30 Days to a Better Man, Day 21: write your own eulogy

Read the article before you do anything else. It explains how today's challenge isn't really as morbid as it sounds. What better way to understand that your life is finite and that you need to get off your duff and live it than writing your own eulogy? Facing your mortality will give you greater cause to live each day with purpose. 

In fact, writing my own eulogy gave me almost too much perspective. Knowing that life is fleeting and temporary made me wonder about all those hours I've been spending at the gym. Surely I could be out in the fresh air or sampling the finest wines and foods instead of breathing recirculated air, grunting and sweating. One of the reasons I've never managed to stick with any exercise regimen is that I always get the creeping sense that I'm wasting my time. The two hours I spend lifting weights and jogging on a treadmill could be used in so many more constructive ways: writing short stories, planning novel plot lines, researching historical epochs, learning Korean, exploring Seoul, etc, etc. I always get the feeling that I'm using up an insane amount of my precious lifespan doing something that's of no material benefit. 

Not true, of course. Working out is healthy. And I don't mean to insinuate that I actually would use those extra two hours constructively if I stopped going to the gym. But hey, I never said my mind was logical. I just said that I found it hard to stick with exercise plans because my mind started working against me.

Anyway. Here's my eulogy: 

Andrew Post was a wanderer from the beginning. He was born in 1986 in Auburn, California, but didn't stay there very long. He called many places home during his youth: southern Ohio, rural Tennessee, urban Virginia, the California desert, the plains of Wyoming. As a small boy he kept his nose glued to the airplane windows, looking at the big world going by beneath him and vowing that he would see it all someday. 

It was this same intrepidity which drew him to North Dakota State University, far from his home in Southern California. (That, and the lack of an admission deadline.) He felt that a career in zoology was his ticket to travel and adventure. After a bad run-in with advanced chemistry, however, he switched his major to communication, graduating in 2007 with a degree in journalism and broadcasting and an English minor. If he couldn't study the big wide world of mountains, trees, animals and people, he figured he would write about it instead. 

A nationwide job market slump forced Andrew to seek his fortunes abroad. He spent four nonconsecutive years as an expatriate English teacher in South Korea, two as a professor at Sejong University in Seoul. During this time, he became an avid blogger, sold travel articles to online magazines and wrote several historical and science fiction novels. Despite his journalistic pursuits, it had always been Andrew's intention to be a writer. His debut novel Revival won him fame and fortune when it was published in 2016. He'd sent one of the first drafts to me a few months earlier. I remember critiquing it harshly and telling him flat-out that it was crap. "Thanks," he said. "Now I know I need to do better." And he did. He told me afterward that the greatest accomplishment of his life, besides finding a woman who was willing to reproduce with him, was winning the Nebula Award for Best Novel that same year. 

In August of 2013, Andrew proposed to his long-time girlfriend at Tokyo Disneyland. He would always say, "It was the smartest thing I ever did, asking that woman to marry me." The two wed upon their return from South Korea in 2015 and had three beautiful children, Zebulon, Aurora and Gilbert. Though Andrew was often far from home on one globetrotting adventure or another, he always made sure to be there for his children, for birthdays and Christmases, triumphs and tragedies. He raised his kids to be independent, forthright and principled people who pursued their dreams without fear or compunction. 

Anyone who met Andrew knew that his list of hobbies and interests was a long one. He was an energetic auto-didact and read whatever he could find about history, astronomy, technology, and the natural sciences. On the fiction front, he adored adventure tales, notably science fiction but occasionally dipping into fantasy and mainstream fiction as well. He loved aviation, becoming a pilot at the age of 24 and flying throughout his life. He took a great interest in classic and vintage cocktails, mixing and sampling as many as he could and even inventing a few of his own. The cocktail bar he ran out of his first apartment in South Korea was legendary among the expatriate community. Shooting was another hobby of his, and whenever he was able he'd get a group of friends together and head to the range. He was happiest after a long day of trapshooting, off-roading, flying, or hiking, sitting in a comfortable chair within view of a good sunset, a glass of Scotch in his hand and a lit pipe between his teeth. His greatest love, however, was travel. There were very few countries that Andrew didn't want to see, and he spent a lifetime traveling all over the world and writing about it in his journals. He sent me many postcards and pictures from the road. The best of these was the one I got in the winter of 2023. It was a photo of Andy standing in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary on San Cristóbal Hill in Santiago, Chile. He'd scrawled a message to me on the back: "This town is great! I might just retire here." In his lifetime he set foot on all seven continents and explored over sixty countries. He told me once that if there was a single place on his bucket list that he missed, he'd die a regretful man. I think he managed to avoid that unpleasant scenario. He and his wife retired to Santiago in 2046, just before Andy's 60th birthday. He opened a bar and spent the last two decades of his life plying thirsty Chileans and expatriates with delicious drinks and regaling them with tales of his life.

Andrew, or Andy as his friends called him, was a rare soul: a fellow who went against the grain, but didn't hold it against you if you didn't follow. He thrived in adversity, worked hard under pressure and always put a cheerful face on things. He could lighten any awkward situation with a lame but well-timed pun. He was intensely loyal to his friends and would never speak ill about one of them behind their backs. He did his level best at work and maintained a professional and industrious demeanor while on the job. His employers and friends alike could rely on him to go the extra mile. He always had an interesting tidbit to share about any given topic, and had away of explaining things that made them interesting and worthwhile. He would never pass a bum on the street without flipping him a quarter. He often failed to live up to his own standards, but he never quit trying.

I will miss Andy's intolerable puns. I'll miss his goofy grin. I'll miss his impeccable taste in movies, whiskey, and cigars. I'll miss flying with him over the Mojave Desert and the Alaskan wilderness. I'll miss his mouth-watering vegetarian lasagna. I'll miss his kindness, his optimism and his endless cheer. I'll miss the Santa Claus beard he grew in his old age, and the free gin and pipe tobacco he'd ply me with whenever I visited him in Chile. I'll miss the roaring adventures he wrote about in his novels, and the adventures the two of us had together. I'll miss the sight of him climbing, grinning, out of his trusty Jeep after a particularly challenging hill or patch of mud. But most of all I'll miss his imagination. Nothing was impossible for Andy; he dreamed big and he never lost sight of his goals. He'd always see the funny or wacky side to any situation. With his passing, the world has become a bit darker. But I know that we've all learned a little something from his novelist's mind, his punster's mouth and his go-getter style. Wherever he wanders now, I wish him all the best. 

a slight setback

Well, rats.

In my recent post (#250) I mentioned that I had racked up enough hours requisite to become a commercial pilot.

I spoke too soon.

Caveats will be the death of me. I need two-hundred and fifty hours, yes, but fifty of those hours must be pilot-in-command time. (A PIC is the guy who is ultimately in charge of the airplane, safety, flight planning, and all that stuff. Solo time counts as this. Dual instruction does not.) I have over 250 hours of dual instruction, but only twelve hours' time as PIC.

Rats.

That means I have to acquire at least 38 more hours of PIC time (at about $100 per hour) before I'm even close to being able to become a commercial pilot.

As you may have heard, I'm going back to Korea pretty soon. There really isn't time (or money) enough to get my commercial ticket before I leave. So, as tragic as it is, I'll have to wait until I get back to finish. But I will, never fear. I still entertain vague hopes of becoming a licensed seaplane pilot and starting up an airline in the bowels of Alaska somewhere. Which I will most certainly blog about, of course.

But for now, flying's going on hold again.

I know, you're crushed.

just so I don't get accused of blogging once a month...

...I'm writing this, a sort of throwaway post where I tell what I have (and have not) been up to during my long absence.

To summarize:

READING
I finished A Clockwork Orange and am actually somewhat ahead of schedule with my reading-one-chapter-of-Moby-Dick-per-day scheme. (In case you're wondering, I just finished Chapter 42, "The Whiteness of the Whale.") I was originally going to leap full-tilt into At the Earth's Core, but I've thought better of it. I think I'll persevere and finish with Melville's white whale before I tackle anything else. Ahab's duel with his mortal enemy makes for such engrossing reading that I'm concerned I might dilute the impact of the work if I committed adultery with Edgar Rice Burroughs in the meantime.

Now that I've implanted that lovely image in your head, let's move on to

WRITING
Nothing new on the nonfiction front, and the novel remains untouched somewhere in the closet, like a wooden idol some former pagan ashamedly hid from the missionary who converted him. On the short story front, however, I'm making inroads to success. I'm almost, almost done with "Aptitude." I just need to segue into the denouement. To do that, I need a meteor shower. Nothing's worse for a greenhorn mechanic on his first run to the Outer Planets than micrometeorites punching into his starship's hull at 20,000 miles per hour, particularly when he's at the center of a diabolical plot to steal military-grade technology and black-suited agents have been making attempts on his life the whole fraggin' voyage.

Moreover, I need to decide what I'm going to do with one of the characters. He deserves a more prominent role, but up to this point he's been an amalgamation of man-behind-the-curtain/deus ex machina, lurking behind the scenes and protecting the protagonist from above (literally at times) like some kind of fleshly guardian angel, only dropping down to the mortal plane when things get really hectic. I'd like him to be more of the prickly mentor type. Perhaps I can arrange for his fifteen minutes of fame during that meteor shower, huh?

WORKING
I'm done with the café. Seriously. My hours have been cut back to just eight per weekend, four on Saturday and four on Sunday. So I'm working two days for the price of one. Not cool. I feel my time would be better spent looking for (and getting) a bartender's position someplace, so I can start building experience for those pubs in Australia. So I handed in my two weeks' notice last Saturday. My final day will be the 26th of February. It was fun while it lasted, sort of. At least I got some freshly barbecued Sunday afternoon tri-tip out of the deal.

FLYING
Not happening as often as I'd like, but it'll do. I have over 150 hours now, well on my way to the 250 required for a commercial license. Unfortunately we've been working a lot of short weeks lately. The Air Guard has been doing proficiency checkrides since the New Year started, meaning we come in at 7:30 and get done at ten or twelve o'clock. Looks like things might pick up soon...rumors of chase contracts for Grey Eagles (and perhaps even Reapers) keep trickling down the grapevine. But even so, I've decided that there's no way I'll rack up enough hours (or cabbage) to get my instrument rating, let alone my commercial license, before Miss H and I leave to go overseas again. Oh well. I'll just rack up as many hours as I can and finish my flying education when I get back. At least I'm not sick of flying Mooneys yet. On the contrary, I like it more and more. A Mooney is the GTO of the air, with the added advantage of being fuel-efficient. Apparently Mooneys can be safely ditched, too, which is yet another point in their favor.

And the secret's out, so I might as well tell you what I'm planning to do with Miss H on the day we've allotted to celebrate Valentine's Day, the 21st of February (she had both class and babysitting to do on the 14th, so we decided to pick a different day for our private celebration). I'm flying her to Big Bear City for breakfast. It's less than an hour away by plane and not even that far by car. I've been up there quite a few times. Sounds like there's a marvelous little restaurant at the Big Bear Airport (for those aviators hearty enough to brave the approach over tall pine trees, and the departure over the lake). We're going to try it out. I've taken Miss H flying before, but we didn't actually go anyplace. We just sort of flapped about like a dirty great albatross. Now we have a destination in mind, you see. And a delicious breakfast waiting for us there. It's going to be grand. One of the many advantages to being a pilot is well, not to brag or anything, but your date ideas knock all the other schmucks' out of the ballpark.

And on that note, things with Miss H and I are going very well. We had a ball for her birthday (the 13th): I helped her out with her babysitting, then we went to her house and baked some chocolate-chip cookies. We prepared some finger food and had a picnic dinner at the park. We listened to oldies on the radio and watched the sun set over the San Gabriel Mountains. She gave me an extremely romantic gift and a card that nearly brought tears to my manly eyes. Then we went to see The King's Speech (magnificent film). We laughed at Geoffrey Rush's take on Caliban, listened gravely to King George's war address, and then went home all fulfilled and satisfied and romantic and whatnot.

"Anyone who can shout vowels out an open window can learn to deliver a speech."

JOB-HUNTING/DAYDREAMING
Also not progressing as far as I'd like. Case in point, I'm sitting here blogging at you when, by rights, I should be out pounding the pavement. I'm trying to (a) find a place to tend bar in the High Desert, as I mentioned earlier; (b) locate an ESL teaching position overseas, possibly Spain or Poland, or even Chile; and (c) finally, not to any particular point or purpose, I'm looking at aviation jobs in Alaska and Australia. Just fantasizing, you know. Lately I've become hooked on the Discovery Channel's new show Flying Wild Alaska. It's a drug. What Jim Tweto and the Era crew do is exactly what I've been hoping to do when I finally get up there. That is, fly any kind of cargo anywhere in Alaska, anytime of day in any kind of weather in every kind of airplane. I've gotten confirmation that my dream can be made real, now. I'd had some notion about what I wanted to do when I got to the Great North, but I'd never actually known whether it was feasible, or even possible. Now I have proof-positive. Jim Tweto started out with one plane and a lot of dreams. Now he's the owner of a multimillion-dollar aviation enterprise, a linchpin of the Alaskan economy, upon whom hundreds of people in the bush depend on for their very survival.

It's like Bob Dylan sang: "And every one o' them words rang true and glowed like burnin' coals/a-pourin' offa every page like it was written on my soul." Somebody took the dreams I had bound up in my head, feverishly imagined, fervently clung to, desperately feared for, and stuck 'em on the boob tube in documentary format. If I wasn't so joyous at having my life's ambitions reaffirmed I'd probably sue for copyright.

Well, now I know I can do what I want to do. It's a nice feeling.

I don't believe in horoscopes. But I get a kick out of them regardless. Sometimes they can be just about spot-on. The old philosophers have decreed that February is a lucky month for those born in the Year of the Tiger, like yours truly. It's certainly seemed that way. My fantasies became materially possible; the Jeep's been fixed after two months' downtime; the weather's still blessedly cool; I'm racking up flight-hours hand over fist; I have a girl with whom things seem to be working out pretty well; and everything in the world seems new and shiny and potential, somehow. I haven't seen things from this angle in a long while.

It's a pleasure to do so again.

let it rain

Can't hardly believe I've been back from England over a month now, nor that I've been home from Korea for over a year. I returned just about this time last July, remember...fresh off a sightseeing sojourn in the Jeju and Jeollanam Provinces. Man, I was riding high. I thought things were finally starting to work out. I figured I'd rest up at home, grin over the respectable wad of money I'd socked away, and then jet off for Alaska in a month or so.

Well, it didn't quite work out like that. I convinced myself that sticking around home, working and living cheap off my parents was a good idea. I could save up a stupendous nest egg. I could get all sorts of stuff done, like finishing that damn novel and the remainder of my flight training. Well, I did both those things. A year's gone by, an entire year, and my money (and my pride) has gone down the tubes. But I got some stuff done. The novel's finished. It's in the hands of my beta readers. My flight training's done. I just need seven hundred bucks, that's all. Three hundred for a three-hour review session with JM1 and $400 for the test proper. Then I'll be free and clear: free to hightail it to a forgotten corner of this mysterious world, and live like I mean it.

Unfortunately there's some things I need to before that. It was a real scramble this month trying to save up enough cabbage to pay off my car insurance. I just got that taken care of this morning. Now (besides paying the bills next month) I've got to worry about my Jeep. The tires are getting bald and the shock absorbers have taken a real beating from the dirt roads I live on. I'd like to replace the entire suspension before I do anything else, and that'll take some real money. Then I can worry about flight training. And even after that's done, I must concern myself with saving up something like $1500-$2000, enough to pay for a ticket to Spain or Japan or Australia or Antarctica and find a job.

I don't imagine I'm going to escape this hellish desert much before spring of 2011.

And speaking of "hellish," that's exactly what it's been. The days are uniformly in the 95-105 degree range. Such conditions are agonizing in the stifling cockpit of a Mooney, without the benefit of air conditioning or even active ventilation (we just have vents we can open to the outside, which is fine if you're at 10,000 feet and it's 60 degrees, but if you're sitting on the runway or flying low you're "sweating your balls off" as JM1 says).

It's been windy, too ("feels like you're standing in a hairdryer," JM1 says...JM1 is a very observant man). I wish it would rain. No, I take that back. If it rains, it won't get cooler. It'll just get humid. And our flying will probably get canceled, too, which is one hit I literally can't afford to take. The job is going well, by the way. JM1 and JM2, our new pilots, have got the program down now and are flying regularly. I haven't seen Dawg, Spud, or Mr. Mooney in weeks. Mr. Mooney and Spud are in Hawaii right now, flying L-29 Delfin jets for the Navy; and Dawg is in Colombia trying to strike up a new contract. All of them are quite happy that JMs 1 & 2 are working out so well. I've been a big help, too, they say, ushering the two of them through the routine. I didn't realize it until someone told me, but I'm actually the most experienced guy in the company now as far as UAV chases are concerned: I've done more than anybody else. I've done almost all of them, in fact, whereas the pilots keep rotating and taking turns. So I'm just helping everybody to get broken in. JM1 got the program down like a flash (he's a very experienced pilot himself, thousands of hours in everything from jets to puddle-jumpers). JM2 was a bit shaky at first, but now that he's over his nerves and has done it a few times, he's feelin' fine. As I may have mentioned, I'm doing all the radio work now, and have become proficient real fast.

I still can't find a second job, though. I've been all over town. Nobody's hiring bartenders around here. Looks like it's Wal-Mart for me. I wouldn't mind learning how to drive a forklift, that's for sure.
So, in short, work's going well, even if I'm not doing it enough; the weather has been blasphemously hot, but I'm coping somehow (drinking a lot of water and going swimming with bikini-clad girls helps; I'm doing both regularly). Flying is on hold until I get some more money; traveling is on hold until I get some more money; and the novel's on hold until I hear back from my readers (and get some more money for copyright applications). Noticing a pattern here? I'm a pauper. This is déjà vu all over again. I'm living exactly like I was a few months back, after I'd purchased my insanely expensive tickets to England, trying desperately to save up enough for the trip itself. I thought I was done with that rot. But no, car repairs and insurance payments blindsided me. So here I am again, scrimping, saving, hardly socializing, putting off all the lovely Led Zeppelin albums and graphic novels I'd like to buy, forgoing the enticing bottles of booze on the shelves (except when the folks take pity on me and buy me some; they brought back some Mount Gay from BevMo the other day, sah-WEET!). It's a hard, hard life, let me tell you. But I could be breaking rocks in the Sahara. That'd be worse. At least I have an air-conditioned home and a soft bed to come back to every night.

And I'm not bone-idle at home, either. I've been helping the folks tear apart the kitchen in preparation the renovations that are taking place this week. New cabinets, new counters, new appliances, new floors, new everything. The whole shebang is being upgraded. And I got to pick up a sledgehammer and smash every last piece of the old tile counter, raising a cloud of dust that settled on every flat surface in the house. That was nice. But I'm also writing. In the absence of my novel, I'm working on my short stories. I'm trying to break into the fiction market, did you know? I wouldn't mind being a published science fiction writer like some of my idols, Robert E. Howard and H.P. Lovecraft and Isaac Asimov and H.G. Wells and Robert Heinlein and L. Sprague de Camp and John W. Campbell, Jr. Those four stories I mentioned earlier are coming along nicely. One of them is finished. I'm handing it off to a friend for proofing and then I'll package it and send it off to Fantasy & Science Fiction magazine. Looks like a likely market, and based on what I read of it, I'm up to the challenge of competing with their published writers. And that's the news. In short, I've got a lot of obstacles in my way, but you know me.

I'll get over 'em somehow.

the quarter-life crisis

Let me just say, here and now, that I did not come up with that sardonic title by myself. It's actually a phrase coined by a friend of mine, David, whose plight is somewhat similar to mine. (He didn't get dismissed from his last job, though, I'm pretty sure.) Well then! Nothing's written in stone yet, but I have a good idea about what I'm going to do now that I find myself, a 23-year-old unemployed college graduate living in my parents' house, unemployed and living in my parents' house. My friends have been wonderfully supportive, my parents and grandparents have given me some good advice, and I'm feeling largely at peace with what's happened. My pride still stings a little, but as soon as Mom bakes some cookies I'll get over that in a hurry. As you'll recall, it says "aviation" up at the top of this page. Thus far, there hasn't been much in this blog concerning aviation, except me prattling on about my flight-related ambitions. This is because you have caught me in the interim. I completed ground school in the spring of 2008, shortly before I went off to Korea. Between then and the time I departed for the Orient, I took flying lessons at Cheyenne Regional Airport in Wyoming, and racked up about twelve flight-hours. I started this blog up in March of 2009, and only just returned to the United States in July. I haven't resumed my flight training yet because, well, I've been working part-time and trying to save money, and since lessons cost roughly $200 a pop... Excuses, excuses, I know. If you're a veteran pilot or a halfway serious student you're probably castigating me as unenthusiastic or cowardly. But it isn't true. It's been heartbreaking for me to be stuck on the ground so long, believe me. But I felt I had to accumulate some savings before I embarked upon my grand quest to become a commercially-licensed pilot with multi-engine, complex, high-performance and seaplane ratings. That takes some doing, you know. And some serious cabbage. Getting dismissed from newspaper has changed all that. I'm now free to move around and do things again. And I've decided, borrowing my mother's wisdom and my grandfather's counsel, to start moving toward my dreams in a more definite manner. What I really mean is, I'm going to not work at all and start flying a lot instead. Good plan, eh? Yes, you read that correctly. I'm going to start hammering away full-time at getting my piloting qualifications. The nice thing about this flight school here in town at the Apple Valley Airport (Apple Valley Aviation, it's called) is that they do both multi-engine ratings and commercial licensing. That's half of my airborne ambitions right there. If I can get that taken care of, then wherever I go from here I'll have the qualifications to work for pretty much any small regional cargo airline there is. Sure, I'll be green. I won't have a lot of flight-hours racked up. But I'll have the basic credentials, and that'll be something. But wait! There's more. There is another prong to my chase-down-dreams plan. As you might have guessed from my cocktail reviews and my ardor for all things boozy, I am something of a liquor enthusiast. I'm an amateur bartender, a newly-minted professor of mixology if you will. I mix cocktails for my parents most every night, and I ran a cocktail bar out of my apartment in Korea for some months. I've always wanted to try my hand at being a bartender. There's something so romantically human in it: me, behind the bar, in a dimly-lit room, shiny bottles arrayed behind me as I methodically polish a glass, two or three regulars sitting on bar stools, getting smashed, getting a load off their chests, the pungent aroma of spirits (alcoholic and human alike) in the air. I've been told I'd be good at it. Not to brag or anything, but people do come to me with their problems. I'm not much good at comforting them, but I like to think I give them some perspective. Sometimes that's all it takes. And anyway, as long as things didn't get too hectic, I think it would be the neatest thing to mix drinks and pull pints for people all day. Great potential for philosophical debate, that's for certain. I don't want to have a hoidy-toidy, hippy-dippy bar, you understand; I really want to work in (or own) a pub. Quiet place, not too big, kind of old-fashioned, lots of dark wood...a cozy, comforting, intimate venue. But to do that, I need a liquor handler's license. And if I'm going to go to the trouble of getting that, I could do worse than go the whole hog and just go to bartender's school. There are some good ones pretty close to me, down the hill in Riverside and San Bernardino. I'd get some practical training, I'd get an insight into the most popular drink recipes, I'd learn to navigate behind the bar, and most importantly, I'd get certified. That means I should be able to get work at any respectable bar, anywhere. Wherever I go from here, then, I'll have those two notches on my belt. Not only do I have my journalism degree and a little experience along with it, but I'll have my commercial pilot's license and a bartender's certificate. Think of it as an epistemological hat trick. If I go to Australia, I don't have to depend on finding writing jobs, which could be really scarce. I could work in any of the myriad bars in Sydney or Perth or Adelaide. Heck, I might even find a job as a bush pilot in the outback. (Gee, wouldn't that be swell? It makes me tingly just thinking about it.) The same would be true if I went to Anchorage: I'd have two trump cards up my sleeve, two fun ways to make a living in a new place. It seems like a good idea to me. It's a bit embarrassing to be acquiring this dual education while under my parents' roof, but they're kind and generous, and living here is drastically inexpensive. Here is the best place to base my educational expeditions with fully reserved capital. So, to that end, I shall pursue knowledge relating to two of my favorite things: booze and airplanes. And in so doing I shall finally fulfill the promise of this blog, that aviation should be one of the topics discussed within it. Further bulletins as events warrant.

and so, the long-awaited cabin fever sets in

It's 102 degrees outside. The Internet wasn't working until 10:30 a.m. because I went over the bandwidth limit yesterday downloading the Anniversary Edition of Ad-Aware. I'm having a homemade fruit smoothie every day. The most exciting thing I have to look forward to tomorrow is getting up at 7:00 to paint the shed, which I am actually looking forward to. I dug through at least four hundred article titles on the Demand Studios website, and I only found one that I thought I could successfully do ("Advantages of Renting a Car"). I've got a lopsided, half-deflated blister on my right heel that I desperately want to pop. I've run out of fresh reading material; what I do have are somewhat dense books like Keith Sinclair's A History of New Zealand and a load of self-help books regarding writing. My resolution to quit picking my nose, sworn in my parents' hammock under a sparkling canopy of stars late last night, lasted barely eighteen hours. And, oh yes! I've got five weeks until I find out whether I can leave for Alaska or not. I love my parents and it's nice being back in the States, but man...I've got to get out of here.

Hunter, Maggie, and Princess Eugenie

I hate to keep posting an endless torrent of these personal updates, on the chance that my suspicions are correct and nobody out there truly cares, or even notices what I'm putting on here. Be that as it may, I feel the need to once again declare how I am. I think my plans and aspirations have finally evened out and some form of order has coalesced. Previously I was all in a turmoil. Australia? The Virgin Islands? Colorado? Idaho? Alaska? Japan or the Orient again? Or stay here in California and work for a year to save up some dough? It's like this, currently. If I find somebody to go to Australia to me, we'll go. Australia takes priority. But it all hinges on finding a travel buddy. I've had it with roaming alone, for now at least. Thus far I haven't had any definite interest. Virginia and John, both two of my best friends from high school, said they could go...in a year or so. Johnnie wants to finish his degree and Virge wants to give her current job with Hesperia Parks & Recreation at least a year and a half or so. I can't blame either of them for that. (Yeah, right! What a couple of squares!) But then...the day before yesterday another old high school friend, Hunter, dropped me a line on Facebook. He said he was interested in seeing me again and talking over this Australia gig. So I went down to meet him at The Grind yesterday evening. (The Grind's a new coffee shop down by Jess Ranch on Bear Valley Road in Apple Valley...pretty hip, with some good atmosphere. As a result, however, it attracts every hippie and freak for miles around.) Over a couple of oddly-named, trendy coffee drinks, we caught up on each other's doings. He'd graduated from the University of California at Santa Barbara in June 2008, just about the same time I'd left for Korea. He hadn't had much luck after that. No jobs to be had...everybody knows how the market's been lately. He came back here to live with his folks, similar to yours truly. He was working as a substitute teacher for about $120 a day...not a bad engagement. But he wanted something more. He'd just come out of a long-term relationship and was without prospects of more than one kind. So he was interested in traveling for a bit, and this Australia thing caught his eye. I filled him in, describing both that program and my Korean sojourn in all the florid glow I could muster. When I'd finished, he told me that he was vacillating between bugging out with me and trying to patch things up with his ex-girlfriend. I told him to do what he thought he needed to do, but think it over. He promised he would, and I sent him the URL concerning the working holiday in Australia (http://www.liveinaustralia.com/working-visa/, if you want to know) as soon as I got home. We'll see what he says. So supposing he doesn't spring for it (which I wouldn't blame him for, either, I guess), my plans become more concrete. I'll bum around my folks' place until the end of August, possibly early September, and wait and see if I've got any bites on any of the reporter's positions I've applied for around the country (Colorado, New Mexico, Idaho, Alaska, the Virgin Islands, D.C., and a few others). If I do, I'll decide whether to go for them or not. If I don't, then my decision becomes even easier: head straight for Alaska. I'm still technically mulling over whether or not to stay here a year and work to save money (which is why I might wait here until mid-September: to see whether or not I got my old job at the newspaper). But in my heart I sense that I've already decided to head off for the Great North. The drive will be fantastic. I'll be going up Interstate 15, through the Mojave Desert, the northwestern tip of Arizona (and the Virgin River Canyon), Las Vegas, Salt Lake City, Butte, and then into Alberta, Canada...thence to Calgary, Edmonton, the northeastern corner of British Columbia, the Yukon Territory, and then into Alaska itself and balmy Anchorage! I don't care if I bankrupt myself, really. That's worst-case scenario. I don't care about finding my dream job right off the bat either. I'll work in a smoke shop, or drive a cab (I've always thought the latter would be really neat). Just being up there would be enough. Once I've secured some kind of gainful employment (any kind) then I can focus on finding ideal and optimum employment, like a talk show host on a radio station. And then I can start taking flying lessons again, and maybe eventually start up an airline...and there you have it. Either way, the wanderlust is kicking in bad. I love my parents, and it's swell living in their house with their generous hospitality, and seeing all my friends from high school again, and kicking around this old desert town...but I've got a rocket in my pocket. It's time to be off for a new horizon. A few quick things before I sign off: one, my mom purchased a new dog to take the place of dear old Molly, her Belgian sheepdog, who perished a few months before they moved away from Wyoming. The new dog is a purebred six-year-old collie mix. She's quite beautiful, tri-colored and tractable. She seems to have an unusually large amount of Borzoi blood in her...her snout is quite long and tapered, even for a collie. We've named her Maggie. We got her last week. Mom took her to the vet today and found out she has a nasty case of gingivitis, which will cost $500 to fix. Oh well. She's so nice and friendly that we don't mind spending the money on her. Two, I just found out that Princess Eugenie Victoria Helena Mountbatten-Windsor of York has a blog! Holy smoke! Why wasn't I informed about this? I've always thought she was pretty, and was intrigued by her list of personal interests on the Royal Family's website (she likes computer games and hot dogs and Desperate Housewives, among other things), but she blogs, too! Like she said in that article in the Daily Mail back in 2007, she and her relations try to lead as normal lives as possible. Zowie, how about that, eh? A princess's blog! I've got to see if I can find it. I'll be honest, I've fantasized a little about meeting her someday. Okay, I'll be totally honest: I've fantasized about bumping into her under thrilling circumstances in some foreign country, rescuing her from terrorists or something, whisking her to safety in my souped-up cargo plane, and having a whirlwind romance of some sort or another with her à la every action movie ever made. I'm sounding kind of silly and lovesick here, aren't I? Okay, I'll stop. Goodbye. If you're reading this, Your Highness, please forgive me.

momentous decisions: an addendum

As an addendum to that last post: My folks have been pressing me lately to stay here in Apple Valley. This is not because they're clingy (although they wouldn't mind having me around). Mom figures I could stay at the house (and pay monthly rent), work in the valley (perhaps at my old job at the paper) and save up oodles of money. If I stuck around for a year, I could rack up a sizable amount. Plus, that would then give me time to bug my friends about coming to Australia with me, and also give them time to finish whatever they need to get done beforehand. If I go to Alaska now, Mom says, without prospects or patience, I'll burn up another huge chunk of what I saved in Korea, one-quarter of which has been sunk into my new car and all the related maintenance and insurance fees. This is true. I've given myself three or four months to find a job up there before I quit and return to the lower 48, and if I'm unsuccessful, that'll be three or four thousand dollars gone, not including food and expenses. Here, I have friends. Here, I have contacts. Here, I have cheap accommodation. Mom and Dad's suggestion is a sound one; I could save a lot, have plenty to spend on an Australian or European sabbatical (Jeff and I had talked about meeting up in England in the summer of 2010, six months before Adam and Elaine's wedding)...and, well, what-have-you. The only problem I have with that is it means that I'll have to wait to go to Alaska. I'll have to wait on flying...I'm not sure if they give flight lessons at the dinky little Apple Valley airport. I'll have a journalism job, perhaps (if I move fast), but I sense that I'll be unhappy doing it. I've worked there before and I know how hectic it is, even for an intern or an entry-level reporter. Perhaps most dismaying, however, is that I'll be living in my parents' house. I love them, and it's nice and easy and fun to live there, but my pride and independent spirit are niggling at me. How come you're sitting on your tucus in your nice parents' cushy house when you could be out gallivanting around the Arctic after a week of driving through the Western United States and Canada? Why are you still sitting here when there's sheep waiting to be herded and beautiful thirsty chicks waiting to be served cocktails in Australia? What's with you sticking around in Apple Valley when there are dozens of open teaching jobs in Japan and Greater Asia? I know I'm sounding like a stupid, flaky whiner, but those niggling feelings are undeniable. Running off to Alaska without carefully laid plans (or abundant capital) somehow just seems like the thing to do. I'm letting my heart rule my head here, yessir. But there've been people throughout history who have done that and made it big, haven't they? Give me a few minutes to think about it.

momentous decisions and humdrum stuff

I sit here, in the easy chair in my old room in my folks' house in Apple Valley, in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, on this gorgeous night. It's in the 60s out there...amazing for August...a southwest wind directly off the Pacific Ocean blew up last night and it's cooled the ensuing day off by about 20 degrees. I'm lovin' it. Having downed a couple of daiquiris and popped my James Brown CD into my laptop (currently playing, "Funky President," a.k.a "People It's Bad," which has a frightening amount of relevance and resonance with this new Obama administration, no racism intended: "stock market goin' up, jobs goin' down/there ain't no funkin' jobs to be found"), I think it's about time I gave you a few updates about my status and condition here. First of all, Mom adopted a collie at the animal shelter today. It's a purebred, for certain; the shelter staff insisted she was a smooth collie, but she looks more like a rough. She's six years old and quite beautiful, though today she was a little shell-shocked from being spayed an hour or so before we picked her up. We're still deciding on a name; or rather, we're hotly debating it. The dog herself is currently resting in a big dog carrier in the front room; we reckon she won't snap out of the anesthesia until tomorrow morning. Then we'll see how she does. Second, I've been spending some time with some of my old friends from around here. I finally met up with Virginia, whom I've known since I was 15 (and I'm nearly 23 now), who recently finished up a degree in theater and stage production at Occidental University and is now working for Hesperia Parks & Recreation. We met up at Red Robin (a burger joint) and caught up. Tuesday we went to see Public Enemies at the new Cinemark theater they built down at Jess Ranch since we've been gone. (Despite being about as historically accurate as 300, it was a pretty good film, plenty of action and some drama.) The film was good, but the theater itself was lousy; the screen kept flickering, and even cut out altogether a few times, especially during the final dramatic sequence of the movie. Needless to say, that caused some consternation in the audience, and the theater staff unsurprisingly gave everybody a free movie pass as we exited. Splendid, maybe I'll change my stance and go see this sixth Harry Potter flick. I've heard it's not so bad as its predecessors. Either way, it was awful nice to see good ol' Virge again. Third, and most portentous, I've made up my mind about where I'm going. I'm saving Japan and the United Arab Emirates for a rainy day. Australia I'm putting on hold until after I get my pilot's license. I'm going to wait around here in California until the end of August (when all these job openings for reporters I've applied to finally close) and see if I've got a bird in the hand in the lower 48. If I haven't, then I'm off to Alaska: a 3,600-mile road trip up Interstate 15 through Arizona, Nevada, Utah, Idaho, Montana, Alberta, British Columbia, the Yukon, and finally Alaska. (MapQuest estimates my fuel costs will be about $600 or so; not so bad.) Once I'm there I'll get some accommodation and throw all my energies into acquiring a writing position with the papers or (better yet) an on-air job at one of the grassroots radio stations. I'm truthfully leaning more toward radio than print media at this point, though I'll be glad of whatever opportunities present themselves. I'll give myself three to four months in Alaska to find a job; if I haven't secured gainful employment in that time (whatever it may be; heck, I'll drive a cab if I have to, I've always wanted to try that), I'll quit on the business and go to Australia or Japan then. Fourth, after having gotten some maintenance done on my new Jeep (new or refurbished brake rotors, and a repaired blower for the A/C system), Pop and I plan to flush the coolant tomorrow as well as top up the tires, check the oil and wash the windows. We'll give my beloved Cherokee a good going-over and then it'll be all road-ready. Finally, I just want to let you know that, yes, I have finally begun uploading all the photos I took from Jeju and Gwangju, my last two weeks in Korea, to Blogger. See my related posts. Postman out.

Alaska on hold

Alaska, irrespective of what's written in my description on the right, might have to be put on hold. After a couple of months of off-and-on searching, I have managed to discover only one real media-related job in Anchorage, and a solid lead on another. The real job is blogging for Examiner.com, which is apparently some kind of nationwide news provider that seems primarily web-based, although it claims to have some scions in print. I checked out the website itself and it seems to resemble MSN quite closely. Regardless of what it claims to be, it's not a day job. Blogging for it wouldn't pay the bills, certainly not fund my flying career. The solid lead is NNB, New Northwest Broadcasters, which are a West Coast-based network of radio stations that fancy themselves as being hip, casual and community-focused. Their website (http://careers.nnbradio.com) states that they work hard and play hard: they believe in being competitive, but they do it in a fun way, apparently. Mom somehow got wind of these guys and sent me the link while I was still in Korea. It sounds quite interesting, particularly given that they have a branch in Anchorage. I dithered for my last few weeks in Korea, not sure whether I should call them up six weeks in advance, or wait until I get back from my adventure. I'm trying to get up the nerve to drop them a line right now, in fact. Why call instead of e-mail? Adam's advice, and I think it's good. Shows you're truly interested and want to speak to somebody real. So, in light of the fact that Anchorage is an expensive place to live, and I might be seriously jeopardizing my savings by going out on a limb and moving up there without prospects (as it's looking like right now), I'm hedging my bets. Yesterday I applied for two reporter positions with newspapers that are based nowhere near Alaska. One of them was the Telluride Daily Planet, in Telluride, Colorado. The town's famous; Old West bad boys like Wild Bill Hickok used to hang out there. The place was a mining boom town, full of bars and brothels back in the day. Now, apparently, it's a thriving resort in close proximity to some ridiculous ski slopes, with a reputation of being filled with crack-snorting liberals. Oh well. It won't be the first time I've applied to go into enemy territory. I almost went to school at UC Santa Cruz, did I ever tell you that? The second, and somewhat more exciting, reporter's position I applied for was based in...give up? The Virgin Islands. No, I'm not kidding. A Caribbean-based newspaper was sending out an all-call for reporters with a B.S. in journalism or English and with a penchant for "investigative reporting." They gave me fair warning that it wouldn't be all sun, sand and surfing. I'll be expected to work a full 30-hour weekly schedule, generating and investigating seven or so stories per week. The pay isn't the best ($25,000-$30,000) but that's roughly the same pay scale as I was offered for teaching in Korea. As long as I'm not getting paid less, I'll take it: it's a job in my field, and it's in the freakin' Caribbean Sea, for Pete's sake. National Geographic will have to notice me now after I've done a couple of jobs like this. There might even be flying opportunities down there, who knows? It's another opportunity to travel and work. I'll take it. I haven't ruled Alaska out completely, rest assured. I said I hadn't gotten a line on any jobs in journalism up there, but there are a few more besides. There were no less than 14 openings listed on CareerBuilder.com for a "Ramp Service Agent" with Alaska Airlines or Alaska Air. What's a "ramp service agent," you ask? Well, simply put, they're the people who put the luggage on the plane and take it off again when it reaches its destination. Yep, that'll be me, one of those poor buggers bundled up in fifty layers, driving a tractor pulling people's bags between the terminal and the plane in all kinds of despicable weather. Sounds harsh, but it's better than crab fishing. It pays $15.86 per hour to boot, which is marginal for Alaska (given the cost of housing) but might still be enough for me to live humbly on and still fly. There might be writing opportunities in it, and I will be in close proximity to aircraft and an airport, which is better still. So, anyway, I'm still tossing that stuff around. I reckon today I'll apply for one of those ramp positions with Alaska Airlines, and finally call the general manager of NNB, Anchorage division. (It's about dang time, too.) Moreover I have phone calls to make to three car dealerships in the area: one to Lucerne Valley to inquire about a Range Rover we all saw parked there a couple of days ago as we drove back from Big Bear whence we'd taken Mom to lunch on her birthday; and two to a couple of other car dealerships on 7th Avenue in Victorville about whatever SUVs or trucks they might have in stock. So excuse me, it's almost noon now and I need to get busy. Ta-ta...

testing...1, 2, 3

Hello? Yes? Anybody there? Did this come through? Ah, splendid. I'm just testing to make sure whether this remote e-mail blogging business really works. I set it up a few days ago but haven't had occasion to try it.

I also thought I'd get you some updates on a couple of things. First off, I have my itinerary for my flight home. Since I'm now going to Los Angeles first (I'm still headed to Anchorage, but as I wrote, Mom and Dad thought it'd be a good idea to come pick up my effects at their house initially and make it a one-way trip), I'm heading back the same way I came: Gimhae Airport (in Busan) to Tokyo (Narita) and thence to L.A. I'm flying Japanese Airlines. I thought that'd be a little better than China Air but Byeong-Jun, my filthy-rich free-talking student (the son of the Samsung bigwig) says it isn't. Rats. At least my reading material (Candide, All Quiet on the Western Front, etc.) has arrived in the mail.

On a related note, Jacob has secured a second extension of my visa, to July 13 (the day my flight leaves). Whew! Now I'm legal once again! Second, with Jacob's help, I managed to get my flight to Jeju booked for the 29th of June. It was a measly 34,000 won...yipee! Plus I'll be flying a Q400, a de Havilland Dash-8! This is the first time I've ever ridden on a propeller-driven aircraft (commercially)! HOORAY! I finally get my chance. Sorry, in case I haven't filled you in, I prefer propellers to jets. More character.

Anyway, the flight's all reserved. As an encore I reserved my hostel, seven nights at the Jeju Hiking Inn (as seen in Lonely Planet guides) in Seogwipo. Byeong-Jun tells me that the establishment isn't in a nice place 'cause it has no ocean view, but then again, he always stays at the Hyatt or the Lotte Hotel, five stars and deluxe accommodation. Lucky bugger. So now my entire on-week vacation in sunny, subtropical Jeju has been legitimized! Sun, sand, and lava tubes galore! Hiking and dirt-cheap scooter rentals! Truck inner tubes in the surf! Palm trees and rolling meadows and wave-washed rocks! YAHOO!

After I finish in Jeju, I'll catch the ferry from Jeju City to Mokpo (on July 6th, a Monday, so it won't be jam-packed), a city on the west coast of Korea in a province I've never before set foot in: Jeollanam-do. I think I'll check out that port town, as well as Gwangju, the major city in the area (despite the fact that a man murdered a 10-year-old boy he hit with his car there to disguise his drunk driving a couple of days ago). I wanna check out the night market, dang it. Plus, not far from Gwangju, there's a little traditional village that Erica clued me in about it, Damyang, and southeast of Gwangju there's a tea-making village, apparently. Both of those might be worth a look...

That'll probably take at least three or four more days. Depending on how much time I have left, I might just make it up to Daejeon, or I might head back to Geoje early. I don't know. I've decided to skip Seoul and the DMZ, due to lack of time and funds. (I don't want to worry my mother, either; she's all in a sweat about me being in Korea since things between Uncle Sam and North Korea have gone south and those two women journalists got captured and sentenced to 12 years hard labor.) I'll spend the night of Sunday the 12th of July at Adam and Elaine's, say goodbye to them, pick up my luggage that they've graciously offered to hold onto for me, and then depart Korea in the early afternoon from Gimhae airport after one year, two weeks, one day and eighteen hours.

So, in the meantime, I just have to get my bank account closed, my pension forms filled out, my stuff all packed up, a last package sent off to Mom and Dad, and the apartment cleaned from top to bottom in preparation for the entrance of my successor, Kevin, from Illinois. I can't wait to meet him. He's probably going through the same things I went through, one year and a lifetime ago...

departure plans for Seward's icebox

Time's running down on my Korean sojourn. Soon the final curtain will fall, and I'll be off to Alaska to meet my destiny.

Preparations are already underway; Jacob has already reserved my flight (China Airlines all the way, ugh) and given me my itinerary; I've sent off two mammoth packages' worth of stuff to my folks so I won't have to cart it around manually; and I'm finishing up my travel plans for the two weeks' furlough I'll have after my last day at work. My visa extension paperwork checked out, and I'm now legally allowed to stay in the country two more weeks, until July 8th.

What am I going to do with those extra weeks?

Well, I'm enthralled that you inquired (glad you asked; the Meticulous Grammarshal loves synonyms).

First, I plan to grab a flight from Busan to Jeju-do, the aforementioned holiday island, the largest island in South Korea and a magnet for vacationers and beach-goers all over Asia. It's quite famous, apparently, and attracts more than just Korean visitors. Why, Erica told me a story today in the teacher's room about a Russian immigrant who journeyed to Jeju as a tourist and was so enraptured with the place that he stayed on as a guide. He really threw himself into it. He now speaks better Korean than some Koreans do, and knows more about the island than some people who live there! He's popular with tourists, as I'm given to understand, because he, in Erica's words, "sees it with foreigner's eyes."

Jeju does have many unique sights. There's the largest lava tube in the world, for example. There's also Hallasan, a mountain in the middle of the island, a scenic hike and a great view from the top; there's also miles and miles of beaches, where one can rent truck-tire inner tubes and bounce around in the waves. Scooters are also dirt cheap to rent, Charles tells me. So that's how I'll be getting around, buzzing from one palatinate to another aboard one of the mopeds whose morning ignitions throw me into such fits in the early morning around here.

Beyond that, I haven't done much more planning. I haven't taken the time to consider every nit-noid detail. I'm just going to land in Jeju City, get transportation to Seogwipo (the town on the southern shores of the island, where the cheaper accommodation is to be found according to fellow expatriate Chris Forte), grab a motel room and then play it by ear.

Following my six days in Jeju (less if I see everything or it's too expensive to stay, but no more), I'll advance directly to...I'm not sure. I'm vacillating, you see. My original plan detailed a four-day stay in Daejeon, the city halfway between Busan and Seoul, and of some size. It's known as the "science city," where all the research labs and scientific institutes are, Korea's R&D department if you will. It's unremarkable apart from that: no distinguishing cultural characteristics, but for an art museum, Expo Park (the remains of Korea's great science exposition some years ago, still retaining a few curiosities) and some assorted balloon and airplane rides. That is looking less and less attractive with each passing day.

I think I might really go bold and go to Gwangju instead. That city (not to be confused with Gyeongju, in Gyeongsangbuk-do) is the largest city in the province of Jeollanam-do, directly west of Gyeongsangnam-do, and its mortal enemy, or at least arch-rival. There has been some traditional, deep-seated resentment between the two provinces due to some political strife a few decades ago, and perhaps even longer, when Gyeongsangnam was Silla and Jeollanam was Baekje (see Korean History 101).

I don't know much about Gwangju other than that it's massive, has some interesting temples, an open-air night market, and a thriving downtown area. Gwangju really isn't the point of going to Jeollanam-do, though. It's just got an airport and is conveniently close to several other interesting sights, like Damyang. I was put onto that one by Erica. It's apparently a real Korean traditional village, not a tourist trap like Gyeongju or Andong. Here the customs are preserved for the sake of their preservation, not moon-eyed vacationers'. The whole place, small as it is, is tucked away in some valley somewhere just waiting to be discovered, or so I gathered from Erica. I might check it out. There's also a tea-brewing village somewhere southeast of Gwangju, too.

Mokpo, another city of some size, is one of Jeollanam's western ports (from which there's a ferry service to Jeju and back again...hmmmmm), and might also be worth seeing. I don't know what I'll do and what I won't. I'll have plenty of time to plan in my motel in Jeju. I just want to go to Jeollanam-do, pretty much. I avoided the place like the plague all the time I was here because I'd heard there were malaria mosquitoes all over the place in the hotter months due to the wider profusion of rice paddies. Charles dispelled that notion, saying that Korea didn't have a problem with malaria, period. To you, sitting in front of your computer, that might seem like a prejudiced or even propagandist answer, but I would trust Charles with my life. If this works out and I hit the Jeolla Provinces, then I'll have been to pretty much every Korean province except the far northeastern one, whichever one that is. Then I'll feel a little better about my time spent here.

Following Gwangju (or Daejeon, or whatever) there's a couple days in Seoul. For only having three days, I think I got to "see" Seoul pretty thoroughly last time. (Look up my article in the late summer edition of Real Travel Adventures to learn what I mean by "see.") But still, I wouldn't mind going back again, especially in the summer months, and see what's crackin'. I also plan to light out of the city for maybe half a day or however long it takes and get a good look at the DMZ...that's if they let me. I don't know if you're keeping up with the news but things are hotter than usual between North Korea and South Korea, Japan, the U.S., China, Russia, and, well, hell...the rest of the world. North Korea's been blustering a lot more aggressively lately and firing a lot of test missiles and whatnot in quick succession, so people are all caught up in a flurry of speculation about their intentions. As far as I know there hasn't been any increase in personnel along the demilitarized zone as of yet (not on the American side, anyway), but joint military operations between the R.O.K. and the U.S.A. are still in effect. Coincidentally, though, one of my good buddies from college, who's in the army, is getting posted to the DMZ now that he's finished basic. He should be here in a few months, unfortunately well after I leave, but soon enough that I'll be able to give him some good restaurant recommendations in Seoul.

Right, that's enough long sentences. I'll do some short ones. That ought to break up the flow a little. I read somewhere in some book that you're supposed to variegate your sentence structure by interspersing long sentences with short sentences, and every time I muster the presence of mind to keep track I notice that all the writers whose skills I admire do that very thing. (Whoops, that was a tad long.) So I'm going to try a little harder to do it myself.

That concludes my grand scheme. Serendipitously I will be in Seoul at the termination of my two weeks' furlough, so I can just slide sideways to Incheon right next door and hop my flight to Anchorage, and whatever lies in store for me there, good or ill. The only flaw in my plan is this: since I will be essentially rootless during this time, my apartment moved out of and my contact expired, I will have to be toting whatever amount of luggage I may have (and my gut tells me it will be considerable) around with me wherever I go. Certainly, I can dump it off in a motel room whenever I arrive at my particular stopping point, but in the meantime, I'll be schlepping it: in taxicabs, buses, up side streets, down back alleys...whatever. That discourages me, and unnerves me more than a little. I'll keep everything I can't afford to lose on my person at all times, of course; but if I "lose" anything else, I'll be in a slight pickle upon arriving in Anchorage. Oh well, no use in worrying about something that's not even happened yet. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Those are the plans, and them's the breaks. What do you think?

Speaking of breaks, and just so the title of this post winds up being more accurate than it first appears, I'll tell you about my official departure plans for Alaska...and by that I mean the ones on printed paper. Oddly, I'm flying from Incheon to Taipei, Taiwan. After a two-hour layover I'm headed directly to Anchorage, Alaska, U.S.A. Nothing about this flight seems desirable. The Taipei-Anchorage hop is eleven hours, exactly the same as the excruciating Minneapolis-Tokyo leg one year ago. Darn, I was hoping I wouldn't be eating my knees for one calendar day this time around. To add insult to injury, I'm not even flying Korean Air, a definitely more desirable airline than Northwest, by all accounts. No, I'm flying China Airlines, a definitely less desirable airline than Northwest. And I'm flying it both legs of the trip. You should've seen how Byeong-Jun, the rich son of a Samsung bigwig and one of my students, laughed when he heard. Why should he care? His father buys him a business-class ticket wherever he goes, the lucky bugger. Meanwhile I get stuck in sardine-style accommodation on an airline that's got the same safety record as a cross-eyed bumblebee four feet above I-80.

Deep down in my heart of hearts, I truly cannot blame Jacob, my director, for booking me this flight. The man's a small business owner, and he's got to look out for number one; he's just trying to save a little dough, and in the strictest definition of the phrase, that flight will get me where I'm going. But jeez...let's hope the omelettes aren't reheated this time, all right?

NOTE: A few days after this writing, plans changed. I think, to simplify matters (and to save money) I think I'll fly directly to Los Angeles, grab my stuff from my folks' place (and perhaps even a car, and do some more job hunting) and THEN head up to Alaska. I'm going to speak with Jacob and have him change my flight plans.