions of the middle-school students I'd been teaching previously. (They wore nicer clothes, too.) The thing that's been hardest to adjust to, I think, has been how many foreign coworkers I have. At my first academy job down in Geoje Island, I had two. In Bucheon, I had six, plus the folks from the hagwon a couple floors up who sometimes wandered in. Here in eastern Seoul I have forty-plus, and that's just the English department.
The scale is greater at a university. Everything is larger: the buildings, the classrooms, the offices, the dining establishments. The cafeteria on the sixth floor of my building is like a gymnasium. The student union has a Popeye's Chicken, a Steffdog, and a Paris Baguette. The Gwanggaeto Building, where I teach a third of my classes, is 15 stories tall and boasts hotel rooms, dormitories, conference halls, a full-service restaurant and six elevators. (This is most apropos; Gwanggaeto was a revered king who expanded Korea's territory across Manchuria and into Mongolia and Russia.) The campus museum houses millennia-old relics from Korea's storied past. Even the big tower in the center of campus is not what it seems: thanks to a circular elevator system, it doubles as a car park.
It's been a challenge to adjust to university instruction. This is not because university teaching is impossibly difficult—it isn't. So far it's been straightforward: icebreakers, assessments, and introductory lessons. But I'm trying to get the hang of a new borough of Seoul at the same time—and unpack my material possessions from their cardboard sarcophagi. Every night, it seems, Miss H and I have had to go to E-Mart (Korea's Wal-Mart) for extra supplies. We ride Line 5 across the river to Cheonho, the next station down, and pick up snacks or shelves or clothes hangers. Navigating Gwangjang-dong, sussing out likely restaurants near our apartment, and finding enough space for our mountain of stuff (while adjusting to new work environments) has been a challenge. But a welcome one. I would much rather be here, stuffed into a tiny brick villa on a narrow street in eastern Seoul (and working as a professor) than in our big old officetel in sunny Bucheon, butting heads with recalcitrant eighth-graders.
I have two freshman-level speaking classes and many sophomore-level composition classes. The textbooks are marvelous: clear-cut and useful, and have boatloads of online supplements and ancillaries to go along with them. Like I said, we haven't really hit the books hard yet. This week was the first regular week after the add/drop period, so we've just done housekeeping: reviewing the syllabi and discussing classroom rules and grading policies. I'm still nervous, but I'm focused on the task at hand: finding my feet as a professor. I'm feeling my way as I go, and it's worked pretty well so far. There've been no major disasters yet, anyway. I haven't been late to any classes, and I can operate a projector like nobody's business.
At the end of this week there are standardized assessments, so we'll have to put a momentary hold on the work we've just started. Despite my newness and nerves, I'm looking forward to burrowing into the material with my students, taking away their uncertainties and doubts, conditioning them to speak and speak well, watching the comprehension steal over their faces like the morning sun on a field of sleepy flowers. I can see the blossoms beginning to turn toward the light.
In addition to my regular courses, I have several free-talking periods with four or five students per class. The purpose of these sessions is to prepare the students, verbally and otherwise, for job searching and hiring. We practice interviews, review tough questions, research industries, and discuss networking, cover letters, résumés, and so forth. It's quite a kick, though there are some challenges. Some of my underclassmen lack confidence and are quite shy about speaking, particularly in such a personal setting. It's difficult to get these shy birds to even speak, let alone hype their experience and qualifications. But little by little we're laying the groundwork for success, and that's the best feeling in the world. I'm glad the university has given us the opportunity to do something like this.
I guess that's the heart of the matter, right there...the main difference between university teaching and after-school academies. Here at Sejong I can feel that I'm helping students. The importance, the significance, the value of what we professors are doing for our students is plain to see. I felt frustrated and undervalued at my hagwon jobs, and I grew disillusioned. My energy and enthusiasm fell away from me like sweat from a tired athlete's brow. This university position was a bottle of Gatorade. I take my job more seriously than ever before. I want to do right by my students. I want to put the tools for success in their hands. I want them to understand what I'm telling them—and remember it. I want to give them the best education I can, and grow as an educator along the way.
That feeling is, to say the least, downright spiffy.
Working here in eastern Seoul is, to put it mildly, splendiferous.
I can't help but think back to the place I was, mentally and physically, just a month or so ago. Those were some dark times. I thought I was at a dead end. I was up the creek without a paddle. No job, no prospects, no hope. And now look...just look. Jules came to me with a scrap of newspaper in his hand, and everything changed. I owe him more than I can express in words. How the wheel turns! A few weeks ago I figured I was washed up. Time was running out. Miss H and I were down to the wire. It was either go home to a devastated, barren America, or stay in Korea and continue to numb our minds and hands with thankless drudgery. (Miss H is still numbing her mind and hands with thankless drudgery, but with any luck, she won't have to keep up her heroic efforts much longer.)
So here we are. A new horizon. A new leaf turned over. A new chapter in the book of our lives. More capital to add to the bank of experience.
Maybe they're right, the proverb-makers. They say the road never ends. Paths never disappear. Maybe the road narrows, and maybe the path is winding, but there's always a way forward.
I can't wait to see what's around the next bend.
Now, click the play button on this song and go stare at the picture at the top of this post. It's worth your while. I guarantee it.
Well, wherever should I begin?
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| from Wikipedia |
Saturday was in the sixty-degree range, the warmest of the year, and our lingering winter blues were demolished in a wave of warm breezes and sunny skies.
The yellow dust from China (a cloud of sand, heavy metal particles and chemicals that blows off the Gobi Desert every spring) has blanketed Seoul. The air is a sickly yellow color, and Miss H and I have been coughing and sneezing like nobody's business.
Yesterday I went to a tailor in Itaewon to do something I've never done in my life: get measured for a suit. Not a full suit, mind you. Just a blazer. I'm a professor now, after all. I need to look the part. So I located a tailor whom all my expat friends recommended. His nickname is "the Jokeman." He always has a new zinger to tell you whenever you go see him. He has a joke for every U.S. state (and probably a few for Canada and England, too). He's a short man, but wiry, with a hard-lined face, well-defined cheekbones, and short gray hair. He looks something like Daniel Craig, if Daniel Craig had been born in Korea and was 20 years older. If photographs are to be believed, Roger Clinton once visited the Jokeman, got fitted, and bought a suit. A slew of other minor luminaries have been in and out of the shop, too, according to the gilt-framed pictures adorning the walls of the Jokeman's basement shop. Anyway, I was fitted, I heard the spiel, I paid my money ($313 U.S.) and got a California joke.
"So," the Jokeman said. "Judge Judy was speaking to a criminal. She asked, 'Why did you break into the same shop three times in a row?' The man said, 'I stole a dress for my wife.' Judge Judy asked, 'So why did you go back again?' The man answered, 'I had to get it taken in twice.'"
Those are the blurbs and tidbits from our life thus far in Gwangjang-dong, eastern Seoul. As you may have already gleaned by now, Miss H and I moved from our comfortable bailiwick in Bucheon (west of Seoul, abutting Incheon) and came here, seeking better jobs and opportunities. I have accepted a job as an assistant professor of English at Sejong University, and Heather is now a kindergarten teacher at the NOAM, just down the street from our new apartment.
This is how it came about:
I had handed in my notice at my old hagwon in Bucheon. My last day would be Thursday, February 28. Meanwhile, Miss H received some disastrous news. Her kindergarten was downsizing. Henceforth it would focus on after-school elementary-age kids. The kindergarten levels would be dissolved. This meant Miss H would lose her job on February 15. Things were looking desperate. We would both soon be out of work (and therefore out on the streets, too, since our apartment was commensurate with my job).
We considered various solutions. We even (briefly) entertained the idea of going home and trying our luck there. But the hand of fate intervened, in the form of a generous benefactor (one of my coworkers, whom I'll nickname Jules). Jules appointed himself my unofficial agent, and assiduously combed the classifieds in the Korea Herald on my behalf. Lo and behold, he found something: an assistant professorship (one-year contract, non-tenure track) at Sejong University, in the Gwangjin borough of eastern Seoul. What the heck, I thought. I'll go for it. So I applied.
I was contacted a short time later and asked to come in for an interview. Sejong University sits across the street from Children's Grand Park, an enormous amusement park-cum-zoo where urban kids frolic on the weekends. The park is on the same subway line as Bucheon (Line 7), but it's 29 stops away. This takes 60-70 minutes. To get to Gwangjin on time for my interview, I had to abandon my usual languorous paradigm and get up at 7:30 a.m. to shower and shave. I rode in and had the interview. It was disastrous, or so I thought. I had zero experience teaching at the university level. My career as an educator extended to two nonconsecutive years of elementary and middle-school students in two after-school academies, and no further. I felt I had nothing to bring to the table, and began to wonder at how stupid I'd been to apply. When the interview was over, I slunk from the room and crawled off the campus.
You may imagine my surprise when, two weeks later, I received a phone call during my lunch break. I was hired. I was to be an assistant professor (조교수) of English for the 2013 academic year, which would begin on March 4. In the meantime, there was an orientation for new teachers on Thursday, February 21, and a general staff meeting the following Monday. Both of these required hour-long rides into eastern Seoul, and a lot of scrambling to return to Bucheon in time for my first class at my soon-to-be-former hagwon. It was stressful and not a little intimidating, but it was exciting as well. I would be exchanging a thankless, drudge-filled academy job for a genuine, honest-to-God teaching position with full benefits, six weeks' summer and winter vacation, 15 hours a week (plus four mandatory office hours).
The only hard part was leaving Bucheon. I'd come to love the community: the broad avenues, the green trees, the plentiful parks, the abundant public transportation and the wealth of shopping and eating venues. Not to mention that our apartment there was spacious, bright and airy. We'd be moving to a three-story brick villa that had to be twice as old as Estima Officetel, and whose rooms were tiny and dark, if considerably more airtight.
Fortunately Miss H and I had a three-day weekend to finish packing and physically move. March 1-3 was a commemoration of the Samil Movement, or Three-Day Movement (the first organized and voluble protest against Japanese colonial rule), which took place in 1919. It was violently put down by the Japanese military, and many Korean protesters were killed or sent to the infamous Seodaemun Prison. A dozen Korean flags fluttered in the windows of the apartment complex behind Estima as Heather and I sweated to pack all our things. In all, our worldly possessions amounted to new fewer than 45 small- and medium-size cardboard boxes. Where had it all come from?
Then the mover arrived. Miss H had arranged for him. He was actually the business partner of the man who was supposed to move us, but since the man himself was tied up in prior engagements, his partner came in his stead. He proved to be a wiry old Korean man with crooked teeth who shifted boxes like they were feather pillows. In less than 40 minutes our things had been transferred from Room 908 to the basement level, where the moving truck (a humble Kia Bongo III) awaited. Little by little our precious boxes, lamps, shelves and folding chairs were stacked aboard and secured with a cargo net. Miss H took our cat, Charlie, and a backpack full of valuables with her on the subway to endure the hour-long ride to our new apartment. Our new home was a block or two away from Gwangnaru Station on Line 5 (only three subway stops and one transfer from Children's Grand Park on Line 7). I rode in the Bongo with the old Korean man. An awkward silence persisted as we chugged along the Gangbyeonbuk Road (which straddles the northern shore of the Han River). I hunched forward in my seat, cradling my schoolbag in my lap and my backpack on my shins, watching the glowing skyscrapers of downtown Seoul on the left and the darkly glittering waters of the Han River on the right.
After half an hour, we reached the Gwangjin area. Thanks to an oversight on my part, I had written down the wrong address, and therefore our mover's dash-mounted GPS proved useless. Fortunately I had a rough idea of where the apartment was in relation to Gwangnaru Station, and I managed to direct the mover there after a delay of only 20 minutes. Our new apartment was separated from the street by a meager six-step staircase. In less than half an hour the mover and I shifted all of the boxes and bulky items to the apartment floor. I made a quick dash to a nearby ATM and paid the man 100,000 Korean won for his troubles. Then he drove off. Miss H arrived some 15 minutes later, and the three of us (Charlie, Miss H and I) bunked down as best we could amid the detritus of our material lifestyle.
And that was the move. Sometime in the next few days I'll tell you about my first week as a professor.
Stay tuned...
Item One: The final week at my old hagwon was bittersweet, but not as bittersweet as the last time I departed a hagwon. There were some tears, some notes, some presents, but on the whole it was a painless separation. Just the way I like it.
Item Two: Miss H and I successfully moved ourselves, our cat, and a bazillion cardboard boxes (seriously, where did it all come from?) between our old apartment in Bucheon and our new apartment in eastern Seoul. This was accomplished with a few phone calls by Miss H, a Kia Bongo, and an old Korean man who spoke nary a word of English.
Item Three: I am now an assistant professor of English (contract position, non-tenure track) at Sejong University, Gwangjin-gu, Seoul. My first day was Monday, March 4.
I'd love to give you all the gory details of the last two weeks, and bring you up to speed on the myriad intervening developments, but I have no time. The Internet router has just been installed in this new apartment and I have to send an e-mail to the folks and grandparents and give them the skinny first. Then I'll jump off the bed, turn off the lamp (no more comfy armchair for me), put on my shoes, grab my keys (no more keypad door locks, either) and walk ten minutes down Gwangjang Street to Miss H's kindergarten, where I'll meet her at 6:40 p.m. and take her out for Chinese at a charming little place one street behind our villa.
But I'll get back to you, I promise. Details are coming. This weekend I hope to render at least three posts: departing Bucheon, becoming a professor, and moving in a foreign country, plus anything else that's relevant. I crave your indulgence for these interminable delays.
